The Rosetta Key

I scaled a pine to peer with my telescope, dread dawning as I focused first on one figure, then another. How could this be?

It was Silano and Najac. They’d not only caught up, they’d somehow ridden around and put out this picket line to ensnare us.

Maybe we could creep by them.

But no, there were unavoidable open fields as we sprinted north, and with a cry they spotted us. The chase was on! They took care to keep between us and the coast.

“Why aren’t they closing?” Astiza asked.

“They’re herding us toward Napoleon.”

We tried veering toward the Mediterranean that night, but a volley of shots sent us skittering back. Najac’s Arabs, I suspected, were expert trackers and they’d guessed where we must go. Now we couldn’t shake them. We rode hard, enough to keep them at a distance, but we were helpless without weapons. They didn’t press, knowing they had us.

“We can go inland again, effendi, toward Nazareth or the Sea of Galilee,” Mohammad said. “We could even seek refuge with the Turkish army at Damascus.”

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“And lose all we’ve gained,” I said grimly. “We both know the Ottomans would take the cylinder in an instant.” I looked back. “Here’s our plan, then. We race them to the French lines, as if we’re going to surrender to Napoleon. Then we keep going, right through their encampment, and run for the walls of Acre. If Silano or the French follow, they’ll come under the guns of the English and Djezzar.”

“And then, effendi?”

“We hope our friends don’t shoot at us too.” And we kicked for the final miles.

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We were on the coastal plain as the sun rose, the Mediterranean an enticing silver platter blocked by our enemies. When we galloped, our pursuers, who’d been conserving their own steeds, did too. I’d been looking at them through the glass and recognized some of the horses they’d recaptured. They had new ones as well. Silano must have pushed them brutally. Our rest at the Crusader castle had cost us dearly.

Our only hope was surprise. “Astiza! When we near the camp, hold your white scarf aloft like a truce flag! We have to confuse them!” She nodded, leaning intently over the neck of her sprinting horse.

Behind us, we heard shots. I looked back. Our pursuers were well out of range, but trying to alert the French sentries that we were to be arrested. I was betting on confusion, helped by the fact that we had a woman.

The last mile passed in a dead run, our horses’ foam-flecked, flanks heaving, our heads down as shots continued to pop behind us. The sentries were out, muskets raised, bayonets fixed, but uncertain.

“Now, now! Wave it now!”

Astiza did so, holding up one arm with the scarf trailing behind 2 4 2

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and straightening enough to give a look at her female torso, the wind flattening her gown against her breasts. The guards lowered their guns.

We thundered past. “Bandits and guerrillas!” I shouted. Najac’s bunch looked like ruffians. Now the pickets were tentatively aiming at our pursuers.

“Don’t slow!” I shouted to the others. We flashed by the hospital tents and jumped the tongues of wagons. There, was that Monge and the chemist, Berthollet? And was Bonaparte running out of his tent?

We crashed through a campfire circle, men scattering and embers flying, and everywhere soldiers were standing from their morning breakfast and exclaiming and pointing. Their muskets were stacked in neat little pyramids, bayonets gleaming. Down the avenue-like corridor between a regiment’s tents we pounded, dust swirling. Behind I could hear cries and argument as Silano’s party reined up at the lines, pointing furiously.

We just might make it.

A sergeant aimed a pistol, but I swerved and the man was butted aside by the shoulder of my horse, the gun going off harmlessly. A quick-witted Mohammad snatched a tricolor and carried it, as if we were leading a charge on Acre all by ourselves. But no, now a hedge of infantry was forming between us and the city walls, still a mile distant, so we wove along the lines, leaping a dike of sand. Shots began to be fired. They buzzed past like insistent hornets.

Up on Acre’s walls, horns were blowing. What would Smith think, when I’d deserted him without a word?

There, a kitchen unit, the men weaponless and preoccupied with cooking. I turned my horse and thundered through it, scattering them.

Their numbers gave us cover from other fire. Then across a trench, galloping alongside the old aqueduct toward the city . . .

Then I was flying.

For a moment I didn’t understand what had happened, and thought perhaps my horse had been shot or had suddenly burst its heart. I hit soft dirt and skidded, half blinded with dust. But as I rolled I realized Mohammad and Astiza had been thrown too, their horses screaming t h e

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as the equine legs snapped, and I saw the rope that had been hastily staked to trip us. It snapped through the air, a cook hooting in triumph. Down, with our goal in view!