“I’d teach him to use the wireless too if I were allowed,” Captain Williams said. “Technically I’m not allowed to have a servant at all. The officers’ manual says that an adult male is a security risk, which it most certainly is among this population, and it forbids female servants for obvious reasons. It doesn’t say you can’t have a boy, though. So I’m only going against the spirit of the regulation rather than the letter.”
“So how long has he been with you?” Augustus asked. The boys had made it down to the football pitch, and Ahmed was explaining something to Faisal, pointing at the ball and then the goals.
“Three years. Was with me all through the campaign. I’d leave him back at base when I went out on patrol, of course, but I’d give him a ride around in one of the armored cars as a treat. Pretty soon he was pestering me to teach him how to drive the thing. He was only twelve when he first took the wheel of one of His Majesty’s armored cars. You can rest assured we did that well out of sight of camp! He learned to cook and clean and shine boots too, got excellent at English, and can hold his own against any soldier on the football pitch.”
Augustus lit a cigarette. Ahmed and Faisal were running up and down the pitch now, passing the ball to each other. “He seems happy.”
“I like to think so. You see so many of these boys, the youngest sons or the castoffs, begging in the streets or selling trinkets for pennies. Breaks your heart. I thought I had it bad growing up on a sheep farm near Gisborne. I had to get up before dawn to take care of the herds and then walk three miles to school. After my lessons and homework, I had to put in another couple of hours on the farm. I still got a bit of fun, though. Football on weekends. Taking a girl to see the pictures. Fishing and swimming with my friends. But what do these children get?”
“Most don’t get anything at all,” Augustus said. Ahmed was now acting as goalkeeper as Faisal tried to kick the ball past him.
“Precisely. Childhood disappears quickly enough. It’s a shame for them not to have one.”
Augustus took a drag from his cigarette, still watching the boys play. “All seems so long ago, doesn’t it? When the most important things in the world were who made a goal or who got chosen to be captain of the cricket team. We think it will last forever and then there we are with commissions and responsibilities and …”
A distant part of his mind realized he was rambling, and he had been about to speak of the war, yet the sweet elixir that remarkable woman had given him kept him from going down his usual dark path. He shook off the trace of shadow and went on. “But these little chaps start with all that. In my neighborhood there are shops run by children no older than Faisal. The men are all doing heavy labor, as will the little shopkeepers once they grow up. Twelve hours a day in some tiny market stall. No play, no education.” Faisal made a goal and did a cartwheel. “Yet even the ones who have the least seem to have some spirit left in them. It’s remarkable how even the littlest things can make them happy.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Dinner was a friendly affair that Moustafa enjoyed while at the same time feeling slightly uncomfortable. Other than a few quick, casual meals with Mr. Wall in his home, he had never sat at table with Europeans. At least Ahmed turned out to be an adequate cook and Captain Williams was friendly enough.
He had been around a great many Europeans and found they fell into two major categories—the dismissive ones and the earnest ones. Most Europeans looked down on Africans and thought ill of them when they thought of them at all. A much smaller category—missionaries and wealthy young adventurers mostly—were eager to show how much they respected you and were their brother from across the sea, even though they understood almost nothing about you and inevitably regressed back to the first category once they did. Mr. Wall was one of the earnest ones.
No, that wasn’t fair. That was Moustafa’s lingering anger over the incident with the opium clouding his judgment. Mr. Wall was only partially one of the earnest ones. He fell into a much smaller category, one that included fewer Europeans than Moustafa could count on the fingers of one hand—the truly sympathetic ones.
These Europeans really did want to understand Africans and Africa. They really did want to listen when you spoke about independence. This didn’t mean they understood, but at least they were trying. And it didn’t guarantee that they’d agree with you once they did understand.
Captain Williams appeared to land at least partially in that category. His adoption of Ahmed and his easy manner when speaking with Moustafa proved it. More to the point, this soldier could prove to be a useful ally while they were here—Moustafa had noted a rifle and pistol in the living room—although stuck up on this mountain he would not be able to be at their side at all times.
