The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [6]
“And waited to learn that they had put your head on a pike, as they did Gordon’s,” I murmured.
“Nonsense. I’d have been in no danger. Some of my best friends were Mahdists. But never mind,” he continued quickly, to forestall the protest I was about to make—not of the truth of his statement, for Emerson had friends in very strange places—but of the common sense of his plan. “The situation is entirely different now, Peabody. The region around Napata is already in Egyptian hands. At the rate Kitchener is going, he will take Khartoum by the time we reach Egypt, and Meroë—the site I favor—is north of Khartoum. It will be quite safe.”
“But Emerson—”
“Pyramids, Peabody.” Emerson’s deep voice dropped to a seductive baritone growl. “Royal pyramids, untouched by any archaeologist. The pharaohs of the Twenty-Fifth Dynasty were Nubians—proud, virile soldiers who marched out of the south to conquer the degenerate rulers of a decadent Egypt. These heroes were buried in their homeland of Cush—formerly Nubia, now the Sudan—”
“I know that, Emerson, but—”
“After Egypt lost its independence to the Persians, the Greeks, the Romans, the Moslems, a mighty kingdom flourished in Cush,” Emerson continued poetically—and a trifle inaccurately. “Egyptian culture survived in that far-off land—the same region, as I believe, from which it had originally sprung. Think of it, Peabody! To investigate, not only the continuation of that mighty civilization, but perhaps its roots as well.…”
Emotion overcame him. His voice failed, his eyes glazed.
There were only two things that could reduce Emerson to such a state. One was the idea of going where no scholar had gone before him, of being the discoverer of new worlds, new civilizations. Need I say that I shared that noble ambition? No. My pulse quickened, I felt reason sink under the passion of his words. One last faint ray of common sense made me murmur, “But—”
“But me no buts, Peabody.” He grasped my hands in his—those strong bronzed hands, which could wield pick and shovel more vigorously than any of his workmen but which were capable of the most sensitive, the most exquisite touch. His eyes held mine; I fancied the brilliant rays of sapphirineblue struck from his orbs straight into my dazzled brain. “You are with me, you know you are. And you will be with me, my darling Peabody—this winter, in Meroë!”
Rising, he drew me once more into his masterful embrace. I said no more; indeed I was unable to say more, since his lips were pressed to mine. But I thought to myself, Very well, Emerson. I will be with you—but Ramses will be at the Academy for Young Gentlemen in Cairo.
I am seldom wrong. On those rare occasions when I am wrong, it is usually because I have underestimated the stubbornness of Emerson or the devious wiles of Ramses, or a combination of the two. In defense of my powers of precognition, however, I must say that the bizarre twist our expedition was to take resulted not so much from our little familial differences of opinion as from a startling development that no one, not even I, could possibly have anticipated.
It took place on a wet autumn evening not long after the conversation I have just described. I had a number of reservations about Emerson’s projected plans for the winter, and once the euphoria of his persuasive powers had subsided, I was not shy of expressing them. Though the northern Sudan was officially “pacified” and under Egyptian occupation as far south as Dongola, only an idiot would have assumed that travel in the region was completely safe. The unfortunate inhabitants of the area had suffered from war, oppression, and starvation; many were homeless, most were hungry, and anyone who ventured among them without an armed escort was practically asking to be murdered. Emerson brushed this aside. We would not venture among them. We would be working in a region under military occupation, with troops close by. Furthermore, some of his best friends…
Having resigned