A Grave Celebration Read online

  Pasha was rewarded with a studiously blank look from Hassan as the attaché disrobed an Eye of Horus amulet from its layers of sheeting, but Pasha heard the sigh behind the man’s next words. “Yes, Your Highness, I understand that it elevates your stature to keep precious relics in your possession, much as European kings do, and may your magnificence awe them and humble them. However, does it not add to your glory that you generously allow this entire shipment to go to Cairo for inclusion in a permanent memorial to Egypt’s greatness?”

  Pasha frowned. Was that true? Would it add to his family’s glory? He had already accomplished a great deal. After inheriting the governorship of Egypt from his uncle in 1863, he had burned with an ambition like the sun across the Western Desert—except that the ambition had not been to adorn himself with wives, homes, or servants, although he certainly had plenty of each. No, he wanted to be known as the man who elevated Egypt to her former glory as in the ancient days.

  Naturally, all Egyptians wanted that glory, but only Pasha realized that it could be accomplished solely through large-scale cultural and industrial reforms that would put his country in line with the European powers that dominated the world. To this end, he had reformed the postal system, created a sugar industry, built theaters, and even launched a vast railroad-building project.

  In addition, fully one-fourth of Cairo had been remodeled to resemble that most cosmopolitan of cities, Paris. The Parisian section of Cairo and the railroad extravaganza were developed in no small part because of Pasha’s desire to please and impress Ferdinand de Lesseps.

  The canal project had been de Lesseps’s brilliant creation. But it had been Pasha’s now deceased uncle Sa’id who had granted a concession to de Lesseps’s Suez Canal Company, permitting it to construct and operate the canal for ninety-nine years. Excavation had started a decade ago, and when Pasha became wāli, or governor, of Egypt, in 1863, he had immediately recognized the importance of moving the canal project forward.

  Pasha and de Lesseps had been of one mind on the project for a long time. The opening of the canal connected the Mediterranean and the Red Sea, eliminating thousands of miles of travel around Africa for ships carrying goods to and from the East. And those ships would have to pay tribute to Isma’il Pasha—soon to be called Isma’il the Magnificent if he had anything to do with it—in order to travel through the canal.

  Not that everything had gone smoothly. Pasha and his uncle had been so enamored of de Lesseps’s talents and plans that they had readily agreed to provisions that put Egypt at a disadvantage, although admittedly the worst of them hadn’t really been de Lesseps’s fault. The canal developer had been short on funds for labor, and so Egypt had generously agreed to provide the necessary men, all of whom would work under de Lesseps’s total authority. It was of little cost to Pasha since Egypt had always made use of corvée labor for its national building projects. That was where all the trouble had started.

  Pasha signaled to Hassan that he didn’t want the mirror case that had just been unpacked. Too crude. Hassan nodded and began rewrapping the object so that it once again resembled a mummy. “Crude” well described what had temporarily happened to relations between Egypt and France. The use of corvée labor, whereby men were conscripted for a specific period of time with no wages as a service to their nation, was perfectly legitimate. Many nations did it. Even the French had used this sort of labor, abolishing it in their revolution but reviving it later and calling it prestation, a requirement of three days of a man’s labor before he was permitted to vote.

  And so things had progressed well for several years until those ghabi British had become so imperious. They had been utterly opposed to the canal project, viewing themselves as masters of the sea, and had made constant diplomatic moves against the project, especially since it was led by the French. Even worse, the British had abolished slavery decades ago, and had no understanding whatsoever of the corvée system. Full of pride and stupidity, they condemned the use of what they considered to be “slave labor,” and then armed the Bedouin, sending them in to make trouble by initiating a revolt by the workers.

  The project could not endure the revolt, so de Lesseps had been forced to abandon corvée labor. Of course, the British had had no such outrage when workers had died in similar forced labor conditions during the building of the British railway in Egypt, had they?

  In his anger at remembering Great Britain’s interference, he pounded his fist against the crate from which he was pulling items. A board cracked loudly, causing Hassan to snap his head up. “Your Highness, are you injured? Is all well?”

