The Naqib’s Daughter

‘Ah! Speaking of Sitt Nafisa, Citoyen,’ Nicolas interjected. ‘I had promised my wife to report to her at the earliest opportunity on the interior of the harem, as she is most curious to know how Muslim ladies entertain chez elles. I understand Madame Magallon was one of this lady’s intimates?’

‘It is not a simple matter to arrange an invitation to the harem,’ Magallon demurred. ‘The Oriental idea of home and privacy is very different to ours.’

‘Indeed! Look around you – the houses and doors we pass remain resolutely closed in our faces,’ Geoffroy St-Hilaire gestured broadly to both sides of the street.

‘Apparently we have been preceded by the reputation of our troops for zeal in making the acquaintance of the fairer sex,’ Nicolas suggested dryly. ‘But our exemplary behaviour here will soon dispel suspicion and open hearts and hearths to us, I am persuaded.’

At that moment a fleeting motion above made him look up and he caught a glimpse, through a crack in the wooden lattice of a small balcony, of a young girl’s enormous dark eyes avid with curiosity in a round, pale face. When her eyes met his she withdrew behind the shutters like a squirrel up a tree. For some reason, Nicolas made no mention of this unique sighting to his companions.

As they headed away from the souk and along another canal, Geoffroy looked around him in despair. ‘But this city is bewildering! I will never learn my way around here!’

‘To get your bearings,’ Magallon suggested, ‘it helps to think of the Nile running on a south to north axis, with the city on the eastern bank, and Giza and the pyramids to the west. One point of reference you can see from anywhere in the city is the Citadel up on the Mokkattam hills.’ He pointed to a vast walled complex built around an ancient fort overlooking the city from the east. ‘The fort dates back to Sultan Yussef Salah al-Din, the Saladdin of the crusades. That is where our garrison is now housed.’

‘These streets are too narrow for a carriage, let alone our heavy cannon,’ Nicolas observed as they headed down another narrow, winding alley.

‘They weren’t designed for them. In fact, in some cases two persons on horseback cannot meet and pass each other without some difficulty. It used to be, when one of inferior rank became aware of a Bey or powerful figure approaching, he was obliged, out of respect and regard for his personal safety both, to take shelter in some cross lane or doorway, till the other with his numerous attendants had passed. Before our invasion, no Christian or European traveller was permitted, except by special favour, to mount horses in Cairo – only asses.’

With his military engineer’s eye, Nicolas could not help noticing other impediments to the proper circulation of troops: within the city walls, each quarter, indeed each lane and alley, seemed to have fortified gates at the entrance that were locked at night – Magallon estimated their number at seventy. Decorative as some of these gates were, their presence, along with the absence of streetlights, would hinder the circulation of French troops after nightfall, and would complicate quelling any uprising by the citizenry, should one occur. For the moment, though, the glances in their direction seemed more curious than hostile.

In another half-hour they reached the Nasiriya. ‘Aha! The Faubourg Saint-Victor! Finally!’ Geoffroy exulted. Magallon led them into a spacious mansion.

‘This is the palace of Hassan Kashif. I present to you the new location of the Institute of Egypt!’

Nicolas and Geoffroy looked around the mansion with its high ceilings, its graceful colonnaded arches and its intricate decorative woodwork. Geoffroy declared it superior to the finest academic institution in France.

‘The main salon will serve as your assembly hall –’ Magallon gestured around the arcaded hall. ‘I must tell you that it served quite a different purpose originally, as the salon for the ladies of the harem.’

‘A titillating detail that, alas, will not suffice to lend piquancy to the predictably tedious deliberations of our august commission!’ Geoffroy lamented.

Nicolas was more interested in the house next door, also formerly owned by said Hassan Kashif, that was allocated to him for his balloonist brigade and their workshops. Here he would recreate the École nationale aérostatique de Meudon! His heart rose in his chest with the thrill of anticipation. He and his confreres would form a true elysium of savants here in the Nasiriya. The secretary of the Institute, Fourier, was lodged in the house of Sennari, Murad Bey’s Sudanese Mamluke. Nearby would be the naturalists St-Hilaire and Savigny, the architects Balzac and Lepère; the geographers, the pharmacists, the mineralogists; and the painters Rigo and Redouté. Nicolas had already designated the perfect spot for their informal gathering place of an evening: the large garden of an adjoining house, that of Qassim Bey, with its gigantic sycamore tree and fragrant acacias.

