Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [120]
“They are both all right,” I said, deciding this was not the time to enter into detail. “Emerson, let’s go.”
“Not just yet,” said Emerson. He set Sennia on her feet. “I have a few questions to put to this woman.”
“Don’t frighten her,” Sennia cried. She ran to the woman, who was crouched by the brazier, and put her small arms around the shaking form. “She was kind. She only did what he told her. It wasn’t her fault.”
She wore the single garment characteristic of the poorest women of Upper Egypt, a square of dark brown woolen fabric wrapped round the body like the stola of the Greeks. It exposed her stringy arms and wrinkled throat. Her withered hands fumbled with the folds of the garment, trying to draw it over her head and face, but she was so frightened she could not manage it. My vision had become accustomed to the dim light; when she raised her head I saw her eyes were white with cataracts. She was blind.
“Who are you?” she quavered. “What do you want with me?”
Pity replaced the wrath that had darkened Emerson’s countenance. He spoke to the woman in Arabic, softening his gruff voice as much as was possible. “We mean you no harm, Mother. I am the Father of Curses, and this is my wife, the Sitt Hakim. Only tell us who brought the child here and what he meant to do with her.”
It took a while—and a number of caresses from Sennia—to win the poor thing’s confidence. She said she knew nothing of the business except that her son had told her she must keep Sennia hidden for a few hours. He would return after darkness had fallen to take her away. He had not explained why; she had not asked. I believed her. The woman’s role was to hear and obey, and she was too frightened and too frail to lie.
“We are going to take the child with us,” Emerson said. “We are her family. Will he harm you, Mother, when he finds she is gone?”
“No, no. He is a good son. He takes care of me. He would not have hurt the child. I think . . .” She hesitated. “I think someone gave him money. We have very little.”
She had a little more when we left. Emerson is extremely soft-hearted. I only hoped she had been telling the truth when she claimed her son would not blame her for the loss of his prisoner. There was no way she could have prevented it, but some men will vent their anger on the nearest object, especially if it is weaker than they are.
Emerson took Sennia up in front of him and she settled in the curve of his arm with a sigh. “Can we go home now? I want to see Gargery and Horus and I am very thirsty; she offered me water, but you told me not to drink water unless it was boiled.”
I unhooked my canteen and handed it to Emerson. “You are a good girl, to remember that when you were so frightened.”
“I wasn’t frightened. Not very. I knew you would come.”
Over her head Emerson’s eyes met mine. I knew he was remembering another child who had said something of the sort to us many years before. Honesty compels me to remark that in Ramses’s case the innumerable mishaps from which we had rescued him were usually his own fault, but this was not true of Sennia; we had failed her and it was only due to the mercy of God and the courage of Gargery that matters had turned out as well as they had.
Sennia handed the canteen back to me. “Can we go home now, please?”
When we reached the house we found a large crowd assembled—all our skilled men, all the female servants, and half a dozen of the gaffirs. Ali the doorman was not at the door; he was with the others, brandishing a heavy stick and shouting at the top of his lungs. His demands and those of the others were directed at Selim; they wanted action and they wanted it now, and poor Selim’s attempts to be heard over the bedlam were in vain. He was the first to see us. The change in his expression made the others turn, and then we were the center of the shouting mob.
It took quite some time to quiet them. Kadija carried Sennia off to see Gargery and Fatima ran to the kitchen to cook Sennia’s favorite