The Last Camel Died at Noon (40 page)

It ended with Nastasen doing what any sensible person would have done at the beginning - closing the trapdoor and withdrawing, leaving two men on watch. Pesaker had to explain to him why guards were necessary - to keep us from escaping the same way - and there was some argument as to whether the men down below should be shut in with the fugitive. Nastasen was all in favour, but Murtek finally convinced him that they would only drive Ramses farther from the stairs and perhaps cause him to lose his way.

That was now my greatest fear. Almost I would have preferred the dungeons. The thought of Ramses wandering alone and in utter darkness, his throat parched for lack of water - losing hope, crying out for help, dashing himself against the stony walls as he ran panic-stricken through the endless night of the tunnels - falling, at last, to perish in lingering torment... I tried to banish the hideous sights from my mind, but I failed; and when at last the intruders left us, I had no difficulty at all in bursting into tears.

'Don't worry, ma'am, we'll find him,' Reggie exclaimed, patting my hand.

'Come and lie down, my dear,' said Emerson, leading me into my sleeping chamber.

Having thus attained the degree of privacy we required, I attempted to stop crying and was surprised to find I could not. Emerson took me in his arms and I muffled my sobs against his manly bosom. 'He'll be all right, Peabody.'

'In the dark, all alone, lost...'

'Hush, my dear. I'll lay you odds he is not lost, but could retrace his steps at any time. And he is not in the dark.'

'What?' I raised my head. Emerson pressed it firmly back against his breast. 'Sssh! I saw it when Nasty held his lamp over the opening - a burned matchstick, deliberately placed on the topmost step.'

After checking the accoutrements.on my belt I discovered that a candle and a considerable quantity of matches were missing from the waterproof tin in which I kept them. Since Ramses could not have taken them that morning, he must have stowed them away the night before in the expectation of some such emergency arising, and therefore it was quite possible he had also supplied himself with food and water and whatever other commodities he deemed necessary.

'He might at least have had the courtesy to inform me of what he was planning,' I said crossly, replacing the matches and the two remaining candles. 'I never heard of anything so inconsiderate and ill-considered. What the devil does he think he is doing? He can't stay down there forever. And how are we supposed to find him when -'

'He was considerate enough to leave the burned match,' said Emerson.

'He probably dropped it accidentally.'

'He must have lit his candle or his lamp before he opened the trapdoor, Peabody. There are no windows in those back rooms; he could not have found his way, or located the spring that opens the trap, without light. No, I am sure the match was a sign, meant for our eyes only and intended to convey precisely what it did - that he has taken every possible precaution and will reestablish communication when it is safe to do so.'

He was trying to comfort me, and he succeeded - for a while. The situation was not as dire as I had first believed, but it was bad enough. Knowing that he suffered too, I put on a cheerful face and apologised for my momentary weakness, to which he responded with his customary graciousness. 'Feel free to break down again anytime Peabody. I rather enjoyed it.'

Nagging worry about Ramses made me all the more anxious to get on with my plan for rendering Amenit hors de combat. Reggie was a complication I had not expected, and I wished with all my heart that Nasty, as Emerson had taken to calling him, had not returned the young man. A few days more in the dungeon would not have hurt him.

As soon as I was able, I took Amenit aside and warned her not to mention our scheme to her lover. 'If you tell him, he will say what all men do, that he loves you as you are. He believes that, but it is not true. Let it be a surprise when you show yourself in all your new beauty.'

She agreed that this was an excellent plan.

Leaving Emerson to distract Reggie with far-fetched suggestions for escape, I retired with Amenit to my room, where the supplies I had requested had been brought. I made quite a performance of it, crooning 'incantations' in Latin and Hebrew as I mixed and stirred and blended.

I had been teasing my dear Emerson when I claimed to be carrying arsenic and other poisons (though it might not be a bad idea to have something of the sort on hand in the future).

Had I been in dear old England, I could have gleaned numerous deadly substances from the fields and hedgerows. No such richness was available to me here, and the purgatives, of which I always carried an ample supply, acted too quickly for my purposes. I did not want the girl to blame her illness on my ministrations.

