The Emerald Embrace

by Briskin, Jacqueline;

  Uisha came to grasp my hands. I was as relieved to see her as she was to see me, yet at the same time a darkness blurred my sight, for now I knew that she must share my terrible fate.

  “Thank God you’re both alive,” Yacub beamed. “I’ve had the diggers searching everywhere these past three days. We’ve looked high and low, and found not a trace. But who could know there was an empty tomb until he—” Yacub glared at Ismael “—had us arrested.”

  “When?” Stephen asked.

  “Less than an hour ago,” Yacub replied with another glare. “Some idiocy about stealing gold from the government. Don’t worry, I’ve given them a piece of my mind.”

  “The Frankish man’s a strong one,” said the sergeant to Ismael. “But this pair we’ve taken certainly don’t appear to be the desperate robbers of national treasure you say. A mute woman and a merry fool.”

  “You’ve done the right thing,” Ismael retorted. The bruise on his forehead had risen swiftly. “You’ll be greatly rewarded.”

  The sergeant said frostily, “What reward does the Pasha’s own man need for doing his duty?”

  Another batch of footsteps came toward us. The Citadel guards pulled in their chins so that the protective mail in back of their helmets hung in a straight line. The two continued to grasp Stephen but otherwise they also stood at attention.

  Passing a smoothing hand over my hair, I took a deep, quivering breath.

  “This way, Excellency.” Rais Guzman’s voice echoed in the corridor. “The treasure’s in here.”

  At the threshold the Pasha halted.

  A spare man in drab browns. Amid his glittering guards he seemed as incongruous as ever.

  Obviously what he saw took him completely by surprise. He peered into the chamber, blinking in the smoky light at Stephen, Yacub and Uisha.

  When his gaze fell on me, the pale gray eyes suffused with a peculiar light. His face grew drawn and bloodless as if he were suffering a mortal wound.

  The guards, Rais Guzman, Ismael, Stephen, Yacub and Uisha at my side were still and silent as the painted figures.

  I forgot them all as I stared back at the Pasha. Despite my love for Stephen a weakness trembled through my thighs.

  Too much had passed between the Pasha and me for indifference—not just the hours I’d lain naked in his arms expressing a passion not my own, but his teasing, his aggravating amusement at my education and his infuriating laughter at the West. His sweet occasional tenderness. And David, always David. The terrible night of his conception, the difficult birth, the few sunlit years of his life. David. As I stared at the Pasha I saw the shape of David’s brow, the humorous quirk of my baby’s mouth.

  The Pasha grew paler. Then he blinked and his lips grew firm as if he had come to a decision. Abruptly he turned from me to Stephen.

  “Why is that gentleman being held?” he inquired. Though his face remained dead white, his voice had regained its normal quality.

  Ismael’s face was a study of slyly hopeful expectation. “He’s most dangerous, Excellency.” He bent his bruised forehead. “He just did this to me.”

  “Release him,” the Pasha ordered.

  Ismael jerked with surprise. The guards dropped their restraining hands. Stephen rotated his shoulders, getting back the circulation.

  “Good morning, Commodore,” the Pasha said.

  Stephen bowed. “Pasha.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand what’s going on,” the Pasha said. He turned to Rais Guzman, who had followed him into the chamber. “Wasn’t there meant to be unique treasure here? To be sure an American naval officer is unique to find in an Egyptian tomb. But I’ve come all the way from Cairo. It’s a long journey. So you’ll have to forgive me, Commodore Delaplane—” he glanced in Stephen’s direction “—if I don’t recognize why your presence here should be considered a treasure by me.”

  Ismael gaped openly and unbelievingly. Rais Guzman’s body in its dandified blue coat remained erect and haughty, but his expression, too, was baffled.

  The pirate captain said, “I thought—”

  “You thought what?” the Pasha cut in silkily. “Did you or did you not have my governor in Thebes dispatch an urgent letter?”

  “I did, yes, but—”

  “And did it not contain news that a Lord Bentham had uncovered a tomb still sealed? And that I ought to be present at the opening?”

  So that was how the Pasha had arrived here so swiftly. Weeks ago the local governor, at Rais Guzman’s instigation, had sent word to Cairo of the discovery of an unplundered tomb. The Pasha had set sail posthaste.

