A River in the Sky (26 page)

“All right, are you, Peabody?” he inquired. “Daoud?”

Daoud nodded. He was a trifle green and he was clutching the side of the carriage with both hands. I said, “Well done, my dear. Did you anticipate the roadblock?”

“I thought some such contingency might arise. I ought to have warned you, as I did Nefret and Selim, but I felt certain that you would rise to the occasion.”

“Our driver deserves commendation as well,” I said. Leaning forward, I said in Arabic, “Good work, my friend. You have earned much baksheesh.”

A wordless mumble was the only response.

“He may be one of those who believe it improper to look upon the face of an unveiled woman,” said Emerson. “Damn-fool notion, but no more idiotic than a good many of the—”

“I am familiar with your views on that subject, my dear,” I said. “Should we not press on with all possible speed?”

“How much farther, do you suppose?”

“We must be fairly close. If the guidebook is accurate, the place should be visible from—” I broke off with a cry of excitement and
pointed with my parasol. A short distance ahead, on the left-hand side of the road, rose a steep hill crowned with uneven stones like jagged teeth. From it rose a thick column of smoke.

F
ROM
M
ANUSCRIPT
H

Despite David’s objections Ramses managed to persuade him to take another dose of the herbal brew. He couldn’t be sure it was doing any good—the fever might have run its course naturally—but it wouldn’t hurt David to have a solid night’s sleep. David badgered him into taking a few sips himself. The keen eye of a friend hadn’t missed the signs Ramses was unwilling to admit even to himself. They weren’t severe and might have been the result of fatigue and worry—loss of appetite, moments of unsteadiness. He told himself he could stick it out for another day. Things were looking up, there was even a chance of rescue soon, but he wasn’t willing to risk the possibility that an enemy might catch both of them dead to the world—which they would be, literally. He spat out the last mouthful of medicine when David wasn’t looking at him.

Even then, his slumber was heavier than he would have wished. It might have been a birdcall or animal sound that woke him—or that sixth sense his mother called the sleeping sentinel. It sent the adrenaline flooding into his veins, and he stiffened, listening intently. A dim light filtered into the keep through the broken entrance where he lay. Night was ending. Dawn was not far off. He pulled himself to his feet and looked out into a gray morning and the shapes of moving shadows.

He couldn’t tell how many of them there were, but one or more was already inside the gate. He drew back, wishing, not for the first time, that he had a weapon, even a club. He had tried to break off a
tree limb, but the tough old branches resisted his best efforts. He picked up a rock and waited.

The voice spoke again, closer now, but not close enough for him to make out the words. Mansur stepped into view. His hands were raised. Neither held a weapon. He took a few steps forward, and Ramses saw he was not alone. Immediately behind him was his manservant, the one who had waited on him during the banquet. Several other men crowded through the gate. They were dressed in the same rough garments his first guide had worn, and each had a long knife thrust through his belt.

“Come out. We know you are there. Resistance is useless.”

The words were English, but the voice wasn’t the one he had expected. Mansur’s lips had not moved.

The speaker had to be Mansur’s servant. It could be a trick to get him out in the open. What would be the point, though? There were at least six of them, all armed. He couldn’t hold them off. If he gave himself up they might not bother looking for David. He could tell them David had got away.

He moistened his dry lips and spoke. “Who are you?”

“The enemies of your enemy. Come out, we mean you no harm.”

They all moved forward, step by step, like hunters trying not to startle a timid animal. The rising sun shone full on them now, and Ramses saw that Mansur’s face was streaked with blood and that the man behind him held a knife at his back, and that the other men had boxed him in on three sides, their knives drawn.

His mind seemed to be working at half-speed. Not until Mansur’s servant pushed his sleeve back and showed his bare forearm did he put the clues together. Cautiously he came out into the open.

“The Sons of Abraham,” he said. “Then you are—you are…”

He couldn’t think of the right word. The fellow didn’t look like a commander or a spiritual leader; he was as unremarkable as ever, short-statured and slender, his beard scarcely touched with gray. His
eyes ought to have been glowing with intelligence, his pose one of pride and dignity. The eyes were a muddy brown, and his narrow shoulders were hunched.

“You may call me Ismail,” he said, giving the name its Arabic pronunciation. “Or Ishmael, if you prefer.”

Ramses rubbed his aching forehead. “I don’t understand. Why did you bring him here?”

