The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [138]
They say that a condemned man suffers more in the waiting than in the actual execution. I have some doubts about that, but I felt something amounting to relief when the metaphorical ax finally fell. Reggie was grumbling about his headache and complaining that the powders I had given him had not lessened it when we heard the tread of marching feet. It sounded like a troop of soldiers rather than the usual princely escort.
The room emptied as if by magic; a rekkit scuttled for cover and the attendants who were close to an exit fled through it, leaving only a few who were delayed by repletion or slow wits. They promptly fell to their knees. I rose to my feet. With one swift stride Emerson was beside me, his face alert as that of a hunting cat. The hangings were thrust aside and the men filed in—six, eight—ten spearmen in their leather helmets, followed by Prince Nastasen. He was accompanied by Pesaker and Murtek; but I looked in vain for Tarek, and my heart began to sink toward my boots.
Nastasen stood looking us over, his thumbs hooked in his belt. I suppose he was trying to intimidate us with the ferocity of his glare; it certainly was an ugly sight, but Emerson returned his scowl with one twice as fierce, and Nastasen was the first to give way.
He leveled an accusing finger. “You are traitors,” he cried. “You have conspired(?) with my enemies.”
Murtek began to gabble out a translation, but the prince stopped him with what was obviously an oath; it made reference to the improbable habits of a particular rodent. “Let them answer in our tongue. Well?” He jabbed his finger at Emerson. “You hear me.”
“I hear your words, but they do not make sense (lit. contain wisdom),” said Emerson calmly. “We are strangers. How can we be your enemies when we do not know you? Curse it,” he added in English, “I’m not sure I made my point. My knowledge of the language is too limited to express fine legal distinctions.”
Ramses cleared his throat. “If you would allow me, Papa—”
“Certainly not,” I exclaimed. “How would that look, a little boy presuming to speak for his parents? I doubt His Highness would recognize those legal distinctions in any case.”
Nastasen’s face swelled with fury. “Stop talking! Why do you not show fear? You are in my hands. Fall to the ground and beg for mercy.”
“We fear no man,” I said in Meroitic. “We kneel only to God.”
The High Priest of Aminreh let out a harsh bark of laughter. “Soon you will kneel to him and the hand of the Heneshem(?) will—”
“It is I who will say what will happen,” Nastasen shouted, turning on his ally.
“Yes, yes, great one, great prince. Forgive your servant.”
Really, I thought (for I deemed it prudent not to speak just then), Prince Nastasen was nothing more than a nasty, spoiled little boy. He would make a very poor ruler, and it would not be long before Pesaker was the real power in the land.
However, nasty little boys can be dangerous when they command a lot of men armed with big sharp spears, and Nastasen proceeded to demonstrate that he was not so stupid as I had believed. His breathing slowed, his muscles relaxed, and a slow, evil smile replaced his frown.
“You are strangers,” he said. “You have no friends here? But you had a friend before you came. You are the friends of a traitor.”
“Guilt by association,” I remarked to Emerson.
“Let him finish,” Emerson said. “I have an unpleasant feeling about this.…”
“He is a traitor to his people,” said Nastasen. “He would betray his own kind and raise up the —— (obviously a pejorative term of some kind) to rule over them,” He struck himself on his chest with the flat of his hand. “But I, the great prince, the defender of the people, cast