Augustus grunted, put the mask back on, and uncovered his mirror. He examined his reflection. No, the crack wasn’t too visible. After combing his hair, he covered the mirror again and went out into the main hall.
The spacious room was filled with antiquities. Statues and mummy cartonnages took up much of the space, some of them still in their packing cases. Long shelves along two of the walls held smaller artifacts such as ushabtis, amulets, and weapons. Another long shelf and the floor beneath it were dedicated to inscriptions and sculpture fragments. A couple of mummified crocodiles hung suspended from the ceiling. Coptic textiles covered the walls in various spots. One corner was dominated by the prize of his collection, a perfectly preserved eight-foot statue of a crocodile-headed god with a hieroglyphic inscription inscribed along the side and around the base. Augustus gave the statue a friendly nod and got busy unpacking the rest of the crates.
The pounding of the heavy brass knocker on his front door stopped him an hour later. Cursing under his breath at the interruption, Augustus checked that his mask was in place and went to answer it.
He opened the door to see an old beggar and the street urchin who had knocked his mask off. The boy stood on tiptoe, his head at an angle as the beggar held his ear in a tight grip. In the beggar’s other hand was a gnarled old cane.
The beggar did not focus on Augustus. His eyes were clouded with blindness.
“Peace be upon you,” the beggar said. “I hear you speak God’s language.”
“I do,” Augustus replied curtly, unwilling to return the traditional courtesy.
“I am Osman ibn Akbar ibn Mubarak al-Hajji. This boy’s name is Faisal, and he has come to apologize.”
The beggar twisted the child’s ear a bit more. Augustus stared in fascination. He didn’t think an ear could be manipulated in such a fashion without coming off.
“I am terribly sorry, sir,” the boy said, his voice coming out strained. He kept his eyes down.
“I hope that teaches you not to get too curious,” Augustus grumbled. “You bring shame on your grandfather by acting this way.”
The blind beggar snorted. “God is compassionate and merciful. He would never curse one of his faithful servants by giving him such a grandson.”
“I am sorry to make presumptions on your noble family, sir,” Augustus replied in his politest Arabic. “Thank you for making the boy see right.”
The beggar let go of the boy’s ear and swung his cane down with startling accuracy on the boy’s backside, bringing forth a yelp.
“Making this boy see right would be like moving a mountain, but he meant his apology.”
“Well, apology accepted then,” Augustus said, turning to the boy.
But the boy was already gone.
Augustus gave the man a coin—which the beggar accepted by bowing and touching it to his brow—closed the door, and got back to work. He wanted to open for business within the next couple of days, and he had much to do. The front hall, main room, and courtyard would act as his showroom, with the side rooms on the ground floor as storage. The first floor was for his own use, while the second he would leave vacant. He hadn’t really needed such a large house, but its fine architecture and remoteness from Cairo’s European quarter had appealed to him.
After several hours of work, he went out for his customary evening stroll. The men in the café across the street stared, and hidden behind their latticework windows, the women of Ibn al-Nafis Street no doubt stared too as Augustus started on a brisk walk through the neighborhood, swinging his cane in long sweeps ahead of him and tapping it on the flagstones. Only the newer quarters of Cairo had electric streetlamps. The main streets here still used gas. Their soft light illuminated the intricate facades of the Bahri Period mosque at the end of the street with a soft glow and turned the dark wood of complexly latticed windows of the homes a deep golden brown. For a time, he relaxed, admiring the beauty of the scene and wondering what lay down the dark side streets and alleys. There were some architectural jewels in this quarter, and he looked forward to studying them.
His serenity was interrupted by a young voice beside him.
“Where are you going?”
It was that urchin again.
“Oh, it’s you.”
Augustus quickened his pace, looking around to see if the brat had brought along his pack of little monsters. He didn’t see any. Nevertheless he kept an eye on doorways and the openings of alleys in case some of them leaped out and tried to rob him. This one, at least, was keeping a respectable distance.
“I’m Faisal,” he said.
“I believe you mentioned that.”
“I’m sorry,” Faisal said, putting on a glum face.
“So you say.”
“Thank you for not beating me.”
“I was sorely tempted. Trust me.”
“Osman ibn Akbar gave me a good thrashing,” Faisal grumbled, kicking a stone so that it skittered down the street.
“Glad to hear it,” Augustus replied with a satisfied nod.
“Where are you going?” the boy asked.
“That is none of your concern.”
“Why don’t you live in the European quarter?”
“Because there are too many Europeans there.”
“Yes, that’s why they call it the European quarter.”
Augustus turned and faced the boy, who stopped and took a step back.
“I live here because I want to be left alone.”
Augustus continued his walk. Faisal paced him.
“Then why don’t you live in the desert?”
“I can’t run my business in the desert.”
“What is your business?”
“Selling annoying little boys to the Turks.”
Faisal laughed. “You don’t really do that!”
“I might start.”
Faisal didn’t reply for a time. Augustus glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. The boy bore a serious look.
“You should be careful in this neighborhood. There are many thieves.”
“Yes, you and your friends tried to rob me this afternoon, remember?”
“Oh, we only did that because you are European. But we won’t try again because you are different than the other Europeans.”
