The Time Travelers, Volume 2 (30 page)

“Now,” said Pen-Meru, “we go to Pharaoh.”

Renifer did not want to imagine the scene with Pharaoh, as her father and her future husband outdid themselves with lies to the Living God. If Pharaoh believed the untruths Pen-Meru put before Him, would it prove that He was man and not God? And if He were man, and not God, what then was Egypt? What were the sun and the Nile? Who controlled them and made them great?

Renifer felt bludgeoned by the heat and sun, the shock and shame.

“The more distinguished the ceremony of reburying Hetepheres,” said Pankh, “the less Pharaoh will question the details. Girls are useful in ceremonies. They add a feeling of reverence and grace. You, Renifer, will sing. He loves your voice. And the girl of ivory we will dress as a handmaiden. She is just the kind of gift to please Pharaoh.”

Renifer had forgotten the girl of ivory.

Was she indeed a ka? Could she be Queen Hetepheres’
ka
? Once Father had thrown Hetepheres’ body to the jackals, had the
ka
lost its way in the papyrus swamp? Or could the girl of ivory be a messenger sent by Hetepheres?

Why had Pankh cried out the name of the queen when he first saw the girl of ivory? Because he knew what he had done to Hetepheres? Or because her
ka
put those syllables in his mouth?

Renifer found the girl still in the shade of the silver portico among the fronds of the green ferns. She seemed neither afraid nor confused, but lightly embraced Renifer, as if to say that she understood.

The great sun was sinking now in bloodred splendor. Pharaoh’s barge was visible in the square lagoon far down the causeway.

“The timing is good,” said Pankh. “Tomorrow Pharaoh has planned a great feast to welcome the return of the admiral from Lebanon. Not only did the admiral successfully acquire twelve ships of cedar logs, he brought dancing bears and trained dwarfs. Pharaoh will want to complete the reburial tonight, so that tomorrow He can concentrate on the celebrations.”

Renifer was beginning to believe the outrageous plan might succeed.

Her father said, “You, Renifer, will utter the sacraments when we seal His mother in darkness. You will describe how the girl of ivory arrived; how she was sent by a
ka
. Pharaoh loves omens from the next world. Don’t say she’s just a foreigner who needed a bath. Then, deep in the night, we bring Him to the top of the
new shaft. We let Pharaoh catch a glimpse of gold at the bottom, shining in the moonlight. He will assume that everything originally with the queen is still with the queen! And because we left behind her stone sarcophagus—after all, it has no resale value—He will think her silver and gold coffin is within.”

“What do you bet,” said Pankh, “that in His gratitude, He even invites us to the feast for the admiral?”

Pen-Meru laughed and bet the golden Sekhmet. Pankh bet six gold necklaces. They slapped hands to seal the bet.

Farmers were yanked from a field. They insisted they were not tomb robbers. But of course, that is what a robber would shout as he was carried to the desert edge. Once they understood their fate, they began screaming and fighting, but to no avail. The stakes were driven in slowly, to prolong the pain.

Renifer felt the stakes through her own heart; through all her hopes.

“What if the girl of ivory runs away or behaves badly?” asked Father.

“She loves gold,” said Pankh. “Adorn her in much gold and she will be happy.”

O
h! the compliments of the men as they gathered for dinner at the French embassy in Cairo. The smiles with which the men greeted Camilla, upon being introduced. The admiring eyes. The tender remarks. Dizzy with excitement, Camilla flirted and laughed.

“If only we were not going to war!” cried the British officers. “We would surely beg the pleasure of your company at our dances, Miss Matthews.”

How splendid the British were, chests crossed by sashes, hung with bejeweled military crosses, decked out in many-colored ribbons.

Dr. Lightner bowed to them, saying with great courtesy, “I hope you will join us for a dance I will give in her honor.”

“But of course!” cried the guests. “Such a beautiful woman deserves everything in her honor.”

“Ah,” said the French, sounding so intimate that Camilla blushed,
“quelle perfection.”

Camilla could not stop smiling. Neither could Dr. Lightner. Camilla could have swirled around the room
forever, height forgotten, as she and Dr. Lightner drifted from group to group.

