'Tinned peas,' said Walter. He looked apologetic, as well he might. 'You see, Miss Peabody, they are an excellent cheap source of food. We also have tinned beef and beans and cabbage, but I thought this might be more- '
'Throw it out,' I said, holding my nose. 'Tell your cook to boil a chicken. One can obtain chickens, I hope? If this is what you eat, no wonder your brother had fever. It is a wonder he doesn't also have dysentery and inflamed bowels.'
Walter brought his hand to his brow in a military salute and marched out.
I turned to Emerson. He had flung himself back onto the bed and pulled the sheet up to his chin.
'Go on, Miss Peabody,' he said, drawling offensively. 'Comment on my other organic failures if you will. I understand I am to thank you for saving my life. Walter is inclined to dramatize things; however, I thank you for ministering to me in your inimitable fashion. Consider yourself thanked. Now go away.'
I had intended to go, until he told me to. I sat down on the bed and reached for his hand. He jerked it away.
'I wish to take your pulse,' I said impatiently. 'Stop acting like a timid maiden lady.'
He let me hold his wrist for a few moments. Then he pulled his hand free.
'I wish Miss Nightingale had stayed at home where she belongs,' he growled. 'Every wretched Englishwoman now wants to become a lady of the lamp. Now, madam, if your instincts are satisfied, take yourself away or-or I shall rise from my bed!'
'If that is what you intend, I shall certainly remain. You cannot get up today. And don't think to frighten me by threats. I watched you all night, remember; your anatomy is not prepossessing, I agree, but I am tolerably familiar with it.'
'But my pavement,' Emerson shouted. 'What is happening to my pavement? You fiend of a woman, I must go and see what they are doing to my pavement!'
'My pavement' had been a recurrent theme in his delirium, and I wondered what he was talking about. The only allusion that occurred to me was the description in the Gospel of Saint John: 'When Pilate therefore heard that saying, he brought Jesus forth, and sat down in the judgment seat in a place that is called the Pavement -- ' However, although I considered Emerson quite capable of blasphemy, I doubted that he would compare his illness with that divine Martyrdom.
'What pavement?' I asked.
'My painted pavement.' Emerson looked at me consideringly. 'I have found part of Khuenaten's royal palace. Pavements, walls, and ceilings were painted. Some have miraculously survived.'
'Good- that is, how amazing! Do you mean that the royal heretic's palace once stood where that waste of sand now stretches?'
'You know of Khuenaten?'
'Yes, indeed. He is a fascinating personality. Or do you think he was a woman?'
'Balderdash! That is typical of the fools who manage archaeological research today. Mariette's notion, that he was taken captive by the Nubians and cas -- that is, operated upon- '
'I have read of that theory,' I said, as he stuttered to a halt. 'Why is it not possible? I believe the operation does produce feminine characteristics in a male.'
Emerson gave me a peculiar look.
'That is one way of putting it,' he said drily. 'It seems more likely to me that Khuenaten's physical peculiarities are an artistic convention. You will note that his courtiers and friends are shown with similar peculiarities.'
'Indeed?'
'Yes. Look there.' Emerson started to sit up and clutched the sheet to him as it slid. He was a very hairy man. 'This tomb belonged to a high noble of Khuenaten's court. Its walls are decorated with reliefs in the unique Amarna style.'
My curiousity aroused, I reached for the lamp. This motion produced a scream of rage from Emerson.
'Not the lamp! I only use it when I must. The fools who light the tombs with magnesium wire and lamps are vandals; the greasy smoke lays a film on the reliefs. The mirror- take the mirror. If you hold it at the proper angle it will give you sufficient light.'
I had observed the mirror and wondered at this unexpected sign of vanity. I ought to have known. It took me some time to get the hang of the business, with Emerson making sarcastic remarks; but finally a lucky twist of the wrist shone a beam of reflected light through the doorway in which I stood, and I stared with wonder and delight.
The reliefs were shallow and worn, but they had a vivacity that at once appealed to me. There seemed to be a parade or procession; all the small running figures followed the mighty form of pharaoh, ten times the size of lesser men. He drove a light chariot, handling his team of prancing horses easily; in the chariot with him was a slightly smaller crowned person. Their heads were turned toward one another, it seemed as if their lips were about to touch.
'He must have loved her very much, to give her such a prominent place at his side,' I mused aloud. 'I am inclined to agree with you, Emerson; no man who was less man a man would violate tradition by showing his devotion to his beautiful wife. Even her name, Nefertiti – 'the beautiful woman has come'…'
'You read the hieroglyphs?' Emerson exclaimed.
'A little.'
I indicated, without touching it, the oval cartouche in which the queen's name was written, and then moved my finger toward the empty ovals which had once contained the names of Khuenaten.
'I have read of this – how the triumphant priests of Amon destroyed even the royal heretic's name after he died. It is strangely disturbing to see the savagery of their attack. How they must have hated him, to obliterate even his name!'
'By doing so they hoped to annihilate his soul,' Emerson said. 'Without identity, the spirit of the dead could not survive.'
The incongruity of the conversation, with a gentleman in pink undergarments, did not strike me until Evelyn appeared in the doorway, and as abruptly disappeared. From without, her timid voice inquired whether she might come in.
'Oh, curse it,' Emerson exclaimed, and pulled the sheet over his head. From under it a muffled voice bade Evelyn enter.
Evelyn entered. She was properly dressed in a pale-green cotton frock, and looked as neat and dainty as if she had had all the amenities of the dehabeeyah at her disposal instead of a basin of tepid water. She was a little flushed. Knowing her as I did, I concluded that she was amused, although I could not imagine why. Emerson pulled the sheet down to the bridge of his nose. Over its folds a pair of blue eyes regarded Evelyn malevolently. She did not look at him.
'Do come in, Evelyn, and look at these carvings,' I exclaimed, flashing my mirror about expertly. 'Here is the king riding in his chariot and his queen beside him- '
'I am sure they are fascinating, Amelia, but do you not think it might be better to wait for a more propitious time? Mr. Emerson needs rest, and you are not really dressed for a social call -- ' There was a suspicious quiver in her voice.
She suppressed it and went on, 'Walter seems to be having some trouble with the chicken you ordered.'
'I suppose I must take charge, as usual.' With a last lingering glance at a group of running soldiers, I replaced the mirror.
'So long as you are taking charge, you might have a look at my pavement,' Emerson said grudgingly. 'You stand here chattering like a parrot, and every moment the paint is chipping away- '
'You were the one who uncovered it,' I reminded him. 'What are you planning to do to protect it?'
'I've had a wooden shelter built, but that is only a small part of the problem. The question is, what preservative can we apply that won't damage the paint? It is crumbled to powder; an ordinary brush simply
