The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [129]
At his insistence, Emerson was the first to follow her. I went next, and found myself on a flight of narrow stone-cut steps. They were so steep I was forced to descend them like a ladder, holding on with both hands, but my dear Emerson’s arm steadied me and offered assurance of rescue should I miss my footing. Ramses managed to step on my hand several times but eventually we reached the bottom of the steps and paused to count noses and catch our breaths.
“All right, Mrs. Amelia?” Reggie asked.
Amenit had already started off down the tunnel that led straight ahead. “Yes, certainly,” I said. “Hurry or we shall lose our guide.”
It would have been dangerous to do so, for the tunnel began to bend and turn, and other passages opened up on either side. I have been in pyramids whose inner structures were as complex and in far worse repair; but it did occur to me as we went on that if I wanted to rid myself of unwelcome guests I could hardly find a more convenient place. Amenit must know the way by memory, for the walls were unmarked. If we ever lost her, we could never find our way back. The place was a regular maze.
Emerson, close on Amenit’s heels, kept staring at the rough stone surfaces that pressed so close upon us. “I wish we had more light,” he muttered. “From what I can see… Yes, that would explain a good many things.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Remember the famous gold of Cush, Peabody? Most scholars believe the mines were in the eastern desert—but if this maze was not begun as a mining project, I miss my guess. The vein is exhausted now, and the tunnels have been adapted to serve other purposes, but there is still gold in these hills—there must be. Where else would our hosts get the metal they use for their ornaments, and what other commodity could they trade for the foodstuffs they import?”
“I am sure you are right, Papa,” said Ramses, behind me. “And have you observed the small openings that occasionally break the surface of the walls? No doubt there are shafts leading to the surface, as was the case in some of the Egyptian pyramids. The air here is remarkably fresh, considering we must be deep underground.”
The air was only relatively fresh. It was very dry, and my throat was beginning to ache. I poked Emerson in the back. “Ask her how much farther.”
“Curse it, Peabody, have you got that cursed parasol? I told you—”
“You said I must not jingle, Emerson. My parasol does not jingle. Ask her—”
Amenit interrupted me with a vehement demand for silence. “Not far now. They will hear. Be still!”
After a few more minutes of walking, the tunnel opened into a larger space. Another hiss from Amenit brought us to her side before what seemed to be a blank wall. “Be still,” she breathed. “Be still!” Then she blew out the lamp.
I had no idea darkness could be that intense.
Then came light, like a benediction. A small square had opened in the wall before us. The light came from it—faint, yellow, and flickering, but more welcome than the sun’s most brilliant beam. I took Ramses firmly by the arm and moved him off my left foot; he was crowding me, trying to see through the opening, but it was above his eye level. Emerson’s cheek pressed against mine as together we gazed into the chamber beyond.
Archaeological fever! There is no passion like it, few that equal it in intensity. It gripped me even as it gripped my remarkable spouse. There could be no question as to the function of the chamber that lay beyond. Rich furnishings—carved chests, great jars of wine and oil, statues adorned with gilt and faience—were illumined by several alabaster lamps. The pièce de résistance lay upon a low bed in the center