The Anubis Gates

Well, at least I know that Ashbless does leave Egypt on the Fowler, bound for England, tomorrow morning, so even though I never got around to researching Cairo in 1811, there can’t be too many more surprises I’ll neglect to tell Bailey about. I guess I won’t, for example, be recaptured by Romanelli, who has now, I hear, got himself set up as Mohammed Ali’s personal physician. I don’t think he’d recognize me now anyway, with the black dyed hair, the deep tan and all the new furrows and lines in my face that are the legacy of a long convalescence without anesthesia. At least this body’s still got both ears.

At the parade ground in front of the Citadel the ranks of mainland Mamelukes were joined by the Bahrite Beys, and for fifteen hot minutes—during which Eshvlis sweated into the appallingly expensive borrowed robe and let Ameen’s horse follow Hathi’s, who rode just ahead of him—all but one of the four hundred and eighty Mameluke Beys, the tribe of one-time slaves that had risen to absolute control of the country, and had in recent years fallen only a little from that zenith, paraded in colorful, barbaric splendor under the empty blue sky of Egypt.

Ameen’s agile and powerful mare, Melboos, pranced proudly along, tossing her head sometimes, and in general making her rider seem to be what he was not, a competent horseman. She was a fine animal, and had been Ameen’s proudest possession, but the impersonation had demanded that he leave her behind.

It suddenly occurred to Doyle that he’d miss Ameen, who’d been the only one in Cairo who knew Eshvlis was not really a deaf-mute. Schooled in Vienna, the young Bey had learned other goals and perspectives than the traditional war and glory ones of the Mamelukes, and through many long afternoons Ameen had stood beside the cobbler’s niche and talked to him in English about history and politics and religion—though they’d always been careful to cease speaking if a customer crowded close enough to hear their low-pitched conversation, for Ameen had heard that the Pasha was offering a reward for any information about a big, English-speaking fugitive.

Now several ranks of the Pasha’s Albanian mercenaries rode up, bristling with swords and maces and pistols, and rifles taller than themselves, and looking, to Eshvlis at least, ridiculous in their pleated white skirts and extra-tall turbans.

The Albanians rode down a set of steps into a narrow street leading up the steep slope to the Citadel, and the ranks of the Mamelukes followed them into it as the Bab-el-Azab gate at the far end of the sunken street slowly swung open.

In spite of the fact that they were now out of sight of the spectators, the Mamelukes maintained their stately pace, though the Albanians galloped rowdily ahead toward the open gate.

Doyle stared curiously around at the twenty-foot-deep ascending trench through which they were marching; it was certainly part of the Citadel’s fortifications, for there were only a few stout doors in the solid stone walls on either side, and the windows, though many, were vertical slits just wide enough to poke a gun barrel through.

Now fifty yards ahead, the galloping Albanian mercenaries had reached the Bab-el-Azab gate… and Doyle’s eyes widened in surprise to see, when the last of them was inside the Citadel, the gate begin to close. He hunched around in the saddle to look behind, and saw that the distant entrance to the walled street was blocked by more of the mercenaries. Even as he watched, the front row of them dropped to their knees and every one of them raised a long rifle and sighted along the barrel.

As he took a breath to yell an alarm a cannon boomed and spurted a stain of gray smoke into the blue sky, and an instant later the street erupted with deafening and continuous gunfire from in front and behind and from every slit window, and the air chirped and twanged with the whipping flight of dozens of bullets every second, and dust and stone chips burst from the walls as churning smoke burned in eyes and throats and obscured any view of the foe.