He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [3]
By December Cairo was under martial law, the press censored, public assemblages (of Egyptians) forbidden, the Khedive deposed in favor of his more compliant uncle, the nascent nationalist movement suppressed and its leaders sent into exile or prison. These regrettable measures were justified, at least in the eyes of those who enforced them, by the increasing probability of an attack on the Canal. I could understand why nerves in Cairo were somewhat strained, but that was no excuse, in my opinion, for rude behavior to my son.
“It is not fair,” I exclaimed. “I have not seen the young English officials in Cairo rushing off to volunteer. Why has public opinion concentrated on you?”
Ramses shrugged. His foster sister had once compared his countenance to that of a pharaonic statue because of the regularity of his features and their habitual impassivity. At this moment they looked even stonier than usual.
“I have been rather too prone to express in public what I feel about this senseless, wasteful war. It’s probably because I was not properly brought up,” he added seriously. “You never taught me that the young should defer to their elders.”
“I tried,” I assured him.
Emerson fingered the dimple (or cleft, as he prefers to call it) in his chin, as was his habit when deep in thought or somewhat perturbed. “I understand your reluctance to shoot at poor fellows whose only crime is that they have been conscripted by their leaders; but—er—is it true that you refused to join the staff of the new Military Intelligence Department?”
“Ah,” said Ramses thoughtfully. “So that bit of information is now public property? No wonder so many charming ladies have recently added to my collection of feathers. Yes, sir, I did refuse. Would you like me to justify my decision?”
“No,” Emerson muttered.
“Mother?”
“Er—no, it is not necessary.”
“I am greatly obliged to you,” said Ramses. “There are still several hours of daylight left, and I want to get out to the site. Are you coming, sir?”
“Go ahead,” Emerson said. “I’ll wait for your mother.”
“And you?” Ramses looked down at the large brindled feline who had followed him out of his room.
Like all our cats, Seshat had been named after an Egyptian divinity, in this case (appropriately enough) the patroness of writing; like most of them, she bore a strong resemblance to her ancestress Bastet and to the tawny, large-eared animals portrayed in ancient Egyptian paintings. With a few exceptions, our cats were inclined to concentrate their affections on a single individual. Seshat favored Ramses, and kept a close eye on his comings and goings. On this occasion she sat down in a decided manner and stared back at him.
“Very well,” Ramses said. “I will see you later, then.”
He might have been addressing me or the cat, or both. I stepped aside, and he proceeded on his way.
Emerson followed me to our room, and kicked the door shut. After attending a luncheon party at Shepheard’s we had returned to the house to change, but while my husband and son proceeded with this activity I was delayed by a tedious and unnecessary discussion with the cook, who was going through another of his periodic crises des nerves. (At least that is what he would have called it had he been a French chef instead of a turbaned Egyptian.)
I turned round and Emerson began unbuttoning my frock. I have never taken a maid with me to Egypt; they are more trouble than they are worth, always complaining and falling ill and requiring