The Last Camel Died at Noon (43 page)

I do not know whether I have made the plan of the Great Temple clear to the Reader, who may not be as familiar as we were with the design of such structures. It was in essence very like its ancient Egyptian models. The progression was from light to darkness, from openness to mystery. Passing through the great entrance pylons, the visitor entered an open court with surrounding colonnades. Through deepening shadows the worshipper proceeded from hall to chamber to passageway until he reached the holy of holies, the sanctuary in which dwelt the god himself. This was the simple, basic plan; over the years, in Egypt as here, additional halls and pylons and chambers had been added wherever space allowed. Like the temple of Abu Simbel, this one was for the most part carved out of the cliffs themselves, and because the area of the city itself was so limited, the rock-cut chambers had greatly increased in number and in function.

I suspected that there were chambers even more secret and sacred beyond the ones we had seen, for the ultimate mysteries of the god could not be observed by common worshippers, only by priests and priestesses assigned to his service. Since this was a public ceremony, I expected it would take place in the outer courtyard, and so it proved. The hypostyle hall was filled with people. They were packed like sardines into the colonnades on either side and spilled out into the open space in the centre. Files of armed guards kept a passage free; down this we marched towards the pillared colonnade opposite the gateway. This area was reserved for the elite and their attendants - priests of the highest rank, with shaven heads and pure white robes; nobles of both sexes, glittering with gold and jewels; musicians holding harps and pipes and drums; and our unworthy selves. We took the seats indicated to us and surveyed the scene with, I hardly need say, considerable interest.

'I wonder if I might smoke,' said Emerson.

'It would be rude, my dear. After all, this is a religious edifice - of a sort.'

'Hmph,' said Emerson. Like mine, his eyes were fixed upon the object that dominated the space before the arcade - a massive block of stone whose carvings were almost obliterated by time and by the ugly stains that formed grotesque patterns on its top and down its sides. It seemed to me that a dark cloud hung over it, as if the bright sunlight shuddered away from its surface. Human sacrifice had not been practised in ancient Egypt; the blood that stained the altars had been that of poor terrified cattle or geese. But here... Well, no doubt we would soon find out.

Turning to more seemly sights, my eyes moved across the gaily dressed group of nobles. There were children among them - girls with gold rings woven into their dark hair, little boys whose single braids shone lustrous as a raven's wing in the sunlight. One looked so much like Ramses that my heart skipped a beat. Then he turned to stare at me and the resemblance was gone.

It had been foolish of me to think he might be here. Tarek would not allow so young a lad to risk himself in battle. I wondered where Tarek's men were assembling. Nastasen's soldiers were everywhere, surrounding the spectators and mingling with them; the flash of spear points dazzled the eyes. He too must expect an attack in force. It appeared to me that the odds were with him, not only in numbers but in the strength of his position. It would be hard to break through that narrow opening, well guarded as it was.

The pick of Nastasen's men, tall, muscular fellows in the prime of life, surrounded the throne-chair and the strange little kiosk behind it. It was made of woven reeds, picked out with gold and heavily curtained. In shape it resembled those I had seen in Egyptian reliefs, with a sloping roof and cornice. I poked Emerson, who was morosely scanning the ranks of the spectators. 'Is she there, do you think?'

'Who? Where? Oh, there. Hmmm. It is quite possible. At this moment I am more interested in where Ramses might be.'

I explained my reasoning on that subject. 'No doubt,' Emerson said irritably. 'I wish they would get on with it, though. We will probably have to sit through most of the cursed ceremony; if Tarek is any sort of strategist, he will wait until the climax, when the attention of the audience is distracted.'

A surge of the crowd and a rising murmur of interest indicated that something was happening. Situated as we were, we could not see the entrance, so it was not until the new arrival was face-to-face with us that we recognised Reggie. Even then I had to take a second look. He was dressed like a nobleman, even to the wig of coarse dark hair that covered his fiery locks.

The Reader may have noted that in our plans for escape we had not considered Reggie. This was not as callous as it might seem. However the day went for Tarek, Reggie had a greater chance of survival than the rest of us. If Amenit could not save him, it was unlikely that we could do better. Should we succeed in getting away, we could and would mount another expedition; but the welfare of the children, Ramses and Nefret, had to take precedence.

