Guardian of the Horizon (19 page)

persons were always preceded by an armed escort. We were told the king would see us this morning; I expect this gentleman has come to take us to him." He slipped past his father and addressed several sentences to the person whose white-clad form I could see behind the guards-- several yards behind them. The man was an official or a priest, tojudge by his pleated garment and beaded collar. He replied in a high-pitched voice but kept his distance. "Gentleman be damned," said Emerson. "I want to know what they have done with Nefret." "Then, sir, may I respectfully suggest the sooner we are ready to go, the sooner we will be able to ask that question?" "Shall we take the guns?" I asked. "You aren't taking anything of the sort," Emerson snarled. "It would be advisable to leave them here, I think," Ramses said. "We don't want to give Tarek a false impression of bellicosity." "I am feeling quite bellicose at the moment," said Emerson. "But I suppose you are right. Tell the fellow we will be with him shortly. Peabody, why aren't you getting dressed?" The servants had taken our clothes away and returned them, laundered and neatly folded. After I had assumed proper attire I considered whether I should take my parasol. I did not consider for long. It was a weapon, but it didn't look like one. I then hastened back to the sitting room, where I found Ramses in conversation with our visitor. He was a man who had obviously lived well; his cheeks were pink and plump, and a roll of fat circled his neck above the broad collar of gold and gemstones; as he bowed and raised both hands in salute, the pleated sleeves of his robe fell back to display broad armlets of gleaming gold. "Mother, may I present Count Amenislo, overseer of the royal storehouses and Second Prophet of Aminreh." "How nice," I said, acknowledging his bow. The round pink face was vaguely familiar. "Haven't we met before?" "Yes, yes," said the count, bowing again. "I speak some of the English to you. In welcome." "He was one of Forth's students and Tarek's brother," Ramses said. "Only a youth when we last met." "Enough of these empty courtesies," exclaimed Emerson, to the obvious bewilderment of Count Amenislo. He understood the next sentence, however. "Take us to Tarek." "Yes, yes. We go. To the king." The four soldiers stood at attention, two on either side of the door. I was relieved to see that Emerson's victim appeared unhurt, if somewhat disheveled. With ironic courtesy, Emerson gestured to the count to precede him. "What about Selim and Daoud?" I asked. "Are they included in the invitation?" "No," Ramses said. "Apparently they are considered to be servants. We'll have to set Tarek straight on that, but not this time." The escort fell in behind us as we passed along a corridor whose walls were prettily painted with geometric patterns in bright colors of orange-red and blue, green and yellow. I expected it would lead eventually to a terrace looking out over the valley; instead, after several abrupt turns, we found ourselves in a similar passageway lighted by hanging lamps. Here were scenes of feasting and entertainment--slender girl dancers and acrobats, musicians, tables piled high with food--scenes familiar in their subject matter from many such in Egyptian palaces and Cushite tombs. Emerson, who would normally have lingered, examining each detail, gave them not a glance, but walked so close on Amenislo's heels that the count was forced to break into an undignified trot. As I began to suspect--a suspicion which was later confirmed-- we had been housed in apartments usually inhabited by princesses or queens, connected directly to the king's apartments so he could visit the ladies without the inconvenience of going out-of-doors. We met only a few people--servants, by their dress--who flattened themselves against the wall and averted their gaze as we passed. A square of sunlight ahead, where the corridor ended in a room open to the outer air, indicated that we had almost reached our goal. Amenislo stopped. "No need to announce us," said Emerson. "Here, Peabody, take my arm. Let us make a dignified entrance." Another group of soldiers, wearing uniforms like our four, fell back as we entered the throne room--not the imposing state throne room that we had seen before, but a smaller, brighter,less formal chamber. Painted papyriform columns supported the clerestory roof, and sunlight streamed in through the narrow openings above. At the far end, opposite the door through which we had come, was a raised dais, with several heavy curtains behind it. On the dais stood the throne, a chair with feet carved like lions' paws and arms supported by carved scarabs and sun disks. It was entirely covered with gold leaf. Arranged in a semicircle before the dais were three smaller chairs of plain wood. The man who occupied the throne wore over his heavy black wig a diadem with the twin uraeus serpents of Cushite kingship. To one side, and slightly behind the throne, stood a younger man. I recognized him at once, though he was now richly dressed in the garments and ornaments of a prince. The man was Merasen. The other man--the king--was not Tarek. Though I was momentarily struck dumb by this discovery, I realized I ought to have been prepared for it. Tarek would have been the first to greet us had he been able. He must have lost his throne, through death or usurpation, and Merasen had deliberately deceived us. Even if Tarek had passed on after Merasen's departure from the Holy City, there