Guardian of the Horizon (21 page)

The negotiations took place in the small throne room. Zekare had dragged out all the big guns, secular and religious--the high priests of Aminreh and Isis, the commander of the household troops, the vizier, and Uncle Tom Cobley and all, as his mother remarked later. And Merasen. Two of the officials were other sons of the king, tall, soldierly men who appeared to be older than Merasen. They were all decked out in their best attire, the priests in snowy pleated robes, the commander in a helmet sprouting feathers like a rooster's tail, and everybody clanking with gold ornaments and broad collars of semiprecious stones. If the purpose was to impress them with the solidarity of his support, it didn't do the job. The two priests kept exchanging sullen glances--those priesthoods had always been rivals--and the commander hardly took his eyes off Emerson. Merasen strutted round the room bragging of his exploit in bringing the Great Ones back, and the two older princes watched him like vultures. Ramses had considered offering to act as translator, if only for the pleasure of taking Merasen down a peg, but had decided not to emphasize his command of the language. People are inclined to speak more freely when they believe they cannot be understood, and he wanted to find out how accurately Merasen reported their comments, and the king's replies. Emerson began by making a little speech. They, the Great Ones, were graciously pleased to accept the homage that was their due. The petty quarrels of small kingdoms did not concern them;they were seekers of knowledge and had come to the Holy Mountain primarily in order to make drawings and take photographs. Merasen had to stop and explain that word, but otherwise his translation was reasonably accurate. He didn't have to translate the king's response, which consisted of a vigorous nod and a broad smile. If the fellow thought he was going to get off that easily, he was mistaken. Emerson got down to business. "When we have finished our work we will return to our own place. You will provide camels and drivers for us." The nod was less emphatic and the smile less broad this time. Merasen added a few words on his own account. "The king hopes you will remain for a long time." "May I ask a few questions, Father?" Ramses inquired. It took a while. Merasen's translations of the king's replies became increasingly inaccurate, and the king became increasingly restless. None of the others took an active part, though there was a certain amount of scowling and muttering. The discussion came to an abrupt end when the king rose. "We will speak again of these matters. You may go now." He stalked out through one of the curtained doorways behind the dais. "I take it we are dismissed," remarked Emerson. "What did he say that Merasen didn't bother to translate?" "You have an evil, suspicious mind, Father," Ramses said. "I'll tell you as soon as we are in private." Merasen had followed his father out of the room, and the others began to leave, one or two at a time. The commander of the guard lingered, lining his men up in proper order. As if struck by a sudden thought (which was probably not the case), Emerson strolled up to him. "Good, your men," he said. "Good leader, you." Instead of bowing, the fellow stiffened and stood at attention, like a subaltern who has been addressed by a general. "I know the stories," he stammered. "The spear . . . straight through the body till it stood out a handsbreadth behind his back. Harsetef told me . . ." Emerson, who had only understood a few words, brightened at the familiar name. "Harsetef, yes. My friend. He was there." "My friend," the captain repeated. "You saved his life, the lives of his wife and child." Ramses took the liberty of translating this. Emerson waved a negligent hand. "The least I could do. How is the old chap?" While Ramses was trying to think of a reasonable translation for these idiomatic remarks, one of the princes came back into the room. He barked out an order. The captain saluted and started to turn away. "Your name, my friend?" Emerson inquired with magnificent condescension. "Alare, O Great One." He saluted Emerson as he had done the prince, with raised hands and bowed head. Ramses had followed the proceedings with a feeling almost of awe. His father was famous for his violent temper and physical strength; he hadn't fully realized that Emerson was capable of twisting a man's mind as efficiently as his body. "Well done, Father," he murmured, as they started back toward their rooms. "Divide and rule, my boy. I detected at least four different factions in that single room; if we can't play them off against each other we deserve to be stuck here. I'll concentrate on the military, since"--Emerson coughed modestly--"I seem to have some prestige in that quarter. Peabody--" "The High Priest of Isis" was the prompt reply. "He seems a timid little man, and Nefret is in his charge." "What about me?" Ramses inquired. "I leave