The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [167]
But in all that shrieking, clashing, groaning battle, there was one focus of quiet: the curtained kiosk at the back of the colonnade. Before it stood the Hand, leaning on his great spear. No one came near him; it was as if he and the structure he guarded were enclosed by an invisible, impenetrable wall.
The carnage was frightful. Twisted bodies and puddles of spilled blood covered the floor. Who was winning? I could not tell. Many of the valiant on both sides had fallen. It was a tragic, a terrible waste. Sick at heart, I yearned to succor the wounded and comfort the widow and orphan.
I do not know whether it was the same noble aim that inspired Tarek, or the fear that he might be losing. I prefer to believe it was the former. Beating down the last of his immediate attackers, he raised his voice over the sounds of combat. “Too many brave men have died for you, my brother, while you hide behind the throne you wrongly claimed. Come forth and fight me man-to-man for the prize. Or are you afraid?”
Silence fell, broken only by the moans of the wounded and the panting breaths of the fighters as they lowered their swords and awaited Nastasen’s response. On the faces of many I saw the lust of battle replaced by a deadly sickness and horror. This had truly been a fratricidal struggle, friend against friend, brother against brother.
Emerson’s blade was crimson to the hilt. I could not truly regret his actions, for the men he had killed had been intent on slaughtering us, but I could and did regret the sad necessity. Not all the blood that stained his garments was that of his opponents. A glancing blow had laid his cheek open to the bone; he would have a nasty scar unless I could stitch it up soon. Of the other wounds that had marked him, the worst seemed to be one on his forearm. It was bleeding heavily. I returned my pistol to the holster and took out the square of linen I used as a handkerchief.
“I seem to have ruined another shirt,” remarked Emerson, as I reached for him. “Not my fault this time, Peabody.”
“I cannot complain, my dear, when your rents and your wounds were incurred in our defense. Let me tie up your arm.”
“Don’t fuss, Peabody. This is not over yet. I want to see what… Ah, here comes Nastasen. He could hardly refuse the challenge, but he looks like a man on the way to visit his dentist, doesn’t he?”
The spectators had fallen back, leaving an aisle between Tarek and his brother. Tarek was bleeding from a dozen wounds, but his bearing was kingly and a grim smile touched his lips. The contrast between the two—one marked by the scars of honorable battle, the other in his pristine and delicate robes—brought a murmur from the watchers, and not all came from Tarek’s followers. It may have been the realization that he was losing the loyalty of his men that fired Nastasen’s courage; it may have been his brother’s visible contempt, or the hope that Tarek was worn and weak from loss of blood. Nastasen unfastened his jeweled girdle and threw it and his robe aside. “I have no weapon,” he said. “Kill me, defenseless and unarmed, if you will—brother.”
Tarek gestured to one of his men. “Give him your sword.”
Nastasen took it, with an ironic bow toward the giver. He made a few passes, as if testing the balance and weight; then, without warning, he rushed at Tarek. Tarek had no time to parry; only an agile leap to the side saved him.
The spectators closed in, jostling one another for a better look, like men watching some sporting event. It was a disgusting display of the savagery that lies palpitating in the male breast, and it also prevented me from watching the duel. Ramses climbed onto a chair and stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the heads of the audience. I caught his arm. “Get down from there this instant, and stay close by me. If I lose you again I will punish you severely. Emerson, will you… Oh, curse