Ethan Gage Collection # 1 (23 page)

“Don't you see? This pyramid was built to conform to the Fibonacci numbers, the Fibonacci squares, the golden number that artists have always found harmonious. It doesn't just feel right to us, it
is
right!”

Talma looked across to the other two large pyramids that were our neighbors. “So are they all like that?”

Jomard shook his head. “No. This one is special, I suspect. It is a
book, trying to tell us something. It is unique for a reason I don't yet understand.”

“I'm sorry, Jomard,” the journalist said. “I'm happy for you that you are excited, but the fact that imaginary lines equal 1.6, or whatever you said, seems an even sillier reason to build a pyramid than calling something pointed a hemisphere or building a tomb you won't be buried in. It seems perfectly possible to me that if any of this is true, your ancient Egyptians were at least as crazy as they were clever.”

“Ah, but that is where you are wrong, my friend,” the savant happily replied. “I don't blame your skepticism, however, because I didn't see what has been staring us in the face all day until sharp-eyed Gage here helped me find the fossil nautilus. You see, the Fibonacci sequence, translated into Fibonacci geometry, yields one of the most beautiful designs in all nature. Let's draw an arc through these squares, from one corner to another, and then connect the arcs.” He flipped his drawing. “Then we get a picture like this:”

“There! What does that look like?”

“The nautilus,” I ventured. The man was damned clever, even though I still didn't get where he was heading.

“Precisely! Imagine if I expanded this picture by adding additional squares: 21, 34, and so on. This spiral would continue to grow, round
and round, bigger and bigger, looking ever more like our nautilus. And this spiral pattern is something we see again and again. When you take the Fibonacci sequence and apply it to geometry, and then apply that geometry to nature, you see this sublime number pattern, this perfect spiral, being used by God himself. You will find the spiral in the seed head of a flower or the seeds of a pinecone. The petals on many flowers are Fibonacci numbers. A lily has 3, a buttercup 5, a delphinium 8, corn marigolds 13, some asters have 21, and some daisies 34. Not all plants follow the pattern, but many do because it is the most efficient way to push growing seeds or petals out from a common center. It is also very beautiful. So,
now
we see just how marvelous this pyramid is!” He nodded to himself, satisfied with his own explanation.

“It's a flower?” Talma ventured, relieving me of the burden of being dense.

“No.” He looked solemn. “What we have climbed is not just a map of the world, Monsieur Journalist. It's not even just a portrait of God. It is in fact a symbol for all creation, the life force itself, a mathematical representation of how the universe works. This mass of stone incorporates not just the divine, but the very secret of existence. It has encoded, within its dimensions, the fundamental truths of our world. The Fibonacci numbers are nature at its most efficient and beautiful, a peek at divine intelligence. And this pyramid embodies them, and by doing so embodies the mind of God himself.” He smiled wistfully. “Here it was, all life's truth in the dimensions of this first great building, and everything since has been a long forgetting.”

Talma gaped as if our companion had gone mad. I sat back, not knowing what to think. Could the pyramid really exist to enshrine numbers? It seemed alien to our way of thinking, but perhaps the ancient Egyptians looked at the world differently. So was my medallion some kind of mathematical clue or symbol as well? Was it in any way connected to Jomard's strange theories? Or was the savant reading something into this heap of stone that its builders never intended?

Somewhere in that direction was
L'Orient,
with a calendar that might hold more keys to the puzzle, and that seemed the next thing I could examine. I went to touch the medallion hidden against my
breast and suddenly felt disquiet that it wasn't there. Maybe Talma was right: I was too naïve. Was I right to trust Enoch? And with Jomard's right triangle in mind I imagined the medallion's arms as dowsing rods, pointing to something far below my feet.

I looked back down the dizzying way we'd come. Ashraf was walking to follow the line of the pyramid's shadow, his gaze toward the sand instead of up to the sky.

