Ethan Gage Collection # 1 (31 page)

Interesting? It was a revelation. For weeks I'd been journeying blindly. Now I felt like I knew definitely what the medallion was pointing to: the pyramid behind me.

I
reluctantly stayed as ordered to help Jomard and Monge make more measurements of the pyramids, sharing the tent they'd staked a short distance from the Sphinx. After having promised a quick return, I was uneasy being such a distance from Astiza and the medallion, especially with Silano in Cairo. But if I ignored Napoleon's very public command I risked being arrested. Besides, I felt I was getting closer to the secret. Perhaps the medallion was a map to another passageway in the big heap of stone. Then there was October 21, a date I'd plucked off the lost ancient calendar that might or might not have any accuracy or significance, and was still two months away. I didn't know how any of this fit together, but maybe the savants would turn up another clue. So I sent a message to Enoch's house, explaining my predicament and asking that he get word to Yusuf 's harem of my delay. At least I knew what I should be looking at, I added. I simply lacked clear understanding of what I should be looking for.

My temporary exile from the city was not entirely bad. Enoch's house was confining and Cairo noisy, while the empty silence of the desert was a respite. A company of soldiers bivouacked in the sand to protect us against roaming Bedouin and Mamelukes, and I told myself that staying here a couple nights might actually be the safest thing for Astiza and Enoch, since my absence should deflect attention from them. Silano had hopefully accepted my story that the medallion was
at the bottom of Abukir Bay. I'd not forgotten poor Talma, but proof of his killer, and revenge, would have to wait. In short I pretended, as humans are wont to do, that the worst was for the best.

As I've said, there are three large pyramids at Giza, and all three have small passageways and chambers that are empty. Kephren's pyramid is still covered at its top by the kind of limestone casing that at one time gave all three structures a perfectly smooth, polished white surface. How they must have glistened, like prisms of salt! Using surveying instruments, we calculated that the Great Pyramid, when it came to a precise point, had a height of 480 feet, more than a hundred feet higher than the pinnacle of the cathedral of Amiens, the tallest in France. The Egyptians used only 203 tiers of masonry to reach this prodigious altitude. We measured the slope of its side at fifty-one degrees, precisely that needed to make height and half its circumference equal to both pi and Jomard's Fibonacci sequence.

Despite this eerie coincidence, the pyramids' purpose still eluded me. As art they were sublime. For utility, they seemed nonsensical. Here were buildings so smooth when built that no one could stand on them, housing corridors awkward for humans to negotiate, leading to chambers that seemed never to have been occupied, and codifying mathematics that seemed obscure to all but a specialist.

Monge said the whole business probably had something to do with religion. “Five thousand years from now, will people understand the motive behind Notre Dame?”

“You'd better not let the priests hear you say that.”

“Priests are obsolete; science is the new religion. To the ancient Egyptians, religion was their science, and magic an attempt to manipulate what couldn't be understood. Mankind then advanced from a past in which every tribe and nation had its own groups of gods to one in which many nations worship one god. Still, there are many faiths, each calling the others heretics. Now we have science, based not on faith, but reason and experiment, and centered not on one nation, or pope, or king, but universal law. It doesn't matter if you are Chinese or German, or speak Arabic or Spanish: science is the same. That's why it will triumph, and why the Church instinctively feared Galileo. But
this structure behind us was built by a particular people with particular beliefs, and we might never rediscover their reasoning because it was based on religious mysticism we can't comprehend. It would help if we could someday decipher hieroglyphics.”

I couldn't disagree with this prediction—I was a Franklin man, after all—and yet I had to wonder why science, if so universal, hadn't swept all before it already. Why were people still religious? Science was clever but cold, explanatory and yet silent on the biggest questions. It answered how but not why, and thus left people yearning. I suspected people of the future
would
understand Notre Dame, just as we understand a Roman temple. And, perhaps, worship and fear in much the same way. The revolutionaries in their rationalist fervor were missing something, I thought, and what was missing was heart, or soul. Did science have room for that, or hopes of an afterlife?

I said none of this, however, simply replying, “What if it's simpler than that, Doctor Monge? What if the pyramid is simply a tomb?”