I had one thing on hand that would have done the trick - a necklace given me by one of my ladies-in-waiting after I had admired the pretty mottled black-and-brown beads. They were castor beans, from which castor oil is extracted. Cooking destroys the poison, so castor oil was perfectly safe, but these beans had not been cooked before being strung, only dried. There was enough poison in my necklace to dispatch Amenit and half a dozen of the guards.

But did I dare administer it? I had crushed the seeds and set them to soak in cold water. I could probably persuade Amenit to drink some of it under the pretext that it would beautify her from the inside out, but I had not the faintest idea how potent the brew might be. It might have no effect at all, it might induce the cramps and digestive distress I wanted - or it might put an end to her.

I am a Christian woman. I set the liquid aside.

I had washed her hair and plastered her face and arms with a paste of my own invention when the second intrusion of the day occurred - the familiar noises of marching feet and clashing weapons. It was getting monotonous.

Amenit reacted as any woman would when the intimate secrets of the toilette are in danger of being exposed. In other words, she squealed and shrieked and looked around for a place in which to hide. She really was a dreadful sight; I had added some pounded herbs to the mess, for colour, and she looked as if she were wearing a copper mask suffering severely from verdigris. 'Don't wash it off,' I warned, handing her her veils. 'You will spoil the magic.'

I heard Emerson call my name. Wiping a few flecks of the green paste from my forearms (I had taken care to apply it with a cloth), I hurried into the reception room.

Nastasen had not honoured us with his personal attention this time. In command of the troop of soldiers was one of the nobles who had attended our impromptu dinner party.

I greeted him with a bow and a polite 'Good afternoon,' which seemed to fluster him. He started to reply in kind, and got as far as, 'The gods favour -' before he recollected himself. 'You come,' he said, scowling.

'I really am rather busy,' I replied. 'Can't this wait?'

'Don't push him too far, Peabody,' said Emerson, repressing a smile. 'We seem to be wanted; it would be more dignified to go of our own accord instead of being forced.'

'Oh, certainly, Emerson. Is Reggie also invited?'

Reggie was. Since the dramatic change in our status we had taken to wearing our regular clothing all the time in order to be prepared for unexpected visits, so we were properly attired, and I managed to snatch up my parasol as we were led to the door. This time no litters were provided; we walked, entirely surrounded by guards. I observed, however, that our escort kept a respectful distance; in fact, they seemed wary of so much as touching Emerson. He noticed too, and amused himself by wandering suddenly to one side or the other and watching the men skip quickly out of his way.

'Professor, are you mad?' demanded Reggie, who was walking behind us. 'Don't provoke them. We are walking on a sword's edge as it is.'

'Do you know what this is all about?' Emerson asked.

'No. No, I have no idea. It can't be the crowning ceremony, it is still several days off.'

'So I thought,' said Emerson. 'This is probably another of Nasty's little tricks to unnerve us. I refuse to be unnerved.'

'You have had your fun, though, my dear,' I said, taking his arm. 'Behave yourself. And brace yourself. Nastasen's little tricks may live up to his nickname.'

Brisk exercise and fresh air did us good, though the weather was not salubrious. A haze of sand dimmed the sun, without diminishing its fiery heat. I was short of breath - with anxious anticipation as much as fatigue - by the time we reached our destination - the great gates of the palace, where I had once gone to visit the dowager queen.

Her apartments had been in the open, with courtyards and pretty gardens surrounding them. We went nowhere near this part of the structure, but marched on through increasing gloom into the rock-cut chambers at the rear of the structure. They were no less imposing; in fact, the shadows lent them an eerie majesty suited to their purpose, for they were obviously the state apartments of the ruling monarch, adorned with statues, hangings, and painted walls. Here were none of the gentle scenes of birds and flowering plants and running animals that had decorated the palaces of Amarna which Emerson and I had excavated, only representations of the king's majesty and martial prowess. The iron-bound wheels of his chariot crushed the enemies who had fallen before his arrows; his upraised club dashed out the brains of a kneeling captive.