His reverie was interrupted by the appearance of Dr Desgenettes.

‘Ah, Docteur, welcome! Have you been to inspect the quarters you were allocated for the hospital?’

‘I have indeed, on the Elephant Lake. I am also to set up another hospital in the Citadel. We have just been touring the premises with General Bonaparte. You will never guess what our general is writing urgently to request from the Directoire.’

‘What could that be?’

‘Prostitutes.’

‘Did you say prostitutes?’

‘Precisely. Bonaparte is writing urgently to Paris to request that the Directoire ship out at least a hundred prostitutes on the next available ship. The shortage of women is beginning to pose a serious problem to the health and morale of our troops. After all, with thousands of Frenchmen here, and only a couple of hundred women – and those not even filles publiques but wives – where are our men to seek le repos du guerrier? And in this one crucial instance we cannot hope to live on the land, as the general has warned most sternly against offending local sensibilities, and Muslims are most punctilious in these matters.’

‘Surely there must be local filles de joie?’

‘Few, and those are joyless indeed, with figures flabby from childbearing. And as for hygiene …’ He shrugged. ‘No, it is a serious problem, and Bonaparte has written to the Directoire demanding a hundred prostitutes immediately; we shall see what comes of it.’

Through the open window a chant rose like a plume of smoke, and was echoed from first one, then a dozen minarets around the city, till the sultry sunset air swelled with the chants of the muezzins and the twittering of the birds going to roost in the trees. Nicolas stood before the window, enchanted by the purity and light of the achingly graceful minarets soaring into the hazy mauve sky.

‘Ah, Docteur, if monuments are windows into the soul of a civilization, then these Mamlukes, whatever they are today, must once have been a race that valued beauty and balance above all.’

Zeinab stared out of the mashrabiyya window at two French soldiers in the street below, fascinated by the long, floppy brown hair that hung to their shoulders and the skin-tight white breeches that moulded their legs and outlined their crotches and loins; she had never seen men walking about looking naked before. But what the soldiers were doing worried her. They were tearing down and breaking up the great wood and leather gates that protected the neighbourhood at night, and loading the dismantled doors on carts.

‘My teacher, is it true what Dada says? That the reason the French are tearing down the gates to the neighbourhoods all around the city is so they can murder us all while the men are at Friday prayers?’

‘Your wet-nurse repeats whatever rumours she picks up in the marketplace. No, the French are tearing down the gates so that their carriages and troops can enter the neighbourhoods unhindered in case of an uprising against them. They decree that the streets are not wide enough for the passage of their troops and particularly for their general’s carriage – which requires six horses to draw it – so they intend to demolish anything that extrudes into the street in front of the houses, including the small steps and benches that shopkeepers sit on.’

‘Even the earthenware jars for thirsty passers-by?’

‘Even those must go, no matter what hospitality dictates.’ Shaykh Jabarti shook his head. ‘They do not understand our ways. They tear down the gates, and then they force each householder to keep a lantern lit before his door all night, and fine him if it goes out or if some lout deliberately extinguishes it, as if people had nothing better to do than stay awake all night making sure that their lamps do not go out. Nothing will come of this but ill-feeling.’

It was true, thought Zeinab, a sullen silence reigned in the city. The shops closed early, people kept to their homes. Festivities went uncelebrated, by tacit consent. The heads of the guilds, who would normally be vying at this time to put on the showiest parade for the upcoming festival of the Nile flood – particularly as it coincided this year with the birthday of the Prophet – would have nothing to do with it, in protest at the occupation. And the French would be none the wiser.

FOUR

Aboukir

‘The enemy is before you and the sea is behind you. You will fight or die. There is no retreat.’

Tariq bin Ziyad, Moorish Conqueror of Spain.

