The Last Camel Died at Noon (23 page)

She just squirms and grunts and scuttles off when I speak to her.'

'Yet it appears we are about to have guests,' I remarked, taking a seat next to him.

'Why do you say that?'

I indicated Amenit, who was hopping around the room like a flea on a griddle, as my old North Country nurse would have put it, her hands flying as she directed the servants.

'I have never seen her move so briskly. The room was already spotless (as indeed it always is), but she has made them clean it again, and now they are setting up those little light tables and chairs. I recognise the actions of a nervous hostess.'

'I do believe you are correct, Peabody.' With an obvious air of relief, Emerson pushed his lesson aside and rose. 'I had better change. These loose robes are quite comfortable, but I feel at a disadvantage in skirts.'

I felt the same. I hastened to assume not only my trousers but my belt. Thus accoutred, and with my parasol ready at hand, I felt ready for anything that might ensue.

It was a good thing I had noticed Amenit's behaviour, for we were given no other warning. The curtains at the entrance were suddenly flung aside. This time Tarek's entourage was more extensive and impressive. There were six soldiers instead of two and four of the veiled maidens. They were followed by a number of men, all of them richly dressed, and by several young women who were hardly dressed at all. (A few strings of beads, however strategically placed, do not in my opinion constitute clothing.)

These damsels carried musical instruments - small harps, pipes, and drums - on which they began to play, enthusiastically if not euphoniously. All fanned out as they entered and took up positions on both sides of the door. An expectant pause ensued; then came Tarek - and his twin.

There were two of them at any rate, almost equal in height and dressed identically; but a second glance told me that the resemblance was not as exact as I had thought. The second man was a trifle shorter and more heavily built, with shoulders almost as massive as those of my formidable spouse. By Western standards (which are, if I may remind the Reader, as arbitrary as those of any other culture) he was even better-looking than Tarek, with finely chiselled features and a delicate, almost feminine mouth. Yet there was something repellent about him. Tarek's bearing had the dignity of a true nobleman; the other man carried himself with the arrogance of a tyrant.

(Emerson maintains that I am reinterpreting my reaction in the light of later experience. I stick to my statement.)

After a moment one of the courtiers stepped fowards. It was Murtek, the old High Priest of Isis. Clearing his throat, he spoke in a sonorous voice, 'Sir and madam. And small worthy son. Here are the king's sons of his body, the two Horus, carrying the bow to the destruction of the enemies of His Majesty, the defenders of Osiris, the Prince Tarekenidal Meraset, son of the king's wife Shanakdakhete; the Prince his brother Nastasen Nemareh, son of the king's wife Amanishakhete.'

His pleasure at getting through the long address with what he believed utter success was evident in his broad if toothless smile. It was certainly a remarkable speech, fraught with intriguing implications, but I fear I was too busy struggling to preserve my gravity to take them all in, or to reply in kind.

Emerson claims to have comprehended better than I. Be that as it may, he was obviously the proper person to reply, and he was never at a loss for words.

'Your Royal Highnesses, gentlemen and - er - ladies. Allow me to introduce myself. Professor Radcliffe Archibald Emerson, M.A.

Ox., Fellow of the Royal Society, Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, Member of the American Philosophical Society. My honoured chief wife, the Lady Doctor Amelia Peabody Emerson, et cetera et cetera, et cetera; the noble youth, heir to his father, born of the chief wife, Walter Ramses Peabody Emerson.'

Beaming, the old gentleman proceeded to present the others. It took quite a long time, since they each had a string of impressive titles - priest and prophets, courtiers and counts, fanbearers and carriers of the sandals of His Majesty. Their names have no bearing on this narrative, except for one - Pesaker, royal vizier and High Priest of Aminreh. All our visitors were finely dressed, with gold glittering on every limb, but Pesaker fairly clanked with bracelets, armlets, massive pectorals, and a broad jewelled collar. His ornately dressed hair was obviously a wig; the stiff little black curls formed an incongruous frame for his weathered, scowling face. I suspected he was a blood relative of the two princes, for his features were an older, harsher version of theirs.

