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the British would have relaxed to “Tom, Tom, the Piper’s Son.”
    “Well, they look settled, but are the sentries alert?” Martin mused, his breath silver in the cold.
    Tusun shrugged. “Who can say, Effendi? They have marched from Cairo, and are very tired. May God send a thousand scorpions to disturb their slumber, and when they set sail for France, may God send a tempest to sink them all.”
    Martin grinned. “Unfortunately, God’s tempest sank the Gower instead. Anyway, take me to these Englishwomen.” Tusun led him around the base of the temple mound until the channel of the Nile came into view, and with it the lantern-lit canja. Martin’s lips pursed as he saw its cargo. “Booty for French museums,” he murmured.
    Tusun shrugged. “Why do they wish to have such things? Old pieces of stone and a few carvings? If they were to desire gold and jewels I could understand it, but not these ancient items that have no value.”
    Martin smiled. “Oh, they have value, my friend. Believe me.”
    But Tusun was far from convinced. He pointed toward the oleanders. “At the bottom of that wall there is a hidden room, part of the original temple of Bastet. That is where the English ladies are.” He shivered, and not just with the cold.
    Martin noticed, “What’s wrong?”
    “Oh, it is nothing, Effendi. You will say I am too superstitious.”
    “Well, you are too superstitious. What is it this time?”
    “A cat, Effendi.” Tusun shifted uncomfortably.
    “Is that so terrible in a temple devoted to Bastet?”
    Tusun gave him a look. “She banished them. There should not be a cat here at all, but the ladies said they saw one. It is an omen, Effendi.”
    Martin regarded him. “Omens can be good or bad,” he pointed out.
    “I know, but in my experience they are nearly always bad.”
    Martin was curious. “In your experience?”
    “A great black bird perched on the balcony of my room on the night my father died. I was the firstborn, the only child, and I know my father meant me to have everything. Yet my uncle took it all, and I received nothing. I am thankful that I am a true Mameluke, and always carry my treasures with me, otherwise I would not even have the diamonds I wear upon my head. The great black bird was an omen, a visitation by my uncle’s black soul.”
    “Or just a great black bird that happened to perch on your balcony,” Martin said reasonably.
    “No, it was an omen,” Tusun insisted, then put a hand on Martin’s arm as two laughing French officers strolled from the loggia and down toward the river.
    Martin gave a sly grin. “They won’t be laughing when we take that canja from under their Gallic noses. If we wait until just before dawn, when they will be less vigilant, I am sure we can slip the moorings and be away to the sea before they even know it. The Lucina will be lying offshore, and if the weather holds like this, we can sail out to her.”
    Tusun drew a deep breath. “You make it sound very simple, Effendi.”
    “That’s because it is.”
     

Chapter 7
     
    As Martin and Tusun were preparing to rescue the women from the temple, faraway in London Sir Julian’s traveling carriage was passing along the icebound southern boundary of London’s Hyde Park. Sir Julian was not alone in the vehicle, for Ozzy shared the fleecy rug over his knees.
    Sir Julian looked out at the capital he had loathed since the time of the Society of Antiquaries debacle. Keeping his house in Park Lane was a pointless expense, he had decided, so he intended to sell. The proceeds would go toward providing two sphinx guardians for the pyramid folly behind Chelworth itself. The pyramid was about one-sixth the size of the Great Pyramid at Giza, and was quite a landmark from the sea.
    While in London he also intended to examine a particular papyrus at the British Museum at Montagu House. He had written requesting a ticket, which should be waiting when he called. Several weeks ago it had struck him that the item at