Other men were emerging from the houses around us to see what was happening. With our donkeys, carts, and a few goats and dogs who’d decided to investigate, we were jammed in tight.
The women had disappeared. As soon as the gate had opened, the young lady had been hustled inside by her attendants, and now only men surrounded our party, none of them looking very pleased.
A tall man with a dark, lined face, a neatly trimmed white beard, colorful silk clothing, and a light yellow turban pointed at me and said in French, “You. Come inside.”
“No, no,” I answered, and then continued in French, “We are on our way to our lodgings after a long journey.”
The man glared stubbornly at me. “Now. Come.”
Our guide burst into speech. The tall man turned his head with slow dignity and listened to him without changing expression, then he returned his gaze to me. His eyes were beautifully round and liquid dark, holding the wisdom and weight of age.
“You are English,” he said in that language. “My master says you must come inside. All of you.” He swept his hand to include Grenville and our entourage, then he turned and stalked through the gate without looking to see whether we followed.
“We’d better,” Grenville said. “Refusing hospitality is extremely rude and might cause us much difficulty later.”
My curiosity about this man’s master and also what was inside one of these houses that turned only blank walls to the street, made up my mind for me. I sheathed my sword and stepped under the gate’s very low lintel, Brewster nearly treading on my heels.
We walked through a narrow passage that was cool after the sunshine and emerged into a courtyard. A tiled fountain thronged with vines of brilliant-colored flowers played quietly in the courtyard’s exact center. Walls lifted to three stories around us, scrolled ironwork framing windows covered by the climbing vines. The vibrancy of the pink, gold, and scarlet exotic flowers was such a contrast to the house’s plain facade that I halted a moment in pleasure.
The tall man we followed strode unceasingly through the courtyard, ignoring its beauty, and ducked through another low doorway to a cool, dim, and tiled hall. Through another open door, I saw a staircase, also covered in bright tiles, curve upward out of sight.
The man led us through the hall to a wider room whose ceiling rose two floors, the windows on the upper level letting in light through slatted shutters. Red, blue, and yellow tiles covered the walls, polished and smooth, painted with flowers and geometric designs.
Carpets of exquisite patterns covered the floor, each overlapping another so the bare spaces were concealed. Low tables had been placed here and there, but I saw no other furniture.
A man came forward from another passageway. He was tall like the man who led us, but his face was younger, rounder, his nose hooked. His hair was black and unruly, his dark eyes wide, his arms outstretched.
“Welcome, welcome,” he said in English. “I thank you with all my heart for saving the life of my daughter.”
The man came at me, but just before I was certain he’d embrace me, he stopped himself and thrust out his right hand, offering a very English handshake.
When I took the hand, he closed both of his over mine, holding me firmly. “You are a good man,” he effused. “I care not what others say about the foreigners. You have proved your worth.”
He at last released me but still looked as though he wanted to embrace me. Then he heaved a sigh and turned away, as though reminding himself that Englishmen were embarrassed by such things. “Come. Sit. Karem will bring refreshment.”
He led us at a quick and springing pace to an alcove in the far corner, the arch that led to it covered with tile. A window here looked out into yet another tiny courtyard, this one walled around, with another fountain and more glorious flowers in its center. The combination of Mediterranean warmth and cooling breezes helped bring the hidden garden to life.
Our host waved us to cushions strewn around the table. His wide gesture included us all, not leaving out Bartholomew, Matthias, and Brewster, though I noted that the Egyptians in our party, the guide and the men who bore our luggage, hadn’t been invited inside.
Matthias and Bartholomew made sure Grenville and I were comfortable before sitting on cushions slightly behind us. Brewster took no cushion at all, only sat down on the floor with his back to a wall, keeping an eye on the rest of the room.
The tall man, Karem, returned with a tray bearing silver cups, bowls, and a tall, narrow coffeepot. The coffeepot was exquisitely made, the silver etched into curlicue patterns, the arc of the spout curved like the soldier’s scimitar. The bowls on the tray contained bright apricots and darker dates, and one bowl was filled with almonds.