“We did not bring him. He brought us. When he ordered me to come with him to the Hill of Blood and bring those who would assist him, I knew your presence had been betrayed. So I did as he asked. Except that the men I chose were my men, not his.” He looked around at the grim walls and desolate ground. “This place is fitting. Prepare him.”

Ramses watched in disbelief while two of the men stripped Mansur of his robe and laid him down across one of the larger blocks, his bare arms extended, his wrists held tightly. For the first time Ramses had a good look at the mark on his forearm. It was the same as the others he had seen, a strange cryptogram that might have been the Hebrew letter aleph crossed by another symbol. Mansur was passive in their grasp, his face as wooden as ever. To judge by the blood on his face, he had put up a fight initially, but he was now resigned to whatever fate awaited him. He didn’t look at Ramses, not even when Ismail stood over him with a drawn knife. The tableau was horribly reminiscent of scenes from Aztec tombs depicting a priest cutting the heart from a living sacrifice.

“No,” Ramses exclaimed. “No. You mustn’t.”

“Who will stop me? You?”

“If I can.” He twisted away from the first man who would have taken hold of him and kicked out at a second. His foot missed its target, delivering a blow on the thigh that didn’t even stagger the fellow. Then they were both on him, and after a brief, ineffectual struggle, they held him fast.

Ismail hadn’t moved. He studied Ramses with mild curiosity.

“You would fight for him? He would have taken your life.”

Ramses was aware of Mansur’s dark, sardonic eyes watching him. He’s waiting for me to spout a string of public-school clichés, he thought. “I would fight him, on equal grounds, and kill him, if it were the only way of saving my own life. I am no saintly martyr. I cannot stand by while you murder a helpless man.”

“You do. In your prisons and execution chambers. In war.”

“I deplore both. But the prisoner has had a fair trial and the soldier is armed.”

The other man’s lips parted in a smile. “That is not always true. You reason like a philosopher; if I had time I would enjoy debating with you. Will your conscience be at ease if I tell you that he has been tried, by his peers, and condemned?”

“No. What is his crime?”

“That is not your concern. Where is your friend?”

There hadn’t been a sound from David. Ramses hoped he was still sleeping, or that if he wasn’t, he had sense enough to remain silent and out of sight. “Gone,” he said curtly.

“So long as he does not try to interfere.”

The men who held Ramses tightened their grip. The knife blade caught the light, once, twice, in flashing movements. Blood spurted up in the cuts, obscuring the design on Mansur’s arm.

Ismail stepped back, wiped the knife on his robe, and then sheathed it.

“He is yours now,” he said. “Do as you will with him.”

The men restraining Ramses let go their hold. With Ismail in the lead, the entire group started back toward the gate.

“Wait!” Ramses shouted. “Come back. I want…Oh, dammit.”

He had a choice between catching Ismail up and demanding answers to various vital questions, and letting Mansur lose a vital amount of blood. Ripping a strip from the hem of his shirt, he hurried to the
recumbent man and whipped a makeshift tourniquet around his upper arm.

The injury wasn’t as bad as it had appeared. The knife had nicked a small artery, but most of the blood came from one of the large veins. Still, it required attention, and Mansur wasn’t doing a damn thing to help himself. He remained motionless, staring up at the sky.

“Hold on to this,” Ramses snapped. “I’ve got antiseptic and bandages in my pack.”

He tumbled the contents of his pack onto the ground and hurried back with his mother’s medical kit, pausing only long enough to look in on David. His slumber was so profound that Ramses began to wonder whether the most recent packet of herbs hadn’t been stronger than the first. Mansur didn’t speak until Ramses had finished disinfecting and bandaging the wound.

“You expect thanks, I presume,” he said.

“No. A few answers would be nice, though.”

“For example?”

“Who are the Sons of Abraham?”

“You would call them a cult, I expect.” Mansur sat up and reached for his robe. “Is there water?”

Ramses fetched the skin and waited impatiently while Mansur drank long and deeply. “Go on,” he said.

Mansur wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “They prefer to call themselves a faith. They are very old, many centuries old. They believe in the brotherhood of Jew and Arab, of all those who have lived in this land and become part of it. They work peacefully and patiently for freedom and in dependence.”

“And they let you join?”

Mansur’s lips curved in a tight smile. “Their goals are mine. However, after a time I realized that they were willing to wait for many more centuries rather than take the action that would win them what they want. They would lose, because the pacifists and idealists always lose.”

