“Whitechapel, if you’re going to be prying. Near Spitalfields. I learned my craft scratching a living on those streets. Had to, to survive.”
I was not surprised. The streets around Spitalfields were narrow and crammed with houses of dark brick under leaden skies. Entire families lived in a few rooms in each of those houses. A greater contrast with this wide land, bright with perpetual sunshine, could not be imagined.
“Soak in the heat, then, Brewster,” I said. “We’ll miss it when we’re home.”
“If I survive to go home,” Brewster said darkly. He peered into the murky waters. “Alexandria was all right, but they say there’s crocs in the Nile ten feet long.” He nodded at the surface below us. “And you want to run up and down on it.”
I scanned the river, looking for signs of huge water creatures but finding none. “Have I discovered something you fear at last, Brewster?” I asked.
“’Tain’t fear, Captain.” Brewster threw me a scowl. “’Tis good common sense. Somefink of which you are sorely lacking.”
I could not argue with him. I leaned on the railing again, the sun on my neck, and enjoyed the warmth.
* * *
The hundred miles to Cairo passed without incident. As we neared that great city the next morning, I finally saw the Egypt of my imagination.
Cairo, a city at the end of an ancient caravan road that stretched across deserts and mountains, was a sprawling metropolis, unlike the sleepy Alexandria we had just left. Spires of minarets rose into the dusty air, green fields lined the shores, and humanity teemed on the streets beyond the docks.
On the west bank, the river flowed into fields and then the green stopped. In the distance, hidden by haze, I swore I could make out the sharp peaks of great pyramids.
I peered a long time, shading my eyes, the rising sun behind me marking the desert with stark shadows. I stood so long that an Egyptian sailor, his robe tucked around his waist, nearly ran into me and gave me an irritated look.
I hoisted my bag and followed Brewster down the gangplank.
At the bottom, I was nearly swept into the mass of people, donkeys, carts. Sights, sounds, smells, engulfed me. It was early, but the humanity of Cairo was hurrying to finish errands before retreating from the heat of the day.
Grenville emerged and trudged down the gangplank after us. He was pale but did not look nearly as bad as he had after our sea journey—the river had been calmer than the tossing Atlantic and Mediterranean.
He raised his hand to a man coming along the dock to meet us, a Sicilian Grenville had said he’d asked to be our interpreter. Apparently Giorgio Vanni spoke fluent Turkish and Arabic as well as French, English, and Italian, along with several dialects of the Italian states.
Signor Vanni was in his forties, I’d say, with a few gray hairs at his temples. He had smooth skin, dark eyes, and a face that would have been handsome if it hadn’t been an odd shape, somewhat oval and long, his chin sharp. He would live in our house and assist us with communication in Cairo.
“Bloody hell,” Brewster muttered as we walked from the ship. “Now I have to look after three of you.”
Grenville shot him a glance a surprise. “You aren’t here to look after me, Mr. Brewster. Matthias and Bartholomew do that.”
“Ain’t I?” Brewster asked, a glitter in his eyes. “When I get home, I’m asking his nibs for a rise in wages.”
“You deserve every penny,” I said sincerely, but he only grunted in response.
Cairo was loud, bustling, energetic, exiting, and hot. We left the docks and made our careful way through the streets toward the lodgings of Grenville’s friend.
We made an odd party—a London ruffian, two footmen, a scholar, a wealthy dandy, and a lame cavalryman. We earned plenty of stares from the Egyptians on the streets and from the Turks who stopped to watch us pass.
Grenville’s friend’s home in Cairo proved to be far finer than our lodgings in Alexandria. This house was more like Haluk’s, with a courtyard brimming with scarlet flowers around two fountains, arched doorways, beautifully painted tile throughout, and hidden staircases that folded around corners to a spacious upper floor.
Bartholomew and his brother approved and retreated to the servants’ quarters to try to explain to the cook what sort of food a gent like Mr. Grenville expected. Brewster roamed the house, looking for places danger could hide.