N
apoleon was in a good mood when I asked for permission to return to the flagship, displaying the jocular confidence of a man who felt his schemes of Oriental glory were falling into place. While he'd been just one of many striving generals in the cockpit of Europe, here he was omnipotent, a new pharaoh. He delighted in the spoils of war, confiscating Mameluke treasure to add to his personal fortune. He even tried on the robes of an Ottoman potentate, but only once—his generals laughed at him.

While the black cloud that had enveloped Napoleon upon learning of Josephine's infidelities had not entirely lifted, he assuaged his pain by taking a concubine himself. Conforming to local custom, the French had reviewed a parade of Egyptian courtesans offered by the city's beys, but when the officers dismissed most of these alleged beauties as overweight and shopworn—Europeans liked their women young and skinny—Bonaparte consoled himself with the lissome sixteen-year-old daughter of Sheikh el-Bekri, a girl named Zenab. Her father offered her services in return for the general's help in a dispute with another noble over a young boy that both sheikhs had taken a fancy to. The father was granted the boy and Napoleon got Zenab.

This damsel, who submitted docilely to the arrangement, soon became known as the “General's Egyptian.” Bonaparte was as eager to cheat on his wife as she was cheating on him, and Zenab seemed flattered that the “Sultan Kebir” had chosen her over more experienced
women. Within months the general became bored with the girl and started an affair with the French beauty Pauline Foures, cuckolding her unfortunate husband by ordering the lieutenant on a dispatch mission to France. The British, who had heard gossip of the affair from captured letters, seized the lieutenant's ship and with a malicious sense of humor deposited him back in Egypt to complicate Napoleon's love life. So went a war in which gossip was a political weapon. We were in an age where passion was politics, and Bonaparte's all too human mix of global dreams and petty lusts fascinated all of us. He was Prometheus and Everyman, a tyrant and a republican, an idealist and a cynic.

At the same time, Bonaparte began to remake Egypt. Despite the jealousies of his fellow generals, it was clear to us savants that he was brighter than any of them. I for one judge intelligence not so much by what you know as by how much you want to know, and Napoleon wanted to know about everything. He devoured information the way a glutton devours food, and he had broader interests than any officer in the army, even Jomard. At the same time, he could lock his curiosity away, as if in a cabinet to be taken out later, while he concentrated furiously on the military task at hand. This combination is rare. Bonaparte dreamed of remaking Egypt as Alexander had remade the Persian Empire, and fired off memorandums to France requesting everything from seeds to surgeons. If the Macedonian had founded Alexandria, Napoleon was determined to found the richest French colony in history. Local beys were mustered into a divan council to help with administration and taxation, while the scientists and engineers were bombarded with queries about well digging, windmill construction, road improvements, and mineral prospecting. Cairo would be reformed. Superstition was to be succeeded by science. The Revolution had come to the Middle East!

So when I approached him for leave to return to the flagship, it was with an affable tone that he asked, “This ancient calendar will tell you what, exactly?”

“It may help make sense of my medallion and mission by telling us a key year or date. Just how is uncertain, but the calendar does no good in the hold of a ship.”

“The hold
does
prevent it from being stolen.”

“I intend to examine it, not sell it, General.”

“Of course. And you'll not uncover secrets without sharing them with me, the man who shielded you from murder charges in France, will you, Monsieur Gage?”

“I am working in concert with your own savants right now.”

“Good. You may be getting more help soon.”

“Help?”

“You'll see. Meanwhile, I certainly hope you're not considering leaving our expedition by trying to take ship to America. You understand that if I give you leave to go back to
L'Orient
for this calendar device, your slave girl and Mameluke captive will stay here in Cairo, under my protection.” His look was narrow.

“But of course.” I recognized that he'd assigned an emotional importance to Astiza I'd yet to admit to myself. Did I care that she was hostage to my loyal conduct? Was she truly a guarantee that I'd return? I hadn't thought about her in those terms, and yet I was intrigued by her and I admired Napoleon's perception of my intrigue. He seemed to miss nothing. “I will hurry back to them. I do wish, however, to take my friend, the journalist Talma.”