Finally we entered a room of greater size than any we had seen. Dozens of torches and lamps served only to illumine the central portion; the far-off ceiling was a canopy of shadows, and darkness formed the side walls. On a platform straight ahead stood a chair covered with gold foil. The legs were those of a lion; lions' heads formed the front of the armrests. It was empty except for  an object that rested on the cushioned seat. A smooth, bulbous white shape, cradled in a frame of stiffened blood-red reeds - the ancient Double Crown, which had signified the unification of the two lands of Upper and Lower Egypt but which in this forlorn and dying oasis recalled only a memory of vanished glory.

The room was full of people. They stood still as statues, but eyes glittered from the shadows, and I saw that they represented all the classes of this strange society. Rank on rank of armed soldiers; courtiers and nobles, men and women alike, in their rich garb; even a group of the rekkit, herded into a separate enclosure and closely guarded.

At the foot of the steps leading up to the throne and at right angles to it was another chair, also carved and gilded but less ornate. Facing it were three plain wooden chairs, with seats of woven reeds. To these we were led.

'We are to be spectators rather than performers, it seems,' remarked Emerson. He spoke in a normal voice, but echoes amplified the sound, and the watching eyes flashed, as if they had rolled towards us and then rolled back.

After we had seated ourselves, nothing happened for a long time, and I occupied myself by studying the room and its furnishings. There is a trick of adjusting the eyes to comparative darkness; by focusing on the most shadowy portions of the chamber and avoiding looking at the lamps, I began to make out details that had eluded me before. A row of squat, stubby columns ran the length of the room, approximately one-third of the way across; I assumed another such row was behind me. Behind the throne platform was a doorway, discernible only as a square of deeper blackness. To the right of the door another, wider opening appeared...

A cold chill rippled through me. The opening was not a doorway. It was a recess, an alcove, deep and wide; and it was not empty. What in heaven's name was the - thing - within? Not lifeless stone, though it bulked as large as a carved boulder. It lived; I sensed, rather than saw, movement. I heard - was it the echo of my own agitated breath or the harsh breathing of some huge beast? I saw a faint glimmer of reflected light...

Then I saw no more therein, for torchlight brightened the rectangle of the doorway. The torchbearers took up positions behind the chair at the foot of the dais. A group of priests followed, led by Pesaker; they turned to their left and lined up shoulder to shoulder before the opening of the recess. I had the odd impression that they were not so much protecting what lay within as preventing it from coming out.

Was it a beast after all? The pharaohs of Egypt hunted lions, and although the lordly creatures had vanished from Egypt proper, they were still to be found in Nubia. A captive lion, fed on human flesh trained to mangle and kill the enemies of the king... I would greatly dislike being eaten by a lion. I would dislike even more being forced to watch Ramses eaten by one.

'Oh, dear,' I murmured.

'Peabody?' Emerson glanced questioningly at me.

'I think perhaps you were right, my dear, when you said my imagination was too well developed.'

Further discussion was ended by the appearance of Nastasen, in full regalia. His pleated linen robe, his golden sandals and heavy jewelled collar, were those of a pharaoh; the sword at his belt had a hilt of rock crystal set in gold. The only thing missing was the crown, and oh! what a lustful glance he cast upon it as he passed the throne and seated himself in the chair below it.

Another heavy silence ensued. How theatrical these people were! The delay was, and was intended to be, unnerving - at least it would have unnerved persons who were not trained, as we were, in the traditions of British pluck. Emerson stifled a yawn, I let my eyelids droop as if in boredom, and Nastasen decided to get on with it. He raised the gilded staff he carried and called out, 'Bring them in! Bring the guilty to cower before the vengeance of the god!'

Half-expecting to see Ramses and Tarek, I was momentarily relieved to behold instead a little group of people wearing native garb. My relief was short-lived when I recognised the men, and realised that there were several women and small children in the group. Emerson uttered an oath (which was quite justified, but which I will not record) and started to rise. He was pulled back into his seat by a noose that was dropped over his head and pulled tight across his chest. I felt a similar constraint bind my shoulders and arms to the chair; a swift glance to my right assured me Reggie had been treated the same.

