Napoleon’s Pyramids

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

My first task, upon hearing this disturbing news, was to reunite with Talma, who likely assumed me dead once word of the explosion of L’Orient reached Alexandria. Silano here? Was that the ‘help’ that Bonaparte had hinted at?

The battered British fleet did not attempt to force the repaired forts at Alexandria’s harbour. Instead they began patrolling in blockade. As for me, an Arab lighter deposited me on the beach at Abukir Bay. No one took particular note of my landing, as dhows and feluccas were sweeping the water to salvage debris and rob the dead. French and British longboats were also retrieving bodies in a makeshift truce, and on shore, wounded men lay groaning under crude canvas shelters. I splashed up the beach looking as ragged as the rest, helped carry some wounded to the shade of a shell-pocked sail, and then joined a desultory procession of French sailors straggling toward Alexandria. They were sullen in defeat, quietly vowing revenge on the English, but also had the hopeless look of the stranded. It was a long, hot hike in a pillar of dust, and when I paused and looked back, I could see columns of smoke where some of the beached French ships were still burning. As we marched we passed the rubble of long-vanished civilisations. A sculpted head was toppled on its side. A royal foot as big as a table, with toes the size of pumpkins, peeked from debris. We were a ruin trudging past ruins. I didn’t reach the city until midnight.

Alexandria buzzed like a disturbed hive. It was by going from lodging to lodging, asking for news of a short, bespectacled Frenchman with an interest in miracle cures that I finally discovered that Talma had lodged in a dead Mameluke’s mansion that had been turned into an inn by an opportunistic merchant.

‘The sickly one?’ the proprietor responded. ‘He’s disappeared without taking his bag or his medicine.’

This didn’t sound good at all. ‘He left no word for me, Ethan Gage?’

‘You’re a friend of his?’

‘Yes.’

‘He owes me one hundred francs.’

I paid his debt and claimed Talma’s luggage as my own, hoping the journalist had rushed back to Cairo. Just to be sure he hadn’t sailed away, I checked the docks. ‘It’s not like my friend Talma to go off by himself,’ I told a French port supervisor worriedly. ‘He’s really not very adventurous.’

‘Then what is he doing in Egypt?’

‘Seeking cures for his ailments.’

‘Fool. He should have taken the waters in Germany.’

This supervisor confirmed that Count Silano had indeed arrived in Egypt, but not from France. Instead, he’d sailed from the Syrian coastline. He reportedly had disembarked with two enormous trunks of belongings, a monkey on a golden chain, a blonde mistress, a cobra in a basket, a pig in a cage, and a gigantic Negro bodyguard. If that were not conspicuous enough, he had adopted an Arab’s flowing robes and added a yellow sash, Austrian cavalry boots, and French rapier. ‘I am here to decipher the mysteries of Egypt!’ he’d proclaimed. With lingering gunfire still grumbling as the sun rose over the ruins of the French fleet, Silano had commissioned a caravan of camels and set off for Cairo. Could Talma have gone with him? It seemed unlikely. Or had Antoine trailed the count to spy?

I joined a cavalry patrol to Rosetta and then took a boat to Cairo. From a distance the capital seemed curiously unchanged after the apocalypse at Abukir, but I soon learnt that news of the disaster had indeed preceded me.

‘It’s like we’re clinging to a rope,’ said a sergeant who escorted me to Napoleon’s headquarters. ‘There’s the Nile, and this narrow band of green that follows it, and nothing but empty desert on either side. Fall into the sands and they kill you for your buttons. Garrison a village, and you might wake to a knife sawing your windpipe. Bed a woman, and you might find your drink poisoned or your balls gone. Pet a dog, and you risk rabies. We can march in only two dimensions, not three. Is the rope to hang us?’

‘The French have advanced to the guillotine,’ I quipped inanely.

‘And Nelson has already cut off our head. Here’s the body, flopping in Cairo.’

