The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [30]
Normally I would have resented this cowardly attempt to put the blame on me—so typical of the male sex, from Adam on down. But to be honest, I was as bewildered as he. “No, Emerson, I confess I did not. I too reacted instinctively, and I am at a loss to explain why. I had the strangest feeling—a premonition of danger, of—”
“Never mind,” Emerson said hastily. “I know those premonitions of yours, Peabody, and with all respect, I prefer not to discuss them.”
“Well, but it was only natural that seeing someone prowling around our stores, I should assume the worst. Ramses ought to have been asleep. Ramses, what were you… Oh.”
The answer seemed self-evident, but it was not the one Ramses gave. “You called me, Mama. You called me to come, and of course I obeyed.”
“I did not call you, Ramses.”
“But I heard your voice—”
“You were dreaming,” Emerson said. “What a touching thing, eh, Peabody? Dreaming of his mama and, even in sleep, obedient to her slightest command. Come along, my boy, I will tuck you in.”
With a meaningful glance at me, he pushed Ramses into the tent and followed after. I knew he would sit by the boy until he had fallen asleep; Emerson is somewhat self-conscious about being overheard, especially by Ramses, when he and I are actively demonstrating the deep affection we feel for one another. Instead of retiring to prepare for this activity, I lingered in the shadows of the trees, gazing all around. Moonlight sifted through the leaves and formed strange silvery hieroglyphs upon the ground. The night was not silent; sounds of activity came from the direction of the military base, where the barges were being loaded for the morning’s departure. And from across the river, lonely as the cry of a lost and wandering spirit, came the mournful call of a jackal.
Four days later, after an uncomfortable but uneventful voyage, we saw a ruddy mountain loom over the tops of the palm trees. It was Gebel Barkal, the Holy Mountain of the Nubian kingdom. We had reached our destination.
CHAPTER 4
Stone Houses of the Kings
IF I have not done so already, I should make it clear that Napata is not a city but an entire region. In modern times several towns and villages occupy the site. Merawi, or Merowe, was the best known; it is a confusing name, resembling so closely that of Meroë, the second of the ancient capital cities of Cush, which is much farther south. Across from Merawi, on the opposite bank of the Nile, was the headquarters of the Frontier Field Force of the Egyptian Army, near the small village of Sanam Abu Dom. The encampment stretched along the river for over a mile, tents neatly aligned in a manner that clearly betrayed the presence of British organization.
Emerson was unimpressed by this demonstration of efficiency. “Curse them,” he growled, surveying the scene with a scowl. “They have put their cursed camp smack on top of a ruined temple. There were column bases and carved blocks here in ‘82.”
“You weren’t planning to excavate here,” I reminded him. “The pyramids, Emerson; where are the pyramids?”
The steamer edged in toward the quay. “All over the place,” Emerson replied somewhat vaguely. “The main cemeteries are at Nuri, several miles upstream from here, and Kurru, on the opposite bank. There are three groups of pyramids near Gebel Barkal itself, as well as the remains of the great temple of Amon.”
The sandstone mass of Mount Barkal was an impressive sight. It is (as we later determined) only a little over three hundred feet high, but because it rises so abruptly from the flat plain it looks higher. Late-afternoon sunlight turned the rock a soft crimson and cast fantastic shadows, like the weathered remains of monumental statues, across the face.
With some difficulty I persuaded Emerson that it would be courteous, not