play in the face of this overwhelming defeat? Her mind buzzed like a trapped bee. What would the French exact of her? How did they mean to deal with her and with the wives and children of the amirs? The worst fears of the city had been laid to rest the morning after the battle when it transpired that the French had not burned and pillaged the eastern shore; it was the fire on the ships that had given rise to that rumour.
But where was Murad? She made an effort to concentrate on her dressing. She stepped into the rose pantaloons Fatoum held out for her, then slipped the embroidered violet tunic over her sheer white chemise and let the girl tie a rose-and-gold sash round her waist, cinching it in. Nafisa smoothed her thick braid over one shoulder and fixed a small toque on her head, then let a filmy veil float down over it.
‘Sitt Nafisa, the jewellery.’
‘Let me see.’
She rifled through the tooled leather casket the maid held before her, selecting two thick ropes of pearls and winding them around her neck. She picked two ruby drop-earrings and threaded the fine gold hoops through her earlobes, then slipped the matching bracelet and ring on one hand, and an emerald-and-diamond bracelet on the other wrist. She hesitated, then carefully took a large yellow diamond ring out of a velvet pouch and slipped it on her middle finger; it was as big as a pigeon’s egg and sparkled like the sun reflecting off ice.
She wondered if the looters who had raided Murad’s house in Qawsun had found the coffer her eunuch had hidden under the planks of the second-floor loggia. Ibrahim Bey’s house in Qawsun had been raided too, and several houses belonging to the other amirs, abandoned in their rout.
She had had no word from Murad, but he was alive, that much she knew. The servants on their estate in Giza had reported that their master had appeared and disappeared like a whirlwind, dismounting barely long enough to snatch up the coffers of treasure hidden for that eventuality – and then he was gone.
For the last time, but not the first, she allowed herself a moment of regret. Regret that Murad had not turned out to be the worthy heir of Ali Bey the Great that she had hoped he would become, with her help, when she married him. Seeing in Murad an energetic, domineering temperament that brooked no rival, she had chosen him for a mate. But his instinct to dominate others was not matched by the ability or the judgment to govern them. In their years together, she had learned to handle him with the finesse of a spider weaving a web, but he was ever conscious of the long shadow of Ali Bey. Sensing that he did not measure up to her first husband, he became bitter and intractable, resentful of her interference.
Shaking off that final moment of regret, Nafisa got to her feet. The emissary of the French was at her door. General Bonaparte had sent his own stepson, Eugène de Beauharnais, as a gesture of goodwill.
With as convincing a show of calm as she could muster, Nafisa waited for him to come up to the second floor reception hall. She had ordered the finest Bukhara carpets laid on the stone floor and the most sumptuous, gold-embroidered silk pillows spread over the wooden banquettes. Within a few moments she heard a springy step on the staircase; her first impression was of a smooth-cheeked boy in skin-tight breeches and a short, close-fitting blue coat. He hesitated for no more than a moment before advancing towards her.
‘Madame.’ He gave a crisp bow. ‘Eugène de Beauharnais, delighted to make your acquaintance.’
She inclined her head in acknowledgement, momentarily disconcerted by the sight of the man who had followed Beauharnais up the stairs: Bartholomew – or Fart Rumman, ‘pomegranate seed’, as people called him derisively in the street. She was astonished at his appearance: he wore a fur stole, a preposterous plumed red silk hat, and a new air of presumption. A Greek mercenary known for his dishonesty and brutality, he had been a simple artillery man of Elfi’s who made money on the side selling glass bottles in the souk. That the French had been ill-advised enough to choose a man of such low standing and unsavoury reputation for translator or agent did not bode well. Behind Bartholomew, her chief eunuch Barquq had taken up his post by the door, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
Nafisa gestured to the French emissary in the direction of the banquette against the wall. ‘You are welcome in my house, sir. Please, take a seat.’ She noted that he waited for her to be seated before flipping his coat-tails to sit down, his sword clanging at his side.
She clapped her hands for the eunuchs to bring refreshments, and they appeared promptly, carrying big brass trays that they set up on folding wooden tripods. They offered the Frenchman silver goblets with a choice of syrups: almond milk, pomegranate, carob, tamarind. The emissary picked the pomegranate, lifted the goblet in her direction and sipped; an odd expression went over his face and he set it down hastily.
‘Madame, allow me to convey the compliments of Consul Magallon and most particularly of Madame Magallon, who desire to be remembered to you warmly. They speak of you as a lady of great heart and superior intellect, a person of the utmost influence in this city. In the absence of your husband and the other Mamlukes, we count on you to be our first interlocutor and intermediary.’
Though Nafisa understood enough French to follow the gist, she allowed Bartholomew to translate. She gestured to the eunuch to offer the young ambassador plates of sweetmeats: nuts, Turkish delight flavoured with rose-water, dates stuffed with almonds and preserved in syrup. He politely picked a square of the Turkish delight and tasted it, then put it down, discreetly trying to brush the powdered sugar off his fingers, swallowing and licking his dry-looking lips. Barquq immediately went to him with a pitcher of water, a basin and a napkin.
‘Ah,’ Beauharnais exclaimed in palpable relief, raising his goblet in the direction of the pitcher. The eunuch concealed his surprise at this gesture and impassively kept the basin under the guest’s hands till he understood and held his hands out to have the eunuch pour water from the pitcher over his fingers and dry them with the folded napkin.
Beauharnais’ attention was drawn to the rose faience clock in the corner and he smiled. ‘Madame, I congratulate you on your good taste.’
‘A present from Monsieur Magallon.’
‘Indeed. But does it not tell the time?’
‘Not for a long while now. The dust from the sandstorms here during the khamaseen season must have spoiled the mechanism.’
‘I am sure we can find someone in our entourage of savants who would know how to repair it; they are geniuses at everything! I must remember to send you someone.’
At last the emissary came to the purpose of his visit. ‘General Bonaparte would like to assure you, madame, that you yourself, and the wives and children of the other Beys, are in no danger for your lives or honour.’
Nafisa inclined her head. ‘Forbearance in victory is the mark of the noble. Please assure your general of our eternal gratitude.’ She embroidered on these compliments, waiting for the other shoe to drop, which it soon did.
‘Naturally, the property of the amirs, whether in houses, gardens, farms, land or goods, must be considered the property of the French State, just as we confiscated the property of our own French émigrés. All of this property will be duly inventoried and evaluated, in due course, and you may redeem part of it for your own use – one of your residences, for instance. In return for a certain sum, of course. We will consider you our privileged interlocutor, madame, in our regrettable but necessary efforts to raise a levy on the citizens of Cairo in general, each according to his station and his means. Beginning, naturally, with yourself and the wives of the Mamlukes.’
At this point Bartholomew, whom she had not invited to sit down, began unrolling what looked like