Happily unaware of this somewhat cold-blooded assessment, Reggie greeted us with a brave smile. 'So here we are, at the end. At least we will die together.'

'I have no intention of dying,' said Emerson with a snap of his teeth. 'You look ridiculous, Forthright. Why did you let them stuff you into those clothes?'

'What does it matter?' Reggie sighed. 'The only thing that concerns me is the fate of that poor little boy. Even if he still lives, how can he survive without his parents?'

'I prefer not to discuss the subject,' said Emerson. 'Ah - I believe the performance is about to begin.'

Nastasen emerged from the entrance to the inner court. He was dressed like a simple priest, except for his long black hair. Following came a small group of high officials, including the two high priests, more guards - and another individual whose appearance made me wonder whether the events of two days past had been only a horrible nightmare. He looked exactly like the Hand of the Heneshem whom Emerson had dispatched - the same squat, heavily muscled body, the same coarse face, the same shining spear and scanty loincloth.

'Curse it!' said Emerson, sitting upright. 'I thought I had killed the b---d.'

'Language, Emerson, please. It is not - cannot be - the same man.'

'Must be his brother, then,' muttered Emerson. And indeed, the hideous leer the new Hand bent upon my husband suggested an anticipatory pleasure stronger than simple pride in one's professional skill.

Welcomed with music and dancing, the rattle of sistra and the cries of the worshippers, the god came forth.

Emerson leaned forwards, his eyes shining. 'Good Gad, Peabody, look at that. It is the bark of the god - the ship shown in the ancient reliefs. Have ever scholars had such an opportunity as we?'

Readers who are interested in the meaning of ships in ancient Egyptian religious ceremonies should refer to Emerson's article in the Journal of Egyptian Archaeology. Here I will say no more than that the object in question was a model of the sacred barks upon which the god sailed to visit various shrines. At the curved prow and stern were carved heads of the god - Amon-Re, wearing the horned crown and the disk. Long poles carried the insignia sacred to Amon, and in the centre of the ship was a shrine or tabernacle of light wood hung all around with curtains. Model though it was, it required twenty-five or thirty bearers to carry it.

Normally hidden from the eyes of the vulgar, the god was on full display now; the curtains had been pulled back. It was a most curious statue, unlike any I had ever seen, and it must have been of immemorial antiquity. Approximately four feet in height, it was carved of painted, gilded wood. The arms were crossed upon the breast, the hands held the twin sceptres. A garment of fine linen covered the naked limbs; a collar six inches wide adorned the broad breast.

Emerson's fingers twitched. He was aching to take notes. To see such a ceremony, often described  but never depicted in detail, was like travelling back in time. Almost I forgot the dread purpose of this ceremony and its hideous culmination.

Bowed under the weight of the gilded structure, the carriers proceeded slowly down the aisle towards the temple gates. Roughly the guards pushed back the spectators, who seethed like a nest of ants. They cried out in appeal and adoration; they held children high in their arms, thrusting them forwards over the heads of those in the front rank so their tiny hands might touch the sacred vehicle; they struggled and pushed for favourable positions. For the first time I realised fully the power of superstition, and knew that the religion I had studied with scholarly detachment had been, and was, a living, breathing force. These people believed. They would accept the decision of the god and defend his chosen one.

Partway down the aisle the carriers stopped, and a man stepped out of the ranks of the spectators, the guards parting to let him through. I could not hear what he said, for the cries of the crowd drowned him out, but I assumed it was an appeal or a question - and that the guards, and the bearers, had been well-bribed not only to let him address the god but to ensure the correct answer. I rose to my feet and stood on tiptoe, trying to see how the god would reply; unfortunately 'his' back was to me and the people in front were milling about. All I saw was the recoil of the questioner, who staggered back with his hands to his head. A gasp of wonder rose from the crowd. After a moment the ship moved on.

The same thing happened twice more. I saw even less on these occasions. Then the ship reached the gate, turned, and started on its return trip. It came more quickly now and did not stop. The crowd noise died into a breathless silence, and the melodious basso of the high priest boomed out. 'O Aminreh, king of the gods - the pharaoh awaits you. Give him your blessing, O Aminreh, that the land may live and flourish with His Majesty.'

