“I will go,” Selim said. “Daoud and I. To Samaria.”
“A compromise,” I said. “One more day. If, by the day after tomorrow, we have had no word, we will all go. Are we agreed? Emerson? Nefret? Selim?”
It is the nature of compromise that it pleases none of the parties concerned. The agreement, in the form of nods or mumbles, was not wholehearted, but it was unanimous.
“Good,” I said. “Next comes the question of Mr. Plato. He sought Morley out today, on our behalf, as he claims, or on his own, as I believe. He came away—”
“Aunt Amelia!” It was not like Nefret to interrupt me. “Surely he is the least of our concerns just now. He is only—”
“We do not know what he is,” I said, raising my voice just a trifle. “That is the point, Nefret. Until we are certain of his true motives we cannot assume he is not a danger to us. Do you happen to have a photograph of him?”
She had not expected that question, but she was not stupid. After a moment she said, “I see what you are getting at. Yes, I think I do. I took a number of photographs.”
“At my request,” I said with a forgiving smile. “They will be wonderful souvenirs of our visit to Jerusalem. Now if I may go on? Thank you. As I was saying, Plato came away from his encounter with Morley with the belief that they had reached some sort of agreement. The later attack upon him may have proved his assumption was incorrect, or it may have been instigated by another party. We know almost nothing about him. I suggest that we take steps to inquire further into his background, here and through—” I caught myself in time. “Through—er—other sources.”
“What sources?” Nefret demanded, eyes narrowing.
“Archaeological sources,” I replied smartly. “Museums and professional organizations. And police records.”
“Excellent idea,” Emerson exclaimed.
“You will see to that, Emerson?”
“What? Oh. Yes, certainly.”
“I will spend this evening and all day tomorrow hiring servants, acquiring the necessary household supplies, and so on. Thus we will be able to set out for Samaria the following morning—assuming, of course, that we have received no word from the boys. Have we all finished eating? Shall we go now?”
A gentle cough stopped me in the act of rising. Turning, I saw a person standing at my elbow. He was young, he had fair hair and a feeble little blond mustache, and that was about all one could say about him, for his form and features were strikingly unremarkable. In his hands he held a cloth Alpine-style hat, which he was twisting nervously.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I waited until I believed you had finished your dinner, but if I am mistaken I will leave and return another time.”
“And interrupt us a second time?” said Emerson. “Speak up, young man. Who are you and what do you want?”
“Camden—Courtney Camden. I was told by Mr. Page of the British Society that you might be looking for additional staff for your excavation.”
“I distinctly told him we were not. Good day, sir.” Emerson pushed his chair back and rose.
“Just a moment,” I said. “What do you know about pottery, Mr. Camden?”
Mr. Camden was less intimidated than I had supposed. Though he continued to mangle his hat, he spoke up stoutly.
“It is my specialty, Mrs. Emerson.”
“What experience have you had?”
“I worked at Tel el-Hesi with Mr. Petrie and Mr. Bliss.”
“Nonsense,” Emerson grunted. “That was twenty years ago. How old were you at the time, twelve?”
“Twenty years of age, sir. I am older than I look.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson, stroking his chin. “Well, Peabody, you seem to have decided we need a pottery person, so I will leave it to you.”
What Emerson knew, but refused to acknowledge, was that Mr. Petrie had been among the first to study Palestinian pottery and construct a relative chronology of types. Anyone who had worked with him was bound to be knowledgeable, for he was not an easy taskmaster. I studied Mr. Camden critically. He certainly did not look his age. Something about the set of his features struck me as familiar.
“Have we met before?” I asked.
“No, ma’am. I would certainly remember if we had.”
“Very well,” I said. “If you will meet us here tomorrow morning, Mr. Camden, we will give you a try.”
“Six A.M.,” said Emerson.
“Eight,” I corrected.
The young man backed away, bowing to everyone, including Selim and Daoud.
