Lion of Petra (Unabridged). Talbot Mundy
woman knew every trick of deportment down to the outward thrust of a shapely bare foot in an upturned Turkish slipper. Her clothing was linen, not black cotton that Bedouin women usually wear, and much of it was marvelously hand-embroidered; but all the jewelry she wore was a necklace made of gold coins. It gave a finishing touch of opulence that is the crown of finished art.
But it was her eyes that took your breath away, and she was perfectly aware of it; she used them as the desert does all its weapons, frankly and without reluctance, sparing no consideration for the weak—rather looking for weakness to take advantage of it. They were wise—dark, deadly wise—alight with youth, and yet amazingly acquainted with all evil that is older than the world. She was obviously not in the least afraid of us.
“You are from El-Maan?” asked de Crespigny, and she nodded.
“Did you come all this way alone?”
“No woman travels the desert alone.”
“Tell me how you got here.”
“You know how I got here. I came with a caravan that carried wheat— the wife of the sheikh of the caravan consenting.”
She spoke the clean concrete Arabic of the desert, that has a distinct word for everything, and for every phase of everything—another speech altogether from the jargon of the towns.
“Are they friends of yours?”
“Who travels with enemies?”
“Did you know them, I mean, before you came with them?”
“No.”
“Then you are not from El-Maan?”
“Who said I was?”
“I thought you did.”
“Nay, the words were yours, khawaja.”*
“Please tell me where you come from.”
“From beyond El-Maan.”
She made a gesture with one hand and her shoulder that suggested illimitable distances.
“From which place beyond El-Maan?”
She laughed, and you felt she did it not in self-defense, but out of sheer amusement.
“Ask the jackal where his hole is! My people live in tents.”
“Well, Princess, tell me, at any rate, what you are doing here in El- Kalil.” (Hebron)
“Ask El-Kalil. The whole suk talks of me. I have made purchases.”
“That’s what I’m getting at. You’ve made some unusual purchases, and you’ve sent to Jerusalem for things that people don’t use as a rule in tents out in the desert—silk stockings, for instance, and a phonograph with special records, and soft pillows, and writing-paper, and odds and ends like that. Do you use those things?”
“Why not?”
“Do you use books in French and English?”
She hesitated. It was the first time she had not seemed perfectly at ease.
“Can you even read Arabic?”
She did not answer.
“Then the books, at any rate, are meant for someone else? Tell me who that someone is.”
“Allah!” she exploded “May I not buy what I will, if I pay for it?”
But that was a false move. You can’t upset the young British officer by storming at him. De Crespigny smiled, and came back at her with his next question suddenly.
“Are not those things for the wife of Ali Higg, and are you not from Petra?”
“If you know so surely whence I come, why do you ask me?”
“Are you a slave?”
“Allah!”
“How many wives has Ali Higg?”
“How should I know?”
“Because I think you are one of his wives. Is that not so?”
“I am Ayisha. I claim Your Honor’s protection.”
That was no false move. It was so nearly a checkmate that de Crespigny went to the sideboard for the silver box of cigarettes, to offer her one and gain time for thought.
Ever since the days of Ruth, and no doubt long before that, it has been the first law of the desert that man or woman claiming protection can no longer be treated as an enemy. It is possibly the earliest form of freemasonry, and it survives.
Arab history is full of instances of a warrior laying down his life for an enemy who has claimed protection from him. And young de Crespigny was ruler of the most unruly city in the Near East because he understood better than most men how to respect Arab prejudices. Ayisha accepted a cigarette, fitted it into a long amber tube, and watched him.
“Very well,” he said at last. “If I protect you you must answer questions. Are you Ali Higg’s wife?”
“Have I Your Honor’s promise of protection?”
“Yes. Are you Ali Higg’s wife?”
“I am his second wife.”
“Thought so! And you’ve been sent to make purchases for number one?”
She nodded.
“How do you propose to convey all these things back to Petra?”
“Surely it is not difficult now that I am promised Your Honor’s protection!”
“My district extends half-way to Beersheba and to the eastward as far as the shore of the Dead Sea—no farther,” said de Crespigny.
“I can wait. I must wait for the purchases from Jerusalem. Sooner or later there will be a caravan across the desert to El-Maan. I have two servants here to make inquiries for me.”
“Yes, and two more who went to Jerusalem. Four men. Tell me this, Princess Ayisha: how came Ali Higg to trust you, alone with four men, on such a long and difficult journey?”
“Is he not my lord?”
“But the men?”
“Is he not also their lord? And he holds their wives and sons in trust at Petra.”
“You’ll admit it’s unusual?”
“Do you find it strange that a woman should be faithful to her lord?”
“But to Ali Higg? He has a name—a reputation! How many wives has he?”
“The Koran permits but four. The others are not wives.”
“And you’re going back?”
“Inshallah.” (If God is willing.)
It was obvious that no alternative would have the least appeal for her.
“Well, your movements have all been known to me. Your men have been watched. The word from Jerusalem is that the two you sent there have made their purchases. I heard over the telephone that they are on their way here. A suggestion has been made to me that you five might be held here as hostages to bring Ali Higg to terms.”
She laughed. “He would raid, and make prisoners, ten for one. If an exchange were not made promptly his prisoners would be put to torture, and—”
De Crespigny saw fit to bring the conversation back to its other foot, as it were. Not the whole British Army was in a position just then to impose its will on Ali Higg, so certainly de Crespigny was not; and if you are any kind of real diplomatist, with a career in front of you, you don’t talk fight unless you mean it.
“But of course, as you’ve claimed my protection I couldn’t dream