Chapter 16
THE PASSAGE WAS SMALLER AND MORE IRREGULAR than the shaft to the burial chamber. At some points Rupert had to crawl on his belly. It was also a great deal longer.
At one point during the interminable journey, he called a halt for rest. “Are you all right?” he said.
“Don’t waste breath being solicitous,” she said crossly. “We haven’t enough air as it is. And I don’t need to rest. Can you not go faster?”
“Mrs. Pem—Dash it, I don’t even know your given name.”
“Daphne,” she said.
“Daphne,” he repeated. “That’s lovely.”
“Ye gods, what does it matter? Will you please move?”
“You need to rest,” he said. “You sound short of breath.”
“I want to get out,” she said. “Now.”
It was then he remembered her morbid aversion to closed spaces. He started crawling again, this time as fast as he could. She was probably near hysteria, with good reason. The tunnel was hot, and what air it held was stale and foul. He wanted to be out of it, too.
He crawled on, hoping for fresh air at the end, if not light. Above all, he hoped they hadn’t leapt out of the pan into the fire.
AT THE TOP of the burial shaft, Khareef discovered that brandy did not always give men courage. None of the others was willing to follow Omar and Amin down the shaft.
It was too quiet down there, they said. Something bad was down there.
“This place is evil,” said one coward. “The donkey is possessed.”
A distance behind them, near the mouth of the tomb, the foreigners’ donkey continued its wild braying.
“We made too much noise,” said another. “The English heard us coming and ran away.”
“Where can they go?” Khareef said. “There is but one way in and one way out.”
“What about the thieves’ hole?” another asked.
Khareef laughed. “If they’ve found it, they won’t get far. It’s falling in. They’ll have to turn back.”
“Perhaps it will fall on their heads.”
“Then they will die.”
“Duval will not be pleased.”
“The woman was not to be harmed.”
Khareef, like the others, was drunk. The mention of Duval sobered him. The woman was to be Duval’s hostage. For what purpose Khareef neither knew nor cared.
He did know and care what would happen to him if he bungled this assignment.
He grabbed a torch from one of the men and started down the shaft.
The others squatted at the mouth of the shaft and waited.
After a moment, Khareef’s voice wafted up, filling the air with curses. “Come down, you cowards,” he called. “Come down and help your brothers.”
One by one, the men began crawling down the shaft.
They found Khareef bending over a stone coffin. “See what the swine of an Englishman has done,” he said.
It took two men to move the broken pieces of lid enough to get their battered and terrified friends out.
“Why didn’t you call for help?” Khareef demanded. “These old women thought a ghoul had eaten you.”
“Englishman,” Omar gasped. “Demon. Rocks.” He clutched his bloodied head.
“The woman,” Amin said. “Fearless and fierce like a lion.”
“She is only a woman,” Khareef said scornfully. “She threw rocks at you, as naughty boys do. The man is only a man. But you will all see, when they come out of this hole.” With his pistol he pointed at the thieves’ tunnel.
He leant against the sarcophagus and waited.
DAPHNE WAS NOT fearless.
She was, in fact, on the brink of babbling in terror.
She’d not altogether willingly or happily traversed pyramid and tomb shafts. Those, however, were spacious promenades compared to this roughly hewn tunnel. She doubted it was part of a tomb complex. It was more likely the work of robbers.
They’d certainly done a great deal of work, because it seemed longer than any of the endless passages in the Pyramid of Steps at Saqqara.
But perhaps it seemed longer than it was. She had no idea how far they’d gone when Mr. Carsington stopped again abruptly. She had an unhappy suspicion why he’d stopped.
In the course of the last few yards, bits of debris and dirt had been falling on her head. Now the floor of the tunnel was rough with rubble.
“Is it bad?” she said.
“It isn’t good,” he said. “The way is blocked.”
Judging by the sounds, he was shifting rocks.
“Looking on the bright side, it’s loose,” he said.
Bright side, indeed. The thing could cave in, burying them alive.
“On the other hand,” he went on, “I can’t tell how far the blockage extends.”