These men are twice traitors,' Nastasen announced. 'First for failing in their duty. Twice for giving their souls to the white magician. They will die, together with their families. But because they fought bravely in the service of my father the king, and because the magician cast his spell upon them, they will receive the honour of dying at the hand of the Heneshem(?).'

The ranks of priests before the alcove parted and a man emerged from it. He was no taller than the shortest of the priests, but he bulked twice as large, and all of his bulk was muscle. He wore only a loincloth; his entire body, including his head, had been shaved in accordance with the requirements of ritual purity. Heavy supra-orbital ridges and bulging cheeks reduced his eyes to small black circles, cold and polished as obsidian beads. His mouth was a wide lipless line, like a cut in dead flesh. So thick was his neck that his head appeared to rest directly on his massive shoulders. He looked as if he could crush a normal human body with his bare arms, but he carried a weapon - a spear whose blade was dark with old stains except for its point and edges, which gleamed like polished silver.

As he advanced, the torchlight turned his oiled skin the colour of fresh blood. He made a deep obeisance to Nastasen and a deeper one to the dark alcove, then braced his feet and stood waiting.

Thus far there had been no sound from the ranks of the doomed. Rigid and grey-faced, they stared with empty eyes at their executioner. In the front rank was the young officer. He had not looked at us, and he seemed oblivious of the woman who pressed close to him. She was hardly more than a girl, and in her arms she clasped an infant. Her face remained fixed, but her arms must have tightened, for the child began to cry.

The executioner's lipless mouth split. 'The babe weeps? I will stop its tears. And because the Heneshem is merciful, I will not leave its mother to grieve. Stand forth, woman, and hold the babe close.'

He raised the heavy spear as effortlessly as if it had been a twig. The crimson light slid along the bulging muscles of his arms. The young father groaned and raised his hands to cover his eyes.

Dry-mouthed with horror, I struggled to move my arms and reach my little pistol. I knew I could never do it in time.

When he is slightly irritated, Emerson bellows like a bull-When he is really angry, he is as silent and swift as a charging leopard. I heard the crack as the rope across his breast snapped like string. In one long leap he reached the nearest of the guards and wrenched the spear from his hand, sending him sprawling. There was a flash, a bolt of silvery light - and the blade of the spear, now dull and dripping, stood out a full twelve inches behind the executioner's back.

Oh, for the brush of a Turner, or the pen of a Homer! No lesser genius could convey the superb and passionate splendour of that scene! Emerson stood at bay, fists clenched. That incredible blow had burst all the buttons off his shirt and his bronzed breast heaved with effort A circle of spears menaced him but his head was proudly erect and a grim smile curved his lips. At his feet the body of the killer lay in a spreading pool of blood. Behind him, the condemned had come alive; falling to their knees, they held out their arms to their defender.

Emerson took a deep breath. His voice filled the vast chamber and rolled in thunderous echoes. 'The vengeance of the gods has struck down the killer of little children and unarmed men! Ma'at (justice, order) is served through me - the Father of Curses, the hand of the god!'

Through the entire assemblage rippled a united gasp of awe. Nastasen rose to his feet, his face swollen with fury. 'Kill!' he screamed. 'Kill him!'

'The God Has Spoken'

My throat was too constricted, my heart too full for speech. My eyes clung to those of my heroic spouse, and in the brilliant blue of their gaze I read undimmed courage, undying affection, and the acknowledgment of the admiration I would have expressed had I been able. His smiling lips shaped words.

'Don't look, Peabody.'

'Never fear me,' I cried. 'I will be with you to the end, my dear, and after. But I will not follow till I have avenged you!'

Nastasen let out a wordless shriek of fury. His order had not been obeyed. The men hesitated, none wishing to be the first to brave the mighty white magician's wrath. Gibbering and frothing at the mouth, the prince pulled the ceremonial sword from his belt and ran towards Emerson.

A voice rose over the murmur of the spectators. 'Stop! The Heneshem speaks. Heed the voice of the Heneshem.'

