“Ten days each way?” Mina whined. “You’ll be gone for weeks!”
Faisal smiled. Mina was the only person in all of Cairo who would miss him. Sure, he had plenty of friends among the street boys, but they were all too busy trying to survive to think much about what he was doing. Mina had a father and a mother and a roof and regular meals. She could afford to think about friends.
“I’ll bring you something from Bahariya.”
“What do they have in Bahariya that we don’t have here?”
Faisal shrugged. He really needed to learn more about this Bahariya place.
“I don’t know. Something, anyway. Some desert thing.”
“If you tease me by bringing back a handful of sand I’ll put it in your ful.”
“That won’t help you get customers!”
They both laughed.
Mina looked at him. “So you’re really going?”
“I told you! Yes, I’m going. I won’t bring you sand. I promise.”
Maybe he could bring her a camel’s saddlebag. He’d seen the Bedouin in the market. Their saddlebags were all covered in designs. One had told him that every design meant something, sort of like the old picture writing. Only the Bedouin knew how to read it.
That was a good idea. He’d bring her one of those saddlebags … and fill it with sand! It would be a great trick. And she couldn’t get too mad because she’d get a nice gift too. The look on her face when she opened it up!
“What are you laughing about?” Mina asked.
“Nothing. I just thought of something, that’s all.”
“Be careful.”
“I’ll be fine,” Faisal told her, and quickly started to talk about other things.
Faisal got a bad feeling. He’d never gone so far away and he wouldn’t know how to get back. In all his other adventures with the Englishman, he’d been in Cairo. He could make it back on his own. Now he had to rely on the Englishman for everything, and the Englishman wasn’t right in the head.
Was it a mistake to think he could rely on the Englishman?
“What are you thinking about, Faisal? You’ve gone all quiet.”
“Oh, nothing. I’m just thinking about how much fun the trip will be.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Augustus was hardly an expert on camels or desert caravans, but he did not like the look of this group that Moustafa had hired. They met the caravan at the village of Kirdasah on the edge of the desert west of Cairo, the pyramids visible a couple of miles to the south. The animals looked old, a bit thin, and more than a little foul tempered. One gurgled in resentment as a driver put a load on its back. Another got to its feet and tried to walk away. In its path lay another camel, which calmly ignored the first camel’s attempt to pass and ended up getting bitten. The animal sprang up with an outraged roar and soon the two were biting and bellowing as a circle of camel drivers gathered around, beating the pair for all they were worth.
The camel with the pack took the opportunity to stand up, its half-secured load slipping sideways and nearly tipping the beast over. The children and old men of the village, who had gathered a little way off to watch, laughed and cheered.
The men didn’t look much better than their camels. The head of the caravan was a one-eyed old hawk named Farouk, who couldn’t stop staring at Augustus’ mask and only just managed to return his greeting when they first met.
Farouk had six men, mostly older and looking almost as worn out as the camels. They were bringing a load of manufactured goods to the oasis, which they would trade for dates, olives, and camel saddles, which they said the men of Bahariya made better than anyone else in Egypt.
Faisal had been assigned to guard their baggage, which he did by piling the suitcases and crates and bags in a large heap, sitting on top, and throwing stones at anyone who came close. His aim was shockingly accurate and he seemed to be enjoying himself thoroughly. As instructed, the boy wore his new blue djellaba and sandals, and had even managed to clean up enough that he was only dirty rather than filthy.
Dirtier still were the stares a couple of Farouk’s henchmen gave Augustus. He did not think these Bedouin would try to rob them and leave them to die of thirst in the desert, but they would almost certainly try to filch a few things and extort more money from him via any number of made up reasons. Augustus was accustomed to dealing with city Egyptians, something he could manage quite well. The Bedouin were a breed apart. They had never felt much effect from colonialism and they did not think of Europeans as people to obey and feel intimidated by. This caravan would bring trouble. He was sure of it.
His doubts must have been written on his face, because Moustafa said, “Sorry, boss, but it is late in the season. Not many caravans are going to the oases.”
“We can’t wait. Did any of this pirate crew hear of an earlier caravan leaving with our man along for the ride?”
“I asked them, boss, but they said no. You must understand these are Bedouin. They are born smugglers. They would not discuss who they brought to Bahariya with an outsider, and to them I am almost as much an outsider as you are.”
“What do you think of these camels?”
Moustafa grunted. “Newly bought. Most camels come up from the Soudan during the winter and are sold in the market just outside of Cairo. They are exhausted by the long journey, and need at least a full season to recover.”
“And these have not had a full season.”
“No, boss.”
“Do you think they can make it to Bahariya?”
“The Bedouin think so, boss.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
“And it will be good enough, as long as we don’t get off course or have to make a run from bandits.”
The Western Desert was rife with bandits, and the men of this caravan had only three antiquated rifles between them. It was a good thing he had brought along a German submachine gun looted from the battlefield, along with a pair of Lee-Enfield rifles, pistols for each of them, several grenades, and a variety of bladed weapons. Moustafa had even brought along that sword he was so proud of. If any bandits came after them, the two of them would have to hold their own and not expect any help from this shoddy crew.
