The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [130]
The Queen of Meroë spearing captives with girlish enthusiasm.
“They don’t practice mummification,” exclaimed Emerson. “Hard to get natron, I—oof!”
I do not know whether it was Reggie or Amenit who had reminded him, somewhat forcibly, that silence was imperative, but the gesture had the desired effect. And it was just in time. The light strengthened. It came from lamps carried by a pair of figures whose contours we knew well—two of the handmaidens, swaddled from crown to heel. I did not think either was Mentarit, however.
The High Priestess followed them.
Only her gold-embroidered draperies differentiated her from the others. She gestured. Her attendants placed the lamps on a chest and joined her, one on either side, as she took up a position before the grisly remains. Three voices blended in a soft chant.
Amenit had done what we asked. Before us stood the High Priestess. But unless she unveiled, the long, tortuous, dangerous journey would have been in vain. Fortunately for my nerves the ceremony was brief, almost, one might say, perfunctory. After a short chorus, the three figures knelt and rose and knelt again. The two on either side remained kneeling. The central figure rose and lifted its hands to its face. The draperies quivered and fell. Then—I confess it with some shame—I closed my eyes. The reason she had unveiled was so that she might kiss the corpse’s withered brow.
She was not Mrs. Forth. Her jetty locks and smooth brown cheeks were those of a high-bred Cushite maiden.
CHAPTER 13
“I Would as Soon Leave Ramses”
I MOVED away from the window so that Emerson could lift Ramses, who had, by increasingly peremptory tugs and pokes, indicated his wish to see too. A few moments later the light within the chamber dimmed but did not yield to utter darkness. The lamps that had been left to light the dead would burn on until the oil was consumed—an ironic commentary on the brevity of human life. We too go out into darkness when our light is consumed.
So wrapped was I in philosophic and other musings that Reggie’s whisper sounded like a shout. “Well? Was it… ?”
Only then did it occur to me that he had not been given a chance to look for himself. “No,” I whispered.
The return trip was made in silence. I should have been speculating on the meaning of the grisly ceremony and making mental notes of the contents of the burial chamber for future publication, but I was in the grip of a foolish depression. I had never really believed in Ramses’s theory that Mrs. Forth was the High Priestess, but I had allowed myself to hope. The fate of the poor young bride had always seemed to me more tragic than that of her husband. He at least had known what he was getting into, while she had followed him, loyally and without question, trusting in his judgment and in his protective strength. It may have been stupid, but it was noble. I felt an affinity with her—not with her stupidity, but with her courage.
We gained our apartments without incident, finding them dark and deserted as they had been when we left them. “I would like to bathe,” I said softly to Emerson, “but I suppose it would be ill-advised to risk waking one of the attendants. I say, Emerson, what about the clothes we are wearing? The dust and cobwebs clinging to them may alert a spy.”
Amenit understood this, or part of it. She giggled. “I will hide. Give them me.”
“What, now?” said Emerson, outraged.
“This is no time for jokes, Professor,” said Reggie. “Get to bed at once. The guard changes at midnight.”
He took his own advice, hastening toward his room. Amenit went with him. I could not see clearly in the dark, but their two forms were so close together I assumed his arm must have been around her. A soft giggle floated back to us as they melted into the shadows.
“Did you hear, Emerson?” I whispered. “The guard changes at midnight!”
“Hmmm,