The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [104]
I pushed them away and went to Emerson, who stood with one hand on Ramses’s shoulder. He held out the other to me. “Your little hand is frozen, my dear,” he remarked poetically.
“The air is chill.”
“Hmmm, yes. I wonder if—” He broke off as a brazen booming sound reverberated through the room. The chatter and laughter stopped. Our attendants formed into ranks, some before, some behind us. The hangings at one end of the room were lifted by invisible hands. Another great stroke of brass sounded, and the procession started forward.
“We’re for it now, whatever it may be,” Emerson remarked cheerfully. “I only hope these cursed sandals don’t trip me up.”
I squeezed his hand.
The corridor we entered was broad but short, no longer than ten or twelve feet. At its farther end were other hangings, of such fine linen that the light shone through them, bringing out the rich patterns of embroidery that adorned them. They parted as we approached. Emerson tripped, but caught himself and went on. “Good Gad,” I heard him mutter.
They were my sentiments exactly. We were in the innermost sanctuary of the temple—a vast, high chamber of noble dimensions. Columns divided the area into three aisles; down the widest, central aisle we marched in solemn silence, staring in wonderment at what lay ahead.
Strange as the sight was, it was not completely unfamiliar, for the temple was laid out on the same plan as those in Egypt. After passing through the pyloned gateway and columned courtyard, we were now in the sanctuary—the abode of the gods to whom the temple was dedicated. Quite often there were three of them, constituting a divine family—Osiris and Isis and their son Horus; or Amon, his consort Mut, and their son Khonsu. There were three statues in the niches at the end of this sanctuary, but they were not one of the usual triads. On the left was the seated form of a woman crowned with curving horns and holding a naked infant to her breast—Isis, suckling the young Horus. The statue must have been quite old, for the features of the divine mother were delicately carved, with none of the crudeness typical of Meroitic or Late Egyptian work.
The right-hand niche contained another familiar form, the rigid, mummiform shape of Osiris, ruler of the Westerners (i.e., the dead) whose death and resurrection offered hope of immortality to his worshipers. But the third member of the group, who occupied the central position of greatest importance, had no place in that divine family. It stood a good twenty feet high. Its tall, twin-plumed crown and the scepter it held in its raised hand were of gold gleaming with enamel and precious stones.
“By heaven, it’s our old friend Amon-Re,” said Emerson, as coolly as if he were studying a statue he had dug up from a four-thousand-year-old grave. “Or Aminreh, as they call him here. Not in his usual form, but showing the attributes of Min, who is the one with the enormous—”
“Quite,” I replied. “Oh, Emerson—I am not at all comfortable about this. I believe we are about to be sacrificed. Sun worshipers have a habit of sacrificing people, and Amon—”
“Don’t be absurd, Peabody. Those trashy novels you read are weakening your brain.”
So vast were the dimensions of the temple that it required this length of time to reach the space before the high altar—for an altar was there, ominously stained with dark streaks. The procession stopped; our attendants retreated, fading into the ranks of the priests who filled both of the side aisles.
I had just observed the chairs that stood on either side of the altar when two men entered and took possession of them. One was Tarek, the other his brother. I tried to catch Tarek’s eye, but he stared stonily ahead. Nastasen was scowling; he looked like a sulky child.
A long silence followed. Emerson began to fidget; he dislikes formal ceremonies of any kind, and he was itching to break ranks and have a closer look at the carvings on the walls and the altar. As for me, I found enough of interest in the scene to