“He has excellent manners,” I said, beckoning the waiter. “Would anyone else care for a sweet?”
Daoud indicated that he would. Emerson sat in brooding silence until the waiter had come and gone. Then he said, “I trust you know what you are doing, Peabody. Is it not something of a coincidence that a pottery expert should turn up just when he is wanted?”
“All the more reason for keeping him under observation, Emerson. If he is what he claims to be, he will be extremely useful, for none of us is familiar with the pottery of this region and you are certain to encounter—”
“Yes, yes, Peabody. And if he is not what he claims to be?”
“We will determine his true motive and turn it to our advantage!”
Nefret burst out laughing. “Of course, Aunt Amelia.”
I was pleased to see she was in a more congenial frame of mind. My agreement that we should go in search of the boys had satisfied her for the moment—and I must confess, in the pages of this private (for the time being) journal, that I myself had become increasingly uneasy about them. However, stern mental discipline had taught me to concentrate on the task at hand. My first task that afternoon was to shop, and I persuaded Nefret to accompany me. Emerson declined the offer, explaining that he had a few more questions to put to—er—that fellow and that he wanted Selim to be present at the interrogation. With a significant glance at me, he added that he had certain investigations to pursue as well. So Nefret and I set out, with Daoud as our escort.
There were modern shops in that part of the city, so I was able to procure cleaning materials and insect repellent. I ordered a number of other items, including a nice tin bathtub, directing that they be sent to the hotel at once. We were longer than I had meant to be, since I also stopped at the souk to purchase rugs, woven mats, and bolts of fabric for curtains, so when we arrived the others were at dinner. Plato had a rather hangdog look, but it had not affected his appetite. I deduced that Emerson had appointed Selim as Plato’s escort, for when we parted after dinner Selim went with him.
“I hope you are not planning to lock Mr. Plato in his room,” I said, as Emerson poured a postprandial libation.
“I was tempted. But it might be dangerous, if not actually illegal. No, Selim and I and Daoud will take it in turn to watch his door tonight.”
I accepted the glass he handed me with a nod of thanks. “What on earth did you discover about him to inspire such precautions?”
“Nothing definite as yet. It is too soon to expect—”
A soft knock at the door prevented him from completing the sentence. It was Nefret, holding a small sheaf of photographs. Handing them to me, she said, “These are the only ones in which Mr. Plato appears. Good night.”
And off she went, without another word!
It did not take us long to examine the photographs. Mr. Plato was present in all of them—or to put it more accurately, part of Mr. Plato was present: the back of his head, a face covered by a raised hand, a figure retreating from the camera.
“Hmmm,” said Emerson.
“Hmmm indeed. The images of the rest of us are quite good—except this one, when you were shouting at someone. Is it only a coincidence that we have no identifiable picture of Plato?”
Emerson answered with another question. “What were you planning to do with it if you had it?”
“Show it to various people. He has been in Jerusalem before, I have no doubt of that. I had hoped we could se
nd a copy to Scotland Yard.”
“It would be weeks before we could expect a response,” Emerson said.
“Quite. I had another possibility in mind. Don’t you think it is time you told me which of the persons at this hotel are in the employ of the War office?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea,” said Emerson. “Now, Peabody, don’t lose your temper. Here, let me refill your glass.”
Having done so, he continued, “The idiots at the War office have already come up empty on the subject of—er—that person. Their investigation seems to have been superficial in the extreme. I sent off telegrams to Jacobsen at the British Museum, Frankfort in Berlin, and a few others, as well as to Scotland Yard. Cursed expensive it was, too, since I gave them not only his current name but a description as well. I mean to make the same inquiries here in Jerusalem, but there wasn’t time yesterday.”
Determined to stick to the point, I said, “You haven’t answered my initial question. Do you deny that the War office sent us to this hotel, just as they did in Jaffa?”
“No,” said Emerson. “That is, yes. That is—”
“Then they must have told you how to communicate with their local representative in case of trouble.”
