The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [152]
A cold chill rippled through me. The opening was not a doorway. It was a recess, an alcove, deep and wide; and it was not empty. What in heaven’s name was the—thing— within? Not lifeless stone, though it bulked as large as a carved boulder. It lived; I sensed, rather than saw, movement. I heard—was it the echo of my own agitated breath or the harsh breathing of some huge beast? I saw a faint glimmer of reflected light.…
Then I saw no more therein, for torchlight brightened the rectangle of the doorway. The torchbearers took up positions behind the chair at the foot of the dais. A group of priests followed, led by Pesaker; they turned to their left and lined up shoulder to shoulder before the opening of the recess. I had the odd impression that they were not so much protecting what lay within as preventing it from coming out.
Was it a beast after all? The pharaohs of Egypt hunted lions, and although the lordly creatures had vanished from Egypt proper, they were still to be found in Nubia. A captive lion, fed on human flesh, trained to mangle and kill the enemies of the king… I would greatly dislike being eaten by a lion. I would dislike even more being forced to watch Ramses eaten by one.
“Oh, dear,” I murmured.
“Peabody?” Emerson glanced questioningly at me.
“I think perhaps you were right, my dear, when you said my imagination was too well developed.”
Further discussion was ended by the appearance of Nastasen, in full regalia. His pleated linen robe, his golden sandals and heavy jeweled collar, were those of a pharaoh; the sword at his belt had a hilt of rock crystal set in gold. The only thing missing was the crown, and oh! what a lustful glance he cast upon it as he passed the throne and seated himself in the chair below it.
Another heavy silence ensued. How theatrical these people were! The delay was, and was intended to be, unnerving— at least it would have unnerved persons who were not trained, as we were, in the traditions of British pluck. Emerson stifled a yawn, I let my eyelids droop as if in boredom, and Nastasen decided to get on with it. He raised the gilded staff he carried and called out, “Bring them in! Bring the guilty to cower before the vengeance of the god!”
Half-expecting to see Ramses and Tarek, I was momentarily relieved to behold instead a little group of people wearing native garb. My relief was short-lived when I recognized the men, and realized that there were several women and small children in the group. Emerson uttered an oath (which was quite justified, but which I will not record) and started to rise. He was pulled back into his seat by a noose that was dropped over his head and pulled tight across his chest. I felt a similar constraint bind my shoulders and arms to the chair; a swift glance to my right assured me Reggie had been treated the same.
“These men are twice traitors,” Nastasen announced. “First for failing in their duty. Twice for giving their souls to the white magician. They will die, together with their families. But because they fought bravely in the service of my father the king, and because the magician cast his spell upon them, they will receive the honor of dying at the hand of the Heneshem(?).”
The ranks of priests before the alcove parted and a man emerged from it. He was no taller than the shortest of the priests, but he bulked twice as large, and all of his bulk was muscle. He wore only a loincloth; his entire body, including his head, had been shaved in accordance with the requirements of ritual purity. Heavy supraorbital ridges and bulging cheeks reduced his eyes to small black circles, cold and polished as obsidian beads. His mouth was a wide, lipless line, like a cut in dead flesh. So thick was his neck that