The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [111]
I considered giving it to the queen, but decided I dared not part with any potential weapon. Instead, when she indicated that the audience was over by presenting me with an elaborate gold bracelet from her own wrist (it slid up clear to my shoulder and was loose even then), I gave her my mending kit. It was no great loss to me, and it proved an enormous success. The slim shining needles, the fine, colored threads had already been admired, and as I bowed myself out I saw one of the ladies squinting desperately at a needle as she tried to thread it, while the beaming queen forced the silver thimble onto the tip of her little finger.
The walk back relieved some of the distress resulting from my overindulgence in sweetmeats, but the sight of the table spread for the midday meal would not have stirred my appetite even had I not found a more attractive distraction in the presence of my husband. He scolded me for having been gone so long in such a cheerful voice that I realized he must have learned something of interest. He was in no hurry to enlighten me, however. Instead he held a chair for me and inquired how I had spent the morning.
“Eating,” I replied, repressing an unseemly sound of repletion. “I don’t think I can force down another morsel.”
“Nor I.” Emerson eyed the bowls of stew and fresh fruit with loathing. “Murtek was an assiduous host. Was it the High Priestess who entertained you, Peabody?”
I explained. “Emerson, you should see the queen,” I went on, “except for being prettier, she looks exactly like the Queen of Punt in the reliefs from Hatshepsut’s temple! You remember her, a great rotund figure standing next to her tiny donkey?”
“One of the many indications that the ancient Egyptians had a sense of humor,” Emerson agreed with a grin. “The royal ladies of Meroë were constructed on similar lines. So you don’t believe Her Majesty is another Agrippina or Roxelana?”
His reference to the ambitious royal mothers of Rome and Turkey meant nothing to our attendants, but of course I understood what he was driving at. “No. I managed to get in a few questions about her son and the succession; she replied simply that the god would decide, and I would swear she meant it. You know I am an excellent judge of character—”
“Hmph,” said Emerson.
“Furthermore, her extreme corpulence must make mental as well as physical exertion difficult. I wonder,” I went on, struck by a new idea, “if that explains the size of the royal ladies of Meroë. Stuffing them like geese would be one way of keeping the women from interfering in affairs of state—and, I must confess, a more humanitarian method than assassination or imprisonment.”
Emerson studied me speculatively. Then he shook his head with a certain air of regret. “You and I both know obese individuals who are as energetic as anyone. And some of the Meroitic reliefs depict the queens spearing captives with girlish vigor and enthusiasm.”
“True.” I forced myself to take a bite of stew. “I doubt that adding a stone or two to my weight would change my character.”
“I don’t have any doubts on the subject,” Emerson declared. “And I hope you will not be tempted to try the experiment. Did you learn anything more of interest from the lady?”
“Not really. What about you?”
“I cannot even look at food,” Emerson announced, pushing his chair away from the table. “If you have finished, Peabody, come walk in the garden with me.”
Thus far we had said nothing that was not already known to our attendants, but I could see