He paused. Ramses waited for a few moments and then prompted him. “You used the prestige you gained from being a member of this old and respected organization to instigate a revolution. You betrayed their principles. It took them a while to catch up with you, though.”

Mansur glanced up at the sky. The sun was visible over the top of the wall. “Matters did not go quite as I planned,” he admitted. “Have you a cigarette?”

Ramses had been hoarding them and the few remaining matches, but he wanted Mansur to go on talking. He handed them over, with a wary eye on the other man’s hands. Mansur wasn’t armed, and although Ramses wasn’t at his best, he was pretty certain he could take a wounded man.

That wasn’t what Mansur had in mind. He lit his cigarette and tossed the match aside. It landed in an inconspicuous pile of dried grass. Small flames licked up. Mansur leaped to his feet and kicked the spreading fire into a patch of weedy branches.

It had to be a signal. Ramses sprang toward it. Mansur kicked him in the ankle and he fell flat. When he pulled himself to a sitting position he saw Mansur standing over him with a sizable stone in his right hand.

“This is what you should have done to me,” he said, and brought the stone down on Ramses’s head.

“There! Do you see?” I shrieked, gesturing with my parasol. “Hurry, Emerson, hurry; they are being immolated!”

Emerson let out a string of oaths in a variety of languages and urged his steed to a gallop. I did not need to prod my driver; with a wordless whoop he cracked his whip, and our equipage thundered away in pursuit of Emerson.

If I had been thinking clearly instead of allowing the anxious heart of a parent to guide my tongue, I would have realized the verb was probably exaggerated. It was just as likely that the smoke was a signal from Ramses himself, to guide us. Still, haste was of the essence—all the more so because coming toward us, though still some distance away, was a sizable body of men wearing Turkish uniforms.

We would have missed the path if we had not been looking for it. Hardly more than a rutted track, it cut off to the left between two rugged banks. Still in the lead, since she had never slackened pace,
Nefret swerved abruptly and disappeared into the cleft. Selim was close behind her and Emerson was not far behind Selim. I was on my feet, shouting encouragement and instructions to the driver, when we reached the spot. He made the turn so abruptly that I would have fallen had it not been for my firm grip on the rail and Daoud’s big hands holding me. The path was scarcely wide enough for a carriage—if it were carefully driven. Ours struck the side and came to a shuddering stop. Held erect only by Daoud’s grasp, I watched in stunned surprise as the driver leaped from his perch and cut both horses loose. Uttering equine noises of alarm, they trotted on up the path.

Daoud jumped down and caught the driver by the throat. “He turned purposely into the bank, Sitt Hakim. He is one of the enemy! But I will not let him harm you. I have him fast.”

The last sentence was certainly true. The driver’s headcloth had slipped down over his eyes and his scarf was twisted tightly round his neck. Clawing at it, he strove to speak but could only gurgle. Conceive of my astonishment, dear Reader, when he took the end of his nose between thumb and forefinger and wriggled it—twice!

The entire incident had transpired so quickly that the wheels of the carriage, two of them off the ground, were still spinning. I climbed out of the vehicle and approached the driver, remarking as I did so, “You had better release him, Daoud. Go on, I will catch you up.”

Daoud cast an agonized glance over his shoulder. Sounds indicative of combat floated down to us from above, echoed by running footsteps from below, at the entrance to the path. Whipping my little pistol from my pocket, I fired several shots toward the approaching soldiers. Since I had not actually hit anyone, I doubted it would deter them for long, but it might give them pause, in both senses of the phrase.

“Go on,” I said again. “That is an order, Daoud.”

Daoud was torn between his need to protect me and his desire to aid his friends, but his faith in me was unquestioned. He dropped the driver and ran. I pushed the fellow’s headcloth up and looked into a pair of bulging pale blue eyes.

“Ah,” I said. “Mr. Courtney Camden. Why did you not inform me of your true identity, and why did you wreck the carriage? Be succinct, I beg.”

Mr. Camden, being still short of breath, gesticulated frantically. “Block the entrance,” he gasped. “Turks. Do you…go on. I will—”

“We will go on together. Though I yearn to be at the side of my valiant allies and, if my prayers have been answered, my errant son, I am confident that they have already got the situation well in hand, and that my assistance is not—”

Mr. Camden emitted a loud growling sound, caught hold of my hand, and proceeded on up the path, pulling me with him.