“I wasn’t always,” Augustus murmured.
Faisal blushed. “Oh, I didn’t mean that. I meant because you are a Muslim.”
Augustus cocked his head. “Why do you say that?”
“You speak Arabic.”
“I’m not a Muslim. I learned Arabic from a Moroccan officer in the French service while we were both convalescing in hospital. I taught him English in exchange for his teaching me Arabic. I also spent a year in Alexandria. People didn’t leave me alone there so I came here.”
Another long pause. Augustus began to hope the boy would get bored and leave. Faisal stared at him with big brown eyes that seemed to absorb his every detail.
“Did you get attacked by a jackal?”
“No.”
“Did a bandit cut you with a sword?”
“No.”
“Did you—”
Augustus rounded on him. This time Faisal took two steps back.
“A German shell exploded in the trench my friends and I were hiding in. They were all killed. I was less fortunate.”
Augustus turned back around and continued his walk. To his greatest annoyance, he noticed Faisal still dogging him.
“The Germans are very bad people,” the boy declared.
“Are they now?”
“Very bad people!” Faisal repeated, this time emphasizing his point with a loud spit. “I hate them.”
“Have you ever met a German?”
“No, but they are bad people because they kill the English, and the English are very good people. I hate the Germans.”
“Well, I don’t hate them.”
“But they are your enemies!” Faisal cried in obvious astonishment.
“Not anymore.”
/> Faisal stopped abruptly and grabbed the Englishman’s wrist.
“Unhand me!” Augustus shouted, pulling away.
“Shh. Look.”
Augustus followed the boy’s frightened gaze and noticed a shadow move back and merge with the darker obscurity of an alleyway ten yards ahead.
Augustus glanced around, suddenly aware that they were alone on this street. Being alone on a Cairene street in the middle of the night was not a healthy situation.
No, not alone. There was that shadow in the alley ahead, and the faintest sound of movement in a doorway behind.
Augustus gripped his cane in both hands. He moved to push Faisal to the cover of a shuttered shop entrance but found him already there, looking uncertainly in either direction.
“You stay there, boy,” Augustus said, moving to shield him and glancing in either direction to try to watch the alley and the other doorway at the same time.
Silence, just for a moment.
Then the shadows burst into motion. Three Egyptian men leaped out of the alleyway and charged him, while a fourth, a tough-looking brute with a shaved head and a scar down one cheek, came out of the doorway behind him. All carried knives or cudgels. They didn’t bother to brandish them, obviously thinking their mere appearance would make their intended victim throw his money to them and flee in panic.
That did not happen. Augustus ducked to the left and lashed out with his cane, tripping the foremost attacker and making the man just behind him fall over his friend. Then the Englishman swung his cane in a vicious backhand that cracked the third man on the back of the neck and sent him crashing down onto the other two.
Augustus spun to face the fourth man, the one with the scar. The attacker came in slow and cautious, his knife at the ready. Augustus grasped the end of his cane, twisted, and withdrew a hidden blade a full two feet long. In the same motion, he brought the other part of the cane, which acted as a metal scabbard, smacking down onto the skull of the most awake of the three thugs at his feet. The impact made the man crack his forehead against the ground.
Augustus chuckled and looked at the thug facing him. “Perhaps you might like to reconsider?”
The thief said nothing. He feinted to the right and then made a quick lunge to the left. Augustus spotted the movement just in time to parry, the two metal blades screeching as they ground along one another. The Englishman circled his blade, which while thinner was longer. The blades screeched again as Augustus twisted his sword cane into position and thrust for his opponent’s head.
The Egyptian ducked out of the way and immediately ducked again to avoid a swing from the metal shaft of the cane, nimbly circling around his foe. He hacked at the blade of the sword cane, trying to break it, but it was made of strong, high quality steel and didn’t even chip.
But it did lower enough to allow an opening. He slashed at Augustus’s wrist, and the Englishman barely managed to move his hand in time.
Augustus backpedaled, jabbing his blade into the hand of one of the downed men as he tried to rise. The fellow hissed in pain and fell back to the ground, but the thrust left another opening for the gang leader, who dove in to slash at the Englishman’s throat.
Augustus was ready for it and with a nimble movement slapped at the man’s hand with the shaft of the cane and made his knife fly into the wall with a clang, missing Faisal by inches.
Augustus brought the tip of his blade up to the leader’s throat. The man froze, but he did not tremble.
“If you kill me, Englishman, my friends will avenge me.”
The sound of quickly receding footsteps did not make that threat seem imminent.
“Your friends just abandoned you.”
“They will be back when you are not so ready. They will watch you and follow you and bring more men with better weapons. My cousins will come too, and since they are family they will not rest until they have killed you slowly. This little goat turd here can tell you the truth of that.”
Faisal nodded, his eyes wide. “Everyone knows Hassan’s cousins are killers.”
“So Hassan here has a bit of a local reputation, has he?”
“His family will take vengeance,” Faisal said, “and they already know where you live.”
Augustus’s blade didn’t falter. “But if I don’t kill him, how do I know he won’t come back for a second try?”
Faisal shrugged.