  Pasha flicked his hand at him, irritated with his cultural attaché even though he knew he probably shouldn’t be. The problems had erupted after Great Britain—which neither contributed a dime to the project nor was in any way responsible for it—took away a source of labor that had only cost food, transportation, and minimal shelter.

  Now the labor would be an enormous cost. He had gone calmly to de Lesseps to discuss how they would resolve the matter. To his shock, the great man had no compromise in mind.

  “This is your problem, Pasha, not mine. You promised me labor, and labor is what you shall provide,” de Lesseps had declared, barely looking at him.

  Pasha had hardly believed his ears. Did de Lesseps not understand how much he had already raised, borrowed, and stolen to help fund the project? “Monsieur de Lesseps, surely you must realize that it is inconceivable that I would pay for labor for the remainder of the project? It will bankrupt my country.”

  But de Lesseps, the man who had eagerly shared dishes of kushari, kebabs, and sheep’s brains with him, had merely shrugged in that irritatingly French manner, which suggested condescension over a trivial matter. “You have agreed to it. It is not my fault that the British were able to squeeze you like a dead pigeon. You must own up to your problem yourself, and not expect France to rescue you.”

  Spots of red had clouded Pasha’s field of vision. In one clever sentence, de Lesseps had called him weak, a dupe of the British, and of little consequence to the French. “You are suggesting that I should now come up with the funds to pay for the million and a half??? Egyptian workers on the project, not to mention the number of Italians, Greeks, and Syrians that you have imported? I have built a vast railroad system so that bringing that labor to you is simple and of little cost. I have permitted you to dig wherever you choose, with no regard for what artifacts might lie beneath. I have allowed you to bask in undue glory for the sacrifices I have made. You return my generosity by refusing to help? By refusing to stand up to the British? Who is the rescuer and who is the helpless woman?”

  His angry barb must have found some tiny target, for the Frenchman had altered his tone. “Sahbi, my beloved friend, you take this too personally,” de Lesseps had replied, grabbing Pasha’s shoulders and kissing both cheeks. “Remember that what we are doing represents the most important advancement ever known in the world. It is more important than Egypt’s pyramids and more important than France’s revolution, and certainly more meaningful than Britain’s domination of the seas. You must remember that when the canal is finished, we will crush Britain’s power at the same time that we elevate your renown and fame. What does ‘pharaoh’ mean when compared to the name Isma’il the Magnificent?”

  The thought had calmed Pasha at the time. De Lesseps was dangling a glittering prize in front of Egypt’s khedive, and the Frenchman knew it. Pasha had sighed, unwilling to continue this argument—the only one he and de Lesseps had ever had—any further. Of course, Pasha then had to fetch workers from whatever country he could, not only housing them in camps and feeding them but paying them wages, as well. It had nearly snapped the treasury in half to scrape together the monies to finish the project, but he had done it. He, Isma’il Pasha. No other.

  At least de Lesseps had so far been proved correct that Pasha’s standing would be elevated through the building of the canal. Despite everything Great Britain had done to thwart him, the queen’s g
overnment had invited him on an honorary visit two years ago. Surely that was proof that Great Britain recognized him as a formidable ruler in the world, even if he had only gotten as far as meeting the Earl of Derby, the country’s prime minister, and never actually entered the queen’s palace to meet her. Something about her being occupied with laying a foundation stone to a monument dedicated to her dead husband.

  At the same time, he had persuaded Sultan Abdülaziz to recognize him as khedive—viceroy—of Egypt. Pasha had had to agree to an increase in tribute to the sultan in exchange, but it was a small price to pay. It was especially small given how much the canal had cost him.

  “Your Highness?” Hassan said again, a frown furrowing his face. Pasha realized that he had been laughing aloud at his own thoughts.

  “I wish to keep these three mummy masks,” he said, pointing into the crate. “Ensure they are placed in Tewfik’s chambers at my villa. He will appreciate them.” Pasha’s seventeen-year-old son was fond of his father’s growing collection of cartonnage masks. Many of these masks, made of layers of linen or papyrus, were covered with plaster, then painted and gilded in very realistic depictions of whatever mummified face they covered, and these three were no exception.

