The Last Camel Died at Noon (2 page)

The newspaper behind which Emerson had retired rattled loudly. I stopped speaking, seized by a hideous premonition -though, as events were to prove, not nearly hideous enough. 'Emerson,' I said gently, 'you have applied for the firman, haven't you? You surely would not repeat the error you made a few years ago when you neglected to apply in time, and instead of receiving permission to work at Dahshoor we ended up at the most boring, unproductive site in all of Lower Egypt?* Emerson! Put down that newspaper and answer me! Have you obtained permission from the Department of Antiquities to excavate at Sakkara this season?'

Emerson lowered the newspaper, and flinched at finding my face only inches from his. 'Kitchener,' he said, 'has taken Berber.'

It is inconceivable to me that future generations will fail to realise the vital importance of the study of history, or that Britons will be ignorant of one of the most remarkable chapters in the development of their empire. Yet stranger things have happened; and in the event of such a catastrophe (for I would call it nothing less), I beg leave of my Readers to remind them of facts that should be as familiar to them as they are to me.

In 1884, when I made my first visit to Egypt, most English persons persisted in regarding the Mahdi as only another ragged religious fanatic, despite the fact that his followers had already overrun half the Sudan. This country, encompassing the region from the rocky cataracts of Assouan to the jungles south of the junction of the Blue and White Niles, had been conquered by Egypt in 1821. The Pashas, who were not Egyptians at all but descendants of an Albanian adventurer, had proceeded to rule the region even more corruptly and inefficiently than they did Egypt itself. The benevolent intervention of the great powers (especially Britain) rescued Egypt from disaster, but matters continued to worsen in the Sudan until Mohammed Ahmed Ibn el-Sayyid Abdullah proclaimed himself the Mahdi, the reincarnation of the Prophet, and rallied the forces of rebellion against Egyptian tyranny and misrule. His followers believed he was the descendant of a line of sheikhs; his enemies sneered at him as a poor ignorant boat-builder. Whatever his origins, he possessed an extraordinarily magnetic personality and a remarkable gift of oratory. Armed only with sticks and spears, his ragtag troops had swept all before them and were threatening the Sudanese capital of Khartoum.

Against the figure of the Mahdi stands that of the heroic General Gordon. Early in 1884 he had been sent to Khartoum to arrange for the withdrawal of the troops garrisoned there and in the nearby fort of Omdurman. There was a good deal of public feeling against this decision, for abandoning Khartoum meant giving up the entire Sudan. Gordon was accused, then and later, of never meaning to comply with his orders; whatever his reasons for delaying the withdrawal, he did just that. By the autumn of 1884, when I arrived in Egypt, Khartoum was besieged by the wild hordes of the Mahdi, and all the surrounding country, to the very borders of Egypt, was in rebel hands.

The gallant Gordon held Khartoum, and British public opinion, led by the Queen herself, demanded his rescue. An expedition was finally sent but it did not reach the beleaguered city until February of the following year - three days after Khartoum fell and the gallant Gordon was cut down in the courtyard of his house. Too late!' was the agonised cry of Britannia! Ironically, the Mahdi survived his great foe by less than six months, but his place was taken by one of his lieutenants, the Khalifa Abdullah el-Taashi, who ruled even more tyrannically than his master. For over a decade the land had groaned under his cruelties, while the British lion licked its wounds and refused to avenge the fallen hero.

The reasons, political, economic and military, that led to a decision to reconquer the Sudan are too complex to discuss here. Suffice it to say that the campaign had begun in 1896 and that by the autumn of the following year our forces were advancing on the Fourth Cataract under the gallant Kitchener, who had been named Sirdar of the Egyptian Army.

But what, one might ask, do these world-shaking affairs have to do with the winter plans of a pair of innocent Egyptologists? Alas, I knew the answer only too well, and I sank into a chair beside the desk. 'Emerson,' I said. 'Emerson. I beg of you. Don't tell me you want to dig in the Sudan this winter.'

'My dear Peabody!' Emerson flung the newspaper aside and fixed the full power of his brilliant gaze upon me. 'You know, none better, that I have wanted to excavate at Napata or Meroe for years. I'd have tackled it last year if you hadn't raised such a fuss - or if you had consented to remain in Egypt with Ramses while I did so.'

'And waited to learn that they had put your head on a pike, as they did Gordon's,' I murmured.

