The Case of the Golden Greeks

by Sean McLachlan

  Augustus realized he was babbling and forced himself to stop.

  Jocelyn smiled. “High culture and society have never much interested me. If it did, I would have stayed in Europe. I do want to peruse your dear little shop, and spend time with a most interesting gentleman.”

  Jocelyn stopped. Augustus turned to face her.

  “The hour is getting late,” she said softly. “The Bedouin will want to get started.”

  “Are you quite sure you don’t want to come with us?”

  Jocelyn smiled, put a hand on his mask, and planted a kiss on his lips. Augustus almost pulled away, but checked himself at the last moment.

  “I’ll see you in Cairo,” she said, “and you better arrange another adventure at least as diverting as this one.”

  ***

  Mr. Wall had gone fully insane. Moustafa’s boss was singing, actually singing, as their camels passed through the volcanic wasteland of the Black Desert and passed into the eerie formations of the White Desert. It was some scandalous song not befitting Mr. Wall’s station. It was a good thing he sang in English so the Little Infidel and the Bedouin couldn’t understand. The soldiers found it amusing, though, and once he had sung it once, they took up the chorus when he started a second time. Their voices echoed off the strange limestone sculptures to come back at them from all sides.

  At least that made the Little Infidel stop crying. Now he was looking all about him and clutching his charm, thinking an entire army of djinn was mocking them.

  Such superstition. If Egypt and the Soudan were ever to be free, that sort of thinking needed to be stamped out. How could they ever win their freedom when the people thought like Faisal, or the Senussi?

  What fools those Senussi had been! Did they think they could kick out the British and Italians through armed force? The Senussi had no armored cars, no aeroplanes, no artillery. Did they think simply shouting “God is Great!” would lead them to victory? The Mahdi’s army had thought the same thing and the British slaughtered them. Even if the Senussi had gassed the entire base, they would have never been able to march on Cairo.

  As much as he wanted Egypt and the Soudan to become independent and fuse together as one great nation, he did not want it if fools such as the Senussi and the Mahdi got in charge. They would be ten times worse than the British. He had not felt any great guilt in fighting the Senussi. They would have only oppressed the farmers of Bahariya and drawn them into a conflict they would have inevitably lost.

  It was the same with the hotheads he occasionally met in the cafes of Cairo who called for violent revolution. He understood their anger and their frustration, but turned a deaf ear to their plans.

  No, an uprising would only lead to bloodshed, most of it Egyptian. The Soudan would be even worse because the tribes would start fighting each other as much as the British. Egypt and the Soudan had to become free one day, and the only way to do that was to build a popular movement of such widespread support that the British would have no choice but to leave.

  And that movement had to be led by educated men, men who knew about economics and engineering and law. And yes, there would be a place for scholars among them. There was no point in crying for independence if you didn’t have the tools to build a nation once you attained it.

  A bright vision appeared before him, a vision of an independent Egypt and Soudan, led by those who brought together the best of Western learning with the true faith of Islam. He could be one of those people. Perhaps if he built upon his journal articles and developed a reputation, when independence day came he could rise to an important position at a university, or in the Ministry of Education. It wouldn’t matter if those arrogant foreign Egyptologists never accepted him, he could be a leading scholar in his own country, revered by his own countrymen.

  But when? When? He had no idea. Years, mostly likely. Decades, even. There was still much ignorance and superstition. That would have to be eradicated through education and proper leadership. That would never come from a colonial power; he saw that now. The British only educated enough Egyptians and Soudanese to help them run the colony. They had no interest in the rest of the population. Only a native government would care enough to make any real change in society. Only people like him cared enough.

  Perhaps he would make a good teacher. Hadn’t he gotten that flea-bitten beggar boy interested in his own past? On their last night in Captain Williams’ house, Faisal had poured some oil in the lamp and lit it. He and Ahmed had stayed up all night chattering away by its light. Yes, perhaps his future in the new order would be as an educator.

