Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (13 page)

Then, in the darkest hour before dawn, the change came. It was as palpable as a breath of cold air against the face. For a moment my eyes failed, and I felt nothing. I heard a sound, like a strangled sob, from Walter. When I opened my eyes I saw him lying across the foot of the bed, his face hidden and his hand resting on his brother’s arm. Emerson’s face was utterly peaceful. Then his breast rose in a single long inspiration – and continued to move. The hand that held mine had gone limp. It was cool. He would live.

I could not stand; my limbs were too cramped with crouching. Walter had to half carry me to my bed. He would sit with Emerson the rest of the night, in case there was a relapse, but I had no fear of that. I fell into slumber as one falls into a well, while Evelyn was bathing my hands and face.

When I woke later that morning I could not imagine for a moment where I was. Stone walls instead of the white panelling of my cabin; a hard surface below instead of my soft couch. I started to turn, and let out a cry of pain; my left hand, on which I had tried to raise myself, was swollen and sore.

Then memory came back; I levered myself up from the pallet on which I had slept and fumbled for my dressing gown. Across the room Evelyn still slept the sleep of exhaustion. A beam of light streaming through a gap in the hastily curtained doorway touched her fair hair and made it glow like gold.

When I stepped out onto the ledge in front of my improvised bedchamber, the heat struck like a blow. In spite of my anxiety I could not help pausing for a look. Below me a panorama of desert rolled away to the blue curve of the river, with the western cliffs beyond like ramparts of dull gold. The huts of the village were cleansed by distance; half hidden by the graceful shapes of palm trees, amid the green of the cultivated fields, they looked picturesque instead of nasty. Midway between the village and the cliffs a huddle of black shapes, busy as ants, moved amid a great dusty cloud of sand. I surmised that this was the site of the current excavation.

I walked along the ledge to the next tomb, whence I could hear sounds of altercation. My anxiety had been unnecessary. Emerson was himself again.

I wish it clearly understood that my feelings that bright morning were those of pure Christian charity. For Emerson I felt the compassion and interest one always feels toward a person one has nursed.

These sentiments did not last two minutes.

When I entered I saw Emerson half out of bed, restrained only by Walter’s arm. He was partially clad; his nether limbs were covered by the most incredible garments, pink in colour. He was shouting at Walter, who waved a small dish under his nose like a weapon.

Emerson stopped shouting when he saw me. His expression was hardly welcoming, but I was so glad to see his eyes aware and sensible, instead of glaring wildly with fever, that I gave him a cheerful forgiving smile before I inspected the contents of the dish Walter was holding.

I forgot myself then; I admit it. I had picked up several forceful expressions from Father, and I used them in his presence, since he never heard a word I said; but I endeavoured to avoid them in other company. The sight of the sickly grey-green contents of the dish were too much for my self-control.

‘Good Gad,’ I burst out. ‘What is that?’

‘Tinned peas,’ said Walter. He looked apologetic, as well he might. ‘You see, Miss Peabody, they are an excellent cheap source of food. We also have tinned beef and beans and cabbage, but I thought this might be more – ’

‘Throw it out,’ I said, holding my nose. ‘Tell your cook to boil a chicken. One can obtain chickens, I hope? If this is what you eat, no wonder your brother had fever. It is a wonder he doesn’t also have dysentery and inflamed bowels.’

Walter brought his hand to his brow in a military salute and marched out.

I turned to Emerson. He had flung himself back onto the bed and pulled the sheet up to his chin.

‘Go on, Miss Peabody,’ he said, drawling offensively. ‘Comment on my other organic failures if you will. I understand I am to thank you for saving my life. Walter is inclined to dramatize things; however, I thank you for ministering to me in your inimitable fashion. Consider yourself thanked. Now go away.’

I had intended to go, until he told me to. I sat down on the bed and reached for his hand. He jerked it away.

‘I wish to take your pulse,’ I said impatiently. ‘Stop acting like a timid maiden lady.’

He let me hold his wrist for a few moments. Then he pulled his hand free.

‘I wish Miss Nightingale had stayed at home where she belongs,’ he growled. ‘Every wretched Englishwoman now wants to become a lady of the lamp. Now, madam, if your instincts are satisfied, take yourself away or – or I shall rise from my bed!’

