John Schettler - Touchstone

“That they are,” said Khalid. “A company of soldiers arrived here last week. They will be digging out the walls tomorrow, clearing away some of the old stone so they can extend the rampart.”

“What a shame,” said Robert, shaking his head. “Some of the stonework here dates back centuries. I would hate to see it damaged by these petty quarrels.”

Khalid looked at him, coming to some quiet inner conclusion. “Then you have an interest in the stonework?”

“A passing interest,” said Nordhausen. “I find it remarkable that all this history and culture has been baking away in the sun here, largely unknown to the rest of the world.”

“Egypt is a mystery, to be sure—even to the Arabs who have lived here for generations. The pyramids sit in stubborn silence. What they have seen; what they have heard, they will not tell.” Khalid gestured at unseen artifacts beyond the walls. “Have you seen the ancient writing inscribed on the stonework here? It is a mystery within a mystery—wholly confounding, even to the learned. But the monuments within easy reach of the delta are nothing. You should see the tombs of Luxor and Karnak!”

“I haven’t had time to see much more than this roadside inn and the local souk,” said Robert with a smile. “But perhaps tomorrow—when the French dig out their walls. Perhaps then I might get a look at some of the old stones rumored to lie at the foundation of the fortifications here.”

“Oh? But this is not an ancient fort,” said Khalid. It is Borg Rashid , the tower of Rosetta, an old fortress to be sure, but one built in the fifteenth century by the sultan Qa’it Bey. The French renamed it after one of Napoleon’s aides-de-camp, and so, for the moment, it is called Fort Julien. The man was killed here, along with his escort, not but a year ago. In ancient times, however, this area was covered by the sea.”

“I see,” said Nordhausen. “But undoubtedly the sultan got his stone from some location near by. It is speculated that the stonework may have come from ancient temples.”

“Perhaps,” said Khalid. “I see you have an interest in these things. Would you like to go to the fort tomorrow and see for yourself?”

Robert tried to hide his excitement. “That would be quite interesting,” he said. “What do you think, my dear?” He looked at Maeve, who was quietly fanning herself as she listened to the conversation between the two men. She smiled, nodding in the affirmative.

“Then I will take you!” Khalid beamed, stroking his beard. “There is still a small Mosque at the center of the fortifications. The French will no doubt desecrate it with the business of war, but it is still there. I must meet someone there in the morning and, if you will be so kind as to accompany me, perhaps you can get a look at the foundations of the walls. I will call on you with the new sun. Until then,” he bowed, “I am very pleased to meet you… Mr. Underhill.” He said the name slowly, as if struggling to remember it, then made a gracious bow and left.

Nordhausen waited until the man was gone before he spoke. “What do you make of that?”

“Very unusual,” Maeve said quietly.

“You believe his story?”

“Not a word.”

“What? Then you think he’s—”

“Oh, he’s a clever one, that’s for sure, but he’s not who he seems.”

“Who then?”

“You tell me,” Maeve folded her arms. “This was all too convenient. Either he’s part and parcel with LeGrand, or he’s working for the other side—one of those Assassins Paul stumbled on. But he’s certainly not the humble and amiable trader he claims to be.”

“Good lord. Do you think the Assassins could be privy to our mission here as well?”

“Anything is possible,” Maeve concluded. “We would be foolish not to assume as much. It seems we’ve got a date with this man for the discovery tomorrow. I wonder if he’s here for the same reason we are: to keep watch on the stone.”

“Yes,” said Nordhausen, “and don’t forget LeGrand. He’ll be there as well. It should give us an opportunity to watch the two of them. Could make for some interesting chemistry if they are both agents in this Time war nonsense.”

“You have a knack for understatement,” said Maeve. “Well, we may as well rest here for the heat of the day. But lock the door. I don’t trust either of these men—LeGrand and Khalid alike.”

The morning sunwas already promising cruel heat as the last of the wagons pulled into the work area. All about the walls of Ft. Julien the labor party of local peasants worked to remove the hard, sun-baked stone that jutted from the base of the aging rampart. A French officer of engineers stood watching as three men strained against a long iron bar wedged in the rock. From the early hours of the morning, the men had been clearing the base of the wall, hauling the smaller stone away to be mortared on to the higher sections above.

There was an urgency and sense of haste in their movements. A large Turkish force had landed at Aboukir bay, days ago, and quickly overcome the French garrison there. Now the threat to both Alexandria and Rosetta was quite real. At Rosetta, the French found the ruined walls of an old fort, eighty meters on a side. The wall towers had four movable turrets for the mounting of artillery, but the French officers quickly noted that they would not be fit to mount even one of their smaller guns, an eight-pound cannon. The crenellations on the ramparts connecting the turrets were in decay, and the tower keep at the centre of the fortress still harbored a small mosque.

Living quarters, a hospital, ovens, guard units and ammunition dumps were quickly established at the site by a battalion of engineers. They were ably assisted by a dedicated Lieutenant, one Pierre François Xavier Bouchard, and Robert spied him at once as he turned to squint at the labor detail.

Bouchard was a tall man, still young at the age of twenty-eight, and well suited to the task. He had first come to Egypt, not as a soldier, but as one of the many savants that had accompanied the expedition. With an interest in the ancient carvings and archeology, Bouchard realized he might best serve his own curiosity, along with the French interests, by joining the corps of engineers. He had only lately been assigned to the Rosetta work detail, and now, Robert knew, he was about to make the single most important discovery of his life—The Rosetta Stone; it was lying somewhere in the dry, cracked soil of the embankment at the base of the wall, waiting to emerge from centuries of silence and darkness, and enlighten the whole Western understanding of the ancient Egyptian culture. It was the key to deciphering the hieroglyphics, for it would bear a message in each of three languages, and serve as a primer for scholars in decades to come.

Nordhausen watched the men work, a feeling of rising excitement and anxiety in his chest. Now they were struggling to pry loose a particularly stubborn rock that was wedged into the supporting foundation of the wall. The officer, Bouchard, gestured to two other men, indicating that they should lend their weight to the lever and, even as they rushed forward to the task, LeGrand appeared in a billow of dust, riding in on the same covered coach that Robert and Maeve had arrived in the previous day.