The Last Camel Died at Noon (9 page)

'Are you injured, my boy?' Emerson asked in faltering accents. 'Have I hurt you?'

Ramses blinked at him. 'Not intentionally, Papa, I am sure. Fortunately the ground is soft. May I venture to ask why you and Mama knocked me down?'

'A reasonable question,' Emerson admitted. 'Why did we, Peabody?'

Having had the breath knocked out of me by the fall, I was unable to reply at once. Observing my state, Emerson considerately assisted me to rise; but he took advantage of my enforced silence to continue, 'I hope you understand, Peabody, that the question was not meant to imply criticism, but only inquiry. I reacted instinctively, as I hope I will always do, my dear, when you have need of my assistance. Did you see or hear something I failed to observe that prompted such impetuous activity?'

Normally I would have resented this cowardly attempt to put the blame on me - so typical of the male sex, from Adam on down. But to be honest, I was as bewildered as he. 'No, Emerson, I confess I did not. I too reacted instinctively, and I am at a loss to explain why. I had the strangest feeling - a premonition of danger, of - '

'Never mind,' Emerson said hastily. 'I know those premonitions of yours, Peabody, and with all respect, I prefer not to discuss them.'

'Well, but it was only natural that seeing someone prowling around our stores, I should assume the worst. Ramses ought to have been asleep. Ramses, what were you... Oh.'

The answer seemed self-evident, but it was not the one Ramses gave. 'You called me, Mama. You called me to come, and of course I obeyed.'

'I did not call you, Ramses.'

'But I heard your voice -'

'You were dreaming,' Emerson said. 'What a touching thing, eh, Peabody? Dreaming of his mama and, even in sleep, obedient to her slightest command. Come along, my boy, I will tuck you in.'

With a meaningful glance at me, he pushed Ramses into the tent and followed after. I knew he would sit by the boy until he had fallen asleep; Emerson is somewhat self-conscious about being overheard, especially by Ramses, when he and I are actively demonstrating the deep affection we feel for one another. Instead of retiring to prepare for this activity, I lingered in the shadows of the trees, gazing all around. Moonlight sifted through the leaves and formed strange silvery hieroglyphs upon the ground. The night was not silent, sounds of activity came from the direction of the military base, where the barges were being loaded for the morning's departure. And from across the river, lonely as the cry of a lost and wandering spirit, came the mournful call of a jackal.

Four days later, after an uncomfortable but uneventful voyage, we saw a ruddy mountain loom over the tops of the palm trees. It was Gebel Barkal, the Holy Mountain of the Nubian kingdom. We had reached our destination.

Stone Houses of the Kings

If I have not done so already, I should make it clear that Napata is not a city but an entire region. In modern times several towns and villages occupy the site. Merawi, or Merowe, was the best known; it is a confusing name, resembling so closely that of Meroe, the second of the ancient capital cities of Gush, which is much farther south. Across from Merawi, on the opposite bank of the Nile, was the headquarters of the Frontier Field Force of the Egyptian Army, near the small village of Sanam Abu Dom. The encampment stretched along the river for over a mile, tents neatly aligned in a manner that clearly betrayed the presence of British organisation.

Emerson was unimpressed by this demonstration of efficiency. 'Curse them,' he growled, surveying the scene with a scowl. 'They have put their cursed camp smack on top of a ruined temple. There were column bases and carved blocks here in '82.'

'You weren't planning to excavate here,' I reminded him. 'The pyramids, Emerson; where are the pyramids?'

The steamer edged in towards the quay. 'All over the place,' Emerson replied somewhat vaguely. 'The main cemeteries are at Nuri, several miles upstream from here, and Kurru, on the opposite bank. There are three groups of pyramids near Gebel Barkal itself, as well as the remains of the great temple of Amon.'

The sandstone mass of Mount Barkal was an impressive sight. It is (as we later determined) only a little over three hundred feet high, but because it rises so abruptly from the flat plain it looks higher. Late-afternoon sunlight turned the rock a soft crimson and cast fantastic shadows, like the weathered remains of monumental statues, across the face.

With some difficulty I persuaded Emerson that it would be courteous, not to say expedient, to announce ourselves to the military authorities. 'What do we need them for?' he demanded. 'Mustapha has everything arranged.'