I didn’t think Bonaparte would like that analogy, preferring that the British admiral had cut off our feet while he, the brains, remained defiant. When I reported back to him at headquarters, he alternated between casting all blame on Brueys – ‘Why didn’t he sail for Corfu?’ – to insisting the essential strategic situation was unchanged. France was still the master of Egypt and within striking distance of the Levant. If India now seemed more remote, Syria remained a tempting target. Soon Egypt’s wealth and labour would be harnessed. Christian Copts and renegade Mamelukes were being recruited into French forces. A camel corps would turn the desert into a navigable sea. Conquest would continue, with Napoleon as the new Alexander.

Yet after repeating all this as if to convince himself, Bonaparte’s dark brooding couldn’t be hidden. ‘Did Brueys show courage?’ he asked me.

‘A cannonball took the admiral’s leg off but he insisted on remaining at his post. He died a hero.’

‘Well. There’s that, at least.’

‘So did Captain Casabianca and his young son. The deck was aflame and they refused to abandon ship. They died for France and for duty, general. The fight could have gone either way. But when L’Orient blew up…’

‘The entire Maltese treasure was lost. Damn! And Admiral Villeneuve fled?’

‘There was no way his ships could get into the fight. The wind was against them.’

‘And you lived, too.’ The observation seemed a bit sour.

‘I’m a good swimmer.’

‘So it seems. So it seems. You’re quite the survivor, aren’t you, Gage?’ He toyed with calipers and looked at me sideways. ‘I’ve a new arrival inquiring about you. A Count Silano, who says he knows you from Paris. He shares your interest in antiquities and has been doing his own research. I told him you were fetching something from the ship and he expressed interest in examining it as well.’

I wasn’t about to share information with Silano. ‘The calendar was lost in the battle, I’m afraid.’

‘ Mon dieu. Has nothing good come of this?’

‘I’ve also lost track of Antoine Talma, who disappeared in Alexandria. Have you seen him, General?’

‘The journalist?’

‘He’s worked hard to emphasize your victories, you know.’

‘As I’ve worked hard to win them. I’m depending on him to write my biography for distribution in France. The people need to know what’s really happening here. But no, I don’t take personal roll of thirty-five thousand men. Your friend will turn up if he hasn’t run.’ The idea that some of us would try to sneak away from the Egyptian expedition seemed to gnaw at Bonaparte. ‘Are you any closer to understanding the pyramids and this necklace of yours?’

‘I examined the calendar. It may suggest auspicious dates.’

‘For what?’

‘I don’t know.’

He snapped the calipers shut. ‘I’m beginning to wonder about your usefulness, American. And yet Silano tells me there could be significant lessons, military lessons, in what you’re researching.’

‘Military lessons?’

‘Ancient powers. Egypt remained preeminent for thousands of years, building masterworks while the rest of the world was in huts. How? Why?’

‘That’s just the question that we savants are beginning to address,’ I said. ‘I’m curious to find if there are any ancient references to the phenomena of electricity. Jomard has speculated they could have used it to move their mammoth building blocks. But we can’t read their hieroglyphics, everything is half-buried in sand, and we’ve simply not had enough time at the pyramids yet.’

‘Which we’re about to remedy. I’m going to investigate them myself. But first, you will come to my banquet tonight. It’s time you conferred with Alessandro Silano.’

I was surprised at the depth of my relief at seeing Astiza. Perhaps it was having survived another terrible battle, or my worry about Talma, or the French sergeant’s gloomy assessment of our position in Egypt, or Silano’s appearance in Cairo, or Bonaparte’s impatience with my progress: in any event, I felt lonely. Who was I but an American exile, cast up with a foreign army in an even more foreign land? What I did have was this woman who – while withholding intimacies – had become my companion and, in a secret estimation I wouldn’t risk sharing with her, a friend. Yet her past was so vague that I was forced to ask myself whether I knew her at all. I looked carefully for some sign of hidden feelings when she greeted me, but she simply seemed happy that I’d returned unscathed. She and Enoch were eager to hear my firsthand account, since Cairo was a hotbed of rumour. If I’d any doubts about her quickness, they were dispelt when I heard how rapidly her French had improved.

