Deanna Raybourn - City of Jasmine

But it still seemed a small consolation for walking around in a shroud, I grumbled to Rashid. He said something about eunuchs then, but I could scarcely hear for the veil covering my ears, and by then we had reached the shrine of John the Baptist. It was a small chapel, really, with intricately carved stone and gold filigreed windows set with green glass that glowed in the afternoon light. Above it all hovered a green dome that looked like something Hawksmoor would have designed. The whole effect was quite grand and rather pretty in an overdone way, and not what one would expect for a fellow who went around living rough in the desert and eating locusts.

When I had seen my fill, Rashid guided me out to a little garden attached to the north wall and into a small stone structure with curiously striped marble walls. Inside was a tomb hung with emerald-green satin, heavily embroidered and tasselled in gold.

“The tomb of Salah al-Dln, known to your people as Saladin!” he proclaimed with a flourish. He proceeded to talk at length about his accomplishments, but he needn’t have bothered. Saladin had been one of Gabriel’s heroes. More than once we had passed the time, waiting for a train or sitting on the windswept deck of a ship, by telling stories. I loved fairy tales and the stories of childhood and folklore, but Gabriel preferred poetry or real history—usually the Crusades and often Saladin. He’d had a particular fondness for the great Islamic general who had defeated Richard the Lionheart so soundly.

One night in particular, sailing through the midnight waters of the Pacific en route to China, he’d even worked out the Battle of Hattin for me using coins and bits of paper. His eyes had gleamed in the dim light as he detailed the battle and its significance in history. Reality had fallen away and I had seen it all so clearly—the medieval armies clashing on the parched plain, the silken tents fluttering in the breeze, the thirst-raddled men falling under the curved blades of the Arab defenders who had risen under Saladin’s standard to defend their homeland. And after all was finished, Saladin had taken up the most sacred relic in Christendom, the Holy Cross itself, carried into battle by the Bishop of Acre and left in the dust. Saladin had carried the last remnants of the Crucifixion into Damascus in triumph and had been known as a wise and just ruler before his untimely death.

And here I stood, at the foot of the great man’s tomb. The German kaiser had stood in the very spot some years before, laying a golden wreath onto Saladin’s effigy as a gesture of respect to his Ottoman brothers. But when the advancing Allies had entered Damascus, T. E. Lawrence—the flamboyant Lawrence of Arabia—had wrenched it off and sent it to the museum in London with the coolly dismissive note—“Have liberated this from Saladin as he no longer requires it.” It had been a grand gesture, and if any part of Gabriel endured, I knew he would have appreciated it.

The tomb itself was oddly moving, a perfect combination of excess and austerity, and I lingered for a while before Rashid guided me into the sunlight. I blinked hard, dazzled, as I heard a voice hailing me.

“Mrs. Starke! Evie, what a delight!”

I blinked again to find Halliday bearing down on me with a wide smile.

I returned the smile, then realised he couldn’t begin to see it through my veil. “Mr. Halliday, how nice to see you. But how could you possibly recognise me through all of this?” I asked, plucking at my heavy robes.

He pulled a rueful face. “One gets accustomed to seeing past veils and things. For instance, in your case, I knew you by how you moved.”

“How I moved?”

“Like a dancer,” he said, then covered it quickly with a cough and a tinge of a blush. He glanced to Rashid, who was glowering in my shadow. “Who is this fellow, then?”

“This is Rashid, my dragoman.”

Halliday’s gaze was dubious. “A bit young for the job, don’t you think? You must let me arrange for a proper guide.”

Rashid’s slender nostrils flared and his hand twitched as if he would have loved nothing better than to return the insult. But he was wise beyond his years. Instead, he smiled and inclined his head. “I am the best dragoman in the city. Perhaps the gentleman is new to Damascus and this is why he does not know me.”

To his credit, Halliday smiled. “Well, that’s put me in my place, hasn’t it? Steady on, old boy. If the lady is happy with your services, it’s not for me to complain. Now, have you seen the tomb of John the Baptist?”

He guided me around the rest of the mosque and gardens, giving me a thorough grounding on the architecture and history of the place, with Rashid following behind. I might have expected a glare or a sulk, but Rashid’s expression was one of carefully schooled indifference, and it began to worry me. It meant he was far more sophisticated than I had understood. He realised that showing his feelings would only get him booted from his job, and he concealed them with masterful nonchalance. It was a remarkable piece of dissembling, and it was only when he neatly guided me to the ladies’ corner of the mosque that I realised he was deliberately paying back Halliday for monopolising me.

“I am desolate,” he said, quickly stepping into Halliday’s path, “but this is the section reserved for the ladies. The sitt must go alone,” he added, his face impassive.

Halliday gave him a long look then smiled at me. “So you must. Have a look ’round and I’ll be here when you finish.”

Rashid took me into the courtyard to the fountain where I had to wash to purify myself, then guided me back to the prayer halls. He went no further, but stood at the edge of the ladies’ corner, keeping watch. I wandered off, admiring the decoration of the mosque on my own until I came to a little bench and realised my feet were unaccountably sore from all the stone streets. I sat and fanned myself, enjoying the peace and quiet of the spot. In the distance, I could see Rashid standing as still as marble while Halliday roamed restlessly. After a moment, a tall, tweedy sort of woman sat next to me. She wore no-nonsense brogues under her borrowed black robes and her hair was obviously cut short—wisps of it stuck out from under her veil at odd angles. Her hands were large and there was an air of masculine competence about her. She nodded towards my companions.

“Your man friend seems a nice enough chap, but I’ve known donkeys who know more about ancient architecture. Must be a diplomat.”

I smiled in spite of myself. Poor Mr. Halliday. “Yes, he is attached to the British consulate here.”

She snorted. “Useless breed, diplomats. Spend all their time at drinks parties and thinking up ways to interfere where they oughtn’t.”

I lifted my brows a little. “Oh, dear. That sounds personal.”

She smiled, the edge of her eyes crinkling with good humour. “I confess it is. I’ve had more trouble with diplomats than any other sort since I’ve been here, always mucking about at the site and interfering. They’ve no concept of good scholarship.”

My heart began to drum against my ribs. “The site?”

She gave a nod. “Excavation site in the desert. Don’t know if you speak the lingo, but it is called the Badiyat ash-Sham. We’ve uncovered a caravansary next to one of the old Crusader castles, and I know that won’t impress you, but it ought to. Everyone wants tombs and palaces, but you can learn a damn sight more from a simple thing like a village wall or a caravansary.”

“And you’re excavating now?” The inscription on Gabriel’s photograph had said Damascus, but the background was clearly somewhere in the desert, the vast open reaches of the Badiyat ash-Sham.

“Trying to,” she said with some disgust. “If it weren’t for the bloody French, we’d have had the whole thing unearthed by now. As it is, we’re months behind. Every fortnight they’re out there, taking pictures and poking their noses in and demanding new permits and new reports.”