The Rosetta Key Page 2

  Two of my opponents remained stubbornly uncharmed, however.

  “You have the devil’s luck,” a huge, red-faced marine who went by the descriptive name of Big Ned observed with a glower, as he counted and recounted the two pennies he had left.

  “Or the angels,” I suggested. “Your play has been masterful, mate, but providence, it seems, has smiled on me this long night.” I grinned, trying to look as affable as Smith had described me, and then tried to stifle a yawn.

  “No man is that lucky, that long.”

  I shrugged. “Just bright.”

  “I want you to play with me dice,” the lobsterback said, his look as narrow and twisted as an Alexandrian lane. “Then we’ll see how lucky you are.”

  “One of the marks of an intelligent man, my maritime friend, is reluctance to trust another man’s ivory. Dice are the devil’s bones.”

  “You afraid to give me a chance of winning back?”

  “I’m simply content to play my game and let you play yours.”

  “Well, now, I think the American is a bit the poltroon,” the marine’s companion, a squatter and uglier man called Little Tom, taunted.

  “Scared to give two honest marines a fighting chance, he is.” If Ned had the bulk of a small horse, Tom carried himself with the compact meanness of a bulldog.

  I began to feel uneasy. Other sailors were watching this exchange with growing interest, since they weren’t going to get their money back any other way. “To the contrary, gentlemen, we’ve been at arms over cards all night. I’m sorry you lost, I’m sure you did your best, I admire your perseverance, but perhaps you ought to study the mathematics of chance. A man makes his own luck.”

  “Study the what?” Big Ned asked.

  “I think he said he cheated,” Little Tom interpreted.

  “Now, there’s no need to talk of dishonesty.”

  “And yet the marines are challenging your honor, Gage,” said a lieutenant whom I’d taken for five shillings, putting in with more enthusiasm than I liked to hear. “The word is that you’re quite the marksman and fought well enough with the frogs. Surely you won’t let these redcoats impugn your reputation?”

  “Of course not, but we all know it was a fair …”

  Big Ned’s fist slammed down on the deck, a pair of dice jumping from his grip like fleas. “Gives us back our money, play these, or meet me on the waist deck at noon.” It was a growl with just enough smirk to annoy. Clearly he was of a size not accustomed to losing.

  “We’ll be in Jaffa by then,” I stalled.

  “All the more leisure to discuss this between the eighteen-pounders.”

  Well. It was clear enough what I must do. I stood. “Aye, you need to be taught a lesson. Noon it is.”

  The gathering roared approval. It took just slightly longer for the news of a fight to reach from stem to stern of Dangerous than it takes a rumor of a romantic tryst to fly from one end of revolutionary Paris to the other. The sailors assumed a wrestling match in which I’d writhe painfully in the grip of Big Ned for every penny I’d won. When I’d been sufficiently kneaded, I’d then plead for the chance to give all my winnings back. To distract my all-too-fervent imagination from this disagreeable future, I went up to the quarterdeck to watch our approach to Jaffa, trying my new spyglass.

  It was a crisp little telescope, and the principal port of Palestine, months before Napoleon was to take it, was a beacon on an otherwise flat and hazy shore. It crowned a hill with forts, towers, and minarets, its dome-topped buildings terracing downward in all directions like a stack of blocks. All was surrounded by a wall that meets the harbor quay on the seaward side. There were orange groves and palms landward, and golden fields and brown pastures beyond that. Black guns jutted from embrasures, and even from two miles out we could hear the wails of the faithful being called to prayer.

  I’d had Jaffa oranges in Paris, famed because their thick skin makes them transportable to Europe. There were so many fruit trees that the prosperous city looked like a castle in a forest. Ottoman banners flapped in the warm autumn breeze, carpets hung from railings, and the smell of charcoal fires carried on the water. There were some nasty-looking reefs just offshore, marked by ringlets of white, and the little harbor was jammed with small dhows and feluccas. Like the other large ships, we anchored in open water. A small flotilla of Arab lighters set out to see what business they could solicit, and I readied to leave.