“What a pleasure this is,” said Dr. Lightner, as they waltzed in graceful circles. “Normally I am the outcast. The tedious scholar who writes books. Tonight, I have grace and appeal, Miss Matthews, because of your company.”

Her very height prevented even Dr. Lightner from knowing how young she was; it was a disguise in inches. She was by far the youngest at the party, but she was holding her own. She wanted the introductions to go on forever, but of course, eventually the guest of honor arrived and they must all sit down for a formal dinner.

The guest of honor was very fat, strapped into his dinner jacket and cummerbund. His jowls layered down onto his chest and his arms were so thick he could hardly bend at the elbows.

“A very rich man indeed,” said a British officer, admiring the amount of meat and brandy it took to achieve such girth.

“Excellent mustache,” said another.

The guest had a strong American accent. The British flinched slightly at his vulgar words and the French raised their eyebrows. The Germans could not be bothered to cross the room. But Dr. Lightner was most eager to meet the gentleman. “An American art collector!” he whispered. “It’s very new. All the best people are doing it now. It gives one hope for America. We will bring him to the excavation.”

And then for the first time that evening, Dr. Lightner’s face drooped into tired lines. “He will expect glory,” said the archaeologist sadly, “and find only potsherds. He will expect gold. I did not want to sully this lovely evening, Miss Matthews, with the sad fact of what happened this afternoon. We cannot find the gold sandal.”

Camilla was so flushed with excitement that another layer of pink in her cheeks was not noticeable. “It must have been mislaid,” she said.

“Nobody mislays gold. They do, however, steal it.”

“No!” cried Camilla. “Surely not. Who at your dig would stoop so low?” She wondered when they would search the gentlemen’s tent. They might not, now that she thought of it. It would be too great an insult for young men so full of importance.

“Hush,” murmured Dr. Lightner. “Let us not speak of regrettable events during this fine occasion. Come, it is our turn to be presented to the guest of honor.”

Camilla was oddly afraid. This close, the body did not seem grand, but gross. The mustache not lush, but graying moss creeping over the lips and into the mouth. The swollen hand that gripped hers was girded in rings so tight that the flesh burst out around them. The man’s breath stank of pipe tobacco and he had already had too much brandy.

The party felt infected.

“And this lovely lady?” he said. A smile crawled out from behind the moss of his mustache.

Camilla tried to smile, but did not achieve it.

“This,” said Archibald Lightner proudly, “is my guest, sir. Miss Camilla Matthews.”

A flicker of amusement went through the man’s eyes, and Camilla felt owned, as a slave might be, or a factory hand.

“Ah, yes,” said the guest of honor. “The famous Miss Matthews. The reporter from Kansas.”

In all America, only Mr. Duffie knew there was a Camilla Matthews who claimed to be a reporter. Mr. Duffie and one other man. Camilla tried to step back, but the man did not release his grip, as a gentleman should. “Hiram Stratton, Sr., at your service, ma’am,” said he.

Camilla tried to extricate her hands from his paws but he did not allow it. She would have to scrub her fingers as she had scrubbed herself from the dread of leprosy.

I would rather have leprosy than touch Hiram Stratton, she thought. Why did I not realize that he would come? It is my own telegraph that brought him. Of course he would not trust me to bring his beloved son home. After all, I had no intention of doing it. I intended his son to live out his days, or at least a few years, in an Egyptian prison.

But I have failed.

Whether or not the gold sandal is found among Strat’s belongings, nothing will happen to the boy. Hiram Stratton’s power is tangible even in this room that belongs to another government. His power will work anywhere. In Egypt, being paid off has been a tradition for thousands of years. There will still be a joyful reunion,
and father and son will go home to burn down yet another factory.

“Mr. Stratton, sir!” cried Dr. Lightner. “What a privilege to encounter a man of your stature. It is my hope to be permitted to bring you to Giza, that I may myself escort you among the ancient Egyptian monuments, and have the great pleasure of showing you the excavation under my supervision. Just this week, we uncovered a hitherto unknown tomb. It is full of mystery.”

“Fine, fine,” said Hiram Stratton, already bored.

“In fact, my good sir,” said Dr. Lightner, now somewhat uneasy, “among the young men spending a year with me in lieu of being broadened by travel in the more usual places, young men educated at Harvard and Yale, Princeton and Dartmouth …” Dr. Lightner paused, as if hoping he need not go on.