it to you, my boy. Merasen's older brothers are obviously green with envy. Only a suggestion," he added. "Yes, sir." This time Emerson didn't dawdle. Daoud and Selim were eating when they entered their sitting room. Selim jumped up. "What happened? Is Nur Misur--" "Nothing to do with her," Ramses said, smiling at him. "It's good news, in fact. Mother will be allowed to see her tonight." "I thought that was what he said," remarked that lady. "But I got the distinct impression that Merasen did not report everything accurately." The servants brought more food--Daoud had finished the first course--and Ramses told Selim and Daoud what had happened. "We are to be allowed a limited amount of freedom--with a guard of honor, naturally." "You didn't ask about the rekkit's villages," Emerson said. "I thought it would be better if we simply barged straight ahead until somebody stopped us." Ramses paused long enough to swallow a spoonful of soup, and then went on. "Your speech was well received, Father. I think Zekare will buy it, because disinterested loyalty is a quality he doesn't believe in or expect." "That is a not uncommon characteristic of tyrants," remarked his mother sententiously. "They fail to understand that a man whose loyalty can be bought is open to a higher bid." She caught Emerson's eye and went on smoothly, "The high priests of Aminreh and Isis have always been at odds. We may hope to insinuate a wedge." "As Father did with the commander of the guard," Ramses said. "The man is obviously in awe of him. If he is faced with a choice of obeying his king or the great and powerful Father of Curses, he might waver." "He won't waver when I'm through with him," said Emerson complacently. "But we still have a way to go. What do you say we take a little stroll? Show ourselves to our admiring public and incidentally get a better idea of the terrain." "What else did they say?" Selim asked. "Will they give Nur Misur back to us?" "We didn't get round to that," Ramses said. "There are still a number of ambiguities. We stopped a riot this morning, but there is obviously a great deal of discontent among the populace at large. He wants us to make a formal commitment--a great public festival, with ceremonies and sacrifices and God knows what else." "Yes, I understood that," Emerson said. "When?" "He didn't say." "All the more reason to get out and about," Emerson declared. "I am willing to be accommodating up to a point, but I draw the line at crowning the bastard." The front door yielded at once to Emerson's hard shove. The soldiers on guard in the corridor stepped back to let them pass and then fell in behind them. Another foursome awaited them in the antechamber. Led by Emerson, the procession, which included Daoud and Selim, emerged into a larger room open on one side, like the mandarah of Moslem houses. A blaze of sunlight dazzled their eyes. At his father's suggestion Ramses had brought a sketch pad and pencils. Leaning over the balustrade, he began a rough plan of the surrounding area--not an easy task, since the City of the Holy Mountain was in part perpendicular. The stony flanks of the interior mountains had been cut back on different levels to allow for the building of temples and houses. It had been a monumental undertaking, which must have taken centuries--almost thirty of them, since the first emigres had come during the breakdown of Egyptian society in the tenth century B.C. Paths and staircases crossed the slopes, many of them leading down to the great roadway that circled this end of the valley--an engineering feat of no small magnitude, cut into the solid rock of the cliffs and bridging the smaller ravines. They were across the valley from where they had stayed before; Ramses thought he made out a familiar roofline. If he could get into that house he knew a way into the subterranean passages that honeycombed the cliffs. The visible city was like the top of an iceberg, much of it underground. "I thought so," Emerson said in a satisfied voice. "This section is only part of the area enclosed by the mountain heights. The valley stretches farther to the north. Can you make out anything, Ramses?" "Not much, the sun is too bright." Ramses shaded his eyes with his hand. "The cliffs close in, and then--yes, they open out again. It's too far away to make out details; there is open water, and astretch of green beyond the pass, and what appear to be side valleys or wide ravines. No signs of dwellings that I can see." "They are clustered at this end, I think," said Emerson. "Around the royal palace and the temple. Do you suppose Tarek could be holed up somewhere in that area? A rhetorical question," he added, before Ramses could reply. "We'll have to have a closer look with binoculars. Should have brought them with us." Selim offered to go back and get the binoculars. At Emerson's suggestion he gave one pair to Ramses, who announced his intention of going farther along the road before using them. Wide, rather steep steps led