The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [8]
He knew where to find Zaal. He’d heard a lot about the fellow the year before, when he was excavating in Palestine with Reisner. Zaal was a bandit in the old style, preying on Arab and European alike, and retreating after each raid to the ruined castle he had made his headquarters. His followers were a scruffy lot, as cowardly and corrupt as Zaal himself, but a direct attack on the place would have been dangerous, owing to its location and remaining fortifications. The old Crusaders had known how to build a stronghold.
Ramses had no intention of attacking directly. It didn’t take him long to make his arrangements; he had friends in a number of places. The small oasis he selected was not far from the castle. Imposingly bearded and robed, in imitation of a well-known local gentleman, he settled down to wait, certain that the word would soon get back to Zaal. A single traveler, richly attired and accompanied by a heavily laden camel, was an irresistible target.
He put up only a token resistance when the motley crowd of riders descended on him. Pinioned inefficiently by two of the men, he endured a few kicks and blows with traditional Arabic stoicism until a whoop of delight from the fellows investigating the camel’s cargo distracted his tormentors. It didn’t occur to the greedy swine to ask what misadventure had kept him there so long, or to wonder why the noble, pious Prince Feisal was squatting beside a camel loaded with whiskey.
They had emptied several bottles, passing them from hand to hand, before they hoisted him onto a horse and tied his feet to the stirrups. Ramses wished they would get on with it. One of the villains had claimed his elegant robes and leather boots, and the sun was scorching his bare skin. He was pleased but not surprised to see them unload the whiskey and distribute it amongst themselves before they mounted. Zaal’s indifference to the laws of Islam was shared by his men, but they did not share the liquor he kept for himself and his favorites.
The ruined ramparts rose up against the sky as they approached, winding along a steep path between rocky outcroppings. At the hail of the man leading the procession, the gate swung open and Ramses took careful note of the internal arrangements. An open courtyard, a few crude structures to shelter men and horses, a weighted bar on the inside of the gate … No, it shouldn’t be difficult, assuming Percy was ambulatory.
He was looking forward to meeting his cousin, but he had to face Zaal first. The encounter was not without its points of interest, and only a trifle more unpleasant than he had expected. Zaal must have attained his position of leadership through sheer viciousness, since his physical endowments were not impressive. Of middle height, his beard and hair streaked with gray, he was so fat he resembled the obese bow-legged Egyptian god Bes as he waddled toward his captive.
“So who is this peasant?” he demanded. “Why did you bring him here?”
“He is a person of importance,” the leader of the gang insisted. “He wore garments of silk trimmed with gold …”
“Ah? Where are they, then?”
A heated discussion about the disposition of the garments followed. Ramses cut it short. Folding his arms across his chest, he looked down his nose at Zaal and announced his adopted identity.
“So.” Zaal’s piggy little eyes brightened. “The son of Sheikh Mohammed?”
“The eldest son,” Ramses corrected, with appropriate hauteur.
“Soooo. He would pay a large price to get you back?”
“To get me back undamaged, yes.”
He stressed the essential word. He had heard about certain of Zaal’s habits, and he didn’t much care for the look in those squinting eyes as they moved over his body.
Zaal grinned and scratched his side. “Of course. I would like to be on good terms with your honored father. Sit down and talk. Drink tea with me.”
May