“The scribbler? I need him here, to record my administration.”

But Talma was restless. He had asked to come along so he could visit Alexandria, and I enjoyed his wry company. “He's anxious to file his dispatches on the fastest ship. He also wants to see more of Egypt and interest France in the future of this country.”

Napoleon considered. “Get him back here in a week.”

“It will be ten days, at most.”

“I'll give you dispatches to deliver to Admiral Brueys, and Monsieur Talma can carry some to Alexandria. You'll both give me your impressions upon your return.”

D
espite Talma's misgivings, I decided after careful consideration to leave the medallion with Enoch. I agreed with Astiza's reasoning that it was safer in the cellar of an old scholar than bandied about
Egypt. It was a relief not to have the pendant around my own vulnerable neck and have it safe from robbery when I went back down the Nile. While leaving the pendant was clearly a risk after carrying it so carefully from Paris to Cairo, its possession was pointless if we didn't know what it was for, and I still had little clue. Enoch seemed my best bet for an answer—and I am, after all, a gambler. Given my admittedly soft spot for women, I gambled that Astiza felt some loyalty to my quest, and that Enoch was more interested in solving the puzzle than hawking the bauble for money. Let him keep thumbing through his books. Meanwhile, I would examine the calendar in the hold of
L'Orient
in hopes it could supply a hint to the medallion's purpose, and together perhaps we'd crack the mystery. I urged Astiza to stay safely inside, and told Ashraf to keep both of them guarded.

“Should I not guide you to the coast?”

“Bonaparte says your presence here ensures I'll want to return. And it will.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “We are a partnership, all of us in this house, Citizen Ash. You will not betray me, will you?”

He drew himself straight. “Ashraf will guard this house with his life.”

I didn't want to carry my heavy rifle for a brief trip in a conquered country, but neither did I want it toyed with. After reflection, I remembered Ash's remark about superstition and fear of curses and stored it and my tomahawk in one of Enoch's mummy sarcophagi. It should be safe there.

Uncharacteristically, Talma made no comment on my decision to entrust the medallion to the Egyptians, instead mildly asking Astiza if she had any message she wanted him to bring to Alexandria. She said no.

We hired a native felucca to take us back down the Nile. These able sailing craft, skimming up and down the broad and slow Nile under their triangular sails, were the taxis of the river in the way donkeys filled that role in the streets of Cairo. It took several minutes of tiresome bargaining, but at length we were aboard and headed for Abukir, steered by a helmsman who spoke no French or English. Sign language seemed sufficient and we enjoyed the ride. As we once more entered the fertile delta downriver from Cairo, I was struck again by
the serene timelessness of the villages along the river's banks, as if the French had never passed this way. Trundling donkeys carried monumental heaps of straw. Small boys jumped and played in the shallows, indifferent to the crocodiles that lay like logs in quiet side channels. Clouds of white egrets rose flapping from islands of green reed. Silver fish darted between papyrus stalks. Clumps of vegetation bearing lilies and lotus flowers drifted down the Nile from the high reaches of Africa. Young girls in bright dresses sat on the flat roofs of houses, sorting red dates in the sun.

“I had no idea that conquering a country was so easy,” Talma remarked as the current carried us downriver. “A few hundred dead and we're masters of the place where civilization started. How did Bonaparte know?”

“Easier to seize a country than to run it,” I said.

“Exactly.” He lay against a gunwale, lazily looking at the passing landscape. “Here we are, lords of heat, flies, dung, rabid dogs, and illiterate peasants. Rulers of straw, sand, and green water. I tell you, it's the stuff that legends are made of.”

“Which is your specialty, as our journalist.”

“Under my pen, Napoleon becomes a visionary. He let me come with you because I've agreed to write his biography. I have no objection. He told me hostile newspapers are more to be feared than a thousand bayonets, but that I can rise with him. This is not exactly news to me. The more heroic I make him seem, the sooner he fulfills his ambitions and we can all go home.”

