Читать книгу The Naqib’s Daughter - Samia Serageldin - Страница 15

‘A universal man, with the passion, the knowledge and the genius for the arts, precious in a far away country, capable of turning his hand to anything, of creating the arts of France in the desert of Arabia.’

Napoleon Bonaparte on Nicolas-Jacques Conté

Zeinab took the tiniest lick off the arm of her doll, and the sweetness of the spun sugar titillated her tongue. This would be the last year she would be given a sugar-paste doll for the mulid of the Prophet, she thought with equal regret and satisfaction: after all, as she had grumbled to her mother, she was a girl of marriageable age now, no longer a child. But she had secretly rejoiced in the particularly gorgeous doll with the bold black eyes painted on the almond-paste face, and the pleated, pink tissue skirt fanned out around her.

Only a few days ago it had seemed as though there would be no mulid dolls this year, and no sugar-paste horse for her younger brother, either. No one was in the mood to celebrate with the Franj occupying Cairo, and so many families in the city mourning their dead. But then the Franj had decreed that the mulid would be celebrated as usual, as would the ceremony of the Nile flood; fines would be levied on merchants who did not keep their shops open and festoon them with garlands, and on any guilds that did not organize a parade.

But it was not thoughts of the parades or the musicians, the dervishes or the dancers that excited Zeinab to the point of sleeplessness: it was the prospect of witnessing the Franj’s flying ship. They had posted signs all over town announcing that after the annual ceremony of the Nile flood, and after the mulid parade, they would demonstrate a special flying ship that could fly over the houses and the trees and the city walls and, who knew, perhaps over the Red Sea itself; a flying ship in which people could ride over the clouds like the magic carpets in the stories of the Thousand and One Nights. The French claimed they had used these flying ships in battle to spy on their enemies and defeat them. The soldiers had distributed posters printed on their Arabic press announcing that this great French invention would take off from Ezbekiah Square that Friday.

Zeinab’s excitement had been roused to fever pitch by the sight of preparations on the Ezbekiah esplanade not far from her house, where for several days the French engineers had been seen building a platform and setting up their equipment. She had begged to be allowed to attend the great spectacle, and her father had promised, but she fretted that he might forget all about it or change his mind.

All morning Zeinab looked out of her mashrabiyya window at the mulid procession passing in the street below: the drummers and the shrill pipers, the dancing women swaying their hips, the tumblers, the shrieking monkeys and chained bears, the serpent handlers, the puppeteers with their vulgar cries, the singers and the female poetesses. The street sellers hawked their wares: tamarind, carob and liquorice juice, roasted peanuts and ruby-red watermelon, date-and-nut-filled pancakes. Then the guilds, each in turn, parading with their banners: scissors for the tailors; a net for the fishmongers; bracelets for the jewellers; a gun for the barudis, the gunpowder manufacturers. The Sufi orders followed, preceded by the dervishes whirling their capes in rhythm with the chanting and drumming. The float in the shape of Noah’s Ark came next, heralded by a resounding fanfare.

Zeinab could hardly bear to wait for word from her father. Shaykh Bakri himself had gone ahead earlier in the morning with other notables accompanying the commandant of the French to the Nilometer for the annual ceremony of the breaching of the dam. An hour or so later the floodwaters of the Nile had come rushing through the khalig canal, and the firing of cannon and the shouts of rejoicing had carried all the way to the Ezbekiah. By now, Zeinab calculated, there would have been ample time for the commandant and his party to ride back for the demonstration of the great flying machine.

Dada burst into the room, holding Zeinab’s younger brother by the hand.

‘Yallah, Sitt Zeinab, Shaykh Bakri sent for us. Let us hurry or we will miss the flying of the airship!’

Zeinab jumped up and let her wet-nurse dress her, for the first time, in a long black cloak and a small, transparent white yashmak veiling the lower part of her face. She felt very grown up.

They hurried down to the Ezbekiah esplanade, where the sun had crossed its zenith. A bevy of Frenchmen with their shirtsleeves rolled up were hurrying up and down the steps leading to the great wooden platform. Tall masts had been set up at each of the four corners of the platform, and an enormous sail was stretched out between them. It looked like no other sail Zeinab had ever seen: the fabric was of silk in the dark blue, white and red that everyone had come to associate with the French, and it was encircled by a design featuring a golden crown and an eagle. The ends of the gigantic sail were being drawn in and attached with cords to a large basket that sat in the middle of the platform.