  And the best way to have a bright future was to start building it up today.

  His hand rested on his saddlebags, where a sheaf of drawings was carefully packed next to Herr Schäfer’s books. After the Senussi had been defeated, Moustafa had asked that they could stay for a few extra days so he could sketch the antiquities of the oasis. Mr. Wall had readily agreed. He wanted to spend more time with that fallen woman. Faisal, of course, hadn’t complained either. One day, while he was making a new sketch of the temple of Alexander to replace the one the Senussi had destroyed, he heard a shriek of laughter and was terrified to see Captain William’s Model T tearing around the desert nearby with Faisal at the wheel. Ahmed sat in the passenger’s seat and the captain, grinning from ear to ear, sat in the back.

  Captain Williams was far too indulgent. Mr. Wall was becoming the same way. The Little Infidel could get away with almost anything these days. At least he had learned to drive forwards instead of backwards.

  Moustafa shrugged. The important thing was that he got to make the sketches, not only of the temple, but of the tombs as well, and of a Roman fort and crumbling Coptic church to the south of the oasis. One day those sketches would grace Herr Schäfer’s book, and in the meantime he had enough information for another scholarly article for the Journal of Egyptian Archaeology.

  Moustafa smiled as they passed through the last of the strange limestone formations of the White Desert and entered the vast stretch of pale brown sand that would lead him home. Nur and the children waited for him there. After a few well-earned days of rest with his family, he would get to work, building up his scholarly reputation.

  And the work was not just for himself, it was for his children’s future, a future where Egyptians and Soudanese scholars would interpret their own past, and where his children would be taught their history by professors of their own race.

  He would see that day. He was sure of it.

  ***

  Faisal felt much better when they left the Desert of the Djinn behind and got into the open sand. There were djinn here too, of course, but not as many of them. They sure were lucky to get through that place a second time without being possessed.

  “Hey, Englishman. What were you singing?”

  For some reason the Englishman looked embarrassed.

  “Just an old song,” he said.

  “Was it a spell to protect us from djinn?”

  “I’ve told you time and again that djinn don’t exist.”

  “One possessed you.”

  The Englishman coughed. “I have that one under control.”

  Moustafa muttered something under his breath.

  Faisal looked out over the vast stretch of the desert. It sure was hot, hotter even than when they had come out here. At least the khamseen, the fifty days of baking winds that blew up from the Soudan, wasn’t due for another month. He sure didn’t want to be in the desert then.

  It was hot enough already. He wished he could take a dip in one of those pools back at Bahariya.

  Maybe Ahmed was having a swim right now. Or working on the motorcar or talking to Mark at the army base. He sure had a fun life. Too bad Ahmed and Claud didn’t live in Cairo. He’d miss them.

  But their place was in Bahariya, and his place was in Cairo, in his little shed on the Englishman’s roof. If he had stayed in the oasis, who would give Mina a saddlebag, or give the Englishman’s spare food to the street boys?
Who would protect the Englishman’s house, or prove Moustafa wrong? He had responsibilities. Nobody knew or appreciated that he had responsibilities, but that didn’t mean he could just ignore them.

  It would have been nice to have spent more time with Ahmed, though. Even just a few more days. Faisal had learned a lot from him, like about ancient things and how to get along with foreigners.

  “Hey, Englishman!”

  “What is it now, Faisal?”

  “How do you say camel in English?”

  “Camel.”

  “Gamel.”

  “No, camel. Gamel is the Arabic word. There are no camels in England so when we came here we took your word for them.”

  “Then why not just say gamel, you silly Englishman?”

  “I’m not sure. I think because camel is easier to say for us.”

  “Caaamel.”

  “Close.”

  “How do you say oasis?”

  “Oasis.”

  “We say wuasis.”

  “We got that from you too. England is very wet. There are no deserts so we took your word.”

  “How many words did you take from us? Am I speaking English already?”