We had not been in the house more than an hour or two when word came that we were summoned—immediately—to the governor of all Egypt, the pasha, Muhammad Ali.
CHAPTER 14
While Grenville ran in the same circles as the Prince Regent of England and often had invitations to Carleton House and the Brighton Pavilion, I had never seen the inside of a palace. In the army, my commander, Colonel Brandon, and his wife, had been entertained by local princes in India, but I’d not had the rank and importance to join them.
So it was with interest that I walked through the streets with Grenville—they’d sent donkeys for us to ride, but I decided I’d look a fool astride one of the small beasts. The donkey also seemed a bit relieved I didn’t climb aboard.
I took note of everything for my journal to Gabriella. The streets changed as we followed our guides, from narrow and maze-like to broader roads lined with trees. I was reminded of the avenues of Paris, and remarked upon it.
“That is to plan,” Grenville answered. “The pasha is determined to make Cairo a city to be reckoned with, combining the best of Europe with the best of the East to make it a unique wonder. He summons French and English architects, doctors, and engineers to help him with this modernization. Very ambitious is the pasha.”
Grenville had also refused the donkey and strolled along beside me. His friend Vanni had come along to interpret, and Brewster, of course, would not be left behind. The other two walked a few paces behind us, Brewster keeping an eye out for trouble.
“I must commend him,” I said. “If the pasha can bring clean streets and better medicine to the Egyptians, that will be admirable.”
“True,” Grenville said. He stepped closer to me and spoke in a low voice. “But have a care with this man, Lacey. He worked his way from soldier to viceroy of Egypt in no time. He raised the tax on land to an extraordinary height so he could take it for himself when the owners couldn’t pay. And I suppose you’ve heard what happened to the Mamelukes?”
“No,” I answered. The pasha had risen to power when I’d been fighting on the Peninsula, and the politics of Egypt and the Ottomans had been of little interest to me.
“The Mamelukes tried to rebel against the Ottomans and seize power in Egypt,” Grenville explained. “They nearly succeeded. Muhammad Ali realized the Mamelukes posed a great danger to him. Besides, they owned much land and had become wealthy over the centuries, as well as being a military force to be reckoned with. So he invited the prominent Mamelukes to a celebration at the palace. When they marched into a narrow passage near the palace walls—this is 700 men, Lacey—he had them all assassinated, his soldiers shooting them from above.”
I stilled a pace, the horror of that seeping through me. I too easily pictured the scene—a narrow passage with walls like the sides of a canyon, riflemen firing down on soldiers unprepared to fight, men dying in the dust.
I knew from my readings of history that countries were often dragged into reformation by utterly ruthless men to become a place the world envied. I thought of the Roman emperor Octavian, later known as Augustus, who’d thought nothing of posting lists of prominent men to be killed so that he could confiscate their lands and money. Rome had risen to its pinnacle under Augustus, but that fact didn’t make his actions any less coldblooded and cruel.
The avenues of stone and trees now became sinister, and I felt eyes watching me.
The palace, in a district called the Shubra, was a delicate and splendid piece of architecture. Signor Vanni, who had lived in Cairo for several years, told us that it was not finished, but I found it already quite beautiful.
&
nbsp; The building we saw from the outside was white and square, but we stepped through its gates into paradise. The gardens were lush and green, filled with orange trees, palms, flowering plants, and walkways reaching down to the expanse of the Nile.
The garden was pleasing, but my breath was entirely taken away when we went inside an enclosed pavilion. Arched walkways surrounded a pool that reflected the open sky, but the rooms held Greek-style pillars, corbeled ceilings that could have come from Versailles, and portrait paintings as clear and precise as anything by Gainsborough or Reynolds.
We were taken to a chamber in a corner of this astonishing place. The large room was decorated with tiles and gilded pillars, and the arched ceiling had been painted with Eastern designs but also very European cameos and plaster relief.