Zeinab never took her eyes off the head engineer who was clearly in charge: a dark, curly-haired man with an eye patch who gave orders right and left and occasionally stood back to mop his brow with the scarf tied round his neck. In the manner of the French, he was clean-shaven and bareheaded, and did not disdain to put his own hands to the task in his impatience. From time to time he sat down and brought out a leather-bound stack of papers and began sketching rapidly.

Her curiosity to see inside the mysterious cane basket at the centre of this bustle was like an unbearable itch. She grabbed her brother’s hand and edged as close as she could, despite her nurse’s remonstrations. Then she saw Shaykh Jabarti, completely engrossed, standing very close to the platform, and that encouraged her to advance till she could speak to him.

‘My esteemed teacher, what is in that basket?’

Shaykh Jabarti turned and looked down at her in astonishment, then recognized her through the transparent yashmak.

‘Ah, so they dress you as a woman now, do they, little monkey,’ he grumbled. ‘Well, perhaps we can obtain permission for you to see.’

Shaykh Jabarti spoke to one of the translators, who spoke to the chief engineer; he nodded, in a harried manner, hardly glancing at them.

With Shaykh Jabarti leading the way, Zeinab and her brother climbed the stairs to the platform and approached the basket. Close up, it was sturdier and larger than it looked, easily accommodating two or three standing men, and high enough to reach the armpit of a man, so what the French had claimed about sending soldiers up in the air could be true. But would there be air to breathe that high?

She could not see all the way inside the basket, but there seemed to be some sort of large lamp or stove with a wick, and straw and other stuff around it. Presently the chief engineer gave the order and fire was set to the wick in the lamp. The crowd exhaled in alarm as the flames shot up, and then went speechless in awe as the sail began to fill up like a balloon, the cords tying it down to the masts taking the strain.

A fanfare announced the arrival of the procession of the commandant and the accompanying notables, and Shaykh Jabarti signalled to Zeinab that it was time to get off the platform and to return to her nurse, who was standing further back.

The great assembly of the French arrived, officers and gentlemen and the laughing ladies in their finery. She had never seen women like them, with their bosom-baring wisps of gowns, and their cascades of curls under high-brimmed, feathered bonnets. Zeinab absorbed every novel detail of their attire: gloves and fans, reticules and parasols, down to the embroidery on the hem of a shawl and the lace trim of a bonnet. One lady in particular stood out with her fluty laugh and her hair of spun gold; the feathers and ribbons on her bonnet, her gloves and slippers were all dyed a shade of delicate mauve that offset the palest pink of her gown. The commandant of the French noticed her and stopped to speak to her for a few minutes, and she tossed her head and laughed till he moved on.

Zeinab watched the commandant approach the platform and greet the chief engineer and his helpers. They seemed to be having an argument, the man with the eye patch shaking his head repeatedly and mopping his brow, the general making encouraging gestures and waving to the assembled crowd.

By now the balloon had formed an egg-like globe, tapering down to the basket, and straining alarmingly against the cords whenever a breeze blew, like a marid struggling against his chains. A cannon was fired to announce the launch, and everyone held his breath. Zeinab was disappointed that no Frenchmen would be climbing into the basket after all. Then the chief engineer gave the sign, the cords holding it down on all four sides were cut simultaneously, and the great sphere rose in the air, greeted by a deafening cheer from the crowd. Zeinab held her breath, her eyes fixed on the airship rising in the sky, lurching slightly as it caught in a breeze.

The French clapped and called ‘Bravo!’ The Egyptians gasped and exclaimed ‘God is great!’ The flying ship rose still higher, leaning in the lazy wind, then seemed to stall as the wind died down. For a few minutes nothing happened; the great sphere hung in the air. The spectators began to fidget, while the French officers continued to nod and smile, encouraging the crowd to wait and see.

Then suddenly the basket detached itself from the sphere and came crashing down in flames. The crowd shouted in alarm and dispersed as the great balloon deflated and came floating down, scattering a quantity of printed leaflets.

Zeinab’s eyes went to the chief engineer, who was standing with his hands on his hips, shaking his head, circles of perspiration staining his shirt at the armpits. His frustration was unmistakable even at that distance, and for some reason she felt a pang of sympathy for that total stranger.

‘Come,’ she heard Shaykh Jabarti say, ‘this was no flying machine for transporting soldiers great distances. This was no more than a very large kite of the sort knaves at street fairs fly to entertain children.’