Hassan’s mouth curled in disgust. “I promise.”
“Swear by God,” Augustus demanded.
“I swear by God.”
“You did that too quickly. I suspect you’re even less of a believer than I am. Swear by your mother’s name.”
Hassan’s eyes narrowed.
“I swear by my mother’s name.”
“That’s one thing you can always rely on with Arabs,” Augustus said with a grin, “even the lowest street thug is a mama’s boy.”
The Englishman pulled back the tip of the blade from Hassan’s throat and sank it an inch into his shoulder. Hassan grimaced, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out.
“Something to remember me by. If you cross me again, I’ll kill you. If I catch you loitering near my house, I’ll kill you. Be out of my sight by the time I count to three, or I’ll hunt you down and kill you. One.”
Hassan fled so quickly that Augustus didn’t bother continuing to two.
After Hassan was safely out of sight, Faisal leaped into the air with a whoop.
“That was magnificent! No wonder the English win every war.”
Augustus gave Faisal a smile. “We generally win because of our native allies. Thank you. I might not have seen them but for you.”
Faisal grinned and scooped up Hassan’s knife, admiring the keen blade.
Augustus snatched it out of his hand.
“That’s not a toy for a little boy.”
Faisal puffed himself up.
“No, it is a weapon for a man.”
“That’s precisely why you shan’t have it. And don’t pick up that other knife either.”
“I helped you! I deserve both of them,” Faisal whined.
“Out of the question.”
“OK, only one.”
“Here.” Augustus fished a few coins from his pocket.
Faisal raised his hands. “Oh no! I can’t take money, not this time. I was bad to you. Now we are even, so the next time I save your life you can pay me.”
“That seems fair enough.” Augustus chuckled and then grew serious. “Did I do wrong in letting him go?”
Faisal thought for a moment before shaking his head. “I don’t know. Both choices were dangerous.”
A long, mournful wail lilted through the night air, bringing words of flowing Classical Arabic from a voice as pure and as beautiful as the paradise it promised.
“Allah is most great. Allah is most great. I testify that there is no god except Allah . . .”
Faisal’s eyes widened. “I nearly forgot. It’s time for the night prayer! I need to lead Osman ibn Akbar to the mosque. Don’t get into any more danger tonight; I can’t save you until tomorrow!”
With that, Faisal ran off in the direction of Ibn al-Nafis Street. Augustus watched him go, then gave a little shrug and collected the other knife, which he put in his pocket before continuing his walk.
CHAPTER THREE
It was breakfast time at Shepheard’s Hotel, and the guests were taking it on the terrace, both to see the passing scene in the street beyond and to be seen by any important Europeans walking past. The breakfasters were mostly British officers and civilians with a sprinkling of rich or well-placed Americans or Australians there on sufferance and one boisterous group of Italians who had obviously misread their guidebook. The guests dug into the eggs and bacon or sat back and enjoyed their coffee, clapping when they needed more from the native waiters dressed in immaculate red vests and matching slippers, with billowing white pantaloons that when the wind blew made them look like the sails of the feluccas that plied the Nile. The waiters wo
re fezzes as well, a tradition born from the time before the war when Egypt was run by the British but still nominally under the rule of the Sublime Porte in Constantinople.
The terrace stood several feet above street level, and an ornate railing separated the natives on the street from the whites on the terrace, their only contact being when souvenirs were passed through the bars in one direction as piastres went in the other. At the moment, a portly Egyptian in a voluminous brown jellaba was trying to interest the Italians in a fly whisk, while another older man waved a mummified crocodile over his head hoping someone would notice him. The Italians seemed more interested in a boy with a dancing monkey in a red vest and miniature fez. The monkey performed a somersault that made the Italians forget themselves and break into a loud applause and shouts of “Ancora! Ancora!” that earned them scornful looks from the British and even some of the Americans. Oblivious, the Italians kept cheering, and when the monkey doffed his fez and presented it through the bars, they dropped some coins into it.
“If only all the street urchins were so gainfully employed. We could put them in some remote quarter of the city and be free of both underage thieves and Italians,” Augustus said.
“They quite often come to the same thing, old chap.”
This was from Sir Thomas Russell, commandant of the Cairo police, who had invited him to breakfast. Augustus was good at refusing invitations, but no one, not even he, refused an invitation from Sir Thomas Russell.
“So any trouble in the new neighborhood?” Russell asked.
“None at all.”
“I wish you had picked a house in Esbekiyeh or Kasr-el-Dubara,” the police commandant told him. “This independence movement is picking up steam, and things might get a bit unpleasant before long.”
“Is the government going to let Sa’ad Zaghloul and his delegation go to the Versailles Conference?”
“Of course not!” Russell scoffed.
“We did lead the Egyptians to believe they’d have a chance to discuss independence after the war. They were supposed to have an official delegation at Versailles.”
Sir Russell dismissed the idea with a wave of a hand. “Those statements were completely unofficial. I suppose we did lead them on a bit, but what could we do? We were fighting for our very existence. We needed Egyptian grain, Egyptian cotton, and Egyptian labor. Why can’t the natives understand that?”
The Case of the Purloined Pyramid Page 2