by Anna Lord
The crew used the bottom half of their ammamas to cover their nose and mouth, while their eyes, full of sand and grit, were cut to ribbons.
Bundled up in a silk shawl, the Countess dashed from her cabin to the saloon for dinner while her thoughts flew to Major Nash. Even if he had survived torture, a fall down a well and the poisonous bite of scorpions, there was no way he could survive the Khamsin.
As soon as she entered the saloon and her eyes took in the curious group of travellers, she realized she had an important job to do with or without the help of Major Nash. He would have expected nothing less.
Their host waited for her to shake off the shawl and savour an aperitif before taking the floor. “I apologise once again to those of my guests who expected to visit Karnak this afternoon, but I had it on good authority from Azrafel that the Khamsin was about to hit. It was imperative to get underway as soon as possible and try to sail upriver out of the way of the beast. As it turns out, the man was on the money. For anyone who wishes to sail back to Cairo next month on the Sekhmet, I promise to visit the places we were forced to miss today.”
Hypatia Lee was now forever fiddling, fingering and straightening her peacock feather. “Will we be able to visit Kom Ombo tomorrow, Daddy?”
“That depends,” intervened Professor Mallisham, speaking for the nabob, “if the Khamsin is still blowing.”
“Here, here,” said Dr Watson. “No point going sightseeing in this infernal wind.”
“It is more than a wind,” added Herr Graf. “It is a blinding sandstorm. To set foot outside is not only uncomfortable and unwise but a deathwish.” He raised his glass. “I would like to thank Mr Lee for his generosity. If not for his extraordinary kindness, my niece and I would be cowering in a hovel somewhere in Karnak at the mercy of this evil plague.”
Everyone felt the truth of those words as sand and grit scratched on the glass like cat’s claws.
“I wonder where Mr Longshanks is?” mused Daisy grimly, putting into words what several other people were also thinking.
“I’m sure he can take care of himself,” assured Mr Lee. “He seemed a level-headed chap. I just wonder where he got to. He knew we were meeting back here for lunch and he didn’t mention any other plans before we left for Luxor.”
Professor Mallisham refreshed his whiskey glass from the drinks trolley without being invited to help himself. “If he really is as well-travelled as he claims then he would know exactly what the Khamsin means. What do you say, Colonel Hayter?”
The colonel tried not to spill his G&T when he looked up quickly. “What? Right-ho, yes, certainly, any man who has spent any time travelling in these parts would know what to expect at this time of year. March to May means the Khamsin.”
Dr Watson was mindful to look at neither his embarrassing ex-army chum nor his worried counterpart; he knew she would be upset about the major. “Didn’t Napoleon encounter the Khamsin when he tried to conquer Egypt?”
“Yes,” confirmed Herr Graf. “It almost wiped out his army.”
“But they prevailed and went on to great success,” added the professor. “Without that success and the resultant translation of the Rosetta Stone we wouldn’t be able to read hieroglyphics.”
“I remember a sad story my father told me when I was a little girl,” said Fraulein Graf wistfully, “about a woman who was going to be stoned to death, and a dog dying of thirst and Saladin. It was during the time of the Khamsin.”
Herr Graf smiled encouragingly at his niece. “Why don’t you tell it, Ursula? Some people may not have heard it. It is quite a touching tale.”
She was thinking how to begin when the food from the kitchens was brought up via the dumbwaiter and they hustled to the table for dinner. The conversation shifted to what they had seen at Luxor and the tale was forgotten.
The Khamsin continued to blow throughout the night and all the next day. The world outside the Sekhmet was swallowed up in a sulphurous orange-yellow haze. The heat intensified and everyone felt lethargic. They stayed in their cabins most of the time and took cold baths to try and wash away the grit that found its way through every crack and crevice and coated their sweaty bodies with layers of sand and dust.
When they reached Kom Ombo they were at the tail end of the poisonous windstorm and could feel the respite in the air. Not everyone felt it equally. Colonel Hayter and Herr Graf opted to remain in their cabins. Mr Lee emerged to sit on the deck out of the wind but he failed to muster the energy for an excursion. The rest of the party decided to go ashore and explore the twin temples of Sobek and Horus.