Then her maid was calling her and her brother. ‘Sitt Zeinab, come quickly, we must return to the house. Shaykh Bakri has invited the commandant of the Franj and his generals to a banquet tonight. And he has ordered that you make yourself ready should he require you to make an appearance.’

‘Me? I am to be called into their presence? Why?’

‘He must have a purpose in this, and it is not our place to question it. Now hurry!’

Nicolas headed on foot for the Ezbekiah, where he had been invited to attend the banquet given by Shaykh Bakri in honour of the commandant; the generals and the heads of the Scientific Commission were also invited. He was walking in the company of Geoffroy St-Hilaire, Dr Desgenettes and Ambassador Magallon, colleagues whose company he appreciated under ordinary circumstances, but on this occasion he was lost in his own gloomy thoughts, chewing over the disappointing outcome of the Montgolfière demonstration. He had worked like a conscript for the past two weeks – ever since Bonaparte had given him the order – and he had worked his loyal workshop heads nearly as hard, to get the balloon ready for the appointed date, the fateful festival of the Prophet. His heart had risen as the handsome new aérostat had inflated before his eyes, an imposing balloon thirteen metres in diameter, decorated with the inscription The Battle of Rivoli, and ringed with a civic crown and laurel wreaths. Ah, but would it fly and would it be stable?

He had not hidden his misgivings when the commandant and the generals returned from the ceremony of the Nile flood; he had told them flatly that he could not vouch for the performance of the hot-air balloon.

‘Could we not send up a soldier or two in the basket?’ Bonaparte had inquired. ‘There will be no lack of volunteers, I am sure of it.’

‘I refuse to risk the life and limb of any man.’

‘My dear Conté! At least let us send up a sheep or other animal, as the Montgolfier brothers did with their first experiments?’

Thank God he had stuck to his guns, Nicolas thought now as he was ushered into the double gates of the Moorish-style house where they had been invited; the much-vaunted airship had come undone and descended ignominiously, much to the alarm of tout Caire, all assembled for the spectacle, agog and agape. No one could claim he had not warned Bonaparte, but he expected his reception by the commandant to be rather chilly all the same.

So he was considerably surprised, after he and his party had been greeted in the outer courtyards by a gauntlet of servant boys proffering rose-water, and then had penetrated into an inner courtyard where most of the guests were already assembled, to be hailed from a distance by an unexpectedly good-humoured Bonaparte.

‘Conté! Come join us!’ Bonaparte beckoned him over to the head table, where he sat with his host, the chief generals and two other clerics. ‘This is the man of the hour, Shaykh Bakri. Let me introduce you to our chief engineer. Citoyen Conté, this is our host.’ A pale, lean-faced man, black of beard and brow, inclined his head and brought a well-tended hand to the front of his crimson kaftan in a gesture of welcome. Nicolas was struck by the sardonic eyes under the black turban.

‘And these are Shaykh Sharkawi, the head of the diwan; Shaykh Jabarti, the eminent historian; and the judge,’ Bonaparte continued, presenting the other three clerics at table. ‘Sit down, Citoyen.’

Nicolas took a seat between General Menou and Ambassador Magallon. He looked around the banquet hall: the hundred or so guests were seated on low benches lined with carpet cushions, and enormous brass trays were brought in and set up on tripods to serve as low tables for each group of ten or twelve guests. Serving boys came around with pitchers of rose-water and basins in which the guests rinsed their hands.

Bonaparte attempted some badinage with his hosts through the translator, Venture du Paradis, but it was heavy going; the Egyptian clerics sat sober as judges under their enormous Kashmir turbans. That, and the absence of wine, made for a decided lack of ambience. Ambassador Magallon, noting Nicolas’ discomfiture, whispered: ‘This Ottoman gravity is so antithetical to our French gaiety, is it not, Citoyen? But it is the rule on formal occasions, I am afraid.’

Meanwhile a procession of servants laid the large brass trays with plates of salad vegetables and flat rounds of bread. Before the guests could do more than contemplate sampling these aperitifs, they were pre-empted by the rapid succession of courses brought in by the servers and laid before them: meats in unfamiliar sauces, vegetables, pastries, creams, all generously seasoned with a variety of exotic spices. Conversation was abandoned altogether in the attempt to do justice to this bewildering and disorganized abundance. Some of the Egyptian convives dispensed with cutlery, using pieces of bread to scoop up mouthfuls of the various dishes; others, like Shaykh Bakri, attempted to wield spoon and knife in the European manner, no doubt in honour of their guests.