The path twisted and turned, seeking the easiest ascent, but it was steep enough. Thanks to Mr. Camden and my trusty parasol, which served as a walking stick, I had no difficulty. At last we emerged onto a plateau some ten acres in extent, with the walls of a ruined yet imposing fortress directly ahead. A number of horses, including the two from the carriage, were ambling about nibbling at the rank grass and shrubs that covered the ground. The sounds of combat had subsided, which was reassuring or the reverse, depending on one’s anticipations.

“Go slowly,” I urged. “If our friends have been overcome we will take the enemy by surprise.”

“And hit them with your parasol? Oh, confound it, you are right. Slowly it is.”

The great gateway, flanked by towers, was before us. As we passed through, each of us trying to get ahead of the other, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and turned my head in time to behold
the hindquarters of one of the horses heading (if that term is appropriate) down the path to the road.

After some casting about we located the gate in the inner wall. Mr. Camden would have held me back; I flung off his hand.

“All is well,” I said. “I can hear Emerson swearing at Ramses.”

To be accurate, he was not swearing at Ramses but swearing in general, interspersing his oaths with such phrases as “All right, are you, my boy?” and “We are on the job, lie still!” This was reasonably good proof that Ramses was still alive, and it was with a mind relieved that I entered the inner area.

My first impression was one of utter chaos. Wisps of smoke arose from smoldering patches of brush, which Selim and Daoud were methodically stamping out. The drifting gray shapes lent a spectral look to the scene, with its rubble-strewn ground and the looming shape of the inner keep. Naturally my eyes went first to the touching tableau with David and Ramses at its center. At least I assumed the tatterdemalion, filthy forms were theirs. Their faces were unrecognizable, the lower half covered with straggling beards, the upper half with mops of hair that had not seen a comb or brush for days. However, Ramses’s nose was unmistakable. He lay on his back, his head in Nefret’s lap. David sat cross-legged on the ground nearby and Emerson paced up and down, rubbing his chin and of course still swearing. Upon observing me he swung round and demanded, “What took you so long?”

“We were delayed by a slight accident,” I replied. “It seems you did not require my assistance, however.”

“We could have used a bit of help,” Emerson admitted. “What with four—or was it five?—villains trying to make off with Ramses, and David staggering after them waving a broken branch, and Nefret—”

“You can continue your spirited narrative later, Emerson.”

I knelt by Ramses and brushed the hair away from his forehead. What I could see of his skin was flushed and red. “Gracious,” I said, “he is burning with fever.”

“It’s the same illness I had,” David said. “I’m much better, but he caught it from me.”

“He also has a nasty lump on his head,” Nefret said.

“Concussion?” I inquired, probing the area she indicated with expert fingers.

Before she could answer, Ramses opened his eyes. “Good morning, Mother. I thought I recognized your touch.”

I
T TOOK A WHILE
to sort things out. Everyone had a tale to tell and everyone wanted to tell it at once, and I had to forbid further discussion until we had dealt with the most important matter, namely, getting the boys safely home and being cared for. A slight diversion, in the shape of half a dozen Turkish soldiers erupting into the courtyard, was quickly dealt with by Emerson, who fired several shots from a pistol I had not known he possessed over their heads and sent them scampering for safety. David gathered their few possessions, and Emerson wanted to carry Ramses, who turned an even brighter red with indignation at the idea, but he was not unwilling to be guided along by Daoud. As they made their way to the gate I took a final look round. “Are they dead?” I inquired of Emerson, indicating several recumbent forms—another group of soldiers, to judge by their attire.

Emerson chuckled. “Playing possum, as Vandergelt would say. They are waiting for us to leave so they can skulk away.” He added negligently, “I got the distinct impression that their hearts were not in this fight. When we went after them they either ran or fell flat.”

Supported by Daoud and David, Ramses suddenly planted his
feet and pulled away from them. “Ran. Who…Dammit, Daoud, let me go. I have to see…”

His eyes moved slowly round, from one motionless body to another. “Where is he?” he asked vaguely. “I don’t see him.”

“Who?” I asked. “We are all here, my dear. Selim and Daoud and—”

“No, no. Mansur. He was here, he…”

The name meant nothing to any of us except David. Knowing Ramses would stay on his feet talking until he got an answer, David said, “He got away, Ramses. Don’t think about that now. We’ll catch up with him.”

Ramses said distinctly, “God damn it all to hell,” and fell into Daoud’s arms.

Several of the horses were still lazing about the outer entrance; we found the rest along the path, and standing by the overturned carriage, which blocked further progress.

