Ethan Gage Collection # 1 (37 page)

I did so, moving back slightly from his rapier. I needed just a moment's distraction. “You're no closer to solving the mystery than I am,” I warned.

“Aren't I? I solved more than you. My journey around the Mediterranean took me to many temples and libraries. I found evidence that the key would be in Dendara, at the temple of Cleopatra. That I was to look to Aquarius. And here to the south I found the temple of Cleopatra, who would of course worship the lovely and all-powerful Isis, not the cow-faced Hathor with her bovine ears and tits. Yet I couldn't figure where to look.”

“There's a crypt with the phallic god Min. It had the missing piece.”

“How scholarly of you to find it. Now, give me the trinket.”

Slowly, leaning over the point of his rapier, I handed it to him. He snatched it with the greed of a child, his look triumphant. When he held it up it seemed to dance, this sign of the Freemasons. “Odd how sacred memory is passed down even by those who don't realize its origin, isn't it?” Silano said.

And it was then that I threw.

The tomahawk in the small of my back had rested just inches from his sword point, itching beneath my concealing robe. I needed just a moment to steal it out, once my back was turned and he was triumphantly hoisting the medallion. The test, however, would be whether Astiza cried out when she saw what I was doing.

She hadn't.

Which meant that perhaps she wasn't on Silano's side after all. That the man was indeed a liar. That I was not entirely a fool.

So I was quick, very quick. Yet Silano was quicker. He ducked as the hatchet whistled by his ear, spinning to land in the sands beyond the temple terrace. Still, the throw had put him off-balance, requiring an instant to recover. It was enough to seize my rifle! I brought it up…

And he leaned forward, lithe and sure, and rammed his rapier blade right into the mouth of the barrel. “
Touché,
Monsieur Gage. And now we are at an impasse, are we not?”

I suppose we looked ridiculous. I had frozen, my muzzle pointed at his breast, and he was a statue too, neatly balanced, his sword in my weapon's throat.

“Except that I,” he went on, “have a pistol.” He reached beneath his coat.

So I pulled the trigger.

My plugged rifle exploded, the shattered stock kicking back at me and the barrel and broken sword whirling over Silano's head. We both went sprawling, my ears ringing and my face cut by pieces of the ruptured gun.

Silano howled.

And then there was an ominous creak and rumble.

I looked up. A precariously balanced stone beam, already partly dislodged from its ancient perch from some long-ago earthquake, was rocking against the stars. The chain was wrapped around it, I now noticed, and Astiza was pulling with all her might.

“You moved the chains,” Silano said to her stupidly, looking at Astiza in stunned confusion.

“Samson,” she replied.

“You'll kill us all!”

The beam slid off the column and fell like a hammer, crashing against a leaning pillar and starting it falling, too. The worn columns were a house of cards. There was a grinding creak, a growing roar, and the whole overhead edifice began to give way. I winced and rolled as tons of heavy rock came smashing down, heaving the very ground. I heard a pop as Silano's pistol went off and bits of shattered rock flew like shrapnel, but its sound was dwarfed by groaning columns that rolled and tumbled. Then Astiza was jerking me upward, pushing me toward the edge of the temple platform amid the chaos. “Run, run! The noise will bring the French!” We leaped, a cloud of dust rolling out with us, and hit the sand just as a section of pillar bounced over us like a runaway barrel. It crashed against Cleopatra's feet. Back on the ruined terrace, Silano was screaming and cursing, his voice coming from the dust and wreckage of the toppled ruins.

She stooped and handed me the tomahawk I'd hurled. “We may need this.”

I looked at her in amazement. “You brought the whole temple down.”

“He forgot to sheer my hair. Or hold his prize.” The medallion, wide and clumsy in its new assembly, swung from her fist like a cat's toy.

I hefted the tomahawk. “Let's go back inside and finish him.”

But there were shouts of French from the front of the temple compound, and the signal shots of sentries. She shook her head. “There's no time.”

So we ran, fleeing out a rear gate in the eastern wall and into the desert beyond, weaponless, horseless, without food, water, or sensible
clothing. We heard more shouts, and shots, but no bullet buzzed near.

“Hurry,” she said. “The Nile has almost peaked!”

What did that mean?