In the pause that followed, as the guests leaned back against the pillows, Bonaparte attempted to engage the notable clerics at table on the marvels of science – somewhat inopportunely, Nicolas felt, given the miracle-manqué of that morning – and exhorted them to revive the study of the sciences as their ancestors had done in the days of the Caliphs.

Shaykh Sharkawi, the head of the diwan, replied – through Venture du Paradis – that the Koran encompassed all knowledge.

‘Ah, but does the Koran teach you to cast a cannon?’ Bonaparte retorted.

He looked disconcerted by the solemn nods in the affirmative from the shaykh and his confreres. But Nicolas was not at all sure that they were all as gullible as they would appear. Bakri gave the impression of a sharp and worldly man under his pious airs. As for Jabarti, Nicolas had seen his dour face nearly every day at the Institute, peering with ill-concealed avidity at French instruments and poring over the Arabic translations in the library for hours on end. During the preparations for the aérostat exhibition he had been a constant presence, even if he deigned to ask few questions.

‘You know so much about Islam and Muslims, Commandant,’ Shaykh Bakri remarked, through the translator. ‘You should become a Muslim.’

Bonaparte seemed to take this in good spirit. ‘My dear Bakri, were you to issue a fatwa dispensing me from circumcision, and allowing me to indulge in alcohol and pork, I would consider it!’

Nicolas shifted in his uncomfortable position on the low bench; he was developing a cramp in his left leg, and hoped the banquet was drawing to a close. But the pièce de resistance was still to come. To each table was brought, on an enormous platter carried by two servers, a whole spit-roast lamb on a mound of rice with nuts and raisins. Then each lamb was carved open to reveal, stuffed inside it, a whole goose, and that in turn was stuffed with a duck, and the duck was stuffed with a whole chicken, and the chicken was stuffed with pigeons, all cooked together. By then Nicolas, and he suspected the other French guests as well, had lost all appetite, but out of politesse they applauded this culinary tour de force extravagantly.

The barely touched stuffed lamb was no sooner removed from the table than a succession of sweet pastries was proffered, and that was followed by another ritual of finger rinsing. Throughout, only water had been offered to drink. Nicolas found the local water, drawn from some three hundred public fountains around the city, to be quite acceptable. Finally the excellent Yemeni coffee was served, strong and thick as syrup, along with the long water pipes that were ubiquitous in the country. Nicolas noticed that the Egyptians seemed to take little delight in the pleasures of the table but were addicted to their coffee and tobacco.

Nicolas shifted again in his seat and rubbed his cramped left leg discreetly; Magallon, noticing his discomfort, invited him to take a stroll on the terrace to admire the view over the shallow lake. By now the Nile water that had been released with the breaching of the dam in the morning had come rushing through the khalig, the main canal, and was beginning to fill the Ezbekiah esplanade.

‘A pretty sight, is it not,’ the Consul smiled.

‘Rather like Venice,’ Nicolas concurred. ‘The Ezbekiah esplanade must be easily three times the size of the Place de la Révolution in Paris, wouldn’t you say?’ He breathed in the scented air and identified the separate fragrances of carob, eucalyptus, sycamore and lemon. A few slender boats with gay paper lanterns languorously crisscrossed the water, steered by gondoliers. ‘It must be a good sign that the locals are in a festive mood.’

‘Ah, but exactly – this scene before you is far more subdued than would typically be the case on such an occasion. There are very few Muslim people of quality among the revellers, other than the members of the diwan who are more or less constrained to be here. And it was the same this morning at the ceremony of the breaching of the Nile dam; mostly Ottoman Greeks, Syrian Christians, Copts. Not many Muslims, other than the street mob. And out here on the Ezbekiah; on a summer night, and a major festival, you would have seen many more boats, lights, music playing, and all the riverains would be out escaping the summer heat in the cool of the evening. Veiled Muslim ladies as well as men.’ Magallon made an expansive gesture that encompassed the view from the terrace as well as the banquet hall behind them. ‘All of this has the feel of a staged play to me.’

At that moment, as if marking the end of the first act of a play, General Bonaparte stood up and raised his hands and every head turned to his table. Bakri stood up as well. Nicolas and Magallon hurried back to their seats while the commandant prepared to speak.