  After I’d dealt with the unhappy marine, of course.

  “I hear your famous luck got you into a tangle with Big Ned, Ethan,” Sir Sidney said, handing me a bag of hard biscuit that was supposed to get me to Jerusalem. The English aren’t known for their cooking. “Regular bull of a man with a head like a ram, and just as thick, I wager. Do you have a plan to fox him?”

  “I’d try his dice, Sir Sidney, but I suspect that if they were weighted any more, they’d list this frigate.”

  He laughed. “Aye, he’s cheated more than one pressed wretch, and has the muscle to shut complaints about it. He’s not used to losing. There’s more than a few here pleased you’ve taken him. Too bad your skull has to pay for it.”

  “You could forbid the match.”

  “The men are randy as roosters and won’t get ashore until Acre. A good tussle helps settle them. You look quick enough, man! Lead him a dance!”

  Indeed. I went below to seek out Big Ned and found him near the galley hearth, using lard to slick his imposing muscles so he’d slide out of my grip. He gleamed like a Christmas goose.

  “Might we have a word in private?”

  “Trying to back from it, eh?” He grinned. His teeth seemed as big as the keys of a newfangled piano.

  “I’ve just given the whole matter some thought and realized our enemy is Bonaparte, not each other. But I do have my pride. Come, let’s settle out of sight of the others.”

  “No. You’ll pay not just me back, but every jack-tar of this crew!”

  “That’s impossible. I don’t know who is owed what. But if you follow right now, and promise to leave me alone, I’ll pay you back double.”

  Now the gleam of greed came to his eyes. “Damn your eyes, it will be triple!”

  “Just come to the orlop where I can show my purse without causing a riot.”

  He shambled after me like a dim but eager circus bear.We descended to the lowest part of the frigate, where the stores are kept.

  “I hid the money down here so no one could thieve it,” I said, lifting a hatch to the bilge. “My mentor Ben Franklin said riches increase cares, and I daresay he had a point. You should remember it.”

  “Damn the rebel Franklin! He should have hanged!”

  I reached down. “Oh dear, it shifted. Fell, I think.” I peered about and looked up at the looming Goliath, using the same art of feigned helplessness that any number of wenches had used on me. “Your losses were what, three shillings?”

  “Four, by God!”

  “So triple that …”

  “Aye, you owe me ten!”

  “Your arm is longer than mine. Can you help?”

  “Reach it yourself!”

  “I can just brush it with my fingertips. Maybe we could find a gaff?” I stood, looking hapless.

  “Yankee swine …” He got down and poked his head in. “Can’t see a bloody thing.”

  “There, to the right, don’t you see that gleam of silver? Reach as far as you can.”

  He grunted, torso through the hatch, stretching and groping.

  So with a good hearty heave I tipped him the rest of the way. He was heavy as a flour sack, but once I got him going that was an advantage. He fell, there was a clunk and a splash, and before he could get off a good howl about greasy bilgewater, I had the hatch shut and bolted. Gracious, the language coming from below! I rolled some water casks over the hatch to muffle it.

  Then I took the purse from where it was really hidden between two biscuit barrels, tucked it in my trousers, and bounded up to the waist deck, sleeves rolled. �
��It’s noon by the ship’s bells!” I cried. “In the name of King George, where is he?”

  A chorus of shouts for Big Ned went up, but no answer came.

  “Is he hiding? Can’t blame him for not wanting to face me.” I boxed the air for show.

  Little Tom was glowering. “By Lucifer, I’ll thrash you.”

  “You will not. I’m not matching every man on this ship.”

  “Ned, give this American what he deserves!” Tom cried.

  But there was no answer.

  “I wonder if he’s napping in the topgallants?” I looked up at the rigging, and then had the amusement of watching Little Tom clamber skyward, shouting and sweating.

  I spent some minutes below behaving like an impatient rooster, and then as soon as I dared I turned to Smith. “How long do we have to wait for this coward? We both know I’ve business ashore.”