Nastasen stepped forwards, smirking. Where was Tarek? This was the moment, when every eye was bent upon the bark and the god, when even breath had stopped in anticipation. I could not take my eyes off the grotesque wooden statue. The painted face stared straight ahead. The hollow eye sockets... They were hollow, not painted or filled with crystal. But they were not empty. Something glimmered within them. I noted that the arms of the god were not carved in one piece with the rest of the body, but were separate pieces of wood - and at that moment, when the ship had almost reached the spot where Nastasen stood awaiting it, the god's arm moved. The heavy wooden flail came down on the shoulder of the nearest bearer. He let out a cry and stumbled, losing his grip on the pole and falling forwards against the man ahead of him. The whole structure swayed to a stop as the other bearers struggled to retain their footing and their grip. The god's arm lifted - not the same arm, the other, the one that held the crook. It came gently to rest upon the head of a man who had suddenly appeared beside the shrine, emerging from the ranks of the spectators. The white robes were those of a minor priest. The face was Tarek's.

Into the stunned silence a voice rose like a brazen trumpet's blast. 'The god has spoken! Behold your king, people of the Holy Mountain!

'Sleep, Servant of God'

I recognised the voice - so Murtek was Tarek's man after all! His timing had been perfect. As the spectators stood frozen with astonishment, Tarek ripped the formal curled wig from his head and flung off his robes. On his brow shone the twin uraeus serpents, the symbols of kingship; on his breast lay the sacred insignia - scarab and cobra and nekhbet-vulture. Pulling his sword from its scabbard he raised it high, shouting, 'I am the king! Bow down before the chosen of Aminreh, he who brings ma'at to the land, defender of the people!'

Throughout the courtyard other men were stripping off their disguises, drawing their weapons, taking red feathers from hidden folds in their garments and thrusting them into their headbands.

'Bravo!' exclaimed Emerson. 'What a strategist! I couldn't have done better myself!'

It was a masterstroke, and for a moment I thought Tarek would bring it off, winning his crown without violence and civil war. But the red feathers were outnumbered by the leather helmets of Nastasen's guardsmen, and the High Priest of Aminreh was not the man to let power slip through his fingers.

'Treason!' he bellowed. 'Blasphemy! This criminal has no name. He is not the chosen of Aminreh but a traitor condemned to die. Seize him!'

Pandemonium broke out. Nastasen's men sought to carry out the command of the high priest and the rebels sprang to defend their leader. Neither bow and arrow nor the long-shafted spears could be used in such close quarters; it was hand-to-hand fighting with sword and knife. Emerson was stamping with excitement. 'Curse it, Peabody, let go my arm! I need a sword! I need a feather!'

I had to scream to be heard over the battle cries and the clash of weapons. 'Emerson - look!"

Above the heads of the struggling men the bark of the god swayed like a real boat in a stormy sea. One by one the bearers lost their footing and went down under the press of bodies. The ship dipped at the prow and fell with a crash. The brittle, ancient wood snapped into a hundred pieces. The shrine collapsed like a matchstick toy. The statue cracked and broke apart, disgorging, like a butterfly from its chrysalis, a small body that rolled helplessly under the very feet of the combatants. With a mighty roar Emerson plunged into the maelstrom and emerged with Ramses clutched in his arms.

I drew my pistol and fired point-blank at the soldier who was about to bring his blade down on Emerson's head. Emerson leapt to my side and dropped Ramses unceremoniously at my feet. 'Good Gad, Peabody, watch where you're shooting! That cursed bullet came so close it parted my hair.'

'Better than having it parted by a sword,' I replied. Another of the leather helmets was bearing down upon us. I aimed at his arm but I must have missed, for he kept on coming, and I decided I could not, under those circumstances, afford to be discriminating. The second shot dropped him, practically on top of Ramses. Emerson snatched up his fallen sword just in time to parry a vicious cut from another attacker. Others were rushing towards us but several of our guards now displayed the red feather, and they leapt to our defence. I felt I could spare a moment to address my son.