could be no innocent explanation for the theft of the map and the death of poor Ali. As the truth dawned on my companions, I feared for a moment I would have to restrain two infuriated male persons instead of only Emerson. Ramses had never concealed his dislike of Merasen, but the emotion that darkened his features was a good deal stronger than dislike. I caught hold of his arm in a grip he could not break without hurting me and said urgently, "Ramses, no! Contain yourself." "He's taken Nefret," Ramses said. "That is why he brought us here, he wanted--" "That may be so, but attacking a royal prince when the odds are heavily against you is not a sensible procedure." "Quite right," said Emerson, in a voice like stone grating onstone. "I am surprised at you, Ramses. Let us hear what they have to say. Will you do the talking, my boy, and translate for us? I don't want to miss a word." Ramses settled back on his heels, breathing hard. I was relieved to see that Emerson had risen to the occasion. He prefers not to control his temper, since shouting and shaking people relieve his mind, but when calm and cunning are required, he displays them. Usually. Merasen stepped forward. Not a shadow of guilt clouded his smooth young brow and his smile was as guileless as ever. "I will talk for the king my father in your language, so that you will all understand. He welcomes you and bids you sit yourselves. He is the Horus Mankhabale, Son of Re Zekare, Lord of the Two Lands--" "Yes, yes, never mind the rest of it," said Emerson with a dismissive gesture. The king nodded benignly. He was a fine-looking man, with a broad brow and the lean, hard body of a soldier. I would have put him in his late thirties. "What has happened to Tarek?" I demanded. "Did he die, then, of the strange sickness, and the child too?" Merasen laughed and Ramses, who was watching him like a cat with a bird, said, "The strange illness was a lie, wasn't it, Merasen? A lie designed to bring us here. Is Tarek dead--of another cause, such as assassination?" Merasen translated this speech and the ones that followed; and very odd it was to hear the older man's deep baritone followed by the boy's higher voice, like a piping echo. "He is not dead" was the royal reply, accompanied by a contemptuous sneer. "He ran away, like the coward he is, with those few who were loyal to him. One day when I have nothing better to do I will crush them like beetles." None of us had accepted the king's invitation to "sit ourselves." Emerson stood with arms folded, looking down on the king. It was a deliberate act of rudeness, for persons of lowerrank are required to kneel or sit so that their heads are not higher than those of their superiors. The king appeared more amused than offended. If I had not known him to be a usurper, and his son a cheat and a liar, I would have thought him quite a pleasant fellow. "Be damned to that," said Emerson. "I want to know what you have done with Nefret. It must have been you, or those acting by your orders, who took her and her friend away, coming like thieves in the night, violating the honor of your house and the hospitality owed to strangers." It was quite an eloquent speech, in my opinion, and Merasen must have translated it accurately, for the king's jaw tightened. Without waiting for a reply, Merasen said smugly, "The priestess is safe again in her house with her handmaidens. The shrine of the goddess is no longer empty." "And the other girl?" Ramses demanded. "The servant of the priestess is with her. The goddess has accepted her." I said, "Do I understand you correctly, Merasen? Nefret has been brought here to resume her former role of High Priestess of Isis?" "She has always been High Priestess, lady," Merasen said. "For she never chose a successor. When she was taken from us, the goddess abandoned her shrine and the prayers of the faithful were not answered. Now the goddess too will return." "My goodness," I said, finding myself at something of a loss for words, and distracted by seeing a slight movement of one of the curtains behind the dais. They must cover doorways or niches. There had been a similar arrangement in the great throne room-- and one of the curtained niches had been occupied by the highest of high priestesses, the God's Wife of Amon, whose power was even greater than that of the king. As we discovered later, to our horror and dismay, she was Nefret's mother, who had lost her mind and forgotten her true identity. My attempt to save her had been in vain; she had perished of pure rage and an excess of spleen. Was her successor lurking therein? I decided there was no harm in asking. "Is the Heneshem present?" I inquired, interrupting a loud speech from Emerson, who was demanding to see Nefret. He stopped shouting and stared at me. "Good Gad, Peabody, the woman is dead. She--" "Must have been succeeded in the position by another woman. Someone is there," I said. "Behind the curtain. I saw it move." Merasen stared too. "Why do you ask about the Heneshem? She is not there, she is in her own place. She has no power here. It is my father who--" "I insist upon seeing Nefret," Emerson shouted. "How do I know she is unharmed?" "You will see her soon. After she has resumed her duties. Who would harm her? She is the most honored of women, beloved of the goddess." Ramses put a heavy hand on his father's shoulder--in the nick of time, since Emerson's intense concern about his daughter had been exacerbated by the references to religion, of which he does not approve. He