I’d unconsciously been putting off the task of tackling the medallion and avenging Talma. My procrastination may have been fatal. ‘I’m an American savant, not a French private. To hell with his orders.’
‘He could have you shot!’
But I was already running down the slope, past the Sphinx, toward Cairo.
The city seemed more ominous on my return. Even as Desaix’s division had emptied some houses of French troops, thousands of inhabitants who’d fled after the Battle of the Pyramids were returning. Cairo was emerging from post-invasion shock into being the centre of Egypt again. As the city grew more crowded, the inhabitants regained their urban confidence. They carried themselves as if the city still belonged to them, not us, and their numbers dwarfed ours. While French soldiers could still cause pedestrians to scatter as they rode racing donkeys or marched on patrol, there was less scuttling out of the way of lone foreigners such as myself. As I hurried through the narrow lanes I was bumped and jostled for the first time. Again I was reminded of the oddities of electricity, that strange prickling in the air after the parlour experiments that women found so erotic. Now Cairo seemed electric with tension. News of the defeat at Abukir Bay had reached everyone, and no longer did the Franks seem invincible. Yes, we were dangling on a rope all right, and I could see it beginning to fray.
Compared to the bustle of adjacent lanes, the street at Enoch’s house seemed far too quiet. Where was everyone? The home’s facade looked much as I’d left it, its face as unreadable as that of the Egyptians. Yet when I got near I sensed something was amiss. The door wasn’t tight against its frame, and I spied the bright yellow of splintered wood. I glanced around. Eyes watched me, I sensed, but I could see no one.
When I pounded on the entry it gave slightly. ‘ Salaam.’ My greeting’s echo was answered by the buzzing of flies. I pushed, as if shoving against someone holding the door on the other side, and finally it yielded enough that I could squeeze in. It was then I saw the obstruction. Enoch’s gigantic Negro servant, Mustafa, was lying dead against the door, his face shattered by a pistol shot. The house had the sickeningly sweet scent of recent death.
I looked at a window. Its wooden screen had been shattered by intruders.
I went on, room by room. Where were the other servants? There were spatters and streaks of blood everywhere, as if bodies had been dragged after battle and butchery. Tables had been toppled, tapestries ripped down, cushions overthrown and cut. The invaders had been looking for something, and I knew what it was. My absence had saved no one. Why hadn’t I insisted that Enoch hide, instead of staying with his books? Why had I thought my absence and that of the medallion would protect him? At length I came to the antiquities room, some of its statuary broken and its caskets overthrown, and then the stairs to the musty library. Its door had been staved in. Beyond was dark, but the library stank of fire. Heartsick, I found a candle and descended.
The cellar was a smoky shambles. Shelves had been toppled. Books and scrolls lay heaped like piles of autumn leaves, their half-burnt contents still smouldering. At first I thought this room was empty of life too, but then someone groaned. Paper rustled and a hand came up from the litter, fingers painfully curled, like an avalanche victim reaching from snow. I grasped it, only to elicit a howl of pain. I dropped the swollen digits and shovelled blackened papers aside. There was poor Enoch, sprawled on a pile of smouldering books. He was badly scorched, his clothes half-gone, and his chest and arms roasted. He’d thrown himself onto a bonfire of literature.
‘Thoth,’ he was groaning. ‘Thoth.’
‘Enoch, what happened?’
He couldn’t hear me in his delirium. I went upstairs to his fountain and used an ancient bowl to get some water, even though the fountain ran pink from spilt blood. I dripped some on his face and then gave him a sip. He sputtered, and then sucked like a baby. Finally his eyes focused.
‘They tried to burn it all.’ It was a groaning whisper.
‘Who did?’
‘I broke free to run into the blaze and they didn’t dare follow.’ He coughed.
‘My God, Enoch, you threw yourself on the fire?’
‘These books are my life.’
‘Was it the French?’
‘Bin Sadr’s Arabs. They kept asking where it was, without saying what they meant. I pretended not to know. They wanted the woman, and I said she’d gone with you. They didn’t believe me. If I hadn’t run into the fire they would have forced me to tell far more. I hope the household didn’t talk.’
‘Where is everybody?’
‘The servants were herded into storerooms. I heard screams.’
I felt utterly futile: foolish gambler, dilettante soldier, and pretend savant. ‘I’ve brought all this on you.’
‘You brought nothing the gods did not wish.’ He groaned. ‘My time is over. Men are becoming greedier. They want science and magic for power. Who wants to live in a time like that? But knowing and wisdom are not the same things.’ He clutched me. ‘You must stop them.’
‘Stop them from what?’
‘It was in my books after all.’
‘What? What are they after?’
‘It’s a key. You must insert it.’ He was fading.
I leant closer. ‘Enoch, please: Astiza. Is she safe?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where’s Ashraf?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you learn anything about the twenty-first of October?’
He grasped my arm. ‘You need to believe in something, American. Believe in her.’
Then he died.
I sat back, hollowed. First Talma, now this. I was too late to save him, and too late to learn what he’d learnt. I used my fingers to close his eyes, shaking with rage and impotence. I’d lost my best link to the mysteries. Was there anything left in this library to explain the medallion? Amid the ashes, how could I know?
Cradled to Enoch’s breast was a particularly thick volume, bound in leather and blackened at the edges. Its writing was Arabic. Had it been of particular importance in deciphering our quest? I pried it loose and looked in ignorance at its ornate script. Well, perhaps Astiza could make sense of it.
If she was still in Cairo. I had a grim idea who the small, shrouded figure was who’d been riding next to Silano as Desaix’s troops marched south.
Anxious and lost in my own worries, I trudged back up the stairs and into the antiquities room without caution. It almost cost me my life.
There was a high, anguished cry and then a lance thrust out from behind a statue of Anubis the jackal like a bolt of lightning. It crashed into my chest, knocking me backward, and I collided with a stone sarcophagus, my wind gone. As I slid down, dazed, I looked at the shaft. Its spear point had pierced Enoch’s book, only the last pages stopping it from thrusting into my heart.
Ashraf was at the end of the spear. His eyes widened.
‘You!’
I tried to speak but could only gasp.
‘What are you doing here? I was told you were held by the French at the pyramids! I thought you were one of the assassins, looking for secrets!’
I finally found enough air to speak. ‘I spied Silano leaving the city with General Desaix, riding south. I didn’t know what that meant, so I hurried back.’
‘I almost killed you!’
‘This book saved me.’ I pushed it, and the spear point, aside. ‘Can’t even read it, but Enoch was cradling it. What’s it about, Ash?’
Using his boot to hold the book while he wrenched the lance free, the Mameluke stooped and opened it. Fragments puffed out like spores. He read a moment. ‘Poetry.’ He threw it aside.
Ah. What we choose to die with.
‘I need help, Ashraf.’
‘Help? You’re the conqueror, remember? You who are bringing science and civilisation to poor Egypt! And this is what you’ve brought to my brother’s house: butchery! Everyone who knows you dies!’