If she had to go back the whole long, suffocating way she’d come, she’d go mad.
“The ancients dug into rock using primitive tools,” she said. “Surely we can make a way through loose rubble, using our hands and our knives?”
“We can try,” he said. “But it could take a very long time, and it might be more densely packed farther on. Are you sure you don’t want to turn back?”
“I have the greatest confidence that they’ll be waiting for us,” she said.
They would kill him. Kill the man first, one of the men had said. Once he is dead, she will give us no trouble.
But others said the Englishman was more valuable alive: they could hold him for ransom or make him into a eunuch and sell him as a slave. Someone brought up the difficulties of finding a suitable buyer; another pointed out how much easier it was to dispose of a corpse than to conceal a large, ferocious Englishman. And so on.
They had haggled about Mr. Carsington’s life as they might have haggled over the price of a pipe bowl.
She would not let him fall into their hands.
“If I squeeze up alongside you,” she said, “I can help move the debris out of the way. We’ve a better chance using two pairs of hands.”
And if they were buried alive, she’d be close to him at the end at least.
“Say no more, m’dear,” he said. “You had me convinced the instant you suggested squeezing your magnificent body alongside mine.”
“You’re impossible,” she said. “I’m filthy. And I smell.”
“Me, too,” he said cheerfully. “Yet you offered anyway. I can’t decide whether you’re desperately brave or desperately infatuated. Perhaps both.”
She squeezed up, forcing him to draw aside. “When we get out of this, if we get out of this, I shall box your ears,” she said.
“We’ll get out of it,” he said.
“Stop talking,” she said. “Start digging.”
RUPERT STOPPED THINKING, too, and started pulling rocks out of the way. As in the tomb they’d escaped, the debris was mostly chunks of rubble. It might have been far worse, he told himself. The collapse must have happened fairly recently. It was not packed down. It wasn’t sand. As soon as he shifted some of the rubble out of the way, he saw the tunnel was of wider dimensions here than previously. They must be near the end.
He said nothing of his hopes, though, but worked silently and steadily with her, hip to hip, he tackling one side, she the other. His mind worked, too, reviewing these last hours, this day that seemed to compass a lifetime: the sandstorm, his fear and rage about her, the lovemaking—ah, that was well worth remembering—her passion, her courage.
Daphne.
It was one of those Greek names. A goddess? A nymph?
“Which one was Daphne?” he said.
She paused in her work. He felt rather than saw her rub her face. “Which one what?” she said.
“In the Greek myths. Which one was she?”
“The daughter of the river god. She’s the one who turned into a laurel tree to escape Apollo.”
“Ah, yes, now I remember. Those Greek females were always doing that sort of thing. Turning into trees, flowers, echoes. Excessive, I always thought. What’s wrong with ‘I have a headache’? And what sort of missish creature runs away from Apollo, anyway? Wasn’t he one of the good-looking ones?”
“I always thought she was a fool,” Daphne muttered. “Apollo, of all gods. But there’s no rhyme or reason to those myths. You have one woman accepting the attentions of a swan, another of a bull. On the other hand, there’s…Mr. Carsington, what’s that smell?”
“I was Rupert before,” he complained. “Why am I Mr. Carsington now? Is it my fault our escape route’s caved in? In any case, if I smell worse than before, it’s on account of the digging and the fact that this place must be close to ninety degr—” Then he caught it: the distinctive odor of long-dead Egyptian.
It was very strong, stronger than anything he’d encountered before.
He dragged away stones faster now, despite the revulsion and dread.
The smell grew stronger still.
But the way was clear. He reached ahead, into emptiness. He set his hand down. Something cracked under it.
“I think we’re at the end,” he said.
He felt her move beside him, advancing into the space ahead.
“It definitely smells like a tomb,” she said.
“I don’t suppose you have any candle left,” he said. “The floor seems to be…rather crowded.”
He heard rustling. “I’ve a stub in my girdle,” she said. “But I can’t find my tinderbox.”
He found his, and after several failures succeeded in lighting the bit of candle.