down to the road. Four of the guardsmen scrambled to get ahead of Emerson; the other four followed the party. When they reached the bottom of the staircase, Emerson inquired, "Well, Peabody, which way? Right or left? Or shall we see if we will be allowed to descend into the village?" "Left" was the immediate reply. "We have never been north of the Great Temple, and," she added with a smile, "Selim will enjoy seeing it." It was the warmest part of the day, the time when sensible people in hot climates rest in the shade. Only a few people were abroad. A gang ofthe little dark-skinned rekkit were at work patching the section of roadway to the right of the steps. No rest for them in the heat of the day, Ramses thought. The road surface must be constantly in need of maintenance; it wouldn't do for a litter bearer to trip and shake up his master or mistress. Emerson stopped short. "Beaded collars!" he shouted. Ramses fought an unholy desire to laugh. "Father, I think you mean meri--friends--not meni." "It got their attention," said Emerson, unabashed. The workers had dropped mallets and chisels. When he saw their expressions as they looked up at Emerson, Ramses no longer wanted to laugh. They bowed their heads and a soft murmur arose. Realizing that his father was about to make a speech, Ramses said urgently, "We had better move on, Father. I don't like the way the guards are handling those spears." "I thought I just might say a few more words," said Emerson. "And perhaps ask a question or two about--" "We don't want to stir up trouble, sir. Not yet." He knew that truculent scowl, and appealed to the ultimate authority. "Don't you agree, Mother?" His mother patted her forehead and cheeks with a square of linen. "Quite. Come along, Emerson. The king cannot object to us showing ourselves to the workers, but a prolonged conversation would probably result in punishment to them and confinement for us." She took his arm and they went on. The soft murmur followed them. It was a single phrase, repeated over and over. "The friends. The friends." The royal palace sprawled along and up and around the hillside, a huge, disorganized pile of buildings which had been added on to over thousands of years. It was impossible to get an idea of the internal plan from outside, since the apartments extended far back into the cliff. Their quarters were at the south end. The central facade, reached by a flight of stairs lined with sphinxes, was heavily guarded. All the local ducks and geese must have been divested of their tail feathers to uniform this lot. The more feathers, the higher the rank, one must assume. The Window of Appearance and the plaza below it were on the north side, facing the Great Temple. Selim, who was walking with Ramses, stopped dead at the sight of its obelisks and gold-tipped flagstaffs and the gigantic painted figures on the pylons. "It is like Thebes in the great days of the pharaohs," he breathed. "Not really," said Ramses. "This city is only a faint imitation of Thebes in its glory. Take a closer look at the paintings." After an eye-popping interval Selim laughed so hard he had to sit down on the pavement. "I don't see what's so amusing," said Emerson, who had been studying his image with a complacent smile. "Ramses," Selim gasped. "It is Ramses, yes? The nose--the name--" The name was there, all right, in an inscription behind the unflattering little figure. "Ramses the Great One, who speaks for the god, gives the breath of life to His Majesty." Close up, the changes in the royal cartouches were obvious. They had been done hastily and without skill. "You're too clever by half, Selim," Ramses remarked. He proceeded to translate the inscriptions identifying his father. " 'The Great One, the Father of Curses, smites the enemies of Maat.' They've transliterated 'Emerson' alphabetically--m bird, r, the horizontal s, chick, water sign. You get the determinative of nobility, Father." "So I see," said Emerson, pleased. The determinative, that of a striding man carrying a long staff, was a foot high. Like the larger image, it had blue eyes. "Hmmm," said his wife, who had been trying to read her own inscription. "Curse it, the hieroglyphs are quite different from those of Egypt, aren't they? Ramses, can you make them out?" "Not as well as Uncle Walter, but I remember a bit. You are the embodiment of Sekhmet, raging for the king with her--" "Oh, good Gad," exclaimed Emerson. "Don't tell me . . ." "I'm not sure, but it looks as if they have tried to spell the English word as it sounded to them, like your name." He added with a grin, "The determinative is unquestionably a sunshade." "We must have photographs," Selim exclaimed, jumping up. "And drawings. Wallahi, but we miss David." "We'll do the best we can, Selim," Ramses said. Even if they could never display the drawings and photographs, they would make a wonderful addition to the family archives. "But not now. Father, why don't we divide up? You and Mother go on, to the end of