“I've been thinking about that and it presents a fascinating paradox, Gage. Suppose it was supposed to be, at least principally, a tomb. Its very size creates its own problem, does it not? The more elaborately you build a pyramid to safeguard a mummy, the more you call attention to the mummy's location. It must have been a dilemma for pharaohs seeking to preserve their remains for all eternity.”

“I've thought of another dilemma as well,” I replied. “The pharaoh hopes to be undisturbed for eternity. Yet the perfect crime is one that no one realizes has occurred. If you wanted to rob the tomb of your master, what better way than to do it just before it is sealed up, because once it is, no one can discover the theft! If this is a tomb, it relied on the faithfulness of those closing it. Who could the pharaoh trust?”

“Unproven belief again!” Monge laughed.

Mentally, I reviewed what I knew about the medallion. A bisected circle: a symbol, perhaps, for pi. A map of the constellation containing the ancient polar star in its upper half. A symbol for water below. Hash marks arranged in a delta like a pyramid. Perhaps the water was the Nile, and the marks represented the Great Pyramid, but why not etch a simple triangle? Enoch had said that the emblem seemed
incomplete, but where to find the rest? The shaft of Min, in some long-lost temple? It seemed a joke. I tried to think like Franklin, but I was not his match. He could toy with thunderbolts one day and found a new nation the next. Could the pyramids have attracted lightning and converted it into power? Was the entire pyramid some kind of Leyden jar? I hadn't heard a roll of thunder or seen a drop of rain since we'd arrived in Egypt.

Monge left to join Bonaparte for the official christening of the new Institute of Egypt. There the savants were at work on everything from devising ways to ferment alcohol or bake bread (with sunflower stalks, since Egypt lacked adequate wood) to cataloguing Egypt's wildlife. Conte had set up a workshop to replace equipment, such as printing presses, that had been lost with the destruction of the fleet at Abukir. He was the kind of tinkerer who could make anything from anything. Jomard and I lingered in the pinks and gold of the desert, laboriously unreeling tapes, pitching aside rubble, and measuring angles with surveying staffs. Three days and nights we spent, watching the stars wheel around the tips of the pyramids and debating what the monuments might be for.

By morning of the fourth day, bored with the meticulous work and inconclusive speculation, I wandered to a viewpoint overlooking Cairo across the river. There I saw a curious sight. Conte had apparently manufactured enough hydrogen to inflate a balloon. The coated silk bag looked to be about forty feet in diameter, its top half covered with a net from which ropes extended downward to hold a wicker basket. It hovered on its tether a hundred feet off the ground, drawing a small crowd. I studied it through Jomard's telescope. All those watching appeared to be Europeans.

So far the Arabs had displayed little wonder about Western technology. They seemed to regard us as a temporary intrusion of clever infidels, obsessed with mechanical tricks and careless with our souls. I'd earlier enlisted Conte's help to make a cranked friction generator for a store of electricity in what Franklin had called a battery, and was invited by the savants to give a mild shock to some of Cairo's mullahs. The Egyptians gamely joined hands, I jolted the first with a charge
from my Leyden jar, and they all jumped in turn as the current passed through them, provoking great consternation and laughter. But after their initial surprise they seemed more amused than awed. Electricity was cheap magic, good for nothing but parlor games.

It was while watching the balloon that I noticed a long column of French soldiers issue from Cairo's southern gate. Their regularity was a marked contrast to the mobs of merchants and camel drovers who clustered around the city's entrances. The soldiers tramped in a line of blue and white, regimental banners limp in the hot air. On and on the ranks came, a glittering file undulating like a millipede, until it seemed a full division. Some of the force was mounted, and more horses pulled two small field guns.

I called to Jomard and he joined me, focusing the spyglass. “It is General Desaix, off to chase the elusive Murad Bey,” he said. “His troops are going to explore and conquer an upper Egypt that few Europeans have ever seen.”

“So the war isn't over.”

He laughed. “We're talking about Bonaparte! War will never be over for him.” He continued to study the column, dust drifting ahead of the soldiers as if to announce their coming. I could imagine them good-naturedly cursing it, their mouths full of grit. “I think I see your old friend as well.”

“Old friend?”

“Here, look for yourself.”

