The Buried Pyramid

by Jane Lindskold

  “Hm,” Neville grumbled. “So why doesn’t he tell us who this legion is and stop dancing around the point?”

  “Perhaps he is afraid for his own safety,” Jenny offered. “This legion who offers us danger would certainly not be kind to a traitor within its ranks. If Sphinx succeeds in warning us off, then he saves us and saves himself.”

  “I wonder,” Stephen said, returning to an earlier question, “why he has switched formats? Twice hieroglyphs, then this.”

  “Because he’s a bloody damn nuisance,” Neville replied sharply, “too in love with his own conceit to be direct.”

  “Perhaps,” Jenny said, “but as I transcribed, I came up with another answer. Look at the handwriting. It is in block print, true, but the letters are quickly drawn. Look how the downstrokes on the ‘H’ and ‘K’ are extended. The curves of many letters are less than precise as well. I think he wrote this, if not in a hurry, at least with enough speed that he could not permit himself the luxury of drawing elaborate hieroglyphs.”

  Stephen nodded. “It was addressed to us care of the ship. If he had to make sure his message would not have to be forwarded, he might have felt pressed for time.”

  “Note,” Jenny said, “that this letter is the first not to contain a warning about a woman. Is she then no longer a danger or is it simply that our correspondent wanted us to realize that our danger was offered from multiple sources, not just one?”

  “Not enough information to go on to decide that point,” Neville said.

  He folded the new message and its translation away with the previous missives, and all three fell into thoughtful silence. The train continued to rattle along, but they hardly noticed the small villages and green fields. Throughout the marshy land, ducks and herons, along with many less easily identifiable birds, rose in protest at the tumult of the passing train.

  At last Jenny spoke, “Uncle Neville, you may wish to find the pharaoh, but I believe that the one I hope to find is the Sphinx.”

  7

  Papa Antonio

  In cairo, they parted from the Travers family with thanks and protestations of gratitude on both sides.

  “Do come see us,” Mary Travers begged Jenny. “We can have so much fun getting to know Cairo.”

  Jenny promised she would, but she thought that the parts of Cairo she would be interested in and those that would fascinate Mary Travers would overlap very little. Still, Mary would certainly want to visit the standard tourist attractions, and she was pleasant enough company.

  Jenny had an ulterior motive as well. If Uncle Neville thought she was keeping up her friendship with Mary, Jenny would have an excuse ready if ever she needed to get away unsupervised. Jenny didn’t know if such a need would arise, but she firmly believed in being prepared.

  After collecting their trunks, Uncle Neville selected one porter from the swarm who converged on the passengers.

  “Shepheard’s Hotel?” the man asked in fairly good English.

  “No,” Neville replied. “Do you know the hotel run by Antonio Donati? Papa Antonio?”

  A grin split the man’s wiry black beard.

  “Sure I know Papa Antonio. That where you go?”

  “That’s right. We’ll need a wagon or donkeys to carry the trunks. Can you get them?”

  “I can. A prince among wagons. Strong.”

  The porter named a price. Sir Neville countered with a much lower figure. They dickered back and forth for a while, settling on an amount that seemed to leave both men well satisfied. Then the same routine was followed with a passenger carriage.

  “Bert,” Neville said, “do you mind riding along with the trunks?”

  “No problem, sir,” Bert said with an apprehensive glance at the porter.

  “I don’t expect you’ll have any trouble,” Neville assured him. “The porter will follow right behind the carriage. You’re simply insurance that he remembers where he’s going.”

  Emily was handed up into the carriage, where she drew her skirts up around her, her attention split between keeping an eye on her husband and staring at the strange buildings and exotic people who crowded around.

  Once the carriage was clattering towards their destination, Stephen leaned forward and asked, “Sir Neville, neither of those fellows asked very much. Indeed, their highest price was a great deal less than I saw you present our cabin steward aboard Neptune’s Charger . Why did you bother to make such a fuss?”

  Neville grinned, looking more relaxed and happier than Jenny could recall, even when she included those times he’d been mooning over Lady Cheshire.

