The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [97]
“Men being what they are, I don’t doubt it either,” I said sharply.
“Peabody, you know I never have and never will—”
“Present company excepted, of course,” I conceded.
Murtek took leave of us with the forlorn air of one bidding a final farewell to a dying friend—or a dying man bidding a final farewell to his friends. He had aged ten years since we set out; two of the guards had to lift him into his litter.
“Do you suppose we have really endangered him by our actions?” I asked, as we preceded the remaining members of the escort toward our rooms.
Emerson replied with another question. “Do you really care?”
“Well, yes, rather. He is a pleasant old gentleman, and one can hardly blame him for failing to rise above the mistaken standards of his society.”
“You should rather be concerned with whether we endangered ourselves.”
“I suppose we did, didn’t we?”
“We didn’t do ourselves any good,” said Emerson calmly.
“We had no choice in the matter,” remarked Ramses in his most dignified manner. “There was nothing else we could have done.”
“Quite right, my son.” Emerson clapped him on the back. “That being the case, we can only wait and see what consequences ensue. I have no doubt Murtek will report our adventure; he knows if he doesn’t, one of the guards will.”
Mentarit pounded on me, clucking and shaking her head, and insisted I change my clothing, especially my boots, which were encrusted with various noxious substances. I made no objection, since I was all in a glow from excitement, exertion, and the horrid hot climate of the village. I was trying to mend a rent in my trousers—an exasperating task, for though I always carry needle and thread, I have absolutely no skill in sewing—when Ramses came in from the garden. Cradled in his arms was a huge brindled cat.
I stuck myself in the thumb. “Where on earth…” I began.
“It came over the wall,” said Ramses, an almost normal expression of childish pleasure on his face. “It might be the sister or brother of the cat Bastet, don’t you think, Mama?”
The creature did bear a resemblance to Ramses’s pet, who had adopted us during an earlier expedition to Egypt. But though this feline had the same tawny coat as Bastet, it was at least twice her size—and Bastet is not a small animal.
“Would you like to hold it, Mama?” Ramses offered me the cat. I appreciated his willingness to share his pleasure, but decided to decline. Though the cat blinked its huge golden eyes at me, I noticed its claws were out.
Ramses folded his legs and sat down, murmuring to the cat, which seemed to enjoy the attention. “Curious,” I said, watching them with a smile. “We saw no cats in the village, did we?”
“It is likely that they enjoy superior status, as they did in ancient times,” replied Ramses, tickling the cat under its chin. A rasping purr accompanied Ramses’s next words. “This one is wearing a collar.”
And indeed it was—a collar of finely woven straw or reeds. I had not observed it until the cat lifted its head, for its fur was extremely thick and plushy.
Ramses amused himself with the cat for some time—if “amuse” is the right word. It was uncanny to watch them, heads together, exchanging murmurs and purrs and, on the part of the cat, an occasional hoarse mew, for all the world like a reply to a question. Finally, however, it rolled off Ramses’s lap, picked itself up and stalked away. Ramses followed it out into the garden.
Night seemed slow in coming. Such is often the case, I have observed, with something eagerly desired. But at last I reclined upon my couch and Emerson emerged from his room.
From his lordly stride, and the peremptory gesture that sent Mentarit giggling away, I got the distinct impression he was beginning to enjoy this procedure. My impression was further strengthened by certain actions on his part, which admittedly lent a new and piquant interest to the proceedings.
Sometime later we got to talking about assassination.
“Highly unlikely,” Emerson declared, still in his masterful