We had nothing except the tomahawk and the cursed medallion.

And each other.

But, who was this woman I had rescued, who had rescued me?

T
he Nile was high, brown, and powerful. It was October, the year's peak flood, and we were approaching the date the circular calendar seemed to suggest. We stole a small boat and set off down the river, headed back for the Great Pyramid that Monge had suggested must be the key to the riddle. I'd give it a last crack, and if we couldn't puzzle it out I'd just keep going to the Mediterranean. Whether the strange woman beside me would follow, I had no idea.

By the time the sun rose we were miles from Desaix's army, drifting with the current. I might have relaxed except that I saw a French courier galloping along the river bank, spying us and then cutting inland on a shortcut while we took the river's looping bends. No doubt he was carrying word of our escape. I lowered the boom to set the lateen sail, giving us even more speed, the boat leaning with the wind and water hissing as I tacked. We passed a yawning crocodile, prehistoric and hideous. Water glistened on his scales, and yellow eyes looked at us with reptilian contemplation. After Silano, he seemed an improvement in company.

What a pair we made, I in Arab costume and Astiza in temptress regalia, sprawled on the muddy floorboards of a small felucca that stank of fish. She'd said little since we reunited, gazing over the Nile and fingering the medallion she'd draped around her own neck with an air of ownership. I hadn't asked for it back.

“I came a long way to find you,” I finally said.

“You followed the star of Isis.”

“But you weren't chained as you pretended.”

“No. Nothing was as it seemed. I fooled him, and you.”

“You knew Silano before?”

She sighed. “He was a master and lover who turned to darker arts. He believed Egypt's magic was as real as Berthollet's chemistry and that he, following in the footsteps of Cagliostro and Kolmer, could find occult secrets here. He cared nothing for the world, only for himself, because he was bitter over what he'd lost in the Revolution. When I realized how selfish he was, we had a falling-out. I fled to Alexandria and found sanctuary with a new master, the guardian. Silano's dreams were shallow. Alessandro wanted Egypt's secrets to make him powerful, even immortal, so I played a double game.”

“Did he buy you from Yusuf?”

“Yes. It was a bribe to the old lecher.”

“Lecher?”

“Yusuf 's hospitality was not entirely selfless. I needed to get away from there.” She saw my look. “Don't worry, he didn't touch me.”

“So you went with your old lover.”

“You hadn't come back from the pyramids. Silano told me he hadn't found you at Enoch's. Going with the count was the only way to make progress in solving the mystery. I knew nothing of Dendara, and neither did you. That place had been forgotten for centuries. I told Alessandro you had the medallion, and then left you a message of where to find it in the harem. We both knew you'd come after us. And then I rode freely, because the French would have asked too many questions if I'd been bound.”

Alessandro! I didn't like the familiarity of a first name. “And then you brought a temple down on him.”

“He believes in his own charm, like you.”

As did she, toying with both of us as a means to her end. “You asked me what I believed in, Astiza. Who do
you
believe in?”

“What do you mean?”

“You helped Silano because you want the secret too.”

“Of course. But to safeguard it, not ransom it to some greedy tyrant like Bonaparte. Can you imagine that man with an army of immortals? At its peak, Egypt was defended by an army of just twenty thousand men, and seemed impregnable. Then something seemed to happen, something was lost, and invasions began.”

“Going with the men who murdered Talma…”

“Silano knew things I did not. I knew things he did not. Could you have found the temple of Dendara that we came from by yourself? We didn't know which temple Enoch's books referred to, but Silano did after his studies in Rome and Constantinople and Jerusalem. We would never have found the other arms of the medallion by ourselves, just as Silano could not complete the medallion without you and Enoch. You had some clues and the count had others. The gods brought us all together.”

“The gods, or the Egyptian Rite? Gypsies didn't tell you I was coming to Egypt.”

She looked away. “I couldn't tell you the truth because you'd misunderstand. Alessandro lied and sent word that you'd stolen the medallion from him. I pretended to help so I could use him. You survived our assassination attempt. Then Enoch persuaded Ashraf to try to find us in the battle—you, the man in a green coat, who conveniently stood up on an artillery caisson—so that he could see this medallion all were so curious about. Everything that happened was supposed to, except poor Talma's death.”

