Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [102]
“Nicely done,” I remarked to Emerson. “He carefully avoided expressing loyalty to the king.”
“Indeed? I didn’t understand much of it.”
“You really must apply yourself to the language,” I said severely. “Ramses, they are not dispersing. What seems to be the difficulty?”
“I detect a certain level of skepticism,” said Ramses dryly. “One can hardly blame them; I don’t much resemble that caricature on the pylon. Let them have a closer look at you. You needn’t speak, just give them the royal wave and gracious smile.”
His point was well taken. Even those who were old enough to remember the ten-year-old “hero” might have found some difficulty in recognizing the grown man. For all they knew, he could be one of their own people, an impostor presented by the king. But when Emerson moved forward into the glare of sunlight, all doubts were dispelled. It would have been impossible to imitate that stalwart form and those sapphirine eyes (accurately rendered on the pylon). The collectively pent breath was released in a great shout, and when I leaned over the sill and waved my parasol, another cheer arose.
“Go home,” I shouted. “Go with our—er—what is the word for ‘blessing,’ Ramses?”
Slowly, reluctantly, the crowd dispersed. Most of them continued to look up at the window. Some of them were weeping.
“Now,” said Emerson, with a broad, evil grin, “we are in an excellent position for negotiations.”
From Manuscript H
The negotiations took place in the small throne room. Zekare had dragged out all the big guns, secular and religious—the high priests of Aminreh and Isis, the commander of the household troops, the vizier, and Uncle Tom Cobley and all, as his mother remarked later. And Merasen. Two of the officials were other sons of the king, tall, soldierly men who appeared to be older than Merasen. They were all decked out in their best attire, the priests in snowy pleated robes, the commander in a helmet sprouting feathers like a rooster’s tail, and everybody clanking with gold ornaments and broad collars of semiprecious stones.
If the purpose was to impress them with the solidarity of his support, it didn’t do the job. The two priests kept exchanging sullen glances—those priesthoods had always been rivals—and the commander hardly took his eyes off Emerson. Merasen strutted round the room bragging of his exploit in bringing the Great Ones back, and the two older princes watched him like vultures.
Ramses had considered offering to act as translator, if only for the pleasure of taking Merasen down a peg, but had decided not to emphasize his command of the language. People are inclined to speak more freely when they believe they cannot be understood, and he wanted to find out how accurately Merasen reported their comments, and the king’s replies.
Emerson began by making a little speech. They, the Great Ones, were graciously pleased to accept the homage that was their due. The petty quarrels of small kingdoms did not concern them; they were seekers of knowledge and had come to the Holy Mountain primarily in order to make drawings and take photographs. Merasen had to stop and explain that word, but otherwise his translation was reasonably accurate. He didn’t have to translate the king’s response, which consisted of a vigorous nod and a broad smile.
If the fellow thought he was going to get off that easily, he was mistaken. Emerson got down to business. “When we have finished our work we will return to our own place. You will provide camels and drivers for us.”
The nod was less emphatic and the smile less broad this time. Merasen added a few words on his own account. “The king hopes you will remain for a long time.”
“May I ask a few questions, Father?” Ramses inquired.
It took a while. Merasen’s translations