The Alexandria Affair Read online

  In the one second that I saw him, silhouetted against a smudge of lamplight from an open window, I knew it was the same person who’d hunted me this summer. He was as tall as I was, and the familiarity of his stance was unnerving.

  In the next instant, I was on the pavement in a noisome alley with Bartholomew on top of me, Brewster’s heavy footsteps moving away from us at a rapid pace. I heard Brewster’s shouts receding as he moved through the narrow streets.

  I struggled up, Bartholomew’s weight considerable.

  “He’s gone,” I growled at my robust footman. “A simple warning might have sufficed.”

  Bartholomew unapologetically helped me to my feet, his strength nearly pulling me off them again. His blue eyes were wide, his face, dirt-streaked. “Couldn’t take no chance, sir. Wanted you out of the line of the shot. Besides, Mr. Brewster pushed me.”

  Brewster had done such a thing before, shoving me aside and taking a bullet meant to hit me. I couldn’t hear his shouts any longer, and my heart thumped with worry.

  “We’d better make sure he’s well,” I said.

  I took the precaution of peering out into the main street before I simply charged ahead. A hunchbacked beggar scuttled past, but otherwise, the night was dark, the lane empty.

  I felt great alarm for Brewster. He’d nearly died when he’d been shot this summer—he would have, if not for the help of a surgeon who was equally as criminal as Denis. The surgeon’s skill had healed Brewster, and for that I was grateful, no matter how much of a villain the surgeon might have been in the past.

  Brewster tramped around the corner as we reached the end of the lane, upright and unharmed. “Gone,” he said in disgust. He spat on the uneven stones. “Like a ghost.”

  “At least he didn’t shoot,” I said, my voice severe. “Haven’t you learned not to leap in front of loaded pistols?”

  “’Tis my task to protect you, Captain,” Brewster said without heat. “’Sides, I want that bloke. Want to give him a good clip around the ear for laying me up like that.” His hand went to his side, where the bullet had struck and lodged.

  Brewster said clip around the ear, but I knew he meant to throttle the man, whoever he was. Brewster was the violent sort. He didn’t teach lessons; he took revenge.

  We said little more as we made our way through darkness back to the ship.

  Strangely, what I felt about encountering my hunter again was not fear and anger, but vast relief. If the man who wished to kill me was here in Malta, then he was not in England near my wife or in France where my daughter was.

  Whether he’d followed us or chanced upon us, I could not know, but I’d make sure he followed me from now on. I’d lead him to hell itself to keep him away from Donata, Peter, and Gabriella.

  We boarded the ship without further mishap, and I asked the mate to keep a special lookout for intruders. He assured me he never took his eyes from the comings and goings while they were in port, and I believed him. Merchantmen had plenty of goods for thieves to plunder.

  Even so, I slept restlessly and was sandy-eyed and irritable when Grenville returned in the morning, and the ship made to get underway.

  “Good Lord,” Grenville said as we met in his cabin and I told him about my adventure.

  Grenville was as well-groomed as he would be in a London club, his dark hair combed and crisp, his face smoothly shaved. His suit, a casual one for traveling, was perfectly tailored and likely cost as much as any sailor on this ship made in a year.

  “You’re certain it was the same man?” Grenville asked, but even as he spoke he nodded, knowing I would be sure. “How the devil did he know you’d be here?”

  “We made no secret of the journey.” I stepped to the window and looked out, watching the old city recede as the ship made its ponderous way out of the harbor. “The famous Grenville prepares for a voyage to exotic lands. Many a newspaper reported this fact.” I turned from the window. “We travel on one of Captain Woolwich’s ships—I assume its itinerary is published somewhere.”

  Grenville sat on his bunk and slid off a boot with the help of a boot jack. This spoke of his agitation—usually he’d call a servant to help him remove any article of clothing.

  “Disturbing thought,” Grenville said. “So he might be waiting for us to disembark in Alexandria, pistol loaded.” He looked up at me. “We can always go back, Lacey. Take an outbound ship to London at the next port. You did not want to come at all—Donata and I rather forced your hand.”

