The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [100]
“We cannot leave here without trying to help those poor people,” I whispered.
“Apparently we cannot leave unless we do” was my husband’s sour reply. “Try we may, but curse it, Peabody, I don’t believe the poor devils have a chance.”
“Surely there are more of them than of the ruling class.”
“They are not allowed weapons,” said Ramses.
He had somehow acquired—I did not like to ask where or from whom—the knack of speaking without moving his lips, almost in the fashion of a ventriloquist.
“They must have tools,” I argued. “Spades, plows—”
“One cannot beat a stone plow into a sword, Mama,” said Ramses. “The ruling class has iron weapons. It is death for a commoner to possess iron in any form.”
“How do you know that?” I demanded.
“From the guards, I presume,” said Emerson. “He has become something of a pet with them.”
“These people are very fond of children,” said Ramses, with a callous cynicism that chilled my blood. “The captain (his name is Harsetef) laughed and patted me on the head when I asked to hold his big iron spear. He said he hoped his son would grow up to be a brave boy like me.”
During the course of the morning I watched the slaves closely, wondering if they had heard of our noble efforts on behalf of one of their number. If anything, they avoided me more assiduously; my smiles and attempts at conversation brought no response. Finally Mentarit said curiously, “Why do you talk to the rekkit? They will not answer. They are like animals.”
I gave her a little lecture on the Rights of Man and the principles of democratic government. My command of her language was not great enough to do justice to those noble ideals, but I feared her incomprehension was due more to her prejudices than to my verbal inadequacies. So I gave up—for that time.
As the hours passed I became prey to increasing uneasiness. That our actions would be ignored or overlooked I could not believe; Mentarit’s question had proved, if further proof was needed, how strange our behavior must have seemed to these lordly aristocrats. I remembered the reaction of our neighbor Sir Harold Carrington and the members of his hunting party when Emerson charged into their midst and beat the dogs off the cornered fox. Not anger so much as utter disbelief had marked every face, and one of the men said something about a thrashing. (Needless to say, that suggestion was not repeated.) So must the nobles of this society have felt at seeing us interfere to protect creatures they regarded as mere animals.
We might not have improved our situation by interfering, but on the other hand, we might not have worsened it—for the simple reason that it could not be any worse. The real intentions of our captors were still unknown. We had been treated with courtesy and supplied with every comfort; but the Aztecs of ancient America, among others, pampered captives scheduled for sacrifice and no doubt would have been seriously annoyed if one of them had been carelessly destroyed before the ceremony. To the best of my knowledge, human sacrifice was not practiced by the ancient Egyptians, but times had changed—quite a lot of time had changed, in fact.
Emerson’s increasing restlessness showed he shared my uneasiness. After the midday meal he paced the floor for some time, muttering under his breath, before retiring to his sleeping chamber. I assumed he had sought relief with his journal, so I returned to mine—for of course we were all keeping copious notes on this remarkable adventure, and I felt confident that my feminine viewpoint would provide valuable insights. I was scribbling busily away when the sounds of an altercation sent me flying to the doorway. One of the voices (the most audible) was that of Emerson.
I found him in the antechamber, expostulating with the guards. Their great spears barred the doorway like a cross of iron, and their faces remained