The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [150]
Suddenly he shouted aloud. ‘He comes! He comes! The Great One comes!’ and dropped to the ground in a profound obeisance. But he was not facing the god.
Masked, and robed in white, with the sem priest’s leopard skin over his shoulders, he emerged from the shadows under the balcony.
I held my breath. This was the man. Not the pathetic young Earl, who was his dupe and his acolyte, who would (as he had said) do anything, and try anything, that might cure him of his fatal illness. How vilely that creature had played on the boy’s fear of death – a boy already half-crazed by the disease that had rotted the tissue of his brain.
The wretch had presence, there was no question about it. Even the hardened hirelings responded, watching in respectful silence the eerie exchange between the young Earl and his mentor. They spoke Egyptian – or, in Liverpool’s case, attempted to speak it. The other man’s voice, though weirdly distorted by the mask, was slow and sure.
Then he turned towards the shadows from which he had come and clapped his hands three times.
They came singing, in ululating and unharmonious voices. They were naked except for loincloths, and the dark skin of their bodies gleamed like bronze. The form that lay on the litter they carried was still, swathed even to its face in white wrappings.
I could not have repressed the cry that felt as if it would burst my straining lungs; but as I lunged forward, lips parting, an arm like steel encircled me and a hand clamped over my mouth.
‘For God’s sake, Peabody, don’t bellow!’ hissed a voice.
I believe I would have fallen to the ground had it not been for the strong arm that held me. I pried his fingers from my mouth. ‘Emerson,’ I whispered. ‘Emerson . . .’
‘Ssssssh,’ said Thoth, the ibis-headed.
The adjuration was unnecessary; joy, relief, rapture, and rising rage held me mute. But if it was not Emerson on the litter, who was it? I knew the answer, even before the bearers lowered it gently onto the long altar and the sem priest slowly stripped the veils away.
A murmur of interest and appreciation arose as the poor girl’s limp form was bared to the staring eyes of the men. Her costume was a surprisingly accurate adaptation of one an ancient Egyptian female might have worn, but it was not the elegant pleated linen robe of a high-born lady. This was the dress of a servant or peasant girl – a simple shift that ended just above her slim ankles and was suspended by broad straps that covered – more or less – her bosom.
Emerson had transferred his grip from my waist to my arm. Now he gave me a little shake. ‘Don’t move, Peabody.’
‘But Emerson, they are going to –’
‘No, they aren’t. Hang on.’
No one paid any attention to us; the greedy eyes were all fixed on Miss Minton. One tall, thin individual, wearing the mask of a baboon, began edging forward.
Lord Liverpool bent forward, studying the girl’s face. Suddenly he stepped back. His hand went to his mask and lifted it off.
‘I say,’ he exclaimed. ‘I know her. You told me –’
‘She is the selected one,’ said the solemn voice of the sem priest. ‘The bride of the god.’
‘Yes, but – but . . . it’s Durham’s granddaughter, dash it all! You said she would be willing –’
‘She is willing.’ The priest put an arm under Miss Minton’s shoulders and raised her to a sitting position. ‘Wake, Margaret, bride of the god. Open your eyes and smile on your devotees.’
Her long lashes fluttered bewitchingly; her languid lids lifted. A singularly silly smile spread across her face.
‘Mmmmmmmm,’ she said agreeably. ‘Who are all you peculiar people?’
‘Greet your lord and your lover, bride of the god,’ chanted the sem priest.
She could hardly keep her eyes open. ‘Lord and lover . . . oh, yes. How nice . . . Which one of you . . .’
‘Damn it, the girl’s been drugged,’ Liverpool shouted. ‘I can’t . . . I won’t . . . not to a lady, damn it!’
‘I never intended you should,’ said the masked figure coolly. He let go of Miss Minton, who collapsed onto the pillow with a foolish giggle, and unfastened his leopard skin.