It did not produce much light. There was enough, though, to show him they’d entered a sepulchral chamber whose floor was covered with broken mummies.
HE MADE DAPHNE keep the candle lit until they’d found the opening to the shaft.
He didn’t want to step on the mummies, he said.
They were hard not to step on. The sepulchral chamber had housed a large family. They’d been torn apart, limbs and skulls strewn about the floor. The search for treasure must have occurred fairly recently, Daphne guessed. Either that or someone else had tramped through here not long ago, because mummy dust still hung in the air. It clogged the nostrils and scratched the eyes.
But rock dust already coated her nose and eyes, providing a degree of insulation from the mummies’ emanations.
At any rate, they didn’t linger.
Thanks to recent excavations and plundering, the way out was clear, and it was a short way out. This tomb wasn’t as deep as the one they’d left. Once they were away from dismembered mummies and well clear of the shaft, they put out the candle.
Moonlight showed the entrance not many yards distant. They hurried that way, past crudely hewn walls bare of decoration.
At the entrance they paused.
In Egypt the moon seemed to cast a deeper, more illuminating glow than it did in England. They looked out.
They had come out on the part of the mountain overlooking Asyut. The town stood in the middle of the fertile plain, its minarets snow-white in the moonlight. From it an earthen dike, built to contain the annual inundation, wound its way to the Nile, whose own windings were plainly visible over a great distance.
Clearly visible, too, was the little village of El-Hamra, the port of Asyut, crowded with boats. Among these it was impossible to distinguish the Isis.
The dahabeeya wasn’t the first concern at the moment, though. Getting to the harbor alive was.
“Shall we chance going through the town?” she said. “If we go around, that could take hours.”
“If all the gates are locked, we won’t have a choice,” he said. “But I’d rather try the town first. It’s late, and most people will be indoors. With luck, we’ll get through without attracting attention.”
“Those men,” she said. “They might have found the tunnel. Or maybe they know where it comes out.”
“Then we’d better move quickly,” he said.
NO ONE STOPPED them at the southwest gate. The gatekeeper appeared to be asleep, like the rest of the town. The men who wanted Mr. Carsington dead failed to appear. Daphne and he nearly made it through the place with no trouble. But as they approached the main gate, the one nearest the river, a Turkish soldier accosted them.
Luckily, it was only one, and he was drunk. When he started making difficulties, Daphne “accidentally” lost her grip on her veil. It fell away to reveal her almost fully exposed bosom. While the soldier gawked, Mr. Carsington withdrew his pistol from his girdle and struck the man in the back of the head. With a low groan, the soldier went down. She helped drag him into the nearest alley.
Then, “Run,” Mr. Carsington said.
They ran.
They arrived, gasping for breath, at the main gate.
It was locked.
“This,” Mr. Carsington said, “is the last straw.”
He woke up the sleeping gatekeeper and demanded to be let out. The gatekeeper yawned and grumbled at him to go away.
Daphne tried making the request in Arabic.
The gatekeeper waved her away. They must stop their noise, he said. The gate would be opened at the proper time and not before. If they made trouble, they would go to the guardhouse.
Then from the shadows of the wall, a young, sleepy voice piped up. “Master?”
“Tom?” Mr. Carsington said.
The boy came running. “Oh, sir, oh, sir.” He fell to the ground and commenced hugging his idol’s knees. “I knew you were not dead.” He jumped up. “Oh, lady, I rejoice to see you. The jinn of the sandstorm did not take you away.”
Daphne grabbed the boy and hugged him. “And you are safe as well,” she said in his tongue. “My heart is glad. And Yusef?”
“We hid in the big tomb, the one they call the Stable of Antar. When the sandstorm ended, we looked for you, all the day and into the night.”
He turned to the gatekeeper. “Behold, here is the master and his hareem. I told you they would come. The sandstorm tried to eat them, but the master is powerful, and made the jinn spit them out. But he is angry at this place, because it holds evil men who wish him ill. Let him go away with his hareem, and let none out after him, until the proper time. I beg you to do this thing, before he casts the eye upon you.”