Nicolas Conté looked up from his code book and blinked at the brilliant sky above him. From the ramparts of the white medieval Mamluke fort the bay of Alexandria stretched out before him, reverberating in the blue glare. The sun had begun to set, streaking the sky glorious mauve and orange, and a sweet breeze blew across the bay. Nicolas was glad his mission – to build the optical telegraph that was to relay messages between the city and the fleet – had brought him to the seashore, away from the stifling heat of Cairo in August. His engineers were supervising the building of the wooden rods, painted black, to be mounted as the arms of the semaphore, and training operators to set them at the proper angles to represent 196 symbols. Nicolas himself was concentrating on combining symbols to yield words and phrases; he had already devised two thousand out of a possible eight thousand plus – when a watchman cried the alarm and he looked out to sea. With the sun low in the sky, they saw a fleet of ships over the horizon, black sails deployed to the fullest, and to a man they leapt to their feet, hoping against hope that it was reinforcements from Spain.

But it was Nelson; this time he would not miss the French fleet trapped in Aboukir Bay to the east of the city. A cry of frustration escaped Nicolas: the semaphore would at least have allowed him to warn Admiral Brueys and the other captains on the ships, but the system was not yet up and running. As Nicolas watched in helpless agony from the top of the fort, and the entire city and garrison watched from rooftops and terraces, the English fleet opened fire with fourteen hundred cannons at once. The blare was indescribable, the superiority of English firepower stunning. As the sun set, the flagship of the French fleet, L’Orient, exploded when its gunpowder magazines caught fire. Nicolas knew the terrible sight would be seared in his brain for as long as he lived.

As nightfall turned the bay into a lake of fire, the guns fell mercifully silent. But there was no time to waste; he knew he had to prepare for the eventuality of an attack on the city itself. He set his engineers to work outfitting ovens with reflectors to heat cannonballs and improvising a floating fire pump. All night they laboured at their hellish tasks, dripping sweat, until with the dawn the English resumed firing, to complete the devastation they had started the night before. The pitiable sights that daylight disclosed were unspeakable: the thousands of dead, drowned or burned alive.

Finally the English ships withdrew. The city had been spared; apparently Nelson had decided that the Army of the Orient was no threat to him at the moment, trapped as it was in Egypt.

Two weeks later Nicolas stood in the great hall of Elfi’s palace in Cairo listening to the commandant addressing the assembled commanders. Bonaparte had just returned from a skirmish with Ibrahim Bey in Gaza, and learned the terrible news of Aboukir for the first time. He took the blow with a sang-froid that impressed Nicolas.

‘We are called upon to do great things, and we shall do them,’ Bonaparte reiterated simply at the conclusion of his speech. ‘Destiny has called upon us to build an empire, and we shall build it.’

As Nicolas turned to leave, Bonaparte called out to him. ‘Citoyen Conté! A moment. Come, take a turn with me in the garden.’

As they strolled in the welcome shade of the gazebo, Bonaparte laid a hand on Nicolas’ shoulder. ‘I need you for a matter of considerable urgency and some delicacy.’

‘At your service, Commandant.’

‘How soon can you put on a balloon demonstration?’

Nicolas could not hide his astonishment.

‘We must impress the populace,’ Bonaparte explained. ‘We must put on a very grand show, something to take their breath away, to inspire them with admiration and dread in equal measure, and impress on them indelibly the superiority of French military science. We must try to keep the sinking of the fleet a secret from Cairo for as long as possible, but we cannot hope to do so indefinitely, and when the news comes out we must have something spectacular to divert attention. I feel the mood in the city turning sullen and dangerous, and we must reverse that. Besides, a grand celebration will combat despondency in our own troops; we must guard against that, I have seen disquieting signs of it from the beginning of this campaign. So, I am counting on you and your balloonists! It is a very important mission I am confiding in you. How soon can you be ready?’

‘We have not yet unpacked our matériel, or ascertained its condition; some of it has been lost or destroyed. Our priority has been to complete the semaphore and extend it from Alexandria to our garrisons in the Delta – and eventually to Cairo. Surely that should be the first order of business? The news of Aboukir took two weeks to reach you, Commandant, because couriers sent overland are routinely assassinated.’