We had got more than we bargained for - not only Tarek, but representatives of the highest in the land. I would have taken this as a good omen had it not been for the hot hostile stare of Prince Nastasen (who bore the same name as that of the remote ancestor whose tomb we had found at Nuri) and the unsmiling regard of the High Priest of Aminreh.

Rising to the occasion, as a good hostess must, I indicated the tables, where the servants stood ready with jars of wine and platters of food. There was a certain amount of rude scuffling to determine who sat next to whom; I had hoped to get Tarek as a dinner partner, but his brother fairly pushed me into a chair and took the one next to me, beckoning to Murtek to join us. Apparently his services as translator were required; Prince Nastasen did not speak English.

His grave face lightening in a smile, Tarek elected to favour Ramses, which left Emerson to the High Priest of Aminreh -he and the two princes being the three highest in rank. The others took their places at different tables, each of which seated only two or three people.

The musicians, who had stopped playing while the old man spoke, now struck up a jingling tune, punctuated by thumps on the drum, and one of the young women began to gyrate around the room. She was extremely limber.

Nastasen was not much of a conversationalist. He applied himself to his food, and Murtek, though obviously dying to show off his English, confined himself to smiles and nods. Something warned me to follow his example, which was wise, for as I later learned, one does not speak until the person of highest status present has deigned to do so.

After demolishing a roast duck (and throwing the bones over his shoulder), Nastasen fixed his fine dark eyes on my face. Even when he pronounced the guttural sounds of his native tongue his voice was beautiful, a deep, mellow baritone. I understood only a few words, and deemed it best to admit not even to that, so I turned an inquiring smile on Murtek.

'The king's son asks how old you are,' said that worthy.

'Oh, dear,' I said, in some confusion. 'In our country it is not polite... Tell him we do not count the years as he does. Tell him... I am as old as his mother.'

A voice not far distant murmured, 'Well done, Peabody,' and the old man translated what I had said.

Nastasen proceeded to ask me a series of questions that would have been deemed highly impertinent in civilised society, having to do with my personal habits, my family, and my relations with my husband. For all I knew, such questions might have been rude in this culture as well, but I was in no position to object, so I fended them off as well as I could. Emerson, seated at an adjoining table, was not so controlled as I; I could hear him gurgling and gasping with rage as the inquisition continued. The dear fellow assumed that the prince's intimate questions betokened a personal interest in my humble self. I doubted this; though to be sure I also doubted that my claiming to be the age of his mother would deter him from adding me to his collection should he care to do so.

Having answered a good dozen or more questions, I decided

I might venture upon a few of my own. 'I hope your honoured father the king is well?' seemed safe, but Nastasen did not seem to like it; his face darkened and he replied with a short, curt sentence.

The old gentleman took some liberties in the translation. 'His Majesty is Osiris. He had flied to the sky. He is king of the western peoples.'

'He is dead?' I asked, surprised.

'Dead, yes, dead.' Murtek smiled broadly.

'But then who is king? Does His Highness have an older brother?'

The old man turned to the prince. The answer was a curt nod, and I realised that he had asked for permission to explain the situation, which he proceeded to do at some length and with a striking absence of grammar.

The king had only been dead a few months. ('The Horus flied in the season of harvest.') In many other societies the eldest surviving prince automatically assumes the crown, but here the succession depended on a number of factors, the most important of which was the rank of the mother. The king had had a great number of wives, but only two of them had been royal princesses - the late king's half-sisters, in fact. The survival of this particular custom, which was practised in ancient Egypt as well as in the Cushite kingdom, did not surprise me. It made a certain amount of sense in terms of dogma as well as practical politics; for by marrying his sisters the king kept them out of the clutches of ambitious nobles who might be tempted to claim the throne by right of their wives' royal birth, and also insured that the divine blood of the pharaohs would be undiluted. The children of lesser wives and concubines held noble rank, like the young count whom Tarek had introduced as his brother; but the sons of the royal princesses had first claim on the crown. For the first time in the annals of the kingdom, each of these ladies had one surviving son - who were exactly the same age.

