As I write these words, sitting in my comfortable old study in Hartford, Connecticut, my life is drawing slowly towards its end. And what a life it's been. The tale I am about to relate happened many years ago, and was my first great adventure.
My name is Emily Buchanan, and I'm...well, probably a lot older than you are. I'm something of a crab apple these days, with my long silver hair, worn in a bun, my lined face, bi-focal spectacles, liver spotted hands and stick thin frame. I've always been proud of my height though -- I'm five-nine or thereabouts -- and I carry myself erect, with my head held high. At the time when these events took place, I looked very different. My hair was long and golden, my green eyes sparkling, my complexion peaches and cream, my figure was greatly admired on three continents, and I had legs to die for. But then, I was only in my mid-twenties at the time.
I was a professional archaeologist -- the work that has been my passion across the decades. We were a rare breed then, women in archaeology I mean. I'd graduated from Cornell with a First in Classics, then gained admission to Oxford to study under Sir Wilfred Allenby, possibly the greatest archaeologist of his day. Plenty of people at the university looked on askance at the idea of a woman taking on such a profession, but like all true devotees of a subject Sir Wilfred was gender blind when it came to his students. His only concern was commitment and ability, and I scored highly on both counts. I became very fond of the old dear. It was through his class, and the summer digs in Greece that he led us on, that I met the man who became my fiancé, Gerald Crichton. Indiana Jones he wasn't: tall and skinny, with a shock of spiky black hair that no amount of Brylcreem could control, black-framed spectacles and long limbs -- at first sight he reminded me of nothing quite so much as a spider - but he was quite brilliant. He charmed me with his dry British wit and his enthusiasm, and over the course of a year or so I fell in love with him.
It was thanks to Gerald that I found myself working in the Arabian desert, which is where this story really begins. A Brit, by the fanciful name of St John Philby, was a close confidante of the Royal Family, and through him a regional potentate called Sheikh Faisal al Surreyih bin Saud invited an archaeological team to excavate a site in his territory, where an ancient temple and tribal graves were located. On Sir Wilfred's recommendation Gerald was appointed one of the leaders of the expedition, despite his relative youth, and I accompanied him. The sheikh was slightly doubtful about a female being involved, but he was utterly charming: a huge man, way over sex feet tall, with glittering eyes like those of a hawk and a big hooked nose like a beak.
My God, it was hot in that desert. We rose at the crack of dawn, worked until late morning, rested through the heat of mid-day then resumed work in mid-afternoon, carrying on into the evening. I quickly got used to being constantly bathed in my own sweat, my hair plastered to my neck, sand getting into and irritating my most intimate places. At first I felt I should adopt a modest approach in front of the native workers, and wore long pants tucked into my boots, together with a blouse buttoned to the neck and a pith helmet. After two days I decided the hell with that, and I switched to shorts, a scarf tied around my head as a bandana, and an open-necked blouse. I was well aware that when I bent down the men could see my bra, if they chose -- and I had a good rack in those days -- but, frankly, I was too hot to care. Anyway, if guys wanted to admire me I took it as a compliment.
I could never get enough to drink, and guzzled water greedily when I had the chance. One of the other guys on the dig was a British military officer, David McHugh. He was a captain aged around 30, stationed in Aden, to the south, which was then under British rule. He was an enthusiastic amateur historian, and his colonel had given him special leave to come and join us. I was amused by his military bearing in such intolerable conditions -- always ramrod stiff, his short blond hair neatly groomed, his little moustache trimmed to perfection, and his khakis always pristine, the creases in his trousers like knife blades. I didn't know how he did it in that heat. He was always very kind and solicitous towards me though, and went out of his way to make sure I got plenty of liquid.
We were staying in the local town, at a place called the Grand Hotel, where the faucets usually worked, even if they did supply only a trickle of water, but the ceiling fans were less reliable. Consequently I spent hot, uncomfortable nights, to add to my hot, uncomfortable days, even though I wore only a pair of silk panties in bed. After ten days we received a visit for dinner at the hotel from Sheikh Faisal's younger brother, Prince Hafiz. We were told what a great honour it was, and I saw it as a rare opportunity on that trip to feel glamorous, for one evening at least. I had a long bubble bath, applied tasteful make-up, and wore the one pretty dress I had with me, white cotton with red polka dots, belted at the waist, sleeveless with a v-neck line which revealed just a hint of bosom. Then I did what I could with my hair, which had been turned to straw by the sun, and pulled on a pair of black high heels which I just knew would kill me by the end of the evening -- I've never really been much of a girly girl. Finally, I pulled on the diamond solitaire with which Gerald had sealed our engagement, which I clearly wasn't able to wear on the dig. As an afterthought, and as a nod to Moslem sensitivities, I draped a thin black cardigan across my shoulders. (I had actually thought I might need one in Arabia!) Then I joined the other members of the team on the hotel verandah, to await our guest.
As eight pairs of admiring male eyes turned towards me I really felt like the belle of the ball. Gerald, unusually attired in formal evening dress, leapt to his feet and wrapped his arm around me, giving me a peck on the cheek. David was wearing his military dress uniform for the occasion. He rose as well, and handed me a lemonade. His eyes taking me in from head to toe, he murmured, "My, Emily, you look quite stunning tonight." As he stood very close, gazing down at me, suddenly, unaccountably, I felt a blush pass across my face and chest. I couldn't understand it -- I'd never experienced a physical reaction to Captain McHugh before; but there was something different about that evening. I dipped my eyes and sipped my drink to cover my confusion. It was clear Gerald hadn't noticed anything, as he continued to hold me, grinning like an idiot.
I was trying to think of something to say when we became aware of a distant dust cloud rising in the twilight. We watched in silent fascination as it gradually approached, finally resolving itself into a group of a dozen or more horsemen, all dressed in flowing Arab robes, the lower halves of their faces covered against the dust. They reined in their magnificent stallions and dismounted beside the hotel. Clearly, Prince Hafiz had decided to make an impression.
As members of his retinue gathered together the reins of the beasts, he strode towards us, a tall figure in a white head-dress and robe, with black riding boots. As he mounted the verandah I could see he was much more handsome than his brother, in his mid-thirties maybe. He flashed us a brilliant white smile, and bowed at the waist to me. He was accompanied by a bull of a man, with a fierce face, a down-turned mouth and a livid scar across his cheek, bisecting his beard. At his waist was a large curved dagger with elaborately jewelled handle and scabbard. His Highness introduced the thug as Abdullah, his personal adviser. I assumed that was a euphemism for bodyguard. The other riders, all with carbine rifles slung across their shoulders, waited outside, sitting on the steps of the hotel or lounging against the wall.
As we ate a well cooked dinner of mutton, I could feel Hafiz's gaze on me. Each time I looked up he gave me that dazzling smile, and raised his glass of water to me in salute. It seemed he was fascinated by me as both the only woman present and the only, as he put it, "citizen of the land of Uncle Sam". He had a kind of oily charm which I found slightly repugnant. Following the meal the men lit up cigars, or in David McHugh's case a pipe. Normally at this point the ladies would have been expected to withdraw, but in view of my singularity my male companions accorded me the huge privilege of being permitted to remain. I felt as if I had been 'promoted' to honorary man for the night(!).
