“I thought Franks carried something better,” he muttered, taking me for European despite my clothing.
“I’m a simple pilgrim,” I told him.
His look was skeptical. “See that you remain one.” Then I sold my donkey for what I’d paid for it—a few coins back, at least!—and got my bearings.
The gate had a steady stream of traffic. Merchants met caravans, and pilgrims of a dozen sects shouted thanksgiving as they entered the sacred precincts. But Ottoman authority had been in decline for two centuries, and powerless governors, raiding Bedouin, extortionate tax collection, and religious rivalry had left the town’s prosperity as stunted as cornstalks on a causeway. Market stalls lined major streets, but their faded awnings and half-empty shelves only emphasized the 3 0
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historical gloom. Jerusalem was somnolent, birds having occupied its towers.
My guide Mohammad had explained the city was divided into quarters for Muslims, Christians, Armenians, and Jews. I followed twisting lanes as best I could for the northwest quadrant, built around the Church of the Holy Sepulcher and Franciscan headquarters. The route was depopulated enough that chickens skittered out of my way.
Half the houses appeared abandoned. The inhabited homes, built of ancient stone with haphazard wooden sheds and terraces jutting like boils, sagged liked the skin of grandmothers. As in Egypt, any fantasies of an opulent East were disappointed.
Smith’s vague directions and my own inquiries took me to a two-story limestone house with a solid wooden wagon gate topped by a horseshoe, its facade otherwise featureless in the Arab fashion. There was a smaller wooden door to one side, and I could smell the charcoal from Jericho’s smithy. I pounded on the small entry door, waited, and pounded again, until a small peephole opened. I was surprised when a feminine eye looked out: I’d become accustomed in Cairo to bulky Muslim doormen and sequestered wives. Moreover, her pupils were pale gray, of a translucence unusual in the East.
On Smith’s instruction, I started in English. “I’m Ethan Gage, with a letter of introduction from a British captain to a man they call Jericho. I’m here . . .”
The eyehole shut. I stood, wondering after some minutes whether I even had the right house, when finally the door swung open as if of its own accord and I stepped cautiously through. I was in the work yard of an ironmonger, all right, its pavers stained gray with soot. Ahead I could see the glow of a forge, in a ground-story shed with walls hung with tools. The left of the courtyard was a sales shop stocked with finished implements, and to the right was storage for metal and charcoal. Slightly overhanging these three wings were the living apart-ments above, reached by an unpainted wooden stair and fronted by a balcony, faded roses cascading from iron pots. A few petals had fallen to the ashes below.
The gate closed behind me, and I realized the woman had been t h e
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hidden by it. She ghosted by without speaking, her eyes inspecting me with a sidewise glance and an intense curiosity that surprised me.
It’s true I’m a handsome rogue, but was I really that interesting? Her dress fell from neck to ankles, her head was covered by a scarf in the custom of all faiths here in Palestine, and she modestly averted her face, but I saw enough to make a key judgment. She was pretty.
Her face had the rounded beauty of a Renaissance painting, her complexion pale for this part of the world, with an eggshell smooth-ness. Her lips were full, and when I caught her gaze she looked down demurely. Her nose had that slight Mediterranean arch, that subtle curve of the south that I find seductive. Her hair was hidden except for a few escaping strands that hinted at a surprisingly fair coloring.
Her figure was trim enough, but it was hard to tell more than that.
Then she disappeared through a doorway.
And with that instinctive scouting done, I turned around to see a bearded, hard-muscled man striding from the smithy in a leather apron. He had the forearms of a smith, thick as hams and marked with the inevitable burns of the forge. The smudge from his work didn’t hide his sandy hair and startling blue eyes that looked at me with some skepticism. Had Vikings washed ashore in Syria? Yet his build was softened somewhat by a fullness to his lips and ruddiness behind his bearded cheeks (a cherubic youthfulness he shared with the woman), which suggested the earnest gentleness I’ve always imagined of Joseph the Carpenter. He shed a leather glove and held out a cal-lused hand. “Gage.”
“Ethan Gage,” I confirmed as I shook a palm hard as wood.
“Jericho.” The man might have a woman’s mouth, but he had a grip like a vise.
“As your wife might have explained . . .”
“Sister.”
“Really?” Well, that was a step in the right direction. Not that I was forgetting about Astiza for a moment—it’s just that female beauty arouses a natural curiosity in any healthy male, and it’s safest to know where one stands.
“She is shy of strangers, so do not make her uncomfortable.” 3 2
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That was clear enough, from a man sturdy as an oak stump. “Of course. Yet it is commendable that she apparently understands English.”
“It would be more remarkable if she didn’t, since she lived in England. With me. She has nothing to do with our business.”
“Charming yet unavailable. The very best ladies are.” He reacted to my wit with as much animation as a stone idol.