‘If that is what you intend, I shall certainly remain. You cannot get up today. And don’t think to frighten me by threats. I watched you all night, remember; your anatomy is not prepossessing, I agree, but I am tolerably familiar with it.’

‘But my pavement,’ Emerson shouted. ‘What is happening to my pavement? You fiend of a woman, I must go and see what they are doing to my pavement!’

‘My pavement’ had been a recurrent theme in his delirium, and I wondered what he was talking about. The only allusion that occurred to me was the description in the Gospel of Saint John: ‘When Pilate therefore heard that saying, he brought Jesus forth, and sat down in the judgement seat in a place that is called the Pavement….’ However, although I considered Emerson quite capable of blasphemy, I doubted that he would compare his illness with that divine Martyrdom.

‘What pavement?’ I asked.

‘My painted pavement.’ Emerson looked at me consideringly. ‘I have found part of Khuenaten’s royal palace. Pavements, walls, and ceilings were painted. Some have miraculously survived.’

‘Good – that is, how amazing! Do you mean that the royal heretic’s palace once stood where that waste of sand now stretches?’

‘You know of Khuenaten?’

‘Yes, indeed. He is a fascinating personality. Or do you think he was a woman?’

‘Balderdash! That is typical of the fools who manage archaeological research today. Mariette’s notion, that he was taken captive by the Nubians and cas— that is, operated upon – ’

‘I have read of that theory,’ I said, as he stuttered to a halt. ‘Why is it not possible? I believe the operation does produce feminine characteristics in a male.’

Emerson gave me a peculiar look.

‘That is one way of putting it,’ he said drily. ‘It seems more likely to me that Khuenaten’s physical peculiarities are an artistic convention. You will note that his courtiers and friends are shown with similar peculiarities.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes. Look there.’ Emerson started to sit up and clutched the sheet to him as it slid. He was a very hairy man. ‘This tomb belonged to a high noble of Khuenaten’s court. Its walls are decorated with reliefs in the unique Amarna style.’

My curiousity aroused, I reached for the lamp. This motion produced a scream of rage from Emerson.

‘Not the lamp! I only use it when I must. The fools who light the tombs with magnesium wire and lamps are vandals; the greasy smoke lays a film on the reliefs. The mirror – take the mirror. If you hold it at the proper angle it will give you sufficient light.’

I had observed the mirror and wondered at this unexpected sign of vanity. I ought to have known. It took me some time to get the hang of the business, with Emerson making sarcastic remarks; but finally a lucky twist of the wrist shone a beam of reflected light through the doorway in which I stood, and I stared with wonder and delight.

The reliefs were shallow and worn, but they had a vivacity that at once appealed to me. There seemed to be a parade or procession; all the small running figures followed the mighty form of pharaoh, ten times the size of lesser men. He drove a light chariot, handling his team of prancing horses easily; in the chariot with him was a slightly smaller crowned person. Their heads were turned toward one another, it seemed as if their lips were about to touch.

‘He must have loved her very much, to give her such a prominent place at his side,’ I mused aloud. ‘I am inclined to agree with you, Emerson; no man who was less than a man would violate tradition by showing his devotion to his beautiful wife. Even her name, Nefertiti – “the beautiful woman has come” …’

‘You read the hieroglyphs?’ Emerson exclaimed.

‘A little.’

I indicated, without touching it, the oval cartouche in which the queen’s name was written, and then moved my finger toward the empty ovals which had once contained the names of Khuenaten.

‘I have read of this – how the triumphant priests of Amon destroyed even the royal heretic’s name after he died. It is strangely disturbing to see the savagery of their attack. How they must have hated him, to obliterate even his name!’

‘By doing so they hoped to annihilate his soul,’ Emerson said. ‘Without identity, the spirit of the dead could not survive.’

The incongruity of the conversation, with a gentleman in pink undergarments, did not strike me until Evelyn appeared in the doorway, and as abruptly disappeared. From without, her timid voice enquired whether she might come in.

‘Oh, curse it,’ Emerson exclaimed, and pulled the sheet over his head. From under it a muffled voice bade Evelyn enter.

Evelyn entered. She was properly dressed in a pale-green cotton frock, and looked as neat and dainty as if she had had all the amenities of the dahabeeyah at her disposal instead of a basin of tepid water. She was a little flushed. Knowing her as I did, I concluded that she was amused, although I could not imagine why. Emerson pulled the sheet down to the bridge of his nose. Over its folds a pair of blue eyes regarded Evelyn malevolently. She did not look at him.

