by C J Turner
‘To recap, Ahmed Racism somehow got wind that Naa’il had found a genuine artefact and believed it would provide a clue to some vast undiscovered treasure-tomb, which little fantasy Naa’il obviously planted in his mind as a diversion. He was desperate that Rassim should not discover the painting of the scarab which might then have led him to the actual necklace which was still in Hameeda’s possession. At all costs he had to divert Rassim away from the chamber and its strange link with Naa’il own family.’ The Professor paused and nodded to Hameeda.
‘I only wish he had trusted me, but at the time I had no idea that he had actually found a genuine dagger in the tomb. However, now that Rassim is dead, I think the best thing we can do for Naa’ill is to replace it back in Kenna’s chamber where he found it, which I have no doubt, he would have done himself, if he had been able to.’
Hameeda smilingly agreed, a solitary tear rolling down her cheeks and Max sighed, as if a great weight had been lifted from him.
They all jumped when the door was suddenly flung back and Amunet came stumbling into the room. Max, with great presence of mind, quickly threw his jacket over the dagger where it lay on the coffee table and Hameeda jumped up in dismay, but Amunet, ignoring their exclamations of concern at her obvious distress, ran over to the Professor’s chair and knelt by his side.
‘Please, help them – you must not return the dagger to the tomb, you must not!’
She was staring at him in painful intensity, her eyes dark with distress in her white face.
‘What’s the matter, Amunet? Have you had another nightmare?’ He sat up but she leaned over, her hand clutching his arm as if to physically prevent him from leaving and he could feel the thrumming tension in her body as he looked down at her in perplexity.
She shook her head and hesitantly, picking her words with difficulty, she sought to explain her forebodings.
‘The dagger must not go back to the painted chamber – it does not belong there!’
Hameeda gasped and looked at her niece anxiously, ‘What do you mean, Netta – why should the dagger not go back to its rightful place?’
A strange expression passed over Amunet’s face, she seemed suddenly to register where she was. Sighing wearily, she rubbed a shaking hand across her forehead, ‘I don’t know, it’s not right - it is an evil thing - the painted chamber is not its rightful place.’
Blake was still pondering her odd use of the pronoun. He stared down at her. Whom had she meant by ‘them’?
Amunet met his eyes for a long minute with entreaty in her own, then the thick tangled lashes swept down and she slowly stood up. Abruptly the tension slid from her body leaving her swaying like a puppet whose strings have been suddenly cut. Even before Max had started to his feet in alarm, Blake had swept her up in his arms and was looking grimly across at Hameeda.
‘Get a doctor, she’s overwrought and exhausted, and she needs sleep. Tell him to give her a mild sedative, I will take her to her room but she is not to be left alone. Now do you understand what we are upagainst?’
Hameeda thought she did understand and did not need urging to stay with her niece.
In their concern for Amunet, the dagger had been left unheeded on the table. When Blake returned, the room was empty and he assumed that Max had put it away but Max was intensely worried about Amunet and had no thought beyond finding a doctor and getting his opinion on her state of health. The dagger had been in Blake’s charge and Max did not give its whereabouts another thought.
The main thought occupying Blake’s mind was how, at that precise moment, had Amunet known of his intention to replace the dagger in the tomb? She had not been in the room when he had first made the suggestion. Coincidence, or what?
Unaccountably ill at ease, he decided to call Alice in England and bring her up to date with what had happened, and also to see if she could shed any light on Amunet’s reaction.
Alice thought she could and she told him so. He heard the words but it seemed to him that she was talking complete gibberish. Fighting down all his natural prejudices, he tried to make sense of what she was saying.
‘Then that’s why she didn’t want the dagger to be put back in Kenna’s tomb!’
‘Exactly! The dagger only got there by chance but it seems to be acting as some sort of transmitter to carry out Menkherperne’s will ... (Alice’s voice was interrupted by a burst of noisy static) …it carries the blood of both …’(this time her voice broke up and disappeared entirely.)
