The last camel died at noon, page 38
'Thank heaven,' whispered Emerson. 'Our son is safe. The handwriting is his. He must have written this at Tarek's dictation.'
'Certain of the expressions strongly suggest that Ramses not only wrote it but composed it,' I replied. '"Astutissimo," indeed. I suppose he used Latin to prevent the message from being understood if it were intercepted.'
(For the benefit of those few among my Readers whose command of the language of the Caesars is weak, I append a translation; 'I am safe, I am free, and the day of my vengeance is near. Fear not for your very brave, very clever son. With consummate skill and daring he found his way to me. We will meet in the temple on the day of the coming forth of the god. Till then, wait; do nothing.')
Emerson blew out the lamp. 'Back to bed, Peabody. We have much to discuss.'
'I have an uneasy feeling that we are being watched, Emerson.'
'That is almost a certainty, my dear. I am glad we took the risk, though; I can sleep more soundly knowing that Ramses is with our friend. It will be hard to wait, though. We must find out when the ceremony is to take place.'
'That is what I was about to tell you, Emerson, when the cat arrived. The ceremony is in two days' time - the day after tomorrow.'
The message opened endless avenues of speculation. How had Ramses managed to find his way to Tarek? Where were they now? What precisely were the prince's plans? He sounded very confident that matters would work out to his advantage, but we agreed we would feel easier if we knew what he intended. Emerson expressed some indignation over Tarek's (or Ramses's?) order to refrain from action. 'There is a decided suggestion of criticism there, Peabody, don't you think? As if we had done too much already. And how does he expect us to sit twiddling our thumbs for two cursed days? It is not humanly possible. What if his plans go awry?'
They were legitimate questions, but unfortunately I could no more think of sensible answers than could Emerson.
The following day stands out in my mind as unquestionably the most unpleasant of the entire adventure. Dying of thirst is not an activity in which I would care to engage again; anticipating the violent death of Emerson was extremely painful; the anguish of believing that Ramses had vanished forever into the rocky bowels of the cliffs tried my nerves severely. But on the whole, activity of any kind is preferable to waiting, especially when one has some reason to believe that waiting may end in a sticky death.
We made what preparations we could. I made certain my little revolver was loaded and my knife readily accessible, and prepared myself for the physical exertion that might be necessary by exercising my limbs vigorously. This procedure had an unexpected advantage, for as soon as I began jumping, skipping, and swinging my arms, the attendants incontinently fled. I suppose they mistook my actions for magical gestures.
Finding ourselves alone, Emerson and I made the best possible use of our time. Indeed, our enjoyment of one another's company was the only thing that made that long day endurable. The cat did not come back, though I stood by the garden wall for some time calling it. There was no word from Reggie or from Amenit. No one came to threaten or reassure us.
Fortunately we were not called upon to endure another such day. It was mid-morning when they came for us, and as the curtain was thrust aside Emerson heaved a mighty sigh of relief. 'As I hoped and expected. High noon is the time.'
We were forced to sit around for an hour or more, since we flatly refused to go through any ceremonies of purification or put on the handsome robes that had been supplied. 'If we go down, we will go down fighting, and attired like an English lady and gentleman,' I decreed.
Emerson looked me over from head to foot, his lips twitching. 'A proper English lady would faint dead away seeing you attired like that, Peabody.'
Alas, he was correct. I had done the best I could to press and brush our travel-stained garments, but I could not mend the rents or sew on missing buttons. I had searched in vain for the grubby spool of thread Ramses had lent me. It required no great stretch of the imagination to understand why he had taken it with him, but it was deuced inconvenient. Emerson's shirt was beyond repair; he was wearing one of the locally produced substitutes and I must admit it was unexpectedly becoming to him, especially since it had been made for a much slighter individual.
'I hate to think what a proper English lady would do on seeing you, Emerson,' I riposted with a smile. 'Are you sure you don't want to borrow my knife?'
'No, thank you, my dear.' Absently Emerson flexed his arms. One of the attendants, who had timidly advanced towards him waving a pleated kilt like a parlormaid shaking a rug, jumped back with a squeak.
'Your costume requires something, though,' I said, frowning. 'Why don't you put on that beaded collar? And some of the bracelets.'
'I will be cursed - ' Emerson began loudly.
'Some of the beautiful heavy gold bracelets,' I said.
'Oh,' said Emerson. 'Excellent idea, Peabody.'
Once this had been done - and the effect, let me add, was very fine - we were ready. However, our escort was not. I don't know how they knew the time, having no clocks or watches, but apparently we were early. A debate ensued; it ended with the decision that it would be better to be too early than too late.
'Have we everything, Peabody?' Emerson asked, knocking out his pipe and putting it carefully in his trouser pocket.
'I think so. Notebooks' - I felt the front of my blouse - 'my belt and accoutrements, my weapons, your pipe and tobacco... I am ready.'
