The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [85]
(Emerson maintains that I am reinterpreting my reaction in the light of later experience. I stick to my statement.)
After a moment one of the courtiers stepped forward. It was Murtek, the old High Priest of Isis. Clearing his throat, he spoke in a sonorous voice, “Sir and madam. And small worthy son. Here are the king’s sons of his body, the two Horus, carrying the bow to the destruction of the enemies of His Majesty, the defenders of Osiris: the Prince Tarekenidal Meraset, son of the king’s wife Shanakdakhete; the Prince his brother Nastasen Nemareh, son of the king’s wife Amanishakhete.”
His pleasure at getting through the long address with what he believed utter success was evident in his broad if toothless smile. It was certainly a remarkable speech, fraught with intriguing implications, but I fear I was too busy struggling to preserve my gravity to take them all in, or to reply in kind.
Emerson claims to have comprehended better than I. Be that as it may, he was obviously the proper person to reply, and he was never at a loss for words.
“Your Royal Highnesses, gentlemen and—er—ladies. Allow me to introduce myself. Professor Radcliffe Archibald Emerson, M.A. Ox., Fellow of the Royal Society, Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, Member of the American Philosophical Society. My honored chief wife, the Lady Doctor Amelia Peabody Emerson, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera; the noble youth, heir to his father, born of the chief wife, Walter Ramses Peabody Emerson.”
Beaming, the old gentleman proceeded to present the others. It took quite a long time, since they each had a string of impressive titles—priest and prophets, courtiers and counts, fanbearers and carriers of the sandals of His Majesty. Their names have no bearing on this narrative, except for one—Pesaker, royal vizier and High Priest of Aminreh. All our visitors were finely dressed, with gold glittering on every limb, but Pesaker fairly clanked with bracelets, armlets, massive pectorals, and a broad jeweled collar. His ornately dressed hair was obviously a wig; the stiff little black curls formed an incongruous frame for his weathered, scowling face. I suspected he was a blood relative of the two princes, for his features were an older, harsher version of theirs.
We had got more than we bargained for—not only Tarek, but representatives of the highest in the land. I would have taken this as a good omen had it not been for the hot hostile stare of Prince Nastasen (who bore the same name as that of the remote ancestor whose tomb we had found at Nuri) and the unsmiling regard of the High Priest of Aminreh.
Rising to the occasion, as a good hostess must, I indicated the tables, where the servants stood ready with jars of wine and platters of food. There was a certain amount of rude scuffling to determine who sat next to whom; I had hoped to get Tarek as a dinner partner, but his brother fairly pushed me into a chair and took the one next to me, beckoning to Murtek to join us. Apparently his services as translator were required; Prince Nastasen did not speak English.
His grave face lightening in a smile, Tarek elected to favor Ramses, which left Emerson to the High Priest of Aminreh—he and the two princes being the three highest in rank. The others took their places at different tables, each of which seated only two or three people.
The musicians, who had stopped playing while the old man spoke, now struck up a jingling tune, punctuated by thumps on the drum, and one of the young women began to gyrate