And Moustafa was always scolding him for having a personal arsenal!
Farouk swaggered up to them. That man had been swaggering all morning.
“We’re just about ready to go. If you want us to pack your things, you need to get your brat to stop throwing stones.”
“I apologize for his behavior,” Augustus said. “My … servant … is a bit overly zealous in protecting my things.”
This elicited a derisive snort from Moustafa.
Augustus called off Faisal, who looked disappointed at losing his position of authority, and the Bedouin packed the last of the camels. Then they settled down for a final tea and a prayer before leaving. Augustus tried to contain his impatience. The day was already well advanced and here they were dilly-dallying. He didn’t say a word, though. Best to have them happy. It was a ten-day trip to Bahariya, with no wells along the route. Tempers would flare soon enough.
Moustafa joined them when they prostrated themselves in the direction of Mecca. Faisal did not. That earned the boy a few hard looks. While children were not actually required to pray, this was not one of the five daily prayers but rather a prayer for blessing before going on a journey. To have a believer stand idly by was not a good omen.
Augustus decided not to enlighten them as to Faisal’s beliefs or lack thereof.
At last they packed their prayer rugs away, had a final long drink from the village well, and mounted up.
Augustus had done quite a bit of horse riding in England before the war. That experience did him no good here. He had heard men of the Camel Corps complain that learning to ride a camel was a harder job than trekking through the desert or fighting the Turks. He had yet to meet an Englishman in the Camel Corps who actually liked camels. Most of them said things about the beasts that were unrepe
atable in all but the rudest company.
He watched as Moustafa rapped a long stick against his camel’s front legs and got the animal to sit, which it did by folding all four of its legs beneath itself. The Nubian then mounted on the saddle, let out a short shout, and rapped his stick against the camel’s back flank. It raised first its back legs, then its front.
Moustafa looked at Augustus with triumph.
“It’s been a long time, but you don’t forget,” he said.
“A bit like riding a bicycle, I suppose.”
“I’ve never ridden a bicycle.”
“What’s a bicycle?” Faisal asked, looking at his own camel nervously. The Bedouin had given him the smallest, but it still towered over him.
“A machine that will not to get us to Bahariya,” Augustus said.
One of Farouk’s men had given him a long, thin stick. Augustus went up to his camel, which stood there impassively, and rapped it against the animal’s ungainly front legs.
The camel didn’t even look at him.
“You have to hit him harder,” Farouk called out. “And shout ‘hai!’ as you do so.”
“Hai!” he shouted, smacking the animal’s legs as hard as he could.
The camel lunged its head forward, baring its teeth. Augustus dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding the snapping teeth, and rapped it on the top of the head.
“That’s it,” one of the other Bedouin said. “Show him who’s boss.”
“Hai!” Augustus shouted again, smacking the camel’s legs several times.
The beast gurgled, got down, and Augustus climbed aboard.
He had noticed that camels get up with their hindquarters first, so he was ready when he got tilted forward. Augustus leaned far back in the saddle, gripping the saddle horn.
What he was not prepared for was how quickly the camel rose up on its front legs. The force sent him tumbling right off the back of the camel and into the dust.
Immediately he checked his mask was in place, although the raucous laughter from all sides told him it must be. No one would have laughed if they had seen his face. The camel turned its long neck and looked at him with an expression of smug superiority.
Dusting himself off, Augustus squared his shoulders and stalked toward the camel.
“Hai!” Down came the stick on the animal’s legs. It bellowed in protest, but obeyed.
The camel tried the same trick again, but this time Augustus was ready for it. He just barely managed to retain his seat and gave the beast a few raps on the head to show it what he thought of it.
“Faisal, be careful when—” Augustus blinked. Faisal sat in his saddle, watching him. “How did you get on your camel without it throwing you?”
“I didn’t give it a chance. I jumped onto the saddle from the ground.”
“Perhaps I should try that next time.”
“You can’t. You’re too clumsy.”
“Let’s go,” Farouk said with a grin.
He let out a cry, kicked his camel several times with both heels, and trotted off. The Bedouin and Moustafa followed in a regular line, each trailing a pack camel on a rope behind. Augustus and Faisal jammed their heels into their own animals and tried to follow. Augustus’ camel didn’t budge. Faisal’s started walking around in circles.
“These animals are sillier than you, Englishman.”
“And they are as dirty as you. I swear I’ll have fleas before we get out of sight of the Nile.”
“You should be nicer to me, Englishman. I have saved you many times,” Faisal said, still going around in circles.
“Then save me from this damned beast!” Augustus said, still whipping his camel to no effect.
In the end it was Moustafa who saved him. He trotted back and instructed them on how to make the camels do their bidding. After giving the village another half hour’s entertainment, they finally got underway.