After dinner, the boys rushed off to make tea and clean the dishes. Moustafa was surprised to see the Little Infidel volunteering to work, something Moustafa was sure he had never done in his entire useless life. He had quickly attached himself to the older boy. Perhaps Ahmed might have a good effect on him.
As long as Faisal didn’t dare call Mr. Wall by his first name. Moustafa would give him a good smacking if he tried.
As the boys clattered around the kitchen, chattering away a mile a minute, Moustafa took the chance to look through Captain Williams’s bookshelf. This had become his habit when entering any European home, or at least those where he was allowed to do such a thing.
Most of the volumes were on mechanical engineering, cartography, and the nature of the desert. There was even an entire volume on the formation and movement of sand dunes. These books, while they didn’t particularly interest Moustafa, intrigued him. There were so many branches of knowledge. He had always focused on history and archaeology, and yet he hungered to know more about the sciences and arts as well. Between working for Mr. Wall and raising a family, he simply didn’t have the time.
A small shelf of antiquities caught his eye. There were various potsherds and some glass beads, most of which dated to the Late Period and the Greco-Roman Period. Next to these sat a few sculpture fragments in the Greek style and a couple of mummified ibises.
Captain Williams and Mr. Wall came over.
“Ah, I see you’ve found my little museum. I do a few exploratory digs around here when I can spare the time, plus the villagers try to sell me anything they find.”
“Are there many sites of interest here?” Moustafa asked.
“Oh yes,” Captain Williams said. “I daresay you’ve already heard of the temple of Alexander. Professor Harrell was digging close to it. Further south there are the remains of a Roman fort and an early Christian church.”
“A church?” Moustafa asked, surprised.
“The early Christians liked remote spots,” Mr. Wall said. “They wanted to get away from the temptations of the world. Many of the ascetics lived alone in the desert, and small communities would settle in oases or built monasteries.”
“There’s a monastery at the site too,” Captain Williams said, “although all that’s left are the foundations. You should visit if you have the time. The church has lost its roof but retains some frescoes on the walls, including a cross and a lovely painting of a man on a horse.”
“Saint George?” Mr. Wall asked.
“Quite possibly, although a different saint is attached to the local area. Saint Bartholomew is supposed to have been martyred here, and his headless body is said to be buried in the church grounds. The monastery is still known to the locals as the Monastery of the Head.”
“Well, let’s hope that we don’t lose our own heads during our stay,” Mr. Wall said.
Moustafa decided not to comment on that. Working for this fellow, that was always a possibility.
After tea, they bedded down in the living room, Captain Williams providing cushions and blankets. Mr. Wall excused himself to the toilet, taking the bottle of opium with him. Moustafa grumbled and lay down. At least he wouldn’t be awoken by his boss screaming in the night.
It proved hard to ge
t to sleep anyway. Faisal and Ahmed stayed up late into the night, giggling and whispering and moving around the house. Then they went into Ahmed’s little bedroom off the kitchen, where the whispering and giggling continued. Moustafa wanted to shout at them, but it wasn’t his house.
After breakfast the next morning, and once Ahmed and Faisal had gone to wash the dishes, Mr. Wall decided to lay his cards on the table.
“I’m afraid that looking for antiquities is only part of our reason for coming here,” he said.
“Really?”
Captain Williams did not look surprised. After all, they hadn’t arrived with any equipment or institutional accreditation.
Mr. Wall explained the situation, leaving nothing out. Moustafa felt relieved. If they could trust anyone to help, it would be a member of the British military. Of course there was a small chance that the man was corrupt, but Moustafa didn’t think so. And the captain’s job was to watch over the oasis. He’d learn what they were up to sooner or later.
Once Mr. Wall finished, Captain Williams thought for a minute.
