The Case of the Golden Greeks Page 8

  There were several more minutes of pleasantries, asking after one another’s health and the health of their families. This was standard in all the Muslim world, and Augustus found it as false and irritating as the pleasantries that passed for courtesy in the Western world.

  At last they got down to business. Zehra told their host how Augustus was going to Bahariya Oasis in search of antiquities, and given the recent murder of Professor Harrell, which all of Cairo had heard about, he was concerned about his safety and wanted to secure some local contacts he could trust.

  Orhan thought for a minute.

  “It is late in the season. All of the Bedouin I know who travel that route are either back in their desert homes or are staying for the hot season here in Cairo or along the Nile. Even the Bedouin enjoy a dip in the river in the summer. You will have a very hot journey.”

  Augustus had expected this, and had already prepared a reply.

  “So my assistant tells me, but nevertheless I am anxious to set out at the earliest possible opportunity. Professor Harrell’s discoveries have galvanized the Egyptological community. I know of several expeditions being planned for the autumn. I want to get there first.”

  “Ah, if only more of my people had the energy of you Westerners, the great Ottoman Empire might still be in its glory days. I know just the man who can help you. He lives on the outskirts of the oasis and I think you will find in him a kindred spirit as well as someone with the ability to help you in an official capacity.”

  “It would be most kind of you to make an introduction. He sounds like just the fellow.”

  “His name is Captain Claud Williams.”

  “An officer?” Augustus asked, surprised. He had expected to be introduced to some Bedouin sheik or local merchant.

  “Indeed. We met during the late war. He was stationed in Cairo for a time and joined the Cairo Motoring Club, of which I am a founding member. I own, in addition to a Rover touring car, a stripped down Model T Ford that I use for desert journeys. I’m afraid it looks a bit ridiculous,” Orhan Bey chuckled, “and not something a man of my station would generally be seen in, but I discovered that by removing excess metalwork such as the running boards and engine housing, and making a few modifications to the tires and engine, one could make a vehicle that could skim over all but the softest sand. Claud, as I came to call him, became a good friend. He was most interested in my alterations and came up with some improvements of his own. These he incorporated into his service with the Light Car Patrols in the Western Desert.”

  Augustus nodded. During the war, the Germans and Ottomans had riled up the Senussi religious order in Italian Cyrenaica to rebel against the Italian colonists as well as launch an invasion of Egypt. They had taken most of the oases in the Western Desert, Bahariya included, before a British force ejected them. The most effective arm of the force had been the armored cars, modified motorcars covered with metal plating and mounted with a turret and machine gun. There were also lighter scouting vehicles. The desert warriors had nothing with which to fight such technology, and were soundly defeated.

  Orhan Bey went on.

  “I was amused to see my ideas being used to fight the British Empire’s enemies in the Western Desert and then to eject the Ottomans from the Sinai and Gaza. I am sure my esteemed Ottoman ancestors would have never dreamed that I would inadvertently aid in their empire’s destruction.”

  “I must say you don’t seem terribly broken up about it.”

  Orhan Bey shrugged and turned his palm up. “Why should I be? I may be of Turkish extraction, but my family has been living in Egypt for three generations. I am just as much Egyptian as the Armenian who tailors my shirts, the fellahin who till my land, and the Lebanese grocer who supplies my kitchen. Egypt is a nation of many different ethnic groups. It always has been, and we are all in agreement that the Ottomans did nothing to improve this country, not like the British.”

  That last statement seemed to have been tacked on almost as an afterthought. Augustus got the impression that he had caught the Turk in a slip.

  But Orhan Bey’s admiration for what the Ottoman Empire had been, and his indifference to what it had become, was all too common among the Turks he had met. Except for the hotheads in the pan-nationalist camp, they knew their glory days were over and sought their fortunes elsewhere.

  “Claud is from New Zealand, and a fine gentleman,” Orhan Bey said. “His current posting is in Bahariya, where he is stationed as a lookout and cartographer. I am sure he would be most happy to help you in anything you might need, and if you could deliver this for me both of us would be grateful.”

