The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [82]
The only windows were high up under the roof, clerestory-style. There were no inner doors; woven draperies and matting provided a modicum of privacy.
A particularly heavy set of draperies covered one end of our reception room. Emerson had unobtrusively steered me away from them when we explored (for he was always at my side), but one day, after we had thoroughly examined the rest of the place, I resisted his attempt to lead me toward the garden.
“I don’t want to go into the garden, I want to go through that door—for I presume there is one, behind the hangings. Is there a pit full of venomous snakes or a den of lions beyond, that you are so determined to prevent me?”
Emerson grinned. “It is a pleasure to hear you sound like your old crotchety self, my dear. By all means go ahead, if you are so set on it. You won’t like what you find, but I think you are now strong enough to deal with it.”
He politely parted the draperies for me, and I passed through them into a corridor whose walls were painted with scenes of battle. With Emerson close on my heels, I marched the length of the passage toward what appeared to be a blank wall. An opening on the left led into an extension of the passageway; after several more turns and jogs I emerged abruptly into an antechamber, lit by a row of narrow windows high up under the beamed ceiling, and found myself facing a file of men standing at stiff attention. They must have heard the slap of my sandals as I approached, for I felt certain they did not stand around in that uncomfortable pose all the time.
They were a fine-looking set of men, all quite young, all at least six feet tall. In addition to the usual kilt, each man wore a wide leather belt supporting a dagger long enough to be called a short sword, and carried a shield pointed at the top like a Gothic arch. Some held huge iron spears and wore a sort of helmet, fashioned of leather and fitting closely to their heads. Others were armed with bows and quivers bristling with arrows; their heads were bare except for a narrow band of braided grass from the back of which arose a single crimson feather. When I examined them more closely I saw that, though the shields were identical in shape, some were covered with brownish-fawn hide while others—the ones held by the archers—had white patches on a red-brown background. Holding these shields before them, the men formed a living wall across the room from one side to the other. Nor did they give way as I approached them. I stopped, perforce, when my eyes were a scant inch from the well-formed chin of the young man who seemed to be in charge. He continued to stare straight ahead.
I turned to Emerson, who was watching with evident amusement. “Tell them to let me pass,” I exclaimed.
“Use your parasol,” Emerson suggested. “I doubt they have ever faced such a terrible weapon as that.”
“You know I didn’t bring it with me,” I snapped. “What is the meaning of this? Are we prisoners, then?”
Emerson sobered. “The situation is not so simple, Peabody. I let you see this for yourself because you would have insisted on it anyway. Come away; we must talk about this.”
I let him take my arm and lead me back along the corridor. “Rather cleverly constructed, this,” he remarked. “The turning of the passage gives the occupants privacy and makes it easier to defend against an attacking force. It makes one suspect that the ruling classes don’t enjoy the loyalty of all their subjects.”
“I don’t want to hear suggestions and deductions and surmises,” I said. “I want to hear facts. How much have you kept from me, Emerson?”
“Come into the garden, Peabody.” We circled a group of the little servants who were scouring the floor of the reception room with sand and water, and sat down on a carved bench next to the pool. Lilies and lotus blooms covered its surface; the leaves of the giant lotus, some of them a good three feet in diameter, lay on the water like carved jade platters. A soft breeze whispered