The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [64]
“Please, Kemit, fetch the thin paper and the magic drawing sticks,” I ordered. “And one of the lamps.”
Kemit turned his wide dark eyes on me. “Nastasen,” he repeated.
He pronounced it differently, but I understood. “Yes, is it not exciting? This is the first pyramid we have been able to identify with its owner—the first anyone has identified.”
Kemit murmured something in his own language. I thought I recognized one of the words from the vocabulary list Ramses had made. It meant “omen” or “portent.”
“I hope so,” I said, smiling. “I hope it is a portent of more such discoveries. Hurry, Kemit, the sand is unstable and I don’t like the professor to stay down there any longer than is necessary.”
Well, we managed to clear the stone and record the inscription; it was, as Emerson had thought, the titulary of King Nastasen Ka’ankhre, one of the last rulers of the Meroitic dynasty. A stela belonging to this monarch had been obtained by Lepsius for the Berlin Museum. On it Nastasen claimed he had been given the crown by the god Amon, and described various military operations against an invader from the north, who may have been the Persian king Cambyses.
It was a truly thrilling discovery and kept us busy for several days; but at the end of that time even the hope of further finds could not distract me from my worries about poor Reggie. Emerson’s discovery had been made on the sixth day after the young man’s departure. It was on that evening we might first have expected to see him if the map proved to be an ignis fatuus and he turned back, as he had promised.
Darkness came with no sign of him. We did not mention him that evening, even Ramses displaying a tactful reticence I would not have expected from him. After all, I told myself, this was the earliest moment at which we might have expected him. Any number of causes might have delayed him or his messenger.
But after two more days had passed without word, I began to fear the worst. Emerson put on a good show of unconcern, but every now and then, when he thought I was not looking at him, I saw the bronzed mask of control crack into lines I had never seen on that beloved face.
On the evening of the eighth day I left camp, drawn out into the desert as if by a magnet. The western sky blazed with violent shades of copper and amethyst; the last glowing rim of the sun clung to the horizon as if reluctant to leave the realms of the living for the dark abode of night. The brilliance of the sunset was caused by particles of blowing sand; I thought of the violent storms that could bury men and camels in the space of an hour. The worst of it was we might never know their fate. A rescue expedition would be folly, for if they had wandered off their course by as little as a mile, they might as well be halfway across the globe.
The sunset colors faded—not only because the sun was sinking but because tears dimmed my eyes. I let them fall; their release would relieve my heartache.
I became aware of a presence, not by any sound or movement, but by some more mysterious sense; turning my head, I saw Kemit.
“You weep, Lady,” he said. “Is it for the fiery-haired youth?”
“For him and the other brave men who may have perished with him,” I replied.
“Then spare your tears, Lady. They are safe.”
“Safe!” I exclaimed. “Then a message has come?”
“No. But I speak the truth.”
“You speak words of kindness, Kemit, and I appreciate your attempt to cheer me. But how can you possibly know their fate?”
“The gods have told me.”
He stood straight as a lance, his stalwart figure limned black against the fiery sky, and his voice and manner carried a conviction that assured me he, at least, believed what he had said. It would have been rude as well as unkind to point out I had heard nothing from MY God, and that I regarded that source as somewhat more reliable than his.
“Thank you, my