The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [54]
Budge droned on. ‘The heart of the deceased was weighed against the feather, emblematic of Right and Truth or Law. This ceremony was performed . . .’
For once Emerson did not enliven the lecture with sarcastic commentary. He kept clawing at his beard (I suppose the adhesive itched) and scanning the room. Since I had not his advantage of height I could see very little, but I recognized Kevin O’Connell despite the fact that his cap was pulled low over his brow, concealing his hair. Not far from him was a familiar saffron (or goldenrod) ensemble, and I silently commended Miss Minton for her assiduous pursuit of her profession. She had not seen fit to mention her intention of attending the lecture, but then I had not seen fit to mention my intention to her either.
A few more people left and others entered. There was no one to prevent them, though the room was becoming uncomfortably close and crowded. The guards had fallen into that state of perpendicular repose so characteristic of the breed, and in this case one could hardly blame them.
Having laboriously worked his way through the spiritual aspects of Egyptian funerary ritual, Budge launched into a discussion of embalming methods, and the audience perked up. The standard quotations from Herodotus were received with appropriate shudders and murmurs of horror. ‘In the first and most expensive method, the brain was extracted through the nose by means of an iron probe, and the intestines were removed entirely from the body through an incision made in the side. The intestines were cleaned and washed in palm wine . . .’
But we were not to discover on that occasion what was done with those unsavory organs thereafter. Most of the audience was intent on the lecturer, or else semicomatose; Budge was smirking at the camera. To most of those present, the form must have appeared with a suddenness that verged on the supernatural – a form swathed from throat to feet in flowing white robes and a leopard-skin cloak.
My fingers closed tightly over Emerson’s arm. His muscles tensed, rigid as granite, but he did not move. I knew what was in his mind; better to wait until the lunatic was well inside the room, with several dozen bodies between him and any possible exit. There were only two, one at either end of the room.
Budge was almost the last to catch sight of the newcomer. He broke off with a high-pitched squeak of surprise, and as the stately figure advanced slowly towards him, along an aisle hastily cleared by the on-lookers, he shrank back.
‘Seize him!’ he cried. ‘What are you standing there for? Don’t let him come nearer!’
These words were presumably addressed to the guards, most of whom had been caught off-balance by the appearance of the apparition. Finally one of them, a little bolder and less drowsy than the rest, started towards the ‘priest.’
‘Wait!’ The voice echoed in hollow resonance within the mask. Ramses would have claimed the fellow had been practising his role; his tones were deeper and more confident than before, and he raised one hand in a solemn gesture whose dignity the great Sir Henry Irving might have envied.
‘Touch me at your peril!’ the deep voice droned. ‘He who lays impious hands on the anointed of the gods will surely die.’
A breathless, motionless hush fell, broken only by the agitated attempts of the photographer to insert a new nega-tive. Slowly and yet more solemnly, the ‘priest’ intoned, ‘I come to protect, not to cause harm. I will pray for mercy and forgiveness.