Apparently I would not be kicking my heels in an anteroom, as I’d once speculated, while Grenville met with the ruler. In a chair on a dais at one end of the room, sat our host, Muhammad Ali, the wali of Egypt.
He was a fairly large man with a full salt-and-pepper beard that framed a hard and strong face. The eyes that regarded us were shrewd, intelligent, unyielding, and gleaming with confidence. I saw before me a man who knew what he wanted and would do anything to get it.
The pasha dressed in fairly simple Turkish clothes—a dark tunic and trousers covered with a colorfully embroidered sash. A long saber rested against the arm of his chair, a reminder that he’d been a military man for a long time.
He was surrounded by functionaries both military and civilian, their clothes subdued like his, almost European in style, as though they could have come from a shop in Paris. The pasha himself glanced at us once and away, returning to his conversation with a man who hovered next to him with a sheaf of papers.
One of the men broke from the crowd and bowed politely to us. He said in perfect English, “His eminence was pleased to hear that Mr. Grenville visits his city. He wishes to speak to you about your journey and welcome you to Egypt.”
“How very kind of him,” Grenville said with just the right amount of deference. “May I present my friend and traveling companion, Captain Gabriel Lacey.”
“A military man, yes,” the functionary said, unsurprised. He turned to me. “His eminence will be very pleased to speak to you as well.”
His eminence seemed to pay absolutely no attention to us. We were led to a round table upon which had been placed coffee and pastries, but there were no chairs. Another lackey poured the coffee for us, and we sipped, standing, wondering how long we’d be expected to wait.
An hour, it turned out. Signor Vanni had been allowed in with us, but Brewster had not, much to his anger. I fully understood—a ruler who held power tightly in his large fist would not want Brewster, an obvious man of violence, anywhere near him.
We didn’t speak—I believe all three of us were too intimidated to do so. Vanni, from what little I’d seen of him so far, seemed cultured, learned, and well-mannered. He wore a dark suit that was similar to Grenville’s but even I could tell that its material was nowhere near as costly nor its tailoring as fine.
Vanni must be a bit like myself, gentleman-born but with very little income. Grenville called him an old friend, but I suspected Grenville was paying Vanni to be our interpreter and pretending not to, to save the man’s pride.
At long last, the pasha made a gesture with his large fingers, and the functionary led us forward.
Grenville gave the pasha a low, but still very English, bow, and I followed suit, planting my walking stick to balance myself. The pasha looked me over with his dark eyes, taking in every nuance of me, then Grenville.
He looked straight at Signor Vanni and spoke in the Turkish language, his voice rising in a question. His eyes flicked back to me.
“He asks whether you were in the army,” Vanni supplied. “And if so, what rank and what branch.”
“Cavalry,” I answered promptly. “Captain. Went home when this happened.” I tapped my walking stick to my left boot.
Vanni translated, and the pasha’s eyes suddenly lit with interest. “You are a rider?” He asked through Vanni. He snapped his fingers, and two men immediately went to him and bent to listen to him.
The pasha then got out of his chair, moving more quickly and lithely than I’d imagined a man of his stature could, and strode to the door, his servants and functionaries hurrying after him. The pasha disappeared outside, and the functionary who’d greeted us beckoned us to follow him.
“His eminence wishes you to come. He has something to show you.”
Grenville and I exchange an uneasy glance. Vanni did not look reassured either, but there was nothing for it. The functionary led us out into a smaller courtyard and through a gate to a walkway through the park.
Our destination proved to be the stables—very ornate stables, built along the lines of the grand palace behind us. The setup was a bit like Tattersall’s in London, with a central riding court surrounded by a colonnade with horse boxes beyond that. The only difference was that the ring where the horses would be paraded or ridden was covered here, cutting off the severity of the sun.
The pasha was already sitting on a couch in a pavilion at the end of the ring by the time we arrived. His sword again rested next to him, but he was leaning forward animatedly, interest in his eyes.
Four Turkish stablemen emerged from the stalls, each leading an exquisite beauty of a horse.