Mustapha flashed me a broad grin. He had been the first to greet us when we disembarked, and his followers had promptly set to work unloading our baggage. Emerson had introduced him as 'Sheikh Mustapha abd Rabu,' but he certainly lacked the dignity one associates with that title. He was no taller than I and thin as a skeleton; his dirty, ragged robe flapped wildly about his body as he performed a series of respectful bows to Emerson, to me, to Ramses, and again to Emerson. His wrinkled face showed the mixture of races that distinguishes this region. The Nubians themselves are of the Brown race, with wavy black hair and sharply cut features, but from time immemorial they have intermarried with Arabs and with the Black peoples of central Africa. I could not see Mustapha's hair, for it was covered by an extravagant turban, once white in colour but white no longer.

I returned Mustapha's smile; it was impossible to be aloof, he seemed so very respectful and so very glad to see us. However, I felt bound to express some reservations. 'Where are they taking our luggage?' I asked, indicating the men who were already trotting away, heavily laden, and with an energy one does not expect to find in warmer climes.

'Mustapha has found a house for us,' Emerson replied. Mustapha beamed and nodded. He was so very agreeable, I hated to cast cold water on the scheme, but I had the direst suspicions of what Mustapha would consider a suitable house. No man, of any race or nationality, has the least notion of cleanliness.

Humming in the tuneless baritone expressive of high good humour, Emerson led me along the path towards the village. From a distance it looked quite charming, surrounded by palm trees and boasting a number of houses built of mud brick. Other huts, commonly known as tukhuls, were built of palm branches and leaves interwoven on a wooden framework. Mustapha, trotting along beside us, kept up a running commentary, amusingly like that of a tourist guide: that large, impressive house was occupied by General Rundle; the pair of tukhuls near it was the headquarters of the Intelligence Service; that hut had belonged to the Italian military attache, and then to the British Museum gentleman...

'Grrr,' said Emerson, setting a faster pace.

'Is Mr Budge still there?' I asked.

'That is what we must determine,' Emerson growled. 'I am determined to stay as far away from Budge as I possibly can; I will not settle on a site until I find out where he is working. You know me, Peabody, I go to great lengths in order to avoid controversy and confrontations.'

'Hmmm,' I said.

One unexpected and welcome feature of the village was a small market operated by Greek merchants. The mercantile instincts of these fellows never cease to amaze me; they are as bold as they are businesslike, moving into an area right on the heels of the fighting men. I was delighted to find that I would be able to procure tinned food and soda water, fresh-baked bread, soap, and all kinds of pots and cutlery.

Emerson found several old acquaintances there, and while he was engaged in friendly banter with one of them I had leisure to look around me. I hope I am no ignorant tourist; I had become accustomed to the wide diversity of racial and national types that are to be found in Cairo. But I had never seen such variety as in this remote corner of the world. The complexions ranged from the 'white' of the English soldier (more sickly yellow than white, and often bright red with heat) through all the shades of brown, tan, and olive to a shining blue-black. Handsome, hawk-faced Beduin rubbed elbows with Sudani women draped in bright-coloured cottons. Bisharin tribesmen, whose hair was oiled and braided into small, tight plaits, mingled with ladies of the stricter Moslem sects hidden by dusty black draperies that left only their eyes exposed. Particularly interesting to me were a pair of tall handsome men jingling with ornaments and topped with hair the size, colour, and consistency of black mops. They were Baggara from the distant province of Kordofan - the earliest and most fanatic of the Mahdi's followers. This extravagant and characteristic hairstyle had won them the affectionate nickname of Fuzzy-Wuzzies from the British troops whom they had fought with such desperate and often successful ferocity. (I have never been able to understand how men can feel affection for individuals who are intent on massacring them in a variety of unpleasant ways, but it is an undeniable fact that they can and do. Witness the immortal verses of Mr Kipling 'So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan; You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man!' One can only accept this as another example of the peculiar emotional aberrations of the male sex.)

And the variety of languages! I understood Greek and Arabic, and had learned a little Nubian, but most of the babble was in dialects I could not identify, much less understand.

Emerson finally finished exchanging tall stories with his friend and turned to me. 'Yussuf says he can find some workers for us. We had better go on and... Ramses! Where the devil has he got to? Peabody, you were supposed to keep an eye on him.'

I could have pointed out that it was impossible to keep track øf Ramses by keeping one eye on him; the task required one's total attention and a firm hand on the collar. Before I could do so, Yussuf said in Arabic, 'The young effendi went that way.'

