The Rosetta Key

My ferryman protested, but I had coins enough to pay double for his sorry net and keep him rowing. I leapt onto the stone quay a good minute ahead of my complainants, determined to find Astiza and get back out—and vowing never to see Big Ned or Little Tom again.

c h a p t e r

3

Jaffa rises like a loaf from the Mediterranean shore, empty beaches curving north and south into haze. Its importance as a trading port had been superseded by Acre to the north, where Djezzar the Butcher has his headquarters, but it is still a prosperous agricultural town. There is a steady stream of Jerusalem-bound pilgrims in and oranges, cotton, and soap back out.

Its streets are a labyrinth leading to the towers, mosques, synagogues, and churches that form its peak. House additions arch illegally over dim lanes. Donkeys clatter up and down stone steps.

Questionably gotten though my gambling gains might be, they quickly proved invaluable when a street urchin invited me to the upstairs inn of his disappointingly homely sister. The money bought me pita bread, falafel, an orange, and a screened balcony to hide behind while the gang of British marines rushed up one alley and down another, in futile search of my vile carcass. Blown and hot, they finally settled in a Christian quayside inn to discuss my perfidy over bad Palestinian wine. Meanwhile, I snuck about to spend more winnings. I bought a sleeved Bedouin robe of maroon and white stripes, new boots, bloused trousers (so much more comfortable in the heat 2 0

w i l l i a m d i e t r i c h

than tight European breeches!) sash, vest, two cotton shirts, and cloth for a turban. As Smith had predicted, the result made me look like one more exotic member of a polyglot empire, so long as I took care to stay away from the arrogant, questioning Ottoman janissaries in their red and yellow boots.

I learned there was no coach to the holy city, or even a decent highway. I was too financially prudent—Ben, again—to buy or feed a horse. So I purchased a docile donkey sufficient to get me there, and not much farther. For a meager weapon, I economized with a curbed Arab knife with a handle of camel horn. I have little skill with swords, and I couldn’t bear to purchase one of the Muslims’ long, clumsy, elaborately decorated muskets. Their inlaid mother-of-pearl is lovely, but I’d seen how indifferently they performed against the French musket during Napoleon’s battles in Egypt. And any musket is far inferior to the lovely Pennsylvania rifle I’d sacrificed at Dendara in order to escape with Astiza. If this Jericho was a metallurgist, maybe he could make a replacement!

For guide and bodyguard to Jerusalem I chose a bearded, sharp-bargaining entrepreneur named Mohammad, a moniker seemingly given to half the Muslim men in this town. Between my elementary Arabic and Mohammad’s primitive French, learned because Frankish merchants dominated the cotton trade, we could communicate.

Still conscious of money, I figured that if we left early enough I could shave a day off his fee. I’d also slip out of town unseen, in case any Royal Marines were still lurking about.

“Now then, Mohammad, I would prefer to depart about midnight.

Steal a march on the traffic and enjoy the brisk night air, you see.

Early to rise, Ben Franklin said.”

“As you wish, effendi. You are fleeing enemies, perhaps?”

“Of course not. I’m told I’m affable.”

“It must be creditors then.”

“Mohammad, you know I’ve paid half your extortionate fee in advance. I’ve money enough.”

“Ah, so it is a woman. A bad wife? I have seen the Christian wives.” He shook his head and shuddered. “Satan couldn’t placate them.” t h e

r o s e t t a k e y

2 1

“Just be ready at midnight, will you?”

Despite my sorrow at losing Astiza and my anxiety to learn her fate, I’ll confess it crossed my mind to seek an hour or two of female companionship in Jaffa. All varieties of sex from the dullest to the most perverse were advertised with distracting persistence by Arab boys, despite condemnation from any number of religions. I’m a man, not a monk, and it had been some days. But Smith’s ship remained anchored offshore, and if Big Ned had any persistence it would be just my luck that he’d find me entwined with a trollop, too single-minded to outwit him. So I thought better of it, congratulated myself for my piety, and decided I would wait for relief in Jerusalem, even though copulating in the Holy Land was the kind of deed that would choke my old pastor. The truth is, abstinence and loyalty to Astiza made me feel good. My trials in Egypt had made me determined to work on self-discipline, and here I was, past the first test. “A good conscience is a continual Christmas,” my mentor Franklin liked to say.