‘As you know,’ he announced, ‘the post of chief syndic of the Prophet’s descendants is unoccupied.’ Given the circumstances under which the late holder of that title had been relieved of his duties, Nicolas was not surprised that Bonaparte made no reference to them. ‘I hereby invest an honourable member of that order, Shaykh Bakri, as the new Naqib Ashraf.’ Bonaparte beamed, kissed Bakri on both cheeks, draped a sable pelisse around his shoulders and bestowed a diamond ring upon him.

The fact that the interpreter did not feel the need to translate was an indication that the news did not come as a surprise to those in attendance; but not knowing the customs of the country better, Nicolas could not gauge the sober nods of the ulema. He did, however, catch a particularly dour, not to say sarcastic, twist of the lips on the face of Jabarti. Bakri seemed gratified and looked as if he had every intention of keeping the sable-trimmed red velvet pelisse on his shoulders, in spite of the stupefying August heat.

Bonaparte then sat down, somewhat anticlimactically, and Shaykh Bakri followed suit, clapping his hands, at which signal half a dozen young women filed into the hall, eyes downcast, carrying lutes and castanets. The French applauded with unfeigned enthusiasm. The Mamlukas, as white female slaves were called, took turns playing the instruments and dancing: a slow, sinuous, suggestive rolling of the hips and belly, although with none of the practised lasciviousness of the almées, the professional dancing girls, whom Nicolas had seen during the parade. Two of the girls who entered the banquet hall balanced four-branched candelabras on their heads as they danced, keeping the posture of their heads and necks absolutely still as their arms and hips swayed and the candles flickered. They were comely enough, Nicolas thought, fair complexioned if somewhat too generous in form, the chief attributes of beauty in the eyes of the Oriental, he had heard.

‘Rather opulent, don’t you think?’ he murmured to Magallon, under cover of the music.

‘Indeed. But you must know that some of our countrymen have developed a taste for these Mamlukas, faute de mieux. Lepère’ – he referred to the Director of Bridges and Pavements – ‘yesterday bought a Caucasian just arrived from Constantinople for three thousand six hundred pounds.’

Nicolas grimaced at the thought of a French Republican – and an engineer, at that! – purchasing a concubine in the slave market. But he had heard that although the troops frequented the filles publiques, officers and civilians of any rank spared themselves that unappetizing and insalubrious recourse and had been known either to buy Mamlukas in the open market or more often procure them during raids on the houses of the Mamlukes. Nicolas found such proceedings distasteful, but at least, he thought, it was some consolation that the women would surely be treated better by a Frenchman than they had been by their former masters.

‘General Dugua,’ Magallon whispered, ‘has taken a Mamluka from Murad Bey’s household, Fatoum by name, a lithesome beauty, apparently. But I will wager our Bonaparte is at no risk of succumbing to the charms of an odalisque. Did you not notice that little encounter that took place under your nose this morning?’

‘This morning I noticed nothing, I confess, but the rips in my balloon and the direction of the wind.’

‘No, of course. But everyone else noted that the general was quite taken with the delicious blonde Pauline Fourès. A milliner’s apprentice from Carcassonne by trade, and the wife of a lieutenant of the 22nd Chasseurs. But since she has a reputation pour avoir la cuisse légère, and we know how urgent our general is in matters of the heart, it would not surprise me if a first assignation had been planned for this very night.’

This casual gossip on the part of a diplomat like Magallon surprised Nicolas, but the ambassador’s indiscretions, regarding matters that were more or less public knowledge, seemed to be the tactic of an astute man seeking to gain the confidence of his interlocutor. Magallon’s comment explained the unexpected good humour of the commandant that evening. It was rather amusing to imagine Bonaparte dying of ennui as he reclined by Bakri’s side, his thoughts on an entirely more pleasant prospect awaiting him in his chamber in Elfi’s palace.

Shaykh Bakri clapped his hands and the dancers filed out. Bonaparte stretched his legs and showed signs of bringing the evening to a close. But then the third act, as Nicolas thought of it, came to a startling conclusion. A last cup was to be served, apparently, at a signal from the host. A young girl of about twelve or thirteen entered, carrying a tray with cups of the honeyed concoction called almond milk, and Shaykh Bakri introduced her as his youngest daughter.

