The last camel died at noon, page 21
'Then you think - '
'I think Nastasen and Tarek both want to be king,' Emerson said. 'And that the High Priest of Aminreh -' He broke off with a muttered curse as the handmaiden appeared in the open doorway. 'Confound it, what does she want? Tell her to go away.'
'She wants to put me to bed, I think,' I said, stifling a yawn. 'You tell her to go away.'
'Never mind.' Emerson rose with a sigh. 'You must be tired, Peabody. It has been an interesting day.'
'I am not that tired," I said, meeting his eyes.
'Oh? Yes, but...' Emerson cleared his throat. 'Well. Er. Come, Ramses. Good night, Peabody.'
'Au revoir, my dear Emerson.'
I was a trifle tired, but I was not at all sleepy. My busy brain teemed with questions I yearned to discuss with Emerson. As the handmaiden bustled about the room, dimming the lamps, straightening the bedclothes, and helping me into my night robe, I wished Kemit had been more direct instead of so confounded literary. It was all very well to warn us not to open our hearts to strangers - but they were all strangers here, even Kemit. What did he want from us - whom could we trust?
After tucking me into bed, the handmaiden proceeded to 'listen to the voice of the heart.' I looked at the slender fingers resting on my breast, and suspicion blossomed into certainty. 'You are not Amenit,' I said. 'Your fingers are longer than hers and you move quite differently. Who are you?"
I was prepared to repeat the question in Meroitic, but there was no need. Drawing my robe into place, she said softly, 'My name is Mentarit.'
Her voice was higher in pitch than Amenit's - soprano rather than contralto. 'May I see your face?' I asked; and, as she hesitated, I went on, 'Amenit unveiled for me. We were friends.'
'Friends,' she repeated.
'That means -'
'I know.' With a sudden movement she flung back the veil.
It was a lovely face, rounder and softer than that of her fellow-priestess, with great dark eyes and a delicate mouth. In outline the last-named feature strongly resembled that of Nastasen. It suited the girl far better than it did the prince, but it rather prejudiced me against her.
'You are very pretty,' I said.
She ducked her head shyly, like any modest English maiden, but she watched me from under her long lashes and her eyes were bright and wary. 'You must sleep now,' she said. 'You have been very ill.'
'But I am not ill now. Thanks to your excellent nursing, I am fully recovered. Didn't Amenit tell you I was better?'
Her smooth forehead crinkled in a frown, and I repeated the question in my stumbling Meroitic. Unlike Amenit she did not smile at my mistakes. 'I did not speak with my sister,' she said, speaking slowly and clearly. 'Her time of - was over, my time began(?) today.'
I questioned her about the words I had not understood; she explained that the first meant 'service' or 'duty,' and that my interpretation of the second had been correct. When I attempted to continue the conversation, however, she placed her fingers on my lips. 'You sleep now,' she repeated. 'It is not good to talk.'
She retreated to a corner of the room, where she sat down on a low stool. A few moments later the curtain to the next chamber was drawn aside. Emerson stood there. He was attired in a particularly handsome robe woven with stripes of bright blue and saffron and he carried one of the pottery lamps. It may have been the light that cast a rosy flush upon his face, but I suspected not.
'Go, Handmaiden,' he said in stumbling Meroitic. 'Tonight I am with my woman. It is the time - er - I wish - er...' Here his native modesty overcame him, and his speech failed, for his study of the language had not gone so far as to include euphemisms for the activity he had in mind. Resorting instead to sign language, he blew out the lamp and advanced on Mentarit, pointing towards the door and flapping his hand at her.
I think she caught his meaning. A muffled sound that might have been a gasp or a giggle came from her, and she backed towards the door. I watched, choking with laughter and another emotion I am sure I need not specify. The expression of placid satisfaction on Emerson's face after he had shooed her out and was advancing with long strides towards the bed where I lay was almost too much for me, but amusement was soon overcome by other sensations even more powerful. It had been a long time. I will say no more.
Thereafter, as we reclined in the pleasurable aftermath of fulfilled connubial affection, Emerson hissed, 'Now we can converse freely without fear of being overheard.'
I shifted position slightly, for he had spoken directly into my ear, which produced a not-unpleasant but distracting effect. Emerson tightened his grasp. 'That was not my only motive for joining you, Peabody.'
'You have demonstrated your primary motive most effectively, my dear Emerson, but we may as well take advantage of the situation. I presume you have in mind some brilliant scheme of escape?'
'Escape? From what? Devil take it, Peabody, getting out of this building is not the problem. We could manage that, I expect; but then what? Without camels, water, and supplies we wouldn't stand a chance of escaping from this place, even assuming I could locate the entrance to the tunnel by which we entered, which I could not.'
'What do you propose then? For I presume you have not arranged this romantic rendezvous solely in order to point out the things we can't do.'
Emerson chuckled. 'My darling girl, it is wonderful to hear you scolding me again. In case you have forgotten my real reason for arranging this rendezvous - '
'Now, Emerson, stop that. Or rather - please postpone what you are doing until after we have arrived at a solution to our difficulty, for I can't think while you are..."