  “Not quite. We say desert, not sahara, but we call this desert sahara because that’s what you call it and it’s the biggest desert in the world.”

  “Dayseeert. It sure is big, Englishman. How many more days do we have until we get home?”

  “Ten or eleven, I believe. We’re heading on the same route as before.”

  “How do you say shay?”

  “Tea.”

  “Teee. How do you say masjid?”

  “Mosque. Are you going to do this all the way to Cairo?”

  “Mussk. What else are we going to do? Go to the moving pictures?”

  “I’m not sure there’s a program planned for the next few sand dunes.”

  “Of course there isn’t, you silly Englishman. How do you say mtarrba?”

  And for ten days, as their camels passed over one sand dune after another, Faisal asked word after word. He asked so many he didn’t realize he was asking the same words twice, or ten times. And after a while he didn’t have to ask for certain words. It was a great game and he never tired of it. The game helped pass the time in this dead place and it made him feel less sad about leaving Ahmed. And it helped keep the djinn away, because all djinn are scared of European voices.

  The best part was that the Englishman never tired of the game either.

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  While the main characters and story in this novel are fictional, the historical background is as accurate as I could make it. The Geographical Association of Egypt, Bahariya Oasis, and Birqash Camel Market are all real places and all well worth seeing if you come to Egypt.

  Bahariya Oasis is no longer as remote as it was in 1919. The caravan route Augustus, Moustafa, and Faisal took is now a paved highway. There is electricity and all the modern conveniences for those in the oasis who can afford them. Still, at night when the stars glimmer in the desert sky, and quiet settles on the palm groves, it can feel much as it did a century ago.

  Take care in Birqash Camel Market. I know this from personal experience. It wasn’t Moustafa who got run over by a donkey, it was me!

  A couple of the minor characters are also real, such as Sir Thomas Russell Pasha, Commandant of the Cairo Police.

  Captain Claud Williams (1876-1970) served as commander of the No. 5 Light Car patrol in the Senussi Campaign during World War One and also helped map the Western Desert. His wartime memoirs were posthumously published as Light Car Patrols 1916-19: War and Exploration in Egypt and Libya with the Model T Ford, edited by Russell McGuirk.

  Atop a mountain overlooking Bahariya Oasis stands the ruins of an extensive stone house. Local legend has it that Claud Williams lived up here acting as a lookout during the time in which this novel takes place. In fact, he was already demobilized and on his way back to New Zealand. McGuirk suggests that the house dates to the Second World War, when a unit of Allied soldiers driving more advanced cars called the Long Range Desert Group fought against the Italians and the Germans. That famous outfit owed much to the pioneering work of Captain Williams and the Light Car Patrols.

  The spot is still known as English Mountain and the ruins of the house can still be seen. I chose legend over fact because the story of Captain Williams was too good to leave out.

  Faisal’s friend Ahmed Fakhry grew up to be one of Egypt’s leading archaeologists, excavating in Bahariya Oasis in the late 1930s and early 1940s. Professor Fakhry (1905-1973) excavated the temple of Alexander as well as many other sites in the oases of Bahariya, Siwa, Farafra, Kharga, and Dakhla. He found some Roman-era tombs at Bahariya in 1947, but a revolution was brewing in Egypt at that time and he was unable to excavate them fully. In reality, Professor Fakhry grew up in the Fayoum and didn’t get to the oases of the Western Desert until later in life. As far as I know he never met Captain Williams, but I couldn’t resist the temptation to give him an early start to his career. Faisal needed an Egyptian boy to explain to him the importance of learning English and why the silly Englishman was so interested in dusty old things buried in the desert.

  I also played with geography a bit. While the White Desert, Black Desert, and the Libyan engravings at Qasr al-Zahw all exist, none of them lie on the caravan route between Cairo and Bahariya. I didn’t want to miss the chance to put the region’s most interesting landmarks in their path.

