The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [78]
“Good gracious,” I exclaimed. “Does everyone here speak English?”
The prince smiled. “Some among us speak a little and understand a little. My uncle the high priest wished to see you and be sure your sickness was ended.”
His uncle was seeing more of me than I would have preferred, for my linen robe was sleeveless and sheer as the finest lawn. I have never been studied with such intense fascination (by another than my husband), and it was clear, to me at least, that the old gentleman had not lost all the interests and instincts of youth. Oddly enough, I did not find his survey of my person insulting. It approved without offending, if I may put it that way.
Emerson did not appreciate these subtle distinctions. He folded me up, knees to chest, in an attempt to conceal as much of me as possible. “If you will permit me, Your Highness, I will return Mrs. Emerson to her bed.”
He proceeded to do so, covering me to my chin with a linen sheet. Murtek gestured; one of the white-veiled figures glided forward and approached the bed. Its feet must have been bare, for it made no sound whatever, and the effect was so uncanny I could not help shrinking back when it bent over me. The veils were thinner over the face; I saw a gleam of eyes regarding me.
“It is all right, Peabody,” said Emerson, ever-watchful. “This is the medical person I mentioned.”
A hand appeared from amid the filmy draperies. With the brisk assurance of any Western physician, it drew the sheet aside, opened my robe, and pressed down upon my exposed bosom. It was not the professionalism of the gesture that surprised me—one of the ancient medical papyri had proved that the Egyptians knew of “the voice of the heart” and where upon the body it could be “heard”—but the fact that the hand was slim and small, with tapering nails.
“I forgot to mention,” Emerson went on, “that the medical person was a woman.”
“How do you know it’s the same one?” I demanded.
“I beg your pardon?” said Emerson.
The visitors had departed, except for the “medical person,” whose duties appeared to include several a Western doctor would have considered beneath him. After performing those services only a woman can properly render to another female, she was now occupied in heating something over a brazier at the far side of the room. I deduced that it was soup of some kind; the smell was most appetizing.
“I said, how do you know she is the same person who nursed me on the journey?” I said. “Those veils render her effectively anonymous, and since I have seen two people so attired, I assume it is a kind of uniform or costume. Or do all the women here go veiled?”
“Your wits are as keen as ever, my dear,” said Emerson, who had pulled up a chair to the side of the bed. “The costume appears to be peculiar to one group of women, who are known as the Handmaidens of the Goddess. The goddess in question is Isis, and it seems that here she has become the patroness of medicine, instead of Thoth, who held that role in Egypt. Isis makes better sense, when you come to think about it; she brought her husband Osiris back from the dead, and a physician can’t do better than that. As for the Handmaidens, one of them has always been here with you, but to be truthful I can’t tell one from the other and I have no idea how many of them there are.”
“Why are you whispering, Emerson? She can’t understand what we are saying.”
It was Ramses who replied. At my invitation he had seated himself on the foot of the bed; he looked so like a lad of ancient Egypt that it was rather a shock to hear him speak English.
“As Tarek just told you, Mama, some of them do speak and understand our language.”
“How did they… Good heavens, of course!” I clapped my hand to my brow. “Mr. Forth. I am ashamed that I neglected to ask about him. Have you seen him? Is Mrs. Forth here as well?”
“You did ask, Peabody, and the reason why you did not receive an answer is twofold,” said Emerson. “Firstly, you asked too many questions without giving me an opportunity to reply. Secondly