A River in the Sky

by Elizabeth Peters

  “It’s a woman’s handkerchief.” Nefret handed it to me. “Does that suggest a possible reason for Ramses’s being delayed?”

  I had heard of blazing eyes but had always believed that was a literary metaphor. Perhaps it was only the reflection of the candle-flame in her blue orbs.

  FROM MANUSCRIPT H

  They had only been traveling a short time before Ramses was inclined to regret he had not accepted the offer of a sleeping potion. The equipage was going at a good clip, and although the bedding cushioned him to some extent, he was being thrown from side to side. At least he had been left alone. He braced his feet against the side of the yaila, squirmed into a slightly more comfortable position, and forced himself to go over that extraordinary conversation in minute detail.

  He had a fairly good idea now who Mansur was—or rather, what he was. He had heard that particular accent before, from a pair of Indian students he had met at university when he spent a term brushing up on his classical Greek. Languages were his chief interest and his specialty; he had cultivated the two young men in the hope of learning something of their native tongue. Most Indians were Hindus, but there was a sizable Moslem population too, particularly in the northwest provinces. It really didn’t matter whether Mansur had been born Moslem or had converted. What mattered was that the plot, whatever the hell it was, might extend beyond the Ottoman territories. India was the jewel in the crown, the pride of the empire. If there was even a slight possibility of an uprising in India, the War Office would go off its collective head. Memories of the Mutiny of 1857, when thousands of British and Europeans were slaughtered, still haunted the nightmares of government officials. That catastrophe had been kindled by a stupid, unnecessary affront to the religious sensibilities of the Indian troops.

  If Mansur was from India, it would explain his manner toward his prisoner—an odd mixture of kindness and contempt. Ramses had observed how his Indian friends at Oxford were treated by many students and some of the dons. The derogatory names, the veiled sneers, and—perhaps hardest of all for a proud man to bear—the kindly condescension. He had seen the same thing in Egypt and he knew how bitterly it was resented.

  It would also explain why the attacks at Samaria had been directed at him rather than Reisner and Fisher. Americans had never established a political foothold in the Middle East. They were regarded as guests, sometimes annoying but not threatening. England bestrode the region like a colossus—one foot in India, one in Egypt, its influence stretching into large parts of Africa. England imposed her own laws and controlled every aspect of government, from education to trade. Imperialists like Hogarth would claim that it was Britain’s duty to civilize the lesser breeds; but it was an unfortunate fact that people resented being told how to live their lives by outsiders, no matter how kindly their intentions.

  It made a perfectly reasonable theory, but, Ramses had to admit, it was a little too reminiscent of his mother’s thinking processes. She was perfectly capable of proposing an interesting hypothesis and claiming it was fact. His father would have sneered. “All very interesting, my boy, but what does it have to do with your present dilemma?”

  How was he going to get out of this mess? Escape was impossible as long as they were on the road. The driver was at one end of the conveyance, and a guard on the platform at the back. He’d have to wait until they reached their destination and he could reappraise the situation. Mansur had taken pains to keep him from knowing where they were going. That could imply that they would end up in some town or city that was familiar to him.

  Or it might mean nothing at all.

  Sheer boredom finally sent him into a restless slumber, shot through with fleeting dream images. Usually it was Nefret’s face that haunted his sleep. This time the images were less pleasant. Hilda von Eine, poised on the staircase of the tell, looking down at him with hissing snakes instead of hair crowning her head; the face of Macomber stained with the ugly colors of corruption, the pebble-dull eyes sunken. Then the eyes were no longer dull but shining with a reddish glow, the mouth opened, and instead of a tongue—

  He woke up with a jerk, sweating and shaking. The blindfold made it worse, he couldn’t replace the dream images with a sight of reality. Then he realized the vehicle was no longer moving.

  Someone crawled into the tube next to him. A hand touched his shoulder.

  “Are you awake?”

  “Yes.” He’d had time to steady his voice. “Do you intend to feed me anytime soon?”

