Emerson kept up the pace for another mile before he slowed his horse to a trot. Waving Nefret and Selim on, he fell back beside the carriage.

“All right, are you, Peabody?” he inquired. “Daoud?”

Daoud nodded. He was a trifle green and he was clutching the side of the carriage with both hands. I said, “Well done, my dear. Did you anticipate the roadblock?”

“I thought some such contingency might arise. I ought to have warned you, as I did Nefret and Selim, but I felt certain that you would rise to the occasion.”

“Our driver deserves commendation as well,” I said. Leaning forward, I said in Arabic, “Good work, my friend. You have earned much baksheesh.”

A wordless mumble was the only response.

“He may be one of those who believe it improper to look upon the face of an unveiled woman,” said Emerson. “Damn-fool notion, but no more idiotic than a good many of the-”

“I am familiar with your views on that subject, my dear,” I said. “Should we not press on with all possible speed?”

“How much farther, do you suppose?”

“We must be fairly close. If the guidebook is accurate, the place should be visible from-” I broke off with a cry of excitement and pointed with my parasol. A short distance ahead, on the left-hand side of the road, rose a steep hill crowned with uneven stones like jagged teeth. From it rose a thick column of smoke.

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Despite David’s objections Ramses managed to persuade him to take another dose of the herbal brew. He couldn’t be sure it was doing any good-the fever might have run its course naturally-but it wouldn’t hurt David to have a solid night’s sleep. David badgered him into taking a few sips himself. The keen eye of a friend hadn’t missed the signs Ramses was unwilling to admit even to himself. They weren’t severe and might have been the result of fatigue and worry-loss of appetite, moments of unsteadiness. He told himself he could stick it out for another day. Things were looking up, there was even a chance of rescue soon, but he wasn’t willing to risk the possibility that an enemy might catch both of them dead to the world-which they would be, literally. He spat out the last mouthful of medicine when David wasn’t looking at him.

Even then, his slumber was heavier than he would have wished. It might have been a birdcall or animal sound that woke him-or that sixth sense his mother called the sleeping sentinel. It sent the adrenaline flooding into his veins, and he stiffened, listening intently. A dim light filtered into the keep through the broken entrance where he lay. Night was ending. Dawn was not far off. He pulled himself to his feet and looked out into a gray morning and the shapes of moving shadows.

He couldn’t tell how many of them there were, but one or more was already inside the gate. He drew back, wishing, not for the first time, that he had a weapon, even a club. He had tried to break off a tree limb, but the tough old branches resisted his best efforts. He picked up a rock and waited.

The voice spoke again, closer now, but not close enough for him to make out the words. Mansur stepped into view. His hands were raised. Neither held a weapon. He took a few steps forward, and Ramses saw he was not alone. Immediately behind him was his manservant, the one who had waited on him during the banquet. Several other men crowded through the gate. They were dressed in the same rough garments his first guide had worn, and each had a long knife thrust through his belt.

“Come out. We know you are there. Resistance is useless.”

The words were English, but the voice wasn’t the one he had expected. Mansur’s lips had not moved.

The speaker had to be Mansur’s servant. It could be a trick to get him out in the open. What would be the point, though? There were at least six of them, all armed. He couldn’t hold them off. If he gave himself up they might not bother looking for David. He could tell them David had got away.

He moistened his dry lips and spoke. “Who are you?”

“The enemies of your enemy. Come out, we mean you no harm.”

They all moved forward, step by step, like hunters trying not to startle a timid animal. The rising sun shone full on them now, and Ramses saw that Mansur’s face was streaked with blood and that the man behind him held a knife at his back, and that the other men had boxed him in on three sides, their knives drawn.

His mind seemed to be working at half-speed. Not until Mansur’s servant pushed his sleeve back and showed his bare forearm did he put the clues together. Cautiously he came out into the open.

“The Sons of Abraham,” he said. “Then you are-you are…”

He couldn’t think of the right word. The fellow didn’t look like a commander or a spiritual leader; he was as unremarkable as ever, short-statured and slender, his beard scarcely touched with gray. His eyes ought to have been glowing with intelligence, his pose one of pride and dignity. The eyes were a muddy brown, and his narrow shoulders were hunched.

“You may call me Ismail,” he said, giving the name its Arabic pronunciation. “Or Ishmael, if you prefer.”

Ramses rubbed his aching forehead. “I don’t understand. Why did you bring him here?”

“We did not bring him. He brought us. When he ordered me to come with him to the Hill of Blood and bring those who would assist him, I knew your presence had been betrayed. So I did as he asked. Except that the men I chose were my men, not his.” He looked around at the grim walls and desolate ground. “This place is fitting. Prepare him.”

Ramses watched in disbelief while two of the men stripped Mansur of his robe and laid him down across one of the larger blocks, his bare arms extended, his wrists held tightly. For the first time Ramses had a good look at the mark on his forearm. It was the same as the others he had seen, a strange cryptogram that might have been the Hebrew letter aleph crossed by another symbol. Mansur was passive in their grasp, his face as wooden as ever. To judge by the blood on his face, he had put up a fight initially, but he was now resigned to whatever fate awaited him. He didn’t look at Ramses, not even when Ismail stood over him with a drawn knife. The tableau was horribly reminiscent of scenes from Aztec tombs depicting a priest cutting the heart from a living sacrifice.

“No,” Ramses exclaimed. “No. You mustn’t.”

“Who will stop me? You?”

“If I can.” He twisted away from the first man who would have taken hold of him and kicked out at a second. His foot missed its target, delivering a blow on the thigh that didn’t even stagger the fellow. Then they were both on him, and after a brief, ineffectual struggle, they held him fast.

Ismail hadn’t moved. He studied Ramses with mild curiosity.

“You would fight for him? He would have taken your life.”

Ramses was aware of Mansur’s dark, sardonic eyes watching him. He’s waiting for me to spout a string of public-school clichés, he thought. “I would fight him, on equal grounds, and kill him, if it were the only way of saving my own life. I am no saintly martyr. I cannot stand by while you murder a helpless man.”

“You do. In your prisons and execution chambers. In war.”

“I deplore both. But the prisoner has had a fair trial and the soldier is armed.”

The other man’s lips parted in a smile. “That is not always true. You reason like a philosopher; if I had time I would enjoy debating with you. Will your conscience be at ease if I tell you that he has been tried, by his peers, and condemned?”

“No. What is his crime?”

“That is not your concern. Where is your friend?”

There hadn’t been a sound from David. Ramses hoped he was still sleeping, or that if he wasn’t, he had sense enough to remain silent and out of sight. “Gone,” he said curtly.

“So long as he does not try to interfere.”