  Orhan Bey clapped his hands and a servant brought in an embroidered bag, which he handed to Augustus. Inside was a carton of Woodbines, several issues of the Motoring Journal and the Illustrated London News, as well as a sealed letter.

  “I know a bit about lonely postings,” Augustus said. “I’d be happy to bring him some reading material.”

  Orhan Bey leaned forward.

  “Take care in Bahariya, my friend. There are British soldiers garrisoned there for a reason. It is not the safest of places.”

  “No?”

  “It is a center for smuggling. The Bedouin move drugs, guns, and even slaves from Libya into Egypt through there. The locals are peaceful enough, but if you run into the wrong caravan, not even God or the British army can help you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “God is great!” the camel dealer shouted as he slit the sheep’s throat with a long, curved knife. The blood spurted on the sand and the deal was done. The camel dealer and his customer would now sit down, have tea, money would be handed over, and the sheep boiled for supper.

  Moustafa walked around the spreading pool of blood. He was at the camel market in Birqash, a village outside Cairo. It was the largest of its kind in all of Egypt, maybe even the world, and a good place to find what he was looking for.

  The camels, and herds of other animals for sale, were kept in a vast enclosure ringed by a low stone wall. The dealers had set up their camps within, keeping their animals hobbled by their tents as potential buyers—Bedouin mostly, and a few village headmen—walked up and down examining the merchandise.

  The camels came all the way up from the Soudan, in huge herds along the Forty Days Road to the camel market at Deraa near Abu Simbel, and then on boats up the Nile. Others walked the whole way. Moustafa’s chest swelled to see so many Soudanese traders, and to hear the dialect of his homeland spoken by so many mouths. He missed home sometimes. Even though he had chosen his path a long time ago, and had never once regretted his decision to head north to seek learning, he did feel a lack in his heart for the village and the family and the friends he had left behind. He would always be half a foreigner in Egypt.

  Or would he? The talk in the cafes was mostly of independence, and one of the main questions besides when and how this would take place, was whether or not the Soudan would join an independent Egypt as one nation, or whether it would go its own way.

  Moustafa was of two minds about that, just as he was of two minds about independence. The British needed to go, of that there was no question, the tricky part was in the details. When should they go, and what would they leave behind? Like all other colonizers, the British, and the French before them, had ruled Egypt for their own profit. But they had given too. The French had built the Suez Canal, and introduced the printing press, that greatest of all European inventions. The British had laid railroads and bridged the Nile. They had introduced countless improvements. That made the French and British far superior to the Ottomans and Mamluks, who introduced only oppression and extra taxes and gave nothing in return.

  Another sheep’s throat was slit, and another deal was closed. Yes, this was why they still needed the Europeans, this superstition. Of course one should give thanks to God for good fortune in business, and of course one should sit one’s customers down to a good meal after the bargaining was done. That was only proper. But these simple herdsmen an
d merchants truly thought that if they didn’t kill a sheep, God would send misfortune down upon them. More likely God would send misfortune down on them for sharp dealing, for using a thousand tricks to hide illnesses among their stock, for lying about a camel’s age or heredity. Far too many Muslims only pretended to be Godly, thinking that a few simple rituals could stand in for clean and honest living.

  He examined the camels. Most looked worn out after their long journey. Some of the dealers were running them up and down a broad avenue in the middle of the market to prove their vitality. Others didn’t dare try to coax their sorry animals into a run. When you bought a camel from the Soudan at this place, you had to give it at least a month of grazing before trying to get any work out of it, preferably a season.

  Still, this was where the Bedouin came, and if he wanted to find a caravan to Bahariya Oasis, this was the place to look.

  “This a fine one, good sir,” someone beside him said in the Soudanese dialect. He turned to see an older man, his clean white turban in contrast to his dark and seamed face.