My mind was whirling. Maybe I
was
naïve. “So we're all just tools for you—me for the medallion, Silano for his occult knowledge? No different, here to be used?”

“I did not fall in love with Silano.”

“I didn't say you were in love with him, I said…” I stopped. She was looking away from me, rigid, trembling, her long fine hair blowing in the warm wind that kicked up little wavelets on the river. Not in love? With
him.
Did that mean that perhaps my pursuit had not gone unnoticed, my charm not entirely unappreciated, my good intentions not misunderstood? But then how much did I feel about her now? I wished to have her, yes, but to love her? I didn't even know her, it
seemed. And love was truly dangerous ground for a man like me, a prospect more daunting than a Mameluke charge or a naval broadside. It meant believing in something, committing to more than a moment. What did I really feel toward this woman who'd seemed to betray me but perhaps had not?

“What I mean is, I haven't loved anyone else either,” I stumbled. Not the most eloquent of replies. “That is, I'm not even sure love exists.”

She was exasperated. “How do you know electricity exists, Ethan?”

“Well.” That was actually a damned good question, since it seemed naturally invisible. “By sparks, I suppose. You can feel it. Or a lightning bolt.”

“Exactly.” Now she was looking at me, smiling like a sphinx, enigmatic, unapproachable, except that now the door had been opened and all I had to do was step through it. What had Berthollet surmised about my character? That I had not realized my potential? Now here was a chance to grow up, to commit not to an idea, but to a person.

“I don't even know what side you're on,” I stalled.

“I'm on
our
side.”

Which side was that? And then, before our conversation could get to some kind of agreeable conclusion, the crack of a gun echoed across the river.

We looked downstream. A felucca was sailing toward us, its rigging taut, deck thick with men. Even at a distance of three hundred meters, I could recognize the bandaged arm of Achmed bin Sadr. By all the tea in China, could I not get clear of this man? I hadn't felt so weary of someone's company since Franklin had John Adams to dinner and I had to hear his irascible opinions on half the politicians in the United States.

We had no weapons except my tomahawk, and no chance, so I put the rudder over and made for shore. Perhaps we could find a cliffside tomb to hide in. But no, now a squadron of red-and-blue-jacketed hussars was spilling down a hill to the bank to greet us. French cavalry! Had I even gotten twenty miles?

Well, better them than Bin Sadr. They'd take me to Bonaparte,
while the Arab would do things to Astiza and me that I didn't even want to think about. When we met Napoleon, Astiza could simply claim I'd kidnapped her, and I'd confirm it. I considered grabbing the medallion from her pretty neck and hurling it into the Nile, but couldn't bring myself to do it. I'd invested too much. Besides, I was as curious about what it might lead to as anyone. It was our only map to the Book of Thoth.

“You'd best hide that,” I told her.

She slipped it between her breasts.

We grounded on a sandbank and splashed ashore. Bin Sadr's felucca was still working its way against the current toward our position, the Arabs shouting and firing into the air. The dozen French horsemen had spread into a semicircle to close with us, preventing any chance of escape, and I raised my hands in surrender. Soon we were ringed with dusty horses.

“Ethan Gage?”

“At your service, lieutenant.”

“Why are you dressed like a heathen?”

“It's cooler.”

His eyes kept straying to Astiza, not daring to ask why she was dressed as a harlot. In 1798, there were still some manners left. “I am Lieutenant Henri d'Bonneville. You are under arrest for theft of state property and destruction of antiquities, for murder, trespass, and disorder in Cairo, and for escape, evasion, misrepresentation, spying, and treason.”

“Not murder at Dendara? We did kill Silano, I hope.”

He stiffened. “The count is recovering from his injuries and is organizing a party to join our pursuit.”

“You did forget kidnapping.” I nodded at Astiza.

“I did not forget. The woman, having been rescued, will cooperate in the prosecution or be interrogated herself.”

“It's the charge of treason I take exception to,” I said. “I'm American. Wouldn't I have to be French to betray your country?”

“Sergeant, bind them both.”

