“How many gowns will you need if you are stuck in this automobile forever?” I ask her. For once, I’d like her to see the shallowness of her concerns.
“Lady Carnarvon, please bring your hand luggage, and I’ll give the driver and Ahmed instructions on how to forward our trunks,” Howard reassures Mama, and then whispers something to Ahmed Gerigar, our rescuer when we were trapped in the Valley of the Kings chamber. Howard’s now-favorite foreman had insisted on accompanying us to Port Said from Luxor to ensure we made it safely on board theSaturnia, even though Howard assured him that it was outside the purview of his role. I’ll never forget the relief and gratitude that coursed through me at the sight of Ahmed’s face that fateful day.
“Are we quite ready?” I ask through the scarf I’ve wound tightly around my head and mouth.
“Ready,” Papa answers as Howard and Mama nod.
The knuckles clutching onto his cane are white, and I wonder if he really can walk the distance to the ship with his limp. But what are our options?
“Stay close.” I turn back to remind them, before stepping out of the car into the yelling, marching throngs.
I wait until Papa, Howard, and then Mama line up behind me to start walking. I notice that Ahmed has followed along, seamlessly blending in with the crowd even though it consists primarily of women. Glancing at the throngs, I decide to fall in behind a matronly looking woman with heavy gold bracelets and a dress of emerald green brocade who must hail from the upper class. She appears harmless enough, and we progress behind her until we reach the street bordering the dock.
We’re getting closer, I think with satisfaction. The ruse has worked!Turning back, I risk a nod and smile underneath my scarf. Papa grins back in evident relief.
Just then, the stately woman I’ve been following moves to my right and glances in my direction. Her eyes widen in shock, and I realize that she sees through my ploy.
“Alshaeb al’iinjiliziu!” she cries out in Arabic. I don’t know what she’s said, but what she calls out next in French, I certainly understand. “Les Anglais!”
What will this mob of women do when they discover English in their midst? We cannot risk finding out.
My parents have frozen, but immobility could be a death sentence here.
“Run!” I scream at them, knowing full well Papa can do no such thing with his limp. But if he can only stride quickly, we might just make it.
The moment we begin darting through the crowd, those around us take heed of the shrieking woman’s words. Dozens of women close in on us, encircling us and herding us together like cattle. We can no longer proceed, and the four of us glance at one another with the wild eyes of the caged.
The noise becomes deafening as the women screech at us, and I lament my assurances to Mama that this crowd would not turn aggressive. Had my guarantees cursed us? Will these women do more than scream at us?
Suddenly, a familiar face appears among the women. There is Ahmed, his expression determined yet placid. And he is not alone. He links arms with a dozen or so men. Where did they come from? Had Ahmed arranged for them in advance, or somehow managed to recruit them in the last few minutes? Together, they hold the women back just long enough to provide us with leeway to dodge past the mob and weave through the masses toward the dock.
Pushing my parents ahead of me, I take up the rear with Howard at my side. I doubt Mama has ever run in her life, and Papa usually lacks strength due to his lung damage to do more than a brisk walk. Yet, they race with surprising speed through the horde of women,across the road jammed with vehicles, and behind the wall of soldiers guarding the dock.
We dash toward theSaturnia. As we get closer, I hear its horn blast in warning, and I see the sailors begin to roll back the gangway connecting the ship to the dock. We have a minute to board, at best.
“Come on!” I call to my parents and Howard. Just as the gangplank is about to pull away, we leap on and away from pulsating streets.
TheSaturnia’s horn lets out a final, mournful bellow, signaling our departure from Port Said. As my parents and Howard drop into chairs in the first-class lounge, panting from the exertion, and signal the waiter for drinks, I race to the railing. My eyes scan the dock, skimming past the sailors and laborers and Egyptian families waving farewell to loved ones. Only then do I see him.
Ahmed. He has saved me. Not once but twice now. This man has put himself in harm’s way to extricate me, but what have I bothered to learn about him? Does he have a family—a daughter, even—that he protects as well as he does us? How does he feel about the English on Egyptian soil? What does he think about the pressing movement for Egyptian independence? Is he a follower of Zaghloul, and so supports us despite his beliefs? Out of loyalty or simply his humanity?
He sees me staring from the deck of theSaturnia. As our gazes meet, I clasp my hands together and bow toward him. And I say a silent prayer that the expanse between us—English and Egyptian, man and woman, Christian and Muslim, aristocrat and fellaheen—disappears and that Ahmed perceives my gratitude, as well as my atonement.
The Regent and the Lover
Chapter Thirty-Four
1479BC
THEBES,EGYPT
Deep voices echo throughout the chamber, increasing in volume as shadows move across the room marking the passage of time. The priests and royal family members and government ministers talk over one another, each vying for the final, definitive word on who will rule Egypt next. I must restrain myself from leaping out of this throne and screaming at them to stop. The posturing of thesemenis an utter waste of the country’s focus at a most critical juncture.How seamlessly I could manage this transition, I think,if only I am permitted to do what comes naturally to me.
Instead, I sit here—regal and immobile—as I wait to learn the future of our country. Wait for ritual. Wait for tradition. Wait for the consensus of these leaders standing before me. Wait, as women have always been fated to do.
Or must I? Must I cower in fear with Neferure at my side, worrying about our future as these men decide for me and for her?
I glance over at Senenmut, who stands to the right of my throne. Any onlooker would only see the docile posture of an adviser, eyes lowered in the appropriate deference to his queen. They would not see what I do. A brilliant, self-taught expert in the ways of our land—political and spiritual, if such things can indeed be separated—Senenmut sees our realm with fresh eyes. In his quiet, strong way, he has taught me that rules need not be broken when they no longer serve the good, only invisibly or carefully bent. As he has done in his own unusual rise from the lower classes.