They were grays, three dappled and one so light as to be almost pure white. The horses were small but graceful and sturdy, their faces wide at the eyes and almost concave, their noses narrow. Manes and tails had been brushed to flow, and they gleamed in the shade of the ring.
I stood entranced. I loved a good bit of horseflesh, and these were the most elegant animals I’d ever seen. I’d heard of the Arab breed, the desert horses of the Bedouins, but I’d never had the pleasure of looking upon one.
“They are beautiful,” I said without restraint. “Conformation perfect, amazing beasts.”
The pasha looked pleased, even before Vanni translated for him. I suspected the pasha understood more English than he let on. Then again, perhaps my look of rapture said enough.
I was stunned again when one of the horses, a mare, was led aside, a saddle and bridle put on her, and the horse brought to me. The pasha gestured to me, uttering a few words.
“He’s letting me ride it?” I asked Vanni incredulously. I looked to the English-speaking functionary, expecting that I was mistaken.
The functionary nodded. “Please,” he said. “The groom will help you mount.”
Grenville gave me a look that told me I must not refuse. Not that I wished to, but I wanted to be certain I’d been given permission to ride before I approached the horse. I had the feeling that if I did one thing wrong with this animal, the guards around the pasha would take up their rifles and shoot me dead—making certain the horse was not hurt, of course. The pasha might apologize to the British officials for the action but that would hardly console me or my family.
The pasha nodded in my direction, eyes sparkling as though he enjoyed my discomfiture.
Drawing a breath, I handed Grenville my walking stick, limped the few steps to the horse, and allowed the groom to boost me into the saddle.
The horse was small, and I was a large man, but the mare did not flinch at my weight. I easily found my balance on the saddle and started her off slowly, not wanting to press her too much. The horse’s vibrancy came instantly to me through the reins, and I knew this mare was ready to show off.
I let her. I walked her around the open space, then nudged her to a trot. She sprang forward as soon as my legs touched her sides, gliding into a dainty gait that was easy to sit.
The mare’s canter was even better. She loped like a dream, turning and pivoting around the ring, instantly responding to my commands.
The last horse I’d ridden in the cavalry had been much the same in temperament, though he’d been a large, long-legged charger. I’d been very fond of t
hat horse, who’d been shot out from under me the day the Frenchmen had captured me and amused themselves torturing me. I could forgive them crushing my knee and making me walk with a stick the rest of my life, but I had never forgiven them for killing my beloved horse.
My love for riding welled up in me again as I guided this wonderful animal around the ring, the pain and misery of my injury flowing away.
I knew I could not ride her all day and into the night, nor could I put her over the low wall and dash away with her, much as I wanted to. With reluctance, I took her back to where I’d begun, patting her arched neck as I slid from her back to my unsteady feet once more.
“She is astonishing,” I said to the pasha. My eyes must have been shining—my mouth ached with my wide smile. “Thank you a hundred times for allowing me to ride her. I am honored.”
The pasha took my effusion with calm pleasure. He spoke directly to me, and Vanni said, “He asks whether you were a good cavalryman.”
I shrugged, modest. “I did my duty.”
“He was bloody good,” Grenville said as he handed me my walking stick. “He came through all the battles and never lost a man. He was injured only because of trickery and deceit.”
I was a bit embarrassed to hear Grenville champion me so warmly, but the pasha looked impressed.
Vanni listened to his answer then turned to me with an expression of a faint dismay. “He asks if you will come to train some of his officers in British cavalry moves. For an hour every morning.”
I gave the pasha a startled glance. “I’m hardly an expert,” I said. “And I do not yet know the plans for our stay in Cairo.”
The functionary looked at me in alarm and said quickly, “I would not refuse, sir, were I you.”
The pasha watched me. When I didn’t answer, he snapped something to the functionary.
The functionary cleared his throat, more unease in his dark eyes. “His eminence asks you what you wish in return for this deed,” he said. “What is your greatest desire?”