This was going too far and fast for Blake but by the time he had swallowed back his first biting reaction to this extraordinary statement, Alice had moved on and her next words were loud and clear.
‘There are two opposing forces here and Amunet seems to be caught in the middle …’ her voice started to break up again as he lost the weak signal, just faintly he caught her last words before the line went dead. ‘The talisman … it is her only hope …’
Blake disconnected, but he was left with the strong impression that Alice had not been referring to Amunet, just before the line went dead.
Amunet slept for four solid hours and wakened feeling refreshed. She seemed to have completely forgotten all about the earlier distressing scene, but asked her Aunt to present her apologies to the others tonight, as she would not be joining them for dinner. Uneasy, Hameeda’s suspicions were growing stronger as she witnessed her niece’s sudden and unpredictable mood swings for herself.
That evening was Gala night at the Hotel and the guests had been invited to appear in fancy dress. Max and Blake had declined this dubious treat, appearing in conventional evening dress and in any case Hameeda always wore the traditional robes of a respectable Arab lady, but most of the other guests had made the most of the opportunity, to greater or rather more distressing, success.
Blake caught sight of Lalage seated across the dance floor with her party and she raised her glass provocatively to him, before the burly man in Sheikh’s costume by her side jealously recaptured her attention. She cut a rather dashing figure as Robin Hood with a close fitting green costume, the high tan leather boots and short suede tunic setting off her long legs and slim, rather boyish figure admirably.
The big round tables was decked sumptuously with gleaming white linen, the sparkle of silver and crystal and pretty centre piece of orchids and tiny pink rosebuds. Max proposed two toasts, first to absent loved ones, with a courtly inclination of his head to Hameeda, who thanked him gravely, and then to the success of their venture. All three were very aware of the fourth place setting and the empty chair. They had just clinked glasses when there was a sudden stir by the dining room entrance and heads craned and turned to see what was causing it.
The buzz of excitement quietened as a fanfare of silver trumpets sounded and the lights went down. Down the central aisle of the crowded room came a most extraordinary procession. Striding along in front and wielding a long gilded staff of office came Armand Revenoir, cutting an impressive figure as an ancient Egyptian major domo, dressed in white linen with gold fringing and wearing a striped linen headdress.
Behind him, glided a far more mysterious figure, moving proudly as a queen and wrapped from head to toe in glittering golden veils. She (no one was in any doubt that despite the diaphanous coverings, the figure was unmistakably feminine) was shaded from the single spotlight by a huge ostrich feather fan, wafted dexterously over her head by a small Arab boy wearing an enormous pink turban, who brought up the rear of this most exotic retinue.
The guests laughed and applauded and the major domo imperiously banged his staff on the floor, and called for silence.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, tonight it is my pleasure to bring you a rare opportunity to see a fabled ritual of the ancient east. A dance, which has within it the very essence of Egypt. This unique performance depicts the Mistress of the West, the Goddess Hathor, as she welcomes Lord Ra to his rest, and was originally performed by the temple dancers during the psalms sang by the priestesses to the closing of the day. There are few
who can interpret this art form today and by sheer luck we have such a one with us tonight, who has graciously agreed to dance for you. Ladies and gentlemen, I promise you, you will never forget what you will see here this evening.’
He bowed, first to the audience and then to the lady beside him and backed reverently away, the small boy scampering in his wake.
The spotlight dimmed, faintly illuminated the still, golden figure. Softly, a drum began to beat with a regular insistence. The tempo quickened, penetrating deep into blood and bone, so that music and heartbeat became indivisible. The audience heard the silvery chime of the sacred sistrum and very slowly, the figure began to move, first one gossamer veil and then another floating to the ground until the figure revealed was standing in a pool of shimmering gold - and such a figure!
Only one veil remained, that which covered the lower part of her face and was attached to a delicate golden diadem resting in the cloudy hair that hung halfway down her back.
