The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [142]
“I wish I had a dozen pipes and a sack of tobacco for you, my dear Emerson,” I replied. “They didn’t hurt you?”
“Only a few bruises.” Emerson began filling his pipe. “I felt certain we risked nothing worse; these polytheists do take their sacrifices, and lingering tortures, and that sort of thing so seriously. The only really ugly moment was when Nastasen threatened to pop us into his dungeon.”
“That was Pesaker’s idea, I believe,” I said.
“Same thing. The young swine hasn’t a brain in his head; Pesaker will find him a perfect tool, which is no doubt the reason he supports Nastasen rather than Tarek. Now we have a reprieve until the moment of the ceremony, and with Tarek on the loose we ought to be able to work something out—if we can keep out of Nastasen’s dungeon.”
“We owe our escape from them to Murtek,” I said, taking a date from the bowl on the table. “Whose side is he on, anyhow?”
“His own, I fancy,” said Emerson cynically. “Politicians are all the same, in the Halls of Parliament or darkest Africa, and he is a clever man. I would guess that his sympathies lie with us and with Tarek—the triumph of Nastasen means the triumph of Amon and his high priest over Osiris and Murtek—but he is too careful of his wrinkled hide to commit himself until victory is certain.”
I expelled the seed of the date daintily into my hand and reached for another. “I’m starved. All that exercise, and the noon meal delayed… Where have the servants gone?”
“Into hiding, like sensible people.” Emerson cocked his head, listening. From the back regions of the house came distant echoes of thuds, crashes, and exclamations of (I felt certain) a profane nature. Emerson grinned. “Nastasen’s soldiers remind me of the pirates of Messieurs Gilbert and Sullivan. ‘With catlike tread—thud!—upon our prey we steal, In silence dread—crash!—our cautious way we feel.…’ ”
Smiling, I joined my voice to his. There is nothing like a song, I always say, to lift the spirits. ” ‘No sound at all—’ ” We brought our fists down on the table and Ramses, joining in the spirit of the thing, shouted, “Bang!” at the top of his lungs.
We finished the verse in fine style, and burst into the chorus with Ramses’s piping voice providing an unharmonious treble. “Come, friends, who plough the sea,” and so on to the end.
Emerson mopped his brow and burst out laughing. “Every man thinks he is a critic, eh, Peabody? We can’t have been that bad.” And he gestured at the doorway, where two of the soldiers stood staring, spears poised.
“Western music must sound strange to them,” I replied. “Perhaps they mistook the sound for that of struggle. We were making quite a lot of noise.”
Looking sheepish, the men lowered their spears. “I am a trifle peckish myself,” Emerson said. “Let’s see if we can get the servants back.” He clapped his hands sharply.
It took a while, but eventually the servants reappeared and began serving our luncheon. The presence of the two soldiers, who lingered, looking hungrily at the food, obviously disturbed them, so Emerson dismissed the two with a pointed reminder of Nastasen’s orders.
“They don’t seem very enthusiastic, do they?” I said as the men shuffled off, dragging their spears.
“They are doomed men,” said Emerson placidly. “If they have not found Tarek by now, he has got clean away.” He set his strong white teeth into a piece of bread and ripped off a chunk. “And it may be—”
“Emerson, excuse me, but you are talking with your mouth full. It sets Ramses a bad example.”
“Sorry,” mumbled Emerson. He swallowed, grimacing. “No wonder Murtek has lost most of his teeth. They must be grinding grain in the old way, between two stones; there is as much grit in this wretched bread as there is flour. One would have supposed Forth would have introduced them to modern methods of manufacture instead of teaching political theory and romantic twaddle.… I was