“If I had to guess, I’d say they’re speaking the language ancient Egyptians spoke before the Arab invasion. Which would be Coptic. I think these people are pre-Islamic.”
Gideon moved toward the door, one eye on the guards, and cautiously inspected the lashings. “When it gets dark and people go to bed, I’m pretty sure we could cut through these.”
“And then what?” Imogen asked.
“We’ll steal some camels and waterskins and ride like hell until we get out of their territory.”
“I agree,” said Garza. “The sooner we get out of this hellhole, the better.”
“That makes three of us,” she said.
As they were speaking, Gideon noticed the same group of four old men with white beards walking in single file up the ridge toward the chief’s tent. As they entered, the chief held the flap aside for them in a welcoming manner. It looked like a meeting of the elders—probably to decide their fate.
All day they waited for the men to reappear. The sun crept down between the mountains and the valley filled with purple twilight. Cooking fires were lit and twinkling lights began to dot the surrounding landscape, the fragrance of smoke mingling with the murmuring of voices and the tinkling of bells as the goats were driven back into their pens for the night. A delicious smell of roasting meat drifted through the air.
“If these people weren’t so damn bloodthirsty,” Garza said, gazing out, “that scene might almost be beautiful.”
As darkness fell, the flap of the chief’s tent finally opened, throwing a bar of yellow light over the grass. The priests began filing out.
“Looks like the powwow with the grand mufti is finally over,” said Gideon.
“They’re pre-Islamic, remember?” Imogen said. “He’s not a mufti or sheikh. He’s a chieftain.”
A group of guards, about half a dozen, now approached their cage, two carrying torches and the others long wooden spears with bronze tips and tails.
“When they see we’ve worked off our bonds, we’re going to be in trouble,” Gideon said.
“Screw ’em,” replied Garza.
They stopped and one of the men shouted an order to the two guards. They unlashed the cage door and pulled it aside, gesturing for Gideon and the others to come out. Strangely, they did not seem concerned that the three had untied and ungagged themselves. As they emerged, the guards pushed them forward at spearpoint, propelling them in the direction of the chieftain’s tent. They were led up the small promontory, then prodded inside and forced to kneel, the points of the spears pricking their backs.
Despite their dire situation, Gideon could not help but be amazed at the tent’s relative opulence. It was spacious and well lit, with oil lanterns casting a warm glow over a sumptuous array of woven rugs, leather cushions, and hanging fabrics. The chief sat on a leather ottoman, as if on a throne. A jostling crowd of people filed up and stood near the entrance, waiting. There was no sign of the young woman who had been standing beside the chief earlier.
Silence fell as the old chieftain gazed at the three. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something. A few moments later, Gideon heard a cracked voice outside, raised in argument—the crone. A flap at the rear of the tent opened and she was ushered in, moving forward with those same macabre walking sticks. She was still dressed in coarse goatskins and a filthy headscarf, from which escaped strands of white hair. The chieftain rose with deference and helped her ease her ancient body onto a pile of cushions. She muttered in displeasure as she adjusted her skins. Once everything was in place, she folded her hands in her lap and turned a pair of beady eyes on them. Her face was creased with suspicion. And yet there was something else there, Gideon thought: an expression that, perhaps, was more curious than suspicious.
The crone spoke to them briefly in a cracked voice. She stopped, waited, then began again. It took Gideon a few moments to realize she was speaking English—with what sounded like a travesty of a British accent.
All three were struck dumb with astonishment.
Into the silence, the crone asked, for the third time: “You speak English?”
“Yes, yes, we speak English,” they stumbled over themselves, suddenly all answering at once.
The crone, annoyed, gestured with her hand for silence. Then she pointed at Gideon. “You speak. Others, quiet!”
Gideon nodded.
“Why you here?”
“We’re…adventurers,” Gideon began. He had no idea how this old woman had learned English, and no way of knowing just how many words she understood. But this had to be the reason why they’d been spared—it was when Imogen had finally spoken English that the crone stopped the execution. “Adventurers,” he repeated. “Explorers.” While he spoke, he was acutely aware of a spearpoint pricking him between his shoulder blades.
“Explorers,” the woman repeated, mimicking the word.
“Yes. Explorers.”
“What that mean?”
Gideon tried to focus. “We—we travel, looking for new lands. New people.”
“Your land no good?”
“Our land is fine. We travel because we are curious. Not to conquer, but to learn new wisdom.” He swallowed as she frowned with incomprehension. “We come in peace. Peace. As you see, we are poor people with nothing, and we want nothing from you…except knowledge.”
Gideon watched the old woman carefully while he spoke, but her expression was impassive and unreadable until his final words. Then she held up her hand for silence and turned to the chieftain, apparently translating. The chieftain said something in response and she turned back to them.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why do we seek knowledge? Because knowledge is good.”
More confabulation with the chieftain.
“We have knowledge you seek?”
“We do not know. That is the reason for being an explorer. You look. You learn.”
“You look for…treasure?” Her expression grew guarded again.
“No, no. We do not want treasure. As you can see, we are very poor.” He spread his hands. “We care nothing for riches.”
Gideon couldn’t tell if she and the chieftain were buying this or not.
“You are English?” the crone continued.
“Yes,” said Gideon. It would be too complicated to explain the details.
“You crazy?”
Gideon hesitated. “Yes.”
When this was translated, the chieftain showed sudden alarm. There was a murmur from the crowd just outside the open tent flap as well.
“Why you say this?” the crone asked.
“Because only crazy people would come here.”
The chieftain found this hilarious when it was translated, and the listening crowd dutifully laughed along with him. This was starting to go well, Gideon thought.
“The Father still want to know why you come here.”
“It was an accident.”
“Accident?”
“Yes. We were robbed, and then our camels ran off in a storm. We lost everything. We had no choice. If we did not find water, we would die.”
“Who rob you?”
“An Arab camel driver.”
At this, the crone perked up. “Arab? Rob you?”
The chieftain broke into a tirade on hearing this translated, gesturing, his beard wagging. An answering murmur of anger swelled in the crowd. Gideon had a sudden fear he had offended them, and that their execution was being ordered afresh. When the chief was done yelling and gesturing, the crone did not translate.
“What did he say?” Gideon asked timidly.
“The Father no like Arab.”
“But…” Gideon hesitated. “Aren’t you Arabs?”
“No,” said the crone, sharply.
“Who are you?”
“We Egyptian.” She spoke the word precisely. “Arab is invader.”