  It was at least one thing he could admire in his eldest son and heir, given that the boy had not been Pasha’s first choice to take over Egypt. Pasha had successfully changed the order of succession of the khedivate of Egypt so that the title no longer passed to the eldest living male descendant of Muhammad Ali, but would now descend from father to son. Pasha’s successful maneuvering had not lasted.

  European powers in the form of Britain, Austria, Prussia, and even the sultan had interpreted this to mean the khedivate would pass to the eldest son, when Pasha had had another son in mind entirely, but now they all recognized only Tewfik as heir. Once again, Pasha had been outwitted and outflanked. Unfortunately, because Tewfik had never been intended to rule, he had not been sent to Europe for education like his younger brothers, but had grown up in Egypt. Tewfik did not have Hassan’s sophistication, nor de Lesseps’s diplomatic skills. Truthfully, the boy concerned Pasha. He was too quiet, too sullen, too inexperienced in practical matters. He was like a piece of milky quartz, too dense and cloudy for much use as a brilliant gem. But what could be done? He was stuck with Tewfik and must carve and polish him as best he could so that one day he would prove to be at least an acceptable ruler, even if he couldn’t be a dazzling one.

  Hassan had solemnly rewrapped the masks and laid them aside for Pasha’s collection. Now he withdrew another object from the crate he was working in and presented it to Pasha for inspection. It was a Senet game box, with an elongated board on top printed in hieroglyphics and a drawer running beneath that contained the game’s playing pieces. The box had not been wrapped like the other items in the crate for some reason. Pasha signaled for Hassan to turn the box to one side. Bah, the hieroglyphic markings were obscured, almost as if someone had attempted to scrape them off, especially when the airless tomb environment should have kept the item pristine in its resting place for whomever it was intended to entertain in the beyond. Mariette was a fool if he thought whatever dig site he had unearthed had revealed virgin treasure, for this box had obviously been gone over by some tomb raider long ago. The French weren’t always as shrewd as they thought they were.

  Pasha shook his head, and Hassan took the offending artifact away from the khedive.

  Eventually, though, there was a tidy pile of exquisitely carved, painted, and decorated items for his villa, including a finely wrought gold mirror case in the shape of an ankh. Pasha thought that piece might be the best find of the lot. “Have Rashad take these ahead tonight to my palace,” he instructed his cultural attaché. Rashad was Pasha’s porter, as well as Hassan’s brother. To the extent that Hassan was cultured, Rashad was a clod, but a strong and obedient clod who never cast subtle looks of disapproval toward his master. “The rest can be returned to Mariette.”

  That pained look passed over Hassan’s face for a mere moment. Then his voice was as bland as his schooled countenance. “You wish for Rashad to remove them from the ship while all of the delegation is there, Your Highness? Are you sure?”

  “Do not question my orders,” Pasha growled, unwilling to admit that it probably was risky for anyone to witness the unloaded crates, especially someone who might report back to Mariette. If Mariette had de Lesseps’s ear, he would pour in poison about Pasha’s activities and de Lesseps would probably be angered yet again. However, it was the khedive of Egypt’s right to rule his nation as he saw fit, was it not?

  As Hassan bowed with elegant submission and left the cabin, Pasha rang a bell for a servant to come and wipe his hands of the dust and grime collected from the artifacts.

  Pasha’s main intent might be to modernize Egypt, but a little personal grandeur from the glorious past was not such a bad thing. His crowning glory, though, was directly beneath his feet, in the form of both his magnificent sailing yacht and the canal. Just hours ago the yacht had woven its way effortlessly into these new waters, and the marriage of ship to water represented an immortal coupling of Pasha with Egypt’s greatness.

