by Cheryl Bolen
Their chambers were, thankfully, clean. The room’s only furnishings were an iron bed enclosed by gauzy mosquito netting, two tables and one wooden chair. One of the tables was for writing, the other beside the bed. The floors were wooden, and the windows--open on this broiling summer night—were covered with more of the gauzy netting. Over the windows were filigreed shutters of hand-carved wood.
Their bags stood in one corner, courtesy of the competent Habeeb.
At the thought of Habeeb, she whirled at her husband. “Pray, my love, what in the devil was it that Habeeb had to speak to you about when we got off the boat?”
“The felucca, my love. Not a boat.”
“You’re changing the subject, love. Why did our dragoman need to speak to you?”
Jack drew a breath, but did not answer her.
She had lived with him (and madly loved him) long enough to know that stance of his. Her dear husband never liked to speak of things not fit for a lady’s ears. He was such an adorable prude. “He wasn’t trying to entice you to a brothel, was he?”
Jack turned to her, a half smile pinching his lean cheek as he drew her into his arms. “How did my own temptress know?”
“Your own temptress knows her husband. Whenever you hesitate to speak of something, it’s usually something one does not discuss in mixed company.” Her arms came fully around him, and her head nestled into his powerful chest. “Pray, where is the brothel?”
Jack dropped soft kisses into the curly mass of her unruly hair. “Actually, he wasn’t trying to entice us but to warn us. He warned against common. . . Well, you know. He said they weren’t clean. Diseases and all that. He suggested that if a man were in such a need, it would be better to go to a dancing girl.”
“And surely you told him you had no use for women of that sort.”
“Of course, my love,” he said with a wink as his head lowered to hers for a kiss as passionate as an Oriental night.
Chapter 4
The Call to Prayer ringing out from minarets throughout the ancient city awakened Jack the following morning. Their mosquito netting had been pulled away, and Daphne was no longer beside him. He propped himself up on one elbow and looked around. His wife was standing in her night shift in front of the open window. His eyes narrowed. “Oblige me by telling me why you stand in front of the window half dressed.”
She turned around. Her face looked as if she’d just seen a celestial being. “Oh, my darling, isn’t it wondrous that we’re actually in the Orient? You must come look. Today we can see the pyramids at Gizeh off in the distance.”
He slung two bare legs over the bed’s edge and started to throw on his clothing. “I’d as lief we didn’t have to constantly be followed by a platoon of soldiers. Makes me feel like a milksop.”
“Ten soldiers does not a platoon make. Did you not tell me a platoon is three sections of eight soldiers?”
He grumbled beneath his breath. “Don’t take me so bloody literally, woman.” He came to stand beside her, the gentle touch of his hand at her waist compensating for the gruffness of his voice. The first thing he viewed was a pair of tents in the grassy garden beside their hotel. The lodgings for the soldiers.
Since it was early in the day, the skies were clear enough from Cairo's smoke that the Great Pyramid and two smaller ones could be seen off in the hazy distance.
“It's exciting to be in the Orient. I didn’t think I'd ever see the pyramids.” She looked up at him with a hopeful expression. “Can we not go to see the pyramids today? While we're awaiting further introductions."
“Have you forgotten Ahmed Hussein?”
“The murderer in the bazaar?”
"We don't know that he's a murderer, but, yes, that's the man we need to see today."
“Seeing the bazaar would be almost as good as seeing the pyramids. But not quite.”
“The bazaar interests you? I've never known you—unlike most other women—to enjoy shopping.”
“I will own, I have no interest in damasks and silks and jewels, but I should love to smell all the spices mixed with the pungent hookah smoke. I should like wandering down the dark maze of streets and alleys that haven’t changed in centuries. I wish to admire the rich colors of the Oriental carpets and watch the old men sipping their muddy-looking coffee and the women with veiled heads.”
The very things he’d like to see.
“I pray we can get off before the excruciatingly helpful Mr. Arbuthnot comes for us,” he said.