  Moustafa smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. “I am only idling while I try to find a caravan of Bedouin, countryman.”

  He had been spreading this news all around the market, hoping it would reach the right ears.

  “Ah! The Bedouin are thieves,” the camel dealer said in a low voice. “Why trust them when you can buy your own camel and cross the desert yourself? You are Soudanese. Any man from the south knows the desert just as well as a Bedouin. No, better!”

  “Not the desert I’m going to.”

  “Nonsense. I can see you are an intelligent man. Take a look at this one here. A fine neck, eh? It shows good health. And the feet are in good condition despite the great distances it has walked. Why, it simply ate up the miles!”

  “It’s all right,” Moustafa said with a nod. He moved over to another. “This one looks strong.”

  “Oh yes, you have a good eye. This is the best of the lot.”

  “I’m sure you will sell him quickly then. Good day.”

  He stepped out into the avenue, hoping to find some Bedouin on the other side, and to get away from the sales patter.

  “Look out!” the camel seller cried.

  Moustafa saw a herd of running camels bearing down on him. He leaped aside, only to get knocked down by a donkey coming the other direction.

  The camel dealer helped him to his feet. Moustafa looked down at his djellaba and saw the usually pristine white cloth was smeared with unspeakable filth.

  “Perhaps you do not have such a good eye after all, my countryman,” the camel dealer said.

  “Hey Southerner!” someone called. Moustafa turned to see half a dozen Bedouin sitting under the shade of a tarpaulin. “We have water. Come clean yourself and we will fetch more for some tea. I heard you are looking for passage through the Western Desert, yes?”

  ***

  The next day, Moustafa stood at the door of a modest house in the European quarter. He checked his djellaba was clean and his headscarf was on straight. While he had spoken to Herr Schäfer many times and had even borrowed books from him, this was the first time he had been invited to his home.

  Taking a deep breath, Moustafa knocked. After a minute, the door was opened by an older Egyptian in servant’s livery.

  “We are not accepting tradesmen at this time,” he said loftily, and started to shut the door.

  “I am not a tradesman. Herr Schäfer invited me here.”

  “Oh, are you here about the drapes?”

  “I just told you I am not a tradesman!”

  “Is that Moustafa at the door?” Herr Schäfer’s voice came from within. “Aziz, let him in!”

  Moustafa glared at the servant, who shot back a contemptuous look, and stepped inside.

  Herr Schäfer’s house was what Moustafa expected—a comfortable European home that had little in the way of adornment other than countless books. Bookshelves lined the front hall and the dining room off to one side of it. The servant led Moustafa into a large study lined on all four walls with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The desk and coffee table were also piled high with volumes in several languages.

  Herr Schäfer rose from his armchair, putting his down his pipe.

  “Moustafa! Good to see you,” he said, shaking his hand. “Would you like some coffee? Aziz, get us some coffee. Please sit.”

  Moustafa sat. He could not help but look around in wonder.

  “A lifetime of collecting,” Herr Schäfer said with pride. “My wife is quite the reader as well. She’s away at friends today. She reads mostly novels, I’m afraid, and complains that my books edge out her own.”

  “This is the most extensive personal library I have ever seen.”

  “And this is only a small part. Augustus regularly comes and plunders it. And I want to extend that invitation to you. Feel free to come any time, look through it all, and borrow what you like.”

  Moustafa’s heart skipped a beat.

  “That is most generous of you, sir!”

  Moustafa looked around again. All that learning …

  “Not at all,” Herr Schäfer said, the stem of his pipe disappearing under his bushy moustache. “Augustus and I have discussed it at length. You have an obvious talent, and I must say you have made yourself indispensable to him. By allowing you to continue your education, I am helping him as much as I am helping you. But let’s get to the matter at hand. Augustus tells me you are heading to Bahariya Oasis, although he told me this in the strictest confidence. He wants to have another of his little adventures. Try to keep him from getting shot this time, eh?”

  “It’s already too late for that, sir.”