  “No,” I said with determination. “I’m damned if I’ll let this fellow decide for me where I will or will not go. I am pleased he’s following me and leaving Donata and my daughter alone. If he makes his appearance again, we will turn the tables and hunt him. Brewster, in particular, would like a word with him.”

  Grenville opened the small box he kept beside his bunk, removed a goblet and vial, and poured a dollop of yellow liquid from the vial into the glass. His seasick remedy, which he said helped a bit. I’d sniffed it one day and found it perfectly foul.

  “I admire your spirit,” Grenville said. “But I would recommend caution. We can always change ships and arrive in Alexandria at a different time. Or go to Rosetta instead and make our way back. Keep surprise on our side.”

  I considered, then shook my head. “If he is intent on finding me, he will. Then I will knock his pistol from his hand and beat some answers from him.”

  “As I say, I applaud your courage.” Grenville swallowed the draught, returned the vial and goblet to the box, then lay flat on his bunk with the look of a man steeling himself to face the worst. “But keep Brewster by your side, won’t you?”

  A wave heaved under the hull. I rose with it, liking the feeling of gliding along the sea, but Grenville went pale.

  I looked at him with concern. “I wish I could help you, my dear fellow. Is there anything I can do?”

  “You may read to me, if you like.” Grenville slid his handkerchief from his coat and dabbed his lips. “The malady is not as bad these days—I’m more used to the motion.” He winced as we hit another wave, belying his words. “Distract me with your studies of nature and the world.”

  Grenville had brought a library with him, or near enough, which had now been supplemented by the volumes his friend in Valletta had lent us. I had been spending much time already sitting on deck or in the ward room, reading until the words blurred.

  I perused everything from Herodotus to more modern accounts of Egypt by French explorers currently excavating on the Nile. I kept myself apprised of the exploits of one Giovanni Belzoni, once a strongman in popular shows at Sadler’s Wells and Bartholomew Faire, now becoming known for digging up Egyptian antiquities to send back to England.

  I read histories of Alexandria and its famous library, of the oracle in the desert that had told Alexander he would conquer the world. I read of temples and pyramids rising out of the sands and speculations on monuments to dead kings that were still buried.

  I read of astronomy and the science of nature in Newton’s Principia, and more recent studies of celestial mechanics by the Marquis de Laplace, of light by Mr. Young, and the discoveries of comets and other celestial wonders by Mr. Herschel and his family.

  Obliging, I fetched the Laplace and began to read out loud to Grenville. I do not know if the mysteries of the skies soothed him, but soon he was asleep. I tucked the book under my arm and went up on deck to continue reading under the warming sun.

  * * *

  The voyage continued without mishap. As we went south, toward the coast of Africa, the air grew hotter and dryer. I spent many of my nights on deck, enjoying the cool breezes of the sea and watching the moon and stars.

  I contemplated the lands we sailed past, helped keep an eye out for pirates, watched the sailors, spoke at length with the Porters, and read as much as I could.

  So entertaining myself, and Grenville when he felt up to it, we lumbered along the coast and came to Alexandria.

  I confess that my first glimpse
of the exotic land of the pharaohs disappointed me slightly. I had been reading so much about the glorious harbors of Alexandria and its lighthouse that I was a bit taken aback to find the city nothing like I’d envisioned.

  The narrow causeway that had been constructed from Alexandria to the island of Pharos by the first Ptolemy’s engineers was now a wide isthmus, built up by two thousand years of rocks, sand, and silt. Low stone buildings covered its entirety, which culminated in a fortress on the harbor, itself centuries old—an edifice to keep people out instead of a light to welcome them in. Called Qait Bay after the Mameluke sultan who had built it, the fortress stood where the famous lighthouse had, every piece of that lighthouse now gone.

  Sergeant Porter joined me on deck as we rolled past the fortress and eastward toward Aboukir, where we’d land, our ship too large to put into Alexandria’s small port. A flat, very green plain fed by waterways of the longest river in the world opened up to us as we sailed past. Palm trees poked from ripples of green, reminding me that despite Egypt’s vast deserts, it was also a very fertile land—had been for millennia.

