I downed the water in a few swallows, and Bartholomew refilled the glass, letting me drink until I could breathe again.
After that, he sat me down, shook out a towel, hung it around my neck, and proceeded to wash and shave me as he did every morning.
I flinched as Bartholomew brought the razor down to my lathered face, certain the blade would hurt my burned skin. But the soap he’d used cooled me, and Bartholomew handled the razor so deftly I never felt its touch.
Grenville let himself in after a polite tap on the door. He was dressed in his light suit for warm climes, his face shaved, his hair combed. He came to stand in front of me while Bartholomew leaned over me from behind, quickly scraping my face.
“What became of you?” I asked, ignoring Bartholomew’s frown when my jaw moved. “I was very certain I’d gotten you killed.”
“And I was certain I’d seen the last of you,” Grenville said at once. “The answer to how I escaped the storm was that I turned and ran like the devil was after me. The storm caught me quickly, but I had fixed on my destination and kept to it no matter what. The great bloody pyramids stuck out nicely, even in that hellacious dust. My pavilion was rendered useless, of course, but Matthias and Bartholomew found me and pulled me to safety. We rode out the storm inside the Great Pyramid itself.”
“Inside the pyramid?” I asked, envy edging my voice.
“Not as exciting as you might think,” Grenville said. “Our light didn’t last long, so there we were in the pitch dark and the heat. I spent the entire time fearing for you rather than marveling that I was in the tomb of a great king of old.” His brows rose as he took in my disappointment. “Do not worry, my friend, I will arrange for you to go into the pyramid. When you have recovered, of course. I imagine that today, you will remain quiet.”
He gave me a severe look but I shook my head, which made Bartholomew again lift the razor away in irritation. “I must return to the palace for the riding lessons.”
Grenville gave me a severe look. “Good God, Lacey, you will kill yourself. I will send word that you are ill. No one can expect you to ride around in a mock cavalry battle the day after you were scoured by a sandstorm.”
“I made a promise,” I said firmly. I had the feeling that the pasha, with his cold eyes and hard stare, would not take nearly dying in the desert as an excuse for missing an appointment. He’d withdraw his approval for my firman in a trice. “I can instruct without riding myself. I only need an interpreter.”
“Well, you will have to choose a different one than Signor Vanni,” Grenville said with some heat. “Apparently he made it back here perfectly safely, but he was not here when we arrived home, and no one has seen him since yesterday afternoon. I am much provoked. I certainly could have used his help when I was putting together the search party, trying to explain what I needed them to do.”
“Vanni might be Sharkey’s man,” I suggested. “He led me to him readily enough.”
“Bloody cheek. I was doing him a favor.”
“Vanni seemed very worried,” I said. “We don’t know what he has done to be in Denis’s obligation—perhaps he is in Sharkey’s power as well. Not a comfortable place, I imagine.”
“Still, I am not happy with him for not telling me he worked for Mr. Denis,” Grenville said decidedly. “How many friends must I keep from that man’s clutches?”
“Denis is very good at bringing others under his command,” I said, then changed the subject. “I hope you were kind to Lady Mary last evening. She did rescue me, after all.”
Grenville held up a hand. “Do not worry, I was politeness itself.”
Bartholomew gave my chin a last swipe with the razor, wrapped my face in a warm towel, and moved away to clean the shaving things and finish preparing my clothes. He’d rubbed balm on my skin to calm it, and I basked in the coolness of it for a few minutes before I unwound the towel.
“The fact that Lady Mary happened to be floating along the Nile in time to rescue me makes me suspicious,” I said as I came to my feet.
Grenville gave me a wry look. “It is no coincidence. She is searching for the wretched Greek book as well, she told me. Our hunt made her decide, why not? I have the feeling she wishes to find it to present it to me in an attempt to seduce me with it. She offered to take us to visit Chabert’s mistress when she lands again in Cairo. Apparently they are acquaintances.”