Enoch and Ashraf had no word from Talma, but plenty of stories about Silano. He’d arrived in Cairo with his retinue, made contact with some Freemasons in the French officer corps, and conferred with Egyptian mystics and magicians. Bonaparte had granted him fine quarters in the home of another Mameluke bey, and any number of characters had been seen slipping in and out during all hours of the day and night. He’d reportedly asked General Desaix about impending plans to send French troops up the Nile.

‘He directs men greedy for the secrets of the past,’ Astiza added. ‘He has assembled his own bodyguard of Bedouin cutthroats, been visited by Bin Sadr, and parades his yellow-haired trollop in a fine carriage.’

‘And there is word he asked about you,’ Enoch added. ‘Everyone has wondered if you were trapped at Abukir. Did you bring the calendar?’

‘I lost it, but not before I had a chance to examine it. I’m guessing, but when I aligned the rings in a way that reminded me of the medallion and the pyramids, I sensed it was pointing to a date one month after the fall equinox, or October 21 ^ st. Is that day significant here in Egypt?’

Enoch thought. ‘Not really. The solstice, the equinox, or the New Year when the Nile begins to rise all have meaning, but I know of nothing to do with that date. Perhaps it was an ancient holy day, but if so the meaning has been lost. I will consult my books, however, and mention the date to some of the wiser imams.’

‘And what of the medallion?’ I asked. I’d felt uneasy being so separated from it, yet at the same time was thankful I hadn’t risked it at Abukir Bay.

Enoch brought it out, its gold gleam familiar and reassuring. ‘The more I study it, the older I think it is – older, I think, than most of Egypt. The symbols may date to the deep time when the pyramids were built. It is so old, no books survive from that period, but your mention of Cleopatra intrigued me. She was a Ptolemy who lived three thousand years after the pyramids, and Greek by blood as much as Egyptian. When she consorted with Caesar and Antony, she was the last great link between the Roman world and ancient Egypt. By legend there is a temple, its location lost, dedicated to Hathor and Isis, the goddesses of nurture, love, and wisdom. Cleopatra worshipped there.’

He showed me pictures of the goddesses. Isis looked like a conventionally beautiful woman with high headdress, but Hathor was odd, her face elongated and her ears jutting out like those of a cow. Homely, but in a pleasant way.

‘The temple was probably rebuilt in Ptolemaic times,’ Enoch said, ‘but its origin is far older than that, perhaps as old as the pyramids. Legend contends it was oriented to the star Draco when that star marked the north. If so, secrets might have been shared between the two sites. I’ve been looking for something that refers to a puzzle, or a sanctuary, or a door – something this medallion might point to – so I’ve been combing the Ptolemaic texts.’

‘And?’ I could see he enjoyed working this puzzle.

‘And I have an ancient Greek reference to a small temple of Isis favoured by Cleopatra that reads, “The staff of Min is the key to life.”’

‘Staff of Min? Bin Sadr has a staff, a snake-headed one. Who’s Min?’

Astiza smiled. ‘Min is a god who became the root word of “man”, just as the goddess Ma’at or Mut became the root word for “mother”. His staff is not like Bin Sadr’s.’

‘Here’s another picture.’ Enoch slid it across. On it was a drawing of a stiff-postured bald fellow with one particularly arresting feature: a rigid, upright male member of prodigious length.

‘By the souls of Saratoga. They put this in their churches?’

‘It’s just nature,’ Astiza said.

‘Well-endowed nature, I’d say.’ I was unable to keep envy from my voice.

Ashraf had a wicked grin. ‘Typical for Egyptians, my American friend.’

I looked at him sharply and he laughed.