The carriage was undamaged except for a few dents, and Selim was able to repair the harness with some of the bits of wire he always carried with him, so we were soon on our way. I took my seat on the box next to the driver, explaining—truthfully—that the carriage was somewhat cramped with three additional passengers. Neither of the boys was fit to ride. Nefret, promptly and without comment, took her place between them.

Mr. Camden, as I must continue to call him, had retreated into his driver persona as soon as he realized his active assistance was not required. No one paid him the least notice (except for Emerson, who delivered a hearty slap on the back and a loud “Good chap!”). It seemed to me an excellent opportunity for a private chat, since the ambient noises made it impossible for us to be overheard. I therefore requested he explain himself.

“I can keep nothing from you, Mrs. Emerson,” he said morosely.

“That is correct.”

“You have probably guessed—deduced, rather—a good deal of it. I am the representative of MO2 in Jerusalem. I owe the position to my brother, George Tushingham, whom I believe you met in London.”

“Aha!” I exclaimed. “Mr. Tushingham, the botanist. I knew you looked familiar. I would have made the connection eventually. So your real name is Tushingham.”

“I beg you will continue to call me by the name the others know. I was told of your mission before you arrived, and my assignment was to assist you in any way possible, without revealing my true identity.”

“Typical male stupidity,” I remarked. “The obsession with secrecy and the refusal of different parts of the bureaucracy to communicate with one another can only lead to—”

“In any case,” said Mr. Camden, raising his voice slightly, “it was some time before I realized our contact at the hotel was out of commission and that my message had probably never reached you.”

“Another example of masculine incompetence. To rely on a single link—”

“Quite, Mrs. Emerson. I was therefore forced to approach you directly, with no means of establishing my bona fides should that become necessary.”

The carriage hit a rut; I caught hold of my hat with one hand and Mr. Camden with the other. “But the signal you gave me—”

This time Mr. Camden’s interruption came in the form of a fit of coughing. I slapped him on the back, rather more forcibly than was necessary, since the truth had begun to dawn on me.

“Speak up,” I exclaimed. “The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!”

“Well—um—you see…I’m afraid that was one of Mr. Boniface’s little jokes. He told me of it when I saw him in Jaffa a few days ago.”

“Jokes,” I repeated.

“He laughed quite heartily about it. He had taken a bit too much to drink, I believe.” Glancing uneasily at me, Mr. Camden went on, “Naturally I reprimanded him severely. However, it served us well in the end, did it not? I couldn’t think what else to do when your large friend was throttling me.”

After a few moments of cogitation, I said very calmly, “So it would seem. I will have a few words to say to Mr. Boniface when next I encounter him. Was there anything in the missing message I ought to know?”

“It concerned Mme—er—”

“There you go again with your confounded secrecy. No one can hear us. Mme von Eine, yes. I deduced her identity without your assistance.”

The great gate of the Holy City came into view; Camden urged the horses to a quicker pace. He was not enjoying our conversation. I had one more important point to make, however, and I proceeded to make it.

“Since your normal means of communication is still inoperative, I think it best that you should be available at all times. Be at the hotel tomorrow morning at eight. We will be proceeding to Siloam. I expect to have the house ready for occupancy within the next day or two. That will put us on the spot while Morley’s excavations are progressing and will enable us to find out what the lady is up to. Have you any questions?”

“No, ma’am,” said Mr. Camden meekly. “Yes, ma’am. I will be there.”

It was late afternoon when we entered the city, having encountered no difficulty. The few Turkish soldiers we met ignored us, and the roadblock was gone except for scattered bits of wood. We were the cynosure of all eyes when we entered the lobby; seldom had such a motley crew arrived at that sedate hostelry. We were all dusty and
disheveled, but none of us approached the degree of social unacceptability of David and Ramses. My first act was to whisk them upstairs and order hot baths for them.

I must say, in all modesty, that in slightly more than an hour I had matters under control. All of us were neat and tidy; I had examined both boys, with Nefret’s assistance, and applied what remedies seemed appropriate. In my professional opinion David required only rest and nourishment to make a full recovery. Ramses refused to go to bed, though that was obviously the best place for him. It was during this argument—which I lost, as I might have expected—that David produced a small bundle of dried herbage from his bag.

“This was given us by the village healer,” he explained. “I took it for several days.”

I examined the herbage. “I have no idea what it can be,” I admitted. “Nefret?”

She crumbled a bit, smelled it, and tasted it. “Some variety of mint? I don’t like the idea of giving an unknown substance to either of you.”