The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [114]
Emerson had gone at once to the guards to put his plan into effect. He returned, scowling and muttering.
“They prevented you from leaving?” I asked.
“Not at all.” Emerson dropped heavily onto a chair. “They professed not to understand what I was talking about.”
“Perhaps they did not, Emerson. The poor fellow may be a closely guarded prisoner.”
“Or a figment of my imagination,” Emerson muttered, fingering the cleft in his chin. “No; no, confound it, the words were perfectly clear. Now what do we do?”
Ramses requested elucidation, and his father obliged. “Most interesting,” said Ramses, fingering his own chin. “It would seem to me that one might now request—or demand—information from someone higher in authority.”
“Precisely what I was about to suggest,” I said. “One of the princes?”
“Both of them,” said Ramses.
So we put our heads together and composed a miniature Rosetta Stone, with the message in both English and Meroitic. Once we had settled the phraseology to our mutual satisfaction, I made a copy, and Emerson carried both of them to the guards.
“No difficulty about that, at any rate,” he said upon returning. “I was assured they would be promptly delivered. Now all we can do is wait.”
“I am getting very tired of saying and doing that,” I declared. “Waiting is not our style, Emerson. I yearn to act. A bold stroke, a coup d’état—”
“I suppose you could march into the village waving your parasol and call the rekkit to arms,” Emerson replied, reaching for his pipe.
“Sarcasm does not become you, Emerson. I am quite serious. There must be some way we can increase our prestige, inspire awe and terror.… Emerson! Is there by chance an eclipse of the sun imminent?”
Emerson took his pipe out of his mouth and stared at me. “How the devil should I know, Peabody? An almanac is not standard equipment on an African expedition.”
“I should have thought of it,” I said regretfully. “From now on I will make certain I carry one. It would be so convenient—an eclipse, I mean.”
“So would the arrival of the Camel Corps with pennons flying,” remarked Emerson, upon whose sense of humor delay seemed to have a deleterious effect. “Curse it, Peabody, astronomical effects don’t occur so conveniently, and total eclipses of the sun are fairly uncommon. What put such a fool notion into your head?”
Twice during the afternoon I went to the anteroom to ask if there had been a message for us. I was assured that when such a thing arrived it would be promptly delivered. Emerson’s calm, as he wrote busily in his journal, only increased my impatience, and I was pacing the floor, hands behind my back, when finally I heard the slap of sandals and ringing of weapons that betokened the approach of the guards—not one, but several, to judge by the sounds.
“At last!” I cried. “The message!”
Emerson rose to his feet, his eyes narrowing. “Not a single messenger, by the sound of it. Perhaps Tarek has come himself.”
The curtain was thrust aside by the blade of a spear and two soldiers entered, dragging a third person between them. A cruel shove sent the prisoner staggering forward. Unable to break his fall because his hands were bound behind his back, he dropped to his knees and toppled forward, collapsing at my feet.
The prisoner was, of course, Reggie Forthright. His suit was crumpled and faded, and he was now the possessor of a heavy beard. Except for paler skin, which spoke of a long period of close confinement, he appeared healthy enough; indeed, if anything, his face was rather full. Lack of exercise might be responsible, but again I was reminded of the hideous rites of the ancient Americans, who fattened their prisoners for sacrifice.
Emerson rolled his