A River in the Sky Page 13

  “David? Oh.” The reverend pondered. “I don’t know. He was not there when I was wakened by the servant. So I came down at once, because you said last night—”

  I waved him to silence and looked at Nefret. She made a pretty picture, in her riding costume of tan soldier’s cloth. The coat was cut à la militaire, with many useful pockets, and the skirt could be unbuttoned to form trousers. She looked down and began unfastening the buttons. Why had I not realized that her seeming acquiescence was an ominous sign? It was only one of many I had missed.

  “You and David planned this,” I said. “You knew he meant to go after Ramses.”

  She stopped fiddling with the buttons and met my gaze squarely. “If he hadn’t, I would have. I am sorry, Aunt Amelia.”

  I studied her more closely and saw that her eyes were shadowed and her face rather pale, as was usually the case when she had slept poorly. No doubt guilt and shame had been responsible.

  Accusations and recriminations would have been a waste of time. “What is he planning to do?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me. But he said he was the only one who could carry it off, and only if he were alone.” Her moods were as variable as spring weather. Defiance gave way to remorse; tears flooded her blue eyes. “I didn’t want to deceive you, truly I didn’t, but—”

  “Don’t try that trick on me, young lady,” I said sharply. “I am not moved by womanly tears.”

  She knew that. The tears were not meant for me, they were aimed at Emerson, who had been talking with Selim.

  For once they failed to have the desired effect. Emerson was too full of the news he had heard from Selim. “David came downstairs several hours ago. The grooms can’t say precisely when; they do not carry pocket watches. He told them he was going on ahead, mounted the beast he had selected, and rode off. They had no reason to stop him, since they had seen him last evening and knew he was one of our party.”

  “They can’t be blamed,” I agreed. “Did any of them see which way he went?”

  Emerson pointed, and then shook his head. “That’s no help. The main roads to Gaza, Nablus, and Jerusalem are in that direction.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said grimly. “I know where he is going. Samaria.”

  FROM MANUSCRIPT H

  The rain had stopped next morning, but the roads were still waterlogged, as Ramses discovered after he had been wedged back into the vehicle, blindfolded and bound. He found himself unpleasant company, since Mansur had denied his request that he be allowed to bathe and change his clothes. He was also developing a bristly growth of beard.

  The artificially imposed blindness was beginning to take its toll. He knew the blindfold and Mansur’s oh-so-polite refusal to give him so much as a basin of water and a bar of soap was part of a deliberate process, a slow and subtle method of reducing a prisoner to something less than a human being. Being spotlessly clean at all times had never been one of his major preoccupations; when he and David had prowled the back alleys of Cairo, their disguises had often necessitated filthy rags and a rancid odor. But that had been a matter of choice, and of self-imposed limits. Now a stranger and an enemy controlled even that basic aspect of his existence. For an arrogant Englishman, the control itself was intolerable. At least that’s how Mansur would reason—and he’d be right. I wonder what he’ll come up with next? Ramses thought. His imagination, enriched by knowledge of his own inner weaknesses and fears, supplied a variety of ugly possibilities. He knew what Mansur wanted—to reduce him to such a state of misery that he would beg for even a small comfort. In many ways it was a more intolerable form of torture than physical pain.

  He wasn’t able to sleep, since the vehicle kept sinking into water-filled ruts. The only advantage to sightlessness was that his other senses were keener. He could hear water sloshing around as the men grunted and shoved to lift the cart, and smell the tobacco smoke whenever the man perched on the apron at the back of the cart lit a cigarette. There was always someone there, discernible by the smell of tobacco and the small noises he made shifting position, coughing, clearing his throat. Ramses had tried speaking to him, but he never got an answer.

  After an interminable interval he was allowed out, still blindfolded, to relieve himself and eat. He couldn’t see the man who kept a firm grip on his arm throughout—and who let go his grip once, so that Ramses stumbled and fell flat in the mud. He wasn’t even allowed to wipe the muck off his face; his silent attendant did it with a rough cloth, like a nursemaid cleaning a grubby child.