Karem laid the tray on the table and our host poured thick, aromatic coffee into the tiny cups himself.
Grenville, familiar with Turkish coffee, sipped his with practice, while I raised my cup and delicately took a first taste.
A full, dark flavor flowed into my mouth. The coffee was intense, stronger than any I’d ever drunk, but also complex and many layered. I had heard that the devout Mohammedans drank no wine or other spirits, but I realized now that they had no need, with this wonderful coffee to imbibe.
“Excellent,” I said. “As fine a brew as I’ve ever tasted.”
Our host looked pleased, but a flush came over Karem’s face and he bowed, ducking his head as though embarrassed. I realized he must have made the coffee, and I nodded at him. He’d spoken to us first in French, so I repeated my compliment in that language.
Karem bowed again, his austerity vanishing. The host said something to him in a soft voice, and Karem bowed to us one more time, then straightened and glided from the table, his dignity intact.
Karem did not go far, however, only moved to another alcove and turned to watch us. I could understand—he did not want to leave his master alone with strangers.
“My name is Haluk Kemal Keser,” our host said, bowing to us, though he remained seated. “I say again how grateful I am that you have saved my daughter.”
Tears stood in his dark eyes. Haluk did not look old enough to have a daughter who was already a young lady, but Turks often married in their teens and could have a large family by the time they were in their twenties. There was no sign of his family in this empty room, but I knew that Turkish women were kept hidden away in their own quarters.
I’d also heard that harems often had screens through which the ladies observed the outside world and other rooms in the house while remaining obscured from prying eyes. They could be watching us at this very moment, from any of the windows that looked into this room.
I stopped myself from glancing about for them and simply introduced myself, Grenville, and our men.
“I know who you are,” Haluk said, waving his hands. “I have heard all about Mr. Grenville from England, and how he travels to see us. Gossip runs quickly in Alexandria, my friends. We hear how he is coming and bringing a dear friend. That is yourself, Captain? You are a soldier?” he asked hesitantly, as though he’d had enough of soldiers.
I shook my head. “Retired,” I assured him. “Seeing the world. I must ask why on earth that fellow tried to attack your daughter? Was he a madman?”
Haluk’s face fell. “He is the friend of a man called Ibrahim who wanted to marry my daughter. I turned down his suit. Ibrahim is a soldier of a lower order, a man with little honor. He saw my daughter one day, and nothing was for it but that he marry her. I said no in the strongest possible terms. My dove had no use for him either—she was very grateful to me for sending him away. As was her mother.” Haluk made a face, and I thought perhaps his wife had as many strident opinions as my own.
“This angered Ibrahim, I wager,” Grenville said.
“Indeed.” Haluk sighed. “These young men in the army are far from home, and when there are no battles to fight, they roam the town, looking for trouble. I wish the pasha would send them off somewhere soon.”
“Yes, indeed.”
I gave him a nod. “I always found it difficult to keep the men under my command quiet when we had no immediate campaign.”
Grenville raised his brows, as though he thought my statement unlikely, but it was true. A bored soldier found all sorts of trouble, especially in a country not his own. I did, in the end, have a well-disciplined troop, but only after they discovered that their captain was not above settling a problem with his own fists.
“I will have Ibrahim’s friend reported, of course,” Haluk went on. “Though it will do little good if the army has need of him.” His face softened. “I do thank you, gentlemen, with all my heart. A man is not supposed to be sentimental about his women, but my family is dear to me.”
As mine was to me. In this, though we came from very different worlds, Haluk and I had a common understanding.
“Let us banish unhappy thoughts and partake,” Haluk said, reaching for the bowls. “Please.”
There was no cutlery save a lone silver knife on the table. Grenville reached forward with his right hand and scooped up apricots and almonds, plopping them into his mouth with obvious pleasure.