  “Well, Stephen, bartering is the custom here. If you don’t dicker, the word spreads that you’re an easy mark, and the natives will try to take you for anything they can get. Can’t blame them really. They live pretty miserable lives on the whole.”

  Stephen nodded. “I noticed that you didn’t let on that both you and I understand Arabic. Was that part of the same?”

  “That’s right,” Neville agreed. “Never tell more than you must. It’s fascinating what you may overhear.”

  Jenny smiled at a memory.

  “Really,” she said, “it’s not too different from what we dealt with in the West. Papa always said that the Indians weren’t sneaky, but we aren’t their people, and they see no reason to give us a fair shake, not when they see we have so much. Until we prove ourselves friends, we might as well be enemies.”

  “That’s not just true in foreign lands,” Stephen added. “I’ve seen a Cockney take a country farmer for everything he’s worth, just because the farmer speaks with a different accent.”

  As the carriage left the train station, nearly naked children ran alongside the wheels holding up their hands and begging for baksheesh .

  “That’s alms,” Neville explained to Jenny and Emily. “Islam declares that it is a virtue to give to those less fortunate—that such generosity will be rewarded in heaven.”

  “Doesn’t Christianity?” Jenny asked, puzzled.

  “Not in the same fashion,” Neville replied. “I believe there is some sort of formula: give so much, get so much credit. The idea is good, but the difficulty is that a class of professional beggars has emerged. In the worst cases, children are deliberately starved or mutilated so they arouse pity.”

  “Poor mites!” Emily exclaimed.

  Jenny shuddered and her hand, which had been reaching for her purse, fell limp.

  “There are ways to deal with the beggars, ways that benefit the real poor without encouraging the professionals,” Neville said. “I’ll explain later.”

  In addition to the children, scrawny dogs chased after them, barking at the carriage, at the running children, and even at each other, adding greatly to the general commotion. Robed Arabs leaned out to watch their progress from arched windows and doorways, their interest growing more and more intense as the carriage left what even Jenny’s inexperienced eye could tell was the tourist quarter near the station.

  This curiosity was far from standoffish. Vendors ran alongside the carriage offering fruit, flowers, wooden and clay bead necklaces, and even statuettes and pottery adorned with hieroglyphs and the painted images of Egypt’s old gods.

  “As ancient as yesterday’s mud,” Stephen said, speaking just loudly enough that the others could hear him over the noise. “You would think they would take more care.”

  “Some do,” Neville assured him. “However, we have all the marks of being just off the boat. We seem like easy targets. Similar statuettes are often artificially aged, encrusted in sand, then buried where a local guide can lead a susceptible tourist to ‘discover’ them.”

  Jenny looked at him quizzically.

  “What’s the point of that, Uncle Neville? Just a joke?”

  “No. There has been an effort since the Egyptian Museum was founded in the late fifties to regulate the removal of antiquities from the country. Tourists are routinely advised of these regulations and of the penalties attendant upon their violation. Therefore, a
tourist who believes he has made a find can easily be encouraged to bribe the guide to stay quiet about it—thereby earning the guide a great deal more than he could make by selling the same figure as a souvenir in the bazaar. Another benefit—at least for those who are running the con game—is that someone who is smuggling an antiquity from the country is quite unlikely to show it to an expert.”

  Emily sniffed. “These Egyptians seem like dishonest sorts.”

  Neville shrugged. “Many are. Most are simply poor.”

  Their progress through the crowded streets was slow, providing ample opportunity to study Cairo’s polyglot architecture. Squat, practical dwellings built of mud, and not terribly different from what Jenny had seen in the southwestern parts of North America, contrasted vividly with the needle-pointed minarets of the mosques.

  Occasionally, they passed a house that would have been perfectly in place in London or Paris. Then there were buildings that showed remnants of Roman construction. Whatever the style, balconies overgrown with vines and flowers abounded. The variety was fascinating, but Jenny rapidly grew tired of the dust and noise—especially after how spoiled she had been on both train and steamship.