'Nonsense. I'd have been in no danger. Some of my best friends were Mahdists. But never mind,' he continued quickly, to forestall the protest I was about to make - not of the truth of his statement, for Emerson had friends in very strange places -but of the common sense of his plan. 'The situation is entirely different now, Peabody. The region around Napata is already in Egyptian hands. At the rate Kitchener is going, he will take Khartoum by the time we reach Egypt, and Meroe - the site I favour - is north of Khartoum. It will be quite safe.'

'But Emerson -'

'Pyramids, Peabody.' Emerson's deep voice dropped to a seductive baritone growl. 'Royal pyramids, untouched by any archaeologist. The pharaohs of the Twenty-Fifth Dynasty were Nubians - proud, virile soldiers who marched out of the south to conquer the degenerate rulers of a decadent Egypt. These heroes were buried in their homeland of Gush - formerly Nubia, now the Sudan - '

'I know that, Emerson, but - '

'After Egypt lost its independence to the Persians, the Greeks, the Romans, the Moslems, a mighty kingdom flourished in Gush,' Emerson continued poetically - and a trifle inaccurately. 'Egyptian culture survived in that far-off land - the same region, as I believe, from which it had originally sprung. Think of it, Peabody! To investigate, not only the continuation of that mighty civilization, but perhaps its roots as well...'

Emotion overcame him. His voice failed, his eyes glazed.

There were only two things that could reduce Emerson to such a state. One was the idea of going where no scholar had gone before him, of being the discoverer of new worlds, new civilisations. Need I say that I shared that noble ambition? No. My pulse quickened, I felt reason sink under the passion of his words. One last faint ray of common sense made me murmur, 'But-'

'But me no buts, Peabody.' He grasped my hands in his -those strong bronzed hands, which could wield pick and shovel more vigorously than any of his workmen but which were capable of the most sensitive, the most exquisite touch. His eyes held mine; I fancied the brilliant rays of sapphirine-blue struck from his orbs straight into my dazzled brain. 'You are with me, you know you are. And you will be with me, my darling Peabody - this winter, in Meroe!'

Rising, he drew me once more into his masterful embrace. I said no more; indeed I was unable to say more, since his lips were pressed to mine. But I thought to myself, Very well, Emerson. I will be with you - but Ramses will be at the Academy Tor Young Gentlemen in Cairo.

I am seldom wrong. On those rare occasions when I am wrong, it is usually because I have underestimated the stubborn- ness of Emerson or the devious wiles of Ramses, or a combination of the two. In defence of my powers of precognition, however, I must say that the bizarre twist our expedition was to take resulted not so much from our little familial differences of opinion as from a startling development that no one, not even I, could possibly have anticipated.

It took place on a wet autumn evening not long after the conversation I have just described. I had a number of reservations about Emerson's projected plans for the winter, and once the euphoria of his persuasive powers had subsided, I was not shy of expressing them. Though the northern Sudan was officially 'pacified' and under Egyptian occupation as far south as Dongola, only an idiot would have assumed that travel in the region was completely safe. The unfortunate inhabitants of the area had suffered from war, oppression, and starvation; many were homeless, most were hungry, and anyone who ventured among them without an armed escort was practically asking to be murdered. Emerson brushed this aside. We would not venture among them. We would be working in a region under military occupation, with troops close by. Furthermore, some of his best friends...

Having resigned myself to accept his plans (and I will admit that the thought of pyramids, my consuming passion, had some effect), I hastened to complete our arrangements for departure. After so many years I had the process down to a routine, but additional precautions and many extra supplies would be necessary if we were to venture into such a remote region. Of course I had no help whatever from Emerson, who spent all his time poring over obscure volumes on what little was known of the ancient inhabitants of the Sudan, and in long conversations with his brother Walter. Walter was a brilliant linguist who specialised in the ancient languages of Egypt. The prospect of obtaining texts in the obseure and as yet undeciphered Meroitic tongue raised his enthusiasm to fever pitch. Instead of trying to dissuade Emerson from his hazardous project he actually encouraged him.

