The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [155]
“Hmmm,” I said.
“What is that supposed to mean, Peabody?”
“I think I know why she favors us. You, rather.”
“See here, Peabody—”
“Emerson, just listen and follow my logic. The Hand of the Heneshem uses a spear to execute his victims. Meroitic reliefs depict the queen dispatching prisoners with a spear. There are similar scenes from Egyptian temples showing pharaohs smashing the heads of captives with a huge club. But surely the god-king did not commit this bloody deed himself; we know that priests and officials performed many of the duties that were nominally the responsibility of the monarch. In this case as well, he must have had a deputy who wielded the actual club. It is even more likely that a woman, however muscular and bloodthirsty, would delegate an official—the Hand of Her Majesty—to do the killing.”
“Are you suggesting the unknown power is the queen?” Emerson exclaimed. “That pleasant plump lady, to whom you presented your needle and thread, ordering the murder of a girl and her infant?”
“One may smile and be a villain, Emerson. One may be pleasingly plump and domestically inclined and still see nothing wrong with murdering babies. And a pleasingly plump, youngish widow may be favorably disposed toward a man of whose physical and moral endowments she has just beheld such an impressive display.”
Emerson blushed. “Balderdash,” he mumbled.
“Hmmm,” I said again.
In deference to Emerson’s modesty, I had understated the case. Any female who had watched him in action that day must have fallen instantly in love with him. I myself had been deeply moved. The sight of my husband’s splendid muscular development was familiar to me, but to see it displayed in circumstances of struggle and violence, in the defense of the helpless, had an extremely powerful effect on me. I will not pretend my appreciation was entirely aesthetic. There was another element involved, and this was now increasing in intensity. The phrase “fever pitch” may not be entirely inappropriate.
“You are trembling, my dear,” said Emerson solicitously. “Delayed shock, I expect. Lean on me.”
“It is not shock,” I said.
“Ah,” said Emerson. He poked the soldier ahead of him. “You creep like a snail. Go faster.”
It was with visible relief that our guard handed us over to the soldiers on duty at the entrance to our quarters. Pressing my arm close to his side, Emerson paused only long enough to make sure Reggie was not following before he led me toward my sleeping chamber.
The sight we beheld was dreadful enough to make us forget the purpose for which we had come. I had assumed Amenit would go about her business and that my business with her could be delayed for a few minutes—or longer, as the case might prove. But she was still there, huddled on a mat by my bed. At the sight of her face Emerson let out a cry of horror.
“Good Gad, Peabody! What have you done?”
Her skin was not only blistered and peeling, it was green— the nasty livid shade of a decomposing corpse. It looked particularly gruesome next to her purple hair.
I own I was a trifle taken aback. The substance I had applied was only lye soap, softened and made into a paste. She must have had a particular sensitivity to it. Nor had I really expected the herbs would produce such a pronounced shade of green.
Her expression, as she glowered at me, did nothing to improve her appearance. “You set my skin afire, you [several epithets whose precise meaning was obscure but whose general intent was plain]. I will kill you! I will tear your tongue from your mouth, your hair from your head, your—” She broke off with a yelp of agony and doubled up, clutching her stomach.
Emerson swallowed. “Not—not the arsenic, Peabody?”
“No, of course not. She does appear to be in some digestive distress, though. The soap could not… Oh, good Gad!” I had seen the bowl on the floor beside Amenit’s writhing form. It was the one in which I had steeped the castor beans—and it was empty.
I dropped to