Touchstone (Meridian Series)

by John Schettler

  “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.

  “You believe his story?”

  “Not a word.”

  “What? Then you think he’s—“

  “Oh, he’s a clever one, that’s for sure, but he’s not who he seems.”

  “Who then?”

  “You tell me,” Maeve folded her arms. “This was all too convenient. Either he’s part and parcel with LeGrand, or he’s working for the other side—one of those Assassins Paul stumbled on. But he’s certainly not the humble and amiable trader he claims to be.”

  “Good lord. Do you think the Assassins could be privy to our mission here as well?”

  “Anything is possible,” Maeve concluded. “We would be foolish not to assume as much. It seems we’ve got a date with this man for the discovery tomorrow. I wonder if he’s here for the same reason we are: to keep watch on the stone.”

  “Yes,” said Nordhausen, “and don’t forget LeGrand. He’ll be there as well. It should give us an opportunity to watch the two of them. Could make for some interesting chemistry if they are both agents in this Time war nonsense.”

  “You have a knack for understatement,” said Maeve. “Well, we may as well rest here for the heat of the day. But lock the door. I don’t trust either of these men—LeGrand and Khalid alike.”

  Part VII

  Discovery

  “Then I felt like some watcher of the skies

  When a new planet swims into his ken;

  Or like the stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

  He star’d at the Pacific—and all his menr />
  Look’d at each other with a wild surmise—

  Silent, upon a peak in Darien.”

  —Keats: Sonnet: On First Looking Into Chapman’s Homer

  19

  The morning sun was already promising cruel heat as the last of the wagons pulled into the work area. All about the walls of Ft. Julien the labor party of local peasants worked to remove the hard, sun-baked stone that jutted from the base of the aging rampart. A French officer of engineers stood watching as three men strained against a long iron bar wedged in the rock. From the early hours of the morning, the men had been clearing the base of the wall, hauling the smaller stone away to be mortared on to the higher sections above.

  There was an urgency and sense of haste in their movements. A large Turkish force had landed at Aboukir bay, days ago, and quickly overcome the French garrison there. Now the threat to both Alexandria and Rosetta was quite real. At Rosetta, the French found the ruined walls of an old fort, eighty meters on a side. The wall towers had four movable turrets for the mounting of artillery, but the French officers quickly noted that they would not be fit to mount even one of their smaller guns, an eight-pound cannon. The crenellations on the ramparts connecting the turrets were in decay, and the tower keep at the centre of the fortress still harbored a small mosque.

  Living quarters, a hospital, ovens, guard units and ammunition dumps were quickly established at the site by a battalion of engineers. They were ably assisted by a dedicated Lieutenant, one Pierre François Xavier Bouchard, and Robert spied him at once as he turned to squint at the labor detail.

  Bouchard was a tall man, still young at the age of twenty-eight, and well suited to the task. He had first come to Egypt, not as a soldier, but as one of the many savants that had accompanied the expedition. With an interest in the ancient carvings and archeology, Bouchard realized he might best serve his own curiosity, along with the French interests, by joining the corps of engineers. He had only lately been assigned to the Rosetta work detail, and now, Robert knew, he was about to make the single most important discovery of his life—The Rosetta Stone; it was lying somewhere in the dry, cracked soil of the embankment at the base of the wall, waiting to emerge from centuries of silence and darkness, and enlighten the whole Western understanding of the ancient Egyptian culture. It was the key to deciphering the hieroglyphics, for it would bear a message in each of three languages, and serve as a primer for scholars in decades to come.

  Nordhausen watched the men work, a feeling of rising excitement and anxiety in his chest. Now they were struggling to pry loose a particularly stubborn rock that was wedged into the supporting foundation of the wall. The officer, Bouchard, gestured to two other men, indicating that they should lend their weight to the lever and, even as they rushed forward to the task, LeGrand appeared in a billow of dust, riding in on the same covered coach that Robert and Maeve had arrived in the previous day.

  The two travelers had come to the scene an hour earlier, escorted by their guide, Khalid. He was especially gracious, bringing them cool water and a plate of sweetened bread and dates when he arrived at their room that morning. They ate, and then were eager to reach the site of the impending discovery, though they did not share their real intent with their host. Nordhausen carried on about his interest in the old Egyptian carvings in the region, and Khalid was only too happy to banter with him about the improvements the Arabs had made to the architecture in centuries past.

  Now they were standing in the lee of a high tower on the wall, watching with keen interest as the work parties cleared the rubble away by slow, tedious labor.

  Though Maeve wanted to remain as inconspicuous as possible, it was hard for the other Westerners at the scene not to notice them. A few French infantry were eyeing her from a distance, though Khalid played his role of the cordial host well, and made it seem that he was entertaining guests, or trading partners in some long planned exchange of commerce. It was a ruse that seemed to be working, for no one bothered them until LeGrand arrived in his coach and fixed his grey eyes upon them with a squint of suspicion.