  Another real figure is Heinrich Schäfer. I am glad to say he finally did finish his Principles of Egyptian Art which, while a weighty academic tome, is still one of the most thorough introductions to understanding the art of ancient Egypt almost a hundred years after it was written.

  Besides Schäfer’s Principles of Egyptian Art, two other excellent books that helped with researching this novel are Bahriyah and Farafra by Ahmed Fakhry and The Western Desert of Egypt by Cassandra Vivian, both of which are published by the American University in Cairo Press. Their bookshop just off Tahrir Square is a treasure trove of learning on all aspects of Egyptian history and culture. I also relied on William Edward Lane’s classic study, Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians and the 1929 edition of the Baedeker’s Guide to Egypt and the Sudan. A more modern guide to the country is the Blue Guide to Egypt, now sadly out of print. The 1993 edition has an extra long section on Cairo and proved an invaluable companion on my many rambles through the medieval districts where much of the Cairo action takes place.

  The “Golden Mummies” in Bahariya Oasis are real, but they weren’t discovered by the fictitious Professor Harrell in 1919. In fact, they were discovered in 1996 when an Antiquities Guard working at the temple of Alexander the Great was walking his donkey in the desert near the temple. Suddenly the donkey’s leg disappeared down a hole. After the guard extricated his braying animal, he peeked inside the hole and saw that it was a tomb. The ensuing excavation revealed hundreds of mummies in the styles described in the novel, and the famous Egyptologist Dr. Zahi Hawass estimates the necropolis encompasses four square miles and there may be as many as 10,000 mummies hidden under the desert sands. Excavations are continuing.

  The Egyptologists should be careful. They might uncover an ancient underground aqueduct and some canisters of mustard gas.

  About the Author

  Sean McLachlan worked for ten years as an archaeologist in Israel, Cyprus, Bulgaria, and the United States before becoming a full-time writer. He is the author of numerous fiction and nonfiction books, which are listed on the following pages. When he’s not writing, he enjoys hiking, reading, traveling, and, most of all, teaching his son about the world. He divides his time between Madrid, Oxford, and Cairo.

  To find out more about Sean’s work and travels, visit him at his Amazon page or his blog, and feel free to friend him on Goodreads, Twitter, and Facebook.

  You might also enjoy his newsletter, Sean’s Travels and Tales, which comes out every one or two months. Each issue features a
short story, a travel article, a coupon for a free or discounted book, and updates on future projects. You can subscribe using this link. Your email will not be shared with anyone else.

  Fiction by Sean McLachlan

  Tangier Bank Heist: An Interzone Mystery

  Right after the war, Tangier was the craziest town in North Africa. Everything was for sale and the price was cheap. The perverts came for the flesh. The addicts came for the drugs. A whole army of hustlers and grifters came for the loose laws and free flow of cash and contraband.

  So why was I here? Because it was the only place that would have me. Besides, it was a great place to be a detective. You got cases like in no other place I’d ever been, and I’d been all over. Cases you couldn’t believe ever happened. Like when I had to track down the guy who stole the bank.

  No, he didn’t rob the bank, he stole it.

  Here’s how it happened . . .

  Available in electronic edition! Print edition coming soon!

  Three Passports to Trouble (Interzone Mystery Book 2)

  Back in the days when Tangier was an International Zone, the city was full of refugees. People fleeing Stalin. People fleeing Franco. People fleeing the Nuremburg Trials. Tangier offered a safe haven from the chaos of Europe.

  The International Council had to keep a delicate balance, tolerating everything from anti-capitalist agitators to Germans with murky pasts. It was the only way to keep the peace, and it worked.

  Until an anarchist was found dead with a fascist dagger in his chest.

  And I got stuck with the case just when I had to smuggle a couple of Party operatives out of town.

  Available in electronic edition! Print edition coming soon!

  The Case of the Purloined Pyramid (The Masked Man of Cairo Book One)