“Nonsense,” Augustus said. “We wouldn’t dream of leaving you. We’ll all walk.”
“But I want to drive the motorcar!” Faisal whined.
“Don’t worry, Augustus. You go ahead and I’ll join you at your campground,” Jocelyn said.
His heart leapt. She was actually making a point of spending time with him!
Moustafa turned to him.
“Boss, Herr Schäfer wanted me to make some sketches of Greco-Roman art while I was here, for possible inclusion in his book. If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay. I can walk back to the camp later. It’s not too far.”
“Very well. I didn’t know Heinrich had poached you from my service. Draw to your heart’s content.”
Normally Augustus would have been irritated at having his assistant leave for a side project, especially just as everything was getting interesting, but the relief at having a steady supply of medicine, combined with the proximity of such a fascinating member of the fairer sex, made him indulgent.
In a lower voice, he added, “Keep a pistol with you.”
“I will. And I’ll stay until well after dark. I want to see what happens here at night.”
“Take care not to be seen.”
Moustafa nodded and went to the motorcar to fetch his things.
When he came back, Faisal held up the amphora fragment.
“Maybe you should draw this.”
Augustus could tell by the look on Moustafa’s face that he was about to give his usual angry reply, but then he hesitated and said, “Oh, I think Herr Schäfer has plenty of drawings of amphorae. Why don’t you keep it?”
Moustafa headed for the temple. The rest of the group strolled to Claud’s stripped-down Model T, Faisal and Ahmed running ahead. Augustus wondered how much of Moustafa’s interest in sketching the temple was inspired by the fear of being in a motorcar with Faisal at the wheel. Augustus felt tempted to stay and help with the sketches. If Jocelyn hadn’t been mounting her donkey and urging it in the direction of their campsite, he would have.
Ahmed sat in the driver’s seat with his hand on the gear shift. Faisal sat on his lap, gripping the wheel, grinning from ear to ear.
“Perhaps we should just wait here,” Augustus said as they approached the motorcar.
“Trust me, we’ll be safer in than out,” Claud replied.
They got in, Ahmed gave some final instructions and started the engine.
Faisal shouted with glee as the motorcar moved forward, thankfully slowly, and Faisal turned the wheel this way and that. Soon they were zigzagging all around the field.
“Try to keep close to the tree line to avoid any tombs,” Claud said.
“But not too close,” Augustus added, gripping the side of the motorcar. He’d been in artillery barrages less frightening than this.
“Let’s go faster!” Faisal shouted.
“I don’t think—” Claud started.
Too late. With an excited whoop, Ahmed slammed on the gas and they shot forward.
Straight for the tree line.
“Watch out!” Augustus shouted.
Faisal yanked the wheel to the right, the car swerved onto two wheels and nearly tossed everyone overboard before righting itself.
“I thought you said we’d be safer in than out!” Augustus shouted.
“We’re alive, aren’t we?” Claud replied. “At least we’re not heading for the trees anymore.”
“Good job, little brother!” Ahmed said. “Now turn the wheel hard to the left and keep turning.”
“That’s not—”
Augustus didn’t get to finish, because he was too busy hanging on for dear life.
The car spun in a circle, sending up waves of sand in all directions. Both boys were laughing maniacally. Then Faisal straightened out and shot forward again.
“All right, slow down,” Claud said.
“Which way to camp?” Faisal asked. “I’ll drive us there.”
“No you will not!” Augustus said. It came out more as a plea than an order.
Ahmed pointed to a narrow gap in the trees. “It’s that way. Let’s see if you can make it.”
Faisal zigzagged toward the path. Augustus prepared to jump out.
“That’s all for now,” Claud said. “Perhaps you can drive again some other time. Come now, Ahmed. Apply the brake.”
Ahmed slowed down and stopped before they hit anything. It took some coaxing to get Faisal in the back seat. Once he was, Claud took the wheel and headed into the village of Biwati. The boys couldn’t stop laughing.
“We should take a look at what’s happening,” Claud said, growing serious again. “We won’t get too close. The Senussi don’t like foreigners.”
“I should have brought Moustafa along to act as intermediary,” Augustus said.
“By now they all know that he’s with you. If there’s anyone they like less than foreigners, it’s natives who work for foreigners.”
“Some local religious boys tried to beat me up a month ago,” Ahmed said.
“I bet you beat them until they were black and blue,” Faisal said.
“I sure did, little brother.”
A glance from Claud told Augustus that the fight hadn’t been so one-sided as the youth let on.
They parked the motorcar at the edge of the village, immediately attracting a curious crowd of children. There were no men on the streets, and the women disappeared into the houses as soon as they arrived.
Claud led them up what passed for the main street—a narrow, dusty lane flanked by low houses of mud brick. The houses were made of the same stuff as the ground, and looked as if they had grown out of it. The only splash of color came from the muted browns and greens of the geometric designs painted along many of the walls and windowsills. All doors and shutters were shut tight.
A gaggle of small children followed them, pestering Faisal and Ahmed with questions about what they were doing.
“Is there any way we can get rid of these little mites?” Augustus asked.