‘I know, my dear Conté,’ Bonaparte insisted, clapping Nicolas on the shoulder. ‘But make the balloon your first priority nonetheless. Believe me, it is more important. One hundred days – remember, a campaign is won or lost in the first hundred days. And we must win these people’s hearts and spirits. Now that we have lost the fleet, this is one battle we cannot afford to lose. You understand me? How soon can you set up a demonstration?’

‘I cannot guarantee success for several weeks – even months. My equipment for producing hydrogen has been lost with the sinking of the fleet, and the alternative – to try to fly a Montgolfière – is far less reliable. I would be very reluctant to essay a hot-air balloon publicly.’

‘No matter, fly a Montgolfière then, my dear Conté; it will do very well to impress the Cairenes and raise the morale of our troops. Much is riding on this. I will have it announced for the Prophet’s birthday, whenever that is. I have heard, through my spies, that it is normally a very festive occasion, but the citizens of Cairo are not celebrating it this year, in silent protest at our presence. I will command that it be celebrated with all due pomp, whether they like it or not. And to make sure to bring out the crowds for that occasion, I will announce that there will be a great exhibition of a flying ship such as they have never seen. A ship that can transport the French army across the sky and from which they can attack their enemies! That will go far to stamp out the regrettable impression left by the destruction of our fleet.’

With that, Bonaparte turned and strode back to the palace, leaving Nicolas with one thought: to ascertain the extent of the deadline he had been given. He tracked down Magallon in the courtyard.

‘The date of the Prophet’s birthday?’ Magallon looked puzzled. ‘Well, it changes from year to year – the Muslims follow a lunar calendar, you know. But at any rate it must be this month. Why?’

Nicolas groaned; that very month! He was not ready, but as Bonaparte would have already put the word about, there was no help for it. His commandant seemed not to have considered the consequences of a fiasco, he thought grimly; but then it would be Nicolas who would bear the brunt of a disaster. He could not allow the balloon demonstration to be a failure.

‘What manner of woman is it?’

‘I do not know, mistress. She is cloaked from head to toe, and insists on speaking to you herself; she will not uncover her face or so much as her eyes. She will not disclose her business and I do not trust her. There is something threatening about her manner. Should I try to dismiss her?’ said Barquq, the head eunuch, looking flustered.

Nafisa hesitated. The fact that the eunuch had not yet dismissed the stranger meant that he had been intimidated or his palm had been greased, and that indicated that the woman was not here for charity. Her curiosity was piqued. ‘Send her to me.’

She sat back down on the window seat and let her maid continue to brush her hair. Her eyes were drawn to the corner of the room where the French clock had once taken pride of place; it was empty now.

The eunuch reappeared with a black-cloaked figure close on his heels. The woman was unusually tall, and her coarse style of dress, her bearing, and what could be surmised from her build and the size of her feet under the long robes, suggested that this was not a lady, and probably not a woman from the city at all. The silver coins sewn on to her veil, and the style of the veil itself – opaque, black, and covering the entire face – was characteristic of the Bedouin of the eastern desert, except that Bedouin women tended to be small and thin. Nafisa had never seen a woman of this build, apart from the rare African tribeswomen from the upper reaches of the Nile. The woman inclined her head and stood by the stairs, silent.

‘Come, mother,’ Nafisa beckoned with some impatience, ‘you are among women now and may unveil. What is your business?’

The woman bowed again and made a gesture in the direction of the maids and the eunuch, indicating that she wished to speak with Nafisa alone.

‘Now really, you go too far,’ Nafisa sighed. She flicked her fingers, dismissing her attendants. ‘All right, then, but be brief, I have little time.’

The woman took a step forward, and whispered in a strange, high voice: ‘What I have to say is for your ears alone. I bring you news from your husband.’

‘You?’ Nafisa snorted. ‘Who are you?’

‘I will tell you, by and by. Have the French approached you with terms for Murad Bey?’ The high voice cracked, like a falsetto.

Nafisa stiffened and ice water ran in her veins. ‘You will tell me who you are, this minute, or I will call out, and you know my eunuchs are behind the door.’

