The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [87]
“And Uncle Tom Cobley and all,” I murmured.
“No,” said old Murtek seriously. “He lives not in this place.”
To say I was fascinated is a vast understatement. My life’s work had been the study of ancient Egypt; to find actual living examples of rituals I had known only from weathered tomb walls and desiccated papyri was an indescribable thrill. Aminreh was obviously Amon-Re, and he held the same high position here as in Egypt. From an obscure godling of Thebes he had risen to be king of the gods, taking on their names and attributes even as his ambitious priests gathered land and wealth into the treasuries of their temples. This would not be the first time Amon-Re had selected a king. Over three thousand years ago the nod of the god had gone to a humble young priest who had, as Thutmose III, become one of Egypt’s mightiest warrior pharaohs. And had not the stela of the first Nastasen, found by Lepsius, mentioned his selection by Amon? Murtek’s words had also confirmed Emerson’s theories about the importance of the royal women. How far did their power extend? I wondered. Could they only convey the right to rule, or did they wield real power? I was about to demand additional details when His Royal Highness barked out a brusque comment. It was evident that he was bored, and perhaps suspicious as well; poor old Murtek swallowed convulsively and did not speak again.
More wine was poured, and the formal entertainment began—dancers, acrobats, and a juggler. The juggler may have been nervous—I would have been, with Nastasen glowering upon me—for he ended by dropping one of the blazing torches, which rolled dangerously close to the foot of His Highness before someone stamped it out. Nastasen rose in his wrath, shouting; the juggler fled, pursued by two soldiers.
It appeared the entertainment was over, and the banquet as well. One of his attendants, bowing obsequiously, handed Nastasen his gold-bordered mantle, which he flung about his shoulders. I breathed a sigh of relief, for as courtesy seemed to demand, I had drunk quite a lot of wine.
It may have been the wine that emboldened me to ask one final question, though I believe I would have done it anyway. There were hundreds of things I wanted to know, but this was the most vital. I turned to Murtek. “Ask His Highness what has happened to the white man, Willoughby Forth, and his wife.”
The old man’s jaw dropped. He glanced uneasily at his prince. But no translation was necessary; either Nastasen understood more English than he admitted, or Mr. Forth’s name itself made my meaning clear. For the first time that evening his delicate lips curved in a smile. Slowly and deliberately he pronounced a single word.
I knew the word. Shock and comprehension must have registered upon my countenance, for Nastasen’s smile broadened, baring his strong white teeth. Tossing the end of his scarf over his head, he turned on his heel and strode from the room.
CHAPTER 9
“Touch This Mother at Your Peril!”
“DEAD!” I exclaimed. “They are dead, Emerson! I feared it, I feared it, and yet I hoped… Did you see how that dreadful young man smiled when he told me? He knew the news would distress me, I am sure he did—”
“Hush, Peabody.” Emerson put his arm around me. We were alone; the others had hastened out after the prince, whose abrupt departure had obviously taken them by surprise. They had left the room in a shambles; puddles of spilled wine, bones, scraps of bread, and shards of broken crockery littered the floor.
A group of servants were already at work, under the direction of the handmaiden, cleaning up the mess. I leaned against my husband’s strong shoulder and struggled to compose myself. Your behavior