The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [95]
Finally the street opened out into a central space with a stone-rimmed well and a few palm trees. The houses around it were a little larger and better built than the ones we had passed; some had the appearance of shops. Woven mattings had been dropped to cover the entrances.
“We go back now,” said Murtek. “All is like what you see. It is nothing.”
“We may as well, Peabody,” Emerson said. “We have seen enough, I think.”
I was about to agree when the hangings before one of the shops lifted and a small form wriggled under it. It was no bigger than a year-old English infant, but when it scampered toward us, the dexterity of its movements informed me that it must be two or three years old. He, I should say, instead of it; there was no mistaking his gender, for his small brown body was unclothed except for a string of beads. His head had been shaved, leaving a single lock on the left side.
Murtek sucked in his breath. The child stopped. His finger went to his mouth. One of the spearmen stepped forward, lifting his weapon, and a woman burst out of the shop. Snatching up the child, she crouched and turned, shielding him with her body.
With a mighty crack Emerson’s fist struck the would-be assassin square in the nose, sending him reeling back. I kicked the soldier in front of me in the shin, slid past him, and ran to stand before the mother and child. So great was my anger and agitation that my speech, I fear, was not entirely appropriate.
“Shoot if you must this old gray head,” I shouted. “But touch this mother at your peril!”
The Great Pylon of the Temple.
“Very nice, Peabody,” said Emerson breathlessly. “Though I have yet to see a gray hair on your head. I expect you pluck them out, eh?”
“Oh, Emerson,” I cried. “Oh, curse it! Oh, good Gad.… Murtek! What the devil do you mean by this?”
It was necessary for someone to take command, for Murtek had covered his eyes with his hands and the soldiers were milling around in a shocking display of military disorder. One of them bent over the fallen form of his comrade, whose face was drenched in blood; another waved his spear uncertainly at Emerson, who ignored him with magnificent aplomb.
Murtek peered out from between his fingers. “You live,” he exclaimed.
“Yes, and mean to go on doing so,” said Emerson. “Now, then, get along with you,” he added, pushing aside the spear that menaced him and giving the fellow a sharp shove.
Murtek rolled his eyes heavenward. By now I knew enough Meroitic to understand his comments, which consisted mainly of heartfelt prayers of gratitude toward various gods. It was clear that he had not been lying when he told us he had been made responsible for our safety. “But who would have thought they would risk themselves for one of the rekkit?” he ended.
No one answered. Perhaps Murtek was rehearsing the explanation he would have to render to his superiors.
Impressed by Emerson’s air of command, the soldiers straggled sheepishly back into line. The man Emerson had struck was back on his feet. He had suffered nothing more serious than a nosebleed.
Feeling a tug at my trousers, I turned to find the young mother clutching me around the knees. Ramses had taken the child from her; he was pulling at Ramses’s nose, and the expression on my son’s face compensated for a good many of the indignities he had inflicted on me.
“Cast the shadow of your protection(?) upon me, great lady,” the little woman gasped. “Wrap me in the —— of your garments(?).”
“Certainly, certainly,” I replied, trying to raise her to her feet. Murtek came tottering toward us.
“Come, honored madam. Come quickly. You have done a thing not permitted, very dangerous—”
“Not until you give this woman your word she will be safe. I hold you responsible, Murtek. Be sure I will find out, by my magic, if anything happens to her.”
Murtek groaned. “I think you would, honored madam. I will swear by Aminreh.”
He repeated