The woman raised her hand, palm up, in a gesture to stop her, then approached. ‘I will uncover, but pray do not cry out. I mean you no harm.’ It was no longer the high falsetto voice. The veil and shawl were cast off to reveal a blond beard flecked with grey and hard blue eyes in a sunburned face.

Nafisa’s shock and alarm gave way to astonishment as she recognized the man before her. ‘Elfi Bey?’

‘Hush.’ He looked over his shoulder in the direction of the door. ‘Forgive my intruding on you this way. If the Franj capture me within the city walls they will kill me outright. This disguise was the only way to go unrecognized.’ He seemed more amused than mortified by his ignominious appearance. ‘There are only too many people on the street who would have turned me in for the price on my head.’

He turned away discreetly as Nafisa snatched a Damascus silk shawl off the window seat and wound it around her head and shoulders.

‘It is good to see that you are alive and well, Elfi Bey,’ she said, regaining something of her composure. ‘The rumours have been flying around the city that you have taken refuge with the Bedouin, that you have been seen in the western desert, but also that you raid the French convoys in the east, and then again that you were seen in the north near the Syrian border with Ibrahim Bey. Some reports even had you sighted on foot, with a lion on a leash. One cannot know what to credit and what to dismiss.’

‘It is all true – even the lion. I have been moving around constantly, never spending two nights in one place. But I have established rear camps with the Abaddi in the eastern desert, and another in Kharja oasis in the Libyan desert.’

‘The Bedouin? Surely they are not to be trusted?’

‘We shall see. They have their own sense of honour; when they give a stranger safe conduct, the whole tribe, every man, woman and child – will stand behind their pledge to the death. But no outsider can trust them completely.’

‘And Murad? What news of him?’

‘Murad Bey is headed south, and keeps just a step ahead of the Franj.’

‘Magallon came to see me yesterday – with Rossetti. All smiles and compliments, as if nothing had changed.’ Rossetti, the ex-consul and long a resident of the Venetian quarter of Cairo, had been a confidant of her husband’s and had frequented the house almost as often as Magallon. Before the two men left, she had made a point of handing – with a smile and a regal inclination of her head – the French clock to Magallon as part of the ransom she had been asked to pay. The pained look on his face had been the one fleeting moment of satisfaction she had derived from that humiliating meeting.

‘Rossetti said they were authorized to offer Murad the province of Girgeh up to the first cataract in return for acknowledgement of the suzerainty of the Franj and paying them tax on the land. And he is to keep no more than five hundred cavalry. In other words, he would be a tax farmer under the Franj. I replied that I would have to hear from my husband first.’

‘They would have not heard the news from Alexandria yet. Bonaparte himself has not heard the news, he is in the north chasing Ibrahim Bey.’

‘What news is it you speak of?’

He stopped suddenly and drew the veil across his face, holding up a finger.

She heard her eunuch outside the door. ‘Mistress, you called for me?’

‘No, not yet. I will call you in a few minutes.’

‘I must hurry.’ Elfi lowered the veil. ‘The French fleet was destroyed last night in the bay of Alexandria; without it they are trapped in Egypt. I was with Ibrahim Bey near the Syrian border and we were able to hold off Bonaparte’s cavalry – on horseback they are no match for Mamlukes, so they must rely on their great advantage in infantry and artillery, and that slows them down. Ibrahim Bey was able to escape to Syria with all the booty from the Mecca caravan. He will make for Istanbul and plead with the Sultan for reinforcements. The English are allies of the Porte and if he asks them to come to his aid that will be a sufficient excuse for them to intervene. This is not the time for Murad Bey to accept terms of surrender. That is what I came to warn you. Hold them off any way you can. Make a counter-offer on behalf of Murad Bey, offer monies in exchange for evacuation … I must go now.’

‘But why put yourself in danger by coming here in person? Why did you not send an emissary?’

‘I could have taken that risk on my account, but not on yours. There was no one I could trust not to betray you if he was caught.’

He covered his face and head completely and there stood before Nafisa the veiled Bedouin woman. ‘May I see your face in good health, Sitt Nafisa.’