  I’m getting soft , she chided herself. This wouldn’t have bothered me once—at least, not so quickly. If I want to prove myself fit to go with Uncle Neville, I need to show some backbone.

  Despite this resolve, she was relieved when the carriage pulled into a curving driveway before a tidy building faced with white stucco. The hotel’s arching doorways and windows belonged to many regions of the Mediterranean, but the style of the trim and the elaborate iron grills that latticed over the windows somehow evoked Italy rather than Egypt.

  Reaching from his box, the driver pulled a conveniently placed bell rope. A cascade of chimes rang out, and the passengers had hardly begun to climb somewhat stiffly down from their seats when a small, withered man with snowy white hair and beard, and piercing black eyes emerged from the wide front door. He was tanned as darkly as the Arabs and wore a long, loose robe after their style of dress, but his features were European.

  “Leonardo! Leonardo!” he cried out in a sing-song voice that owed its music to Italian. “You have come back to your old friend at last. I had your letters and have set aside rooms for you and your companions. Come inside out of the dust and introduce me.”

  The old man waved them ahead, stopping only to speak a few words to the carriage driver and baggage porter. To Jenny’s ear, his Arabic seemed as fluid and musical as his English.

  “Come in, come in out of the heat and the noise,” the innkeeper urged, motioning for Emily and Bert to join the others. “The porters will do their job without your watching—I know them. They are good men and hard-working. Surely you need something refreshing to drink.”

  The servants obeyed, and soon they were all settled in a sitting room that was astonishingly comfortable, especially in contrast with the dry dustiness outside. Jenny knew how well thick adobe insulated against both heat and cold, but Stephen looked as astonished as if he’d been subjected to a conjuring trick.

  “Ah,” said their host, “you notice how fine and pleasant it is. Enjoy. Now, Leonardo, though I think I can guess, introduce me to my new friends.”

  Neville complied. “This young lady is my niece, Genevieve Benet, the daughter of my late sister, Alice, and her husband, Pierre. Jenny, this is Antonio Donati, a very old friend of mine.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Donati,” Jenny said, curtseying.

  The old man’s face crumpled. “Please, Miss Benet, call me Papa Antonio, as my Leonardo did when he was younger and not so grand.”

  Jenny smiled, “I would be delighted, Papa Antonio. Would you please call me ‘Jenny’? I get so tired of all this ‘Miss Benet’ stuff.”

  “I, too, would be delighted,” Papa Antonio replied. “Now Leonardo, you move too slowly. This young man like a flower in sunlight with his golden hair and beard, this must be Stephen Holmboe, the linguist.”

  Stephen bowed acknowledgment, saying something in what must have been Italian.

  Papa Antonio beamed and turned to Emily and Bert. “And these are the good people who care for you, Mr. and Mrs… Hamilton, yes? Now, take seats and I will give you chilled wine and perhaps some bread and fruit to nibble, and you will tell me about your journey.”

  Jenny accepted the wine, noting with interest that the bottle had been kept cool in a small well at one corner of the room.

  “Papa Antonio…” she began.

  He interrupted, his expression anxious. “You perhaps do not like this wine? Perhaps as a young lady you would prefer fruit juice or even tea?”

  “The wine is wonderful,” Jenny assured him.

  Papa Antonio beamed. “It is from Italia, from the vineyards of my own family. I, of course, am very proud of it, but perhaps I think it is not to English tastes.”

  “I am American,” Jenny replied. “And it would be excellent wine to anyone with taste. What I wanted to ask is why do you call Uncle Neville ‘Leonardo’?”

  She saw a half-smile quirk the corner of her uncle’s mouth.

  “Ah,” replied Papa Antonio with a wide flourish of his hand “ ‘Neville’—that sounds to me like a horse. Hawthorne is a tree, and this man is many things, but he is not stolid like a tree. He tells me his second name is ‘Leonard,’ which is nearly as stiff, but Leonardo, that slips off the tongue as good wine down the throat, yes?”