“Yes,” said Emerson, resentment replacing his initial confusion. “Curse it, Peabody, just give me a chance to speak. I was told that I would be approached by their agent here. He was to give a particular signal when—”
“Aha,” I cried. “This particular signal?”
Taking the tip of my nose daintily between thumb and forefinger, I wriggled it twice.
Emerson stared at me, his mouth ajar. Then he burst out laughing.
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
Dust billowed up around their feet as they trudged along the path. Sheep grazed on the yellowing grass and oxen dragged primitive plows across the fields. The scene was peaceful and pastoral, the valley framed by mountains north and south of the city.
“How far is it to Jerusalem?” David asked, shifting his bag from one shoulder to the other.
“As I remember, it’s only thirty or forty miles in what passes in these parts for a straight line. But it’s easy to get lost if you don’t know the country.”
“Should we take a chance on the main road, then?”
Ramses had been wondering the same thing. One part of him—the part his mother had tried to eradicate—was tempted to make a run for it, risking recapture or worse. Another, more sensible part, told him that although their disguises were good from a distance, they might not hold up under close inspection. He wished he knew how far Mansur would go to get them back—or to keep them from passing on what they had learned. If he was desperate enough he might have ordered they be shot down rather than let them escape. An unfortunate accident, the soldier had mistaken them for wanted criminals, perfectly understandable considering that they were in disguise…But what if conceit had made him rate his and David’s importance too high? It could take them days to reach Jerusalem, skulking around the countryside, while his family worried and nobody else, including Mansur, gave a damn about them.
“My mind’s going round in circles,” he said in disgust. “I think we’ll try to avoid the road for a while longer.”
As the sun rose higher, he began to wonder if he had made the right decision. The narrow paths, some of them no more than goat tracks, wound round small fields, vineyards, groves of trees. The terrain became increasingly difficult as they climbed out of the valley into a region of rolling hills, with higher peaks visible to the west. After a few hours Ramses had no idea where they were, except for the fact that they were headed generally south, and that they were east of the main road.
“How far have we come?” David asked.
“Damned if I know. We’ve been walking in circles part of the time, trying to stay away from villages and houses. I suggest we climb higher and try to get an overall view of the countryside.”
“You sound uncharacteristically tentative,” David remarked.
“If you have a better suggestion, kindly make it,” Ramses snapped. They hadn’t seen or heard anything suspicious for hours, but his sense of uneasiness was growing. Having David with him was a great comfort, but knowing David wouldn’t be there but for him was an equally great burden.
They made their way up a steep ridge, past dark openings that might have been ancient tombs. Crowning a hilltop ahead was a structure that stopped both of them in their tracks. It might have been the ruin of a Norman castle, magically transported from England to this improbable location. The massive walls were still eight or ten feet high in some places, with flanking towers at intervals and the remains of a keep visible beyond the walls.
“What on earth is that?” David asked. “Not biblical, surely?”
Ramses eased the pack off his shoulder and stretched. “It must be a Crusader fortress. Eleventh century—A.D., that is. There are a number of them in Syria-Palestine.”
“Crusader,” David repeated. “Oh, yes—that lot who wanted to save the Holy Land from the infidels. They built to last, didn’t they?”
“They built to hold off a good many people who hated them and their religion. And the builders didn’t last. The Kingdom of Jerusalem endured for two hundred years, off and on, spawning seven or eight bloody Crusades, costing countless lives, and in the end they were forced to give up and go home.”
“You certainly are a repository of useless information. How do you know all that?” David asked, with more amusement than admiration.
“I have a mind like a magpie’s, easily distracted by interesting odds and ends,” Ramses admitted. “Actually I learned about the Crusades from a young fellow I met at Oxford. He had chosen Crusader castles as his special subject.”
“I don’t suppose you know which one that is, or precisely where it is.”