  Our great ship floated to Aboukir, where the French fleet had been routed by Lord Nelson, while Napoleon had been off in the desert fighting Mamelukes and sketching pyramids.

  Grenville joined us on deck, more color in his cheeks now that we’d stopped rocking, and looked about with interest. “Old Nappy’s quest to conquer the East might have been a military failure,” he said, “but it was a triumph of knowledge. There has been no more thorough study of Egypt before or since. Ironic, eh?”

  “Aye, he was mad for Egypt, was the Corsican,” Porter said. “Good for us, though. He mapped out where all the best sites were. We’ll dig it all up for Mr. Salt and England.”

  Grenville and I exchanged a glance. Sergeant Porter made no pretense that he was after as many antiquities as he could carry back with him. I had to admit, however, that I wouldn’t mind finding a few myself, even if I ended up giving them to Henry Salt, the British minister in Egypt.

  Offloading our baggage took quite a long time. While I had learned in my many years in the army to travel with a minimum of possessions, Grenville, a wealthy Englishman, brought his entire world with him.

  In addition to the two trunks he’d squeezed into his cabin, four others had been stowed below, one of which included furniture. When I’d remarked about his excess of baggage during the voyage, Grenville had regarded me calmly and said,

  “You’ll be thankful of my things when we arrive, Lacey, mark my words. Accommodations can be spartan in the extreme.”

  The process of unloading his trunks was slowed by the number of officials who wanted to speak with us. Egypt was ruled from afar by the leader of the Ottoman Empire in Constantinople, closer by the pasha—the governor—who sat in Cairo, and then by city officials of Aboukir and Alexandria. Soldiers in Turkish dress, armed with swords and pistols, swarmed the docks, as did what Grenville called fellahin, Egyptian peasants who did everything from carrying baggage or offloading the ships to selling souvenirs to simply standing and watching us.

  Grenville was recognized by the officials as the head of our party, or at least as the gentleman with all the money. Grenville began handing out gifts and trinkets—apparently part of his baggage had been snuffboxes, small purses, and other such objects to smooth our way.

  I wandered off as he and our footmen became surrounded, and took in my first glimpse of Egypt.

  Brewster was directly behind me, his heavy tread audible even over the great amount of noise of the docks. We were still about twelve miles from Alexandria—we’d journey from here to the town in carts.

  I took in the sights around me, wanting to remember every detail for the journal I was keeping for Gabriella. Even though this Egypt was not the land I’d read of in Herodotus, it was still strange and wonderful.

  The air was soft, the wind from the sea cooling the day’s heat. Walls and buildings of mud and occasionally stone gave way to fields of green spreading as far as I could see. The fields were fairly bare—Grenville had explained to me that we’d arrived at the time of inundation, the Nile in flood. Once the water went down, the farmers would till the fields, which would flourish with rich crops.

  At the moment everything was warm and damp, with men lounging together in front of houses or bent almost double in the fields, their long robes tucked around their hips, working on something I couldn’t see.

  Brewster’s scowl told me of his discomfort. He’d never been out of England, and rarely left the environs of London. He’d been to Norfolk with Denis—he’d helped tear apart my home there—and he must have traveled when he’d been a pugilist, but I knew that Brewster was happiest on the streets of London.

  “Why don’t they were trousers?” he asked, pointing to a group of men in their long plain robes Grenville called galabiyas. “Or at least knee breeches. They’re like Scotsmen, with skirts that fly up and show off their privates.”

  “Climate,” I answered calmly. “With constant heat, a cotton robe is much cooler than binding clothes like trousers and a coat. In India, men wear similar garments—the heat is even fiercer there. I was once convinced to try the loose clothes of a Punjabi, and found them dashed comfortable.”

  Brewster grunted a laugh. “Did you crown your head with a turban?”

  “I did. Kept the sun off my face wonderfully. Don’t worry, Brewster, I won’t command you to go native.”