“She did not tell us this in Alexandria,” I said as Bartholomew returned with my riding coat.
“No, she said she was saving it as a treat. She wanted to surprise us and present Signor Beatrice, fait accompli, but coming upon you last night changed things.”
I slid on the coat and let Bartholomew settle it on my shoulders. The procedure reminded me of something. “Procure one of those galabiyas for me, will you, Bartholomew?” I told him. “And a turban. I lost my hat in the wretched sandstorm. If I am to grub around the desert, Egyptian dress will be better, I think.”
Bartholomew looked dismayed. “Sir, I’m not certain a gentleman should—”
“Humor him, Bartholomew,” Grenville cut him off. “Captain Lacey will rush to a market and buy one for himself if you do not, and heaven knows what one of the natives will sell him.”
“Quite,” I said dryly. “You might have to try them on, Bartholomew. If the garment is a bit too small for you, it will likely fit me.”
“Sir.” Bartholomew said, his face unmoving.
“He is teasing you,” Grenville said. “Do not become too stiff, Bartholomew, or we all will rag you something awful. Now, I wonder, did this Marcus fellow perish in the sandstorm? Or did someone come along and fetch him as well?”
“I saw no sign of him after the sand hit.” I stilled while Bartholomew brushed off my coat, the young man not amused by our banter. “I intend to scour the city for him, and then the countryside if I cannot find him here. What I wonder is what he was looking for. He’d not been following me and Brewster; we followed him.”
“We shall have to go back out there and see.” Grenville’s eyes sparkled with interest.
Bartholomew looked to be at his wits’ end with both of us. I took pity on him and said no more. I checked in on Brewster, who had recovered more quickly than I had and was eating a hearty breakfast, then I departed the house for my appointment with the pasha’s cavalry officers.
The Turkish guards had not come for me yet, but I started off on my own, working my sore leg, certain I’d meet them on the way. I moved through the city, the residents swarming on early morning errands, taking the remembered route through the maze of streets.
At one turning, I found my way blocked by Egyptians in robes that were none too clean, their faces hard from poverty and desperation.
I recognized ruffians when I saw them. No matter what their nationality or dress, men who beat and robbed people for a living had the same look the world over.
I turned to make my way to different street but five more toughs had closed in behind me. I drew the sword on my walking stick, which Bartholomew had brought from Lady Mary’s boat last night. I was in no condition to fight, but the sight of the blade made a few of them step back.
Not for long. The entire gang closed in on me, sticks raised, ready to beat me down.
CHAPTER 19
I fought hard, my sword finding flesh. Men grunted in pain, but I knew I’d not be able to keep it up. In my tired state, weakened by my ordeal in the desert, I lost strength quickly.
My sword was ripped from my hands, cudgels coming at my ribs, my face.
I thought I would die here in this back street, having arrogantly assumed I could navigate them alone. Last night, I had not been as certain of death as I was now.
“Donata,” I whispered. “Look after Gabriella …”
I heard shouting, the ringing of swords, men crying out, the scrambling of feet as my attackers fled. I looked up into the hard eyes of Turkish soldiers, swords drawn, some of the blades bloody. The Egyptians had gone but for the few who lay groa
ning on the pavement.
I was not certain whether my situation had improved. One man sheathed his sword and waved his hand, causing two more soldiers to lift me by the arms and set me on my feet.
As my vision cleared, I recognized the palace guard. These soldiers wore more colorful uniforms than the typical soldiers—they were awash in reds and deep blues, and clean whites that glared in the sun.
Their commander spoke to me in rapid Turkish, then seemed very annoyed when I didn’t understand. He drew a long breath and then said curtly in French, “You. Come.”
The soldiers closed around me. Nothing for it that I went with them.
They took me to the palace. When I went through the walkways to the pavilion and the ring, the cavalrymen were already there and waiting.