Without breaking her view, she backed into him, and his arms came fully around her, his mouth pressed to her ear for soft kisses. “I was thinking the same thing about Mr. Arbuthnot. His helpfulness can be most annoying,” she said. “I feel dreadfully guilty admitting it because poor Mr. Arbuth-knows-it-all means well.”
“All the same, I think we’ll enjoy the bazaar better if we have just Habeeb and Maxwell along to interpret.”
“A splendid idea. But what about Rosemary? You know how passionately she wants to go to the bazaar.”
“Once we’ve found Hussein, Maxwell can proceed with your sister. Habeeb can serve as our interpreter, should the need arise.”
She shook her head. “That won’t do. What do we really know about Habeeb?”
He sighed. “You're right. I don’t know how I could have slipped so completely. For all sensitive inquiries we'll need Maxwell. I'd stake my life on his trustworthiness, and the man is discreet.”
“I think I’d worry if Rosemary had only Habeeb to see her through the bazaar. The fellow’s no bigger than she!”
“I was surprised at how small he is. Did you notice how small the Bedouins are? I would be surprised if any of them exceed five-six.”
She nodded. “They weren’t at all what I expected a desert prince to look like. But I expect it’s rather difficult to grow tall when one is forced to live off sand.”
“The Bedouins don’t eat sand.”
“I know that. But what manner of food grows in the midst of a desert?”
“I do see your point, and I don’t mean to disparage the men because of their small stature. A man’s courage cannot be judged by his size.”
“True. In Mr. Maxwell’s book, he wrote about the Bedouins’ uncommon capacity to tolerate pain. And that is a true indication of bravery.”
Jack wouldn’t tell her how many times he’d seen large men cave in like children under torture. Then she would want to know if he’d ever been tortured. He couldn’t lie to her, nor could he allow her to know the hardships he’d had to endure in enemy camps.
He thanked God every day for giving him the ability to withstand torture while maintaining his dignity—and his secrets.
“How right you are.”
He turned her around to face him. “Now I should like to assist milady in dressing.”
"First, love, I'm in dire need of back scratching. Those wretched mosquitoes from the boat feasted on every part of me."
"Because you're so delectable." He scratched the mounds of bites on her back, careful to avoid using his nails. It wouldn't do to break the skin.
There was one other thing Jack hadn't told her. He'd not mentioned seeing Gareth Williams at Bulak. He had no reason to think Williams being here had anything to do with him. Still, it was impossible for Jack to shake the conviction that if something sinister were occurring, Gareth Williams could be involved. This conviction was not dissimilar to that which always signaled the evil-doings of Jack's arch nemesis, the duc d'Arblier.
* * *
They did manage to slip away before Mr. Arbuthnot had a chance to call for them. Unfortunately, there was nothing they could do to disengage themselves from the train of soldiers who followed them everywhere.
They started early in the day, hoping to spare themselves from the oppressive afternoon heat. As they walked along the streets of packed dirt, sometimes Daphne and Rosemary would link arms, chatting and leading the way through the labyrinth of narrow streets. But most of the time, they paired up as couple
s. Jack and Daphne, Rosemary and Mr. Maxwell. Whenever Daphne was in a foreign land, she rather clung to her handsome husband. It wasn’t that she was a frightened ninny as much as that she never felt closer to him than when they were exploring new vistas together.
Mr. Maxwell was quiet and shy, but when he spoke, he was fascinating. He didn't point out the bloody obvious as Mr. Arbuthnot did, nor did he sound didactic. He was possessed of a gift of remarking candidly upon the most interesting topics.
“One can find the finest jewels outside of Constantinople here in Kahn el-Khaliti,” Mr. Maxwell said. “Jewel traders have been coming here for centuries.”
As they drew up to the outskirts of the bazaar and she saw majestically colored Persian carpets waving like flags, Daphne's excitement began to mount.
Since Europeans, especially delicate blonde women like Rosemary, were uncommon, their party drew considerable attention. The merchants were pushing and shoving one another to gain position to foist their goods on the rich Franks, as all Europeans were known. A pity, Daphne thought, she could not understand a word of the rapid Arabic that assailed them from every quarter.
