The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [92]
My vision of myself as Joan of Arc, waving the banner of freedom, faded. If a mere touch could terrify these little people, they were not likely candidates for an army of liberation. I reminded myself to ask Ramses what the Meroitic word for “freedom” was.
Emerson returned at that moment, and stood staring in surprise. “What the devil are you doing, Peabody? Playing a local version of tag?”
I got to my feet. The woman snatched up her broom and resumed her sweeping, at some distance from me.
“I was merely attempting to establish communication with one of these unfortunate slaves, Emerson. It occurred to me—”
“You don’t know that they are slaves,” Emerson interrupted, twisting his handsome features into an extraordinary grimace. “Lie down, Peabody. You are weak and faint.”
“I am not…” Then I saw Mentarit had returned. “Oh, yes. Thank you, Emerson.”
I resumed my position. Emerson sat down beside me, taking my hand in his. “Do control your socialistic impulses, my dear,” he said in a low voice, and then, louder, “Are you feeling better?”
“No. I need fresh air, freedom.…” I let out a heartfelt groan.
“You are overdoing it, Peabody,” said Emerson, his lips barely moving. “Take heart, my dear; I spoke with the guards, and they have assured me our messages will be delivered.”
When the midday meal was served I again forced myself to pick at my food, though by then I could have eaten everything on the table and fought Ramses for his share. Emerson put on a great show of concern, feeling my forehead and shaking his head sadly. “You are no better, Peabody. Indeed, I think you are weaker.”
“Inanition has that effect,” I said, feeling sure Mentarit would not know the word.
Emerson grinned and sank his teeth into a chunk of bread dripping with honey.
We were still eating—Ramses and Emerson were, at any rate—when there was a commotion outside the door and the hangings were drawn aside. Evidently the rank of the individual governed the number of his attendants. Murtek—for it was he—rated one spearman, one archer, and no handmaiden. His sandals scraped along the floor as he hurried toward me, grinning from ear to ear and trying to bow as he walked.
“You wish to go out, Lady?”
“Why, yes,” I replied.
“You go, then.”
“What, now?” Emerson exclaimed.
“Now, anytime. Why you not say?”
“Curse it,” Emerson began. “That is not—”
“Emerson,” I murmured.
“Oh, yes, to be sure. We thank you, noble one. We are ready.”
“Now?”
“Now,” Emerson said firmly.
“It is good. We go.”
There was a little delay, however, for I thought it prudent to assume my own clothing, including my belt with its invaluable accoutrements. When I emerged from my room the old man burst into cries of admiration. “How beautiful is the lady! How beautiful her ornaments of shiny iron! How beautiful her foots and her leg in the boot! How beautiful her—”
I deemed it advisable to cut off the catalog of my charms at this point, so I bowed and thanked him.
The corridor beyond our rooms was only wide enough for two to walk abreast. Murtek led the way, with Emerson and me following and Ramses bringing up the rear. This time, instead of barring the way, the guards lined up in two rows next to the exit. After we had passed through, one of the groups, consisting of three spearmen and the like number of archers, fell in behind us.
Emerson stopped. “Why are they following, Murtek? We don’t need them.”
“They honor you,” Murtek hastened to explain. “All great ones of the Holy Mountain have guard. To be safe.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. “Well, tell them to keep their distance. Especially from Mrs. Emerson.”
After passing through several rooms of considerable size and handsome decoration we emerged into a wide entrance hall with two rows of columns down its length. Straight ahead were the first doors we had seen, constructed of wood heavily bound with iron and wide enough to admit an elephant. Emerson marched straight toward them without breaking stride. Two of the guards dashed ahead and shoved the panels open.
The brilliance