It was a woman's voice, high and sweet, and it stopped Nastasen as if he had run into an invisible wall. The voice went on, 'The ceremony is ended. Return the strangers to their place, The Heneshem has spoken.'

But - but - ' Nastasen stuttered, waving his sword. 'The guilty men must die. They and their families.'

Emerson folded his arms. 'You will have to kill me first.'

Take them back to their places,' said the high clear voice.

'All of them. Await the judgment of the Heneshem. The ceremony is ended. The voice of the Heneshem has spoken.'

The guards obeyed this order as they had not obeyed Nastasen. The rope that had held me fell away. I got to my feet, finding to my chagrin that my knees were a trifle unsteady.

Emerson pushed a pair of spears aside and hurried to me. 'What an anticlimax,' he remarked. 'Here, Peabody, don't faint or anything of that sort. We must continue to keep up appearances.'

'I have no intention of doing anything so absurd,' I assured him

'Then stop mumbling into my collarbone and let go my shirt'

I wiped my eyes on the remains of that garment before I complied. 'Another shin ruined, Emerson! You are so hard on them.'

'That's my Peabody,' said Emerson fondly. 'Come along, my dear - step smartly. Forthright, on your feet, man.'

I had forgotten Reggie, and I expect the Reader will understand why. He too had been freed, but he was still sitting in the chair, staring like a dead fish. The room was almost empty. A shuffle of sandalled feet from the shadows indicated the departure of the last of the spectators. Nastasen had gone, leaving his sword on the floor where he had flung it in a fit of childish pique.

Walking like a somnambulist, Reggie joined us and we started for the exit, surrounded by a decidedly nervous escort. As we passed the little group of prisoners, the young officer flung himself at Emerson's feet. 'We are your men, Father of Curses To death.'

'Not to death, but to life,' retorted Emerson, never at a loss for the mot juste. 'Stand up like men and fight for the right (ma'at).'

'A pity they don't understand English,' I remarked, as we proceeded on our way. 'It lost a bit in the translation.'

Emerson chuckled. 'I resent your criticism, Peabody. I thought it sounded quite well, given my imperfect command of the language.'

'Oh, I meant no criticism, my dear. You understand the language better than I; what was that strange title?'

'I have no idea,' said Emerson placidly. 'Whoever he or she may be, the Heneshem is clearly a power to be reckoned with.'

'It was a woman's voice, Emerson.'

'The Voice was a woman's; the Hand was a man's. Titles, Peabody, don't you think?'

'Good gracious. I hadn't thought of it, but I expect you are right. Emerson - did you see something - someone - in the alcove?'

'The Hand of the Heneshem emerged from it.'

'And the voice was there too. But what I saw - felt - sensed - was something more.'

'Monstrous,' Reggie mumbled. 'Horrible.'

'Ah, so you are with us in spirit as well as in body,' said Emerson, shading his eyes as we came out into an open courtyard. 'Cheer up, man, we aren't dead yet.'

'You were on the brink,' said Reggie. 'And your wife and I were a step behind you.'

'Balderdash,' said Emerson. `I keep telling you, they are saving us for a more impressive ceremony. Here, take my arm, Peabody, these fellows are practically running.' He gave the soldier ahead of him a sharp smack on the back. 'Slow down, curse you [lit. Anubis take you].'

'They are anxious to get us off their hands, I expect,' I said. 'For fear they will fall victim to the magic of the great Father of Curses.'

Emerson grinned. 'Yes. Nastasen's little trick backfired on him this time; our mana is higher than ever.'

'Your mana, my dear,' I said, squeezing his arm.

Strolling now at a more moderate pace, we continued to speculate on the identity and powers of the Heneshem. Emerson insisted it was a man, I insisted it was a woman, but we agreed that his or her authority was probably limited to religious matters. However, in this society the distinction was by no means so clear as in our own. The dispensation of justice (if it could be so called) was primarily a religious function, since the divine pantheon was the final judge. What effect this would have on our own proposed sacrifice we were unable to determinem though we argued the matter for some time.