I followed his example, though Matthias and Bartholomew only drank coffee and did not eat. Brewster watched me closely from his place by the wall as if expecting me to fall dead of poison any moment.
The fruit was sweet and ripe, juices bursting into my mouth. Though I had eaten such exotic foods as these on occasion in London, they were expensive and did not have the bright taste I experienced now.
We spoke a while longer. Haluk smiled when Grenville and I told him how eager we were to see the sights Egypt had to offer, even if the ancient monuments of Alexandria were no more.
“A disappointment our city must be to you, Captain,” he said. “It is nothing like the ancients report. Nature and wars have destroyed the glorious city of the Greeks over the centuries. But you must be careful of the charlatans who will pretend to show you antiquities. The Copts will take you to see the wrong things, so that they can help the French carry away Egypt a piece at a time behind your back. The fellahin, on the other hand, will sell you trash at an exorbitant price, swearing the bones of a mouse is from a finger of a king. The Europeans are eager to amass things for their museums and I am afraid are easily fooled.”
“Is there no museum here?” I asked. “For the past of ancient Egypt in Egypt?”
“No, no.” Again the wave of a hand. “The Egyptians, they do not care for it, only for what money it brings, and we Turks care even less. I am interested in what is under the sand for my own curiosity, but my master, the pasha, he wants to give it all to Mr. Salt and Monsieur Drovetti, even if they battle over it. He seeks to gain favor with the English and Europeans. They will bring guns and other modern things, you see.”
Haluk spoke with skepticism that interested me. “You do not agree?” I asked. “That Egypt should not have the benefit of new things?”
“I agree with my master in his ideas.” Haluk darted his gaze past us as though fearing someone listened and would report to the pasha. “But I am not certain it can be done. The Egyptians, they are slow to change. Their methods of farming, irrigation, governing—everything—have been the same for thousands of years. The wheel they use to channel water to irrigate their fields was designed by Archimedes himself. These people will not alter their ways because one man wants them to join the new world.”
“And why are you here?” I asked. “In this corner of Egypt? To help persuade the natives to try new ways?”
Haluk flashed us a sudden smile, white teeth in his dark face. “No, indeed, Captain. I am being punished for my sins. My home on the shores of the sea near Smyrna, my friends, I assure you is lavish. This is nothing, a pit that I am ashamed to show you. But I am grateful you have accepted my humble hospitality.”
The remainder of the visit was taken up with us assuring Haluk that his home was lovely, and Haluk denying it with every breath.
At long last, we departed, Brewster rubbing his back as he rose from the floor. It was late, the street a blanket of darkness as Karem led us out through the courtyard and the house’s front gate.
Our donkeys, men, and baggage had disappeared, though Karem assured us that they had gone to our lodgings. A group of Haluk’s retainers with torches escorted us through the quiet streets, looking about cautiously, as did Brewster, but no one troubled us.
We arrived at our lodgings, a narrow house in the foreigner’s quarter of the city, without incident. We were the only people in the lane at the moment, all shutters closed, no noise from the houses around us.
Karem bade us good night at our front door, then barked an order at his underlings, who turned and headed into the darkness. Karem bowed with dignity, renewed his good night in French—he seemed more comfortable with that language—and Grenville led us inside.
The house Grenville had let was laid out much like Haluk’s but on a smaller scale. Square rooms surrounded a courtyard, and a rickety staircase inside led to more rooms above.
Every one of the rooms I looked into was empty, not a stick of furniture in sight. All the baggage had been left in the largest room on the ground floor, which Bartholomew and Matthias immediately began to unpack.
Grenville leaned against the doorframe and sent me an amused smile. “And you wondered why I brought my own house with me.”
I lifted my hands. “I acknowledge that you know more about travels in the Near East than I do. I believe I understand why the pasha wishes to modernize—it is very primitive, isn’t it?”
