The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [169]
The venerable priest came toward us, stepping fastidiously over fallen bodies and holding his skirts high to avoid the pools of blood that stained the floor. “Behind the throne,” he said, unabashed. “I do not fight with swords. Now my prince wins, and I come to praise him. Hail to thee, Mighty Horus, ruler of the—”
“Never mind that. You were in a point of vantage, you must have seen something. What has happened to the Father of Curses?”
Murtek’s eyes shifted. He licked his lips. “I did not—”
“Your face betrays you,” I cried, brandishing my parasol. “What did you see?”
“Speak,” Tarek ordered sternly. “You are my friend and my loyal supporter, but if you know aught of the Father of Curses and keep silent, I will not protect you from the Lady Who Rages Like a Lioness When Her Cub Is Threatened.”
Murtek swallowed. “I saw… I saw the guards of the Heneshem carry a litter into the temple. The form upon the litter was covered, even to its face, like a corpse being carried to the embalmers. The Hand… the Hand went beside it.”
It was the strange title Emerson and I had failed to understand. Why comprehension should have come to me then, with the sudden illumination of a lightning bolt, I do not know, but I expect my mental powers were strengthened by intense anxiety. Over the passage of many centuries the words had become slurred and run together, but they were—they could be nothing other than—the ancient title of the High Priestesses of Amon who ruled in Thebes under the pharaohs of the late dynasties. Had not the great Cushite conquerer Piankhi forced the high priestess of his time to adopt his daughter in order to strengthen his claim to the throne of Egypt?
“Hemet netcher Amon,” I repeated, giving the words their modern, stylized pronunciation. “How could I have been so blind? It was also a title of the queen—her designation as royal heiress, as I have always believed.… Not only her divine dignity but her extreme corpulence would necessitate the appointment of surrogates to perform her mundane functions—the Hand to execute criminals, the Voice to express her commands, the—er—the Concubine, that scantily garbed female who made such explicit gestures to the god’s statue.… She is the true power behind the throne here, the ultimate authority—the queen, the Candace—”
“No, Lady,” said Tarek. “No. You do not understand.”
“I understand that she has taken my husband, and that is all that matters. Lead me to her at once, Tarek.”
“You cannot… You must not go there, Lady. If the Heneshem has taken him—”
“Must not, to me?” I thundered. “How dare you, Tarek? Take me there at once.”
Tarek’s broad shoulders sagged. “I cannot refuse you, Lady. But remember when you see… what you will see… that I tried to spare you.”
Naturally this ambiguous warning only fired my determination to proceed, though it did arouse certain unpleasant images in my mind. What could I see that would be worse than the slaughter I had beheld that day? The lifeless corpse of my spouse—but if they meant to kill him they could have done so, a stab in the back like the cowards they were, while all were intent upon the titanic struggle of the brothers. A scene of slow, painful torture—but if that was their intent, the more need for haste. The God’s Wife clinging to Emerson like a gigantic vampire bat, draining the blood from his living veins… I told myself not to be silly. It was not my husband’s blood that dreadful woman wanted.
I am sure I hardly need say that even as these thoughts passed through my mind I was hastening toward the inner precincts, urging Tarek along with my parasol. Ramses trotted beside me; bringing up the rear was old Murtek, his apprehension overcome by the insatiable curiosity that was his strongest characteristic.
As we penetrated deeper and deeper into the bowels of the mountain, through corridors dimly lit by smoking lamps, I could hear rustles of furtive motion; and I thought this must be how a cat would feel if he could creep into the tunnels of mice and moles. They would flee