  The man’s brisk face-scrubbing had had one positive effect. The lower edge of the blindfold had been pushed up, over the bridge of his nose, so that a thin strip of light was visible. He managed to worry it up a little more by rubbing his face against the side of the vehicle. He couldn’t see anything except the inside of the vehicle, but even that small window into the world of sight lifted his spirits.

  Sometime later the worst of the jolting stopped and their progress became more even. They must have turned onto a larger highway, after traversing less-traveled back tracks. He pricked his ears. Yes; there were other travelers, he could hear snatches of conversation and laughter, hoofbeats, the creak and rumble of wheeled vehicles, and an occasional burst of profanity directed by one driver at another who had got in his way. A well-traveled highway, then. There weren’t that many roads fit for all-weather travel. One to Nablus and on to Jerusalem, another to Jaffa; unless they had headed north, toward Haifa, or west, toward Damascus. Too many possibilities, and no clue.

  Their pace slowed till it was hardly faster than a walk. Mansur was in no hurry. Was he early for a rendezvous, or waiting until after dark to reach his destination? Probably the latter, Ramses thought, as the light faded and their speed began to increase. They were entering a town, a town of some size; the sounds of traffic were louder and he saw flashes of light, from lanterns or torches, under the blindfold.

  When the vehicle finally stopped, he was yanked out of it, not too gently, and assisted to stand. It was not Mansur’s hand that guided him; he had learned to recognize that touch.

  The surface underfoot was stone, but the place must be open to the sky. A brisk breeze cooled his face and ruffled his hair. He was led through a door, along a corridor, and up a flight of stairs. Another length of corridor, another open door; this was no peasant dwelling, but a house of some size. The man gave him a shove that brought him to his knees. Then his bonds were untied, and the door closed with a reverberant slam.

  His first instinctive act was to pull the blindfold up over his head. Blinking in the light, still on his knees, he took in his surroundings.

  The light came from an ornate brass chandelier high overhead. Only half the candles had been lighted; the flames flickered in a chilly draft. The room was large, furnished with tawdry elegance—silk-and velvet-covered cushions scattered about the marble floor, ivory-inlaid tables, a long divan whose covering shimmered like cloth of gold. Ramses got slowly to his feet. It was definitely an improvement on his former quarters, but knowing Mansur as he had come to do, he was not reassured. Cautiously he moved around the room, staying close to the walls. The draft of air came from windows on a side wall. They were closed by elaborately carved wooden screens, the apertures too small to allow the occupant of the room to see out. Peering into dark corners, Ramses continued his search. He had almost decided he was alone when he came face-to-face with an apparition that wrung a muffled cry from him—a tall figure with staring eyes and a face horribly mottled with green and brown stains, a tangle of black hair crowning its head. His nerves were in such a state that it was several seconds before he realized the monster was his own reflection in a floor-to-ceiling mirror, distorted by the crackling of the glass.

  He got his breathing under control and moved on. The door through which he had entered the room was a massive affair, heavy wood bound with iron. It was, as he had expected, locked or bolted.

  A closer examination of the room and its furnishings told him what sort of room it
was. Mashrabiya screens, ornate mirrors, velvet cushions—a harem chamber, probably the ka’ah, or main salon. But the fringe on the cushions was unraveling, the mirror was speckled, and a thin film of dust covered the flat surfaces. The Turkish official who owned the house hadn’t kept his women here for some time.

  The rattle of hardware at the door made him spin around.

  Two of the guards entered, carrying, of all things, his suitcases. They dropped them and took up positions on either side of the open door, standing at attention.

  Mansur looked as if he had just come from a long hot bath. His caftan was spotless, his beard oiled, his feet encased in elegant red leather slippers. Ramses knew only too well what he looked like. He had to fight the temptation to duck his head or raise his hands to hide his horrible face. The contrast between their appearances couldn’t have been sharper.

  Suddenly, unpredictably, his sense of humor came to his rescue. This was a farce, the sort of nasty but harmless joke one schoolboy might play on another. Ramses raised his hand to his brow in ironic salute.