I smiled at the world-weary way that the French view life after so many centuries of wars, kings, and terrors. We Americans are more innocent, more earnest, more honest, and more easily disappointed.

“Yet it is a beautiful county, is it not?” I asked. “I'm surprised how rich the greens are. The Nile flood plain is a lush garden, and then you change to desert so abruptly that you could trace the boundary with a sword blade. Astiza told me the Egyptians call the fertile part the black land, for its soil, and the desert the red land, for its sand.”

“And I call all of it the brown land, for mud brick, cantankerous camels, and noisy donkeys. Ashraf told me a story of a shipwrecked Egyptian who returns to his village years after being given up for dead.
He's been absent as long as Odysseus. His faithful wife and children rush out to meet him. And his first words? ‘Ah, there's my donkey!'”

I smiled. “How will you spend your hours in Alexandria?”

“We both remember what a paradise it is. I want to make some notes and ask some questions. There are books to be written here, more interesting ones than a simple hagiography of Bonaparte.”

“I wonder if you could ask about Achmed bin Sadr.”

“Are you sure it was him you saw in Paris?”

“I'm not sure. It was dark but the voice is the same. My guide had a staff, or lantern handle, carved like a snake. And then Astiza saved me from a snake in Alexandria. And he showed too much interest in me.”

“Napoleon seems to rely on him.”

“Yet what if this Bin Sadr truly works not for Bonaparte, but for the Egyptian Rite? What if he's a tool of Count Alessandro Silano, who wanted the medallion so badly? What if he had something to do with poor Minette's murder? Every time he's looked at me I've felt he's looking for the medallion. So who is he, really?”

“You want me to be your investigator?”

“A discreet inquiry. I'm tired of surprises.”

“I go where truth leads. From top to bottom, and head to…”—he looked pointedly at my boots—“to feet.”

His confession was instantly obvious. “It
was
you who took my shoes on
L'Orient!
”

“I didn't take them, Ethan, I borrowed them, for inspection.”

“And pretended you hadn't.”

“I kept a secret from you as you kept the medallion from me. I was worried you'd lost it during the attack on our coach but were too embarrassed to admit it. I sold your presence on this expedition to Berthollet partly on the strength of that medallion, but when we were reunited in Toulon you declined to show it to me. What was I to think? It was my responsibility to the savants to try to find out what game you were playing.”

“There was no game. It was simply that every time I showed the medallion or talked about it, I seemed to find myself in trouble.”

“Which I got you out of in Paris. You could have confided in me a
little.” He had risked his own life to help get me here, and I'd treated him as less than a full partner. No wonder he was jealous.

“You could have left my boots alone,” I nonetheless rejoined.

“Keeping it hidden didn't protect you from having a snake dropped in your bed, did it? What's this business with snakes anyway? I hate snakes.”

“Astiza said there's some serpent god,” I said, agreeing to change the subject. “Its followers have a modern cult, I think, and perhaps our enemies are a part of it. You know, Bin Sadr's curious snake-headed staff reminds me of a Bible story. Moses threw his staff down before Pharaoh and it turned into a serpent.”

“Now we're onto Moses?”

“I'm as confused as you, Antoine.”

“Considerably more so. At least Moses had the sense to lead his people out of this crazy country.”

“It's an odd story, isn't it?”

“What?”

“The ten plagues that Moses has to bring. Each time one of the disasters occurs, Pharaoh relents, and says he will let the Hebrews go. Then he changes his mind until Moses brings on the next plague. He must have really needed those slaves.”

“Until the final plague, when the eldest sons died. Then Pharaoh
did
let them go.”

“And yet even then he changed his mind and pursued Moses with his army. If he hadn't done that, he and his host would never have drowned in the closing of the Red Sea. Why didn't he give up? Why not let Moses just walk away?”

“Pharaoh was stubborn, like our own little general. Perhaps that's the lesson of the Bible, that sometimes you have to let things go. In any event, I'll ask about your snake friend, but I'm surprised you've not requested that I ask about another.”