“My amiable sister,” he smiled sheepishly as he gestured in her direction.
“Ah, a great pleasure,” said the man. “I am Khalid al Haram. I trade along the caravan routes, and have worked this coast for twenty years. Most of the trade is moving by ship these days, and so a man finds his English useful. The French are masters of the land, but on the sea, it is the British fleet that holds sway, and answers to little else but the wind. They fought the French here earlier, and caught their fleet at anchor. The little general is marooned! He thought to make his way through Palestine and Syria, but the Turks stopped him at Acre, and so he returned here to Egypt to sulk. Now the British fleet is back again, and with the Turkish ships as well. They landed at Aboukir Bay.”
“Yes,” said Nordhausen. “We saw them. It was quite a sight. In fact, we just came in from the road west of town, and were looking for quarters here.”
“You are right about this man,” Khalid, waved disdainfully at the innkeeper. “He is greedy at heart. The French have paid him a hundred times with notes, and he has never raised a stir with them. If you like I will chide him, and demand the return of your gold. It is unseemly that guests should be treated in this manner.”
“Well… ah…” Robert looked at Maeve, wanting to defer the matter to her, but he realized that he was the man here and, to an Arab, a woman would certainly not be one to make such a decision. Maeve remained discretely silent, intuitively embracing the notion that she should be seen, but not heard, as much as it went against the grain of her nature.
“Leave it be,” said Nordhausen. “We have no complaint. The man is entitled to a windfall now and then, and we can afford to be generous.”
“If it were me, I would have him thrashed until he offered the room as a compliment, but as you wish.” Khalid smiled, then changed the subject. “Forgive me for intruding, but I overheard your transaction. It seems you have been billeted to the room next to mine. I would be most happy to escort you, and show the way.” He gestured to the back hall, where two French soldiers had just emerged. They were looking strangely at Robert and Maeve, and Khalid seemed to quickly warm to the role of host, going so far as to take the professor by the elbow, leaning in as he spoke.
“This way,” and he said it in French, going on to describe the food that would be served at the dinner hour, and adding a bit at the end about the problem of trade in time of war. Robert did not get all of it, somewhat surprised by the switch in languages, but he gathered enough to realize that this man had just deflected the undue interest of the soldiers, who went about their business after hearing their conversation, and left the inn.
Maeve could not help but notice the easy tact of the man, and the casual manner in which he maneuvered them safely away. Still, she thought it quite odd that they would happen upon this fellow, an educated man in the midst of this dry and dusty trading port.
They went down a dimly lit hall, and Khalid gestured to a plain door at the far end. “Your quarters are here,” he said. “If I may?” He entered and looked about him suspiciously, checking this way and that to be certain the room was vacant. “I’m afraid the previous guests did not leave the room in a tidy condition. I will have my manservant visit you later to sweep the floors. Alas for me, I must wait here until this unfortunate business at Aboukir Bay is resolved. There will be a battle, of course.”
“I fear you are correct,” said Nordhausen.
“It is very inconvenient,” said Khalid. “I had several business matters pending, and now I must wait to see who will prevail. The buyers will want to know whether they can still accept French currency, you see. I suppose that is why the innkeeper was so difficult with you.”
“Yes, I understand.” Nordhausen scratched his head as they stepped into the room behind Khalid.
“If Napoleon wins they will continue to accept French bills with no qualms. Who do you think will prevail?”
“Why, I wouldn’t know the first thing about it,” Robert explained. “I am not versed in military matters, but if history serves as any guide, the French have had their way here for the last year or so.”
“Indeed, they have. The Pasha is come to correct that matter. He has, by some accounts, twenty thousand men crowded on the beaches at Aboukir Bay. Why he lingers there is hard to say. Perhaps he cannot make up his mind whether to strike at Alexandria or to march here to Rashid. I suppose he is being overly cautious until he can learn what the French might do.”
Nordhausen saw an angle in the conversation that could help their investigation. “I have heard that the French are working on the fortifications in the area.”
“That they are,” said Khalid. “A company of soldiers arrived here last week. They will be digging out the walls tomorrow, clearing away some of the old stone so they can extend the rampart.”
“What a shame,” said Robert, shaking his head. “Some of the stonework here dates back centuries. I would hate to see it damaged by these petty quarrels.”
Khalid looked at him, coming to some quiet inner conclusion. “Then you have an interest in the stonework?”
“A passing interest,” said Nordhausen. “I find it remarkable that all this history and culture has been baking away in the sun here, largely unknown to the rest of the world.”
“Egypt is a mystery, to be sure—even to the Arabs who have lived here for generations. The pyramids sit in stubborn silence. What they have seen; what they have heard, they will not tell.” Khalid gestured at unseen artifacts beyond the walls. “Have you seen the ancient writing inscribed on the stonework here? It is a mystery within a mystery—wholly confounding, even to the learned. But the monuments within easy reach of the delta are nothing. You should see the tombs of Luxor and Karnak!”
“I haven’t had time to see much more than this roadside inn and the local souk,” said Robert with a smile. “But perhaps tomorrow—when the French dig out their walls. Perhaps then I might get a look at some of the old stones rumored to lie at the foundation of the fortifications here.”
“Oh? But this is not an ancient fort,” said Khalid. It is Borg Rashid, the tower of Rosetta, an old fortress to be sure, but one built in the fifteenth century by the sultan Qa’it Bey. The French renamed it after one of Napoleon’s aides-de-camp, and so, for the moment, it is called Fort Julien. The man was killed here, along with his escort, not but a year ago. In ancient times, however, this area was covered by the sea.”
“I see,” said Nordhausen. “But undoubtedly the sultan got his stone from some location near by. It is speculated that the stonework may have come from ancient temples.”
“Perhaps,” said Khalid. “I see you have an interest in these things. Would you like to go to the fort tomorrow and see for yourself?”
Robert tried to hide his excitement. “That would be quite interesting,” he said. “What do you think, my dear?” He looked at Maeve, who was quietly fanning herself as she listened to the conversation between the two men. She smiled, nodding in the affirmative.
“Then I will take you!” Khalid beamed, stroking his beard. “There is still a small Mosque at the center of the fortifications. The French will no doubt desecrate it with the business of war, but it is still there. I must meet someone there in the morning and, if you will be so kind as to accompany me, perhaps you can get a look at the foundations of the walls. I will call on you with the new sun. Until then,” he bowed, “I am very pleased to meet you… Mr. Underhill.” He said the name slowly, as if struggling to remember it, then made a gracious bow and left.
Nordhausen waited until the man was gone before he spoke. “What do you make of that?”
“Very unusual,” Maeve said quietly.