After a further interval Emerson remarked breathlessly, 'You talk too much, Peabody, but it is a pleasure to stop your mouth in that particular fashion. What I was about to say, when your presence distracted me, was that I have yet to have it demonstrated to me that there is any need for escape. We haven't even begun to explore this remarkable place. The opportunities for scholarly research are endless!'
'I am sure I needn't tell you I share your enthusiasm, my dear. Yet I have seen a few ominous signs -'
'You are always seeing ominous signs,' Emerson grumbled.
'And you are in the habit of ignoring them when they conflict with what you want to do. Mr Forth may or may not have wanted to leave this place; the one indisputable fact is that he did not. I am not urging a precipitate departure; I only want to make certain that when we are ready to go, we will be permitted to do so. You don't want to spend the rest of your life here, I suppose? Even if they do make you a councillor and tutor to the royal children.'
'With no tobacco for my pipe and those swaddled females constantly hovering over us? Hardly.'
'It pleases you to be frivolous, Emerson. Another of the ominous - or, if you prefer, significant - signs I mentioned is the conflict between the two princes. You were quite right' - (I thought it time to apply a little flattery) - 'when you pointed out that political struggles of this sort are pretty much alike. "He who is not for me is against me" is a saying which I am sure applies just as forcibly here as in our part of the world. It can hardly be supposed that we will be allowed to remain neutral, and in a society like this one, political opposition is apt to take the form of violent attack.'
'It is a pleasure,' said Emerson, with several little demonstrations of that pleasure, 'to deal with a mind as quick and logical as yours, my dear Peabody. I admit the force of your argument. We should anticipate the worst in order to be prepared for it. Almost certainly there will be a party, or parties, who will not want us to leave. Therefore we will require allies who can supply us with the necessities for a desert journey.'
'You propose we offer to assist one of the princely candidates in return for his promise to help us get away?'
'Nothing quite so Machiavellian. I am already inclined towards our friend Tarek.'
'So am I. I grew quite fond of him while he was Kemit, and I don't like Nastasen's mouth.'
Emerson let out a roar of laughter, which I stifled promptly and efficiently. While he was trying to catch his breath I said severely, 'Physiognomy is a science, Emerson, and I have always been a keen student of it. So we throw our weight to Tarek?'
'Such as it is. I find it difficult to understand why we were lured here - for we were, Peabody, I am convinced of that - or why our presence is so important.'
'We must know more,' I agreed. 'Not from what people tell us, but from our own observation. I have now made it clear that my health is fully restored, so they can't use that as an excuse to keep us confined.'
We discussed this matter a while longer, considering various alternatives. Then I started to yawn, and Emerson said that if I was bored, he had an idea that might relieve my ennui.
It did.
We were awakened rather late the following morning by Mentarit pulling back the curtains Emerson had drawn around the bed. Veiled though she was, she managed to convey interest and curiosity by the very tilt of her head. Fortunately, the nights being quite cool, we had ample covering, but still Emerson did not like it and swore a good deal. After considerable thrashing about under the covers he managed to get into his robe and stalked off, still muttering, to his own chamber.
We had decided to try two methods of winning freedom from the building and I put the first one into effect immediately, picking at my breakfast and trying to look limp and depressed - not an easy task, for I was as hungry as a lioness and had never felt more alert. Mentarit observed my behaviour and asked what was the matter.
'She fades and droops in this room,' Emerson answered. 'The women of our country are accustomed to walk abroad freely, to go wherever they wish.'
He had deliberately spoken English. The girl did not pretend she had not understood; she pointed to the garden.
'That is not enough,' I said. '1 need to walk, exercise, go far. Tell the prince.'
A brusque nod was the only response, but before long she left the room and I hoped she had gone to pass on my request. Emerson followed her through the curtain.
While he was gone I reclined on a bench or divan covered with soft cushions, to carry out my claim of weakness, and watched the servants. A new idea had come into my head.
In any society (save the Utopian inventions of imaginative writers), there are at least two classes: those who serve and those who are served. Human nature makes it inevitable that there should be conflict between these groups; the history of mankind holds innumerable examples of the horrors that may ensue when the downtrodden working class rises up in resentment of those who oppress them. Could we, I wondered, make use of this well-known social phenomenon? Could we, in short, foment a revolution?
The servants I had seen certainly appeared to have been trod upon. They might have been a different race from the rulers, being on the average four to six inches shorter, and far darker in colour. They wore only loincloths or lengths of coarse, unbleached fabric wound about their waists. They might not be servants at all, but serfs or even slaves. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that slaves was probably the proper word. The utter silence in which they carried out their duties confirmed this theory; the poor things were not even free to chat among themselves, or sing a merry tune. A slave uprising! My spirit thrilled at the thought of leading a fight for freedom!
Acting upon my impulses has always been one of my characteristics. One of the women, a stocky individual whose waving hair showed a piebald blend of brown and grey, was on her knees sweeping under the bed. I stretched out my hand and touched her shoulder.
