The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (3 page)

I planned to get him away that night, before Zaal could begin dismembering him, but unfortunately Zaal took it into his head to visit us again the same evening. He was somewhat the worse for drink, and looking for amusement. I cannot in decency repeat the vile proposal he made to my companion, nor the words in which Feisal (to his credit) refused. Remarking, "So, you prefer a beating?" Zaal ordered four of his men to seize the slight, shrinking form of the lad and hold him down.

It was not noblesse oblige alone that made me offer to take the beating in place of Feisal. My plan of escape would have been seriously jeopardized if I had to encumber myself with a companion who was unconscious or crippled—for of course it would have been unthinkable to abandon him. I knew I could withstand torture better than an Arab.

Zaal was too inflamed by passion, drink, and bloodlust to resist the temptation. It would have given the creature enormous pleasure to hear an Englishman beg for mercy. Naturally I had no intention of doing so. Feisal took a tentative step toward me. I called out to him not to resist and then pressed my lips tightly together, determined that not another sound should escape me. They tore off my shirt and threw me down upon the divan. Two of them gripped my ankles and two more twisted my wrists and held them. Zaal's stick crashed down across my back. I locked my teeth to endure the pain that lapped like flames across my back...

With his sleeve Ramses mopped up the puddle of spilled beer before it could stain the page on which he had spent the greater part of the day. He was still shaking with laughter when he tossed the book back to David. "Here, I've had all I can stand."

"You missed the best part," David said, turning over a few pages. "When you and he swear blood brotherhood before he delivers you safely to the tent of your father and rides off into the night alone."

"On his faithful white stallion, under the cold light of the distant desert stars, no doubt. He's certainly fond of banal adjectives, I..." Belatedly, the import of several pronouns sank in. He stopped laughing. "What are you talking about?"

David tossed the book onto the floor. "I may be a bit slow, Ramses, but I'm not stupid. Percy had gone prancing off into the desert and the rest of us were about to leave for England that spring when the Professor and Aunt Amelia got the ransom demand from Zaal. You had already made arrangements to spend the summer working with Reisner at Samaria. I didn't think anything of it when you decided to start a few days earlier than you had planned, but when Percy turned up, plump and swaggering and undamaged, not long after you left Cairo, I began to wonder. Now I know. Most of what he wrote is rubbish, but he couldn't have got away without help, and who else could the 'slight' little Arab prince have been but you? It certainly wasn't Feisal. He'll murder you when he finds out you took his name in vain."

"I'll tell him it was you."

David grinned, but shook his head. "I wouldn't have risked my neck for Percy. Why did you?"

"Damned if I know."

David looked exasperated. "How much of this—this nonsense is true?"

"Well..." Ramses finished the beer and wiped his mouth on his other sleeve. "Well, if you really want to know—not a lot."

Ramses had known what he must do as soon as the ransom note reached them. There could be no question of its authenticity; Percy had added a frenzied appeal in his own hand. Even his father admitted they couldn't take the chance of leaving Percy to the tender mercies of Zaal; he was a renegade and a drunkard, and God only knew what he might do when he was in one of his fits.

"Then," said Emerson gloomily, "Britain would feel obliged to avenge the bloody idiot and innocent people would be killed. Damnation! We will have to raise the money, I suppose."

"Uncle James will never repay you," Ramses said. "He'd swindle a starving charwoman out of her last halfpenny."

No one bothered to deny this, not even his mother. She knew her brother well, and detested him even more than Emerson did. Family honor demanded action, however, and the process was underway when Ramses set off for Palestine, a few days earlier than he had planned.

He knew where to find Zaal. He'd heard a lot about the fellow the year before, when he was excavating in Palestine with Reisner. Zaal was a bandit in the old style, preying on Arab and European alike, and retreating after each raid to the ruined castle he had made his headquarters. His followers were a scruffy lot, as cowardly and corrupt as Zaal himself, but a direct attack on the place would have been dangerous, owing to its location and remaining fortifications. The old Crusaders had known how to build a stronghold.

Ramses had no intention of attacking directly. It didn't take him long to make his arrangements; he had friends in a number of places. The small oasis he selected was not far from the castle. Imposingly bearded and robed, in imitation of a well-known local gentleman, he settled down to wait, certain that the word would soon get back to Zaal. A single traveler, richly attired and accompanied by a heavily laden camel, was an irresistible target.

He put up only a token resistance when the motley crowd of riders descended on him. Pinioned inefficiently by two of the men, he endured a few kicks and blows with traditional Arabic stoicism until a whoop of delight from the fellows investigating the camel's cargo distracted his tormentors. It didn't occur to the greedy swine to ask what misadventure had kept him there so long, or to wonder why the noble, pious Prince Feisal was squatting beside a camel loaded with whiskey.

They had emptied several bottles, passing them from hand to hand, before they hoisted him onto a horse and tied his feet to the stirrups. Ramses wished they would get on with it. One of the villains had claimed his elegant robes and leather boots, and the sun was scorching his bare skin. He was pleased but not surprised to see them unload the whiskey and distribute it amongst themselves before they mounted. Zaal's indifference to the laws of Islam was shared by his men, but they did not share the liquor he kept for himself and his favorites.

The ruined ramparts rose up against the sky as they approached, winding along a steep path between rocky outcroppings. At the hail of the man leading the procession, the gate swung open and Ramses took careful note of the internal arrangements. An open courtyard, a few crude structures to shelter men and horses, a weighted bar on the inside of the gate .. . No, it shouldn't be difficult, assuming Percy was ambulatory.