When I questioned this remarkable statement, the old man shrugged. Not the same moment, the same hour, no; in fact, the noble Prince Tarek was somewhat the elder. But both had been born in the same year of His Majesty, and whenever there was a question - as, for instance, in the case of twins - the final decision was left to the gods. Or to the God, Aminreh himself. When He came forth from the sanctuary on the occasion of His yearly circuit of the city, He would choose the next king. This was due to occur within a few weeks. In the meantime, the noble Prince Nastasen had acted as regent, in the absence of his brother, and with the assistance of the vizier, the high priests, the councillors...

'And Uncle Tom Cobley and all,' I murmured. 'No,' said old Murtek seriously. 'He lives not in this place.' To say I was fascinated is a vast understatement. My life's work had been the study of ancient Egypt; to find actual living examples of rituals I had known only from weathered tomb walls and desiccated papyri was an indescribable thrill. Aminreh was obviously Amon-Re, and he held the same high position here as in Egypt. From an obscure godling of Thebes he had risen to be king of the gods, taking on their names and attributes even as his ambitious priests gathered land and wealth into the treasuries of their temples. This would not be the first time Amon-Re had selected a king. Over three thousand years ago the nod of the god had gone to a humble young priest who had, as Thutmose III, become one of Egypt's mightiest warrior pharaohs. And had not the stela of the first Nastasen, found by Lepsius, mentioned his selection by Amon? Murtek's words had also confirmed Emerson's theories about the importance of the royal women. How far did their power extend? I wondered. Could they only convey the right to rule, or did they wield real power? I was about to demand additional details when His Royal Highness barked out a brusque comment. It was evident that he was bored, and perhaps suspicious as well; poor old Murtek swallowed convulsively and did not speak again.

More wine was poured, and the formal entertainment began - dancers, acrobats, and a juggler. The juggler may have been nervous - I would have been, with Nastasen glowering upon me - for he ended by dropping one of the blazing torches, which rolled dangerously close to the foot of His Highness before someone stamped it out. Nastasen rose in his wrath, shouting; the juggler fled, pursued by two soldiers.

It appeared the entertainment was over, and the banquet as well. One of his attendants, bowing obsequiously handed Nastasen his gold-bordered mantle, which he flung about his shoulders. I breathed a sigh of relief, for as courtesy seemed to demand, I had drunk quite a lot of wine.

It may have been the wine that emboldened me to ask one final question, though I believe I would have done it anyway. There were hundreds of things I wanted to know, but this was the most vital. I turned to Murtek. 'Ask His Highness what has happened to the white man, Willoughby Forth, and his wife."

The old man's jaw dropped. He glanced uneasily at his prince. But no translation was necessary; either Nastasen understood more English than he admitted, or Mr Forth's name itself made my meaning clear. For the first time that evening his delicate lips curved in a smile. Slowly and deliberately he pronounced a single word.

I knew the word. Shock and comprehension must have registered upon my countenance, for Nastasen's smile broadened, baring his strong white teeth. Tossing the end of his scarf over his head, he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

'Touch This Mother at Your Peril!'

Dead!' I exclaimed. 'They are dead, Emerson! I feared it, I feared it, and yet I hoped... Did you see how that dreadful young man smiled when he told me? He knew the news would distress me, I am sure he did - '

'Hush, Peabody.' Emerson put his arm around me. We were alone; the others had hastened out after the prince, whose abrupt departure had obviously taken them by surprise. They had left the room in a shambles; puddles of spilled wine, bones, scraps of bread, and shards of broken crockery littered the floor.

A group of servants were already at work, under the direction of the handmaiden, cleaning up the mess. I leaned against my husband's strong shoulder and struggled to compose myself. Your behaviour is absurd, I told myself sternly. You were not acquainted with Mr Forth or his wife, and you are carrying on as if you had lost some close relation.

Emerson offered me his handkerchief. I found my own and wiped my eyes.

'I believe your assessment of the prince's character is correct, Mama,' said Ramses. 'I am sorry you gave him the satisfaction of distressing you, for I had already learned the truth from Tarek, and would have broken it to you more gently.'