‘You’re all having fun with me,’ I grumbled.

‘No, no, Min is a real god and this is a real representation,’ Enoch assured me, ‘though my brother is exaggerating our countrymen’s anatomy. Ordinarily I would read ‘The staff of Min is the key to life’ as a mere sexual and mythical reference. In our creation stories, our first god swallows his own seed and spits and shits out the first children.’

‘The devil you say!’

‘And it is the ankh, the predecessor to your Christian cross, which is usually referred to as a key to eternal life. But why Min in a temple of Isis? Frequented by Cleopatra? Why “key” as opposed to “essence” or some other word? And why this after it: “The crypt will lead to heaven”?’

‘Why, indeed?’

‘We don’t know. But your medallion may be an uncompleted key. The pyramids point to heaven. What is in that crypt? We do know, as I said, that Silano has been making enquiries about going south, up the Nile, with Desaix.’

‘Into enemy territory?’

‘Somewhere south is where the temple of Hathor and Isis lies.’

I pondered. ‘Silano has been doing some studying of his own in ancient capitals. Perhaps he has the same clues you’ve found. But he still needs the medallion, I’m gambling. Keep it here, hidden. I’m going to see the sorcerer at a banquet tonight, and if the subject comes up I’ll tell him I lost it at Abukir Bay. It might be our only advantage if we’re in a race to this key of life.’

‘Don’t go to the banquet,’ Astiza said. ‘The goddess tells me we must stay away from this man.’

‘And my little god, Bonaparte, tells me I must sup with him.’

She looked uncomfortable. ‘Then tell him nothing.’

‘Of my investigations?’ Here was the issue the journalist had raised. ‘Or you?’

A blush rose in her cheeks. ‘He has no interest in your servants.’

‘Doesn’t he? Talma told me he’d heard that you knew Silano in Cairo. The reason Antoine went to Alexandria was to ask not about Bin Sadr, but about you. Just how much do you know about Alessandro Silano?’

She was quiet too long. Then, ‘I knew of him. He came to study the ancients, as I did. But he wanted to exploit the past, not protect it.’

‘Knew of him?’ By Hades, I knew of Chinamen, but I’d never had a thing to do with them. That’s not what Talma had implied. ‘Or knew him in ways you don’t want to admit, and which you’ve kept from me all these days?’

‘The problem with modern men,’ Enoch interrupted, ‘is that they ask too much. They respect no mystery. It causes endless trouble.’

‘I want to know if she knew…’

‘The ancients understood that some secrets are best undisturbed, and some histories best forgotten. Don’t let your enemies make you lose your friends, Ethan.’

I fumed as they watched me. ‘But surely it is no coincidence that he is here,’ I insisted.

‘Of course not. You are here, Ethan Gage. And the medallion.’

‘I want to forget him,’ Astiza added. ‘And what I remember of him is that he is more dangerous than he seems.’

I was flummoxed, but it was clear they weren’t giving out intimate details. And maybe I was imagining more than had occurred. ‘Well, he can’t do us any harm in the middle of the French army, can he?’ I finally said, to say something.

‘We aren’t in the middle of the army anymore, we’re in a side street of Cairo.’ She looked worried. ‘I was terrified for you when I heard news of the battle. Then came word of Count Silano.’

It was an opportunity to respond in kind, but I was too confused. ‘And now I’m back, with rifle and tomahawk,’ I said, in order to say something. ‘I’m not afraid of Silano.’

She sighed, her scent of jasmine intoxicating. Since the rigours of the march she had transformed herself with Enoch’s help into an Egyptian beauty, her gowns of linen and silk, her limbs and neck adorned with gold jewellery of ancient design, her eyes large, luminous, and highlighted with kohl. Cleopatra eyes. Her figure recalled the curves of alabaster jars of unguents and perfume I’d seen in the marketplace. She reminded me how long it had been since I’d had a woman, and how much I’d like to have her now. Because I was a savant, I would have expected my mind would remain occupied with loftier things, but it didn’t seem to work that way. Yet how much should I trust?

