The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [77]
A cry of maternal anguish burst from my lips. “Ramses! Your hair—your beautiful hair!”
“There is a reason for the alteration, Mama,” said Ramses.
“It is very good—very, very good indeed—to see you better, Mama.”
His countenance did not echo the warmth of his words, but I, who knew that countenance well, saw the quiver of his lips and the moisture in his eyes.
Before I could return to the subject of Ramses’s missing hair, one of the hangings at the end of the room was lifted, and two men entered. They wore the same simple short kilt Ramses was wearing, but their military bearing and the tall iron spears they carried designated their profession as definitely as any uniform. They separated and turned to face one another, stepping as smartly as any royal guardsmen, and grounded the spears with a muted clash. Next came a pair of individuals eerily veiled in white that covered them from head to foot. Like the soldiers, they took up positions on either side of the doorway. Two more men followed the mysterious veiled persons; they too wore short kilts, but the richness of their ornaments suggested high rank. One of them was considerably older than the other. His hair was snow-white and he had a long mantle draped about his bony shoulders. His face was scored with wrinkles but his eyes were bright, and he focused them on me with avid yet childishly innocent curiosity.
A brief pause ensued; then all six of them—soldiers, nobles, and swaddled forms—bowed low as a single individual entered with stately stride.
It was Kemit—but how incredibly changed! His strong, keen features were the same, his frame as tall and well-formed. Indeed I had not realized how well-formed until then, for like the other men he wore only a short kilt. His was finely pleated, and the belt that confined his narrow waist was inlaid with gold and gleaming stones. A collar of the same precious substances lay across his broad shoulders, and a narrow band of gold shone against the black of his hair.
“Kemit!” I exclaimed, gaping at this apparition from the distant past—for I am sure the Reader, like myself, recognizes the costume as that worn by nobles of imperial Egypt.
Still holding me, Emerson rose to his feet. “That was his nom de guerre, Peabody. Permit me to present His Highness Prince Tarekenidal.”
The title seemed entirely appropriate. His bearing had always been royal, and I could only wonder why it had taken me so long to realize that he was no common tribesman. I was keenly aware of my own lack of dignity, cradled like an infant in Emerson’s arms and clad informally. I did the best I could under the circumstances, inclining my head and repeating, “Your Highness. I am deeply grateful to you for saving my life and those of my husband and child.”
Tarekenidal raised his hands in the gesture with which he had always greeted me and which I now recognized (how could I have failed to do so!) as one depicted in innumerable ancient reliefs. “My heart is happy, Lady, to see you well again. Here is my brother, the Count Amenislo, son of the Lady Bartare”—he indicated the younger man, a chubby-cheeked smiling chap wearing long golden earrings—“and the Royal Councillor, High Priest of Isis, First Prophet of Osiris, Murtek.”
The elderly gentleman’s mouth stretched in a broad smile that displayed gums almost entirely without teeth. Only two remained, and they were brown and worn. Despite the sinister appearance of his dental apparatus, there was no mistaking his goodwill, for he bowed repeatedly and kept raising and lowering his hands in salutation.