Near the column's head was a man in turban and robes with half a dozen Bedouin riding as bodyguard. One of his henchmen held a parasol above his head. I could see the slim rapier bouncing on his hip and the fine black stallion he'd purchased in Cairo: Silano. Someone smaller rode by his side, swathed in robes. A personal servant, perhaps.

“Good riddance.”

“I envy him,” Jomard said. “What discoveries they'll make!”

Had Silano given up his quest for the medallion? Or gone to look for its missing piece in Enoch's southern temple? I picked out Bin Sadr as well. He was leading the Bedouin bodyguard, rocking easily on the back of a camel while holding his staff.

Had I avoided them? Or were they escaping me?

I looked again at the smaller, shrouded figure and felt disquiet. Had I been too obedient, lingering at the pyramids too long? Who was that riding at Silano's side?

I knew of him,
she had confirmed.

And she had never explained what, precisely, that meant.

I snapped the telescope shut. “I have to get back to Cairo.”

“You can't go, by Bonaparte's orders. We need a compelling hypothesis first.”

But something disastrous had happened in my absence, I feared, and I realized that by staying out so long, I'd unconsciously been putting off the task of tackling the medallion and avenging Talma. My procrastination may have been fatal. “I'm an American savant, not a French private. To hell with his orders.”

“He could have you shot!”

But I was already running down the slope, past the Sphinx, toward Cairo.

T
he city seemed more ominous on my return. Even as Desaix's division had emptied some houses of French troops, thousands of inhabitants who'd fled after the Battle of the Pyramids were returning. Cairo was emerging from postinvasion shock into being the center of Egypt again. As the city grew more crowded, the inhabitants regained their urban confidence. They carried themselves as if the city still belonged to them, not us, and their numbers dwarfed ours. While French soldiers could still cause pedestrians to scatter as they rode racing donkeys or marched on patrol, there was less scuttling out of the way of lone foreigners such as myself. As I hurried through the narrow lanes I was bumped and jostled for the first time. Again I was reminded of the oddities of electricity, that strange prickling in the air after the parlor experiments that women found so erotic. Now Cairo seemed electric with tension. News of the defeat at Abukir Bay had reached everyone, and no longer did the Franks seem invincible. Yes, we were dangling on a rope all right, and I could see it beginning to fray.

Compared to the bustle of adjacent lanes, the street at Enoch's house seemed far too quiet. Where was everyone? The home's façade looked much as I'd left it, its face as unreadable as that of the Egyptians. Yet when I got near I sensed something was amiss. The door wasn't tight against its frame, and I spied the bright yellow of splintered wood. I glanced around. Eyes watched me, I sensed, but I could see no one.

When I pounded on the entry it gave slightly. “
Salaam
.” My greeting's echo was answered by the buzzing of flies. I pushed, as if shoving against someone holding the door on the other side, and finally it yielded enough that I could squeeze in. It was then I saw the obstruction. Enoch's gigantic Negro servant, Mustafa, was lying dead against the door, his face shattered by a pistol shot. The house had the sickeningly sweet scent of recent death.

I looked at a window. Its wooden screen had been shattered by intruders.

I went on, room by room. Where were the other servants? There were spatters and streaks of blood everywhere, as if bodies had been dragged after battle and butchery. Tables had been toppled, tapestries ripped down, cushions overthrown and cut. The invaders had been looking for something, and I knew what it was. My absence had saved no one. Why hadn't I insisted that Enoch hide, instead of staying with his books? Why had I thought my absence and that of the medallion would protect him? At length I came to the antiquities room, some of its statuary broken and its caskets overthrown, and then the stairs to the musty library. Its door had been staved in. Beyond was dark, but the library stank of fire. Heartsick, I found a candle and descended.

The cellar was a smoky shambles. Shelves had been toppled. Books and scrolls lay heaped like piles of autumn leaves, their half-burned contents still smoldering. At first I thought this room was empty of life too, but then someone groaned. Paper rustled and a hand came up from the litter, fingers painfully curled, like an avalanche victim reaching from snow. I grasped it, only to elicit a howl of pain. I dropped the swollen digits and shoveled blackened papers aside. There was poor Enoch, sprawled on a pile of smoldering books. He was badly
scorched, his clothes half-gone, and his chest and arms roasted. He'd thrown himself onto a bonfire of literature.