The functionary I’d met on my last visit hurried forward, took in my bruised face in dismay, and spoke to the commander in cursory tones. Then he turned to me with a look of profound apology.
“Captain Lacey, I humbly beg forgiveness for the trouble you found in our city. Those men will be dealt with.”
I tried to make light of it. “It is nothing that wouldn’t happen in London or Paris. A tourist walking alone, not paying attention to where he is going, can become fair game.”
The functionary shook his head. “You are a guest of the pasha. He will not be pleased.”
“No harm done,” I said quickly. While I fully realized the Egyptians had been intent in killing or at least maiming me, I knew justice here could be swift and final.
“Whenever you come to the palace you will always be escorted by the guard,” the functionary said, nodding at the soldiers. “You must be patient and not set off without them. Now, are you well enough to instruct?”
I was, and a bit embarrassed by all the attention as well.
As I greeted the cavalrymen, who were also distressed about what had happened, I wondered why I had been waylaid. Had Marcus sent toughs to kill me? Or had Mr. Sharkey? The latter, more likely. Sharkey had been most put out that I did not wish to take him into my confidence about my errand for Denis.
We proceeded with the lesson. I did not ride, but I could direct from the ground and critique through the functionary, who served as my interpreter today.
The men rode well—fearlessly. One had the finesse that made a good cavalryman; the other three were brave but a bit reckless, apt to not look around and see when someone was riding straight for him.
I gave them guidance on when to observe everything and when to simply look forward in the charge, to hell with anything that came at you.
I wondered where the pasha would take these men when they were finished with their training. I did not like to think of them dying on the battlefields in the deeper desert, their blood staining the ground as savages surged around them.
But for now, they were wild on horseback and affable when we took coffee, telling me of their families, wives, children. They were especially proud of their children, but I had difficulty with the concept that one of the officers had three wives.
“Why on earth would you want three wives?” I asked him in astonishment. “It is difficult enough for me to keep pace with one.”
All four cavalrymen laughed uproariously when this was translated, and the functionary laughed as well.
“I am not often home,” said the officer with three wives, and they all roared with laughter again.
I did, technically, have two wives. Though my first wife and I were now divorced under the laws of England, in the view of some in the world, Carlotta and I would always be married—let no man put asunder. Carlotta herself had become Collette Auberge, now married to the French major for whom she’d deserted me many years ago. She’d already given him several children. Such are the complications of married life.
We had more jovial conversation, the men congratulating me on my upcoming child. They expressed their deep wishes for the child to be a boy; and were taken aback when I said I hoped for another daughter.
The palace guard escorted me through the streets when I returned to our house. I noted that the Egyptians faded back from us as we passed, and even the other Turks gave us a wide berth. Everyone recognized the pasha’s men.
When I thanked my escort politely and walked into the coolness of the house, Grenville was waiting for me.
He took in my battered state in shock. Though I’d managed to shield my face from most of the blows the ruffians had gotten in, I was still abraded.
I told him what had happened but forestalled his wish to rush to the magistrates. “The palace guard made their point,” I said. “Sharkey’s hired thugs might think twice before trying again.”
Grenville didn’t quite agree, but he continued. “Brewster is still out, with Matthias. We have been looking everywhere for Marcus, asking if anyone was found after the storm on the west bank. There were a few unfortunates who did not survive it, I’m sorry to say, but none of them fit the description of our man.”
I felt sadness for those who’d died—it made me realize how lucky Brewster and I had been.
“I wonder if Marcus will return to the riverbed,” Grenville said. “Looking for whatever he was after.”
“Whatever the devil it was,” I said. Much of my strength had been restored—activity, coffee, and friendly conversation had helped. “Most men are digging near the pyramids, searching for more burials and treasure. Why was Marcus out in the arroyos? He can’t believe the book is there, can he?”
“Perhaps we should have a look.” Grenville tried to speak casually, but I saw his nose twitching and his eyes sparkling in eagerness.
