Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [49]
“You always suspect missionaries.”
“That is because religious persons always use God as an excuse for unprincipled acts,” Emerson retorted.
We dined with the ma’mur that evening and, as courtesy demanded, stuffed ourselves with lamb and rice and couscous, dates, and heaven knows what else. Repletion did not prevent Emerson from taking full advantage of our newfound privacy.
The following day we sallied forth to visit the market. These markets are fascinating, and very enjoyable once one gets over European squeamishness about bloody carcasses of butchered animals swarming with flies, and streets littered with a variety of refuse. Our purchases were limited by practicality; any perishable item, such as fruit and vegetables, would have rotted before we reached Meroe. Nefret indulged herself in a few strips of bright fabric, declaring that as soon as we were away from civilization she intended to return to native costume.
While we were drinking tea in a café, at the invitation of the Greek proprietor (an old friend of Emerson’s), a procession went by, heading for the mosque. The personage of chief importance was riding a handsome black stallion and was escorted by several guards wearing gaudy uniforms and carrying long lances with gold-and-green pennants fluttering from their tips. Unlike the guards, who were upstanding, sturdy men, he was fat and puffy around the face, which was marred by deep lines of overindulgence and temper. Next to him rode a younger man, dressed as richly in silk and brocade.
Emerson said, “Hell and damnation!”
Emerson’s normal speaking tones are quite loud, and he did not bother to lower his voice. The older man turned his head. I had the feeling that he had been aware all along of our presence; his expression did not alter nor did he stop, but the younger dignitary examined us curiously, turning his head and continuing to stare as he went past.
“Now there,” said Emerson, saluting him with an ironic flip of his hand, “is a fellow you should avoid if you can.”
“Another old friend of yours?” I asked.
“That would be stretching it a bit. The last time I ran into him we…er…had a slight difference of opinion about—er—well, I was forced to incapacitate him and make a hasty departure from Darfur, where—”
“It was about a woman, I suppose,” I said.
“You make me sound like some sort of philanderer,” Emerson protested. “She was only a girl, who had been stolen from her young husband and her family. When she appealed to me, I had no choice but to help her.”
“I know, my dear,” I said affectionately. Emerson’s soft heart and chivalrous nature are immediately apparent to any female. So are certain other attributes of his, but I had sworn never to reproach him for anything he had done before we met.
“Who is he?” Nefret asked.
“Mahmud Dinar, the sultan of Darfur. The fellow next to him is his eldest son. He’s the only independent governor in the Sudan—a reward for his remaining loyal during the Dervish revolt. He pays a sizable tribute, though.”
“He looks as if he can afford it,” Nefret remarked.
“The slave trade pays well,” said Emerson dryly. “He turns a blind eye and collects his cut. Well, well. The only ones we’re missing are a journalist and an Egyptologist.”
When we returned to the ma’mur’s house we found a message from the mudir, a Captain Barkdoll, inviting us to tea.
“Shan’t go,” said Emerson, removing his hat and unfastening the remaining buttons of his shirt.
“Oh, yes, we shall. I had intended to call on him. All open and aboveboard, remember? You may be sure that if we don’t turn up he will come looking for us.”
Captain Barkdoll was young and very conscious of his authority. His mouse-brown hair looked as if it had been parted by a razor, and his mustache was so perfect it might have been painted on. Since he had no hostess, he asked me to pour, which of course I did.
“You did not notify the Sudan agent in Cairo of your intentions, Professor Emerson,” he began.
“Why should I?” Emerson stirred sugar into his tea. “I don’t need his permission to excavate at