“Among those young men,” said Hiram Stratton, “is my own son. Do not be uncomfortable with the admission. It is I who am ashamed. He went to Yale, but did not succeed. He has not, in fact, succeeded anywhere. He lacks capacity for anything except failure.”

The French were horrified that a father would speak like that. The British were expressionless. The Germans, of course, had still not bothered to cross the room.

“I’ve come to bring him home,” said Hiram Stratton. “He belongs in prison and I plan to put him there.” The man’s face split open in what must have been a smile. Camilla could not look at it.

“In prison?” repeated Dr. Lightner, appalled. “Surely not, Mr. Stratton. He seems a delightful fellow. Has
taken fine pictures. In fact, he’s the one who found the tomb about which I am so excited!”

“I was not blessed with a good son,” said Hiram Stratton. “Throughout his life it has been necessary to curb him. I incarcerated him in an asylum for the good of the community.”

You did not! thought Camilla. You locked him up because he defied you. It was easy to show the factory workers who was boss: burn their jobs. It was easy to show your son, too. Whip Strat until he cringed in the manner you like to see in dogs.

“He escaped,” said Hiram Stratton. “Attacked the staff and vanished. Not only that, he kidnapped two innocent children.”

He did not! They were not children. They went with him joyfully. He was saving them. Their own families do not want them back!

“I have come here,” said Hiram Stratton, “to see Egypt, of course. To admire your excavation, of course. To consider a major donation. But alas, to administer a lasting punishment to my son.” He did not mean that word alas. He gloated.

Camilla had thought that Duffie’s lies were about the nature of St. Rafael’s patients; Duffie feared she would not agree to get near leprosy. How terribly wrong she had been. His lies were about the reason for locating the son. Camilla had not been sent to arrange a joyful reunion. She had been sent so that the father could ruin his own boy.

Camilla had chosen not to believe Katie’s version of Strat’s character. But Katie, who knew so much of cruelty, had singled Strat out as a true and decent friend.

Why did I not believe Katie? thought Camilla.

Far from ruining Hiram Stratton, she had played into his hands. Not simply locating the boy, but putting the boy into an immensely worse situation. Whatever lies and fabrications Mr. Stratton brought from America, it would be no lie that the missing gold sandal was in Strat’s possession; that Strat had dishonored the entire dig; that he was a thief.

“He was also,” said the French attaché thoughtfully, “involved in some way in the death of those two young men who fell from the Pyramid.”

“No, no,” said Dr. Lightner, “we’ve been through that, he was in no way involved except that I instructed him to deliver the bodies to you.”

“Since he is a kidnapper,” said Hiram Stratton, “it would not surprise me if he were also a murderer. It is for trial that I bring him back to New York. I spawned a criminal and as a criminal he will be treated.”

The man is happy, thought Camilla. He looks forward to throwing his own child to the jackals. He rejoices at the thought of his son suffering.

Why? Because the son is beautiful while he is gross? Because the son is kind while he believes in cruelty? Or because Hiram Stratton, Sr., is truly evil?

Hiram Stratton could not be allowed to continue. Such verbiage would simply ruin the festivities. Lady
Clementine and the ambassador’s wife bustled about, tugging here and there to line the guests up for their entry into the dining room.

“My dear Miss Matthews,” said the French ambassador.

I am not evil, thought Camilla, but I am in its neighborhood. Having placed young Stratton in jeopardy, I must now save him. The sandal, in fact, is minor. Kidnapping and assault are not. I cannot let his father have him.

She smiled at the French ambassador, who said, “Might I escort you to the dinner table, my dear, where if you will be so kind, I will seat you next to our guest of honor.”

Camilla’s bare arm rubbed against the sleeve of Hiram Stratton’s dinner jacket. Her left hand brushed his when she picked up a fork and he a spoon.

She was unable to eat, but in a world where fainting delicate women were prized, failure to eat was much admired. She was unable to speak, but in a world where only the words of men had value, a quiet woman was a jewel.

“My dear Miss Matthews,” said Hiram Stratton, “I detest a woman who babbles and you, dear girl, have a great capacity for silence. What a pleasure. I have never permitted one of my wives to chatter.”

“
One
of your wives, sir?”