The warning alone might not have had the desired effect, but the coins Tom held out did.
The gate opened as little as possible, and closed the instant they were out.
As they were hurrying down to the harbor, Daphne heard angry shouts.
The gate remained closed.
They reached the boat and found the crew awake. They quickly hushed the cries of joy and thanksgiving. Minutes after they were aboard, the Isis slipped out of the harbor.
THEY’D HARDLY STEPPED upon the deck when the women came and bore Daphne away to her cabin.
Rupert had only the dimmest recollection of what happened thereafter. He bathed—or someone bathed him. He ate—or someone fed him. He wasn’t at all sure. Once he’d got her safely aboard the boat, a profound weariness set in, and he went through the motions of bathing and eating like a sleepwalker. He did not remember returning to his cabin or falling asleep.
He remembered the dream, though.
He stood at the bottom of the mountain, at the cemetery, watching a hawk soar overhead. Then he saw her at the entrance to a large tomb. He called to her, but she appeared not to hear him. She entered the tomb. He hurried up after her and inside. He heard her voice coming from the depths of the tomb. He followed the sound, but it never grew any closer. He came to the sepulchral chamber and, heart pounding, went to the sarcophagus. It was open. He looked in. Empty.
He heard weeping and followed the sound, but again it was some cruel trick. No one. Nothing. Not even a mummy fragment. Only a dark, endless emptiness. Then from a distance came a mournful cry.
He woke to heat and bright sunlight streaming through the slits of the window shutters. From outside came the wailing that he recognized as Egyptian music. The sailors were singing, one of their number accompanying on the pipes and another on the earthen drum.
He sat up and looked about the cabin. His gaze met Tom’s. The boy, who’d been squatting patiently by the door, now rose and brought the water ewer, bowl, and towel.
Rupert washed.
“Will you shave, sir?” Tom asked.
Rupert felt his face and grimaced. He hoped this was overnight growth. He hoped he hadn’t scraped Daphne’s delicate skin with these deadly bristles.
Daphne, he thought. Her name was Daphne. It made him smile; he didn’t know why.
“Sir?”
“Yes, yes. Eywa.”
He shaved and thought about her body, and the way she moved under his hands, and the way she tasted. He remembered her running after him, naked from the waist up, holding her billowing trousers up with one hand.
Unself-conscious, uninhibited, passionate…
…and now, he abruptly realized, out of reach.
They were no longer cut off from the world.
They occupied a large boat, but a precious small world. No one knew what had happened in the tomb above Asyut. But everyone would know everything that happened aboard the Isis.
Oh, this was not good, not good at all.
He’d never been good at resisting temptation. He was accustomed to doing as he pleased—within bounds, of course, albeit fairly wide ones. His father’s tolerance had its limits, and Rupert was not fool enough to overstep them. He was not afraid of his father. Rupert was not afraid of snakes, either. That didn’t mean he’d thrust his hand deliberately into a viper’s nest.
Furthermore, even Rupert wouldn’t dream of blackening a lady’s reputation. This was far out of the bounds of gentlemanly behavior.
England was a world away, true. But it was not out of reach of letters. English travelers would pass on scandalous tidbits to their friends and family quite as enthusiastically here as at home. He would have to be discreet. He would have to keep away from her until…
Gad, who knew how long?
He told himself not to think about it. He had no solution, and fretting would only make him disagreeable company. He finished shaving. He dressed.
“I bring coffee now?” Tom said.
“Yes. No. I’ll have it in the front cabin. Is the mistress awake?”
“Awake, yes,” the boy said. After a pause he added, “Not good. Sick, sir. They showed the door to my face.” He put his hand in front of his face.
Only then did Rupert notice how quiet the lad had been. Normally, Tom jabbered away at a ferocious rate in a bewildering mixture of Arabic and English. Belatedly, the words sank in.
“Sick?” Rupert repeated, his heart racing.