One Egyptian pulled at Jack's sleeve, imploring him to admire the oddest thing. In spite of the two foot long object being rather pointed, it looked organic. "Pray, Habeeb, what is that thing?" Jack asked.
"It is a rhinoceros horn," the dragoman responded.
Mr. Maxwell cleared his throat. "It's said to have aphrodisiac properties."
"I daresay that explains how something that ugly could be considered of value," Jack said.
Next they came to the perfume bazaar. Even before they reached it, heavy floral scents drew them in its direction. The ladies had to stop. An Egyptian in a striped robe held a clear flask beneath the pretty blonde's nose. "I declare," Rosemary said, "these are as fine as any French perfumes."
"I agree," Daphne said. "We must have some." She turned to Habeeb. "You shall have to sufficiently deprecate the perfume to get us a good price." That was the single piece of advice she'd learned about bazaar shopping. Goods, she'd been told, could typically be had for a quarter of the starting price.
For the next several moments, Habeeb and two different perfume sellers went back and forth before Habeeb finally looked up at Daphne, a cocky expression on his face. "I get you very good price. Only five paras for one of each fragrance."
Jack paid for the perfume, and they continued on. Stall after stall featured grain, flax, salt, staples of life that presently held no interest for her.
Mr. Maxwell kept apologizing for not being more familiar with the bazaar, but Daphne was sure even locals must get lost within the tangle of narrow streets crammed with Arabs, Indians, veiled women, brown children, goats, and donkeys. Always, the pungent aroma of the hookah pipes was present, but the scent of rich coffees, exotic sandalwood, freshly caught fish, and many other foods she could not possibly put a name to permeated the dark alleys.
It was even more exciting than she’d thought it would be. Except that she was rather a freak. Of all their party, it was she who drew gawks from everyone they passed. Because of her spectacles and her height and her thick mop of unmanageable golden hair. “I have decided to purchase veils and burkas or whatever these Egyptian women wear.”
Her husband looked down at her. “You can’t mean you wish to dress as the natives?”
“I am strongly considering it. I know that as a European, I will continue to draw curious glances, but you must admit my hair resembles nothing so much as a deranged sheep who’s been too close to the sun. If I were to wear veils, it would at least be covered.”
“I do wish you wouldn’t criticize your hair," Jack said. "I love it.”
“That, my dearest love, is because you love me. The natives don’t.”
This row they were walking along was comprised of small pens for a variety of cackling poultry. She was vaguely aware of satisfaction that chickens looked much the same the world over. As much as she appreciated foreign customs, she rather drew the line at strange animals that might launch at one.
She stopped, swatted at the incessant flies, and turned to Habeeb. "It is the desire of my husband and me to each have one native costume. Can you procure them for us?" She had not apprised her husband of her scheme, but knowing his history of clandestine inquiries, she knew he might have need of such a costume. She knew, too, he would not publicly repudiate her request. Though in private she would be braced to face his mild rebuke.
The dragoman nodded.
"And," Daphne added, "take care that both my husband's and my height are considerably taller than most Arabs."
"Yes, Sitti el-Kebin."
Jack had told her the title Habeeb had given her roughly translated to great lady.
"I daresay one would be more comfortable in native dress today," Mr. Maxwell said.
A moment later, he came to a stop where several stalls intersected. He turned left. “If my memory serves correctly,” Mr. Maxwell said, we’re moving in the direction of the more permanent structures where so-called antiquities are offered.”
“What do you mean by so-called?” Jack asked.
“The shopkeepers will tell you they’re authentic papyrus, authentic scarabs, amulets, but more often than not, they’re fakes.”
Rosemary spun toward him. “Pray, Mr. Maxwell, can you tell the difference?”
“It is no special accomplishment, especially for one who has spent his entire life examining old scrolls.”
“Then you can read ancient Egyptian?” Rosemary asked, her eyes flashing with admiration.