For the rest, she wore nothing more than a close fitting golden slip held in place by a narrow shoulder strap. She stood still as a statue, a shapely leg revealed by the short, slanting hem which clung across one satin thigh before falling to the floor in a sweep of sheer silk.
The thin material moulded to her body like a second skin, full breasts, tiny waist and rounded curve of hip, clearly delineated. She seemed hardly to move, one small bare foot, elegant ankle hung round with gold, slid forward hesitantly – a fleeting impression of maidenly shyness – dark sweep of lashes modestly cast down above the tantalising veil.
The beat quickened again - one delicate hand tipped with gold, smoothly out thrust, a sensuous turn of hip. Suddenly the drumbeat was more insistent and her posture changed as the little feet stamped out a new rhythm, the seductive roll of her hips moving imperiously to the urgent demands of the music.
Now there was temptation, a sultry invitation that had the men stirring restlessly remembering old hungers, as they leaned forward in their chairs and the women caught their breath, their eyes glowing warm and soft in the intimate darkness.
Behind her veil, the dancer smiled a secret smile as old as the Theban hills themselves. She raised her entwined arms above her head, the movement causing the firm, pointed breasts to strain against the tight silk bodice. Someone groaned, the tempo quickened still more and the audience was caught up and swept out of themselves to another dimension by the urgent beat of the drum, ever faster and more compelling, until she brought them surely to the climax of the dance and the culmination of desire.
They watched as in a spell, every eye fixed on that slim golden figure as the drumbeat reached a crescendo and suddenly stopped. The dancer stood poised in the middle of a circle of soft light. Her head was bent in graceful condensation, the perfect curve of hip thrust out provocatively with one pretty foot resting on its toes, slender arms raised above her head, palms together, their long fingers just meeting. The perfect consummation - a maid, a siren, a goddess, touching the earth but lightly.
There was a moment of complete silence, the lights were cut, and the audience suddenly released, seemed to let out their collective breath in a long sigh of satisfaction, in which a curious sense of loss and regret were irretrievably mixed.
Then a roar of appreciation thundered across the room, shaking the chandeliers. Most of the men in the audience and many of the women too, were standing by now, still furiously clapping but this tumultuous ovation soon turned to disappointment when the lights went back up and the graceful figure of the dancer was seen to have been replaced by the more substantial form of the major domo.
To their rapturous cries of ‘Encore! Encore!’ Monsieur sadly shook his head. There would be no more, he told them, enough that they had been privileged to see the dance at all.
The guests were slowly recovering from the spell, they laughed good-naturedly, a little pink faced at their own unexpected enthusiasm, and wasted no time in ordering more drinks and getting on with the less complex business of having a good time. This, they understood and the party was resumed with gusto but, it had to be said, with considerably more warmly exchanged glances and raised pulses than there had been before the dance.
Blake had fallen under the enchantment of the dancer like everyone else, with one important difference - he knew that the dance was for him alone. As abruptly as a light going on in his head, he knew that she was for him and all his doubts were suddenly resolved.
As soon as it was over, he had abruptly left the table even before the lights had gone up. He caught up with her as she hurried along the deserted terrace outside the dining room, which led to the gardens. The air was warm and fragrant with the scent of jasmine and roses; tiny fairy lights had been concealed amongst the flowers creating a magical place designed for lovers.
He ran along the stone-flagged terrace and caught hold of her arm, swinging her round to face him. She had hastily resumed the golden veils but now he snatched them from her face.
The dancer flung up one hand to ward him off. He backed away, just a step, but his eyes never left her face and suddenly her body had slipped into the classic pose, both invitation and promise.
She heard him groan her name under his breath and then, throwing caution to the winds, he pulled her to him, his lips craving hers as a dying man seeks the breath of life.
Amunet flung both slim arms around his neck, burying her hot face into his neck. Without another word, he swept her up into his arms and carried her up to his room.
This time, there would be no interruptions.