‘Guns are no proof against magic,’ she said. ‘I think it best if I share your night chambers again, to help watch over you. Enoch understands. You need the goddesses’s protection.’

Now here was progress. ‘If you insist…’

‘He has made me an extra bed.’

My smile was as tight as my breeches. ‘How thoughtful.’

‘It’s important that we focus on the mystery.’ She said it with sympathy, or was it with torturous intent? Perhaps they are the same in women.

I tried to be nonchalant. ‘Just make sure you’re close enough to kill the next snake.’

My mind a muddle of hope and frustration – the usual peril for getting emotionally involved with a female – I went to Bonaparte’s banquet. Its purpose was to remind the senior officers that their position in Egypt was still sound, and that they must communicate that soundness to their troops. It was also important to demonstrate to the Egyptians that despite the recent naval disaster, the French were behaving with equanimity, enjoying dinners as they had before. Plans were underway to impress the population by celebrating the Revolution’s New Year, the autumn equinox of September 21 ^ st, one month ahead of my guessed-at calendar date. There would be band music, horse races, and a flight of one of Conte’s gas balloons.

The banquet was as European as possible. Chairs had been assembled so nobody would have to sit on the floor in Muslim style. The china plates, the wine and water goblets, and the silverware had been packed and carried across the desert as carefully as cartridges and cannon. Despite the heat, the menu included the usual soup, meat, vegetables, and salad of home.

Silano, in contrast, was our Orientalist. He’d come in robes and a turban, openly wearing the Masonic symbol of compass and square with the letter G in the middle. Talma would have been fuming at this appropriation. Four of his fingers bore rings, a small hoop adorned one ear, and the scabbard of his rapier was a filigree of gold on red enamel. As I entered, he stood from the table and bowed.

‘Monsieur Gage, the American! I was told that you were in Egypt, and now it is confirmed! We last enjoyed each other’s company over cards, if you remember.’

‘ I enjoyed it, at least. I won, as I recall.’

‘But of course, someone must lose! And yet the pleasure is in the game itself, is it not? Certainly it was an amusement I could afford.’ He smiled. ‘And I understand the medallion you won has brought you to this expedition?’

‘That, and an untimely death in Paris.’

‘A friend?’

‘A whore.’

I could not disconcert him. ‘Oh, dear. I won’t pretend to understand that. But of course you are the savant, the expert in electricity and the pyramids, and I am a mere historian.’

I took my place at the table. ‘I’ve modest knowledge of both, I’m afraid. I’m honoured to have been included in the expedition at all. And you are a magician as well, I’m told, master of the occult and Cagliostro’s Egyptian Rite.’

‘You exaggerate my capabilities as I, perhaps, exaggerate yours. I am a mere student of the past who hopes it might provide answers for the future. What did Egyptian priests know that has been lost until now? Our liberation has opened the way to fuse the technology of the West with the wisdom of the East.’

‘Yet wisdom of what, Count?’ rumbled General Dumas past a mouthful of food. He ate like he rode, at full gallop. ‘I don’t see it in the streets of Cairo. And the scholars, be they scientists or sorcerers, haven’t accomplished much. They eat, talk, and scribble.’

The officers laughed. Academics were viewed with scepticism, and soldiers felt the savants were pursuing pointless aims, pinning the army in Egypt.

‘That is unfair to our savants, General,’ Bonaparte corrected. ‘Monge and Berthollet aimed a crucial cannon shot in the river battle. Gage has proven his marksmanship with his longrifle. The scientists stood with the infantry in the squares. Plans are underway for windmills, canals, factories, and foundries. Conte plans to inflate one of his balloons! We soldiers begin liberation, but it is the scholars who fulfil it. We win a battle, but they conquer the mind.’

‘So leave them to it and let’s go home.’ Dumas went back to a drumstick.

