The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [153]
As he advanced, the torchlight turned his oiled skin the color of fresh blood. He made a deep obeisance to Nastasen and a deeper one to the dark alcove, then braced his feet and stood waiting.
Thus far there had been no sound from the ranks of the doomed. Rigid and gray-faced, they stared with empty eyes at their executioner. In the front rank was the young officer. He had not looked at us, and he seemed oblivious of the woman who pressed close to him. She was hardly more than a girl, and in her arms she clasped an infant. Her face remained fixed, but her arms must have tightened, for the child began to cry.
The executioner’s lipless mouth split. “The babe weeps? I will stop its tears. And because the Heneshem is merciful, I will not leave its mother to grieve. Stand forth, woman, and hold the babe close.”
He raised the heavy spear as effortlessly as if it had been a twig. The crimson light slid along the bulging muscles of his arms. The young father groaned and raised his hands to cover his eyes.
Dry-mouthed with horror, I struggled to move my arms and reach my little pistol. I knew I could never do it in time.
When he is slightly irritated, Emerson bellows like a bull. When he is really angry, he is as silent and swift as a charging leopard. I heard the crack as the rope across his breast snapped like string. In one long leap he reached the nearest of the guards and wrenched the spear from his hand, sending him sprawling. There was a flash, a bolt of silvery light—and the blade of the spear, now dull and dripping, stood out a full twelve inches behind the executioner’s back.
Oh, for the brush of a Turner, or the pen of a Homer! No lesser genius could convey the superb and passionate splendor of that scene! Emerson stood at bay, fists clenched. That incredible blow had burst all the buttons off his shirt and his bronzed breast heaved with effort. A circle of spears menaced him but his head was proudly erect and a grim smile curved his lips. At his feet the body of the killer lay in a spreading pool of blood. Behind him, the condemned had come alive; falling to their knees, they held out their arms to their defender.
Emerson took a deep breath. His voice filled the vast chamber and rolled in thunderous echoes. “The vengeance of the gods has struck down the killer of little children and unarmed men! Ma’at (justice, order) is served through me—the Father of Curses, the hand of the god!”
Through the entire assemblage rippled a united gasp of awe. Nastasen rose to his feet, his face swollen with fury. “Kill!” he screamed. “Kill him!”
CHAPTER 15
“The God Has Spoken”
MY throat was too constricted, my heart too full for speech. My eyes clung to those of my heroic spouse, and in the brilliant blue of their gaze I read undimmed courage, undying affection, and the acknowledgment of the admiration I would have expressed had I been able. His smiling lips shaped words.
“Don’t look, Peabody.”
“Never fear me,” I cried. “I will be with you to the end, my dear, and after. But I will not follow till I have avenged you!”
Nastasen let out a wordless shriek of fury. His order had not been obeyed. The men hesitated, none wishing to be the first to brave the mighty white magician’s wrath. Gibbering and frothing at the mouth, the prince pulled the ceremonial sword from his belt and ran toward Emerson.
A voice rose over the murmur of the spectators. “Stop! The Heneshem speaks. Heed the voice of the Heneshem.”
It was a woman’s voice, high and sweet, and it stopped Nastasen as if he had run into an invisible wall. The voice went on, “The ceremony is ended. Return the strangers to their place. The Heneshem has spoken.”
“But—but—” Nastasen stuttered, waving his sword. “The guilty men must die. They and their families.”
Emerson folded his arms. “You will