Lion of Petra (Unabridged). Talbot Mundy
wall, and stood in line to shake hands—and that is a lengthy business, for it is bad manners to be the first to let go of an Arab’s hand, so that tact is required as well as patience; but it was well worth while standing in the sun repeating the back- and-forth rigmarole of Arab greeting if that meant that Ali Baba and his sixteen sons and grandsons were to be our companions on the adventure. They followed us at last into the governorate, and sat down on the hall carpet with the air of men who know what fun the future holds.
Narayan Singh stayed out in the hall and looked them over. There is something in the make-up of the Sikh that, while it gives him to understand the strength and weaknesses of almost any alien race, yet constrains him more or less to the policeman’s viewpoint. It isn’t a moral viewpoint exactly; he doesn’t invariably disapprove; but he isn’t deceived as to the possibilities, and yields no jot or tittle of the upper hand if he can only once assume it. There was scant love lost between him and old Ali Baba.
“Nharak said*, O ye thieves!” he remarked, looking down into Ali Baba’s mild old eyes.
Squatting in loose-flowing robes, princely bred, and almost saintly with his beautiful gray beard, the patriarch looked frail enough to be squashed under the Sikh’s enormous thumb. But he wasn’t much impressed.
“God give thee good sense, Sikh!” was the prompt answer.
“Fear Allah, and eschew infidelity while there is yet time!” boomed a man as big as the Sikh and a third as heavy again—Ali Baba’s eldest son, a sunny-tempered rogue, as I knew from past experience.
“Whose husband have you put to shame by fathering those two brats?” asked a third man.
Mahommed that was, Ali Baba’s youngest, who had saved Grim’s life and mine at El-Kerak.
They all laughed uproariously at that jest, so Mahommed repeated it more pointedly, and the Sikh turned his back to consider the sunshine through the open door and the rising heat within. Suliman and the other little gutter-snipe proceeded to make friends with the whole gang promptly, giving as good as they got in the way of repartee, and nearly starting a riot until Grim called Ali Baba into the dining-room, where de Crespigny was shaking up the second round of warm cocktails in a beer-bottle.
Ali Baba chose to presume that the mixture was intended for himself. The instant de Crespigny set the bottle on the table the old rascal tipped the lot into a tumbler and drank it off.
“It is good that the Koran says nothing against such stuff as this,” he said, blinking as he set the glass down. “I have never tasted wine,” he added righteously.
“Are the camels ready?” asked Grim.
“Surely.”
“What sort are they? Mangy old louse-food, I suppose, that had been turned out by the Jews to die?”
“Allah! My sons have scoured Hebron for the best. Never were such camels! They are fit to make the pilgrimage to Mecca.”
“I suppose that means that the rent to be charged for each old camel for a month is more than the purchase-price of a really good one?”
“The camels are mine, Jimgrim. I have bought them. Shall there be talk of renting between me and thee?”
“Not yet. After I’ve seen the beasts. If they’re as good as you say I’ll pay you at the government rate for them per month.”
“Allah forbid! The camels are yours, Jimgrim. For me and mine there will no doubt be a profit from this venture without striking bargains between friends.”
Grim smiled at that like a merchant listening to a salesman. It is not often that you can tell the color of his eyes, but on occasions of that sort they look iron-gray and match the bushy eyebrows. He turned to de Crespigny.
“Have you finished the census, ‘Crep?”
“Pretty nearly.”
“Have you got Ali Baba’s property all listed?”
“Yes.”
“And that of his sons and grandsons?”
“Every bit of it that’s taxable.”
“Good. You hear that, Ali Baba? Now listen to me, you old rascal. When you complained to me the other day that there was no more thieving left to do in Hebron, I told you you’re rich enough to quit, and you admitted it, you remember? You agreed with me that jail isn’t a dignified place for a man of your years and experience.”
“Taib.* Jail is not good.”
“But you complained that you couldn’t keep your gang out of mischief.”
“Truly. They are young. They have talent. Shall they sit still and grow fat like a pasha in the harem?”
“So I said I’d find them some honest employment from time to time.”
“That was a good promise. Here already is employment. But you know, Jimgrim, they are used to rich profits in return for running risks. Danger is meat and drink to them.”
“They shall have their fill this trip!” said Grim.
“Taib. But the reward should be proportionate.”
“Government wages!” Grim answered firmly. The old Arab smiled.
“Under the Turks,” he answered, “the officer pocketed the pay, and the men might help themselves.”
“D’you take me for a Turk?” asked Grim.
“No, Jimgrim. I know you for a cunning contriver—an upsetter of calculations—but no Turk. Nevertheless, as I understand it, we go against Ali Higg, who calls himself the Lion of Petra. Sheikh Ali Higg has amassed a heap of plunder—hundreds of camels—merchandise taken from the caravans; that should be ours for the lifting. That is honest. That is reasonable.”
“Not a bit of it!” said Grim. “Let’s get that clear before we start. I know your game. You’ve got it all fixed up between yourselves to stick with me until Ali Higg is mafish* and then bolt for the skyline with the plunder. Not a bit of use arguing—I know. You shouldn’t talk your plans over in coffee-shop corners if you don’t want me to hear of them.”
“Jimgrim, you are the devil!”
“Maybe. But let’s understand each other. Your property in Hebron is all listed. We’ll call that a pledge for good behavior. You and your men are going to have government rifles served out to you that you’ll have to account for afterward. Every rifle missing when we get back, and every scrap of loot you lay your hands on, will be charged double against your Hebron property. On the other hand, if any camels die you shall be reimbursed. Is that clear?”
“Clear? A camel in the dark could understand it! But listen, Jimgrim.”
The venerable sire of rogues went and sat crosslegged on the window-seat, evidently meaning to debate the point. If an Arab loves one thing more than a standing argument it is that same thing sitting down.
“We go against Ali Higg. That is no light matter. He will send his men against us, and that is no light matter either. They are heretics without hope of paradise and bent on seeing hell before their time! Surely they will come to loot our camp in the dark. Shall we not defend ourselves?”
But Grim was not disposed to stumble into any traps.
“Does a loaded camel on the level trouble about hills?” he asked.
But Ali Baba waved the question aside as irrelevant.
“They come. We defend ourselves. One, or maybe two, or even more of Ali Higg’s scoundrels are slain. Behold a blood-feud! Jimgrim and his friends depart for El-Kudz* or elsewhere; Ali Baba and his sons have a feud on their hands.
“Now