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.’
‘But how?’
‘Move as far away from the window as you can, please. And cover your ears.’
‘What?’
‘It might be a good idea to crouch, too.’ He disappeared.
Well, that was ominous. Mamelukes had a head-on way of doing things. I pushed my way to the opposite corner of the cell and addressed the others in the dimness. ‘I think something dramatic is about to happen. Please move to this side of our apartment.’
No one moved.
So I tried again. ‘I have some hashish, if you’ll all just gather around.’
They formed a nice shield just before there was a loud boom. The outer cell wall below the window blew inward with a spray of stone, a cannonball sailing on to hit the wood-and-iron cell door. The entry flexed, shuddered, and fell neatly away from its frame, hitting the corridor outside with a clang. The cannonball was imbedded in the wood like a berry in a muffin. We’d all sprawled in a heap, me at the bottom, my ears ringing and the air full of dust. Yet I knew opportunity when I saw it. ‘Now! Rush the bailiff!’ I cried.
As the others struggled up and stormed into the corridor, I crawled the opposite way outside, through the hole in the jail wall that Ash had just created. He was crouched in the shadows, waiting. He had a musket slung on one shoulder, two pistols stuffed in his shaft, and a sword at his waist. I recognised the weapons I’d confiscated from him when he was captured. Well, so much for my trophies.
‘Where the devil did you get a cannon?’
‘It was sitting in the yard back here, impounded as evidence.’
‘Evidence?’ Ah, yes, the soldier who’d tried to hock it. ‘They left it loaded?’
‘To use against the prisoners, if they tried to escape.’
There were musket shots, and we ran.
We flitted through the dark streets like thieves, retrieving my weapons, rope, and provisions where I’d hid them. Then we watched the march of the moon, waiting for the appointed hour. When we crept to the south wall of Yusuf’s house I wasn’t sure what to expect. The heavy door that marked the separate women’s entrance at the rear was thick wood with a large iron lock. There was no entry that way. So all I could do is wait silently below a south wall window, hoping that the French patrols scouring the city didn’t stumble upon us.
‘Now I’ve made you a fugitive too,’ I whispered.
‘The gods would not let you avenge my brother’s murder by yourself.’
The night was lengthening, and I heard nothing and saw nothing from the screened windows above. Was I too late for the rendezvous? Had my informant been found out? Impulsive and impatient, I finally took the golden eye of Horus from my pocket and lofted it upward at the opening. To my surprise, it didn’t fall back.
Instead, the charm weighted a silken thread that slithered down. I tied my rope to the thread and watched as it was hauled skyward. I gave a moment for it to be tied off, pulled to test, and planted my feet on the wall. ‘Wait here,’ I told Ashraf.
‘You think my eyes aren’t as curious as yours?’
‘I’m the expert on women. You hold the rifle.’
The harem window was fifty feet overhead, the shutter in its screen just big enough to get my head and shoulders inside. Panting from anticipation and exertion, I heaved my way in, my tomahawk on my belt. Given the trying events of the day, I was more than ready to use it.
Fortunately, lithe young arms helped drag me into the room, putting me in a better mood. My anonymous assistant, I saw, was young, pretty, disappointingly clothed, and even veiled. But then her almond eyes alone were enough to make a man fall in love: maybe there was method to Muslim madness. Her finger went to where her lips would be, signalling quiet. She handed me a second piece of paper and whispered, ‘Astiza.’
‘ Fayn? ’ I asked. Where?
She shook her head and pointed at the paper. I opened it. ‘It is hidden to be seen,’ it said in English, in Astiza’s hand.
So she had left the medallion behind! I looked about and suddenly noticed half a dozen pair of eyes staring at me, like animals from a forest. Several of the women in the harem were silently awake, but like my young guide they were dressed for the street, and timid as deer. All put fingers to veiled lips. Clear enough.
Whatever fantasies I had about limpid pools, serenading damsels, and diaphanous garments were disappointed. The harem quarters looked plainer and more cramped than the public rooms I’d seen, and no one seemed to be preening herself for Yusuf’s next nocturnal visit. It was, I realised, simply a segregated wing from which the women could cook, sew, and gossip without intruding on male territory.