  “How neat and tidy you are,” he said approvingly. “What’s the occasion?”

  Mansur looked him over, from disheveled head to mud-caked boots, and back again. His deep-set eyes narrowed.

  “I apologize for the discomfort you have endured the past few days,” he said.

  Ramses smiled and shrugged. He hoped Mansur hadn’t observed him shriek and recoil from his image in the mirror. Rooms of a harem were fitted out with listening devices and hidden spy holes, so that the own er could keep an eye, and ear, on his property.

  Mansur gestured him out of the room and preceded him along a narrow corridor. He himself opened a door. “I hope this will make amends,” he said.

  It was a bath chamber, lined with mirrors, with a sunken tub large enough to hold a pasha and several of his ladies. The marble was chipped and stained, the mirrors cracked, but the sight was glorious. Steam rose from the water that filled the tub. On a ledge next to the bath, toilet articles and a change of clothing had been neatly laid out. They were his own.

  He wanted nothing more than to strip and plunge into the tub but he didn’t want to appear too eager—or appear before Mansur naked. It was a form of humiliation he had been spared so far. He raised an inquiring eyebrow and stood waiting.

  “Someone will come for you in a quarter of an hour,” Mansur said. The door closed behind him. Ramses didn’t waste time trying it. Either it would be bolted or there would be a guard. But he took his time about undressing, inspecting the amenities—a bar of highly scented soap, several large but rather threadbare towels, a loofah. He lowered himself into the tub with a groan of pleasure. There were probably peepholes in these walls too, but at that point he didn’t give a damn.

  Since he had no way of measuring time, he couldn’t allow himself the indulgence of soaking his stiffened muscles, but he felt a thousand percent better after he had toweled himself off. As it turned out he could have wallowed longer. He was fully dressed and had been pacing the room for what seemed much longer than a quarter of an hour before Mansur returned. He was alone.

  “Back to your room,” he said curtly. “Quickly.”

  He followed close on Ramses’s heels but instead of opening the door to the harem chamber he put a hard hand on Ramses’s arm and turned him so that they were eyeball to eyeball.

  “You are the son of the Father of Curses. The one they call Ramses.”

  Wondering what this was all about, Ramses nodded.

  With a dramatic gesture Mansur flung the door wide.

  “Then who is this?”

  One of his men stood over a recumbent form. His face was hidden in the crook of his arm, but Ramses recognized him instantly. His stomach sank down into his boots.

  WHAT MAN OR WOMAN will ever forget the moment when he (or she) stood gazing for the first time on the thrice-holy city, its minarets and steeples and its great golden dome swimming in the purple haze of evening?

  Emerson, perhaps. His first words were, “What a jumble!”

  Conquering my own emotion, I replied, “It is a very ancient city, my dear. Let us pause for a moment here, and reflect upon the centuries, nay, millennia that have passed since David first established—”

  “If you can believe the Old Testament, which I don’t, the city was Jebusite before the Israelites took it.”

  I looked up at the imposing figure of my spouse. Emerson is always imposing; when on horseback he is no less than magnificent. We had at my direction stopped our little caravan at the top of the last hill. The road was excellent, and although our open carriage was somewhat deficient in springs, that did not detract from the comfort of the journey. Nefret and Selim had also halted their steeds. Her expression was courteously indifferent; but Selim sat gazing in awe at the dome of the Noble Sanctuary, ablaze in the light of the declining sun. Jerusalem was the third most holy city for Moslems; and some might have thought it ironic that the symbol of Islam now dominated the city which had been sacred to Judaism and Christianity before it.

  The reverend, seated beside me, had been silent most of the time. Now he stirred and began muttering.

  “We entered through the tunnel under the city where the water flowed. We crept in silence, man behind man, obedient to my will.”

  “Now what is he babbling about?” Emerson demanded.

  “Hmmm. Let me think. Ah—I believe he is responding to your statement about the conquest of the Jebusite city. That means he is now Joab.”