As the guards closed around us I cast one final look at the room where we had spent so many painful and yet fascinating hours. Whatever ensued, it seemed unlikely that we would return. We had decided that Tarek probably intended to wage an attack upon his brother's forces during the ceremony. We would of course support our friend to the uttermost; but if he went down and his cause with him, we would make a break for it. The details of that action were necessarily vague, for they depended on too many unknown factors, the most important of which was whether Ramses and Nefret would be present. If we could scoop them up and take them along, we would try to get over or through the cliffs, steal camels and supplies, and ride hell-for-leather (if the Reader will excuse the vulgarity) for the Nile. Otherwise we would have to hide in the tunnels until we found both children, for as Emerson had said, we would as soon have abandoned Ramses as the golden-haired maiden whose courage and beauty had won both our hearts.
The weather was certainly propitious. The sun beamed down from a cloudless sky; not a breath of wind or haze of sand broke the still, clear air. As we marched along, hand in hand, closely surrounded by a heavy guard, Emerson began to whistle and my spirits soared. We were about to go into action, and when the Emersons act in concert, few can stand against them. Something was bound to turn up.
I do not know whether I have made the plan of the Great Temple clear to the Reader, who may not be as familiar as we were with the design of such structures. It was in essence very like its ancient Egyptian models. The progression was from light to darkness, from openness to mystery. Passing through the great entrance pylons, the visitor entered an open court with surrounding colonnades. Through deepening shadows the worshipper proceeded from hall to chamber to passageway until he reached the holy of holies, the sanctuary in which dwelt the god himself. This was the simple, basic plan; over the years, in Egypt as here, additional halls and pylons and chambers had been added wherever space allowed. Like the temple of Abu Simbel, this one was for the most part carved out of the cliffs themselves, and because the area of the city itself was so limited, the rock-cut chambers had greatly increased in number and in function.
I suspected that there were chambers even more secret and sacred beyond the ones we had seen, for the ultimate mysteries of the god could not be observed by common worshippers, only by priests and priestesses assigned to his service. Since this was a public ceremony, I expected it would take place in the outer courtyard, and so it proved. The hypostyle hall was filled with people. They were packed like sardines into the colonnades on either side and spilled out into the open space in the centre. Files of armed guards kept a passage free; down this we marched towards the pillared colonnade opposite the gateway. This area was reserved for the elite and their attendants - priests of the highest rank, with shaven heads and pure white robes; nobles of both sexes, glittering with gold and jewels; musicians holding harps and pipes and drums; and our unworthy selves. We took the seats indicated to us and surveyed the scene with, I hardly need say, considerable interest.
'I wonder if I might smoke,' said Emerson.
'It would be rude, my dear. After all, this is a religious edifice - of a sort.'
'Hmph,' said Emerson. Like mine, his eyes were fixed upon the object that dominated the space before the arcade - a massive block of stone whose carvings were almost obliterated by time and by the ugly stains that formed grotesque patterns on its top and down its sides. It seemed to me that a dark cloud hung over it, as if the bright sunlight shuddered away from its surface. Human sacrifice had not been practised in ancient Egypt; the blood that stained the altars had been that of poor terrified cattle or geese. But here... Well, no doubt we would soon find out.
Turning to more seemly sights, my eyes moved across the gaily dressed group of nobles. There were children among them - girls with gold rings woven into their dark hair, little boys whose single braids shone lustrous as a raven's wing in the sunlight. One looked so much like Ramses that my heart skipped a beat. Then he turned to stare at me and the resemblance was gone.
It had been foolish of me to think he might be here. Tarek would not allow so young a lad to risk himself in battle. I wondered where Tarek's men were assembling. Nastasen's soldiers were everywhere, surrounding the spectators and mingling with them; the flash of spear points dazzled the eyes. He too must expect an attack in force. It appeared to me that the odds were with him, not only in numbers but in the strength of his position. It would be hard to break through that narrow opening, well guarded as it was.
The pick of Nastasen's men, tall, muscular fellows in the prime of life, surrounded the throne-chair and the strange little kiosk behind it. It was made of woven reeds, picked out with gold and heavily curtained. In shape it resembled those I had seen in Egyptian reliefs, with a sloping roof and cornice. I poked Emerson, who was morosely scanning the ranks of the spectators. 'Is she there, do you think?'
'Who? Where? Oh, there. Hmmm. It is quite possible. At this moment I am more interested in where Ramses might be.'
I explained my reasoning on that subject. 'No doubt,' Emerson said irritably. 'I wish they would get on with it, though. We will probably have to sit through most of the cursed ceremony; if Tarek is any sort of strategist, he will wait until the climax, when the attention of the audience is distracted.'
A surge of the crowd and a rising murmur of interest indicated that something was happening. Situated as we were, we could not see the entrance, so it was not until the new arrival was face-to-face with us that we recognised Reggie. Even then I had to take a second look. He was dressed like a nobleman, even to the wig of coarse dark hair that covered his fiery locks.
The Reader may have noted that in our plans for escape we had not considered Reggie. This was not as callous as it might seem. However the day went for Tarek, Reggie had a greater chance of survival than the rest of us. If Amenit could not save him, it was unlikely that we could do better. Should we succeed in getting away, we could and would mount another expedition; but the welfare of the children, Ramses and Nefret, had to take precedence.