  “My apologies.” Mansur untied his hands. “I saw a storm was coming and wanted to make as much time as possible before it hit.”

  Ramses snatched the blindfold off. He had never realized what a subtle form of torture it was to be cut off from the world of sight, dependent on the goodwill of others even to move safely in a dark, unfamiliar world…

  With Mansur’s help he slid, feetfirst, out of the vehicle. It had pulled into an open courtyard. He could see very little; the sky overhead was dark as night and rain was falling heavily. Stiff and stumbling, he let his guide lead him to a door.

  A lamp on a table in the room gave limited light, but it dazzled his eyes after the long darkness. Tenderly Mansur led him in and lowered him onto a seat. As his eyes adjusted, Ramses saw that the small room was like most rooms in the houses of the region, its only furnishings the usual divan, a few tables, tattered rugs on the floor.

  After being escorted by Mansur himself to a primitive latrine, he was led back into the house and served food and tea by the same servant he had seen before. Mansur left him to eat alone, exiting through a door on the wall to the left. The food restored him considerably, and he got up and examined the room. A second door, presumably to the street, was locked. The windows were high on the wall and barred. The only thing in the room that could conceivably be used as a weapon was the lamp; he had been given nothing except a spoon with which to eat the stewed vegetables.

  Mansur came in, followed by his servant carrying a tray. “Coffee?” he inquired genially. “I will join you if I may.”

  Ramses bit back a rude response. He was damned if he’d let the man goad him into losing his temper.

  “Delighted,” he said. “We can chat about university and the architecture of Christ Church. Did you take your degree—”

  Smoothly Mansur cut in. “You were at Oxford, I believe.”

  “Only to attend a few lectures.” The coffee was excellent. “My father didn’t believe in a public school education.”

  “A remarkable man, your father.”

  “Quite. How long were you in Egypt?”

  “One doesn’t have to remain long before learning of the famous Father of Curses.”

  Another thrust neatly parried, Ramses thought. Only once in his life had he encountered an adversary who anticipated his every move and who was as good at verbal combat: his family’s nemesis, the Master Criminal, as his mother insisted on calling the fellow.

  It wasn’t the first time he had wondered if Mansur could possibly be Sethos. The man was a genius at disguise; Ramses had learned a number of useful tricks from that source. Middle Eastern garb was a godsend to a man who wanted to assume another identity. A turban could add a few inches to one’s actual height, the loose robe concealed a man’s real build, and there was nothing like a beard to blur the shapes of mouth and chin. Ramses leaned forward, trying to make out Mansur’s features more clearly. Sethos’s one distinguishing characteristic was the color of his eyes, an ambiguous shade between gray and brown. Unfortunately it was also a characteristic that could be altered by the judicious use of cosmetics that darkened lashes and lids, and even drugs that enlarged the pupils. Mansur’s heavy brows overshadowed his deep-set eye sockets, and his trick of squinting…

  Mansur rose to his feet. “We will be spending the night here. The road is too muddy for travel in the dark. I hope you will find the divan comfortable. If you will excuse me, I have a few matters to settle before retiring. I will return shortly to—how shall I put it—”
>
  “Tuck me in?” Ramses suggested.

  Mansur turned on his heel and went out the front door. Ramses stretched out on the divan, hands clasped under his head. Mansur seemed to be a little short-tempered. He can’t be Sethos, Ramses told himself. Sethos wouldn’t bother with a bizarre scheme like this one. Profit, and lots of it, was his only interest.

  What if there was profit to be earned, though? Macomber had talked of a talisman. Islam didn’t go in much for relics, actual or fabled. Christians collected the bones of saints, bits of the True Cross, nails from the Cross—the list went on and on. They were always in the market for a new relic. Jews lived in hopes of finding the lost Ark, or even any unmistakable, datable remains of the First Temple of Solomon. So far nothing from that period had been found. What object could have such importance to Moslems?