'Well,' said Emerson at last, 'we can only wait and see. At least we have learned that there is another player in this little game, who seems, for the moment at least, to be disposed in our favour.'

'Hmmm,' I said.

'What is that supposed to mean, Peabody?'

'I think I know why she favours us. You, rather.'

'See here, Peabody -'

'Emerson, just listen and follow my logic. The Hand of the Heneshem uses a spear to execute his victims. Meroitic reliefs depict the queen dispatching prisoners with a spear. There are similar scenes from Egyptian temples showing pharaohs smashing the heads of captives with a huge club. But surely the god-king did not commit this bloody deed himself; we know that priests and officials performed many of the duties that were nominally the responsibility of the monarch. In this case as well, he must have had a deputy who wielded the actual club. It is even more likely that a woman, however muscular and bloodthirsty, would delegate an official - the Hand of Her Majesty - to do the killing.'

'Are you suggesting the unknown power is the queen?' Emerson exclaimed. 'That pleasant plump lady, to whom you presented your needle and thread, ordering the murder of a girl and her infant?'

'One may smile and be a villain, Emerson. One may be pleasingly plump and domestically inclined and still see nothing wrong with murdering babies. And a pleasingly plump, youngish widow may be favourably disposed towards a man of whose physical and moral endowments she has just beheld such an impressive display.'

Emerson blushed. 'Balderdash,' he mumbled.

'Hmmm,' I said again.

In deference to Emerson's modesty, I had understated the case. Any female who had watched him in action that day must have fallen instantly in love with him. I myself had been deeply moved. The sight of my husband's splendid muscular develop-ment was familiar to me, but to see it displayed in circumstances of struggle and violence, in the defence of the helpless, had an extremely powerful effect on me. I will not pretend my appre-ciation was entirely aesthetic. There was another element involved, and this was now increasing in intensity. The phrase 'fever pitch' may not be entirely inappropriate.

'You are trembling, my dear,' said Emerson solicitously. 'Delayed shock, I expect. Lean on me.'

'It is not shock,' I said.

'Ah,' said Emerson. He poked the soldier ahead of him. 'You creep like a snail. Go faster.'

It was with visible relief that our guard handed us over to the soldiers on duty at the entrance to our quarters. Pressing my arm close to his side, Emerson paused only long enough to make sure Reggie was not following before he led me towards my sleeping chamber.

The sight we beheld was dreadful enough to make us forget the purpose for which we had come. I had assumed Amenit would go about her business and that my business with her could be delayed for a few minutes - or longer, as the case might prove. But she was still there, huddled on a mat by my bed. At the sight of her face Emerson let out a cry of horror.

'Good Gad, Peabody! What have you done?'

Her skin was not only blistered and peeling, it was green -the nasty livid shade of a decomposing corpse. It looked particularly gruesome next to her purple hair.

I own I was a trifle taken aback. The substance I had applied was only lye soap, softened and made into a paste. She must have had a particular sensitivity to it. Nor had I really expected the herbs would produce such a pronounced shade of green.

Her expression, as she glowered at me, did nothing to improve her appearance. 'You set my skin afire, you [several epithets whose precise meaning was obscure but whose general intent was plain]. I will kill you! I will tear your tongue from your mouth, your hair from your head, your -' She broke off with a yelp of agony and doubled up, clutching her stomach.

Emerson swallowed. 'Not - not the arsenic, Peabody?'

'No, of course not. She does appear to be in some digestive distress, though. The soap could not... Oh, good Gad!' I had seen the bowl on the floor beside Amenit's writhing form. It was the one in which I had steeped the castor beans - and it was empty.

I dropped to my knees beside the girl and took her by the shoulders. 'Amenit! Did you drink this potion? Answer me at once!'

The cramp had subsided; she lay limp and sweating in my grasp. 'Yes, I drank it. It was powerful magic, you said many spells over it. Ooooh! Now I am ugly, and I die... but first I will kill you!'

I struck her hand aside. 'Stupid girl! You took too much. That is why your face has swelled and broken. The gods have punished you for stealing my magic potion.'