Read Online The Serpent on the Crown by Elizabeth Peters - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Peters
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frequently visited, for Abdullah was now regarded as a saint. Cords strung across the opening supported an unseemly but touching collection of offerings: cheap beads, kerchiefs, crude amulets. The current “servant of the sheikh,” the custodian of the tomb, was seated on the floor, his head bent, presumably in prayer or meditation. Rather than disturbing him, they stopped a little distance away and stood in respectful silence.
Ramses thought of the first time he had come to Abdullah’s grave, with his mother, before the tomb had been constructed. He had helped her bury a collection of small amulets, images of the ancient gods, over the grave. She had never explained why, and he had never asked; but it seemed to comfort her, and she had needed comfort badly. Over the years the conservative old Egyptian and the Englishwoman whose background and beliefs were so utterly different from his own had developed a close relationship, inexplicable in rational terms. But then, Ramses thought, love wasn’t rational, was it?
“Now tell about the man with the gun and his sister,” Daoud demanded, hoping for drama after the disappointment of the treasure.
He was disappointed in that too. Ramses made light of the business, as it deserved.
“Wallahi,” Selim exclaimed. “What a strange family! Will they trouble you again? Is it because of them you are going to build a wall?”
“Not a wall, only a sort of guard post, to keep out uninvited visitors,” Ramses said, thinking he must have a word with the inventive Kareem.
“And what of the curse?” Daoud asked hopefully. “Will the Father of Curses cast the demon out?”
Emerson’s exorcisms were extremely popular. Ramses couldn’t deny the possibility; for all he knew, his father might have something of the sort in mind. There was definitely a streak of theatricalism in the family, a fondness for disguises and playacting. He was in no position to criticize his father. Like his unregenerate uncle, he had been known for his skill in disguise, and now that that sort of thing was behind him he could admit he had quite enjoyed it.
“The lady invented the curse, Daoud,” he said.
Daoud’s face fell. “No curse? No threat? Then why are you building the barricade?”
Selim laughed. “I know what my honored father Abdullah would have said. ‘There is no harm in protecting yourself from that which does not exist.’”
When Fatima set her mind on something, she went at it with all her energy. She had put a gang to work making bricks for the guardhouse, as she called it; until the structure could be built she had assigned Wasim to sit by the road under a temporary shelter. He was one of the older men, who had gone blind in one eye, and he obviously relished his new assignment. When I went, later that afternoon, to see if there was anything he needed, his beard split in a wide grin, showing the brown broken teeth of his generation.
“No, Sitt, I have everything I want,” he said, indicating a water jar, a narghile, and the rug on which he squatted. “You may depend on me. I will not allow any thief to pass.”
Lying beside him on the rug was a rifle. I asked, “Who gave you permission to have that gun?”
“What is a guard without a weapon?” Seeing my expression, he added quickly, “It is not loaded, Sitt, it is only for show. Fatima said I should bring it.”
“Oh, very well. You understand, Wasim, that you are not to threaten people, only stop them and ask their business. If it is a friend of ours, let him pass. If it is a stranger, ask his name and come and tell me or Fatima.”
“Oh, yes, Sitt, I understand. No thief will pass me.”
I was halfway back to the house before the import of that word “thief” struck me. He had used it twice. I ought to have known our people would gossip about the “treasure.” Nor were they the only ones. To whom had Mrs. Petherick told her preposterous story? How far had the news spread?
When the children and their
Ramses thought of the first time he had come to Abdullah’s grave, with his mother, before the tomb had been constructed. He had helped her bury a collection of small amulets, images of the ancient gods, over the grave. She had never explained why, and he had never asked; but it seemed to comfort her, and she had needed comfort badly. Over the years the conservative old Egyptian and the Englishwoman whose background and beliefs were so utterly different from his own had developed a close relationship, inexplicable in rational terms. But then, Ramses thought, love wasn’t rational, was it?
“Now tell about the man with the gun and his sister,” Daoud demanded, hoping for drama after the disappointment of the treasure.
He was disappointed in that too. Ramses made light of the business, as it deserved.
“Wallahi,” Selim exclaimed. “What a strange family! Will they trouble you again? Is it because of them you are going to build a wall?”
“Not a wall, only a sort of guard post, to keep out uninvited visitors,” Ramses said, thinking he must have a word with the inventive Kareem.
“And what of the curse?” Daoud asked hopefully. “Will the Father of Curses cast the demon out?”
Emerson’s exorcisms were extremely popular. Ramses couldn’t deny the possibility; for all he knew, his father might have something of the sort in mind. There was definitely a streak of theatricalism in the family, a fondness for disguises and playacting. He was in no position to criticize his father. Like his unregenerate uncle, he had been known for his skill in disguise, and now that that sort of thing was behind him he could admit he had quite enjoyed it.
“The lady invented the curse, Daoud,” he said.
Daoud’s face fell. “No curse? No threat? Then why are you building the barricade?”
Selim laughed. “I know what my honored father Abdullah would have said. ‘There is no harm in protecting yourself from that which does not exist.’”
When Fatima set her mind on something, she went at it with all her energy. She had put a gang to work making bricks for the guardhouse, as she called it; until the structure could be built she had assigned Wasim to sit by the road under a temporary shelter. He was one of the older men, who had gone blind in one eye, and he obviously relished his new assignment. When I went, later that afternoon, to see if there was anything he needed, his beard split in a wide grin, showing the brown broken teeth of his generation.
“No, Sitt, I have everything I want,” he said, indicating a water jar, a narghile, and the rug on which he squatted. “You may depend on me. I will not allow any thief to pass.”
Lying beside him on the rug was a rifle. I asked, “Who gave you permission to have that gun?”
“What is a guard without a weapon?” Seeing my expression, he added quickly, “It is not loaded, Sitt, it is only for show. Fatima said I should bring it.”
“Oh, very well. You understand, Wasim, that you are not to threaten people, only stop them and ask their business. If it is a friend of ours, let him pass. If it is a stranger, ask his name and come and tell me or Fatima.”
“Oh, yes, Sitt, I understand. No thief will pass me.”
I was halfway back to the house before the import of that word “thief” struck me. He had used it twice. I ought to have known our people would gossip about the “treasure.” Nor were they the only ones. To whom had Mrs. Petherick told her preposterous story? How far had the news spread?
When the children and their
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