The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [119]
“Surely they would not betray a friend, a sister,” I whispered.
“You don’t understand the effect of superstition on the minds of primitive people,” Reggie said—a glaring underestimation of our talents, which wrung a snort of disgust from Emerson. “These girls have been raised from infancy to believe in their pagan gods and in their own status. They are virgins.…”
He broke off, as Mentarit (I recognized her by her walk) approached to light the lamp. After she had withdrawn, Reggie went on, “The handmaidens are all of noble birth; some are princesses of the royal house. After they have served a designated time, they are given in marriage to men selected by the king for that honor.”
“How appalling,” I exclaimed. “Given in marriage, like prize cattle.… They have no choice in the matter?”
“Naturally not,” said Emerson. “If the right to the throne passes through the female line, as we surmised, the marriage of a princess becomes a matter of state. Hmmm. I wonder which—”
“Sssh!” Reggie leaned forward, an anxious frown wrinkling his brow. “You are about to venture onto dangerous ground, Professor. I will explain at another time; too many ears are listening.”
Indeed they were. The lamps had been lighted, preparations for the evening meal were under way, and our attendants had begun to take their places. Emerson took Ramses off to be washed.
“See if you can discover her name,” Reggie whispered, indicating Mentarit. “A few of the girls are sympathetic to us.”
“I know her name. So far only two of them have waited upon us, and I have talked with both. That is Mentarit.”
A deep groan escaped the lips of the young man. “I feared as much. In the name of heaven, Mrs. Amelia, take care! Of all the handmaidens, she is the most dangerous.”
“Why?” His fear was infectious; my breath quickened.
“She didn’t tell you who she is? But then she would take care to avoid the subject. She is one of the royal heiresses—and Tarek’s sister.”
CHAPTER 12
“When I Speak the Dead Hear and Obey!”
EMERSON took a sip of beer and made a horrible face. “If I had any inclination to remain here, beer for breakfast would change my mind. What I wouldn’t give for a decent cup of tea!”
“You could have goat’s milk,” I said, sipping mine.
“It tastes worse than the beer.”
Reggie had finished his beer. He held out his cup and one of the attendants rushed up to refill it. Though he had retired early the night before, he had been late joining us for the morning meal, and he was looking rather seedy. He refused my offer of medication, however, saying that he was only feeling the delayed effects of his imprisonment.
“Have some of this porridge stuff, Forthright,” Emerson said solicitously. “It’s not half bad if you pour a pint of honey over it. Some variety of durra, do you think, Peabody?”
Reggie pushed the bowl away with a grimace of distaste. “I can’t eat a mouthful. I wonder that you can.”
“We need to keep our strength up,” Emerson declared, spooning up the last of his porridge. “Perhaps you ought to have a rest, Forthright. Mrs. Emerson and I are going out for a while.”
Reggie looked up in alarm. “Where are you going?”
“Oh—here and there, around and about. I would hate to miss any opportunity of studying this fascinating culture.”
“Your nonchalance astonishes me, Professor,” Reggie exclaimed. “I don’t think you fully realize the peril of your situation. A wrong word here, a thoughtless action there—”
“Your concern touches me,” said Emerson, patting his lips with the linen squares that had been (at my insistence) supplied us in lieu of serviettes. Such articles were unknown here, and it pleased me to think that I had contributed in some small measure to the development of civilization in this backward culture.
Reggie offered to go with us, but was easily dissuaded by Emerson, who flatly refused to entertain such a notion. Somewhat to my surprise Ramses also decided to remain behind. I assumed he was hoping to find his friend the cat, for he went