“I must confess I didn’t have any inkling that he was involved in anything more than an archaeological excavation. Looking back now, I can see he was acting suspiciously. But I haven’t heard of any newcomers in the oasis besides yourselves, and I know of no other diggings. Whatever I can do to help, I’ll be happy to oblige within the constraints of my duty. I’m afraid I’m stuck up on this mountain having to make regular observations for enemy movements. Given what you and Orhan have told me, my post is all the more important now.”
“Can you drive us back to our camp?” Mr. Wall asked.
“Of course. I’m not a complete prisoner, although sometimes it feels that way. I have such a good view, and travel by camel is so slow, that I can leave for a few hours without anyone being able to come over the horizon and make it to the oasis. Let me get the motorcar ready.”
Captain Williams drove them back down to the caravan camp. Farouk and the others were waiting for them.
The first thing the Bedouin did was to demand payment, with a 20% increase because of the detour to the well. Moustafa angrily pointed out that it only added a day to a ten-day trip, so it should only be a 10% increase. After much haggling they settled for 15%, plus hiring Farouk, Abbas, and Mohammed al-Biwati as guards for their baggage. The other Bedouin had already scattered to their families, taking the remaining food stores with them.
“Some of us might return to Cairo in a little while,” Farouk said once the money was handed over. “If you wish to hire us to escort you back, we would be willing.”
“We might take you up on that offer,” Mr. Wall said.
Once the business dealings were over, Captain Williams said, “I need to get to the mountain. I daren’t leave my post for too long. I have just enough time to show you the excavations Professor Harrell was conducting. It’s only a couple of miles away.”
They got in the motorcar, Ahmed badgering the soldier until he was allowed to drive, and they shot along a narrow, rutted dirt lane. Faisal leaned over his shoulder, watching Ahmed drive while the older boy explained how he did it.
They passed fields of wheat just beginning to ripen, and large groves of date palms where men suspended by ropes were clearing out dead branches and harvesting the dates. Soon they entered the village of Biwati, a collection of low houses of mud brick, many painted with geometric designs in red and yellow, the doors showing white hand marks.
“What are those for?” Mr. Wall asked.
“For averting the evil eye,” Captain Williams replied.
“Are there a lot of sorcerers and witches here?” Faisal asked, suddenly worried.
“The villagers think so. I wouldn’t worry about it, young man.”
They collected a trail of children in the town who ran after them waving. Ahmed rewarded them by honking the horn. Faisal leaned over and honked it again. Moustafa hauled him back into his place.
After a few minutes they passed through an even smaller village and out past the limits of the oasis. The palm grove thinned, the irrigation canals ended, and the grove gave way to sandy scrub for about a quarter of a mile before that, too, disappeared. Ahead, the remains of a small stone temple stood in a barren field littered with potsherds. Beyond that Moustafa spied a few heaps of sand and debris, the spoil from an excavation.
“Stop the car,” Captain Williams told Ahmed. “We don’t want to fall through the top of a tomb like Professor Harrell’s water boy did.”
“There are more meticulous ways to find ancient sites,” Mr. Wall quipped. He was in fine spirits today.
Of course he is, Moustafa fumed. He’s got that ridiculous drug.
Moustafa was still angry at his boss for snapping at him back in the desert. Yes, the man had been suffering because he couldn’t get his opium, but what he said had been revealing. Moustafa was the help and nothing more.
Ahmed yanked hard on the steering wheel, spinning the motorcar so it ended up on its two left wheels, and screeched to a stop. Both boys laughed hysterically.
“I’ve created a monster,” Captain Williams groaned.
They got out and walked the last two hundred yards to come to a broad pit where the sand had been cleared away to reveal bedrock. A hole about two feet wide was broken through this, leading to darkness.
Mr. Wall pulled an electric torch out of his pocket and got on his belly close to the hole. He crawled forward. Moustafa gritted his teeth as he heard a cracking sound.