Muttering, Emerson plunged off in the direction Yussuf had indicated, and I followed. We soon found the miscreant; he was squatting in front of one of the booths, engaged in animated conversation with a man wrapped in a voluminous robe or mantle, a fold of which had been drawn over his head to protect it from the sun.

Emerson bellowed, 'Ramses!' whereupon Ramses jumped up and turned to face us. In his hand he held a short wooden skewer upon which were impaled chunks of meat whose origin I could not (and did not care to) determine. He waved it at me, swallowed the mouthful he had been chewing, and began, 'Mama and Papa, I have just found a most interesting - ' 'So I see,' said Emerson. 'Essalamu 'aleikum, friend.' The man had also risen, with a slow dignity that verged on arrogance. Instead of touching brow, breast, and lips in the traditional Arabic greeting, he inclined his head slightly and lifted his hands in a curious gesture. 'Greetings, Emerson Effendi. And to the lady of your house, good health and life.' 'You speak English,' I exclaimed.

'A few words, lady.' He shrugged out of the mantle, which was nothing more than a long strip of cloth, and laid the folds across his shoulders like a shawl. Under it he wore only a pair of loose, knee-length trousers, which displayed to excellent advantage his lean, athletic form and sinewy limbs. On his feet were red leather sandals with long, upward-curving toes. Such sandals were a mark of distinction among the Nubians, most of whom went barefoot. But this man was no ordinary Nubian, though his skin was a dark reddish-brown. His chiselled, regular features bore a certain resemblance to those of the Baggara, but his black hair was cut close to his head.

'He speaks a most interesting dialect, which is unfamiliar to me,' Ramses said. 'I could not resist asking him where -'

'We will discuss your inability to resist interesting dialects later, Ramses,' I said. 'And throw away that - '

It was too late. The skewer was bare.

The tall man repeated his gesture. 'I go now. Farewell.'

Inclining his head, he addressed a brief speech to Ramses in a language that was unfamiliar to me. Ramses, however, had the audacity to nod, as if he had understood it.

'What did he say?" I demanded, taking hold of Ramses. 'Don't tell me you learned enough of the language in five minutes to -'

'You are about to contradict yourself, Amelia,' said Emerson, watching with furrowed brow the dignified yet brisk retreat of Ramses's new acquaintance. 'If he has not learned enough of the language to understand what was said, he can't tell you. Er - what did he say, Ramses?'

Ramses shrugged, looking as enigmatic as any Arab master of that annoying gesture. 'I am sorry, Papa, I am sorry, Mama, that I wandered off. I will not do it again.'

'Come along, come along,' said Emerson, before I could express the incredulity this promise naturally provoked. 'We have delayed too long, and lost our guide. However, we need only continue along the path. On the other side of the market, Yussuf said... I say, Peabody, one can hardly blame Ramses for being intrigued. I have never heard that dialect, and yet a word or two in the last speech was oddly familiar.'

'He is not a Baggara, then?'

'Definitely not. I know something of that speech. Some of the people of the upper White Nile are tall and well-built; the Dinka and Shilluk, for example. He may be from that region. Ah, well, we had better get on. Ramses, stay close to your mama.'

The accommodations Yussuf had found were about what I had expected, i.e., uninhabitable by humans. There were certainly rats in the palm-leaf roof, and the insect life was varied and aggressive. I requested the men to pitch our tents, tactfully explaining that we would reserve the hut for storage, and then, finally, I got Emerson to agree to call on the authorities. We took Ramses with us, though he did not want to come, claiming he preferred to stay with the men and improve his knowledge of Nubian dialects.

However, Ramses perked up when Emerson announced his intention of calling on Slatin Pasha, who was assisting the Intelligence Department. I myself looked forward to meeting this astonishing man whose adventures had become the stuff of legend.

Rudolf Carl von Slatin was Austrian by birth, but like a number of European and English military men, he had spent most of his life in the East. When the Mahdi overran the Sudan, Slatin was serving as governor of Darfur, the province to the west of Khartoum. Though he fought gallantly against overwhelming odds, he was finally forced to surrender; and for eleven years he was held prisoner under conditions so appalling that only courage and will could have kept him alive. His most terrible experience occurred after the capture of Khartoum, when, as he sat in chains upon the ground, a party of Mahdist soldiers approached him, carrying some object wrapped in a cloth. Gloating, the leader unwrapped the cloth to display the head of Slatin's friend and leader, General Gordon. He finally made good his escape, and those who saw him shortly afterwards said he looked like a withered old man of eighty.