that, and more! Tell us what you know and join a cause bigger than yourself!
Sokar rumbled again, just to remind me what the choice really was. Then he went back to gnawing and cracking a bone, probably from the last sailor who turned Aurora down. I walked to a small sea desk, piled with books and scrolls about ancient history, alchemy, and magic. Say what you will about the Egyptian Rite, they were certainly readers. “Aurora, I’m as useless as I always was. You saw what we discovered on Thira: a medieval prayer guide. We found old ruins as vacant as Versailles, and managed to cave in the ceiling. You’re entirely right, I’m a complete failure, and you’d save yourself time and trouble by chasing someone more successful for once.”
“Yet you’re the one always one step ahead of us—in the pyramid, in Jerusalem, in the American frontier, and now on Thira. You want to know as fiercely as we do, Ethan!”
“And just who is this ‘we’? How do you get membership in such a cabal of lunatics and scoundrels anyway? Do you have to apply? Is it a question of genealogy?”
“We are serious seekers of the past who by possession of ancient wisdom deserve to rule. We choose to defy convention, and elect to follow occult knowledge anywhere it might lead. We trade ordinary conformity for wisdom. Perfect harmony will be achieved by having everyone in the world answer to
There was something odd here. Why would Aurora Somerset, English aristocrat and renegade explorer, want anything more than to pick up on the tortures where she’d left off? If I honestly possessed some useful knowledge I could see her pretending temporary interest, until she got whatever she needed and could safely slit my throat. But why suggest we had a chance of partnership? I couldn’t stand the girl, and certainly she had no warmer feelings for me. She’d already seen my parchment of prayers, and didn’t know yet that it might contain something of value. No, there was something else going on, some wickedness afoot I couldn’t even guess at. “If there’s one thing I’m poor at, it’s harmony.”
She was becoming impatient, her recline in the hammock no longer languorous, her eyes eclipsing from the seductive to the dangerous. “You’d rather rot as a slave?”
“Let my friends go. Then maybe I’ll try to help with this mirror of yours.”
“My crew has to be paid, Ethan. Your friends are a type to ransom. But you can save yourself. Think of yourself. Escape by yourself.”
It was annoying she thought so little of my character that she assumed such a course would appeal to me— and even more annoying that she was half right. Here I was, single, rootless, an expatriate from my own country in the employ of another, caught up in the web of my old lover, and peeing on grubby sheepskin in hopes the latest sojourn underground wasn’t entirely worthless. What did I ever do but think of myself? And yet it sounded hollow and ashen to hear it come from Aurora Somerset: the kind of craven self-preservation that came from men not yet grown up. The rare times I’d shown character and backbone I felt better for it, so maybe it was time to make it a habit. Not just to reform outwardly, but to start a construction project on my soul! Lord knows I’m good at resolutions, if not always quite as fine in carrying them out.
“But I’m not by myself, am I? I’ve got three good friends captive on Dragut’s ship, and they’re imperiled solely because of my unfortunate history with you. No, Aurora, I think I’ll choose their company in that stifling hold over yours in the hammock, and enjoy it better, too. The fact is, you’ve captured impoverished savants, not merchant captains, and we aren’t worth the trouble of a ransom note.”
“Then you’ll die as slaves!” She’d rolled out of her horizontal throne now and stood, trembling with frustration, her eyes green fire, and by Venus the form she cast in her linen shift would tempt a pope. I don’t know how those who vow celibacy do it, frankly. The translucent gauze seemed to make her even more naked than if she wore nothing at all, and I wanted that flesh despite myself. Yet she was a devil’s temptress, a fire I dared not touch.
“You’ll never get Archimedes’ mirror. It would be like giving a keg of gunpowder to a pyromaniac. You won’t get your weapon, you won’t get me, and you won’t get whatever twisted goal you’re after. You’ll get this cabin, a crew of Muslim cutthroats, biscuit, bilge-water, and a lonely life seeking the peace you threw away.”
“You know nothing!” Her dog jumped up and barked, making me jump again, and I longed for my tomahawk to play fetch with the mastiff.
“Exactly,” I managed. “So sell me, drown me, or jail me, but please just let me be.”
A wish that neither of us could keep, as it turned out.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I’d hoped to see the proud black frigates of my own navy by now, given that I’d sailed back to Europe with the powerful American squadron. But any blockade was nowhere to be seen, and Dragut’s taunt that the United States flotilla was hiding at Malta seemed dismayingly true. If Tripoli was truly at war with my own infant nation, it was hard to see any sign of it.
“See,” said Dragut, as if reading my mind. “Your ships draw too much water to even come close.”
Midday heat and sun were dazzling, adding to the hallucinatory effect of what Napoleon’s savants had labeled “mirage.” The land scent was of sand and spices, excrement and oranges, the wool of piled carpets and stink of drying fish. Tripoli is on a green plain that gives way to desert waste, and in the shimmering light its flat-roofed houses are whitewashed ice blocks that gleam like snow. This glacier is crevassed with winding streets so narrow and confused that they seem more like natural channels than planned thoroughfares. The city’s flatness is punctuated by the bulbous domes of mosques and upright stalks of minarets, topped by conical green roofs like witches’ hats. At the city’s southeastern edge, near the harbor, is the squat, massive, crenellated castle of the bashaw, Yussef Karamanli. Beyond is a rocky outcrop with a fort that commands both city and sea: a fine place for a mirror.
Karamanli, Dragut told us with pride, was as ruthless a prince as Attila the Hun. “He came to power seven years ago when he drove out the pirate Ali Bourghal. Before that he murdered his brother Hassan in the palace harem, shooting off his mother’s fingers when she raised her arm to try to protect her eldest son. Yussef dragged Hassan’s pregnant wife off the dying body of her husband by her hair. Then he cut off Hassan’s privates and threw them to his dogs.”
“No wonder you joined up with him.”
“And yet he is also a pious man—he wears scripture from the Koran, written in strips, wound into his turban.”
“Now there’s a commitment.”
“When Yussef took the city from the pirate Bourghal, his other brother Hamet agreed to exile in Alexandria. However, Hamet’s wife and children remain as hostages. Yussef views Hamet with contempt, and controls him by terrorizing his family. Yussef himself has two wives, a fair-skinned Turk and an ebony black.”
The white Madonna and the black, I thought, remembering my adventures beneath Jerusalem with Miriam and my teachings from Astiza.
“Plus a harem of concubines. Yussef is a stallion. He also has a pet leopard, an Italian band to serenade him with music, and jewels the size of robin’s eggs.”
“I still can’t see him winning an election.”
“He doesn’t have to. He is loved and feared because his rule is Allah’s will. We Muslims are content with our