  “Who?” Emerson’s brow furrowed. “Oh, yes; the Israelite commander who led troops into the city by way of the old tunnels. Something of a comedown for the reverend, isn’t it—a mere commander?”

  “The tunnels are there,” Mr. Plato said.

  “Hmph,” said Emerson. “Well, my dear Peabody, have you indulged your romantic fantasies long enough? We still have a way to go.”

  He had done his best to destroy my “romantic” mood. He was correct, however; we had yet to enter the city and locate our hotel.

  “Yes, let us go on,” I said. “Is Daoud all right?”

  Selim looked back at the second carriage, where Daoud was sitting surrounded by boxes and bales and baggage. He had insisted on occupying that position, “to keep the heathen from stealing our things.” I had explained to him that most of the local inhabitants were not heathens, but coreligionists of his. The argument made no impression on our friend; by his definition heathens were foreigners and foreigners were heathens.

  “He waves to say all is well,” Selim reported. “He is hungry, I think.”

  It was a safe assumption. Daoud was a very large man and required frequent meals.

  Traffic was brisk, as people sought the city before the fall of night. Camel trains, shepherds and their flocks, the innumerable and omnipresent little donkeys kicked up clouds of dust. I did not doubt the pilgrims found them very picturesque. There were several other carriages like ours on the road, and other riders, including a few females uncomfortably encased in woolen habits riding sidesaddle. They looked absolutely miserable.

  The road led us down a slope and back up toward the heights on which the ancient city had been built. From my reading I knew it was not a plateau but separate hills which had once been divided by a deep valley, now partially filled in by the accumulated debris of centuries. Other valleys bounded the city on two sides, the Kidron on the east and the Hinnon on the west. The descent on both sides was steep, and Emerson’s rude description had some justice to it; an untidy jumble of structures clung to the slopes as if they had slid over the edge and stuck partway down.

  The Old City itself was girded by the magnificent wall built by Suleiman the Great in the twelfth century. We entered through the Jaffa Gate, one of seven, and found ourselves in a commercial district of comparatively recent date, with shops and banks and hotels. After we had passed several of the latter I began to suspect that the hostelry selected by Emerson and the confounded War Office would be neither new nor con
venient.

  Before long the modern streets were succeeded by the narrow winding lanes of a typical mideastern city. Fortunately our drivers knew the way; guidebook in hand, I attempted to follow our route but lost track within a few minutes. My attempts to locate sights of interest—the Ecce Homo Arch, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and so on—were frustrated by increasing darkness and the inadequacy of the map in the book. The Dome of the Rock was hidden by the houses and small shops that closed in the street, so even that landmark was no longer visible. I gave it up, and addressed Mr. Plato, who was peering interestedly out the window of the carriage.

  “Do you know where we are?” I asked. “You have been here before, haven’t you? You must know the city well.”

  “It has changed a great deal since my day” was the reply.

  From anyone else I would have interpreted that as evasion. From Mr. Plato it sounded like a casual reference to a visit he had made in the first or second century B.C.

  “What was it like in your day?” I asked.

  The carriage turned a rather sharp corner, swayed, and stopped abruptly. The impediment appeared to be a camel, whose hindquarters were visible just ahead. Our driver rose, brandished his whip, and began shouting at the beast and its driver. The effect, as he must have known it would be, was negligible. The camel didn’t even look round. Its rider made gestures of an indeterminate but probably rude nature at our driver, who responded with another flow of invective. I poked him with my parasol.

  “Be patient,” I said in Arabic. “Our future is in the hands of Allah.”

  Realizing that I had understood his curses, the driver turned an embarrassed face toward me. “We are almost there, lady,” he stammered.

  The camel proceeded calmly on its way. It did clear a path for us; donkeys and pedestrians were forced to one side, since a camel yields to no one. It was not long before we entered a newer section of the city. The streets were wider and straighter. I was conscious of mounting fatigue, for we had started early that morning, and I was considerably relieved when the carriage stopped before a modern structure.