Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [107]
They started back. The sun was sinking and there were more people abroad, some on foot, several in curtained litters carried by the muscular rekkit.
“The friend” was what the rekkit had called Tarek when he worked in secret as their deliverer before he claimed the throne. He had intended to better their lot, improve their living conditions, grant them a certain degree of liberty. Ramses didn’t doubt that he had tried. Tarek was a man of his word, and—God help him—an idealist.
A taste of freedom gives a man an appetite for more. That incipient riot had been an encouraging sign. The rekkit had never had the courage to rebel before, and they were not the only ones who resented the new regime; the crowd had included people from other walks of life, craftsmen and scribes. But without weapons and leadership they were powerless. Was it possible…Don’t be an idiot, he told himself. You’re no rabble-rouser, you haven’t the skill.
His father, on the other hand…
Nine
That afternoon’s explorations brought home to me how limited our knowledge of the topography of the Holy Mountain had been. We had not been allowed to explore on our earlier visit, and our departure had been hasty and unexpected. What an astonishing place it was, and what mighty works the men of old had created! The natural grandeur of the rugged heights framed the remnants of a rich and sophisticated civilization—handsome villas and lush gardens, towering temples, and the great road itself, an engineering feat of no small magnitude, for it had been carved out of the vertical face of the cliff and swept grandly across the smaller ravines on bridges whose supports rested on massive blocks of cut stone.
It was, I reminded myself, a civilization built on slavery. How many lives had been expended to make the great road safe and smooth for the sandaled feet of the ruling class?
The signs of decay were visible, however. Many of the handsome houses were unoccupied. As we tramped on, graciously acknowledging the respectful greetings of those we met, the road curved, following the curve of the cliffs, and began to descend until it was only thirty or forty feet above the valley floor. Emerson’s steps slowed. “Well, well,” he remarked. “I thought we would encounter something like this.”
“This” was a troop of soldiers drawn up in military order across the road. With Emerson in the lead, we marched straight up to them, halting only when we were nose to nose with the front rank. Emerson hailed them jovially.
“Greetings. Move aside”—he gestured. “The Great Ones go on.”
A certain amount of agitation ensued. Some of the men bowed, some exchanged worried glances, a few uncertainly lifted their spears. Finally one of them stepped forward.
“The Great Ones cannot go on,” he said slowly. “The road does not go on.”
No one objected when Emerson indicated we would see for ourselves. A rough barricade had been built at the end of the roadway, and a good thing too, since the drop was sheer. Emerson leaned perilously over the barricade and looked down. “Tarek?” he asked, pointing to the narrow pass, which was filled ten feet high with stones. The soldier looked askance and did not reply. To judge by the width of his gold armlet, he was a lower-ranking officer, the equivalent of a junior lieutenant. We had put him in a difficult position, and he was taking no chances on saying the wrong thing.
“Must be,” said Emerson to me. He took out the binoculars and made a long, leisurely survey of the pass and its surroundings. A murmur of curiosity and alarm arose from the watching soldiers, and the officer dared to address Emerson.
“What is that? What are you doing?”
With an ingratiating smile Emerson offered the binoculars to the officer. The fellow shied back. “It is magic,” said Emerson. “Our magic. You are—you have