The Rosetta Key

“Ah. Many men search their entire lives without finding wisdom or love, so it is well you come here, where prayers for both might be answered.”

“Let’s hope so.” I knew that Jerusalem, precisely because it was 2 8

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reputed to be so holy, had been attacked, burned, sacked, and pillaged more times than any place on earth. “I’ll pay you now and seek out the man I’m to stay with.” I tried not to jingle my purse too much as I counted out the rest of his fee.

He took his pay eagerly and then reacted with practiced shock.

“Not a gift for sharing my expertise about the Holy Land? No rec-ompense for the safety or your arrival? No affirmation of this glorious view?”

“I suppose you want credit for the weather, as well.” He looked hurt. “I have tried to be your servant, effendi.” So, twisting in my saddle so he couldn’t see how little was left, I gave him a tip I could ill afford. He bowed and gave effusive thanks.

“Allah smiles on your generosity!”

I wasn’t able to keep the grumpiness from my “Godspeed.”

“And peace be upon you!”

A blessing that had no power, it turned out.

c h a p t e r

4

Jerusalem was half ruin, I saw when I rode down the dirt track and crossed a wooden bridge to the black iron of the Jaffa Gate, and through it to a market beyond.

A subashi, or police officer, checked me for weapons—they were not allowed in Ottoman cities—but allowed me to keep my poor dagger.

“I thought Franks carried something better,” he muttered, taking me for European despite my clothing.

“I’m a simple pilgrim,” I told him.

His look was skeptical. “See that you remain one.” Then I sold my donkey for what I’d paid for it—a few coins back, at least!—and got my bearings.

The gate had a steady stream of traffic. Merchants met caravans, and pilgrims of a dozen sects shouted thanksgiving as they entered the sacred precincts. But Ottoman authority had been in decline for two centuries, and powerless governors, raiding Bedouin, extortionate tax collection, and religious rivalry had left the town’s prosperity as stunted as cornstalks on a causeway. Market stalls lined major streets, but their faded awnings and half-empty shelves only emphasized the 3 0

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historical gloom. Jerusalem was somnolent, birds having occupied its towers.

My guide Mohammad had explained the city was divided into quarters for Muslims, Christians, Armenians, and Jews. I followed twisting lanes as best I could for the northwest quadrant, built around the Church of the Holy Sepulcher and Franciscan headquarters. The route was depopulated enough that chickens skittered out of my way.

Half the houses appeared abandoned. The inhabited homes, built of ancient stone with haphazard wooden sheds and terraces jutting like boils, sagged liked the skin of grandmothers. As in Egypt, any fantasies of an opulent East were disappointed.

Smith’s vague directions and my own inquiries took me to a two-story limestone house with a solid wooden wagon gate topped by a horseshoe, its façade otherwise featureless in the Arab fashion. There was a smaller wooden door to one side, and I could smell the charcoal from Jericho’s smithy. I pounded on the small entry door, waited, and pounded again, until a small peephole opened. I was surprised when a feminine eye looked out: I’d become accustomed in Cairo to bulky Muslim doormen and sequestered wives. Moreover, her pupils were pale gray, of a translucence unusual in the East.

On Smith’s instruction, I started in English. “I’m Ethan Gage, with a letter of introduction from a British captain to a man they call Jericho. I’m here . . .”

The eyehole shut. I stood, wondering after some minutes whether I even had the right house, when finally the door swung open as if of its own accord and I stepped cautiously through. I was in the work yard of an ironmonger, all right, its pavers stained gray with soot. Ahead I could see the glow of a forge, in a ground-story shed with walls hung with tools. The left of the courtyard was a sales shop stocked with finished implements, and to the right was storage for metal and charcoal. Slightly overhanging these three wings were the living apart-ments above, reached by an unpainted wooden stair and fronted by a balcony, faded roses cascading from iron pots. A few petals had fallen to the ashes below.

The gate closed behind me, and I realized the woman had been t h e

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hidden by it. She ghosted by without speaking, her eyes inspecting me with a sidewise glance and an intense curiosity that surprised me.

It’s true I’m a handsome rogue, but was I really that interesting? Her dress fell from neck to ankles, her head was covered by a scarf in the custom of all faiths here in Palestine, and she modestly averted her face, but I saw enough to make a key judgment. She was pretty.