He was looking forward to meeting his cousin, but he had to face Zaal first. The encounter was not without its points of interest, and only a trifle more unpleasant than he had expected. Zaal must have attained his position of leadership through sheer viciousness, since his physical endowments were not impressive. Of middle height, his beard and hair streaked with gray, he was so fat he resembled the obese bow-legged Egyptian god Bes as he waddled toward his captive.

"So who is this peasant?" he demanded. "Why did you bring him here?"

"He is a person of importance," the leader of the gang insisted. "He wore garments of silk trimmed with gold ..."

"Ah? Where are they, then?"

A heated discussion about the disposition of the garments followed. Ramses cut it short. Folding his arms across his chest, he looked down his nose at Zaal and announced his adopted identity.

"So." Zaal's piggy little eyes brightened. "The son of Sheikh Mohammed?"

"The eldest son," Ramses corrected, with appropriate hauteur.

"Soooo. He would pay a large price to get you back?"

"To get me back undamaged, yes."

He stressed the essential word. He had heard about certain of Zaal's habits, and he didn't much care for the look in those squinting eyes as they moved over his body.

Zaal grinned and scratched his side. "Of course. I would like to be on good terms with your honored father. Sit down and talk. Drink tea with me."

May as well stay in character, Ramses thought, particularly since it suits my own inclinations. "The son of my father does not sit down with renegades and bandits."

Zaal only grinned more broadly.

"That is not courteous, my young friend. Shakir, give him a lesson in manners."

Two of them held him while Shakir obliged. After a few blows he decided he had made his point, and went limp, a little too late; he was only vaguely aware of being dragged out of the room and up a flight of stairs. The chamber into which they propelled him did not resemble a prison cell; through half-closed eyes he saw sunlight and a carpeted floor—and his cousin, sprawled comfortably on a pile of cushions. Then his captors tossed him facedown across a divan and he concluded he might as well stay there.

It was a wise decision. The ensuing dialogue between Percy and Zaal was illuminating.

"Who the devil is that?" was his cousin's first question.

"A young man who will, I hope, become a great friend of mine."

"What about the ransom?" Percy demanded. "Have you heard?"

"No. It is early days. What are you complaining about? You are living like a pasha. Do you want more brandy? Hashish? A woman? You have only to ask."

"Yes, well..."

"Be kind to my new friend," Zaal purred. "Tell him how comfortable he can be if he is as cooperative as you."

After Zaal had gone out Percy paced and muttered for a while. Then Ramses heard liquid gurgle. He rolled over and sat up. Percy studied him sourly over the glass from which he was drinking.

"Brandy," he explained. "D'you want some?"

Ramses shook his head. "It is forbidden."

"Your loss." Percy tossed down the rest of the brandy.

It was obvious he had not recognized Ramses. The latter rose and went to the window, which was open and unbarred. It faced the courtyard, and six feet under it was the roof of another structure.

However, Percy did not respond enthusiastically to "Feisal's" plan for escape. "Why the devil should I take the chance? My loving relations will send the ransom."

"So will my father. But I do not mean to sit here like a girl or an infant till he does."

They were speaking English, of necessity, since Percy's Arabic was virtually non-existent. Percy hadn't even enough interest in his companion to ask where he had learned the language. He remained sullenly resistant to Ramses's suggestions, and the latter was beginning to believe he would have to knock Percy unconscious and carry him out when Fate, in the unpleasant person of Zaal, intervened.

It was getting dark. Percy had lit one of the lamps and was sitting on a pile of cushions, grumbling because they were late bringing his dinner. When the door opened, he looked up with a scowl.
Zaal rolled in. He was very drunk and in a very amorous mood, but he wasn't stupid enough to have come alone. Two of his sturdiest men were with him. When he put his interesting proposition to the prisoners, Percy let out a bleat of protest.

"Leave me alone! Oh, God—please—take him!" He flung out an arm to indicate his companion and retreated to the farthest corner of the room.

"With pleasure," said Zaal. "I included you only out of courtesy to a guest."

He held out his arms and sidled toward Ramses, weaving from side to side. Ramses eluded him without difficulty and shook his head. "No."

"No?" Zaal sounded rather pleased than otherwise. "Defiance becomes you, my dear, but it would not be wise to resist."

"Embrace one of your own kind," Ramses suggested, employing a more explicit verb. "Surely there are dogs around the dung heaps."

The guards converged on him, while Zaal sputtered and swayed. Glancing at his cousin, Ramses realized with disgust that he wasn't going to get any help from that quarter. If Percy had had the courage to fight back, the two of them could have dealt with the guards and Zaal, and the way to escape would have been open, with Zaal as their hostage.

The best he could do was to keep Zaal from damaging his cousin, and minimizing the damage to himself. The first part wasn't difficult; obviously Zaal had not been interested in Percy until the fascinating idea of an encounter a trois occurred to him. Noblesse oblige had its limits, however, and he had no intention of submitting to what Zaal had in mind. A carefully calibrated kick finished the job the liquor had started, and ensured that Zaal would be temporarily incapable of that particular activity. The beating Zaal's dutiful henchmen administered was somewhat perfunctory—and it was a damned sight better than the alternative. When, several hours later, he indicated it was time for them to go, Percy didn't resist.