  “Huh. A right fool I’d look. But maybe I’ll find some harem dress for my Em. Wouldn’t she laugh?”

  “She might wonder what lady of a harem gave them to you,” I said with an attempt at humor. “I’d have a care.”

  “My Em knows I’m her man,” Brewster answered easily. “You are the one with the reputation for the ladies, Captain.”

  I didn’t rebuke him, because it was only the truth. I was a man happiest in the company of the fairer sex.

  The baggage carts, pulled by donkeys, caught up to us as we strolled along, Grenville tramping next to them with Matthias and Bartholomew.

  I was tired enough to perch on the back of a cart, my legs dangling down, by the time we reached Alexandria itself.

  The original walls of Alexandria were gone, and even the walls of the old Arab city from the middle ages were crumbling away. The bulk of the houses were on the isthmus, but the quarter where foreigners stayed was near the old walls.

  My interest overcame fatigue, and I was out of the cart again. Even with my halting gait, my impatience and eagerness pushed me to the front of the group, moving ahead of even our guide.

  So it was that I was the first to round the corner where a Turkish soldier was about to murder a young woman.

  He had a sword in his hand, raised at a woman swathed in so much clothing it was difficult to discern where draperies left off and she began. The eyes over her colorful veil, however, were wide with confusion and terror.

  The young lady was surrounded by other women, who were so many plump lumps of cloth. The women wailed and cried, but the soldier ignored them as he swung his sword straight at the younger girl.

  His blade was stopped with a clang as it met the sword from my walking stick.

  The man swung to me in fury, and I found myself face-to-face with the full strength and rage of a battle-hardened Turkish soldier.

  Chapter 3

  The soldier must have been twenty years younger than I was, agile and swift. He had no qualms about trying to drive his sword into a foreigner, and proceeded to fight me with a hard arm.

  I heard Brewster pounding up behind me, followed by Bartholomew and Matthias, Grenville’s voice beyond them. Our Egyptian guide who’d led us from Aboukir began a stream of distressed words, and the women continued to cry out, but the rest of the street had grown suddenly deserted.

  My opponent was a very good fighter. He knew exactly how to feint and swing, then parry, elude, and attack. If we’d been fencing as equals, I might enjoy the bout.

  As it was, I cou
ld only fight for my life, my anger propelling me on. But with my injured knee, which this young man gave me no compensation for, I knew I’d lose.

  Brewster had no interest in the elegance of swordplay. He placed himself behind the solider and swung his fist at the man’s head.

  The soldier whirled with fierce precision, dodging the blow, intent on slicing into Brewster. I smacked the soldier with the flat of my blade, and Brewster balled up his giant fist, this time hitting the man full in the face.

  The soldier stumbled, blood streaming from his nose, but he regained his feet with quick ease. Brewster now had a fat knife in his hand, a hard look on his granite face.

  The soldier showed no fear at all. He danced aside, his boots kicking up dust, then he spun again and sprinted with astonishing swiftness down the lane. At the end of it, he scrambled up a wall and disappeared among the low rooftops.

  It hadn’t been only Brewster’s blows or the threat of his knife that had driven the soldier away. A gate behind the young woman had opened and men now swarmed out of it, both retainers with swords and also servants. These last began to shout and exclaim along with our guide so that there was a constant riot of noise.

  Other men were emerging from the houses around us to see what was happening. With our donkeys, carts, and a few goats and dogs who’d decided to investigate, we were jammed in tight.

  The women had disappeared. As soon as the gate had opened, the young lady had been hustled inside by her attendants, and now only men surrounded our party, none of them looking very pleased.

  A tall man with a dark, lined face, a neatly trimmed white beard, colorful silk clothing, and a light yellow turban pointed at me and said in French, “You. Come inside.”

  “No, no,” I answered, and then continued in French, “We are on our way to our lodgings after a long journey.”

  The man glared stubbornly at me. “Now. Come.”

  Our guide burst into speech. The tall man turned his head with slow dignity and listened to him without changing expression, then he returned his gaze to me. His eyes were beautifully round and liquid dark, holding the wisdom and weight of age.