“Surely you’ve been in Egypt long enough to know the answer to that,” Claud said with a laugh.
“We can hardly be unobtrusive with this lot following us.”
“We can’t be unobtrusive at all. Have you noted how so many of the windows open a crack after we pass? The womenfolk are watching us, and will report everything we do to the men. Many of the men will be at the zikr, while others are in the fields. Even those who chose to work and not pray are often swayed by the Senussi, so we must tread carefully.”
Over the sounds of the children, they could hear chanting, a rhythmic droning that grew in volume as they went up the street.
Soon they came to a small plaza lined with larger houses, some even two stories high. An entire side of the plaza was taken up by the mosque. Enclosed by a mud brick wall ten feet high, there was little to see except a crude minaret made of the same material that didn’t stand more than twenty feet tall. Next to it was a heavy wooden gate, as shut tight as the doors to the houses. Two burly men stood in front of it. They scowled as the foreigners came into view.
“Well, that’s that, I suppose,” Augustus said.
“Indeed,” Claud replied. They spoke in English now, worried about what the village children might overhear. “It’s good for me to show my face so they know we’re watching.”
“What about the garrison?”
“It’s a mile outside of town. We’ll drop by and talk with them. These gatherings are not unusual and we tend to steer clear so as to not stir things up, but given the letter that Orhan sent and the clues you’ve discovered, I’m worried. Something’s going on here.”
They walked back to the motorcar …
… and found someone had slashed the tires and dumped camel dung on all the seats.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Moustafa felt at ease as he sat on a fallen block of the temple wall and sketched the bas-relief of Alexander offering to the gods. Herr Schäfer was sure to love this. Moustafa swelled
with pride to think his drawings would go into such a great work of analysis. The scholar had allowed him to read some of the chapters in manuscript and they were brilliant. Drawings of these remote sites would add even more value to the work. Indeed, they may be the first modern sketches ever to be published. Some of the early explorers must have passed this way, but those drawings would be crude and difficult to find. Professor Harrell had no doubt drawn this scene as well, but who knows what happened to those drawings or if they would ever see the light of day?
He sat, sketch pad on his knee, a fine pen in his hand, and lost himself to the work.
Moustafa took his time. It was already past noon and he planned on staying until after sunset. He had a hunch there might be something interesting to see around here once it got dark. He had wanted to communicate that to Mr. Wall, but he certainly wasn’t going to take the chance while that woman was within earshot. He didn’t trust her one bit.
Mr. Wall was obviously besotted with her. Why did a man of such intelligence become such a fool in the presence of women?
Moustafa remained seated while sketching, and when he had to move to sketch another portion of the wall, he crawled there. There had been a group of peasants watching them from a distance. He hoped they hadn’t noticed that he had remained behind.
One by one, he sketched each of the remaining bas-reliefs. These were mostly standard processions of deities that could be found on the walls of countless temples and tombs all along the Nile. Their conformity was what made them interesting. Herr Schäfer had pointed out the fusion of styles in the gilded mummies that had been found here. In this temple, however, Alexander had adhered closely to traditional Egyptian styles. He had obviously wanted to prove the prophecy of the oracle of Amun-Re to be true, that he was the living embodiment of the sun god and thus the pharaoh of all Egypt.
Moustafa sketched it all with care, the ancient invocations resonating in his head as he drew the corresponding hieroglyphs.
As he did so, the words of the Bedouin came back to him.
Muslims shouldn’t concern themselves with such things.
That stung. He was a better Muslim than most. He didn’t touch alcohol, avoided looking at women, did his five prayers. One day, God willing, he would go on the Hajj. It wasn’t like he believed in any of these pagan idols. He wasn’t some superstitious villager sneaking off to cast spells in old temples. That was the worst sin possible, to put another being before God …
… and yet he couldn’t help feel a small kernel of doubt. When Egypt had been pagan, it had been the greatest civilization in the world. Now it was Muslim and what was it? A colony. A colony that relied upon Christians for its technology, its sciences, even its appreciation of its own past. How could such a thing be possible?
It’s a test of our faith, Moustafa thought. It has to be. God is punishing us for being weak Muslims. Look how many Egyptians skip their prayers or drink alcohol. And those belly dancing bars!
Moustafa shuddered. He had to go to one of those dens of iniquity once on a case. The things he had seen there …
“God help me avoid temptation,” he whispered.
Yes, it was all a test. He began to see the pattern now. God had allowed Egypt to groan under the iron fist of the Mamluks and Ottomans—fellow Muslims—because the Egyptians had strayed from the narrow path. Then God had swept them away and brought in Christians—first the French, then the English—to test the Egyptians’ faith. Would all that wealth, all those amazing inventions, pull the Egyptians away from the true path?
It hadn’t. There were still many bad Muslims in Egypt, but it was no worse than before. No one was renouncing Islam. And there was a new, educated class of Muslims, people like Moustafa himself, who were taking the best from Western civilization while remaining true to their own. It would be these Muslims, and a few Copts too, who would bring Egypt back to its former glory.
One Copt, Marcus Simaika, had even offered him a job. The Christian was a wealthy man who scoured the land for Coptic artifacts, getting permission from the pope in Alexandria to enter the oldest monasteries and churches to collect neglected manuscripts and works of art to put in the Coptic Museum he had founded.
