The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [102]
“I believe they only want us to tidy up, Emerson,” I said. One of the women had uncorked a pot and thrust it under my nose; it smelled powerfully of some aromatic herb. Another displayed a filmy linen robe.
“That is precisely what I am objecting—” A sneeze interrupted the speech; I could not see my husband, for he was surrounded, but I deduced he too had been offered a sniff at the sweet-scented oil. Realizing the futility of a struggle, he allowed himself to be led away, but I could hear him long after I lost sight of him.
The women escorted me to the bath, where several of the slaves awaited us. One of them was a young man; when busy hands began to pluck at my garments, preparatory to removing them, I objected, but it was not until Mentarit joined us and translated that the women understood. With giggles and tolerant smiles they dismissed the youth. I needed no translation to comprehend their attitude. To them he was not a man at all, only an animal.
Yet their faces and forms indicated that Emerson had been right when he spoke of interbreeding between the two peoples. They were handsome enough, but so would the rekkit have been with proper food and a good deal of washing. Their linen robes and their ornaments were of the same style, but not the same quality, as the ones they had brought for me; instead of gold they had bedecked themselves with copper bracelets and strings of beads. I deduced that they were of the lower nobility, perhaps personal attendants to the women of the princely ranks. Certainly they were skilled at their job. They doused me and dried me and rubbed me with fragrant oils; one of them wove my hair into an elaborate coiffure of braids and waves, fastening it in place with gold-headed pins.
I have seldom been so distracted. Part of my mind was taking it all in, making detailed notes about the toilette. Another part wondered whether this elaborate ceremony might be the prelude to another, far less comfortable; and a third speculated on how poor Emerson was taking it, for I did not doubt he and Ramses were undergoing similar attentions.
When the ladies started draping me in the filmy white robe I waved them back. They watched with bemused smiles while I located my combinations and put them on. The effect was a trifle odd, I suppose, but I absolutely refused to appear in public wearing only sheer linen that showed everything underneath.
When I was ready, complete with a dainty little golden diadem and bracelets, necklaces, and armlets of heavy gold, sandals were strapped upon my feet. The soles were of leather, but the upper portion consisted only of narrow bands encrusted with the same blue and red-brown stones that covered the jewelry. I had dire forebodings about my ability to walk in the cursed things, and indeed, when they led me back into the reception chamber I had to shuffle to keep from tripping.
Emerson and Ramses were waiting. Ramses looked little different, except for the richness of his ornaments, which were, like mine, of heavy gold. But Emerson! I bitterly regretted that he had not allowed me to bring along a photographic device—but even that would not have captured the full effect of barbaric splendor, the rich glow of gold, the gleam of lapis and turquoise against his skin, which had been oiled till it shone like burnished bronze. His expression suited the costume, for it was that of a warrior prince—dark brows lowering, lips set in a lordly sneer. I risked a quick look at his lower extremities. They were a trifle paler than his arms and breast, but not nearly as white as they had been. Those hours baring his shins to the sun had borne fruit.
“I can’t walk in these cursed things, Peabody,” he said, observing the direction of my gaze. He referred to his sandals, which appeared to be of beaten gold with curled-up toes.
“But you look superb, Emerson.”
“Hmph. Well, so do you, Peabody, though I prefer that garment you are, I am happy to observe, wearing under your robe.”
“Please, Emerson,” I said,