  The crew was clearly frustrated, and deeply suspicious. If I didn’t get off Dangerous soon, Smith knew he’d likely lose his newest, and only, American agent. Tom dropped back down to the deck, panting and frustrated. Smith checked the hourglass. “Yes, it’s a quarter past noon and Ned had his chance. Be gone, Gage, and accomplish your task for love and freedom.”

  There was a roar of disappointment.

  “Don’t play cards if you can’t afford to lose!” Smith shouted.

  They jeered, but let me pass to the ship’s ladder. Tom had disappeared below. I’d not much time, so I dropped onto the dirty fishing nets of an Arab lighter like an anxious cat. “To shore now, and an extra coin if you make it fast,” I whispered to the boatman.

  I pushed us off myself, and the Muslim captain began sculling for Jaffa’s harbor with twice his usual energy, meaning half what I preferred.

  I turned to wave back to Smith. “Can’t wait until we meet again!”

  Blatant lie, of course. Once I learned Astiza’s fate and satisfied myself about this Book of Thoth, I had no intention of going near either the English or the French, who’d been at each other’s throats for a millennium. I’d sail for China first.

  Especially when there was a boil of men at the gun deck and Big Ned’s head popped up like a gopher, red from rage and exertion. I gave him a look from the new glass and saw he was wearing a baptism of slime.

  “Come back here, yellow dog! I’ll rip you limb from limb!”

  “I think the yellow is yours, Ned! You didn’t keep our appointed time!”

  “You tricked me, Yankee sharp!”

  “I educated you!” But it was getting hard to hear as we bobbed away. Sir Sidney lifted his hat in wry salute. The English marines scrambled to lower a longboat.

  “Can you go a little faster, Sinbad?”

  “For another coin, effendi.”

  It was a sharp little race, given that the beefy marines churned the waves like a waterwheel, Big Ned howling at the bow. Still, Smith had told me about Jaffa. It has just one land gate in, and you needed a guide to find your way back out. Given a head start, I’d hide well enough.

  So I took one of my ferryman’s fishing nets and, before he could object, heaved it in the path of the closing longboat, snarling their starboard oars so they began turning in circles, roaring insults in language that would make a drill sergeant blush.

  My ferryman protested, but I had coins enough to pay double for his sorry net and keep him rowing. I leapt onto the stone quay a good minute ahead of my complainants, determined to find Astiza and get back out—and vowing never to see Big Ned or Little Tom again.

  CHAPTER 3

  J affa rises like a loaf from the Mediterranean shore, empty beaches curving north and south into haze. Its importance as a trading port had been superseded by Acre to the north, where Djezzar the Butcher has his headquarters, but it is still a prosperous agricultural town. There is a steady stream of Jerusalem-bound pilgrims in and oranges, cotton, and soap back out.

  Its streets are a labyrinth leading to the towers, mosques, synagogues, and churches that form its peak. House additions arch illegally over dim lanes. Donkeys clatter up and down stone steps.

  Questionably gotten though my gambling gains might be, they quickly proved invaluable when a street urchin invited me to the upstairs inn of his disappointingly homely sister. The money bought me pita bread, falafel, an orange, and a screened balcony to hide behind while the gang of British marines rushed up one alley and down another, in futile search of my vile carcass. Blown and hot, they finally settled in a Christian quayside inn to discuss my perfidy over bad Palestinian wine. Meanwhile, I snuck about to spend more winnings. I bought a sleeved Bedouin robe of maroon and white stripes, new boots, bloused trousers (so much more comfortable in the heat than tight European breeches!) sash, vest, two cotton shirts, and cloth for a turban. As Smith had predicted, the result made me look like one more exotic member of a polyglot empire, so long as I took care to stay away from the arrogant, questioning Ottoman janissaries in their red and yellow boots.

  I learned there was no coach to the holy city, or even a decent highway. I was too financially prudent—Ben, again—to buy or feed a horse. So I purchased a docile donkey sufficient to get me there, and not much farther. For a meager weapon, I economized with a curbed Arab knife with a handle of camel horn. I have little skill with swords, and I couldn’t bear to purchase one of the Muslims’ long, clumsy, elaborately decorated muskets. Their inlaid mother-of-pearl is lovely, but I’d seen how indifferently they performed against the French musket during Napoleon’s battles in Egypt. And any musket is far inferior to the lovely Pennsylvania rifle I’d sacrificed at Dendara in order to escape with Astiza. If this Jericho was a metallurgist, maybe he could make a replacement!

