The Golden One (50 page)

‘I’m beginning to think this was a bad idea.’

Ramses had been of that opinion from the start. Some of the straitlaced British officers considered the ANZACs an unruly lot, impatient of discipline, who didn’t even know how to ride
properly. Personally he would have preferred to have a whole troop of fox-hunting Englishmen after him than a few of these hard-bitten colonials.

Bad idea or not, it had to be done. The girl couldn’t manage a ten-mile hike, and he was concerned about his mother, who would drop in her tracks rather than admit the task was beyond her.
Anyhow, they had to get under cover before morning. It would take too long for the slower members of the party to walk that distance.

They had planned what they had to do, and he thought they could manage it, with a little luck – and Nefret’s help. He had had to over-rule Sir Edward, and his own instincts, when she
announced she was coming with them; common sense told him that her help would be invaluable. She was an excellent rider, and she had an uncanny knack with animals.

Dealing with the sentry was his job. It wasn’t difficult; the poor devil was tired and not expecting trouble. Ramses took him from behind with an arm across his throat, hit him hard in the
pit of the stomach, and chopped him across the back of the neck as he toppled forward. By the time he had dragged the limp body under a tree, Nefret was moving down the string of horses, whispering
in their ears and stroking their necks. When she reached the last in line, she untied the rope that passed through their bridles.

So far there had been no sound except a few soft, interested whickers from the intrigued equines. Now they had to move fast and noisily. Nefret scrambled onto one of the horses while Selim gave
Sir Edward a hand up and mounted another. Except for Nefret’s mount, the animals were stirring uneasily. One of the sleeping men sat up. Ramses tossed the dangling reins over the lead
horse’s neck and vaulted onto its back. It turned its head to give him an astonished stare.

‘Wrong man, I know,’ Ramses said in a conversational voice. ‘Think of it as a temporary inconvenience.’

There wasn’t time to adjust the stirrups. He dug his bare heels into the animal’s flanks and urged it into a trot. It responded to the touch or the English voice, or both. The entire
camp was now awake; shouts and curses echoed through the night, and someone fired a rifle. Someone else let out a stream of oaths directed at the idiot who had fired it. By that time the entire
group of horses was in motion, following their leader and urged on by Nefret, who brought up the rear yelling and smacking assorted equine rumps with a leafy branch. Her hair had come loose from
its scarf; it streamed out behind her, silvered by starlight. Sir Edward was hanging on, though he didn’t look happy. Selim looked very happy. This was the sort of adventure he had had in
mind all along, a wild ride with the enemy in hot pursuit.

The pursuit consisted of one trooper, running as fast as his long legs would carry him, waving his arms and calling out. The horses broke into a gallop and the plaintive cries of ‘Mary!
Mary, love, come back!’ faded into the night.

A real and vindictive pursuit would not be long delayed, however. They did not slacken speed until they were near the ruins where the others were ready and waiting. None of them wasted time in
conversation, though Ramses saw the look of resignation on his mother’s face. She was not an enthusiastic horsewoman, and was accustomed to the smooth gait of their Arabians.

‘Sorry, Mother,’ he said, offering his hands to help her mount. ‘Will you be all right?’

‘Certainly.’ It was the answer he had expected.

Esin couldn’t manage it, though. She had ridden only in England, with a proper lady’s saddle. Declining Selim’s eager offer of assistance, Nefret mounted the girl in front of
her.

‘We’re leaving a trail a blind man could follow,’ Sir Edward said, as they started off two by two. ‘And now we’ve got the Australians after us.’

‘This was your idea,’ Ramses pointed out.

‘So it was. I hope I’ll live long enough to regret it.’

The clipped accent sounded odd from that vagabond figure. There hadn’t been time for Ramses to assimilate Sir Edward’s sudden reappearance, and there were a hundred questions he
wanted to ask.

‘What are you doing here? I was under the impression that you had given up a life of crime.’

‘I can’t imagine what gave you that impression,’ was Sir Edward’s bland reply. ‘But my present job isn’t criminal in nature. People give other people medals
for doing it.’