Moustafa had met him on a case, and Simaika had offered him a job.
“Wouldn’t you rather work for an Egyptian? I could teach you Coptic, and teach you all about our art. You could come on my collection trips. Wouldn’t you like to explore the storage rooms of monasteries that date back a thousand years, uncovering old manuscripts that haven’t been read in centuries? Once we have our freedom we will need trained men like you to manage our heritage. There could be a place for you in the new order.”
Months later, those words still sang in his ears. He still had Simaika’s business card tucked away at home. Many times after a long day of work at Mr. Wall’s house he would pull it out and study it. He especially did this on days when Mr. Wall was rude or took him for granted.
Wouldn’t it be better to work for an Egyptian?
“Maybe so,” he whispered to himself, “but right now you’re working for a European and he is giving you some great opportunities. Be content with what God has written for you. Only He knows what comes next.”
The light was fading and his sketches were complete. Moustafa put away his drawing materials, used a bit of water from his water skin to wash, and unrolled his prayer rug in the direction of Mecca. Faintly in the distance he could hear a muezzin in the village making the call to prayer. All up and down the Nile, and in many other countries besides, that same call was being heard. He and millions of other Muslims around the world made their submission to God. It was something they did together, and it made Moustafa fell better. All would come out as was written.
After he was done praying, he waited.
The moon rose and the stars came out. Other than the breeze blowing through the shattered stones of Alexander’s temple, and the occasional far-off caw of a bird, the edge of the desert was shrouded in silence.
He lay in the sand as the last warmth seeped out of it. Tired after the long afternoon’s work in the sun, Moustafa fell asleep.
When he jerked awake, the moon’s thin crescent was high in the sky and the stars shone bright and clear.
He lay where he was, listening. His sleep-fogged mind had the impression that a noise had awoken him.
Then he heard it again—the sound of hushed conversation.
It came from the direction of the tomb excavated by Professor Harrell.
Moustafa peeked from behind the remains of the temple wall and spotted a small group of dark figures moving across the sand, which glowed softly in the moonlight and put them in stark relief.
There were six or seven of them, and he could see some carried picks and shovels.
They stopped at a bare stretch of sand about a hundred yards from him, a little to the left of the excavated tomb. The one in front moved his hands through the sand and pulled a rope out from beneath it. A trapdoor opened with a creak.
One by one the figures disappeared into the ground. As the last went through the trapdoor, he closed it behind him with a soft thud.
Moustafa checked his revolver was fully loaded and peered around. He saw no one else in the desert. To his left, the edge of the oasis was a dark wall of trees and shadow. He heard no sound there but the rustle of the palm fronds in the breeze.
He did not trust that tree line. A sentry could easily stand there, completely still, and remain invisible.
He waited a full minute studying every part of the tree line, and not seeing anything, tiptoed out of the ruins.
After a few steps from the temple he hesitated, ready to bolt back to its cover if anyone fired, but the oasis remained still and silent but for the waving fronds of the palms. He moved toward the trap door.
He barely made it halfway there before two silent figures burst out of the shadows of the tree line and sprinted for him. They wore the loose, dark robes of the Bedouin, the bottom half of their faces cove
red with the edge of their keffiyehs. Moonlight glinted off the metal of their scimitars.
Moustafa smiled. They had spotted him from the start, but waited until he had nowhere to run before showing themselves. Now they rushed him like they had the advantage. The fools had obviously not seen his gun.
He waited until they were twenty yards away before he held his pistol high and said in loud, clear voice, “If you don’t want to get shot, you’ll drop your weapons.”
Their response was not what he anticipated.
Like trained fighters, they split up, angling in different directions while still advancing. Both pulled guns from their pockets.
Moustafa fired at the one on the left. The man spun and fell. Moustafa dropped to one knee a split second before the man on the right fired, and his bullet hummed over Moustafa’s head.
Moustafa fired a second time, but his aim was off and instead of hitting the man’s body, he hit the man’s pistol, making it fly from his gun.
Good enough.
Moustafa stood, leveling his pistol.
“All right. Now you drop your sword and we’ll—”
“God is great!” the man shouted, rushing for him.
Moustafa couldn’t believe it. The fellow was still several paces from him. This was suicide.
Moustafa aimed for his head and fired.
The trigger stuck, the cylinder moving only slightly, the hammer pulling back a little and stopping.
Moustafa backpedaled, slapped the cylinder, and tried to fire again.
Nothing.
What a time for his pistol to jam!
Then the man was upon him.
Moustafa ducked to the side as the scimitar slashed down, flashing in the moonlight. He backed away, grabbing his pistol by the barrel and holding it like a club.
He had to back away even further as the man slashed again, nearly opening up Moustafa’s chest.
Moustafa kept backpedaling, angling to the left to try to grab the gun of the Bedouin he had shot.
The remaining Bedouin anticipated this move and positioned himself to block him. To do so required him to stop his charge and that gave Moustafa the chance to do the smartest thing he could think of—run.
The Case of the Golden Greeks Page 19