  Khalid was quick to notice. He turned to Robert and leaned in close, as Arabs are accustomed, as if confiding some intensely personal matter.

  “He is here.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Robert was not quite in tune.

  “You know the man of whom I speak. The grey one in the coach, near the gate by the west wall. You must be very cautious now, my friends. This man is dangerous.”

  “You know him?” Robert expressed his natural curiosity, hoping to ferret out the relationship between the two that he was already suspicious of himself.

  “Let us say that I have had dealings with the man. He is not to be trusted.”

  “Ah… Then he is another trader?” There was something in Robert’s voice that was not lost on his host. Khalid smiled, his dark eyes narrowing under their heavy brows.

  “He trades in things that most men would be wise to leave in peace,” said Khalid. “But, then again, the commerce of the hour brings us all here to some end or another, does it not?”

  Robert nodded agreeably, though the insinuation was not lost on Maeve, who regarded the Arab with a knowing gaze. She was keen to observe the obvious tension in the man’s face and deportment now that LeGrand had arrived. The interloper was down from his coach and making his way boldly across the courtyard, intent on trio by the tower.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” LeGrand said politely, bowing as he stepped into the shade of the tower. “Monsieur.” He said to Nordhausen, and then proffered a wan smile in Khalid’s direction, nodding his head in a mock bow.

  Khalid touched his heart with his hand, and made a shallow head bow in return. “You are very punctual, LeGrand,” he said in English, with just a hint of annoyance.

  “Oh?” said LeGrand. “And just what brings you into the company of these good people, Sheik? Are you working some trade for the Sultan?”

  “The Sultan? His army is very close at hand, but I do not think he has trade on his mind. The Pasha is here to throw out the French, as you well know.” He lowered his voice, covering the remark with a strained smile.

  “Not something you want to lord on about,” said LeGrand. “Particularly in English—not with the British fleet about in these waters. Rumor has it that the French are becoming more and more suspicious of local traders. Information passes in whispers, even as coinage moves from one purse to another. They wonder how Nelson and his fleet managed to make such a good accounting of the French Army’s movements when they were in Palestine.”

  “Do they?” Khalid was still smiling, though his eyes were smoldering with restrained hostility. “They are a curious lot, are they not?”

  “Curious, indeed,” LeGrand returned. “As you seem to be. Pray tell me, what business do you have here today? Are you hoping to win a contract for the repair of these walls?” He gestured at the tawny fortifications.

  “Nothing so enterprising,” said Khalid. “I was merely extending the hospitality of my people to these strangers, and seeing to their comfort. The professor here has an interest in ancient stone carvings, and I thought we might tour the fortifications.”

  “Ah,” said LeGrand. “Good day, professor. Ready for the revelation?” he rubbed his palms together. “In spite of what my friend says, I think we can all safely acknowledge why we are here, yes? Now then…” he squinted at the sun. “You may wish to move this way in a moment.” LeGrand gestured to his right, where a low pile of loosened stone provided them a slight rise in elevation and a better view of the digging party. The low baritone of the French officer of engineers could be heard, exhorting the laborers to strain a bit harder at the iron lever they had wedged into the base of the large, half-exposed rock they were working.

  “Come, professor, Madame… It is almost time.” There was just a trace of urgency in LeGrand’s voice, and Maeve could see that Khalid had been edging closer to the work crews, trying to appear uninterested, but keenly aware of their steady progress. />
  Robert turned, and then heard a loud chink as the iron lever slipped. A hard crack followed, and the large rock fell suddenly away from the base of the wall in a cloud of silt and dust. LeGrand rocked on his heels, a smile of anticipation on his face. There was an audible gasp as the dust settled around a dark squarish shape that had been exposed in the side of the wall. The officer had immediately taken note of it, and was leaning in, intent on some discovery in the rubble.

  Two of the workmen rushed from the scene, as though frightened by what they had uncovered. The officer shouted after them, then barked loudly at the two French soldiers standing the watch, and the men came running in response.

  Now Nordhausen saw that the two laborers had gone to fetch a sturdy rope and tackle. The officer was giving orders, his riding crop pointing this way and that, and he soon eyed the coach that LeGrand had arrived in, pointing at the horse. It was clear that he wanted to utilize the animal to help haul something out of the rubble. LeGrand, still beaming with a smug, self-satisfied expression, strode forward to offer his services. He gestured to Nordhausen with his hand, beckoning him to follow.

  Robert and Maeve needed no encouragement. They were inching closer, trying to remain discreet, but keenly interested in the find. Khalid was right on their heels.

  LeGrand stepped up, bowed to the French officer, and then gestured magnanimously at his horse and tackle, where the soldiers were already loosening the carriage harness and hitch to free the beast for their purposes, whether LeGrand approved or not. Dust clouded the scene, obscuring the find, but LeGrand acted as though he was playing out a well rehearsed part.

  “Be my guest,” Nordhausen heard LeGrand say in French. “But what is it you have discovered, monsieur?”