The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [94]
There was no need for consultation on that point; having got so far, we were determined to go on. I was about to cast my vote for a visit to the temple when Murtek spoke again. “To the house of the Prince Nastasen, to the house of the Prince Tarek, to the house of the Candace (the Meroitic title of the Queen)? All, all is free to you, honored sir and madam. All good, all beautiful places where the honored persons wish to go.”
“All good, all beautiful places,” Emerson repeated, fingering the cleft in his chin. “Hmmm. But that is not a good, beautiful place, is it?”
He pointed to the village.
“No, no, it is not the place for the honored persons,” Murtek exclaimed, visibly agitated. “You do not go there.”
“I think we will, though,” said Emerson. “Peabody?”
“Whatever you say, Emerson.”
I was not really sure why Emerson was so determined to visit the nastiest, least-interesting part of the city, but I knew—as Murtek apparently did not—that opposition was the surest way of strengthening my husband’s resolve. Murtek did everything he could to dissuade him, to no avail. He lost a second argument when he tried to order litters for us, but when Emerson demanded the guards be dismissed, Murtek dug in his heels. That, no. That was forbidden. If any harm or offense came to the honored guests, he would be held responsible.
Emerson gave in with a great show of disgust, but there was a gleam of satisfaction in his blue eyes. He had gained more than he had hoped—more than I had expected.
Stairs descended steeply to a landing from which other stairways and paths led off, some to the other houses on the hillside, some to the valley below. A broad roadway led, by winding and elevated ways, toward the temple. Murtek made one last attempt to persuade us to take this path, but when Emerson refused he threw up his hands in despair and gave in. Preceded and followed by our guards, we descended the stairs to the valley floor.
The heat and humidity increased with every downward step, and so did a strong unpleasant smell. Its main component was that of rotting vegetation, but there were interesting undercurrents of cattle and human excrement and unwashed bodies of various species. Seeing me wrinkle my nose, Murtek reached into the breast of his robe and produced a little bundle of flowering herbs, which he presented to me with a bow. He pressed another such bouquet to his own prominent nasal appendage, but Emerson and Ramses refused the ones he offered them. Mine certainly did very little to overcome the stench.
At the bottom of the stairs we found ourselves in what was apparently the High Street of the village. The paths leading off to right and left were as narrow and winding as animal trails, paved with mud and puddles of stagnant water. The main thoroughfare was wide enough for the three of us to walk abreast, but I was glad I had changed into boots. The surface squelched underfoot. It was comical to see Murtek mincing along, holding his long skirts up with one hand and pressing the nosegay to his face with the other.
“You see they live like rats,” he said around the flowers.
“Quite,” said Emerson. “But where are they?”
There was not even a rat to be seen. Every window and door was closed by shutters or hangings of woven grass.
“They work,” said Murtek, spitting out a leaf from his bouquet.
“All of them? The women and children too?”
“They work.”
“The women and children too, I expect,” said Emerson. “But not all in the fields, surely? Where are the craftsmen—the potters, the weavers, the wood carvers?”
But he knew the answer, and so did I. I had been in many such villages. The inhabitants spent most of the daylight hours out of doors, and always the advent of strangers attracted a crowd of the curious. Either these people were abnormally timid, or they had been ordered to stay away from us. Perhaps the mere appearance of armed guards sent them scuttling into their huts. Every now and then there would be a flicker