Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [54]
Kareima was the end of the line. I watched the train empty. Apparently Emerson’s ruse had succeeded, for I saw no European travelers. The other passengers were locals.
During the train ride I had tried several times to make Emerson tell me how he planned to proceed once we reached Napata. He had simply smiled with insufferable smugness. “You said you would leave it to me, Peabody.”
I really regretted having done so, though to be fair I do not suppose I could have improved on Emerson’s arrangements. The route we had followed was not the one we had taken ten years earlier, when we arrived by steamer from Kerma—in other words, from the opposite direction. This part of the extensive region known as Napata was new to me and I cannot say I liked the looks of it. Except for the depot, there was nothing at Kareima except a collection of the round huts known as tukhuls. The palm branches of which they are woven offer hospitality to a variety of insect and rodent life. The inhabitants are very generous, and most would willingly turn out of their own houses in order to lend (hire out, I should say) them to visitors; but intrepid travelers who visit this region are well advised to bring their own supplies, including tents.
We had brought tents. It was a cheering thought.
“We will set up our first camp at Gebel Barkal,” said Emerson, stroking his chin. “It is only a few miles farther on. Unless, Peabody, you would like to rest for a while. Mustapha has offered his—”
“No!” I exclaimed. “That is—it is good of Mustapha, but I would rather go on. By what means of transportation, may I ask?”
Mustapha proudly indicated a variety of means. I declined to ride in the carts, which were already being laden with our belongings, and rejected a camel in favor of a gloomy-looking donkey. Mustapha had also provided two horses, which kept prancing and rolling their eyes in a menacing manner. I had the feeling Mustapha expected some entertainment from watching us attempt to ride the creatures. His face fell when Ramses, who can ride anything on four legs, sprang into the saddle and brought the balky beast under control with knees and hands. Emerson took the other horse. He had no trouble either. Even an obstreperous horse knows better than to argue with Emerson.
Leaving the men to finish loading the carts, we proceeded on our way through the village. Before long, the Holy Mountain came into sight. It was an impressive natural feature, a flat-topped mountain of sandstone rising up over two hundred feet from the plain. At its base were the ruins of temples that had stood on that spot for over a thousand years, raised to the glory of the god Amon-Re and numerous other deities. As we drew nearer, I saw that there was movement among the tumbled stones.
“What is going on?” I asked Mustapha.
“They are digging, Sitt Hakim.” He added, in a tone of mild disgust, “Digging for broken stones and empty pots, like you. They have found no gold.”
Emerson and Ramses were some distance ahead, but I heard Emerson’s “Hell and damnation!” clearly. I believe Ramses attempted to restrain him, but he was in such a passion he paid no attention. He set the horse to a gallop. It was not a sensible thing to do, considering the broken ground. We went after him as fast as we could, but before we caught him up the horse stumbled and Emerson flew over its head, landing with a thump at the feet of a man who had appeared from behind one of the broken walls. He was wearing European clothing and a pith helmet. With an exclamation of concern he assisted Emerson to rise.
Our worst forebodings had been fulfilled. The tally was now almost complete. The man was a confounded Egyptologist!
Five
“You aren’t going to wash the damned camels, are you?” Emerson inquired, in the tone of one who hopes for a negative answer but does not really expect it.
“Certainly I am. Have you ever known me to shirk my duty to man or