Walter had married my dear friend Evelyn, the granddaughter and heiress of the Duke of Chalfont. Theirs had been an exceedingly happy union, and it had been blessed with four -no, at the time of which I speak I believe the number was five -children. (One tended to lose track with Evelyn, as my husband once coarsely remarked, overlooking, as men are inclined to do, that his brother was at least equally responsible.) The young Emersons were staying with us on the evening of which I am about to speak. Greatly as I enjoyed the opportunity to spend time with my dearest friend, and a brother-in-law whom I truly esteem, and their five (unless it was six?) delightful offspring, I had an additional reason, this particular year, for encouraging the visit. I had not entirely abandoned hope of persuading Emerson that Ramses should be left in England when we set out on our hazardous journey. I knew I could count on Evelyn to add her gentle persuasion to mine. For reasons which eluded me, she doted on Ramses.

It is impossible to give a proper impression of Ramses by describing his characteristics. One must observe him in action to understand how even the most admirable traits can be perverted or carried to such an extreme that they cease to be virtues and become the reverse.

At that time Ramses was ten years of age. He could speak Arabic like a native, read three different scripts of ancient Egyptian as easily as he could read Latin, Hebrew, and Greek -which is to say, as easily as English - sing a wide variety of vulgar songs in Arabic, and ride almost anything with four legs. He had no other useful skills.

He was fond of his pretty, gentle aunt, and I hoped she could help persuade him to stay with her that winter. The presence of his cousins would be an inducement; Ramses was fond of them too, although I am not certain the feeling was reciprocated.

I had gone off to London that day with less trepidation than I usually felt when leaving Ramses because it was raining heavily and I assumed Evelyn would insist that the children remain indoors. I had strictly forbidden Ramses to conduct any chemical experiments whatever, or continue his excavations in the wine cellar, or practice knife-throwing in the house, or show little Amelia his mummified mice, or teach his cousins any Arabic songs. There were a number of other things; I forget them now, but I felt reasonably sure I had covered everything. I was therefore able to pursue my errands with a mind at ease, though the same could not be said about my body; the coal smoke that hangs over London had combined with the rain to form a blackish smut that clung to clothing and skin, and the streets were ankle-deep in mud. When I got off the train late that afternoon I was glad to see the carriage waiting. I had arranged to have most of my purchases shipped, but I was loaded with parcels and my skirts were wet to the knee.

The lights of Amarna House shone warm and welcoming through the gathering dusk. How joyfully I looked forward to my reunion with all those I loved best, and to lesser but nonetheless pleasant comforts - a hot bath, a change of clothing, and a cup of the beverage that cheers but does not inebriate. Feeling the chill of wet feet and clinging skirts, I reflected that I might instead indulge in the beverage that does inebriate - but only when taken in excessive quantities, which I never do. There is, after all, nothing so effective in warding off a cold than a stiff whiskey and soda.

Gargery, our excellent butler, had been watching for the carriage; as he assisted me to remove my wet outer garments he said solicitously, 'May I venture to suggest, madam, that you take something to ward off a cold ? I will send one of the footmen upstairs with it at once, if you like.'

'What a splendid idea, Gargery,' I replied. 'I am grateful to you for suggesting it.'

I had almost reached my room before I realised that the house was uncommonly quiet. No voices raised in genial debate from my husband's study, no childish laughter, no...

'Rose,' I cried, flinging open my door. 'Rose, where... Oh, there you are.'

'Your bath is ready, madam,' said Rose, from the open door of the bathroom, where she stood wreathed in steam like a kindly genie. She seemed a trifle flushed. It might have been the warmth of the bathwater that had brought the pretty colour to her cheeks, but I suspected another reason.

'Thank you, Rose. But I was about to ask - '

'Will you wear the crimson tea gown, madam?' She hastened to me and began wrenching at the buttons on my dress.

'Yes. But where... My dear Rose, you are shaking me like a terrier with a rat. A little less enthusiasm, if you please.'

'Yes, madam. But the bath water will be cold.' Having divested me of my gown, she began attacking my petticoats.

'Very well, Rose. What has Ramses done now?'

It took me a while to get the truth out of her. Rose is childless; no doubt that fact explains her peculiar attachment to Ramses, whom she has known since he was an infant. It is true that he showers her with gifts - bouquets of my prize roses, bunches of prickly wildflowers, small furry animals, hideous gloves, scarves, and handbags, selected by himself and paid for out of his pocket money. But even if the gifts were appropriate, which most are not, they hardly compensate for the hours Rose has spent cleaning up after him. I long ago gave up trying to comprehend this streak of irrationality in an otherwise sensible woman.