  The sound of the rain had grown louder. A river in the sky, as an Egyptian pharaoh had called the frequent rainfall of those foreign lands that were, during most of the fourteenth century B.C., under Egyptian dominance. Akhenaton’s all-loving god had thoughtfully provided rain for the regions that lacked the ever-present, predictable Nile flooding.

  Ramses sat up. No wonder the rain sounded louder. Mansur had neglected to latch the door. The wind must have blown it open a few inches.

  He approached the door with the caution of a cat investigating a new smell. The darkness outside was total, not a glimmer of light anywhere. The drumbeat of the rain muffled sound. He knew, as certainly as if he had been told, that if he went out that door he would find it unguarded.

  Smiling, he went back to the divan. Mansur wouldn’t have forgotten to close the door tightly or dispense with guards. This was a test, and come to think of it, a kind of insult. Did the man think he was fool enough to plunge out into the pouring rain and the blackness, not knowing where he was or where he was going? He wouldn’t get far. He’d be dragged back, soaked to the skin, a dripping, miserable figure—another means of humiliating him, or rather, allowing him to humiliate himself.

  When Mansur came back, Ramses was lying full-length, hands folded peacefully on his chest, and snoring.

  THE REVEREND HAD NOT joined in the discussion. One would have supposed he was off in some happy dream of his own—remembering his life as the emperor Constantine, for example—if one had not become accustomed to his habit of plunging headfirst into a conversation to which he had not seemed to pay attention.

  In the silence that followed Nefret’s pointed question, he declared, “We must go immediately to Jerusalem.”

  “Oh, must we?” said Emerson, that being his automatic response to anything that sounded like an order. He had been visibly taken aback by Nefret’s implicit accusation.

  Naturally the same thought had occurred to me even before she spoke. Before the others could come to grips with the idea and join in an interminable, unprofitable, discussion, I said, “We must come to a decision sooner rather than later. By sooner, I mean today. I want to be ready to leave tomorrow morning.”

  “Very good, very good,” said the reverend, scraping up the last of the hummus with the last of the bread.

  “Leave for where?” David asked. There was a certain set to his jaw that told me he had already decided where he was going. David was a gentle soul, not given to controversy, but once he made up his mind he could be as stubborn as Ramses.

  “That is what we must decide,” I said. “Emerson, I suggest you go immediately to the British consular agent.”

  “Is there one?” inquired my annoying husband.

  “There must be some official of our government here in Jaffa, Emerson, or at the very least a telegraph office. Find out if there are any messages for you, and whether anything is known of Major Morley. He must have landed here.”

  “Hmph,” said Emerson unhelpfully.

  “Take Selim with you. He can assist with your inquiries.”

  Selim bounded to his feet, exuding his willingness to assist. Emerson rose more slowly. “What about you, Peabody?”

  “We will wait for you at the hotel.”

  Which I had every intention of doing…Unless another idea occurred to me.

  We did not linger in the souk. When we reached the square with its charming gardens, the sun was sinking into a bank of clouds, rimming their purple gray with gold.

  “Let us sit here awhile,” I said, taking Nefret firmly by the arm.

  “I believe I will go to my room,” David said. “I want to…I must…”

  Find a map and figure out the quickest route to Samaria. Ah, well, it would keep him occupied, and he would have some little difficulty finding a means of transportation, unaccustomed as he was to the city.

  “Take the reverend and Daoud with you,” I said.

  The reverend, who had been in the process of joining Nefret and me on the bench, obediently straightened himself. Daoud folded his arms and shook his head.

  “I will not leave you and Nur Misur alone.”

  “What on earth do you suppose could happen to us?” I demanded.

  “Anything,” said Daoud darkly.

  “Oh, very well. Stand over there by the tree and keep watch.”

  Daoud duly took up his position, glancing suspiciously at every passerby, and the others went toward the hotel.

  Nefret was prepared for a lecture. She sat with head bowed and chin protruding and refused to meet my eyes.

  “I presume you have had time to reconsider your assumption,” I said, arranging my skirts neatly.

  “Perhaps I was unjust.” Her voice was so low I could barely hear it.