‘The ancient priests were equally useful,’ Silano said mildly. ‘They were healers and lawgivers. The Egyptians had spells to heal the sick, win the heart of a lover, ward off evil, and acquire wealth. We of the Egyptian Rite have seen spells influence weather, provide invulnerability to harm, and cure the dying. Even more may be learnt, I hope, now that we control the cradle of civilisation.’

‘You’re promoting witchcraft,’ Dumas warned. ‘Be careful with your soul.’

‘Learning is not witchcraft. It puts tools in soldiers’ hands.’

‘Sabre and pistol have served well enough up to now.’

‘And where did gunpowder come from, but from experiments with alchemy?’

Dumas belched in reply. The general was huge, slightly drunk, and a hothead. Maybe he would get rid of Silano for me.

‘I am promoting the tapping of unseen powers, like electricity,’ Silano went on smoothly, nodding at me. ‘What is this mysterious force we can observe simply by rubbing amber? Are there energies that animate the world? Can we transform base elements to more valuable ones? Mentors like Cagliostro, Kolmer, and Saint-Germain led the way. Monsieur Gage can apply the insights of the great Franklin…’

‘Ha!’ Dumas interrupted. ‘Cagliostro was exposed as a fraud in half a dozen countries. Invulnerable to harm?’ He put his hand on his heavy cavalry sabre and began to pull. ‘Try a spell against this. ’

Yet before he could draw there was a blur of motion and Silano had the point of his rapier against the general’s fist. It was like the flicker of a hummingbird wing, and the air hummed from the swift arc of his drawn sword. ‘I don’t need magic to win a mere duel,’ the count said with quiet warning.

The room had gone silent, stunned by his speed.

‘Put your swords away, both of you,’ Napoleon finally ordered.

‘Of course.’ Silano sheathed his slim blade almost as quickly as he’d drawn it.

Dumas scowled but let his sabre drop back into its scabbard. ‘So you rely on steel like the rest of us,’ he muttered.

‘Are you challenging my other powers as well?’

‘I’d like to see them.’

‘The soul of science is sceptical test,’ the chemist Berthollet agreed. ‘It is one thing to claim magic and another to perform it, Count Silano. I admire your spirit of enquiry, but extraordinary claims demand extraordinary proof.’

‘Perhaps I should levitate the pyramids.’

‘That would impress all of us, I’m sure.’

‘And yet scientific discovery is a gradual process of experimentation and evidence,’ Silano went on. ‘So it is with magic and ancient powers. I do hope to levitate pyramids, become invulnerable to bullets, or achieve immortality, but at the moment I am a mere investigator, like you savants. That is why I have made the long journey to Egypt after enquiries in Rome, Constantinople, and Jerusalem. The American there has a medallion that may prove useful to my research, if he will let me study it.’

Heads swung to me. I shook my head. ‘It is archaeology, not magic, and not for alchemical experiment.’

‘For study, I said.’

‘Which real savants are providing. Their methods are credible. The Egyptian Rite is not.’

The count had the look of a teacher disappointed in a pupil. ‘Are you calling me a liar, monsieur?’

‘No, I am,’ Dumas interrupted again, throwing down his bone. ‘A fraud, a hypocrite, and a charlatan. I have no use for magicians, alchemists, savants, gypsies, or priests. You come here in robe and turban like a Marseille clown and talk of magic, but I see you sawing your meat like the rest of us. Flick that little needle of yours all you want, but let’s test it in real battle against real sabres. I respect men who fight or build, not those who talk and fantasise.’

Now Silano’s eyes flickered with a dangerous annoyance. ‘You have impugned my honour and dignity, General. Perhaps I should challenge you.’

The room stirred with anticipation. Silano had a reputation as a deadly duelist, having slain at least two foes in Paris. Yet Dumas was a Goliath.

‘And perhaps I should accept your challenge,’ the general growled.

