The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [93]
It was my own fault, or rather, that of my finely honed imagination. Unconsciously I had expected to see the fairytale city of the legends—white marble walls and domes of shining gold, lacy minarets and towers, majestic temples. What I saw instead was a valley shaped like an elongated and irregular ellipse. Rugged cliffs enclosed it, not like protecting hands but like taloned paws, with protruding spurs of rock forming the claws.
The building we had just left was situated on a steep hillside which had been cut into level terraces; as I had thought, it backed up against the cliff and extended into it. Trees and gardens filled the spaces below, with the flat roofs of other structures showing between them. To the right and left, as far as the eye could see, the terraced slopes were similarly occupied. Some of the buildings appeared to be (comparatively) modest in size, others were as large and sprawling as our own house. My attention was caught and held by one particular building that occupied a wide plateau midway up the steep cliffside. It was impossible to make out the details of its construction, but its size proclaimed it a structure of some importance, possibly a temple.
But when I looked down at what lay immediately below me, on the valley floor, I saw what appeared to be a typical African village. A few of the houses were built of mud brick, with enclosed gardens, but the majority were rounded huts of reeds and sticks, like the Nubian tukhuls. The village occupied only a small part of the enclosed ellipse. A body of water surrounded by marshy areas filled the central section. The rest was laid out in fields and pastures. Every inch of land was in use; even the lower slopes had been terraced and planted.
“Oh, dear,” I said. “It is not the fabled city of Zerzura, is it?”
Emerson shaded his eyes with his hand. “Just so must large sections of ancient Meroë and Napata have appeared, Peabody. You don’t suppose the working class lived in palaces, do you? What an astonishing place! You see how intensive is the cultivation; they may get two or three crops a year. Even so, I don’t understand how they can feed themselves. They must trade for foodstuffs with other peoples farther west. And perhaps limit their population by means of—”
“One method or another,” I interrupted—for I preferred not to think of certain of those methods. “Where does the water come from?”
“Deep springs or wells. I imagine the valley floor is considerably lower than the desert beyond. You’ll find the same thing at Khãrga and Siwa and the other northern oases, except, of course, for the surrounding cliffs. Not the healthiest of climates, Peabody; you observe that the huts of the humble are down below, while the homes of the upper classes are on the slopes, above the miasmatic air of the swamp.” He turned to Murtek, whose amiable countenance was set in a frown of concentration as he attempted to follow our conversation. “Where is your house, Murtek?”
The old man extended his arm. “There, honored sir. You see its roof.”
He went on to point out other spots of interest. The dwellings of the two princes were widely separated; they were located on the slopes to our right and left, as were the dwellings of other nobles. “And that?” Emerson asked, indicating the massive structure across the valley.
I had been right. The building was a temple—the house of the gods and those who served