Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [38]
From Manuscript H
As he stood watching the loading, Ramses was conscious of what his mother would have called a hideous premonition. He knew what had caused it. There were too many people—the wrong sort of people—preparing to board Farah’s wretched vessel.
The scene was familiar to him: porters trotting back and forth with their heavy loads, their half-naked bodies gleaming with sweat. Their complexions ranged in color from pale brown to deep black, and their features showed the mixture of races found in the region—Arab and Bagheera, Dinka and Shilluk. A few women were present, carrying trays of fruit and trinkets they hoped to peddle to the travelers. Some wore the enveloping black burka, but most of them were unveiled, their bodies—more or less—covered with strips of bright fabric. One bare-breasted damsel whose hair was interwoven with gold coins caught his eye and smiled. He knew better than to return the smile. Not with his mother ten feet away.
Normal, all of it. What wasn’t normal was the fact that the would-be passengers were not locals. One group of four were talking loudly in German. Another man, obviously English, wore military uniform.
Then the premonition focused onto someone who was pushing through the crowd. He stepped back, stooping a little in the hope that Newbold wouldn’t see him, hoping even more that the hunter didn’t intend to take the boat. It was a forlorn hope. Newbold started toward the gangplank. He had to stop to let several porters come down, and then Ramses caught sight of the woman who was with him.
She had stopped when he stopped, a little behind him, her head bowed. It was covered by a loose scarf which she had drawn across her face. Newbold held her arm in a grip firm enough to wrinkle the fine linen fabric of the robe that concealed her body from throat to ankles; they were slim, brown ankles circled with heavy gold bands hung with coins. Her wrists and slender fingers were also ringed with gold.
The porters dawdled, in no hurry to pick up additional loads. Newbold cursed their slowness, and the woman let out a little cry of pain and let go her scarf in order to tug at the fingers squeezing her arm.
Not a woman—a girl, surely no older than sixteen. He had expected that, from the delicacy of her bare ankles and the slender curves molded by the hot wind against her linen garment—and by his knowledge of Newbold’s tastes. But he hadn’t expected a face of such sweetness, her lips gently curved, her dark eyes enhanced by long lashes and winged brows.
He wasn’t aware of having moved until he stood beside them. “Let go of her,” he said.
Newbold gave an exaggerated start of surprise. “Oh, it’s you. Is the rest of the family here?”
“I told you to let her go. You’re hurting her.”
“Am I? Oh dear. I certainly didn’t intend to. Sorry, Daria. This is young Mr. Emerson, the famous Egyptologist.”
She looked up at him from under her lashes and smiled. Ramses took off his hat. “Salaam aleikhum, Sitt.”
Newbold’s grin broadened. “Your mum would be proud of your manners. She speaks English. Answer the gentleman, Daria.”
“Good morning, sir,” she murmured.
“Pretty creature, isn’t she?” Newbold ran a possessive hand over her sleek black hair and played with the end of her veil. “I bought her in Khartoum.”
Ramses knew the man was goading him, but he didn’t entirely succeed in hiding his disgust. Newbold howled with laughter. “Just a joke,” he sputtered. “Slavery is against the law. You don’t suppose I’d break the law, do you? Her dad and I came to an agreement—with her consent, of course. Isn’t that right, Daria? You wanted to be with me.”
Face calm as that of a lady saint in a painted icon, she nodded, and responded, unresisting, to the pressure of Newbold’s hand as he guided her