Chapter 22
As Max waited anxiously in the dining room the next morning, he found he was spreading honey on his toast. He detested honey, and impatiently beckoned to the waiter to take away the rest of his untasted breakfast. This was unusual behaviour for Max, who usually enjoyed his food and had a reputation for being somewhat of a gourmet; the waiter was concerned and tried to tempt him by offering him a choice of alternatives.
Max was just trying to explain that it was not the food, but his lack of appetite that was at fault, when he saw the tall frame of Blake arrive in the doorway and come striding down the big room; a transformed Blake, young, vibrant, triumphant - and hand in hand with a glowing Amunet.
‘Thank God!’ Max breathed a sigh of relief and closed his eyes tightly for a moment, his napkin clenched in his hand, before leaping to his feet to welcome the radiant couple. He hugged Amunet to him and still with one arm around her, turned to Blake, to shake his hand vigorously with the other.
‘My dear, dear friends – I am so pleased for you!’ he managed to get out at last, but Blake retained his old friend’s grasp and gave him a hard look, a question in his eyes.
‘Sure?’
‘Absolutely, my dear boy, she is a darling, I don’t deny, but she’s your darling - she has been from the first!’
They sat down all suddenly laughing and talking at once and when Hameeda arrived at the table a few minutes later, Amunet flew into her arms, both chattering excitedly in Arabic. The two men stood up again punctiliously and Hameeda was seated; she twinkled across the expanse of white linen to Blake, who coloured a little, even as he met her eye.
‘So, I think you have something to ask me, young man!’ she addressed him, smiling broadly.
‘Aunt!’ Amunet protested, her own cheeks becomingly flushed.
‘But yes, you are as my daughter, and there is no one else to arrange these things for you, as is proper.’
‘No, Hameeda is right,’ replied Blake. ‘But first things first, Max I really must insist that you break off your engagement to my fiancé, before I marry her myself!’
‘Marry! My dear chap, but this is excellent!’ Max exclaimed delightedly, ‘Amunet, you must keep the ring as a wedding present!’
His jubilation suddenly faltered and he looked at her in consternation. ‘That is to say, … I am sorry, Amunet, I meant . . .not that I … I mean to say, I am extremely … but of course … hang it all - you know what I mean!’
‘Oh Max, of course I do. Admit it, you are even a tiny bit relieved! I saw your face when I threw your knife at Lalage, it was so fun…!’
‘I hope I didn’t hear that correctly?’ growled Blake ominously, but an unrepentant Amunet made a face at him,
‘It was all your own fault, and hers! Letting her…’
‘Yes, well, that is all water under the bridge now, but you should try and curb your murderous tendencies, at least round Max - he is more easily shocked than I am!’ Blake interposed hastily.
Max looked from one to the other, his mild blue eyes misty with emotion. He was, after all, only human and he was genuinely and deeply attached to Amunet but as she had shrewdly pointed out, the undeniable disappointment was somewhat mitigated by a small guilty feeling of relief.
The hitherto unsuspected streak of raw violence, followed by that incredible and unashamedly voluptuous dance, had entirely disrupted Max’s romantic perception of Amunet’s character and as he had seen last night, he did not really know her at all!
Max, too, had strongly felt the allure, but unlike Blake, the erotic promise of the dance had disconcerted him – imagine her doing that at the Hunt Ball next Christmas! She was proving to be too much of a handful for one of Max’s conservative character. Generously (but not wholly without regret), he decided that in this particular case the better man (or at least, the one best able to cope) had won!
With a sigh, he now returned to the present, but one thing was still puzzling him.
‘Amunet, I really must congratulate you also on your extraordinary performance last night – you must tell me about the dance’s origin, it was absolutely fascinating, but I don’t think….’ Max stopped, his eyes narrowing suspiciously at Amunet’s twinkling expression.
‘You made it up!’ he exclaimed accusingly. ‘Pon my word, you made the whole blessed thing up!’
Amunet burst out laughing and Hameeda threw her hands over her face, her whole frame shaking with mirth.