‘Usually after the “other people” are dead.’

Sir Edward let that one pass. Ramses tried another tack.

‘Why is Sethos in Gaza? He’s no traitor, I’m certain of that now, but what the hell is he after?’

‘You’ll have to ask him that.’

They reached their destination just before dawn. Ramses had expected a tumbledown ruin or a mean little house; instead he saw high walls rising up against the paling sky like
those of a castle or a fortress. The heavy gates were closed. Sir Edward called out and after an interval one of the leaves of the gate opened and a man peered out. He let out an exclamation when
he saw the group.

‘They are friends,’ Sir Edward said. ‘Friends of the Master.’

He led the way into an open courtyard with a well in the centre and a roofed arcade on the right side. It
was
a fortress, and a strong one. The walls were twelve feet high and eight feet thick. A small two-storied structure within the enclosure must be the living quarters.

‘Go ahead into the house,’ their host said, indicating this building. ‘Straight through and up the stairs to the salon. I’m afraid you’ll find us ill-prepared for
guests, but Mustafa and I will see what can be done in the way of food and drink.’

He drew the other man aside. Leaving his father to assist his mother, and Selim the girl, Ramses edged towards the pair. He caught only two words: ‘No message?’ and saw Mustafa shake
his head.

Mustafa looked like the sort of man who would be employed by Sethos – burly, black-bearded as a pirate, and wary. He shot a suspicious look at Ramses, and Sir Edward turned.

‘This is the notorious – er – famous Brother of Demons, Mustafa,’ he said in Arabic. ‘You have heard of him.’

‘Ah!’ Mustafa held out a hand. ‘We will shake hands as the English do, eh? It is an honour to meet you. And so the others are . . .?’

‘The even more notorious Father of Curses and his family,’ Ramses said. ‘If you will forgive me for failing in courtesy, may I suggest that there are important matters to be
dealt with before we exchange additional compliments? The horses, for instance. Their owners will want them back.’

Mustafa threw his head back and let out a bellow of laughter. ‘You stole them? Well done. They will fetch a good price.’

‘Control your mercantile instincts, Mustafa,’ said Sir Edward. ‘They must be returned eventually. We – er – borrowed them from the Australians.’

‘Hmmm.’ Mustafa stroked his beard. ‘A pity. But you are right, the Australians are fierce fighters and they love their horses.’

Ramses stroked the friendly muzzle that had come to rest on his shoulder. ‘Take care of them, will you, Mustafa? Rub them down and water them.’

‘If you have handled that to your satisfaction,’ said Sir Edward, ‘shall we go in? Your mother will be waiting in the salon for us.’

‘No, she won’t,’ Ramses said.

The salon was an elegantly appointed apartment at the front of the house. I recognized Sethos’s refined tastes in the furnishings – cushioned divans, carved screens,
and low tables of brass and copper – but it was clear at a glance that this was a bachelor establishment. There was a bird’s nest in one of the window embrasures, and dust covered every
flat surface.

‘Dear me,’ I said. ‘This won’t do. Let us see what the rest of the house is like.’

‘He told us to wait here,’ Nefret said. She was supporting Esin, who looked as if she was at the limit of her strength.

‘I have no intention of waiting for a man to make the necessary arrangements,’ I replied. ‘That girl should be in bed. Let us find one.’

Two of the small rooms behind the salon had obviously been used as sleeping chambers. Various articles of masculine attire hung over chairs and chests. The beds were brass, in the European
style, rather at odds with the rest of the furnishings, but with comfortable mattresses and sheets and pillows. Selim and I straightened the crumpled bedding and put Esin on the bed. I did not
bother removing her clothing, since it did not appear that the sheets had been changed for several weeks.

Sir Edward and Ramses were in the salon when we returned to that room.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ the former inquired politely.

‘I found a bed – yours, I believe – and got Miss Sahin tucked in. The poor child was worn out. Now, where is the kitchen? A nice hot cup of tea would be just the
thing.’