Ramses was too discouraged to resent the implicit criticism. “There are too many damned ruins in this country,” he said gloomily. He turned slowly, shading his eyes against the sun. “There’s another one down in that valley—could be a derelict church. I can’t see…Wait a minute. Isn’t that Nablus, that darkish blur across the plain, north and slightly west?”
David let out a heartfelt groan. “We’ve only come that far?”
Ramses sat down, crossing his legs. “Let’s take a rest and see what Majida has given us for luncheon.”
It was the usual fare—flat bread and goat cheese, a handful of figs, plus a flask of thin, sour beer. Ramses wolfed his half down, and then realized David hadn’t eaten more than a few bites.
“Are you feeling all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine. Just a little thirsty.” He raised the flask to his lips and took a long drink. “Horrible stuff.”
“We’ll have to find water soon,” Ramses said, watching him. “And there’s not enough food for another day.”
“Water shouldn’t be a problem. There must be wells and springs.”
“Plenty of both, I should think. We’ve been avoiding villages and people, but I don’t see any need for continuing to do so.”
“All right.” David got to his feet. “Let’s go.”
They had passed a number of small settlements earlier, but now that they were looking for habitation, they failed at first to find it. Ramses kept an unobtrusive eye on his companion. David kept up the pace, but he was unusually silent, as if every ounce of energy he possessed was focused on walking. The path had virtually disappeared and the hilly terrain was tiring: down into a valley and back up again, over and over. Ramses was about to suggest they stop for a rest when he spotted a moving form heading straight for them.
David made an abortive movement, as if to turn. Ramses caught his arm. “Keep walking. It’s all right. He’s not wearing a uniform.”
The man’s sheepskin cap and loose garment were those of a local, and he moved with the assurance of someone who was used to the terrain, using a stout staff to steady his steps on the slope. As he came closer Ramses saw a dark, weather-beaten f
ace marked by heavy gray brows and framed by a grizzled beard. Hoping his own pathetic beard would pass muster, Ramses was about to voice a greeting when the man spoke first.
“You are the ones they are looking for.”
It was at that critical moment that David buckled at the knees and collapsed.
Ramses’s only weapons were his hands and feet. The bag he carried was too light to inflict an injury. He gathered himself together; the other man, reading his intention, jumped back and raised his staff.
“No! I am a friend, I come to warn you. See!” He pushed his sleeve up. “I am a Son of Abraham.”
THE SUN WAS LOW in the west when they reached the ruined castle and passed through a narrow gate flanked by massive towers.
“They will not find you here,” their newfound ally said. “There are many places to hide. Stay until someone comes for you.”
Ramses had had no choice but to trust him. He had set a pace that left both of them too out of breath for conversation or questions. David had to be supported most of the way and actually carried the last difficult fifty feet; he was barely conscious when they lowered him to the ground.
“It is the fever,” their guide said, putting a calloused hand on David’s forehead. “It will pass in time…Or not. He is young and strong, it is likely he will live.”
“Wait,” Ramses said. “How did you know who we were? Why are you helping us? What is your name?”
“It is better you do not know my name. The word went out, we were told to watch for you. I will pass the word now to the others. There are Turks”—he spat neatly on the ground—“along the road all the way to Jerusalem. I must return, there are those in the villages who would sell you if they could. Take this.”
He handed Ramses the bag he carried, and then he was gone.
The bag contained a goatskin of water, a single piece of bread, and a bunch of grapes—possibly the remains of the man’s midday meal. Ramses made David as comfortable as he could, and got him to drink a little water. The shadows inside the high walls were deepening, and he wanted to explore the place before dark.
It was still a formidable fortress. There were two enclosing walls, with narrow gates flanked by towers; inside the inner wall was a larger tower or keep, the last place of defense. The ground was littered with stones of various sizes, from pebbles to fragmented building blocks, and with animal spoor. There was no sign of human habitation; Ramses wondered if the place was considered haunted or demon-ridden. There were certainly ample hiding places; the rooms in the lower floors of the keep were still intact.
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