subsided (I could hear his teeth grinding, however), and Ramses said quickly and softly, "Mother is right, as always. Violence would only end in our being injured and confined. We must retire and discuss this." "But we have not yet ascertained all the facts," I protested. "I have a good many more questions to ask His Majesty." "I feel certain you do, Peabody," said Emerson, forcing himself to calmness. "But if I have to listen to any more rubbish about goddesses from that treacherous little puppy, I may do something rash." Merasen's lower lip protruded like that of a sulky child. We had used a number of words he did not know and his amour propre was damaged. The king had shown signs of increasing impatience as the conversation went on and Merasen did not translate. Now he rose to his feet. "Come," he said in Meroitic, with an expansive gesture that would have made his meaning clear even if it had not been one of the words we all knew. We followed as he strode toward an open archway. Beyond was an anteroom, pillared and handsomely decorated, and beyond that a series of arches that opened onto a terrace with statues of divinities. The sun was well up, and the long valley of the Holy Mountain stretched out to right and left below the high balcony on which we stood--fields and small villages on the floor of the valley, fine mansions and temples on the slopes. A broad staircase lined with sphinxes led down to the roadway that followed the curve of the cliffs, leading from the quarter of the nobles past the palace to the Great Temple of Amon Re, or, as he was called here, Aminreh. Gold-tipped obelisks glittered in the sunlight, and the painted reliefs on the pyloned gateway shone with brilliant color. On the left, the mighty figure of a king or god grasped a kneeling enemy by the hair while the other arm raised a long spear. Behind the king stood a smaller, female figure who also brandished a weapon. I was familiar with such scenes, which were common in Egyptian temples, but here the colors were fresh and bright: the black hair of the king, the brownish red of his body, and the woman's paler yellow skin. Her hair was also black. I squinted, trying to make out details, for there was something unusual about the figures, especially that of the woman. She was slimmer than a conventional Cushite queen, those ladies being notorious for their extreme corpulence; and what weapon was it she held? "That pylon is new," Emerson muttered. "At least the reliefs are. I wonder who the female figure represents. A goddess? Not Isis, she hasn't the right sort of headdress, or Maat, or--" Ramses let out a strangled sound. "It's Mother," he gasped. "You and Mother. Don't you see the parasol?"

Dear Lia, Chances are you will never see this letter. But I don't like journals, they seem so impersonal, and I don't know what has happened to the others, and I must keep track of what is going on, and I'm all alone--except for Daria. Have I told youabouther? No, of course I haven't. I keep forgetting things. She's a strange girl, very young, very pretty--the companion of a horrible man named Newbold, a hunter and treasure seeker. She pleaded for my protection, so we brought her on with us to the Holy Mountain. The trip itself went well enough, as such things go, and we were welcomed as honored guests. I went to bed that night tired but comfortable and happy at the prospect of seeing Tarek next day. I awoke next morning . . . How can I explain it? I went to bed as Nefret Forth. I awoke next morning as High Priestess of Isis. The rooms were the ones I had occupied ten years ago; every ornament, every piece of furniture was the same, including the low bed with its linen sheets and draperies, where I lay. The women who surrounded the bed were robed in white, their face veils thrown back--the handmaidens of the goddess. Lia, it was the most awful feeling! For a horrible moment I thought I had never left the Holy Mountain--that the intervening years had been only a dream. You, the Professor, Aunt Amelia, Ramses, all the others--only a dream. I started crying. I'm so ashamed. But you can't imagine the dreadful sense of loss, the loss of everyone I loved. One of the maidens bent over me, opened my loose robe, and placed her hand over my heart. The handmaidens are physicians here, and they know about "the voice of the heart." She smiled and nodded, and another girl approached with a cup containing a liquid of some kind. Like the switch of a torch bringing light, I was suddenly in control of myself again. Can you guess what did it? It was the sight of my own body, Lia--a woman's body, not that of a thirteen-year-old whose breasts have just begun to grow. I sat up and pushed the cup away. "No. How did I come here? Where are my friends?" The handmaidens clustered round. I didn't recognize any of their faces. Another sign, if I had needed one, that time had passed. All the ones I had known--Mentarit,Amenit--had grown to maturity and left the service of the goddess. The girl who held the cup--she had a round-cheeked face with full, pouting lips--thrust it at me again. I pushed it so hard, some of the liquid spilled onto her pristine robes. I enjoyed doing it. First things first, as Aunt Amelia would say. I was terribly thirsty, but I was afraid there might be some drug in the liquid-- wine, from its appearance. "You drink first," I ordered, pointing at the cupbearer. She scowled as she obeyed, but my imperious manner impressed the others. One of them, a sweet-faced girl of about thirteen, ventured, "Does