  Jenny laughed.

  “Yes, it does. What will you call Mr. Holmboe?”

  “If he wishes, I shall call him that, since we are only newly met…”

  Stephen interrupted, and Jenny suddenly realized that he was probably as weary as she with the enforced formalities of the voyage. What did his sisters call him, she wondered, Stephen? Stevie? Certainly not “Mr. Holmboe.”

  “My first name is Stephen,” Stephen said, almost as if reading her thought, “which is what my family calls me. However, if it does not flow like wine for you, you are welcome to use another name.”

  Papa Antonio tugged at his beard in contemplation.

  “Stefano is easier on my tongue,” he said, “if it suits you.”

  Stephen smiled, a thing that was hard not to do when confronted with Papa Antonio’s enthusiasm.

  “I would be very pleased.”

  Bert and Emily were spared rechristening, perhaps because the old man was wise enough to see that they were rather overwhelmed by all the newness. While wine and refreshments relaxed his guests, Papa Antonio explained his rather peculiar hotel.

  “It is more, I think Neville say to me once, like what you English call a boarding house. I do not rent a room for a night or two, but have visitors who stay with me for months and even years. Many of my guests are military men or business travelers. These are assured that when their duties make them go elsewhere their belongings will be safe.”

  As he said this, Antonio Donati cast a quick, guilty look toward Neville, and Jenny realized that this must be the very house which had been broken into by the mysterious burglars all those years before. Suddenly, the elaborate grates covering the exterior windows did not seem so much adornment, but more obviously protection.

  Neville gave Papa Antonio a small smile and, so encouraged, the old man returned to his subject.

  “As you will see, this house is arranged around a central courtyard, very pleasant in the evening, very nice all the time, I think. Your rooms are along one side on the lowest floor. There is only one floor above, and right now no guests are using those rooms so there will be no trampling of elephants over your sleeping heads. Good, yes?”

  They agreed, and pleased, the innkeeper went on.

  “Now, I am too old to much like going out into the markets every day or doing laundry and cleaning, so I have a good family who lives here and does such things. They are Copts, as you say, Egyptian Christians. You will like them very much. They have rooms on the second story, over this section of the house. This way if the bambinos wai
l in the night they do not trouble the guests.”

  Stephen dove into the gap when Papa Antonio paused to sip his wine.

  “Are we your only guests? The place seems remarkably quiet.”

  “It is so quiet because the train bring you in as the hot part of the day is ending. Soon you will hear more noise, this I promise. However, it is true that I have fewer guests here than is usual. Winter is the best time for travel, and many of my guests are away for days at a time. Some will come in and out, but I do not think they will trouble you. All are lovely people or I would not have them.”

  He smiled warmly at them all. “But now my helpers will have had time to put water and other comforts into your rooms. Perhaps you would like to have a rest from the heat and maybe wash off the travel dirt? Do not worry that I will let you sleep too long and miss your dinner. I shall come myself and rap gently on your doors, waking you with plenty of time to spare.”

  They accepted their host’s invitation. The rooms proved to be large and airy, with a curtained sleeping area in one corner and the remainder furnished as a sitting room. Jenny, Sir Neville, and Stephen each had their own rooms, while Bert and Emily shared a fourth. Emily and Bert were obviously surprised to discover that their room was in no way inferior to those assigned the other guests, and Bert even drew his master to one side.

  “Sir, there must be a mistake. Mr. Donati should be told.”

  Jenny saw her uncle’s grin and realized that he had been waiting for this.

  “No need, Bert,” he assured the man, clapping him genially on the shoulder. “If you and Emily are to stay on when I go elsewhere I wanted you to be comfortable, not cramped in servant’s quarters. I hope you won’t find one room too small.”

  Bert answered politely, “Not at all, sir. Thank you, sir.” The delight he was too well-trained to express in words was evident as he gathered Emily to him and they went into their assigned place. Emily appeared a moment later to help Jenny undo her laces.

  “Will you need anything from your trunks, Miss?” she asked.