  “Yes, Excellency. However—”

  “Then why is all I see four prisoners? One of them my friend, Commodore Delaplane? And he being held by my own men?”

  At the Pasha’s barrage of questions Rais Guzman’s expression had become increasingly bewildered.

  I frowned with the same puzzlement. I was dizzy from hunger and captivity, numb with the shock of seeing the Pasha. My mind wasn’t working properly. I knew the Pasha was intelligent enough to realize why he’d been brought here. Why then, was he asking pointless questions in front of his own men?

  The Pasha swung back to Stephen. “Commodore, who is your lady?” He snapped his fingers. “But of course! You’ve been married since our last meeting. Will you present me to Mrs. Delaplane?”

  My jaw fell open as I finally comprehended. The Pasha was denying who I was. Only a handful of men had seen my unveiled torment at the Nile Festival. If any of these guards had been there, and if they recognized me in this crumpled Western clothing, they could never admit it. In the East to look on the face of another man’s wife was sin. To look on the face of the Pasha’s wife was a crime tantamount to treason. The Pasha alone could say whether or not I was his kadine.

  He was refusing to admit who I was.

  But why?

  I shrank closer to the wall, suddenly cold as I remembered his grieving voice telling me he would have punished David’s murderers yet more fiercely than the law provided. He has something worse in mind for me than drowning, I thought, a crueler torture for Stephen than hanging in chains. I couldn’t repress my long, shuddering sigh.

  Stephen gripped my hand. “We’re not yet married,” he said. “Pasha, may I have the privilege of introducing my countrywoman and fiancée, Miss Moore.”

  My legs shook as I managed a small curtsy.

  I could tell that behind the Pasha’s smile lay poignant misery. But that didn’t reassure me. He was a vengeful man.

  “So, Commodore,” he said. “You’ve returned to Egypt to share with Miss Moore your enthusiasm for our past?”

  Maybe there was a chance, I thought swiftly. Maybe there was one frail, tenuous chance that restitution would cancel his vengefulness. But we hadn’t found any treasure, I told myself. It didn’t matter. In the face of our desperate situation, I had to try something.

  Before Stephen could reply, I said, “I’ve always been enthusiastic, Pasha. My father studied the ways of the ancient world, and this past year I’ve been to Paris, and learned from the great Egyptologist Champollion. I came here believing I would make a very important find.”

  “Maybe you will,” the Pasha retorted. “Then you can go back to America with your fortune made.”

  “Personal wealth never was the reason for this search,” I said, and my voice shook with intensity. “This land is the cradle of civilization. All humanity has benefited from Egypt’s past. We had hoped to repay a great debt by making this country a gift of her glorious heritage.”

  “Fervent words, Miss Moore. But of course charming ladies should always speak fervently of good causes. However, that still doesn’t explain why I was brought here.”

  Rais Guzman stepped forward. “Excellency.” He used a propitiatory tone. “I beg your indulgence most humbly. However, I had no idea it was a wild-goose chase. As you can see, Miss Moore has indeed discovered a tomb. A magnificently decorated one.” He gestured and a guard raised a me
shal, casting smoky light on Thutmose and Nefer.

  As the Pasha studied the vividly decorated walls, his expression was as vulnerable as when he first saw me. I knew then he had been battling as hard as I to maintain his composure.

  “Once,” he said in a low, penetrating whisper, “I heard of an Egyptian ruler married to a blond foreign woman. I thought it but a legend.”

  My plea to him had drained my strength, and my heart began to flutter in my throat. My knees grew weak. Uisha put a hand on my arm.

  “Pasha,” Stephen said. “If we could get Miss Moore out of here? We’ve been held three days.”

  “Three days?” the Pasha demanded. “I would have ordered her taken out immediately if I’d known. Three days in a tomb! People haven’t survived far less time than that.”

  “Rais Guzman saw fit to keep us here that long,” Stephen said.

  “Rais Guzman?” the Pasha said sharply. “Did you say Guzman?”

  “Perhaps you remember my telling you that I scouted the corsair naval tactics firsthand? I sailed aboard Rais Guzman’s ship.”

