The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [133]
Emerson drew himself up and skewered the presumptuous fellow with a fierce stare. “Did not the Prophet say, when he brought to his daughter the gift of a male slave, that she need not veil herself, for there was none present save her father and a slave?”
This interesting theological reference may have been too abstruse for the servant, but Emerson’s stare got the point across. “Come,” he added to Ramses.
Nefret and I quickly retreated from the door and Emerson propelled Ramses through it with a hard shove. “Now,” he said loudly, in Arabic, “make your excuses to your mistress.”
He slammed the door and Ramses looked quizzically from me to Nefret. “Which?”
“Me,” Nefret said breathlessly. “I’m the new favorite, aren’t I?”
“Speak French,” I said warningly.
Neither of them heard me, I believe. Nefret was staring at him as if she had never seen him before—which, in a way, she had not, for to the best of my knowledge this was a new role for Ramses, and when Ramses played a part he did it thoroughly. He was wearing only a pair of dirty cotton drawers and he had stained his body a rich dark brown. I observed several raw marks across his bare back, and remembered that I had heard one of the officers explain that “a few cuts of the whip” were advisable when dealing with recalcitrant members of the Labour Corps.
Nefret had seen them too. She let out a little cry and threw herself into his arms.
They made a picturesque tableau as they clung to one another, framed by the pointed arch of the alcove—his dark, muscular body and her slender, yielding form in its gold-embroidered blue velvet gibbeh. “Story pictures” were popular with a certain school of painting, and it was not difficult to think of a title for this one. “The Slave and the Sultan’s Favorite,” or “A Tryst with Death,” or—
Emerson let out a sound rather like one the sultan might have made if he had come upon such a scene, and the two drew apart.
“Careless,” I said softly. “I stopped up several peepholes in the walls, but I doubt I found them all.”
Ramses dropped to his knees in front of me and clasped his hands. “Your forgiveness, honored lady.”
“Yes, all right, just don’t do it again.” I added, just as softly, “I, too, am relieved to see you, my dear. What next?”
“I can’t stay. You had better send me on an errand—and find me some clothes,” he added, looking up at me with a smile. His thin dark face and cheerful grin and the curls clustering untidily round his forehead filled me with a strong desire to shake him. Men actually enjoy this sort of thing! So do I, if truth be told, but only when I am allowed to take an active part. It is the waiting I find so difficult, particularly when one waits for news of a loved one.
“When will we see you again?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I am to rendezvous with Chetwode this evening and go on to Gaza with him. Two days, perhaps three. I’ll come here as soon as we’ve finished the job, I promise.”
He kissed my hands and my feet and rose. “Is there a bab-sirr?” he asked Emerson. “I may want to use it next time.”
“A secret door? Oh, yes. Mahmud has too many enemies to do without that little convenience. I’ll show you, and get you some clothes.”
Ramses nodded. He turned to his wife. She stood as still as a prettily dressed doll, lips parted and braceleted arms folded over her breast. Ramses knelt and bowed his head.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “It will be all right.”
She put out her hand, as if to touch his hair, but stopped herself in time. “Come straight here after . . .”
“As soon as I can.” He took her hands and raised them to his lips.
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
Ramses hadn’t told her the part that worried him most. He shared that information with his father, as they tried to find him something to wear.
“I met Chetwode in Rafah, as we had arranged. He’s not awfully good at this sort of thing; his jaw dropped down to his chest when a filthy ‘Gyppie’ edged up to him and gave him the word we’d agreed upon.”
“Curse it,” said Emerson. “Can’t you go off on your own—leave him behind?”