The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [121]
Emerson gave him no time to recover from his surprise. “It is good that you are here,” he announced. “We have come to pay our respects [lit. make offering] to our friend and countryman, the Royal Councillor Forth. Where is his tomb [lit. House of Eternity]?”
“Well done, my dear,” I remarked, as we followed the path the astonished religious person had indicated.
“If you take a man by surprise, Peabody, and behave with sufficient arrogance, he will generally do what you ask. But I expect that as soon as the fellow gets his wits back, he will rush off to ask for advice and assistance. We had best make haste.”
The path was wide, but on the left hand there was no parapet, only a sheer drop to a tumble of jagged rocks twenty feet below. On the right-hand side were the tombs, some on the same level as the path, some reached by flights of stairs. I had to fight the impression that I was looking at models or reconstructions, for although the plans were similar to many such tombs we had excavated in Egypt, I had never seen one in its original condition. Before each tomb the cliff had been cut back to form a shallow forecourt with a columned portico behind and a quaint miniature pyramid above. The white-plastered walls and painted reliefs shone bright in the sunlight. The doors leading into the rock-cut chambers of the tomb were closed with blocks of stone and flanked on either side by statues of the occupant. On each shady porch stood a large stela on which had been painted a portrait of the deceased, with his name and titles and the conventional offering formulas.
We hurried along, pausing at each tomb to read the hieroglyphic inscriptions on the stelae. “Most of them seem to be high priests and councillors, and their families,” Emerson said, lingering to admire an attractive painting of the Last Judgment—Osiris enthroned, watching the weighing of the dead man’s heart against the feather of justice. The deceased did not appear to be incapacitated by the absence of this organ; looking quite sprightly and dressed in his finest, he raised his hands in adoration to the god. His elegantly attired wife stood by his side. “Curse it, Peabody,” Emerson went on, glaring at the blocked doorway of the tomb proper, “I would give ten years of my life to get a look inside. What the devil, haven’t these people enough gumption to rob tombs and leave them open for visitors?”
“Language, Emerson,” I said. “I share your sentiments but I don’t suppose tomb robbing is a very popular profession here. Where would a thief spend his ill-gotten gains? Oh, curse it, where is the cursed place? Here’s another confounded Cushite, and his wife and four of his children.”
“Language, Peabody,” said Emerson. “I think—ah! Look here!”
The tomb entrance was the last on that section of the path. In size and in the richness of the decoration it was at least the equal of the others we had seen.
“Yes,” Emerson murmured, tracing a line of hieroglyphs with his finger. “Not the way I would have transliterated the name, but poor Forth’s knowledge of the hieroglyphs was somewhat superficial. No doubt about it, though.”
“You think he composed his own funerary inscriptions?” I asked.
“I would have done. Oh, damnation—I hear someone coming. Hold them off, can you? I need more time here.”
The guardian priest had sought instructions and had returned with reinforcements—two of his fellows and a more impressive figure carrying a long gilded staff and wearing a leopard skin slung over his white robe. I stationed myself squarely in the middle of the path, arranged a smile on my face, and opened my parasol.
It was quite a large parasol. Without pushing rudely past it, and me, the delegation could not proceed. They stopped. I explained that we had come to honor our friend, expressed innocent surprise when I was told that no one was allowed near the tombs unless he had undergone the proper ritual purification, apologized for our inadvertent error, and asked for details of the ritual. The higher-ranking priest sputtered and brandished his