  The Pasha’s eyes had narrowed. The pointed nose stood out imperiously, and his mouth losing its amusement, drew into a hard line. His body seemed to grow invincible. “Guzman,” he repeated. His voice, too, had been transformed. He repeated the name in a hoarse timbre. “Guzman?”

  “My patronymic,” the corsair captain said. “A very old and proud name in Andalusia.”

  “Then, Rais Guzman, it seems you haven’t brought me to the Valley of the Kings on a fool’s errand. You’ve brought me here to a long-awaited revenge.”

  “I’ve been hoping to hear that I’ve earned your approval, Excellency.” The corsair’s smile was venal.

  “You’ll be rewarded,” the Pasha said.

  “How amply?” Ismael asked. He shone with sweat and the white linen of his caftan was dark across his brutal shoulders.

  “More than Rais Guzman dreams of,” the Pasha said. “I heard the name Guzman long ago. It was in a matter regarding a kinsman who died lingeringly, a kinsman very dear to me.”

  David, I thought suddenly. He was talking about David. And I remembered an August morning and the Pasha, aged with grief, begging me to release David from a living death, assuring me that all would be settled in the way of Islam, for he knew the name of the chief plotter. But how would it have profited Rais Guzman to harm David? The princess, I thought. Yes, of course. He was the courier she paid to kill my David. Grief pressed on me and my eyes grew wet.

  “So you see, Rais Guzman,” the Pasha said, “how great your reward will be.”

  “Excellency, I don’t understand your anger.”

  “You understand, Rais Guzman. I can smell the fear on you.”

  While Stephen, Yacub and the Citadel guards watched in bewilderment, Ismael edged toward the shadowy entry.

  The Pasha asked, “Are you interested to learn where I heard your name before, Rais Guzman? It was in a dungeon below the Citadel. The prisoner pretended to be a Bedouin, but in reality he had sailed as a corsair.”

  “A coincidence, Excellency. It doesn’t make me guilty of harming your kin.”

  The Pasha ignored the interruption. “The prisoner told me how he was recruited to take part in the murder scheme. He told me, Rais Guzman, how much gold he was paid.”

  “None knew my name,” Rais Guzman whispered.

  “This man knew your name. He repeated your name.”

  “He lied.”

  “Are you interested in our new legal code, Rais Guzman?” The Pasha’s avenging malice grew ever more tormented each time he repeated Rais Guzman. “Are you familiar with the punishment for harming the Pasha’s kin, Rais Guzman?”

  The corsair gave a terrible cry. “No filthy Muslim will hang a Guzman in chains!” And he reached under his elegant blue jacket for a pistol.

  “Take him!”

  “Get the gun!”

  Torches jumped and shadows leaped wildly.

  Rais Guzman lifted the pistol, bracing his right wrist with his left hand. He was not aiming at any of the guards or the Pasha.

  He was aiming at me.

  “Be careful!” The Pasha’s harsh, agonized cry.

  Rais Guzman continued to sight down the short barrel at me, hoping, I think, to take me hostage and escape. But as his finger tensed on the trigger, I heard Uisha’s swift, rustling movement. She flung herself in front of me.

  Light blazed and the ancient hollowed-out place rang with a roar such as it had never heard. A cloud of smoke spread.

  Uisha’s slight weight pressed against me. I grasped her, my attention still riveted on Rais Guzman.

  The Pasha was moving toward him.

  But it was Stephen, wrenching a curved dagger from the sergeant’s red sash, who in one swift movement lunged, thrusting the sharp Damascus steel deep into the narrow chest.

  The corsair clutched at his coat as if protecting the gold buttons. With a choking cough, he fell back, his long thin arms outflung, his neck twisted.

  Rais Guzman was dead.

  And I, who hated killing, I, who had begged the Pasha not to seek vengeance, shook with a greater, more vital release than I had ever experienced. The small bright boy who played in the sunlight was avenged.

  There was another shot, but I paid no attention. I was kneeling over Uisha. The veil had been torn from her, and her coffee-colored features were slack. Her glazed eyes looked up at me. Her lips moved. She wanted to say something to me, but no sound came. Uisha was dying, and still there was no release from her imprisoning silence.

  “Uisha, you shouldn’t have done that,” I said brokenly. “You know how much I need you.”