  For guide and bodyguard to Jerusalem I chose a bearded, sharp-bargaining entrepreneur named Mohammad, a moniker seemingly given to half the Muslim men in this town. Between my elementary Arabic and Mohammad’s primitive French, learned because Frankish merchants dominated the cotton trade, we could communicate.

  Still conscious of money, I figured that if we left early enough I could shave a day off his fee. I’d also slip out of town unseen, in case any Royal Marines were still lurking about.

  “Now then, Mohammad, I would prefer to depart about midnight. Steal a march on the traffic and enjoy the brisk night air, you see. Early to rise, Ben Franklin said.”

  “As you wish, effendi. You are fleeing enemies, perhaps?”

  “Of course not. I’m told I’m affable.”

  “It must be creditors then.”

  “Mohammad, you know I’ve paid half your extortionate fee in advance. I’ve money enough.”

  “Ah, so it is a woman. A bad wife? I have seen the Christian wives.”

  He shook his head and shuddered. “Satan couldn’t placate them.”

  “Just be ready at midnight, will you?”

  Despite my sorrow at losing Astiza and my anxiety to learn her fate, I’ll confess it crossed my mind to seek an hour or two of female companionship in Jaffa. All varieties of sex from the dullest to the most perverse were advertised with distracting persistence by Arab boys, despite condemnation from any number of religions. I’m a man, not a monk, and it had been some days. But Smith’s ship remained anchored offshore, and if Big Ned had any persistence it would be just my luck that he’d find me entwined with a trollop, too single-minded to outwit him. So I thought better of it, congratulated myself for my piety, and decided I would wait for relief in Jerusalem, even though copulating in the Holy Land was the kind of deed that would choke my old pastor. The truth is, abstinence and loyalty to Astiza made me feel good. My trials in Egypt had made me determined to work on self-discipline, and here I was, past the first test. “A good conscience is a continual Christmas,” my mentor Franklin liked to say.

  Mohammad was an hour late, but finally led me through the dark maze of alleys to the landward gate, its paving stained with dung. A bribe was required to get it opened at night, and I passed through its archway with that curious exhilaration that comes from starting a n
ew adventure. I had, after all, survived eight kinds of hell in Egypt, restored myself to temporary solvency with gambling skills, and was off on a mission that bore no resemblance to real work, despite my fantasies of becoming a ledger clerk. The Book of Thoth, which believers contended could confer anything from scientific wisdom to life everlasting, probably no longer existed … and yet it might just be found somewhere, giving my trip the optimism of a treasure hunt.

  And despite my lustful instincts, I truly longed for Astiza. The opportunity to somehow learn her fate through Smith’s confederate in Jerusalem made me impatient.

  So off we strode through the gate—and stopped.

  “What are you doing?” I asked the suddenly recumbent Mohammad, wondering if he’d had a fainting spell. But no, he lay down with the deliberation of a dog circling a fireplace rug. No one can relax like an Ottoman, their very bones melting.

  “Bedouin gangs infest the road to Jerusalem and will rob any unarmed pilgrim, effendi,” my guide said blithely in the dark. “It’s not just risky to proceed alone, it is insane. My cousin Abdul is leading a camel caravan there later today, and we will join him for safety. Thus do I and Allah look after our American guest.”

  “But what about our early start?”

  “You have paid, and we have started.” And with that he went back to sleep.

  Well, tarnation. It was the middle of the night, we were fifty yards outside the walls, I had little notion which way to go, and it was entirely possible he was right. Palestine was notorious for being overrun by brigands, feuding warlords, desert raiders, and thieving Bedouins. So I stewed and steamed for three hours, worried the marines might somehow wander this way, until at last Abdul and his snorting camels did indeed congregate at the gate, well before the sun rose.