  Let the Mariettes of the world complain. Pasha would brook no interference in insignificant matters like a simple objet d’art for his residence. He was answerable to no one except the sultan. Besides, the artifacts belonged to Egypt, and Isma’il Pasha was Egypt; therefore he had an absolute right to them. He was the master of Egypt, and no one in Egypt would dare cross him during the next several days of celebrations. He would see to it.

  Chapter 14

  Aboard the British warship HMS Newport

  After a final bite of nutmeg-rich potted shrimp in the captain’s dining room, Violet Harper patted her mouth with a linen napkin. It was much finer than any she had ever expected to use aboard a military ship like Newport. Commander Nares had described Newport as a Philomel-class wooden-hulled screw-driven gun vessel, which meant absolutely nothing to Violet but had fascinated her husband, Sam. All Violet knew was that the ship had both a steam stack and three sets of sails, that her cannon had been removed from the middle section . . . and that she was wily enough to pull into first place in the flotilla line.

  The ship’s captain had told her and Sam that removing the cannon not only provided space for makeshift cabins to be constructed for the British delegation, but also symbolized the British intent for peace on this trip, especially with the French. Nares laughed at his own little joke.

  To Violet’s great surprise, though, the British delegation was surprisingly . . . light. Besides the captain and crew, it was simply herself, Sam, the Prince of Wales, Sir Henry Elliot, and Asa Brooks. Two other small gunboats accompanied them, but their cannons, too, had either been left behind or moved into less conspicuous spaces.

  They all ate luncheon together to fortify themselves prior to docking in Ismailia. All except the prince, who had chosen to eat privately in his cabin and stay there until their arrival.

  Violet learned much about her new fellow passengers as they sat around the table, full and content.

  Elliot was the ambassador at Constantinople, and as such had spent considerable time in the Ottoman Empire. He had held diplomatic postings in St. Petersburg, the Hague, Copenhagen, and Naples before his appointment to Constantinople, making him one of those interesting creatures whose stories entrance others as the sight of fish in a parlor aquarium hypnotizes visitors to a home. Time flew by when he embarked on lengthy, spun-out stories of participating in a Russian sweat bath, of mistakenly eating veal brain fritters and rabbit intestines in Italy, and of nearly coming to blows with a man who attempted a three-kisses-on-the-cheek greeting on an unsuspecting Elliot.

  Asa Brooks was more enigmatic, in Violet’s mind. Elliot seemed confused about him, as well, sometimes referring to the younger man as his man of affairs and sometimes as his secretary. Brooks was his employer’s opposite in nearly every way: a handsome and unlined face, broad sh
oulders, and a propensity toward reserve bordering on isolation. Elliot’s stories elicited no more from Brooks than polite smiles and barely concealed yawns.

  “What is our docking time?” Sam asked Commander Nares, who had just pushed away from his place and signaled for sherry to be poured for everyone.

  As the sweet amber liquid was splashed into glasses by nattily dressed footmen whom Violet had seen testing the ship’s tackle in bare feet just a short while ago, the captain unhooked his pocket watch and gave it a glance. “About another two hours, I’d say.”

  With full bellies, the conversation turned to the mundane topics common among strangers—weather, roundly unpopular political news, and the greatness of the British Empire. As that dwindled, Ambassador Elliot finally pushed away from the table, suggesting that he might take a walk around the upper deck for some fresh air and inviting Violet and Sam to join him.

  They climbed the steep main stairway up to the deck, and Violet was never quite sure whether it was more important to clutch her skirts to keep from getting tangled up in them or to clutch the rope handrail to keep from losing balance. She popped into the open, feeling like a badger emerging from its burrow, blinking against the bright sunlight. She touched the hair exposed beneath her hat. Why, she was even developing the silvery stripes against black that denoted a badger’s head.

  Enough of that exaggeration, she told herself sternly. Thirty-six years of age is an eternity away from being a Chelsea pensioner. She tucked her hand in Elliot’s proffered elbow, and Sam followed behind them on their stroll around the deck. Had it just been last night that she had done this with Commander Nares? The deck was swarming with sailors like a colony of ants on a hill, each man with his own task, communicating with the others by signals and sounds not decipherable by the average passerby.