“Ned, give this American what he deserves!” Tom cried.
But there was no answer.
“I wonder if he’s napping in the topgallants?” I looked up at the rigging, and then had the amusement of watching Little Tom clamber skyward, shouting and sweating.
I spent some minutes below behaving like an impatient rooster, and then as soon as I dared I turned to Smith. “How long do we have to wait for this coward? We both know I’ve business ashore.” t h e
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The crew was clearly frustrated, and deeply suspicious. If I didn’t get off
There was a roar of disappointment.
“Don’t play cards if you can’t afford to lose!” Smith shouted.
They jeered, but let me pass to the ship’s ladder. Tom had disappeared below. I’d not much time, so I dropped onto the dirty fishing nets of an Arab lighter like an anxious cat. “To shore now, and an extra coin if you make it fast,” I whispered to the boatman.
I pushed us off myself, and the Muslim captain began sculling for Jaffa’s harbor with twice his usual energy, meaning half what I preferred.
I turned to wave back to Smith. “Can’t wait until we meet again!” Blatant lie, of course. Once I learned Astiza’s fate and satisfied myself about this Book of Thoth, I had no intention of going near either the English or the French, who’d been at each other’s throats for a millen-nium. I’d sail for China first.
Especially when there was a boil of men at the gun deck and Big Ned’s head popped up like a gopher, red from rage and exertion. I gave him a look from the new glass and saw he was wearing a baptism of slime.
“Come back here, yellow dog! I’ll rip you limb from limb!”
“I think the yellow is yours, Ned! You didn’t keep our appointed time!”
“You tricked me, Yankee sharp!”
“I educated you!” But it was getting hard to hear as we bobbed away. Sir Sidney lifted his hat in wry salute. The English marines scrambled to lower a longboat.
“Can you go a little faster, Sinbad?”
“For another coin, effendi.”
It was a sharp little race, given that the beefy marines churned the waves like a waterwheel, Big Ned howling at the bow. Still, Smith 1 8
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had told me about Jaffa. It has just one land gate in, and you needed a guide to find your way back out. Given a head start, I’d hide well enough.
So I took one of my ferryman’s fishing nets and, before he could object, heaved it in the path of the closing longboat, snarling their starboard oars so they began turning in circles, roaring insults in language that would make a drill sergeant blush.
My ferryman protested, but I had coins enough to pay double for his sorry net and keep him rowing. I leapt onto the stone quay a good minute ahead of my complainants, determined to find Astiza and get back out—and vowing never to see Big Ned or Little Tom again.
c h a p t e r
3
Jaffa rises like a loaf from the Mediterranean shore, empty beaches curving north and south into haze. Its importance as a trading port had been superseded by Acre to the north, where Djezzar the Butcher has his headquarters, but it is still a prosperous agricultural town. There is a steady stream of Jerusalem-bound pilgrims in and oranges, cotton, and soap back out.
Its streets are a labyrinth leading to the towers, mosques, synagogues, and churches that form its peak. House additions arch illegally over dim lanes. Donkeys clatter up and down stone steps.
Questionably gotten though my gambling gains might be, they quickly proved invaluable when a street urchin invited me to the upstairs inn of his disappointingly homely sister. The money bought me pita bread, falafel, an orange, and a screened balcony to hide behind while the gang of British marines rushed up one alley and down another, in futile search of my vile carcass. Blown and hot, they finally settled in a Christian quayside inn to discuss my perfidy over bad Palestinian wine. Meanwhile, I snuck about to spend more winnings. I bought a sleeved Bedouin robe of maroon and white stripes, new boots, bloused trousers (so much more comfortable in the heat 2 0
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than tight European breeches!) sash, vest, two cotton shirts, and cloth for a turban. As Smith had predicted, the result made me look like one more exotic member of a polyglot empire, so long as I took care to stay away from the arrogant, questioning Ottoman janissaries in their red and yellow boots.
I learned there was no coach to the holy city, or even a decent highway. I was too financially prudent—Ben, again—to buy or feed a horse. So I purchased a docile donkey sufficient to get me there, and not much farther. For a meager weapon, I economized with a curbed Arab knife with a handle of camel horn. I have little skill with swords, and I couldn’t bear to purchase one of the Muslims’ long, clumsy, elaborately decorated muskets. Their inlaid mother-of-pearl is lovely, but I’d seen how indifferently they performed against the French musket during Napoleon’s battles in Egypt. And any musket is far inferior to the lovely Pennsylvania rifle I’d sacrificed at Dendara in order to escape with Astiza. If this Jericho was a metallurgist, maybe he could make a replacement!