Dr Watson once again leapt into the carriage with Mrs Baxter. She appeared flattered by the persistent gentlemanly attention. The three young ladies easily fit into one calash. That left Countess V and Professor Mallisham to travel together. She had opted to wear a hijab because it kept the wind off her hair and stopped sand flying down the back of her neck, plus it would have been impossible to keep a hat on her head or try to hang onto a parasol. The wind had abated but it was still fierce.
“Did you remember to get an archaeological permit before you left Cairo?” The professor put the question to her as soon as they set off up the dusty road that climbed the steep sandstone banks to the temple plateau which at first glance was not unlike the Parthenon atop the Acropolis. “You’ll need one if you want to do any research work once we reach Philae.”
“I didn’t realize I needed one. Do you have one I could use?”
He shook his head. “You’ll have to speak to Colonel Hayter. I’m sure he could arrange something in a hurry. It might cost extra.”
Kom Ombo was the original City of Gold, a trade route from Nubia to the Nile Valley, but first and foremost a garrison for the Egyptians, the Romans, and all the subsequent conquerors who came after them. It had been half buried in sand until Jacques de Morgan cleared the site in 1893 and resurrected the splendour of the double temple. Hundreds of mummified crocodiles had been unearthed and the hieroglyphs were magnificent.
They congregated in the hypostyle hall and enjoyed a brief lecture by the professor who pointed out the many images of Sobek carved into the stone and a beautiful image of Cleopatra VII. When Mrs Baxter wandered off, Dr Watson became her shadow. Professor Mallisham had acquired a third acolyte in the form of Ursula Graf, so the Countess decided to go her own way. She was studying what appeared to be an ancient calendar when a man in a filthy grey jellabiya materialized furtively from the sickly orange cloud that snaked around the massive structure. His sudden appearance gave her a fright. His voice was a low grainy growl.
“You wish to buy mummy of crocodile? My brother has many for sale. All genuine.”
There was something familiar about the throaty tonality and when she whirled round she recognized a pair of brilliant wolken eyes that not even the dark umbra of a voluminous hood could dull. Her heart began beating fast, sending an adrenaline-charged shockwave through her veins, not of terror but delight. “Major…!”
“Shh,” he hissed, cutting her off. “This place is like an echo chamber.” He pointed toward the riverbank. “See that shadoof. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”
Her heart continued to pump and thrash as he receded into the dirty orange miasma and she made her way in what she hoped was a leisurely fashion down the steep path to the riverbank where two ancient stelae served to support a swape that drew water from the river in a bucket and tipped it into a small irrigation channel. Two children, a boy and girl about ten years of age, were working the counterpoised well-pole.
He arrived a few moments later, ambling lazily along the riverbank like an indolent dust-maker. He gave the children a handful of coins. They ran off without looking back. The boy suddenly remembered the baby goat tethered to the stele, raced back, untied it, scooped it up in his arms and thanked the Habiru before rushing off to catch up to the girl.
Questions begged to be answered: Where have you been? What happened? Are you all right? She wanted to throw her arms around his neck
and kiss him.
“There’s not much time,” he said, taking strength from the light in her eyes that told him she was thrilled to see him. “I’m going to talk quickly. Just listen and don’t interrupt. Pretend I’m explaining how a shadoof works. Look interested and nod every now and again.”
She nodded.
