Chapter Twenty-Seven
Foye stretched out on his pallet, one leg crossed over the other, waiting for the inevitable lull in the night when sentries lost their edge. Perhaps he should have taken Sabine outside somewhere, past the springs, to some copse of wood to lie in the moonlight and whisper to her of his desires while he proved just how deep they ran.
Outside, on the other side of the inn, another caravan was passing on its way to Aleppo, traveling through the night to take advantage of the cool air. They were nearly halfway to Iskenderun. It was possible that with a quick start and hard riding he could get them safely to Iskenderun sometime in the next twenty-four hours.
He sat up. The pasha’s Janissaries did not have a change in guard duty; he’d have heard them if they had. When he looked over the rear wall, he saw them sleeping. Several of his mercenaries were asleep as well. His Druze commander was stretched out by the wall. Awake. The captain sat holding onto the rope that secured the horses, in a line of sight to the pasha’s tent.
Soft noises came from the horses on the other side of the wall. With the moon so bright, he had a good view of the pasha’s tent and the two men asleep outside the door. The last of the camels had finished passing by. He rose and went to the window overlooking the front of the inn, where, in the bright moonlight, he had a good view of the road. A man came behind driving several asses before him, then more armed men, following the caravan on its way to Iskenderun. Soon, they too passed out of his sight.
Foye packed his bedding under the captain’s watchful eye. He found Sabine’s saddlebags and gear. The soldier nodded and silently rose. He separated Foye’s stallion and Sabine’s mare from the others, then pegged down the rest so they wouldn’t wander. The Druze pointed, silently conveying that he would meet Foye in the front.
He bent down next to Sabine and woke her. Her eyes popped open, but he put a hand across her lips, and she nodded, understanding the need for silence. While she rolled up her bedding, Foye stuffed his coat into one of his saddlebags and took out a set of native clothes of his own. He stripped quickly. Sabine turned and helped him dress, then tucked his tightly rolled-up clothes into his saddlebag. By the time they were done, Foye was a blue-eyed Arab.
Together, they packed up the rest of their gear and crept out.
The Druze waited for them by the road. Foye handed over a heavy purse, which disappeared into the depths of the soldier’s sash. Then he and Sabine mounted and they were off, riding hard for Iskenderun.
They continued the climb into the Nur Mountains, letting their mounts pick their way around boulders and through sandy terrain, and occasionally making way for other travelers heading in either direction. No one paid them much attention. Two natives heading into Iskenderun was nothing to remark. Once daylight came, however, anyone who came close enough to see Foye’s eyes would penetrate the disguise.
As night worked its way toward dawn, she and Foye dozed in their saddles. They were both dead tired. Still, they stopped only to feed and water the horses and take care of the inevitable pressing needs. Whenever they heard someone behind them, they moved off the road until they were certain it was safe. About ten o’clock the following morning, they reached Balen, the city that spanned the infamous Syrian Gates where Alexander the Great had engaged and ultimately defeated Darius and the Persian army. Their mounts, slow but sure, carried them downward into the western foothills of the Nur Mountains.
Exhaustion pulled at Foye, dragged at his eyes, and clouded his thinking. He could, and had, literally, slept on his horse. Sabine had done the same. The thought of stopping was a siren call to sleep. Iskenderun meant the end of their journey. They would be safe there. The nightmare of these last few days would be over.
With the heat beating down on them, they rounded a bend, and Foye’s breath caught in his chest. Before them the blue Mediterranean stretched out to the horizon. Ships bobbed in the Iskenderun harbor, from which the city spread outward.
They worked their way through the foothills, but before they reached the flatlands of the city itself, Foye turned his horse off the main road. They followed a narrow packed-dirt road, passing several native houses of dark carved stone. He knew from experience that an unprepossessing exterior spoke nothing of what they would find inside.
At one of the homes, Foye unwrapped the cloth around his face and dismounted. Sabine did the same. “This is Bayt Salem,” he told her. “The home of my friend Hugh Eglender. The vice-consul I told you about.” He rubbed his eyes. “I did tell you. Didn’t I? He’ll marry us.”
“Yes, Foye.”
His legs felt like water. He wanted so badly to sleep. “You must remain Pathros awhile longer,” he said.
“Effendi.”
The entrance to the house was a corridor that made two turns before it opened onto the main interior courtyard, a device that ensured it was not possible for passersby to see inside. An English servant met them at the edge of the courtyard. He knew Foye immediately, despite his native costume.
“My lord,” he said. He smiled at Foye. “How pleasant to see you.”
“Is Eglender at home?” Foye asked.
“No, but he will be very pleased to know you’ve come to see him, my lord. Come in, come in.”
Another servant came to take their horses. Sabine kept her head down and her arms folded around the saddlebags she’d taken from her horse. Two more servants hurried toward them to take their things. Another appeared with a pistol thrust through his waistband. They followed Eglender’s butler upstairs to a room with a ceiling painted in deep blue and gold and elaborately carved cabinets lining the walls.
“After such a long journey,” Foye said to Eglender’s butler, “I should very much like to bathe, please.” He made a careless motion in Sabine’s direction. “The boy will look after me, no need to disturb anyone else.”
The man nodded. “Very good, milord,” he said.
“I know the way,” Foye said.
“My lord.” He bowed and left them alone in the room.
Truly alone.
They locked gazes. He’d done it. They’d reached Iskenderun ahead of the pasha, and he was so tired he could hardly think straight. “Come along, then,” he said. “I presume you want a bath at least half as much as I do.”
“More than you, Foye.” She opened their saddlebags until she found both the metal containers that held the items necessary for bathing.
Since the arrangement of Eglender’s house was the traditional one, the baths were located downstairs. Foye led the way past an open storage room to stairs that descended to ground level and an orange-and-lemon-tree-lined path through a garden. Another set of stairs took them down to the household’s private baths.
Foye already knew the baths here were nothing short of spectacular. An intertwining pattern in the marble floor repeated on the walls and ceiling. Pale white marble columns held up a domed ceiling in which there were insets of thick glass to filter daylight to a soft glow without the danger to modesty that would have been posed by the usual latticed windows. The side nearest the entrance had tiled niches where they could remove their clothes in privacy. In the center of this space was a marble platform where, under normal circumstances, they would lie down while a servant massaged them. There was an awkward pause during which Sabine’s cheeks flushed under her darkened skin.
“What are you thinking, Pathros?” he said. Jesus, he felt stupid with exhaustion.
She smiled at him. “That I’m to be your bath boy after all,” she said.
The only thing left for them was to undress. Foye stood there for too long, thinking of Sabine and her body and how foolishly, wonderfully giddy he felt when she touched him. And how incredibly lucky he was that she wanted to.