Frank Thomas - Sherlock Holmes and the Sacred Sword

Our descent was really a succession of four-foot jumps from one tier to the next. Finally we made it into a dark corridor that pitched sharply downwards. It was airy and cool, thank heavens, or so it seemed in comparison to my ill-conceived climb, which I felt must have melted the superfluous fat from my frame. Gray offered to take me to the king's and queen's chambers, but since I understood there was little to see, I declined. I knew full well that the interior of Cheops was safe and constantly traversed by tourists, but I was aware of those tons of huge stones all round us and had an irrational fear of their moving inward and downward. When I was sure that my body temperature was sufficiently lowered, I was glad to vacate the entry to the colossus and descend to our donkeys.

In riding towards the Sphinx, we passed close by several large tents that I had noted from the top of the pyramid. Gray had explained that they indicated Arabs from the south and would be struck when the heat lessened and the Bedouins chose to continue, probably to Cairo. Some spanking horses were tethered by them, standing in the slight shade provided by these white, mobile shelters.

Gray was riding ahead of me as we drew abreast of the tents, probably computing the number of times his duties had involved escorting visiting idiots. It was then that a tall, bearded man emerged from the nearest tent. He was clad in flowing garments that to my untrained eyes seemed of excellent quality. Round his middle was a broad belt of interlocking silver links, and it supported an ornate scabbard that, judging from the hilt that protruded from it, contained a scimitar. His shoes were of a soft material, with much handiwork, and the toes were pointed. A desert dandy, I thought. Behind him came another man with an unkempt black beard. A curved scar ran from his left temple across his cheek towards his nose. The old wound had formed a puckered ridge in healing, which pulled the lower lid of his eye downward, lending a ghoulish expression to his face.

All this registered in a split second, for my attention was captured by the curved dagger the second man was pulling from a sash round his middle. My lips parted and as a shrill shout burst from them, my right hand grabbed at the saddle pouch of my donkey, plucking the medical kit from it. I threw it desperately and the object reached the assailant, catching him in the head as he lunged at the tall Arab who had whirled round at my cry.

I know not if my improvised weapon deflected the attacker's aim. The dagger plunged, into the loose robe of the Arab, and there was a cry of pain from him as he kicked his attacker in the groin. Then there was the flash of the scimitar in the sun and a dull sound like a pole-axe striking home in a slaughterhouse. The assailant was on the ground, blood pouring from his neck, his head almost completely severed from his body.

I was off my donkey in a trice, every movement from memory and without planning or thought. As I raced across the sand to retrieve my medical container, I noted the Arab wipe his scimitar in a practiced fashion on the material of his garment and return it to its scabbard. But there was a growing redness in the vicinity of his ribs, and the blood was his.

Gray had reined round and was trying to grasp the situation. From the tent four or five forms emerged pell-mell, and as I opened my kit and noted that the contents were undamaged, it seemed that the group of desert men were about to annihilate me, for knives and guns appeared like magic. The wounded man spoke sharply in a foreign tongue that I assumed was Arabic, and the others drew up short. Then the dignified bearded man made as though to address me, but did not get the chance.

"I, sir, am John Watson, M.D. You are wounded, and I insist on tending your needs."

What I expected this to accomplish I do not know; I couldn't speak to the man in Arabic, not knowing a word. But this was no time to stand on ceremony, and I had his garment half open, exposing his chest on the right side and revealing a sizable though not fatal gash that was bleeding freely. As I touched him, there was a murmur from the Bedouins behind me, but another gesture from my patient subdued them. True to their instincts, they formed a half circle and watched intently. If an Arab cannot participate, he makes a rapt audience. Gray had recovered his wits by now and his right hand was moving away from the army issue holstered at his side, realizing that the tenseness of the situation was relieved.

I grabbed one of the Bedouins who formed my audience and pressed him into service. With gestures, I managed to have him hold the bottle of antiseptic with a peroxide base that I had automatically secured from my limited supplies, while I fashioned a padding of cotton. The man's teeth were broken and his breath was so garlic-ridden that I could have used it as an antiseptic had I nothing better at hand. His eyes were wide with fright, like an unwilling volunteer in a magician's act. Poor beggar probably felt that he was just that, I thought, as I removed the bottle stopper and indicated for him to pour the contents onto the pad. A hand gesture stopped the flow of liquid, with which I then swabbed the wound. Since I had managed to clean off the blood, the considerable gash was revealed and the peroxide went to work with its customary fizzing sound and bubbling appearance.

There was a deep sign of wonder from my Arabian audience, though my patient seemed unconcerned and stoical. I now was able to wind a bandage round the man and, for a makeshift job, it seemed tidy enough. As I retrieved my kit from my Bedouin assistant, I was surprised to note that his broken teeth were actually chattering and his swarthy skin had adopted a pale cast. I realize now that to him and his companions as well, the action of the antiseptic had given the illusion that flesh was being created by my wizardry. The bearded leader's face was creased by a gentle smile of understanding.

"Some gesture of reassurance will work wonders," he prompted, in Oxonian English that startled me. It was as though we were an alliance of two in placating less sophisticated minds.

I returned my kit to the placid donkey, thinking furiously, and then retraced my steps to place both my palms on the turban of the shivering Arab and gazed skyward, fortunately towards the east, as I later learned from Gray.

"Dancer, Prancer, Donner, and Blitzen!" I intoned in a sepulchral voice, and then removed my hands, clapped them once and smiled.

Jerk a toy from a baby and laugh and he will laugh with you, for it is a game. Jerk it away and scowl and he will cry, for he is being mistreated. It pays to know how to handle children.

My intent audience all chanted in Arabic and clustered round their comrade, clapping him on the back as though he had just won the French Legion of Honor.

My patient, showing no signs of indisposition from his bloodletting, seemed pleased.

"Aside from your medical expertise, Doctor, your alarm may have prevented my wound from being fatal. I trust our paths will cross again, for I am in your debt."

He turned to bark orders to his crew, a sinister-looking group really, and they set themselves to work striking the tents and dragging off the body of the late assailant. As I mounted my donkey, I found Gray regarding me suspiciously.

"Doctor, you were with Gordon, I presume?"

"No. Indian Army." *

"There are no Arabs in India."

"But a great many Mohammedans, Colonel. The Sikhs and Afghans among them."

Our journey back to Cairo was made in silence. I don't think Gray could make me out.

* Actually, Watson did not serve with the Indian Army. The Northumberland Fusiliers were of the British Army stationed in India during the Afghan war.

Chapter Fourteen

The Caesar Code