“Careful, boss. The tomb’s ceiling looks like it’s delicate.”
Although falling in would serve you right.
“That’s why I’m on my belly. It distributes the weight more evenly,” Mr. Wall replied. “It would help if the good Professor Harrell had left his ladder.”
He shone the torch into the tomb. “Hmm. Interesting. Your turn, Moustafa.”
Mr. Wall wriggled back away from the hole and handed the electric torch to him. Moustafa crawled forward, tensing every time the rock crackled beneath him. He was much heavier than his boss.
Nevertheless, he made it to the lip of the hole and shone the torch down into it.
Below was a large, rectangular chamber carved into the stone, measuring about thirty feet by twenty. Several niches were carved in the walls, long enough to hold mummies. All were empty. Even so, Moustafa felt a thrill. Until just a few months ago, this tomb had remained undisturbed for more than two thousand years.
“This is the chamber we saw in Professor Harrell’s slideshow,” Moustafa said.
“Indeed it is,” Mr. Wall said. “I think we should take a closer look.”
“We could jump in easily enough, but getting out would be a problem. The floor is a good ten feet down. Captain Williams, do you have any rope in your motorcar?”
“I have a tow chain attached to the Model T, but I daren’t drive through here. I’d probably end up breaking through into another tomb, or this one. We have some light cord for securing baggage. I don’t think it’s strong enough to hold a man.”
Moustafa and Mr. Wall looked at Faisal.
The boy gulped.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Faisal was not happy. He had agreed to cross a desert and find a man who kills people with a little tube. Wasn’t that dangerous enough?
No, now he had to go into an ancient tomb that was probably crawling with djinn.
“Don’t worry, little brother,” Ahmed said, tying the cord around Faisal’s waist. “It’s daytime. Djinn don’t come out in daytime.”
“It’s not daytime down there!”
“Don’t you have a charm?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll be all right.”
“Can’t you come down too?”
“The cord won’t hold me,” Ahmed said, playing out the cord and handing it to Claud and Moustafa.
“I hate being small.”
Reluctantly, Faisal moved to the side of the hole and sat down, dangling his feet. He took off
his sandals so he could climb better. A weird stink came from below.
“What’s that smell?” he asked.
“Smell?” the Englishman said. “I don’t smell anything.”
He stood a little way off.
“It smells familiar,” Faisal said.
“It’s nothing. In you go,” the Englishman said.
“We have a good hold on the rope,” Claud called over.
Then Faisal remembered. “Hey! It’s the same smell as those dead people who are all wrapped up. I’ve smelled that in your house!”
The Englishman looked embarrassed. “Oh, don’t worry. Someone took all the mummies out. They can’t hurt you.”
“That’s worse! If the dead people are gone, the djinn don’t have anywhere to live. They’ll move into my head and live there.”
“If you don’t get in there right this instant,” Moustafa roared, “I’ll open up a big hole in your head to make it easier for them to move in!”
Faisal looked at the hole doubtfully. He might be better off taking his chances with Moustafa.
Then Claud spoke up. “If you go in, I’ll let you drive the motorcar.”
“Really?” Faisal perked up. “Reallyreallyreallyreallyreally?”
“But only to steer,” Claud said. “You’ll have to sit on Ahmed’s lap while he runs the gas, the brake, and the gear shift.”
Faisal wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but if it meant he got to drive the motorcar, that was fine by him.
It still didn’t make him happy about going into this tomb, though.
The Englishman tossed him the electric torch, which he put in his pocket. Then he hung from the lip of the hole by his hands and let go. There was a little jerk as he dropped a few inches before the cord went taut. It was too thin and cut into his waist.
“Ow! Lower me down.”
He descended into the darkness, the hole a receding circle of light above him. His eyes began to adjust to the gloom and he made out a room cut from the stone with some darker shadows he didn’t like.
The Case of the Golden Greeks Page 17