Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [130]
The preparations for our soiree were soon completed, and after we had freshened up, we sat down and waited to see who would come. There had been no answers to our invitations; I had been unable to explain the concept of “RSVP” to the messengers.
I had deemed it advisable for us to adopt the local dress, and the result, I must say, was very fine. Naturally I wore a linen shift under my delicately pleated garment. At my request the servants had produced additional jewelry: beaded collars, gold bracelets, and in my case heavy earrings. Emerson looked splendid, if somewhat self-conscious, and Selim swanked about like a peacock, flexing his muscles. Daoud had declined to appear in a kilt and collar, but he had assumed an elegant silken robe and imposing turban.
“We must have photographs,” Selim declared.
“You can try, if you like,” said Emerson, who obviously had no intention of allowing himself to be photographed. “But the light is fading, and we have no flash powder.”
I suggested we wait until morning. Selim readily agreed, since what he really wanted was a photograph of himself to show to his wives.
The soft blue-gray light of evening had stolen into the room before the first guests arrived. Perhaps they felt there was safety in numbers, because there were half a dozen of them, all priests. Among them, I was pleased to note, were the High Priests of Isis and Aminreh. On their heels, almost literally, was Merasen. He greeted me in English. I replied in Meroitic. “Where is your guest? And the other stranger?”
My hope of catching him off guard failed. “Ask my father the king,” he replied, smirking. I was beginning to hate that boyish smile.
“Is he joining us?”
“He is busy pleasing his women.”
The arrival of additional guests saved me from the necessity of replying. They included Alarez, the captain of the guard, Count Amenislo, and several officials. Emerson advanced to meet them, an affable smile wreathing his features. “Come, sit,” he invited, taking the count by the arm.
We had worked out the seating arrangements with some care. The small tables had room for only two or three persons each. Amase, the High Priest of Isis, was my quarry; I cut him out neatly from among the hovering priests and led him to a table. Emerson had Bakamani, the High Priest of Aminreh, with Amenislo to translate for him. The rest of them sorted themselves out, leaving Selim and Daoud alone at a separate table. Conversation was a trifle stilted—virtually nonexistent, in fact—until the wine began to take effect.
It was a pity we could not take photographs, for the scene was like the images of ancient Egypt produced by romantic painters: the flowing robes and curled wigs, the glitter of gold and glow of gemstones. The flames of the lamps swayed in a gentle breeze, bringing out the curve of a strong nose here and the sparkle of dark eyes there.
The Priest of Isis reminded me of my old friend Murtek, who had held the same position; he was a wizened, shriveled little person, but without Murtek’s force of personality. It took me quite a while to get him to talk freely.
“The High Priestess did not come,” I said. “I understand. Why not the handmaidens? They came to us when we were here before this time.”
“They come to the sick, lady.”
“Hmmm,” I said.
My attempts to induce further subjects of interest were interrupted by rising voices from the table where Emerson sat with the High Priest of Aminreh. How my spouse had managed to get into an argument about religion with his limited vocabulary I could not imagine; it seemed unlikely that the timid count would have translated his more provocative statements. He had managed it, though.
“Your god, their god”—he indicated Selim and Daoud and then pointed at me—“her god, many gods, all lies. No gods. Only men. Men use the gods.”
He had found an adversary who was as fanatical as he and who had