  “Not necessarily unjust. Ramses has got beyond my control these past few years and I would not be surprised to discover he had formed an attachment to some female person. What would surprise me would be to discover he would announce the fact in such a direct fashion.”

  “It might be regarded as a request for discretion on our part.”

  “Oh, come, Nefret. Ramses knows me—us, that is—well enough to realize I will cast discretion to the four winds before I will allow him to fail in his duty to me—to us, I mean to say. It is not unlike him to go off on some harebrained scheme of his own, but he is certainly capable of inventing a more believable excuse than—er—dalliance.”

  “Then…then the message did not come from Ramses.”

  “The note was almost certainly written by him. I do not believe he was responsible for its delivery.”

  Nefret turned to face me. “Then he is in trouble!”

  “Nefret, I can think offhand of at least two other explanations for that message. We must keep our heads and not go jumping to conclusions. I need you to keep calm and help persuade Emerson that we must not try to find Ramses. At least not immediately.”

  “What can we do, then?” Nefret demanded. “We must do something!”

  “He might not thank you for interfering, Nefret.” In fact, I was reasonably certain he would not. Like many young persons of that age, Ramses was convinced he could manage quite well without the assistance of his loving family. Like other young persons of that age, he was mistaken, but only painful experience would teach him the truth. I went on, “What we must do is go on to Jerusalem and, as he put it, ‘sit tight.’ Ramses knows where to find us. We can get to Samaria as easily from Jerusalem as from here, and if we don’t hear from him in, let us say, a week, we will reconsider the situation.”

  My firm but kindly manner did not have the effect I had hoped. “How can you be so calm?” Nefret asked passionately. “An entire week? He could be—” Her voice caught.

  “I doubt that,” I said, suppressing my own qualms. Perhaps I was reassuring myself as well as Nefret when I continued, “In any case, he is in no more danger of…of that now than he was at the time the message was written. And if…that…were intended, our intervention would almost certainly come too late. We might even bring on the result we dread by dashing wildly in pursuit.”

  Reason, however sound, does not convince loving hearts. Nefret remained silent,
her furrowed brow and outthrust chin expressing her resistance. I did not—could not—tell her my own theory. I felt certain that my hideous forebodings were, as usual, accurate. Ramses had, heaven knows how, got himself involved with some secret service operation. MO2 was concerned about German influence in Syria-Palestine. Ramses spoke German, Arabic, and Turkish like a native, and archaeologists, as Emerson had pointed out, made admirable agents. Either the War Office had recruited Ramses—in which case I would have General Spencer’s head on a platter—or Ramses had come across something that, in his opinion, merited investigation. My—our, that is—demand that he meet us in Jaffa had given him an excuse to leave Reisner’s dig. I was reasonably certain that if we did inquire we would find he had taken his departure in the normal fashion. What had happened to him thereafter was a matter of speculation. I am never guilty of idle speculation, so I kept an open mind on that. Except that once I caught up with him, I would have Ramses’s head on another platter.

  The sky overhead was dark gray and the first drops of rain were falling. “Let us get inside,” I said, rising. “It looks as if we are in for a storm. A Nile in the sky, as Pharaoh Akhenaton once poetically expressed it. Come, Daoud.”

  The three of us were rather damp by the time we reached the hotel. The manager tried to duck behind the counter when he saw me. ’Twas of no avail, as I could have told him. Leaning over the counter, I ordered tea to be brought up and asked him to look again for messages. After fumbling about, he handed me two envelopes. One was an impressive document, covered with seals and official stamps. The other appeared to have been delivered by hand.

  “When did these arrive?” I asked.

  “Today. Today. This afternoon. The post in this country is extremely—”

  “In future,” I said sternly, “make sure all messages and letters are delivered to us at once.”

  “Open them,” Nefret urged, trying to get a look at the envelopes. “Perhaps Ramses—”

  “I can’t do that, Nefret, both are addressed to Emerson. The handwriting is not that of Ramses.”