discussion, and in my imagination the glories of Yusuf’s female household were fuelled by stories of Scheherazade and the Arabian Nights. Who had not heard of the famed seraglio of the sultan in Constantinople? Or of the skilled concubines and castrated eunuchs of this strange society, in which the son of a slave could grow up to be a master? It was a world I struggled to understand. Slavery had become a way for the Ottomans to inject fresh blood and loyalty into a stultified and treacherous society. Polygamy had become a reward for political loyalty. Religion had become a substitute for material self-improvement. The remoteness of Islamic women made them all the more desired.
Was the medallion still inside the harem’s walls, even if Astiza was not? This was my hope. She had persuaded her captors that I still held it, and then left a message for me behind. Clever woman. I found an alley alcove to temporarily hide my rifle, covering it with my rug, and set off to buy a rope and provisions. If Astiza was a prisoner of Silano, I wanted her back. We had no proper relationship, yet I felt a mix of jealousy, protectiveness, and loneliness that surprised me. She was the closest thing I had left to a true friend. I’d already lost Talma, Enoch, and Ashraf. I’d be damned if I lost her too.
My European complexion under Arab dress drew only casual glances, given that the Ottoman Empire was a rainbow of colours. I entered the dim warren of corridors in the Khan al-Khalili bazaar, the air redolent with charcoal and hashish, piled spices making brilliant pyramids of green, yellow, and orange. After buying food, a rope, and a blanket for the desert nights, I carried these supplies to my depository and set off again to bargain for a horse or camel with the last of my money. I’d never ridden the latter, but knew they had more endurance for a long chase. My mind was boiling with questions. Did Bonaparte know that Silano had taken Astiza? Was the count after the same clues I was? If the medallion was a key, where was the lock? In my haste and preoccupation, I stumbled onto a French patrol before remembering to squeeze into shadow.
The sweating soldiers had nearly filed past when their lieutenant suddenly pulled out a paper tucked in his belt, glanced at me, and cried a halt. ‘Ethan Gage?’
I pretended not to understand.
Half a dozen musket barrels came up, needing no translation. ‘Gage? I know it’s you. Don’t try to run, or we’ll shoot you down.’
So I stood straight, slipped off my head covering, and tried to bluff. ‘Please don’t give away my identity, Lieutenant. I’m on a mission for Bonaparte.’
‘On the contrary, you are under arrest.’
‘Surely you’re mistaken.’
He looked at the picture on his paper. ‘Denon did a quick sketch of you and it’s quite a good likeness. The man has talent.’
‘I am just about to return to my studies at the pyramid…’
‘You are wanted for investigation in the murder of the scholar and imam Qelab Almani, who also goes by the name Enoch, or Hermes Trismegistus. You were spotted hurrying from his house with gun and hatchet.’
‘Enoch? Are you mad? I’m trying to solve his murder.’
He read from his poster. ‘You are also under arrest for being absent from the pyramids without leave, insubordination, and being out of uniform.’
‘I’m a savant! I don’t have a uniform!’
‘Hands up!’ He shook his head. ‘Your crimes have caught up with you, American.’
I was taken to a Mameluke barracks that had been turned into a makeshift prison. Here French authorities tried to sort out the insurgents, petty criminals, deserters, profiteers, and prisoners of war the invasion had swept up. Despite my protests I was thrown in a cell that was a polyglot mix of thieves, charlatans, and rogues. I felt as if I were back in a gambling salon in Paris.
‘I demand to know the charges against me!’ I cried.
‘Uselessness,’ growled the sergeant who locked the door.
The absurdity of jailing me for Enoch’s death was exceeded only by the calamity of missing my midnight rendezvous at the south wall of Yusuf’s house. Whoever had dropped the eye of Horus probably didn’t have many opportunities to help a male stranger gain access to the harem. What if they gave up, and the medallion was sold or lost? Meanwhile, if Astiza was in the hands of Silano and being taken south by Desaix’s expedition to upper Egypt, she was drawing farther away by the hour. At the one time in my life when I didn’t have a moment to waste, I was immobilised. It was maddening.
At last a lieutenant appeared to enter my name in the prison record books.
‘At least get me an interview with Bonaparte,’ I pleaded.
‘You’re wiser to stay out of his sight, unless you want to be shot immediately. You are suspected of murder here because of earlier reports of the death of a courtesan in Paris. Something about unpaid debts, as well…’ he studied his papers. ‘A landlady named Madame Durrell?’
I groaned inwardly. ‘I didn’t kill Enoch! I discovered the body!’
‘And you promptly reported it?’ His tone was as cynical as my creditors.
‘Listen, the entire expedition may be in jeopardy if I can’t complete my work. Count Silano is trying to monopolise important secrets.’
‘Don’t try to slander Silano. It was he who provided affidavits about your character from Madame Durrell and a lantern bearer. He predicted your predilection for deviant behaviour.’ He read again. ‘Characteristics of a de Sade.’
So. While I held a measuring tape at the pyramids, Silano had been busy in Cairo enhancing my reputation.
‘I have the right to legal representation, do I not?’
‘An army solicitor should get to you within a week.’
Was I cursed? How convenient for my enemies that I was locked up, unable to follow the count, contest the charges, or make my midnight rendezvous at Yusuf’s harem! The sun was slanting low through the tiny cell window, and supper looked like a wretched pea-and-lentil mash. Our beverage was stale barrel water, our privy a bucket.
‘I need a hearing now!’
‘It’s possible you’ll be returned to Paris to face charges there.’
‘This is insane!’
‘Better the guillotine there than a firing squad here, no?’ He shrugged and left.
‘Better how?’ I shouted after him, slumping to the floor.
‘Have some mash,’ said a private, a would-be entrepreneur caught trying to sell a cannon for scrap metal. ‘Breakfast is worse.’
I turned away.
Well, I’d gambled and lost, hadn’t I? If I couldn’t lose in Paris, I couldn’t get a single lucky card here. Of course if I’d followed Franklin’s homilies, I’d have an honest profession, but his ‘early to bed, early to rise’ advice seemed so counter to basic nature. One of the things I liked about him was that he didn’t always follow his own advice. Even when nearly eighty, he’d party if a pretty lady was in the offing.
Soon it was dark. With every moment, Astiza was farther away.
It was while I was digging deeper into the pit of despair, with a side shaft of self-pity and a veritable mine of regret – all the time trying to ignore the stink of my cellmates – that I heard a hiss from the cell’s window. ‘Ethan!’
What now?
‘Ethan?’ The voice was low and anxious. ‘The American? Is he there?’
I pushed through my fellows and put my face to the small opening. ‘Who’s there?’
‘It is Ashraf.’
‘Ash! I thought you’d abandoned me!’
‘I thought better of it. My brother would want me to help you, I know. You and the priestess are the only hope to safeguard the secrets he lived to protect. And then I hear you’ve been arrested! How did you get in so much trouble so quickly?’
‘It’s a talent.’
‘Now I must get you out of there.’
