The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [122]
“Thank you, my dear,” he said. “We may now retreat with honor.”
So we did. The priest followed us partway, wearing the same expression I have seen on the face of our former butler when he was required to escort some of our more unconventional visitors to the door.
“Well?” I demanded, as we descended the stairs. “Did Mr. Forth leave a message for us?”
Emerson stumbled, but caught himself. “Upon my word, Peabody, you have the most remarkable imagination! How could he have managed that? The texts are as formularized as The Lord’s Prayer; any deviation would be noted and questioned.”
“What kept you so long, then? I thought our purpose was to learn whether or not Mr. Forth had a tomb in the necropolis. It appears he did, and its size and location prove that he had attained high rank. It does not rule out the possibility that he met a sticky end, however. If he fell into disfavor—”
“You asked a question some time ago,” said Emerson. “Would you like to know the answer, or would you prefer to go on speculating indefinitely?”
Our escort fell into place, before and behind, as we began to retrace our steps. I thought they looked a little gloomy.
“What else could you have discovered, if the texts were only conventional mortuary formulae?” I demanded, a trifle nettled at his critical tone.
“In this society,” said Emerson, “a man’s wives, and sometimes his children, are buried in the same tomb. You noted that, I believe.”
“Yes; their titles and figures appear on the… Emerson! Do you mean—”
“She isn’t there, Peabody. The only name is that of Forth himself.”
The sun was high and hot. From a persea tree on the hillside above, a small bird soared up, its feathers glittering bright as emeralds. A sand-colored lizard, alarmed by our approach, slid over the edge of the parapet and disappeared. The rhythmic slap of the guards’ sandals sounded like muffled drumbeats.
After a time Emerson remarked, “You are uncharacteristically silent, Peabody. I hope that means you are considering all the possibilities before you make one of your dogmatic pronouncements.”
“I cannot imagine what you mean, Emerson,” I replied. “I always weigh the facts dispassionately before reaching a conclusion. In this case we have not enough information about funerary customs to assert unequivocally that Mrs. Forth must have been interred in the tomb of her husband. If our informant was correct, she passed on long before he did. She may have insisted upon Christian burial instead of succumbing, as I am sorry to see her husband did, to the influence of pagan ceremonial.”
Emerson gave me a suspicious look. “Quite,” he said.
Despite the shade of my parasol (which Emerson irritably refused to share) I was bathed in perspiration by the time we reached our temporary abode. I was quite looking forward to a bath and a cool drink, and the opportunity to discuss the conclusions I had reached with the others. However, there was a brief delay. Instead of dispersing, as they usually did, our guards formed up in a row. The leader, a handsome chap who appeared to be no more than twenty years old, barked out an order. With mechanical precision the quartet raised their spears and clashed them together, then flung them away. The weapons clattered and rang on the stone. The men dropped to their knees in a deep obeisance, then rose and began to march away, leaving their spears on the floor.
“What the devil,” I exclaimed, forgetting myself in my surprise.
Emerson stroked his chin. “I wonder if this could be a Meroitic version of ’morituri vos salutamus.’ Hi, there—halt! Come back here! Abadamu, curse it!”
His shout made the metal blades of the spears ring, and brought the marching men to a stop. None of them turned or answered, however. Emerson strode forward. Taking the leader by the shoulder, he whirled him around. “Why do you not obey?”
The young man swallowed convulsively. His face was dusky pale and his lips scarcely moved when he replied. “O Father of Curses, we are dead men. The