“Remind him that Professor Emerson has ever been a friend to his people, as have I. We deeply respect his need for dignity, and understand his outrage, but also know that he is a merciful man who would not punish someone who is ill for deeds beyond that person’s will.”

“I will do my best,” he replied morosely.

“I am quite sure your best will be adequate. In the meantime, I would like to see Herr Morgenstern to assess his physical condition. It is a long ride back to Amarna and the sun is harsh.”

Omar nodded. “Of course, Sitt Hakim. Inshallah, this can all be over soon and without ill feelings.”

The tents were in rows, decorated with colorful wall panels and rugs woven with camel hair. At least two dozen children followed us, whispering and snickering. A goodly number of women were behind them, doing much the same thing. I felt as though I was leading a parade to Buckingham Palace to call upon King George V, albeit without the pomp associated with proper protocol.

“This is my mother’s tent,” Omar said with a gesture. “I shall return to speak to Sheikh Nasir. I hope you will accept food and water, and rest until the sun has moved on and is less punishing. It would not be wise to leave before then. The desert is cruel. There are no oases in which to take shelter, which is why there are no trade routes to the Suez—only the bones of those who overestimated their shrewdness and expertise.”

“I would like to think that I have never done so,” I said primly. An image of Emerson appeared in my mind. He was laughing uproariously and slapping his thighs. I had a premonition that he would not be laughing when he learned about my solo trek to the Bedouin camp. He would be more inclined to scold me at length for breaking my word and behaving recklessly, as well as overestimating my shrewdness and expertise. “Please return here after you have spoken to the sheikh.”

Omar’s mother hovered in the doorway. I smiled warmly as I introduced myself and then inquired about her name. She spoke Arabic, and shyly admitted that her name was Ikram, which I recognized as an Arabic derivative for hospitality and generosity.

“May I see the German man?” I said in Arabic, careful to enunciate and speak slowly. She nodded and led me behind a woven cloth. Herr Morgenstern was sprawled across a rug, snoring like an asthmatic bull. A bowl of water and a small cloth were nearby, but prudently out of his reach. His face was disturbingly red and dry. I recognized the symptoms of heatstroke, a serious condition that required immediate medical attention. Ikram pointed at the bowl of water and shrugged; I had no difficulty understanding her.