The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [106]
The priests scampered up the ladder again and removed Amon’s robe; they folded it carefully, like housemaids folding a sheet. Pesaker made a final, almost perfunctory gesture of respect toward the statue… and then, with a suddenness that made me start, he whirled around and pointed at us.
I could not make out what he said, but from his impassioned tones and the expression on his face I got the distinct impression that he was not suggesting that we be raised to the rank of royal councillors. My hand stole to the breast of my robe.
“Calm yourself, Peabody,” hissed Emerson out of the corner of his mouth. “There is no danger. Trust me.”
If I had trusted the Nubian Robin Hood, I could hardly do less for my husband. My hand dropped to my side.
When Pesaker had finished, Nastasen rose, as if to comment further; but before he could speak, the high, sweet, and now fairly shrill voice of the mysterious veiled lady was heard. She spoke for some time, waving her arms like graceful white wings. When she finished, there was no rebuttal. Biting his lip in obvious vexation, Pesaker bowed, and the whole group began to file out.
“Well!” I exclaimed, turning to Emerson. “We are still honored guests, it seems. I really expected Pesaker to demand we be put to death.”
“Quite the contrary. He invited us to come and stay here in the sacred temple area.”
“Yes,” said Ramses eagerly. “And she—Mama, did you hear—”
“Certainly, Ramses, my hearing is perfectly good. But I confess I did not understand all she said.”
Our attendants, chattering among themselves, began leading us to the exit. Scuffling carefully along in the detested sandals, Emerson replied, “The language of religious ritual often preserves archaic forms. The survival of Coptic, which has not been spoken for hundreds of years, in the Egyptian Christian Church—curse it!”
He was not referring to the Church (at least not on that occasion) but to his sandal, which had come off. “But Mama,” said Ramses, fairly prancing with excitement. “She—”
“Ah, yes,” I said. The litter bearers were waiting; grumbling, Emerson climbed into his. “She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed—as this mysterious lady was. Veiled all in white lest her incredible beauty arouse the passions of all who behold her—”
Emerson’s head popped out between the curtains of his litter. He was scowling horribly. “You are speaking of a figment of some cursed writer’s imagination, Peabody. Get in your litter.”
“But Papa!” Ramses’s voice rose to a near shriek. “She—”
“Do as your papa told you, Ramses,” I ordered, and took my place in the litter.
The return journey seemed to last longer than the trip to the temple, perhaps because I was so impatient to discuss the remarkable events of the evening with Emerson. We might even snatch a few moments alone; for surely Mentarit (or Amenit, as the case might be) would have duties to perform for her mistress before returning to us.
However, this expectation was doomed to disappointment. After delivering us to our rooms, the litter bearers departed. Not so our attendants. Emerson, who had removed his sandals and was carrying them in his hand, turned to the hovering group and bade them a pointed “Good night.” They replied with smiles and nods, and continued to hover.
“Curse it,” said Emerson. “Why don’t they go away?” He gestured forcibly at the door.
The gesture was misinterpreted. One of the men took the sandals from Emerson’s hand; two others darted at him and began removing his ornaments.
“They are preparing you for bed, I think,” I called, as Emerson retreated like a cornered lion harassed by snapping jackals. “It is a sign of respect, Emerson.”
“Respect be—” said Emerson, backing through the doorway into his room, followed closely by his attentive servants.
I resigned myself to receive similar attentions from the ladies. As their hands moved deftly and deferentially to divest me of my ceremonial attire, loosen