“I lost Mallisham in Luxor so I went straight to the papyrus workshop because I had memorized the address. I didn’t see Mallisham but I saw Ali Pasha. Before I could get close enough to hear what was being said someone coshed me on the head. I blanked out and woke up next to a railway line somewhere in the desert. I had been robbed but fortunately I always keep a second wallet in a private place. I was walking back to Karnak when a freight train heading for Aswan came along. Because of the blinding Khamsin it was going slow enough for me to jump on board. I got off here in Kom Ombo because I figured you’d stop off to see the temple.” He dipped the pole to draw up some water in the bucket then tipped it into the irrigation channel to make it seem as if he was demonstrating how the well-pole worked. “On my way to the workshop I spotted Mrs Baxter and Moran having coffee together in Luxor. They were holding hands.” He picked up a small pottery cup resting on the stone and offered her a drink of water. “One who drinks from the Nile will one day return to Egypt,” he said, meeting her gaze and briefly holding it. “I’m not coming back aboard the Sekhmet. I’ll meet you in Aswan. I want whoever thinks I’m out of the way to keep thinking it. When they see me in Aswan it will unsettle them. Needless to say my cover is blown. That doesn’t necessarily mean your cover is compromised but stay alert to the fact someone could be onto us. Did anything happen that I should know about?”
She drank thirstily then pretended to inspect the counterweighted pole. “Herr Graf and his niece have joined us on board the Sekhmet. The interesting thing is that it was Mallisham and Hayter who vouched for the Germans. Mr Lee wasn’t keen on new passengers. We saw Colonel Moran in Luxor. He’s taking a herd of horses to Aswan and hopes to be there a day ahead of us which won’t be difficult since sand and grit have got into the ship’s engine and we won’t be going anywhere until tomorrow morning at the earliest.”
“In that case, I’d better not waste any more time. I’ve got a fresh horse waiting for me on the other side of the temple. I’ll see you in Aswan.”
He began striding off when her voice caught up to him.
“Take care…I love you.”
Something exploded in his chest; he did an about face. “Say that again.”
Now that she’d blurted out what she’d been thinking all along, she felt the rush of blood to her face.
He doubled back, manacled the top of her arms and pulled her close. She could feel the pulsating heat of his body as his eyes raked her face for signs of falsehood. “I want you to say what you just said but this time I want you to look at me when you say it.”
“We can discuss it in Aswan. Now isn’t…”
Something whistled through the air, hit the back of his head and plopped into the shallow water trough that fed the irrigation channel. It was a small sharp stiletto. The thick ammama wrapped around his skull and the voluminous hood covering it had turned what might have been a fatal injury into tomorrow’s annoying headache.
“Run!” Twisting awkwardly, he gave her an urgent shove that propelled her forward just as a murderous madman materialised out of the poisonous orange haze.
Armed with a scimitar, a Nubian wearing an ammama that covered most of his head and face, except for a pair of piercing black eyes, electric with menace, leapt down from the rock ledge and began scything the sulphurous cloud that continued to hang over the land of the pharaohs like a supernatural shroud.
The slashing sound put the fear of death into their hearts.
Thinking quickly, Major Nash snapped off the upright lever of the shadoof and used it to fend off a plague of furious blows. It was lance against sword, but this lance was more like a broomstick. Each deadly blow of the curved blade splintered off another chunk of wood. It wouldn’t be long before the broom was reduced to a toothpick.
Slashing and spinning, their assailant demonstrated his martial arts superiority, toying with them, enjoying the spectacle of his own artistry before going in for the kill.
Frantic, heart crashing against her ribs and drenched in sweat, she began fumbling for the muff pistol buried inside her reticule when the Nubian must have guessed what she was doing. A vicious kick sent the bag flying from her hands. Gasping, she fell backwards, hard, momentarily winded.
Eclipsing the dirty light, the giant djiin who cast a long shadow, came at her with the scimitar raised, forcing her to dive and roll to avoid having an arm sliced off at the elbow.
While the Nubian was focusing on her, Major Nash landed a mighty whack on the monster’s back. Crack! It splintered the last of his toothpick but at least it sent their attacker sprawling face first onto the sand with a heavy groan.
Uncoiling quickly, he slashed the air, glinty eyes seraphic with rage.
Major Nash ripped the leather bucket off the end of the stick and swung it round in the hope of lassoing the curved blade but the action was futile.
Half-blind with desperation, her eyes flew to the pottery cup lying within arm’s reach on the ground. Snatching it up, she hurled it at their attacker, not with the aim of taking him down, just hopefully to distract him long enough to grab her reticule and retrieve her gun. It hit him on the side of the head. Stunned, he lost his sure-footednes. The scimitar dropped from his hands and lay in the sand like an inert silver snake.
