The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [69]
“It was a structure of some kind,” Emerson declared, a short time later. The discovery had enlivened him; he looked as fresh and cheerful as if he had spent the day roaming English meadows. “I can’t find any traces of reliefs or inscriptions, but they may have been worn away by blowing sand. We’ll make camp here, Peabody, though it is early. I want to do a bit of digging.”
In this activity he got scant help from the men. Groaning and protesting, they demanded an extra ration of water before they would consent to do anything at all, and they worked slowly and reluctantly. Only Kemit, looking more than ever like a bronze statue, pitched in with his usual zeal. At the end of an hour Emerson was rewarded by a few scraps of stone and pottery, and another shapeless ugly lump that brought a cry of rapture to his lips. “Iron, Peabody—an iron knife blade. It is Meroitic, beyond a doubt. They were here—they passed this way. Good Gad, this is incredible!”
I inspected the corroded lump doubtfully. “How do you know it wasn’t lost by a modern explorer or wandering Beduin?”
“There are occasional rains in this region, in summer; but it would take centuries, nay, millennia, to reduce cold iron to this state. The Cushites worked iron; I have seen the black slag heaps around Meroë, like the ones at Birmingham and Sheffield.” Turning to the men, who squatted on the sand looking like piles of dirty laundry, he shouted cheerfully, “Rest, my friends; we must make an early start.”
He appeared not to notice the sullen looks with which they obeyed him; it would never have occurred to Emerson that he could not command any group who worked for him. Nor, under ordinary circumstances, would any such doubt have entered my mind. But these circumstances were far from normal, and the discovery that had enraptured Emerson had precisely the opposite effect on the men. We had water for only about ten days. According to the map, seven or eight days of travel would bring us to a source of that vital fluid; but if the map had proved to be untrustworthy, common sense would decree that we turn back while we still had a sufficient supply for the return journey. The men had hoped we would not find the first landmark, and decide to give up. Well, I could sympathize with their point of view, but I felt a stirring of unease as I saw the ugly look one of them gave my unconscious husband. Daoud’s willingness to return into the desert that had almost cost him his life had surprised and pleased me; he was a man of considerable stamina, for his recovery from his ordeal had been quicker than I had expected. However, he had turned sullen when Emerson rejected his advice on the route we should follow, and after repeated criticism from Daoud, Emerson had lost his temper. “I am guided by the marks on the paper and the needle of the magic clock [i.e., the compass]. If your master followed your lead, it is no wonder we have found no trace of him!”
He added a few well-chosen expletives that put an end to Daoud’s complaints. At least he did not complain to Emerson, but I had an uneasy feeling that he was undermining the confidence of the other men.
Still, we had two more days before we reached the point of no return, and there were no overt signs of rebellion when we set out the next morning, even though during the night another camel had passed on to wherever camels go. There were enough left to mount all the men, and I took care to renew their medication.
The fifth day dawned hazy and still. The rising sun resembled a swollen, blood-red balloon. The sandstorm passed to the south of our path, but the outlying skirts of it filled the air with fine grit that rubbed skin raw and clogged breathing. One of the camels collapsed shortly after we set forth after the midday rest period. Less than an hour later, a second dropped. If there had been a particle of shade to be found, I expect