‘Dueling is forbidden,’ Napoleon snapped. ‘Both of you know that. If either tries it, I will have you both shot.’

‘So you are safe for now,’ Dumas said to the count. ‘But you’d better find your magic spells, because when we return to France…’

‘Why wait?’ Silano said. ‘May I suggest a different contest? Our esteemed chemist has called for sceptical test, so let me propose one. For dinner tomorrow, let me bring a small suckling pig I have shipped from France. As you know, the Muslims will have nothing to do with the animal; its only caretaker is me. You imply that I have no powers. Let me then, two hours before dinner, present you with the pig to prepare in any way you desire: roasted, boiled, baked, or fried. I will not come near it until it is served. You will cut the meal into four equal parts, and serve to me whichever quarter you prefer. You will eat another portion yourself.’

‘What is the point of this nonsense?’ Dumas asked.

‘The day after this dinner, one of four things will happen: either we will both be dead or neither of us will be dead; or I will be dead and you will not; or you will be dead and I will not. Of these four chances I will give you three and bet five thousand francs that, the day after the meal, you will be dead and I will be well.’

There was silence at the table. Dumas looked flustered. ‘That is one of Cagliostro’s old wagers.’

‘Which none of his enemies ever accepted. Here is your chance to be the first, General. Do you doubt my powers enough to dine with me tomorrow?’

‘You’ll try some kind of trickery or magic!’

‘Which you said I can’t perform. Prove it.’

Dumas looked from one to the other of us. In a fight he was confident, but this?

‘Dueling is prohibited, but this bet I would like to see,’ Bonaparte said. He was enjoying the torment of a general who’d challenged him on the march.

‘He would poison me with sleight of hand, I know it.’

Silano spread his arms wide, sensing victory. ‘You can search me from head to toe before we sit down to eat, General.’

Dumas gave in. ‘Bah. I wouldn’t dine with you if you were Jesus, the devil, or the last man on earth.’ He stood, shoving his chair back. ‘Coddle his investigations if you must,’ he addressed the room, ‘but I swear to you there’s nothing in this damned desert but a bunch of old rock. You’ll regret listening to these hangers-on, be it this charlatan or the American leech.’ And with that he stormed out of the room.

Silano turned to us. ‘He is wiser than his reputation, having turned down my challenge. It means he will live to have a son who will do great things, I predict. As for me, I only ask leave to make enquiries. I wish to hunt for temples when the army marches upriver. I give you brave soldiers all my respect and ask for some small portion in return.’ He looked at me. ‘I’d hoped we could work together as colleagues, but it appears we are rivals.’

‘I simply feel no need to share your goals, or my belongings,’ I replied.

‘Then sell me the medallion, Gage. Name your price.’

‘The more you want it, the less inclined I am to let you have it.’

‘Damn you! You are an impediment to knowledge!’ He shouted this last, his hand slapping the table, and it was as if a mask had slipped from his countenance. There was a rage behind it, rage and desperation, as he looked at me with eyes of implacable enmity. ‘Help me or prepare to endure the worst!’

Monge jumped up, the very picture of stern establishment admonition. ‘How dare you, monsieur! Your impertinence reflects on you poorly. I’m tempted to take you up on your wager myself!’

Now Napoleon stood, clearly annoyed that the discussion was getting out of hand. ‘No one is eating poisoned pig. I want the animal bayoneted and thrown into the Nile this very night. Gage, you’re here instead of the docket in Paris at my indulgence. I order you to help Count Silano in every way you can.’

I stood too. ‘Then I must report what I was reluctant to admit. The medallion is gone, lost when I went overboard at the battle at Abukir.’

Now the table broke into a buzz, everyone betting whether I was telling the truth. I rather enjoyed the notoriety, even though I knew it could only mean more trouble. Bonaparte scowled.

‘You said nothing of this before,’ Silano said sceptically.