Enraged at being thwarted by a woman, the angry djiin cursed and lunged for his weapon.
Major Nash, still thinking quickly, fished the stiletto out of the shallow trough and plunged it into the thick neck wrapped in the ammama, twisting and twisting until he was sure. A scarlet stream soaked through the cloth. Blood spurted like a fountain and sprayed the major’s jellabiya the moment he withdrew the blade. He tossed the dagger into the river, dragged the brute, still convulsing, down to the shore-line and pushed it into the reeds. He then took the plunge and washed off the scarlet stain before the bloodstain set. When he emerged from the river he was breathing hard and dripping wet and the muscular outline of his heaving physique under the thin cotton garment was something to savour.
“The crocodiles will take care of our Nubian assassin. Do you recognize him? I think it’s the same man who was outside your bedroom in Cairo.”
Having retrieved her reticule, she was busy trying to draw a claming breath, dust herself off, and soak up his virility all at the same time. In an effort to force concentration, she looked back at the water but the floating corpse was lost in the reeds. Reptiles were already circling. “If you mean did I notice him while you were kissing me the answer is no. I had my eyes closed.”
Unsure whether to feel flattered or admonish her for not paying attention, he shook his head. “Do you always close your eyes when you’re being kissed?”
“Only when I’m enjoying it, and I think we’ve already established you’re better than most.”
“Most?”
“All right,” she conceded, “everyone else.”
“Including Jim?”
“Let’s not go there.”
But he knew they had to discuss Jim sooner or later. Colonel James Isambard Moriarty was the thorn in his side, the spoke in his wheel, the man who could dash all his dreams, the one man who could make her change her mind and retract what she just said. “I should have told you earlier. I intended to tell you several times.”
“Tell me what?” She sensed something dire. Her feelings for Jim were still strong within her and she felt the pulling power of his name tying her innards in knots. “Tell me what?”
“Queen Victoria gave the nod to the formation of an Irish regiment. She announced it on the first day of April. That was a week ago. In reality, everything was decided months ago: Men, uniforms, mascot, deployment, the lot. Jim is already in Egypt at the head
of the regiment. They’re on their way to the Transvaal. They’re camped on the east bank in Aswan, sharing the facilities of the construction camp, heading to Khartoum in a day or two.”
Her heart soared then plummeted. It continued to seesaw up and down, elated and terrified, proud for Jim but scared too. “I see.”
His eyes scanned the embankment to make sure no one was coming their way, perhaps in search of the Nubian, and to avoid meeting her gaze. “Now you know.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
There was a thrashing in the reeds as crocodiles began to feast on the body. The river turned beetroot red. The water looked like a bubbling pot of borscht.
“When I leave, which will be in a moment, take out your gun and fire it. Dr Watson will come running. You can say you were attacked by two robbers – an Arab and a Nubian. I’ll leave the scimitar here. There’s a discarded shoe here too. You can say one man fell into the water and the other fled along the riverbank when you pulled your gun.”
She gazed at the expensive silk shoe and it sparked a thought. “I’ve seen this shoe before, or one just like it, and I cannot imagine there would be many shoes of this quality adorning the feet of Egyptian farmers in Kom Ombo. Ali Pasha’s houseboy wore something like this.”
“Houseboy?”
“A euphemism for handsome young man who lives-in and does his master’s bidding. Japhet was Nubian.”
“At least he cannot report back to his master. I don’t know if he was following me or you.” He cupped the back of her head; his voice dropped to a husky timbre. “I’m going to give you time to think about what you said earlier. I want you to be sure of who and what you want before we go any further. Fire that gun as soon as I get to the top of the embankment.”
Later that night, Dr Watson came to her cabin to find out what really happened at the riverbank. After travelling with her for seven months, sharing adventure after adventure, he could tell when she was spinning a yarn. She explained about Major Nash, the fact he was still alive, and exactly what had transpired with the Nubian, adding that she thought their attacker might have been Ali Pasha’s houseboy, Japhet.