Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [14]
Impulsively I started toward them, but before I had taken more than a few steps Kalenischeff whipped up the horses and the carriage continued along the dusty road toward the top of the plateau.
“Imbeciles,” said Emerson. “I am sorry we came, Peabody. I might have known every ignorant tourist in Cairo would be here tonight. Shall we make the attempt, or return to the hotel?”
“We may as well go on now we are here,” I replied. “Ramses, you are to stay with us. Don’t stir so much as a step from my side.”
The self-styled guides, antiquities peddlers and miscellaneous beggars were out in full force. They came pelting toward us with offers of assistance, and of dubious scarabs. The usual ratio of assistants is three to each tourist—two pull from above and one pushes from below. It is an awkward and quite unnecessary procedure, since few of the steplike blocks are as high as three and a half feet.
The assault halted as soon as the sheikh in nominal charge of the horde recognized Emerson, whom he greeted with the “Essalâmu ’aleikum” generally reserved by Moslems for others of their faith. Emerson replied in kind, but refused Sheikh Abu’s offer of men to drag him up the pyramid. He was quite capable of giving me a hand whenever necessary, but we did hire two men to hoist Ramses from step to step, his short legs making such an expedient advisable.
After a lazy summer doing little except riding, gardening, hiking and bicycling, I was a trifle out of condition, and was glad of Emerson’s strong hand from time to time. Although it had appeared from below that the slope was crowded with people, it was not really a populous thoroughfare. We passed one or two other groups, several of whom had paused to rest along the way. From time to time I heard the voice of Ramses, carrying on an interminable, if breathless, conversation with his guides.
The pyramidion and the upper courses of the monument have been removed, leaving on the summit a flat table some thirty feet square. Upon the blocks scattered here and there, a number of the successful climbers sprawled in various positions of collapse. Instinctively avoiding them, we moved to one side.
I had climbed the pyramid before, but never at night. The view, spectacular at any time, is simply magical under the spell of moonlight. To the east, the Nile glimmered like a ribbon of dark crystal beyond the still meadows, where the silhouettes of the palms stood black against the sky. Far beyond sparkled and flickered the myriad lights of Cairo. But it was southward that our eyes turned, to see beyond the snowy stretch of silent sand the remains of the ancient cemeteries of the once mighty capital of Memphis. There lay our season’s destiny—two tiny points of pale stone, marking the pyramids of Dahshoor.
Such emotion filled me that I was incapable of speech, a condition assisted by a distinct shortness of breath—for Emerson’s strong arm clasped me tightly. We stood in silence, ensorcelled by the magic of the night.
I lost all track of time as we gazed. It might have been ten seconds or ten minutes before I let out my pent breath in a long sigh, and turned to address Ramses.
He was gone.
My first reaction was to doubt the evidence of my senses. Ramses excels in losing himself, but it hardly seemed possible that he could have vanished off a small platform four hundred and fifty feet in the air without some sort of commotion. Emerson noted his absence at the same time and was unable—or, what is more likely, disinclined—to repress a bellow of alarm.
“Peabody! Where is Ramses?”
“He must