A little chubby in the cheeks and under the chin, in the manner of children, she had enormous liquid eyes, with eyebrows like a bird in flight. She gave off a strong perfume of gardenia, and no doubt had been sprinkled liberally with the essence before being sent before the guests. Intimidating as the occasion must have been for the child, she nevertheless could not resist darting curious glances at the French from under the impossibly long, thick lashes some Egyptians had. Nicolas found himself reminded of one of his own children – not his blonde and languid Madelon, not in the least, but rather irrepressible little Cola with his bold black eyes.

Bonaparte seemed aware of the compliment the shaykh paid him by bringing a member of his family out of the seclusion of the harem to greet him, and showed his pleasure accordingly. ‘What a sweet child! And I am delighted to hear she is receiving an education with Shaykh Jabarti. You are the rare enlightened man among your peers, my good Bakri, and must set a fine example, particularly when it comes to the emancipation of women. I congratulate myself on my choice of Naqib of the Prophet’s House.’

After that the confusion started. Shaykh Bakri said something to Venture du Paradis, the gist of which seemed to be that he would be honoured to have Bonaparte ally himself by marriage to the house of the Prophet, through his daughter Zeinab. He was referring, improbably as it seemed, to the bright-eyed little person who had just served them nectar and had by then returned, Nicolas presumed, to her mother.

There was some consternation among the French at table. Bonaparte protested: ‘I am sensible of the honour, my dear Bakri, very sensible, but I cannot consider it. To begin with, I am married!’

That argument, Nicolas thought, would carry no weight at all with the shaykh, who undoubtedly had more than one wife and any number of concubines, as Bonaparte must know.

‘Besides, your daughter is too young, surely?’ the commandant added.

The rather involved answer was that the girl was of marriageable age, according to her mother, but, if he wished, Bonaparte could contract the alliance now, take her into his household and only consummate the marriage when he felt the time was right, as custom allowed.

Shaykh Bakri’s expectant expression was beginning to take a grim turn, and conversation had died down at the tables all around. Magallon and Venture du Paradis wordlessly communicated their concern to the commandant. Bonaparte immediately grasped the full sensitivity of rejecting an offer of political alliance with his single most reliable collaborator in a hostile city, and, what was more, with the house of the Prophet among a people of a different faith.

‘In that case, my dear Bakri, in that case, why, it would be an honour, of course, to be allied to the house of the Prophet!’

A collective sigh of relief rose from the hall, like a hiss of steam escaping from a kettle. Everyone rose – the French bowed, the Egyptians followed suit. Nicolas headed for the door along with the other guests, attended by a host of serving boys sprinkling them with attar of roses and showering them with petals till they had crossed the courtyard and exited out of the double gates to the street.

‘What a remarkable evening!’ Nicolas exclaimed to Magallon as they erupted into the tepid night air. But no sooner had they taken a few steps towards headquarters than Bonaparte was waylaid by a grim General Dugua.

‘Bad news, Commandant. The Ottoman Sultan has just declared war on France, and declared it the duty of every Muslim to resist what he calls “the sudden and unjust attack” of the French in Egypt.’

Bonaparte took the setback in stride. ‘It was to be expected, sooner or later. We couldn’t maintain the fiction that we were in Egypt with the Grand Seigneur’s blessing for much longer. But we must be prepared to deal with the population on a hostile footing from now on; sedition must be avoided by any means necessary.’

‘It has started already, Commandant.’ Dugua handed Bonaparte a scrolled letter. ‘We have intercepted two couriers with a letter from Ibrahim Bey in Gaza addressed to the ulema – the very shaykhs we have just dined with.’

Bonaparte handed the scroll to Venture du Paradis, who scanned it and translated. ‘This is the gist of it: “Stay calm, take care of yourselves and the people. His Majesty the Sultan in Istanbul has dispatched troops to come to our aid. God willing, they will arrive soon.”’

The commandant nodded. ‘Have the two couriers beheaded, and announce that this is the punishment awaiting anyone who carries letters from the Mamlukes or to them. I mean to have five or six heads cut off in the streets of Cairo every day. So far we have dealt with them gently to counteract the terrifying reputation that preceded us. Today, on the contrary, we must take the proper tone with them to make these people obey; and for them, to obey is to fear.’

As he watched Bonaparte and the generals depart for headquarters, Nicolas could see that events had driven the incident at Shaykh Bakri’s out of the commandant’s mind entirely; whether it would have any consequences for the young girl in question, he knew too little of the culture to so much as hazard a guess.