the priestess wish her servant to be brought to her?" They meant Daria. My heart lifted at the sight of her--someone from my own world, another verification of reality. She was clad in the night robe she had worn when she went to bed and her hair hung down over her shoulders. I jumped up, pushed through my hovering attendants, and went to her. "Are you all right?" She was a little pale, but quite composed. "They have treated me well." "Do you remember what happened?" "Men took us away, in the night. You were sleeping soundly. I woke and tried to call out, but one of them covered my mouth and carried me away. What will they do with us?" I was beginning to get a pretty good idea of what they meant to do with me. After we had been served food and drink, I submitted without protest to the all-too-familiar rituals--being bathed in several waters, anointed with oil of lotus, dressed in sheer linen and the ornaments of the High Priestess--the broad, beaded collar, the brightly embroidered sash, armlets and anklets, and the curious little cap of golden feathers. The process took the entire morning. The only answer I got to my incessant questions about the others was a repeated promise: "The High Priest will come soon." "He damned well better," I said to Daria. One of the handmaidens--the scowly one--had tried to send her away, remarking that I didn't need lowborn servants, but I insisted on keeping her with me, and in that matter at least my word was law. "They treat you with great reverence," she said, watching one of the girls clasp a bracelet round my wrist. "I seem to have been conscripted for my old position," I said, trying to smile. "I am desperately worried about the others, though. If it was only me they wanted . . ." "But you have power. They obey you. You can speak for your family." "I hope so." The heavy ornaments settled into place. I remembered only too well the helpless feeling the sheer weight of them brought: the collar pressing down onto my shoulders, the bracelets weighing my arms. The last step was familiar too: long translucent veils of white draped around me and over my head and face. Stiff-limbed as a doll, I was led into an adjoining room and guided to a thronelike chair. No one tried to stop Daria when she followed and took up a position behind the chair. I felt a thrill of gratitude for her presence and her astonishing composure. I certainly wouldn't have blamed her for losing her head. I could see through the face veil, though not distinctly. The man who entered the room was only a blur at first; when he came nearer, I made out the form of a man bowed with age, leaning on a staff. I hauled myself to my feet, to the consternation of the handmaidens, lined up in two rows before my chair. "Murtek! Can it be you?" I had spoken English. The answer was in Meroitic. "The High Priest Murtek, the worthy, went to the gods long ago, lady. I am Amase, High Priest of Isis, First Prophet of Osiris." I ought to have anticipated that. Murtek had been an old man when I knew him. I felt lonelier than ever. "Then I order you to tell me why I was taken away from my friends. Where are they? What has happened to them?" "The Great Ones? They dwell in the house where you were before your servants brought you to your own place. They are content, they are honored, they rejoice." I let out a squeak of hysterical laughter. I could picture the "rejoicing" once they realized I was gone: the Professor shaking his fists and cursing, Aunt Amelia brandishing her parasol, and Ramses . . . He wouldn't show emotion, not Ramses; he would be thinking and planning. "Have they been told where I am?" "They are with the king now, lady." "I want to be with them. I want to see the king. Take me to him at once." I hadn't expected those orders would be obeyed, nor were they. The old gentleman made a long speech, full of circumlocutions and ambiguities; but I got the idea. The goddess must be brought back to her empty shrine--by me and no other. He would help prepare me for the ceremony. It must be faultless. There could be no mistake in movement or word. He didn't say what would happen if I did make a mistake--divine retribution, by Isis in one of her less pleasant attributes? I sat in silence, my mind racing, while he backed away, bowing. I was perfectly willing to go through with the performance, supposing I could remember it; but why hadn't Tarek simply asked me to do it? Why hadn't he come to me, his little sister, his friend? "Wait!" I said sharply. The old gentleman jerked to a stop and I went on, "The Horus Tarekenidal is my brother. I will bring the goddess back to her shrine after I have seen him and spoken with him." Amase threw up his hands. "Do not say that name again! It is forbidden, it does not exist. The Horus is Mankhabale Zekare." "What has happened to Tarek?" The old man put his hands over his ears--in order to avoid hearing the forbidden name, or because I was screaming at the top of my lungs. He limped out. I took the nearest handmaiden by the shoulders and shook her till the veils flapped. "What has happened to him? Is he dead? Answer me!" "Not dead, no," she panted. "Gone." "Where?" "Far from here. Lady, please--you hurt my neck--" I let her go and sank back into the chair. "It is bad news he has given me, Daria," I said. "Many things are now clear." She edged forward. "I don't understand, Nefret. Did you speak to me?" I had spoken Meroitic. I caught hold of her hand. "Please stay with me, Daria. Talk to me--in English. Remind me of who I am."