He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [141]
Emerson examined and returned the weapon. “I presume this is a contribution from the Turks? Hmmm, yes. A nice touch of irony, that.”
Once they had reached the top of the plateau, the ground leveled off. The old trail was only slightly harder and better defined than the surrounding desert—not the blowing sand dunes of the Western Desert, but baked earth and barren rock. There were signs of traffic: camel and donkey dung, the whitened bones of animals stripped of flesh by various predators, an occasional cigarette end, the shards of a rough pottery vessel that might have been there for three thousand years or three hours. No sign that the man they were after had passed that way; no sign that he hadn’t. As the sun rose higher, the pale-brown of sand and rock turned white with reflected light. At Ramses’s suggestion his father put his hat on. By midday they had gone a little over thirty miles, and through the shimmering haze of heat Ramses made out a small clump of trees in the distance.
“About time,” said Emerson, who had seen it too. Like Risha his horse was desert-bred and neither had been ridden hard, but they deserved a rest and the water that lay ahead.
They were still several hundred yards away from the miniature oasis when a voice hailed them, and a group of men on camels appeared over a rise north of the track. They rode straight for the Emersons, who stopped to wait for them.
“Bedouin?” inquired Emerson, narrowing his eyes against the glare of sunlight.
“Camel patrol, I think.” Whoever the men were, they carried rifles. Ramses added, “I hope.”
The uniformed group executed a neat maneuver that barred their path and surrounded them. Their dark, bearded faces would have identified them even without their insignia: Punjabis, belonging to one of the Indian battalions. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” the jemadar demanded. “Show me your papers.”
“What papers?” Emerson said. “Curse it, can’t you see we are English?”
“Some Germans can speak English. There are spies in this part of the desert. You must come with us.”
Ramses removed his pith helmet and addressed one of the troopers, a tall, bearded fellow with shoulders almost as massive as Emerson’s. “Do you remember me, Dalip Singh?” he inquired, in his best Hindustani. “We met in Cairo last month.”
It wasn’t very good Hindustani, but it had the desired effect. The man’s narrowed eyes widened, and the impressive beard parted in a smile. “Ah! You are the one they call Brother of Demons. Your pardon. I did not see your face clearly.”
Ramses introduced his father, and after an effusive exchange of compliments from everyone except the camels, they rode on toward the oasis, escorted fore and aft by their newfound friends.
A rim of crumbling brickwork surrounded the cistern that was locally known as Sitt Miryam’s Well. Almost every stopping place along the desert paths had a biblical name and legend attached to it; according to believers they marked the route of the escape into Egypt, or the wanderings of Joseph, or the Exodus.
There was not much shade, but they took advantage of what little there was. The camels lay down with their usual irritable groans and Ramses watered the horses, filling and refilling his pith helmet from the turgid waters. Emerson and the jemadar sat side by side, talking in a mixture of English and Arabic. Knowing he could leave the questioning to his father, Ramses joined the troopers for a brief language lesson.
At first all of them except Dalip Singh were somewhat formal with him, but his attempts to speak their language and his willingness to accept correction soon put them at ease. He had to have the jokes explained. Some of them were at his expense.
Finally the laughter got too loud, and the jemadar, like any good officer, recalled his men to their duties. They went off in a cloud of sand. Emerson leaned