He shook his head. “No living man can read them at present, but I’ve been working with a Frenchman to decipher a stone discovered in the Egyptian delta a decade ago. We think it will unlock the keys to ancient Egyptian picture writings.”
“How thrilling,” Rosemary said.
“I did not think anyone but me would find such a tedious task thrilling,” he said. As always, the scholar spoke without inflection. His voice, like himself, was unassuming. Were he on an English street and not in Cairo, his modest person would never demand a second glance.
Not like her Jack. She was thankful he was not wearing his regimentals. He was far too handsome in them. Not that he wasn’t exceedingly handsome as he looked today, all brawny height and dark good looks, dressed in brown woolens and camel-coloured boots made of fine leather.
When they reached the soaring brick buildings that signaled the gold market, she knew they were getting closer to the antiques. Even though Daphne was not interested in jewels, she could not help but be dazzled by the stunning gold collars, bracelets, and rings of every description, including some filigreed like she'd never before seen. Ornate gold jewelry was being thrust at them by aggressive merchants speaking in rapid Arabic, and Rosemary found it difficult not to stop. "I must return here after you've conducted your important business."
Minutes later they found the “street” where antiquities were offered. The merchants here pegged them as British and were the first to have somewhat of a command of English. “Papyrus from many thousands years past very cheap,” one said.
The very next shop offered sarcophaguses. “Hareem must take fine sarcophagus back to England.”
Daphne eyed Jack. “Hareem?”
“Lady.”
As he’d been directed, Habeeb made inquiries as to where they could find Ahmed Hassein. The most important antiquities dealer's shop was located at the end of this very street. It would be easy to find, they were told, because of the gilded pillars at its door—and a pair of very tall guards.
At the end of the lane, two very large men stood at the dazzling entrance as if they were sentries—which, in fact, they actually were. They did not dress in the Egyptian manner but looked similar to the Turkish soldiers who still had a presence in this farthest outpost of the Ottoman Empire. Instead of turbans, each of these men wore a tasseled fez. They were armed with muskets.
Like the Regent’s fine House Guards, these gua
rds did not so much as blink as the five of them walked into the shop. The soldiers who always followed them remained outside of the shop, eyes drilled on the five of them. Ahmed Hussein’s business establishment was as different from its neighbors as Habeeb was to scholarly Mr. Maxwell. It was as if bright daylight filled the first large chamber. She looked up and found that the roof of Ahmed Hussein’s shop was a glass dome.
Because of the abundant light, his sparkling, bejeweled goods could be clearly seen. There was but one sarcophagus here, and she would wager (if Jack allowed her to do such) that it was authentic. There really was no substitute for real gold, and she was certain it was adorned with that most valuable metal.
A man taller than ordinary Egyptians parted silken curtains and entered the room in which they had gathered. He wore the turban she’d come to expect of Egyptians, and his spotless robes looked as if this was the first time he’d ever worn them. (Daphne could never voice her observation that the average Egyptian did not look at all clean. In fact, the stench of humanity flowing through the narrow streets of the bazaar had not been pleasant.)
She eyed the Egyptian. He looked to be in his early forties and was possessed of an aristocratic face with high cheek bones and aquiline nose.
“We seek Ahmed Hussein,” Jack said to him.
The man—obviously not acquainted with English—shrugged.
Jack tried French.
The man smiled, nodded, and in French replied that he was Ahmed Hussein.
“My wife and I seek a private word with you,” Jack said in French.
He shrugged again. “My French is not good.”
Jack’s gaze locked with Mr. Maxwell’s and he spoke in English. “I should like you to serve as interpreter with the Egyptian.” Jack then looked at his sister-in-law. “If you and Habeeb can amuse yourselves in this room until our meeting has concluded, I shall give Mr. Maxwell leave to take you throughout the entire bazaar when we finish. I’m certain you’ll be able to find the silks you’re looking for, and you'll be able to revisit the gold bazaar.”
She nodded solemnly.