The pursuing felucca grounded and Bin Sadr and his remaining
band of cutthroats stormed ashore, pushing past the French cavalry horses like traders at a camel bazaar. “This one is mine!” the Arab snarled, shaking his snake-headed staff. I saw with some satisfaction that his left arm was in a sling. Well, if I couldn't kill the rotten pair outright, then maybe I could peck away at them, like the French were doing to Nelson.

“I see you've become a sailor, Achmed,” I greeted. “Fall off your camel?”

“He will come on my boat!”

“I'm afraid I must disagree, monsieur,” Lieutenant d'Bonneville said. “The fugitive Gage surrendered to my cavalry and is wanted for questioning by French authorities. He is under army jurisdiction now.”

“The American killed some of my men!”

“Which you can take up with him when we're done, if there's anything left to address.”

Well, there was a cheery thought.

Bin Sadr scowled. Now he had a boil on his other cheek, and I wondered if he simply had a bad complexion or if Astiza had been up to more mischief. Any chance she could give the devil leprosy, or maybe the plague?

“Then we take the woman.” His men nodded in wicked agreement.

“I think not, monsieur.” The lieutenant gave a quick glance to his sergeant, who in turn flashed a look to his men. The carbines that had been aimed at me swung in the direction of Bin Sadr's gang. Their muskets in turn tilted toward the French cavalry. It was a considerable relief not to have everyone aiming at me, and I tried to think how I could take advantage of it.

“Do not make me your enemy, Frenchman,” Bin Sadr growled.

“You are a paid mercenary with no authority,” d'Bonneville crisply replied. “If you don't get back in your boat this instant, I will arrest you for insubordination and consider whether to hang you as well.” He glanced about imperiously. “That is, if I can find a tree.”

There was a long moment of awful silence, the sun so intense it seemed to make a background sizzle. Then one of the cavalrymen
coughed, jerking, and as he sagged we heard the report of the distant shot that had killed him, echoing off the Nile hills. Then more gunshots sounded, and one of Bin Sadr's men grunted and went down.

Now all the guns swung to the ridge above the river. A line of men had crested and spilled down it, robes billowing, lances sparkling. It was a company of Mamelukes! We'd been caught by a unit of the elusive Murad Bey, and it looked like they outnumbered the lot of us, five to one.

“Dismount!” d'Bonneville cried. “Form a skirmish line!” He turned to the Arabs. “Form with us!”

But the Arabs were running for their felucca, clambering on board, and shoving off into the Nile.

“Bin Sadr, you damned coward!” d'Bonneville roared.

The Arab's gesture was obscene.

So now the Frenchmen turned alone to the Mameluke assault. “Fire!” The lieutenant's cry brought a ragged volley of cavalry carbines, but this was no disciplined salvo from a French infantry square. A few Mamelukes tumbled and then they overran us. I waited for the thrust of a lance, wondering what the gambling odds were to encounter three enemies on one patch of riverbank at one time: the ill-fortuned opposite of a face-card triplet in a high-stakes game of
brelan,
I supposed. Then the Mameluke I expected would kill me leaned from his saddle, arm outstretched, and plucked me off the ground like a grape. I yelped, but his arm was a vise round my chest. He hurtled on through the French ranks straight toward the Arab boat, warbling a war cry as I dangled, sword held high in his other hand while he steered his mount with his knees. “Now I avenge my brother! Stand and fight, viper!”

It was Ashraf!

We crashed into the shallows, water spraying, and Bin Sadr turned to meet us from the bow of his boat, one-armed as well. Ash swung and the snake-headed staff came up to meet him. There was a clang, like steel upon steel, and I realized the staff had some kind of metal core. The fury of the Mameluke's charge shoved the Arab backward with a grunt, but as he fell among his fellows the others fired and Ash
was forced to swerve. The boat drifted into deeper water. Then we were galloping away, even as shouts, cries, and shots sounded from the battle behind. I was slung over the saddle like a bag of wheat, the wind knocked out of me, and I could barely see back through our dust. The officer who'd saved us was already down, I glimpsed, a Mameluke crouched over him with a knife. Another hussar was crawling with a lance jutting from his back, trying to slice an enemy's throat before dying himself. Capture was worse than death, and the soldiers were selling their lives as dearly as they could. Bin Sadr's Arabs were drifting farther out into the river, not even bothering to shoot in support.