The Last Camel Died at Noon by Elizabeth Peters Page A

neck. It would have been hard to say which made the most racket, the camel or the men holding it, for despite my best endeavours some of the soapy water splashed onto them. However, this was all to the good, for some of them needed washing too. (I must add that the procedure would have gone more smoothly had Emerson condescended to help me instead of collapsing in helpless mirth.)

    The pyramids of Nuri stand on a plateau a mile and a half from the riverbank. The sun was sinking westward when we came within sight of them, and their shadows formed grotesque outlines across the barren ground.

    My heart sank with the sun. I had studied the work of Lepsius, and I ought to have been prepared for the dismal reality, but hope will ever triumph over fact in my imagination. Some of the pyramids still stood relatively intact, but they were pathetic substitutes for the great stone tombs of Giza and Dahshur. Most were only tumbled piles of stone, with no sign of a pyramid shape. The whole area was strewn with fallen blocks and heaps of debris. It would take weeks, perhaps months, of arduous labour to make sense of the plan, even if we had had the necessary number of workers.

    I had hoped to find a tomb chapel or other structure that could be converted into a residence, but my sand-and sun-strained eyes searched in vain for any such convenience. The temperature was approximately one hundred degrees Fahrenheit, the camel's jolting gait had reduced my muscles to jelly, and blowing sand had scoured the skin from my face and seeped into every crevice of my clothing. I turned a look of bitter reproach (for my throat was too parched for speech) on my husband, who had ignored the sensible advice of the military authorities and insisted on travelling by camel instead of waiting until we could hire a boat.

    Impervious to my distress, Emerson urged his camel to kneel. Dismounting with the agility of a boy half his age, his face beaming, he hastened to me and addressed the animal upon which I perched 'Adar ya-yan! Come along now, you heard me - adar ya-yan, I say.' The cursed camel, which had grumbled and protested every order I had given it, promptly obeyed Emerson. Those among my Readers who are acquainted with the habits of camels know that they lower the front end first. Since they have extraordinarily long limbs, this procedure tilts their bodies to a considerable degree. Stiff and exhausted, caught unawares by the quickness of Emerson and the camel, I slid down the slope and fell to the ground.

    Emerson picked me up and dusted me off. 'Quite all right, are you, Peabody?' he asked cheerfully. 'We'll pitch our tents there, between those two southernmost pyramids, don't you think? Quite. Come along, Peabody, don't dawdle, it will be dark soon. Mohammed - Ahmet - Ramses - '

    Spurred by his enthusiasm and his friendly curses - and no doubt by the desire for food, rest, and water- the men began to unload the camels. I leaned against mine, which had lowered its back section and lay upon the sand. It turned its head to look at me. I cleared my throat. 'Don't even think of it,' I said hoarsely. The camel coughed, in the irritating way they have, and looked away.

    Some water from the small canteen attached to my belt restored me to my usual self, and I hastened to assist Emerson. After I had pointed out that he had picked the wrong place for the camp, and found a better one, matters went smoothly. By the time the sun had sunk below the western hills I was able to retire to the privacy of a tent and remove my sandy, perspiration-soaked garments. The relief was indescribable. When I emerged I found Emerson and Ramses sitting cross-legged on a bit of carpet. A small fire crackled merrily; some distance away was the fiery glow of a larger fire, and I could hear the cheerful voices of the men and smell dinner cooking. Emerson quickly jumped up and led me to a chair, placing a glass in my hand.

    The cool night breeze stirred the damp tendrils of my