  She managed a smile. Her fingers inched up, feebly pointing to me then to her own heart, which was pumping out her rich red blood. She wanted to tell me she had repaid the debt of her life.

  “You owe me nothing,” I whispered. “Ah, Uisha, you’ve done everything for me, and so well. You’re my friend and I love you.”

  She managed another smile. A reddish foam appeared at her lips. She glanced at a wall, and I understood, lifting her as gently as I could in the direction that she had gauged Mecca.

  “Uisha, friend, to God you belong and to Him you must return.”

  Her breath came in a small sigh, and then her beautiful eyes gazed into an unknowable distance toward the holy city. Tears blinding me, I replaced her veil. In life Uisha had been a dignified, seemly woman. In death she must be the same.

  Ten

  That same unbearably bright afternoon Uisha was buried across the Nile in Thebes. I insisted on going with Yacub and Stephen, but grief and the aftereffects of my imprisonment held me in a state of suspended reality so that the brief, lonely funeral has always remained a blur to me.

  Our ferry passed near the state barge and the clanking of Citadel guards pacing its decks reached through my haze, reminding me of our dangerous, unfinished business with the Pasha. And then there was only the splashing of ferryman’s oars, a slow, rhythmic sound that mourned Uisha, Uisha, Uisha.

  Yacub and the cook had remained in Thebes to offer up additional prayers, so Stephen and I were alone as we walked between the tall, obscuring rushes to our campsite.

  In the shade of the little temple ruin a dozen or so Citadel guards lounged about.

  I forgot my bone-deep weariness and my grief gave way to fear. I took a step backward, clutching Stephen’s arm.

  The sergeant, a full-faced, middle-aged man, hurried to meet us. “Commodore, I bring a message from the Pasha,” he said, his fleshy cheeks quivering. “My master has found a painting that interests him. He desires that you and Miss Moore come to the tomb to help him interpret its meaning.”

  “Miss Moore is weary and needs to rest,” Stephen said.

  “The Pasha himself instructed me,” insisted the sergeant in an awkward tone that hovered between force and subservience.

  “Then I’ll have to explain to the Pasha about Miss Moore’s indisposition.”r />
  The sergeant passed a grimy handkerchief below his helmet. “My orders are to bring you both.”

  I looked up at Stephen, saying in English, “What point is there arguing? The Pasha will just send other men for me. And I’ll be alone. It’s far better if we go together.” And then I burst out, “I’m glad he’s sent for us! Escape’s impossible and I can’t stand any more of this game.”

  After a long, searching look into my eyes, Stephen said, “You do need to rest. That’s why you mustn’t come.”

  “I won’t let you go without me!”

  “Don’t misjudge him. This morning when he released us it was clear that he intended us no harm.”

  Did Stephen honestly believe this? Or was his bravery obscuring our desperate situation? “I’m going with you.”

  I gripped him tightly and we walked toward the Valley of the Kings, guards in front of us, guards behind us. Despite my fear, I had to admit they didn’t act like an arresting escort. One raised an enormous purple silk umbrella to shield me from the afternoon sun, and all listened intently to Stephen as he answered the sergeant’s questions about the “Frankish navy.”

  Nearing the hidden canyon, I grew anxious to see the Pasha and walked faster, pressing past the others into the tomb.

  The skeleton had been cleared from the bottom of the stone ladder.

  “Commodore.” The sergeant’s voice echoed nervously in the tunnel. “The Pasha requested a few minutes alone with Miss Moore.”

  “That’s impossible,” Stephen said firmly. “I’ll accompany her.”

  “The Pasha won’t hurt me, you told me that yourself. And I want to see him. Alone. To thank him.” I spoke impatiently.

  Stephen raised his chin, and I knew I’d hurt and angered him, but I was already running down the slope into darkness. A guard carrying a meshal caught up with me.

  More light streamed from the funerary chamber, where torches were affixed to rungs sunk into the stones so many centuries earlier.

  The Pasha wasn’t alone!

  Ranged behind him were Ibraham, his heir, and Ahmed. The shock of finding them with the Pasha created a sharp interior struggle in me. My fears were crushed by another reality … I’m safe with the ruler of Egypt. An intense dizzying pain cut behind my eyes, and I had to hold onto the wall as I stepped over the high threshold.