The camels walked sedately along a flat patch of sand for some time, the village dwindling behind them, the Nile glimmering distantly beyond. To the south, the pyramids disappeared behind a sand dune. And then they climbed a dune, and went down the other side, and the village and the Nile went out of view. All around there was nothing but sand, with no sign of life but a few vultures wheeling high above in the pale blue sky. Augustus stared at them for a moment, and adjusted his keffiyeh. Everyone in their little caravan wore one. It was the only practical headgear in the desert because the light cloth not only protected the head and neck, but the part that hung around the neck also caught any slight breeze and helped cool the skin. Even so, the sun felt like a hammer.
He was so distracted by the vultures and the sun that he did not see one of the Bedouin whip his rifle out of its saddle case and fire.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The gazelle bounded away as the Bedouin’s bullet kicked up some sand near it. The Bedouin racked the bolt back to put another bullet in the chamber and fired again.
And missed again.
The gazelle sprinted over a sand dune and was gone.
Moustafa’s heart sank. The Bedouin had a tradition that if the first hunt of the caravan trek was successful, the caravan would ride through good fortune.
If it was unsuccessful, the caravan was trekking into disaster.
He cursed himself for momentarily lapsing into such superstition. That was worthy of the youth he had left behind, the ignorant Soudanese village boy who even back then knew the limits of his horizons and headed north to broaden them.
He hadn’t been that ignorant village boy for a long time. Still, he couldn’t quite get the unsettling feeling out of his gut.
Moustafa told himself that what he was really worried about was the reaction of the Bedouin. They were as superstitious as Faisal, with their talk of omens and djinn and spells. He had met many in the Soudan and had eagerly asked about their travels. All their tales were half truth, half fantasy. He supposed the Bedouin up here were no different.
Judging from their somber faces, he was right.
Of course they did not blame the man who shot at the gazelle for his bad aim. The fact that he had missed twice had been a sign from God, not of bad marksmanship. Now the Bedouin would be nervous and pessimistic, and that could lead to mistakes.
“Why does everyone look so sad?” Faisal asked. “That gazelle would have been good to eat, but we brought plenty of food along.”
“Quiet,” Moustafa grumbled. The last thing he needed was to fill the boy’s lice-ridden head with even more nonsense.
The caravan continued in glum silence. They were well out in the desert now, with nothing to be seen but sand dunes all around. A faint track led them west and a bit south. Farouk had explained to him that this was the less common caravan route to Bahariya. Most went from Al Minya on the Nile, some 120 miles south of Cairo, straight west to Bahariya in a trip that only took four days. Moustafa got the impression that Farouk hadn’t been planning to take his men to Bahariya at all until he showed up with an offer. He had no idea what they had originally been planning.
They certainly were charging an extortionate amount for their services. Moustafa had haggled half the afternoon back at the camel market, and only just managed to get to a somewhat acceptable figure.
But those worries slid out of his mind as more important thoughts occupied it.
Moustafa worried about his family. He had never left them for so long. He’d be gone at least a month, probably more. Nur would have to take care of the five children all by herself. At least the neighbors were respectable people who had promised to check in on them, and Mr. Wall had given him an advance on his salary so they would be cared for in his absence.
Still, it wasn’t right for a man to abandon his family for so long just for some fool errand of his boss. It wasn’t like he was going to war or on the Hajj. He was simply following the whims of a European who wanted to prove he was more intelligent than another European, something that he had already proven many times before.
And Moustafa wanted to
prove he was more intelligent than many Europeans, something he already knew in his heart was true.
But they didn’t know it. They would never know it. Oh, how he dreamed of making a name for himself through his journal articles, all written by “George Franklin.” He was already planning his second article, and there would be more, one or two a year as he pored over the books in Mr. Wall’s and Herr Schäfer’s libraries and explored every ancient site he could. Then, after he had made a name for himself, after he had become the talk of Egyptological circles, with every one of those important European researchers wondering who this mystery man was, he would accept a lecture engagement at the Institut d’Egypte. All the great Egyptologists would be there, sitting in an institute that did not allow Africans to become members, and he would show up at the door. The doorman would try to stop him but he would barge through, stride up to the podium, and give forth a lecture of such intelligence and learnedness that the audience would have to accept him as an equal.
God willing, it would happen some day.
He put his hand on one of the saddlebags, feeling the reassuring shape of the books within. Herr Schäfer, at least, respected him, as did Mr. Wall. They did not quite treat him as an equal, and he found himself calling Mr. Wall “boss” and Herr Schäfer “sir.” Neither of them ever corrected him on this. There was a gulf both sides recognized.
How could it be any other way when neither man was a Muslim?
If only the Europeans embraced Islam, then they would truly be the greatest race on earth.
For the first half of the day they passed through low dunes before coming to a long stretch of flat nothing. The last village was far behind them, and they saw no one. Farouk had told him that so late in the season there was a good chance they would not see another group before making it to the oasis.
That suited Moustafa fine. They had really no idea what they were heading into, or what might be waiting for them once they got there. Meeting strangers in the middle of this wasteland would do them no good.
At noon Farouk called a stop. There was no shade, so the Bedouin used some blankets and poles to pitch a few lean-tos to hide under away from the sun. As the Bedouin brewed some tea, using dried camel droppings they had gathered along the way as fuel, Faisal looked around in wonder.
The Case of the Golden Greeks Page 10