She reacted as violently as if I had struck her. Fortunately she hit her head on the bedframe and let out an involuntary yelp of pain, which enabled me to kneel down beside her and offer assistance. At least that was what I meant to do, but perhaps she misunderstood my gesture, for instead of responding she scuttled backwards on hands and knees like a scarab beetle.
My vision of myself as Joan of Arc, waving the banner of freedom, faded. If a mere touch could terrify these little people, they were not likely candidates for an army of liberation. I reminded myself to ask Ramses what the Meroitic word for 'freedom' was.
Emerson returned at that moment, and stood staring in surprise. 'What the devil are you doing, Peabody? Playing a local version of tag?'
I got to my feet. The woman snatched up her broom and resumed her sweeping, at some distance from me.
'I was merely attempting to establish communication with one of these unfortunate slaves, Emerson. It occurred to me-'
'You don't know that they are slaves,' Emerson interrupted, twisting his handsome features into an extraordinary grimace. 'Lie down, Peabody. You are weak and faint.'
'I am not...' Then I saw Mentarit had returned. 'Oh, yes. Thank you, Emerson.'
I resumed my position. Emerson sat down beside me, taking my hand in his. 'Do control your socialistic impulses, my dear,' he said in a low voice, and then, louder, 'Are you feeling better?'
'No. I need fresh air, freedom...' I let out a heartfelt groan.
'You are overdoing it, Peabody,' said Emerson, his lips barely moving. 'Take heart, my dear; I spoke with the guards, and they have assured me our messages will be delivered.'
When the midday meal was served I again forced myself to pick at my food, though by then I could have eaten everything on the table and fought Ramses for his share. Emerson put on a great show of concern, feeling my forehead and shaking his head sadly. 'You are no better, Peabody. Indeed, I think you are weaker.'
'Inanition has that effect,' I said, feeling sure Mentarit would not know the word.
Emerson grinned and sank his teeth into a chunk of bread dripping with honey.
We were still eating - Ramses and Emerson were, at any rate - when there was a commotion outside the door and the hangings were drawn aside. Evidently the rank of the individual governed the number of his attendants. Murtek - for it was he - rated one spearman, one archer, and no handmaiden. His sandals scraped along the floor as he hurried towards me, grinning from ear to ear and trying to bow as he walked.
'You wish to go out, Lady?'
'Why, yes,' I replied.
'You go, then.'
'What, now?' Emerson exclaimed.
'Now, anytime. Why you not say?'
'Curse it,' Emerson began. 'That is not - '
'Emerson,' I murmured.
'Oh, yes, to be sure. We thank you, noble one. We are ready.'
'Now?'
'Now,' Emerson said firmly.
'It is good. We go.'
There was a little delay, however, for I thought it prudent to assume my own clothing, including my belt with its invaluable accoutrements. When I emerged from my room the old man burst into cries of admiration. 'How beautiful is the lady! How beautiful her ornaments of shiny iron! How beautiful her foots and her leg in the boot! How beautiful her - '
I deemed it advisable to cut off the catalogue of my charms at this point, so I bowed and thanked him.
The corridor beyond our rooms was only wide enough for two to walk abreast. Murtek led the way, with Emerson and me following and Ramses bringing up the rear. This time, instead of barring the way, the guards lined up in two rows next to the exit. After we had passed through, one of the groups, consisting of three spearmen and the like number of archers, fell in behind us.
Emerson stopped. 'Why are they following, Murtek? We don't need them.'
'They honour you,' Murtek hastened to explain. 'All great ones of the Holy Mountain have guard. To be safe.'
'Hmph,' said Emerson. 'Well, tell them to keep their distance. Especially from Mrs Emerson.'
After passing through several rooms of considerable size and handsome decoration we emerged into a wide entrance hall with two rows of columns down its length. Straight ahead were the first doors we had seen, constructed of wood heavily bound with iron and wide enough to admit an elephant. Emerson marched straight towards them without breaking stride. Two of the guards dashed ahead and shoved the panels open.
The brilliance of sunlight dazzled my eyes, and for a moment I was blinded. When vision returned, I saw that we stood on a broad landing or terrace. There was no balustrade between the level space and the sharp drop below, only a row of life-sized statues in the ancient Egyptian style. Later I had the opportunity to identify some of them: the cat-headed goddess Bastet and her more ferocious counterpart Sekhmet, who wears a lion's head; Thoth, the god of wisdom and writing, in the form of a baboon; Isis, suckling the infant Horus; and others; but at that time I was more interested in what lay beyond the terrace. It was my first view of the City of the Holy Mountain. I was bitterly disappointed.
It was my own fault, or rather, that of my finely honed imagination. Unconsciously I had expected to see the fairy-tale city of the legends - white marble walls and domes of shining gold, lacy minarets and towers, majestic temples. What I saw instead was a valley shaped like an elongated and irregular ellipse. Rugged cliffs enclosed it, not like protecting hands but like taloned paws, with protruding spurs of rock forming the claws.
