The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [83]
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Emerson took his pipe from the pouch that hung at the belt of his robe, serving as a substitute for pockets. He had smoked the last of his tobacco the day before, but apparently even an empty pipe was better than none. “Some people might think themselves fortunate to spend the rest of their lives in such peace and tranquillity.”
“Some people,” I said.
“But not you? You needn’t answer, my dear; we are, as always, in complete agreement. Never fear, when we are ready to leave, we’ll find a means of doing so. I didn’t want to make a move of any kind until you were yourself again. We may have to fight our way out of here, Peabody. I hope we do not; but if we do, I need you at my side, parasol at the ready.”
Has ever woman received a more touching tribute from her spouse? Speechless with pride, I could only gaze at him with eyes brimming with emotion.
“Blow your nose, Peabody,” said Emerson, offering me a singularly dirty rag which had once been a good pocket handkerchief.
“Thank you, I will use my own.” From my own pocket pouch I took one of the squares of linen that had been cut, at my direction, to replace my own lost handkerchiefs.
“We’ve never been in a situation quite like this, Peabody,” Emerson went on, sucking reflectively on his empty pipe. “Always, before, we were familiar with the local customs, the manners and habits of the people with whom we were dealing. Based on what little I have seen and heard, I have developed a few theories about this place; it seems to be a peculiar mixture of several different cultural strains. Originally, like the oasis of Siwa in northern Africa, it may have been sacred to the god Amon. I believe that some of the priests who left Egypt after the Twenty-Second Dynasty came here and gave new life to the old traditions. After the fall of the Meroitic kingdom the Sacred Mountain became a refuge for the Cushite nobles. There is a third strain of native peoples, the original occupants, whom we have seen acting as servants. Add to all these factors the changes wrought by the passage of time and by centuries of virtual isolation, and you end up with a culture far more alien than any we have encountered. We can make informed guesses about how things are done here, but we would be taking an awful risk if we acted on those guesses. Do you agree with me so far?”
“Certainly, my dear, and without wishing to appear critical of your lecture—which was well-reasoned and eloquently expressed—it was quite unnecessary to go into such elaborate detail, since I had already arrived at the same conclusions. Facts, Emerson. Give me facts!”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. “The fact is, Peabody, that I haven’t spoken to Tarek alone since we got here. He visited you every day, but he only stayed for a few minutes, and there was always someone with him. Besides, I wasn’t in the mood for anthropological discussions.”
“Yes, my dear, I understand, and I am deeply appreciative of your concern. But now—”
“Tarek hasn’t been back since you recovered consciousness,” Emerson replied somewhat snappishly. “I couldn’t question him if he wasn’t here, could I? I discovered early on that there were armed guards in the antechamber, and that they were disinclined to let me pass. But curse it, Peabody, we don’t know why they are there. They may be protecting us from dangers we know nothing about. Let me remind you that Tarek’s title is that of king’s son. He is not the king. We haven’t seen the king—or the queen. The royal women of Meroë seem to have held considerable political power. The same may be true here.”
“That would be splendid,” I exclaimed. “What an example—”
“Curse it, Peabody, that is just what I was afraid of—that you would start jumping to conclusions. The point I am endeavoring to make is that until we know who