‘Do come in, Evelyn, and look at these carvings,’ I exclaimed, flashing my mirror about expertly. ‘Here is the king riding in his chariot and his queen beside him – ’

‘I am sure they are fascinating, Amelia, but do you not think it might be better to wait for a more propitious time? Mr Emerson needs rest, and you are not really dressed for a social call….’ There was a suspicious quiver in her voice. She suppressed it and went on, ‘Walter seems to be having some trouble with the chicken you ordered.’

‘I suppose I must take charge, as usual.’ With a last lingering glance at a group of running soldiers, I replaced the mirror.

‘So long as you are taking charge, you might have a look at my pavement,’ Emerson said grudgingly. ‘You stand here chattering like a parrot, and every moment the paint is chipping away – ’

‘You were the one who uncovered it,’ I reminded him. ‘What are you planning to do to protect it?’

‘I’ve had a wooden shelter built, but that is only a small part of the problem. The question is, what preservative can we apply that won’t damage the paint? It is crumbled to powder; an ordinary brush simply smears the surface. And the varnishes that have been used in such cases are atrocious; they darken and crack…’

‘But you, of course, have found a solution,’ I said.

‘A solution is precisely what it is. A mixture of weak tapioca and water, brushed on the painting – ’

‘You said brushing marred the paint.’

Emerson looked as dignified as a man can look under such adverse circumstances.

‘I brush it on with the edge of my finger.’

I stared at him with reluctant admiration.

‘You are determined, I’ll say that for you.’

‘It is slow work; I have to do it myself, I can’t trust any of the workmen. I have only covered part of it.’ He groaned feelingly. ‘I tell you, woman, I must get up and see to my pavement.’

‘I’ll see to your pavement,’ I said. ‘Stay in bed or you will have a relapse and be ill for weeks. Even you must see that that would be foolish.’

I did not wait for an answer, it would only have been rude. I started along the ledge. Evelyn caught my sleeve.

‘Amelia, where are you going?’

‘To see Mr Emerson’s pavement, of course. Have you ever known me to break my word?’

‘No, but … Do you not think you might assume a more appropriate costume?’

In some surprise I glanced down. I had forgotten I was wearing my dressing gown and slippers.

‘Perhaps you are right, Evelyn.’

As the reader has no doubt realized, female fashion has never interested me. However, while in London, I had learned of the Rational Dress League, and had had a dress made in that style. It was of slate-coloured India cloth, with a plain, almost mannish bodice and a few simple frills at the cuffs as its only ornament. But the daring feature of this costume was the
divided skirt.
The two legs were so full that they resembled an ordinary kilted skirt and did not give me nearly the freedom of action I desired, but they were a good deal more practical than the so-called walking dresses then in vogue. I had kept this garment at the very bottom of my trunk; in Cairo, I had not had quite the courage to wear it. Now I took it out, shook out the creases, and put it on.

As I scrambled down the rocky, hot path, I appreciated the divided skirt; but I still yearned for trousers. At the foot of the slope I found Walter arguing with the cook, a morose-looking individual with only one functional eye. I never did make out what the argument was about, but I settled it, and saw the chicken, which the cook had been waving under Walter’s nose, plucked and in the pot before I proceeded. Walter offered to accompany me, but I sent him back to his brother. Emerson needed a watchdog; I did not.

I found the place where the workers were employed and introduced myself to the foreman, Abdullah. He was a stately figure of a man, almost six feet tall; his flowing snowy robes, long grey beard and voluminous headcloth gave him the look of a biblical patriarch. He was not a native of one of the local villages, but came from Upper Egypt and had worked with Emerson before.

Abdullah directed me to the pavement, which was some distance away. It was easy to find, however, because of the low wooden roof that had been erected over it.

There was a great stretch of it – twenty feet across by perhaps fifteen feet long – miraculously, magnificently preserved. The colours were as fresh as if they had just been applied – exquisite blues, glowing reds, and cool greens, with touches of white and deep blue-black to emphasize details. Birds flew with outstretched wings in luxuriant gardens where flowers bloomed. Young animals, calves and kids, frolicked amid the undergrowth, kicking up their heels. I could almost hear them bellowing and bleating with the sheer joy of living.