Yes, very sick. The women chased Tom away from the door because he made too much noise with crying. But he couldn’t help it. The enraged jinn of the sandstorm had struck the mistress’s heart because she escaped from him. She was a very good mistress, Tom said, a good mother to him. She would never allow him to be beaten, even when he broke things. She took care of him when he was sick. She brought back his uncle Akmed from the dead. The boy commenced bawling.
“Stop that row,” Rupert snapped. “She isn’t dying.” All the same, he hurried from the cabin and down the cramped passage to the stern cabin. He tapped on the door.
Leena opened it a crack. “My mistress cannot come to amuse you,” she whispered. “She is too sick.”
“What is it?” he said. “What’s wrong? She was well yesterday. Why didn’t anyone wake me?”
“She does not wish to see you,” Leena said. She started to close the door.
Rupert pulled it open.
Daphne lay curled up on the divan. Her face was taut and bone-white with pain.
His chest hurt as though he’d been running for miles.
“What is it?” Rupert said softly. “A bilious fever?” Had she caught it from the baby, after all? But he knew what to do. She’d told him. A cool bath. A decoction of…of what?
“Go away,” she said. Her voice was taut as well.
He knelt beside the divan and laid his hand over her forehead. It was damp but not feverish.
“Go away,” she said.
“You have to tell me what’s wrong,” he said. “Tom’s bawling his head off. The instant the crew stop singing, they’ll hear him, and everyone will be weeping and wailing.”
He leant closer, dropping his voice still lower. “Daphne, you know how emotional these people are. They all love you because you mend their broken thumbs and sun-baked brains and bring their dying children back to life. You must not let us—them—imagine the worst. What’s wrong? Tell me how I can help you.”
“You can’t help me.” She turned a little to look at him. She winced. He winced, too, in sympathy.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m not dying. You’ve nothing to worry about. Really. Nothing.”
“But you’re not well. Even a great, dumb ox can see that. Shall I make you some hot, strong tea? Or is there something you need from your medicine box? A decoction of—of something.”
She turned more fully toward him then and managed a wan smile. “All I need is time,” she said. “It’s my monthly courses.”
He sat back on his heels. “Oh.”
“Perfectly normal,” she said. “The pain is rather more unpleasant than usual, but it won’t kill me. There’s nothing one can do but wait for it to be over.”
Nothing to worry about. He hadn’t impregnated her. He was relieved, yes, of course he was. He needn’t think about…complications. It was a female problem, not his fault and none of his business. The women would look after her. He should go away, let her have her privacy.
He did not like to leave her alone, suffering, even if it wasn’t his fault and the only cure was time.
“For such a clever woman, you are woefully ignorant,” he said. “There’s a great deal one can do.”
He had no idea what one could do. He had no sisters, and even if he had, they would have kept this secret from him as every other woman did. Even his mistresses had used a code phrase to signal that the time was not convenient. They had certainly not expected him to nurse them. He had not realized, in fact, that women were in need of nursing at such times. He’d never seen one laid so low on such an account.
To see her laid low—she, so bold and brave and brilliant…
It was very disturbing.
“What you need is…um…a cool cloth on your head,” he improvised. “And your back rubbed. And I do not understand why you lie there suffering pain when you have a full stock of laudanum in your medicine box.”
“It is for acute pain, for emergencies,” she said. “It is ridiculous to take laudanum for a perfectly natural monthly event.”
“If you cannot get up from bed, if you lie there clutching your belly and curled up like a baby, I reckon the pain qualifies as acute,” he said. “And this isn’t a perfectly natural monthly event. Consider what happened in Asyut. You were not only dragged through a sandstorm and up a mountain, but you had to dig your way out of a caved-in robbers’ tunnel. Among other things.” He gave her one of his impudent grins, though he was not feeling at all impudent.
He felt all at sea.
“When I am well again,” she said, “I shall box your ears. In the meantime—” She winced. “Perhaps I will take a drop of laudanum. But only a drop. Now go away.”
He didn’t go away. He mixed the laudanum with honey and water and watched her drink it. He wet the cloths and wrung them out and laid them on her forehead. He rubbed her back. He distracted her with humorous family anecdotes. He did not leave until she fell asleep.
