“Because the wadis are now full we must go into the city by the road. Amir must remain absolutely silent. He must not speak, no matter the provocation.”
“You are expecting provocation?” I asked. He ignored me.
“The one thing we must avoid is a full-body search of Amir. Even among the English, there would be consequences were a woman to be found dressed as a man. Remember: Silence.”
He was curiously impressive, was Mahmoud, not unlike Holmes in his intensity and his complete self-control. I followed behind, subdued and not terribly interested in Arabic lessons; After half an hour or so we dipped down into a small wadi, and there we paused while Ali took a wrapped parcel from inside his robe, added to it his pearl- handled revolver and another, smaller parcel from Mahmoud, pulled the rifle from deep in one of the packs, and held his hand out for the revolver Holmes carried. Last of all he unstrapped his gold wrist-watch (the hands of which had not moved in six days), and he wrapped it all in a sheet of oiled cloth from one of the saddle-bags and secreted the whole bundle in a niche, arranging some rocks in front to keep it in place and hidden, but making certain that we saw where he was putting the armory. Natives such as ourselves were not encouraged to bear arms.
The area in back of us was a network of wadis and hills, including the (now flowing) watercourse of the Wadi el Saba, up which the British Army had made its decisive push for Beersheva in October of 1917. To our right were the remnants of the Turkish trenches, dug into the flat plain and lined by barbed wire, lengths of which remained, rusted and lethal. We gave the defences wide berth, and soon came to the rutted track to the coast that passed for a road, built originally by the Turks, used now to link the Beersheva garrison with the coastal railway up out of Egypt at Rafa. A year earlier, when Beersheva and Gaza were the front-line cities of British occupation, the road would have been an ant’s trail of military activity. Now the town was rapidly slumping back towards its usual somnolent state, and if the lorries still came and went all day and half the night, they did so with less urgency.
Unfortunately, this state of affairs meant that the soldiers stationed there, already disgruntled at having to wait for demobilisation as the weeks after Armistice crawled into months, felt both left out and itching for something to do, and at the check-point into Beersheva it quickly became apparent why Ali and Mahmoud were so apprehensive, and why they had rid themselves of their weapons.
Half a mile from the check-point, Ali guided the mules to the side of the road and inexplicably set about making tea. Lorries rumbled up and down, laden camels plodded softly along, and we sat a stone’s throw from the road, sipping our tea. It was not a very leisurely tea break, however; both of our Arabs were wound tight, and sat on their heels smoking and drinking and never taking their eyes off the point where the road dwindled into the western horizon.
Without warning Mahmoud rose, tossed the contents of his just-filled glass of tea into the fire, and snatched mine from my lips to do the same. Ali, moving easily but wasting no time, gathered up all the equipment, shovelled it unceremoniously into a saddle-bag, and cinched it shut. Within minutes we were on the way east into the city, and because at Mahmoud’s insistence I had removed my attention-getting spectacles, I had absolutely no idea what they had seen to spark such movement.
The bored soldiers at the check-point were pleased to see us, and obviously recognised our guides.
“Why, if it ain’t our old pals Tweedledee and Tweedledum. And look, Davy, they got some friends today. Ain’t that nice?”
“Even wogs have friends, Charlie.”
“Too true, Davy, especially when they’re pretty as the skinny one.”
It was fortunate that the dye on my skin obscured any blood that rose on my cheeks, because their comments soon escalated, becoming remarkably graphic. Nonetheless, all four of us stood with our eyes on the ground until the two soldiers tired of talk, and one of them strolled over and slipped the point of his bayonet under the pack ropes. The mules skittered backwards to the full extent of their leads as our possessions rained down about their hoofs. In two minutes everything we owned was spread on the ground for the inspection of His Majesty’s troops, who trod up and down and kicked the coffee-pots and tent pegs across the mud. They seemed most disappointed to find nothing more lethal than a paring knife, and I shuddered to think what would have happened to us had we retained our guns.
They were just tiring of this when I became aware of the approach of what Ali and Mahmoud had seen earlier: an entire caravan of Bedouin—men, women, and children, camels, dogs, horses, goats, and sheep. There was even a lone chicken, squawking in agitation from a rough cage tied atop one of the camels. The front of the caravan stopped dead at the check-point but the tail continued to move forward, spreading out until it blocked the roadway in both directions. Lorries ground to a halt, drivers leant out of their windows and shouted curses, and an armoured car, horn blaring, pushed its way through the crowd on the verge, trying to leave the town. The two British soldiers, forced to abandon us before they had finished their fun, contented themselves with loud remarks about the filthy thieving habits of the bloody wogs, then turned away.
Ali bent to retrieve a fragile porcelain cup. As the soldier named Davy walked up the line, before any of us could react, he slipped his rifle from his shoulder and casually swung it around to swat Ali a tremendous crack on the head with the gun’s heavy butt. Ali collapsed amongst the kitchenware. I took one furious step forward, and felt Holmes’ hand freeze like a vice on my upper arm.
Fortunately neither soldier had noticed our movements, and they continued on their way to harass the camel caravan, but Mahmoud had seen my instinctive move and frowned at me thoughtfully for an instant before he bent to help Ali, who was already sitting up, holding his head and moaning loudly.
It seemed to take forever to bundle everything back onto the mules and slip away before the soldiers could return to us, but we made our escape into the streets of the town. Near the Turkish railway station we stopped to tuck a few loose bits back into the tenuous hold of Mahmoud’s knots. The precarious load would not have lasted an hour on the road, but apparently we were not going far. Holmes and I helped Mahmoud by bodily lifting the bulge of one pack while he looped a few more lengths of rope about the whole thing, mule and all. When the knot was tied he paused to look over the mule’s back at me.
“When the soldier hit Ali,” he said in a low voice and with perfect English diction, “it looked as if you meant to attack the man.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
“But you would have gone to All’s defence? Physically?”
“Under different circumstances, certainly.”
He did not seem angry at my disobedience, just puzzled. Finally he said, “But women do not fight.”
“This one does,” I answered. He held my gaze, then looked sideways at Holmes.
“This one does,” my mentor confirmed.
“
“From the Koran, I believe,” he supplied. “He used the same passage the other day; it seems to be weighing heavily on his mind, for some reason. Loosely translated his words meant, ‘Would Allah make a woman to be covered in ornaments and powerless in a fight?’ A rhetorical question, of course.”
Of course.
FIVE
?
—
JOSHUA 2:1