  Herr Schäfer leaned forward. “Is he badly hurt?”

  “Just a graze, sir.”

  “Ah, good. I’m afraid that man courts danger altogether too much. It’s the war, you know.” Herr Schäfer’s voice grew softer. “I am glad I was too old to go to the front, although even at my age I was called up for the reserves. If the war had lasted another few months, I may very well have found myself in a trench with a gun in my hand. Thank God that didn’t happen. I saw how the men looked when they came back …”

  Moustafa shifted uneasily in his seat. “It seems a great waste, sir.”

  Herr Schäfer nodded sadly. “It was indeed. I lost two nephews. Fine young men. One was only seventeen.” The Egyptologist sat up straight, visibly shaking off the memories. “But on to the matter at hand. From what Professor Harrell said there is a great Greco-Roman settlement and tomb complex at Bahariya. This period is a neglected one in Egyptological studies. Have you read much about it?”

  “I must admit I haven’t, sir.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed. Most people haven’t. In fact, I myself have been giving it short shrift in my Principles of Egyptian Art. Given Professor Harrell’s discoveries, I’m going to have to expand that section. You see, scholars have traditionally looked at the period as one of decline. Ancient Egypt had gone through some tumultuous times, and had been occupied by numerous foreign powers for brief periods—the Libyans, your ancestors the Nubians, the Persians. And then Alexander the Great took it from the Persians and his general Ptolemy I Soter founded the Ptolemaic Dynasty after Alexander’s death.”

  “I am familiar with the basics, Herr Schäfer.”

  The German scholar waved his pipe, sending curls of rich smoke wafting up to the ceiling.

  “Of course, of course. I merely state these things as a prelude, a way to point out that Egypt hadn’t been run by Egyptians for far too long. There is a similar sentiment on the streets today.”

  Moustafa tensed. He did not want to discuss politics with a European who was about to offer him access to such an extensive library.

  Herr Schäfer went on.

  “By this time, Egyptian art had gone into what many people see as a steep decline. Inscriptions and paintings had become cruder, the sarcophagi had become broader, almost squat in appearance, losing the fine p
roportions of the earlier periods. There were some bright spots, such as those fabulously lifelike mummy portraits, but those were of foreign invention. Native Egyptian art had lost its way.”

  “One can see that in the mummy decoration,” Moustafa said. “Besides the mummy portraits, there were other Greek and Roman influences. Like the plaster masks used on some mummies. They look like poor imitations of Classical busts.”

  Herr Schäfer smiled. “That they do. A good way of putting it. But I believe we may be looking at it incorrectly, through the wrong set of eyes, if you will. What we see as decadence, the Greeks and Romans saw as a fusion of cultures. After all, the Greeks and Romans who had colonized Egypt did not have to take on Egyptian traditions. They could have continued to be buried in simple graves or marble sarcophagi carved with scenes from Classical mythology. Instead they chose to take on Egyptian ideas of the afterlife, although adding their own style to it.”

  Herr Schäfer handed over three slim volumes. “You should borrow these. They all cover the period, although I must say they are all lacking. We simply do not have a good comprehensive study of the art of the period. The history, yes, but not the art. How is your draftsmanship?”

  The sudden change of subject took Moustafa by surprise.

  “I … have practiced a little, sir, but I would not say I am an expert.”

  “Can you draw something with scientific accuracy?”

  “Yes.”

  “That will be good enough. If you have the time, I would be greatly in your debt if you could make some illustrations of any significant Greco-Roman artifacts you come across in the Western Desert. It would fill a lacuna in my work, and I would be happy to pay for any illustrations I end up using in my Principles of Egyptian Art.”

  Moustafa’s jaw dropped. “I would be honored, sir!”

  “It would be a great help for me.” The scholar fetched an excavation report. “Now look at these illustrations of the reliefs in the temple of Hatshepsut at Deir el-Bahari. Fine, aren’t they? The illustrator not only captures the content and proportions of the original, but also its essence.”