The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [63]
The path Abdullah took followed an irrigation ditch through fields of cabbages and cotton. Half-naked workers straightened and stared after us as we galloped past; children playing in the courtyard of a house waved and called. Abdullah slackened speed for neither man nor beast. When a careless billy goat—whose goatee and long face gave it a certain resemblance to my friend Cyrus—wandered out into the road, Abdullah dug his bare heels into the horse’s flank and soared over the goat. I followed his example.
He drew rein at last amid a huddle of huts, where another path crossed ours. Following his example, I dismounted. The place was strangely deserted; only a few men, drinking coffee at tables under a rude shelter, were to be seen. One of them came to us and handed Abdullah a bundle of cloth before leading the horses away.
“We must go on foot from here,” said Abdullah. “Will you wear this, Sitt?”
He shook out the bundle—a woman’s enveloping robe of somber black, with the accompanying burko, or face veil. After I had put it on, he nodded approval. “It is good. You must walk behind me, Sitt, and not stride like a man. Can you remember?”
His bearded lips were twitching. I smiled back at him. “If I forget, Abdullah, you must beat me. But I will not forget.”
“No. Come then. It is not far.”
As we walked, I glanced at the sun. After so many years in Egypt I had learned to read its position as readily as the hands of a clock; even now Cyrus’s agents must be in their positions on the terrace of the Winter Palace Hotel. Was he there, the unknown villain who had laid such a dastardly plot? I prayed he was. If he was absent from his house, our mission of rescue would be easier.
My heart gave a great leap when I saw a high mud-brick wall ahead. Palms and dusty-leaved acacias surrounded it, and the tiled roof of a house showed over the top. It was a sizable establishment—an estate, in Egyptian terms—house, gardens and subsidiary buildings surrounded by an enclosure wall for privacy and protection. Abdullah passed it without breaking stride; I shuffled humbly after him, my head bowed and my heart thudding. Out of the corner of my eye I noted that the wall was high and the wooden gate was closed.
When we reached the end of the wall, some sixty feet farther on, Abdullah darted a quick glance over his shoulder and turned aside, pulling me after him. The wall continued now at right angles to the road. Another turn brought us to the third side of the enclosing wall, and after a short distance Abdullah stopped, gesturing.
His meaning was plain, and I could only approve his decision. Behind us a field of sugarcane formed a green wall that hid us from casual passersby. We were now at the back of the estate, as far from the main house as was possible. Mudbrick, the ubiquitous building material of Upper Egypt, is convenient but impermanent; the bricks and their plastered outer surface had crumbled, leaving chinks and crevices.
“I will go first,” he whispered.
“No, you will not,” I replied. “We must reconnoiter before we attempt to enter, and I am younger… that is, I am a lighter weight than you. Give me a hand up.”
I threw off the muffling black robe and veil. No disguise would save us if we were discovered inside. I put the toe of my boot into a convenient hole; Abdullah—who had learned early on that it was a waste of time to argue with me—cupped his hands under the other boot and lifted me till I could see over the wall.
I had hoped to see a garden, with shrubs and trees that could offer concealment. No such amenities appeared, only a bare open space littered with the usual household discards—scraps of broken pots, rusty bits of metal, rotting melon rinds and orange peel. Of such detritus are formed the kitchen middens dear to the hearts of archaeologists, and they are still in the process of formation in Egypt, for householders commonly dump their trash casually