Happily unaware of this somewhat cold-blooded assessment, Reggie greeted us with a brave smile. 'So here we are, at the end. At least we will die together.'
'I have no intention of dying,' said Emerson with a snap of his teeth. 'You look ridiculous, Forthright. Why did you let them stuff you into those clothes?'
'What does it matter?' Reggie sighed. 'The only thing that concerns me is the fate of that poor little boy. Even if he still lives, how can he survive without his parents?'
'I prefer not to discuss the subject,' said Emerson. 'Ah - I believe the performance is about to begin.'
Nastasen emerged from the entrance to the inner court. He was dressed like a simple priest, except for his long black hair. Following came a small group of high officials, including the two high priests, more guards - and another individual whose appearance made me wonder whether the events of two days past had been only a horrible nightmare. He looked exactly like the Hand of the Heneshem whom Emerson had dispatched - the same squat, heavily muscled body, the same coarse face, the same shining spear and scanty loincloth.
'Curse it!' said Emerson, sitting upright. 'I thought I had killed the b---d.'
'Language, Emerson, please. It is not - cannot be - the same man.'
'Must be his brother, then,' muttered Emerson. And indeed, the hideous leer the new Hand bent upon my husband suggested an anticipatory pleasure stronger than simple pride in one's professional skill.
Welcomed with music and dancing, the rattle of sistra and the cries of the worshippers, the god came forth.
Emerson leaned forwards, his eyes shining. 'Good Gad, Peabody, look at that. It is the bark of the god - the ship shown in the ancient reliefs. Have ever scholars had such an opportunity as we?'
Readers who are interested in the meaning of ships in ancient Egyptian religious ceremonies should refer to Emerson's article in the Journal of Egyptian Archaeology. Here I will say no more than that the object in question was a model of the sacred barks upon which the god sailed to visit various shrines. At the curved prow and stern were carved heads of the god - Amon-Re, wearing the horned crown and the disk. Long poles carried the insignia sacred to Amon, and in the centre of the ship was a shrine or tabernacle of light wood hung all around with curtains. Model though it was, it required twenty-five or thirty bearers to carry it.
Normally hidden from the eyes of the vulgar, the god was on full display now; the curtains had been pulled back. It was a most curious statue, unlike any I had ever seen, and it must have been of immemorial antiquity. Approximately four feet in height, it was carved of painted, gilded wood. The arms were crossed upon the breast, the hands held the twin sceptres. A garment of fine linen covered the naked limbs; a collar six inches wide adorned the broad breast.
Emerson's fingers twitched. He was aching to take notes. To see such a ceremony, often described but never depicted in detail, was like travelling back in time. Almost I forgot the dread purpose of this ceremony and its hideous culmination.
Bowed under the weight of the gilded structure, the carriers proceeded slowly down the aisle towards the temple gates. Roughly the guards pushed back the spectators, who seethed like a nest of ants. They cried out in appeal and adoration; they held children high in their arms, thrusting them forwards over the heads of those in the front rank so their tiny hands might touch the sacred vehicle; they struggled and pushed for favourable positions. For the first time I realised fully the power of superstition, and knew that the religion I had studied with scholarly detachment had been, and was, a living, breathing force. These people believed. They would accept the decision of the god and defend his chosen one.
Partway down the aisle the carriers stopped, and a man stepped out of the ranks of the spectators, the guards parting to let him through. I could not hear what he said, for the cries of the crowd drowned him out, but I assumed it was an appeal or a question - and that the guards, and the bearers, had been well-bribed not only to let him address the god but to ensure the correct answer. I rose to my feet and stood on tiptoe, trying to see how the god would reply; unfortunately 'his' back was to me and the people in front were milling about. All I saw was the recoil of the questioner, who staggered back with his hands to his head. A gasp of wonder rose from the crowd. After a moment the ship moved on.
The same thing happened twice more. I saw even less on these occasions. Then the ship reached the gate, turned, and started on its return trip. It came more quickly now and did not stop. The crowd noise died into a breathless silence, and the melodious basso of the high priest boomed out. 'O Aminreh, king of the gods - the pharaoh awaits you. Give him your blessing, O Aminreh, that the land may live and flourish with His Majesty.'
Nastasen stepped forwards, smirking. Where was Tarek? This was the moment, when every eye was bent upon the bark and the god, when even breath had stopped in anticipation. I could not take my eyes off the grotesque wooden statue. The painted face stared straight ahead. The hollow eye sockets... They were hollow, not painted or filled with crystal. But they were not empty. Something glimmered within them. I noted that the arms of the god were not carved in one piece with the rest of the body, but were separate pieces of wood - and at that moment, when the ship had almost reached the spot where Nastasen stood awaiting it, the god's arm moved. The heavy wooden flail came down on the shoulder of the nearest bearer. He let out a cry and stumbled, losing his grip on the pole and falling forwards against the man ahead of him. The whole structure swayed to a stop as the other bearers struggled to retain their footing and their grip. The god's arm lifted - not the same arm, the other, the one that held the crook. It came gently to rest upon the head of a man who had suddenly appeared beside the shrine, emerging from the ranks of the spectators. The white robes were those of a minor priest. The face was Tarek's.