‘Mustafa is making tea,’ Sir Edward said.

‘Does he know about boiling the water long enough? Perhaps I had better go and – ’

Sir Edward took the liberty of seizing me by the arm. ‘He knows. He knows! Mrs Emerson, please sit down. I can’t until you do, and I am dead on my feet.’

‘Oh, very well.’ I selected one of the divans that did not have evidence of avian activity. Sir Edward collapsed onto another with a long sigh and Ramses took his place next to
Nefret.

Emerson was still prowling about the room. ‘Ha!’ he exclaimed, opening a cabinet. ‘My – er – old acquaintance does himself well. Claret, ’pon my word, and an
excellent vintage too. It isn’t whiskey, Peabody, but would you care for a drop?’

‘Not at this time of day,’ I replied. ‘Ah – here is Mustafa with the tea tray. Just put it here, if you please. I will pour.’

He had slopped it all over the tray, of course. As he stood back, fixing me with a bold, curious stare, I had one of those moments of utter disorientation: the tea tray, set out in proper
English style – that would be Sir Edward’s influence – the black-bearded ruffian who had served it; the filthy, ragged beggar who was Sir Edward; and the rest of us in a motley
array of garments, from Nefret’s neat but crumpled trousers and coat to Emerson’s torn silken robes.

However, the situation was no more bizarre than many in which we had found ourselves.

Mustafa said suddenly, ‘You are the Sitt Hakim? I have a little sore, here on my – ’

‘Later, my friend,’ I said graciously. Nefret hid her face against Ramses’s shoulder and Emerson shouted, ‘Good Gad! Even here! Curse it, Peabody!’

Mustafa retreated, visibly impressed by the volume of Emerson’s voice. I persuaded Emerson to sit down and take out his pipe. It soothed him; it usually did.

‘I don’t know where you are all going to sleep,’ Sir Edward muttered.

‘At the moment my brain is too active to let me rest, Sir Edward,’ I informed him. ‘We need to know where we stand. First and most important, where is Sethos? Did you expect
him to be here?’

‘I hoped for a message, at least. He usually finds a way to let me know if there is any change in his plans. When I saw him yesterday morning – ’

‘You were in Gaza? Goodness gracious, you all seem to walk in and out of the place as you please.’

Whether he would have confided in us under different circumstances I cannot say. It may have been exhaustion that loosened his tongue.

‘The fortifications are like a sieve for a single man, if he knows where the holes are. Once inside I – and our other couriers – form part of the adoring mob that presses round
the holy man asking for his blessing.’

‘So he can pass messages to you, and you to him,’ I prompted.

‘Something like that,’ Sir Edward said evasively. ‘I knew he planned to get Sahin’s daughter away. I’d have talked him out of it if I could, or at least tried to
persuade him not to go back to Gaza. Sahin was bound to suspect he’d had a hand in the business and clamp down on him even more closely. I think that is what has happened.’

‘Can you send someone to find out?’ I asked.

Emerson cleared his throat. ‘My papers – ’

‘No,’ Ramses and I said in the same breath.

‘What papers?’ Sir Edward demanded, his eyes widening.

Proudly Emerson drew them forth and handed them to Sir Edward. The sun was well up now; the gilt sparkled impressively in the light.

‘I can’t read Turkish,’ Sir Edward said blankly.

‘Ramses can.’ Emerson’s pipe had gone out. He struck a match. ‘He says they are perfectly in order.’

‘Yes, very well, but you can’t – you can’t just walk up to the trenches and – ’

‘No, it will take some preparation,’ Emerson admitted.

‘That is quite right,’ I said, seeing in my mind’s eye the preparations Emerson was planning. Camels, servants, gold-trimmed robes, and a huge scimitar . . . He would so enjoy
it, and sheer effrontery might allow him to carry it off. For a while.

‘Admirable,’ Sir Edward murmured. He sounded more horrified than admiring. ‘Sir, give me a chance to use our regular channels first.’

‘An excellent idea,’ I said, before Emerson could object. ‘Sir Edward, I am curious to know how – ’