We prepared for another trek to the pyramids, this time being more thorough about it. We’d each carry water wherever we went, and Grenville made certain we’d have better supplies, like ropes and things, in case we were stranded out in the desert.
In spite of yesterday’s sandstorm, the sky was soft blue, the air completely still. The pyramids rose in their grandeur, so many men milling about their bases that I fancied I’d gone back in time, to when the ancient Egyptians labored to raise the house of stone for their king.
Grenville had hired a team of men to set up his pavilion for him. He left them to it, supervised by Matthias and Bartholomew, and strolled with me and Brewster out into the desert, to seek out the wash we’d tumbled into.
It took us a long time to find it. I thought we’d followed Marcus due south when we’d seen him yesterday, but it turned out we’d gone farther west than I’d imagined.
We’d walked about a mile when Brewster, who’d gone a few paces ahead, stopped suddenly, his arms going out to fight a fall. Grenville and I sprang to him and pulled him back from the drop down the steep-sided bank.
I gazed around us, taking in the land. I was certain this was the same canyon we’d reached yesterday, but we’d come to it in a different spot—at least, I thought so. I was not familiar enough with the area to be certain.
Brewster heaved out a breath. “Nothing for it, I s’pose.” He sat down, grabbed handholds in the rocks, and slid down to the wash’s sandy bottom.
Grenville immediately scrambled down after him, Brewster turning to help with his big hands. “I’ll not be left at the top this time,” Grenville said. “If we get lost down here, I at least will know where you are.”
I didn’t argue. I let Brewster help me down, then I turned and piled stones in a pattern at the bottom of the bank. We’d know that at this spot, we could climb out.
I led the way as we explored, though Brewster was a step behind me, his footfalls vibrating the ground at my heels.
“What exactly are we looking for?” Grenville asked as he brought up the rear.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Any signs of digging. Marcus’s dead body. I have no idea.”
“Right.” Grenville sounded more interested than resigned.
We trudged along, peering down side passages, slots that tapered into nothing. Nowhere did we see any sign of disturbance, of earth having
been turned over.
Or perhaps, I thought morosely, we found nothing because the sandstorm yesterday had covered what Marcus had been doing.
We found no sign of Marcus, either. I could only suppose he’d managed to climb out of the arroyo somewhere else and reach safety. I was very angry with the man, but I couldn’t help but feel some worry for him as well. If he truly was a member of my family, I had cause to pity him.
The canyon walls rose above our heads, cutting off the view of anything but our sandy trail and sky. Great cascades of water must have flowed through here once upon a time, but I saw no sign any had done so in recent years. There was no vegetation, not even weeds—nothing.
It was Brewster who brought us to an abrupt halt.
“Guv.” He pointed a thick finger to a side channel and what looked like a round hole in the base of the wall. “There.”
I braced myself on my walking stick and crouched down. “An animal? Snake?” A very large one if so. We were too far from the river for a crocodile—I hoped.
“Snakes don’t use chisels,” Brewster said. He pointed to very regular marks around the hard edges of the hole.
I cautiously put my hand down and moved sand away from the hole’s base. The opening became an oval, and a breath of cool air rose from it.
“A shaft,” I said, trying to stem my excitement. It could still be a snake hole that Marcus had decided to enlarge. I began scraping away sand with both hands.
“Would this help?” Grenville had opened the small pack he carried with him and extracted a trowel and a garden fork.
I mutely accepted the trowel and began digging in earnest. Grenville crouched next to me, scraping away earth with the fork, while Brewster moved aside the sand we dislodged with his large hands.
After about thirty minutes of this, we uncovered a square hole roughly two feet on a side. The walls inside the hole were hard-packed, the air cool. The floor slanted downward into the earth, not very much, but enough to make me wonder if we’d uncovered a tunnel.
“Do you think ancient Egyptians made this?” Grenville asked, his voice tinged with awe.
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