The Rosetta Key

Another stone from Mohammad sung by me and struck the cat, making its head whip, and the distraction was timed so exquisitely that I was able to dash into the melee and take a swipe at the lion’s head. I connected with the brow of one eye and the cat let go Ned’s arm and roared with pain and fury, its tail lashing and its hindquarters churning in the dirt. Now Astiza was charging too, a heavy rock held high over her head, and she heaved like an athlete so it came right down into the beast’s bloody vision, crashing against its snout.

Our wild assault bewildered it. Against all expectation, the lion broke and ran, vaulting past the wagon cage that had brought it here.

It raced up the canyon and then charged, I now saw, more of Najac’s Arabs coming up to contest our way. Screaming at this reversal of their secret weapon, they turned and fled. The bloodied lion took one of them down, pausing to snap the man’s neck, and then set off after the others and the freedom of the hills beyond.

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r o s e t t a k e y

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The horses were screaming in terror.

We were in shock, hearts racing. My tomahawk’s edge was stuck with blood and fur. Astiza was bent over, chest heaving. Astonishingly, all but Ned were unscathed. I could still smell the cat stink, that rank odor of piss, meat, and blood, and my voice was quavering as I knelt beside the giant sailor. His charge into the lion’s jaws was the bravest thing I’d ever seen.

“Ned, Ned! We’ve got to keep going!” I was wheezing. “Silano’s still coming, but I think the lion cleared the canyon for us.”

“Afraid not, guv’nor.” He spoke with difficulty, his jaw clenched.

He was bleeding like a man flogged. He glowed with vivid blood.

Mohammad was wrapping his turban cloth around the giant’s man-gled forearm, but it was pointless. It looked like it had been shredded by a machine. “You’ll have to go on without me.”

“We’ll carry you!”

He laughed, or rather gasped, a sneezelike chortle between clenched lips, his eyes wide at the knowledge of his own fate. “Bloody likely.” We reached to lift him anyway, but he shrieked with pain and shoved us aside. “Leave me, we all know I’m not making it back to England!” He groaned, tears staining his cheeks. “He scraped me ribs raw, the leg feels like it’s sprained or broken, and I weigh more than King George and his tub. Run, run like the wind, so it’s worthwhile.” His knuckles were white where he grasped the club.

“Ned, I’ll be damned if I leave you! Not after all this!”

“And you’ll be dead if you don’t, and your treasure book in the hands of that mad count and his lunatic bullyboy. By Lucifer, make my life mean something by living! I can crawl back to that rubble heap and catch ’em when they’re coming across.”

“They’ll shoot you down!”

“It will be a mercy, guv’nor. It will be a mercy.” He grimaced.

“Had a feeling I wouldn’t see England if I went with you. But you’re a damned interesting companion, Ethan Gage. More than just a Yankee card sharp, you are.”

Why do our worst enemies sometimes become our best friends?

“Ned . . .”

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

“Run, damn your eyes! Run, and if you find me mums, give her a bit of that gold.” And, shaking us off, he rose doggedly, first to his knees and then his feet, weaving, and began staggering back the way we came, his side a sheet of blood. “Christ, I’m thirsty.” I was transfixed, but Mohammad hauled at me. “Effendi, we must go. Now!”

So we ran. I’m not proud of it, but if we stayed to fight Silano’s armed Frenchmen we’d lose for sure, and for what? So we hurtled past the Arab slumped at the wagon, leapt the one chewed by the lion, and on and on up the sloping canyon, our chests heaving, half expecting the maddened cat to leap out at us at every turn. But the lion was gone. As we came to the mouth of the canyon we heard the echo of shouts and then shots behind. There was screaming, a roaring scream a big man might make when subjected to unbearable pain. Ned was still buying us time, but with agony.

The horses were tethered where we’d left them the day before, but they were stamping with shrill neighs, eyes rolling. We saddled the three best, seized the line rope of the others, and began galloping back the way we’d come. There was more gunfire, but we were well out of range.

As we climbed to the highland plateau we looked back. Silano’s group had emerged from the canyon and were following in dogged pursuit, but they were on foot. The gap was growing. We couldn’t handle the extra horses, so except for three remounts we let the other horses go. It would take our pursuers time to recapture them.

Then, weeping and utterly drained, we set off north for Acre.

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At sunset we reached the Crusader castle where we’d camped before. I suppose we should have ridden farther, but after losing a night’s sleep retrieving the book and fleeing through the canyons, Mohammad and I were reeling in our saddles. Astiza was little better.