The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [120]
The guards made no difficulty about our leaving the building, but we had to accept an escort. Emerson fussed about it until I reminded him they were only following orders. “Furthermore,” I added, “Reggie’s story must inspire a certain degree of caution even if one assumes, as I do, that his view of the situation is unduly pessimistic.”
“Oh, bah,” said Emerson, thereby admitting the truth of my argument.
The soldiers took up their positions, two marching ahead of us, two bringing up the rear. Emerson set a brisk pace, bounding down the staircase like a mountain goat and turning immediately onto the causeway. I looked down at the village below; I fancied I could smell it, even from this distance. “What are we going to do, Emerson? There has been no word from… you know who. If Reggie really can make arrangements for… you know what, shall we—er—you know?”
“I don’t see how we can decide yet,” Emerson said. “There are too many unknowns in that equation.”
“Then we ought to resolve them, Emerson.”
“Precisely what I am doing, Peabody.”
“Where are we going, then?”
Emerson slowed his pace and took my arm. “You sound a trifle breathless, my dear; was I going too fast for you? We are going to look for Willie Forth’s tomb.”
As we walked on, Emerson explained what he had learned from Murtek concerning the mortuary customs of this society. The tombs were all of the rock-cut variety, for with cultivable land so scarce it would have been impractical to build pyramids. “It’s a wonder these cliffs haven’t collapsed,” Emerson said. “They are honeycombed with tombs and temples and storerooms. The cemeteries are reserved for kings and nobles, of course.”
“What do the rekkit—”
“Don’t ask, Peabody.”
“Oh.”
“There are several such cemeteries,” Emerson went on. “A few generations ago a new one was begun on this side of the valley. Forth should be there, if he is anywhere. As a royal councillor he would rate a fairly handsome tomb. If we don’t find it, we will have reason to question the veracity of our informants.”
“Very clever, Emerson,” I said approvingly. “And while we are searching for the tomb in question, we can make observations about burial customs. I am glad I brought notebook and pencil.”
There was no difficulty in locating the entrance to the cemetery. It was marked by the monumental pyloned gateway I had noticed during our journey to the temple. The sloping sides and flat lintel had been carved with figures of the mortuary deities—Anubis, the jackal-headed god of cemeteries, Osiris, ruler of the dead, Ma’at, goddess of truth and justice, against whose feather symbol the heart of the deceased is weighed at the final judgment. The traditional conventions had been accurately, even slavishly, followed, but the crudeness of the carving indicated how much of the old artistic skill had been lost.
While we examined and discussed the reliefs, our escort stood watching us uneasily, but they did not interfere until we started up the stairs beyond the pylon. Then the young captain sprang forward, barring the way. His speech was exceedingly agitated, but I caught the words “forbidden,” and “sacred,” repeated over and over. Emerson settled the matter by pushing him out of the way and going on. When I looked back I saw the four men were huddled together as if for protection, staring fearfully after us and making agitated gestures.
Despite the bright sunlight and sweltering heat the place had an air of brooding desolation. We met no one until we reached a stone-paved landing from which paths led out on either side, winding up and down and along the cliff.
Our booted feet thudding upon the stone of the stairs must have made the guardian priest doubt the evidence of his own ears. When he emerged, in stumbling haste, from the open doorway of the little shrine at the back of the platform, his eyes and mouth opened wide at the sight of us. Presumably he had been at his prayers, for his long white skirt was crumpled and dusty. His head had been shaved; sunlight striking off the stubble of gray