‘I’m not proud of my mishap,’ I replied. ‘And I wanted the officers here to see the greedy loser that you are.’ I turned to the others. ‘This nobleman is not a serious scholar. He is nothing more than a frustrated gambler, trying to get by threat what he lost by cards. I’m a Freemason too, and his Egyptian Rite is a corruption of the precepts of our order.’

‘He’s lying,’ Silano seethed. ‘He wouldn’t have come back to Cairo if the medallion were not still his.’

‘Of course I would. I am a savant of this expedition, no less than Monge or Berthollet. The person who hasn’t come back is my friend, the writer Talma, who disappeared in Alexandria the same time you arrived.’

Silano turned to the others. ‘Magic, again.’

They laughed.

‘Do not make jokes, monsieur,’ I said. ‘Do you know where Antoine is?’

‘If you find your medallion, perhaps I can help you find Talma.’

‘The medallion is lost, I told you!’

‘And I said I don’t believe you. My dear General Bonaparte, how do we know which side this American, this English-speaker, is even on?’

‘That’s outrageous!’ I shouted, even while secretly wondering which side I should be on, even while firmly determined to stay on my own side – whatever that was. As Astiza had said, what did I truly believe? In bloody treasure, beautiful women, and George Washington. ‘Duel with me!’ I challenged.

‘There will be no duels!’ Napoleon ordered once more. ‘Enough! Everyone is acting like children! Gage, you have permission to leave my table.’

I stood and bowed. ‘Perhaps that would be best.’ I backed through the door.

‘You are about to see just how serious a scholar I am!’ Silano called after me. And I heard him speaking to Napoleon, ‘That American, you should not trust him. He’s a man who could make all our plans come to naught.’

It was past noon the next day that Ash, Enoch, Astiza, and I were resting by Enoch’s fountain, discussing the dinner and Silano’s purpose. Enoch had armed his servants with cudgels. For no obvious reason, we felt under siege. Why had Silano come all this way? What was Bonaparte’s interest? Did the general desire occult powers as well? Or were we magnifying into a threat what was only idle curiosity?

Our answer came when there was a brief pounding at Enoch’s door and Mustafa went to answer it. He came back not with a visitor, but with a jar. ‘Someone left this.’

The clay-coloured container was fat, two feet high, and heavy enough that I could see the biceps flex in the servant’s arms as he carried it to a low table and put it down. ‘There was no one there and the street was empty.’

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘It’s a jar for oil,’ Enoch said. ‘It’s not the custom to deliver a gift this way.’ He looked wary, but stood to open it.

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘What if it’s a bomb?’

‘A bomb?’

‘Or a Trojan horse,’ said Astiza, who knew her Greek legends as well as her Egyptian ones. ‘An enemy leaves this, we carry it inside

…’

‘And out jump midget soldiers?’ asked Ashraf, somewhat amused.

‘No. Snakes.’ She remembered the incident in Alexandria.

Now Enoch hesitated.

Ash stood. ‘Stand back and let me open it.’

‘Use a stick,’ his brother said.

‘I’ll use a sword, and be quick.’

We stood a few steps back. Using the point of a scimitar, Ashraf broke a wax seal on the rim and loosened the lid. No sound came from inside. So, using the tip of his weapon, Ash slowly raised and flipped the covering off. Again, nothing. He leant forward cautiously, probing with his sword… and jumped back. ‘Snake!’ he confirmed.

Damn. I’d had enough of reptiles.

‘But it can’t be,’ the Mameluke said. ‘The jar is full of oil. I can smell it.’ He cautiously came back again, probing. ‘No… wait. The snake is dead.’ His face looked troubled. ‘May the gods have mercy.’

‘What the devil?’

Grimacing, the Mameluke plunged his hand into the jar and lifted. Out came a snakelike fistful of oily hair entangled with the scales of a reptile. As he hoisted his arm, we saw a round object wrapped in the coils of a dead serpent. Oil sluiced off a human head.

I groaned. It was Talma, eyes wide and sightless.