MILES’S CAMEL JOURNEY ended at Dendera, at the Temple of Hathor.
He’d heard of the place. He’d seen pictures in the Description de l’Egypte. He’d read travelers’ tales. Daphne had talked about it as well. But as he and his captors entered the sand- and rubbish-filled space that constituted its courtyard, he was interested mainly in the shade it would offer deep within.
After nine days’ journey across the desert on a hostile camel, after the sandstorms’ repeated batterings, he only wanted to lie down and die someplace out of the sun and the hot, gritty wind.
The men led him inside, and he stumbled wearily along with them. Now and again he glanced up at the massive columns. Daphne would be thrilled, he thought. The place was covered with hieroglyphs.
He wondered what she’d think of the famous Hathor, the Egyptian counterpart of Aphrodite. Miles found her singularly unattractive. She had a low forehead, close-set eyes, and wide, fat cheeks. Cow’s ears stuck out from the sides of her head like jug handles. She looked more like a gargoyle than a goddess, he thought. But then, not being in the best of humors, he mightn’t be able to appreciate her properly.
The men took him through a great vestibule, through a door into a smaller hall—though it was still immense—along whose sides he perceived narrow openings into dark chambers. His escort never paused. They led him on, straight ahead through more chambers, and at last into a narrow, enclosed, and profoundly dark space. Even the candles could illuminate no more than the lower portions of the relief-covered walls.
They had no difficulty illuminating the man within, however.
“Noxley?” Miles said, half-disbelieving what his eyes told him.
Lord Noxley came forward and clasped his hand. “My dear fellow, how relieved I am to see you!”
“Not half as relieved as I am to see you,” Miles said. “Not to mention happily surprised. I had hoped my sister would go to you once she realized something had gone amiss with me, but I’d little hope of seeing you so soon.”
“It was a near thing,” Noxley said, releasing his surprisingly strong grip. “The consulate was inclined, as always, to drag its feet. But Mrs. Pembroke took matters into her own hands. As a result, I was able to set out after you not three days after you were captured. But we can talk at length later, when you have rested.”
He addressed Ghazi. “Have you anything else for me?”
“Soon,” Ghazi said. “A few days.”
“Duval is not here,” said Noxley. “None of his people are here.”
Ghazi smiled. “Perhaps they heard it was not safe.”
“We’ll need to find him,” said Noxley. “But the other thing first.”
“The other thing first, yes,” Ghazi said. “Unless you require me, I set out now.”
“That would be best,” said Noxley. He withdrew a small bag from his coat and gave it to Ghazi. The bag chinked.
The man took it with thanks, bade them farewell with his usual suave courtesy, and departed, taking his associates with him.
“You’re shocked, I daresay, at my choice of employees,” Noxley said. “In England that man would be a common criminal.”
“Not at all common,” Miles said. “His manners are beautiful, and he has a charming way of offering to kill innocent bystanders if one doesn’t cooperate.”
“Alas, without men like Ghazi, one can get nothing done in this barbaric place,” Noxley said. “When in Rome, you know.” He smiled disarmingly. “I could never have found you so quickly without those fellows’ help.”
“It’s not their fault we didn’t arrive sooner,” Miles said. “We’ve been nine days coming from Minya, thanks to the sandstorms.”
“Wretched for you, I don’t doubt,” Noxley said. “But otherwise you should have arrived here days ahead of me. The winds slowed those of us on the river as well.”
He led the way out of the narrow chamber. “By gad, I am happy to see you,” he said, lowering his voice. “This has turned out to be a nasty business, indeed. The curst French…” He paused and looked about the dark temple. “They are taking away the zodiac ceiling, the swine. The pasha has given leave, you see. They will carry it to Paris—and I can do nothing until this other wretched business is settled.” He shook his head. “But never mind the French. You’ve had a filthy time of it in the desert. You’re longing for a bath, I daresay, and clean clothes and proper food. And I—if I stay here much longer, I shall be tempted to do murder.”