Grenville watched Bartholomew and Matthias work, occasionally lifting something himself and directing where he wanted it to go. Even Brewster, who did not consider himself a servant, unbent to help out with the heavier things, though I suspected this was because he reasoned that the sooner we were settled, the more quickly he could take to his bed.
“The governor—the pasha—is an interesting man,” Grenville told me as we sorted through things. “He has laid plans for a canal to cut through from the Nile to the city, so Alexandria can once more become part of the river, as it was in ancient times. He wishes Alexandria to return to its former magnificence. He’ll expect us to visit him when we reach Cairo. He’s amassing as much power as he possibly can, and he wants to know what every Englishman is doing in his country. I imagine sooner or later he’ll make his move to control Egypt completely, independent of the Ottomans.”
“But he’s a Turk himself, isn’t he?” I asked as I set a folding chair near a table Matthias and Bartholomew had assembled.
“Only geographically,” Grenville said. “He’s Albanian, more familiar with the worlds of Greece and Macedonia than of the more Eastern cities. He was a soldier but quickly worked his way up through the ranks and more or less jostled himself into position to run Egypt for the sultan. Probably not difficult—I don’t think anyone else truly wanted the job. But the pasha sees Egypt’s potential, on the edge of the empire as it is. He is a powerful man with a powerful personality. Tread lightly around him, Lacey.”
Grenville gave me a meaningful look.
I doubted the man would have any interest in me, but I promised to be careful if I ever had an audience with the pasha. I’d likely kick my heels in some antechamber while Grenville, the wealthy and well-connected Englishman, and the pasha visited.
Matthias and Bartholomew at last finished setting up the chambers we’d need, and we retired for the night.
“Captain,” Brewster cornered me at the foot of the staircase before I ascended. He said no more, only drew a folded paper from a pocket inside his coat and handed it to me.
Denis’s letter. I took it, uncertain whether thanks were in order, but Brewster only gave me a nod and disappeared into his downstairs bedchamber. I clutched the neatly folded paper as I trudged up the stairs.
My bedchamber was a tiny room above the courtyard, lit by one tallow candle Bartholomew had left. Bartholomew had also laid out my nightshirt and dressing gown across the low, folding bed.
; The room’s walls had once held tiles as beautiful as those in Haluk’s home, but years of neglect had ensured that many had broken off or been badly chipped. The window had no glass, only wooden shutters, but I didn’t mind in so mild a climate.
By the light of the dim candle, I undressed, got myself into bed, broke the seal on the letter, and began to read what Denis wanted me to do.
CHAPTER 4
I wish you to locate a book, Denis wrote, or rather, a papyrus, which once resided in the library of Alexandria. It is a treatise on astronomy by Aristarchus, which postulated that planets travel around the sun a thousand and more years before Nicolas Copernicus dared suggest it. The book was observed by Archimedes and other mathematicians during the Ptolemaic reign but was presumed lost when the library was destroyed.
However, information surfaced in the seventeenth century that claimed the book had been carried away by a Spartan soldier several hundred years before the library was in any danger. The ancient accounts found spoke of this soldier who told another he’d hidden books where they would be ‘safe from the ignorant,’ deep in the earth.
It is now rumored that one of the French savants who accompanied Napoleon to Egypt found the book. However, rather than hand it over when the British defeated Napoleon on the Nile, he hid it. The arguments over the stone found in Rosetta overshadowed any questions about an old Greek papyrus, and so it was not noticed. That Frenchman has since died, and no one knows what he did with his book.
The entire tale might be a legend. However, Napoleon took only the most learned men with him on his expedition, and I believe the French scholar knew what it was he’d found.
I would like you to use your usual zeal to discover this book for me. Find out if any speak of it or have found anything like it. If they have, purchase it, steal it—whatever you must do—and bring it to me. You will be well compensated.
If you can discover nothing of its existence, then that knowledge is valuable as well. I will conclude that the book is legend and be finished with my search. I wish you luck.
The Alexandria Affair Page 3