The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [33]
Ramses shrugged, looking as enigmatic as any Arab master of that annoying gesture. “I am sorry, Papa, I am sorry, Mama, that I wandered off. I will not do it again.”
“Come along, come along,” said Emerson, before I could express the incredulity this promise naturally provoked. “We have delayed too long, and lost our guide. However, we need only continue along the path. On the other side of the market, Yussuf said… I say, Peabody, one can hardly blame Ramses for being intrigued. I have never heard that dialect, and yet a word or two in the last speech was oddly familiar.”
“He is not a Baggara, then?”
“Definitely not. I know something of that speech. Some of the people of the upper White Nile are tall and well-built; the Dinka and Shilluk, for example. He may be from that region. Ah, well, we had better get on. Ramses, stay close to your mama.”
The accommodations Yussuf had found were about what I had expected, i.e., uninhabitable by humans. There were certainly rats in the palm-leaf roof, and the insect life was varied and aggressive. I requested the men to pitch our tents, tactfully explaining that we would reserve the hut for storage, and then, finally, I got Emerson to agree to call on the authorities. We took Ramses with us, though he did not want to come, claiming he preferred to stay with the men and improve his knowledge of Nubian dialects.
However, Ramses perked up when Emerson announced his intention of calling on Slatin Pasha, who was assisting the Intelligence Department. I myself looked forward to meeting this astonishing man whose adventures had become the stuff of legend.
Rudolf Carl von Slatin was Austrian by birth, but like a number of European and English military men, he had spent most of his life in the East. When the Mahdi overran the Sudan, Slatin was serving as governor of Darfur, the province to the west of Khartoum. Though he fought gallantly against overwhelming odds, he was finally forced to surrender; and for eleven years he was held prisoner under conditions so appalling that only courage and will could have kept him alive. His most terrible experience occurred after the capture of Khartoum, when, as he sat in chains upon the ground, a party of Mahdist soldiers approached him, carrying some object wrapped in a cloth. Gloating, the leader unwrapped the cloth to display the head of Slatin’s friend and leader, General Gordon. He finally made good his escape, and those who saw him shortly afterward said he looked like a withered old man of eighty.
Imagine, then, my surprise when we were shown into the presence of a stout, hearty, red-cheeked gentleman, who rose politely from his chair to bow over my hand. He and Emerson greeted one another with the familiarity of old acquaintances, and Slatin asked how he could help us. “We were warned of your coming, but frankly I could hardly believe—”
“Why not?” Emerson demanded. “You ought to know that when I say I will do something, I do it. As for Mrs.Emerson, she is even more bull——er… determined than I.”
“I have heard a great deal about Mrs. Emerson,” Slatin said, smiling. “And about this young man. Essalâmu ‘aleikum, Master Ramses.”
Ramses promptly replied, “U’aleikum es-salâm warahmet Allah warabakatu. Keif hâlak? (And with you be peace and God’s mercy and blessing. How is your health?)” and went on in equally fluent Arabic, “But my own eyes inform me, sir, that it is excellent. I am surprised to see how very stout you are, after the privations you endured at the hands of the followers of the Mahdi.”
“Ramses,” I exclaimed.
Slatin bellowed with laughter. “Don’t scold him, Mrs. Emerson; I am proud of my girth, for every pound represents a triumph of survival.”
“I would like very much to hear of your adventures,” Ramses said.
“One day, perhaps. At the moment I am fully occupied gathering reports from men who have returned from enemy territory. Intelligence,” he added, addressing Ramses, whose fixed stare he probably took for boyish admiration, “is the nerve network of any army. Before we begin the next