The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [165]
Emerson’s fingers twitched. He was aching to take notes. To see such a ceremony, often described but never depicted in detail, was like traveling back in time. Almost I forgot the dread purpose of this ceremony and its hideous culmination.
Bowed under the weight of the gilded structure, the carriers proceeded slowly down the aisle toward the temple gates. Roughly the guards pushed back the spectators, who seethed like a nest of ants. They cried out in appeal and adoration; they held children high in their arms, thrusting them forward over the heads of those in the front rank so their tiny hands might touch the sacred vehicle; they struggled and pushed for favorable positions. For the first time I realized fully the power of superstition, and knew that the religion I had studied with scholarly detachment had been, and was, a living, breathing force. These people believed. They would accept the decision of the god and defend his chosen one.
Partway down the aisle the carriers stopped, and a man stepped out of the ranks of the spectators, the guards parting to let him through. I could not hear what he said, for the cries of the crowd drowned him out, but I assumed it was an appeal or a question—and that the guards, and the bearers, had been well-bribed not only to let him address the god but to ensure the correct answer. I rose to my feet and stood on tiptoe, trying to see how the god would reply; unfortunately “his” back was to me and the people in front were milling about. All I saw was the recoil of the questioner, who staggered back with his hands to his head. A gasp of wonder rose from the crowd. After a moment the ship moved on.
The same thing happened twice more. I saw even less on these occasions. Then the ship reached the gate, turned, and started on its return trip. It came more quickly now and did not stop. The crowd noise died into a breathless silence, and the melodious basso of the high priest boomed out. “O Aminreh, king of the gods—the pharaoh awaits you. Give him your blessing, O Aminreh, that the land may live and flourish with His Majesty.”
Nastasen stepped forward, smirking. Where was Tarek? This was the moment, when every eye was bent upon the bark and the god, when even breath had stopped in anticipation. I could not take my eyes off the grotesque wooden statue. The painted face stared straight ahead. The hollow eye sockets… They were hollow, not painted or filled with crystal. But they were not empty. Something glimmered within them. I noted that the arms of the god were not carved in one piece with the rest of the body, but were separate pieces of wood— and at that moment, when the ship had almost reached the spot where Nastasen stood awaiting it, the god’s arm moved. The heavy wooden flail came down on the shoulder of the nearest bearer. He let out a cry and stumbled, losing his grip on the pole and falling forward against the man ahead of him. The whole structure swayed to a stop as the other bearers struggled to retain their footing and their grip. The god’s arm lifted—not the same arm, the other, the one that held the crook. It came gently to rest upon the head of a man who had suddenly appeared beside the shrine, emerging from the ranks of the spectators. The white robes were those of a minor priest. The face was Tarek’s.
Into the stunned silence a voice rose like a brazen trumpet’s blast. “The god has spoken! Behold your king, people of the Holy Mountain!”
CHAPTER 16
“Sleep, Servant of God”
IRECOGNIZED the voice—so Murtek was Tarek’s man after all! His timing had been perfect. As the spectators stood frozen with astonishment, Tarek ripped the formal