the hunt continued. In Cairo alone about 4,000 Mamelukes were slain and the pasha gave orders to all provincial governors to search out and annihilate any who remained. Mohammed Ali was now the undisputed master of all Egypt.
Julianne saw nothing of John for almost a week after the massacre. She understood that for him her problem had receded to the background and philosophically she decided that he would get to her when he had the time. She went back to her books.
She was reading in the courtyard when he finally sought her out one afternoon. She looked up and was surprised to find him watching her. “How long have you been there?” she asked, laying her book aside.
“Not very long. What are you reading?”
“The Tempest.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked serenely up at him.
He smiled faintly and came to sit beside her. “Did you think I had forgotten you?”
“No. I thought you were probably very busy.”
He sighed, leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes. “You are a remarkable girl, Julianne. You don’t panic and you don’t make unreasonable demands. Remarkable.”
Julianne studied his face in silence for a moment. He looked very tired. There was a long silence which she did not disturb and then he opened his eyes again. “You will be leaving for England tomorrow,” he said. “I don’t imagine you have a tremendous amount of packing to do.”
“It shouldn’t take me very long at all,” she agreed with infinite calmness. “Have you located Mme. Rioux?”
“You are not going to travel with Mme. Rioux. You are traveling with me.”
There was a pause of utter astonishment, then Julianne said, “You?”
“Me. The pasha wants me to undertake a mission to England. It seems that only I am capable of persuading the British government that his massacre of the Mamelukes and his triumphs in Arabia do not mean that he has designs on India.”
“Good heavens. Then you convinced him that he was in danger of alienating England?”
“Yes,” he said with weary irony, “I did.” He closed his eyes again.
This time she did break the silence. “What kind of a man is Mohammed Ali, John?”
He stretched his long legs in front of him and answered in a roundabout fashion. “Two years ago the pasha was riding through a small provincial town, when a baker approached him and complained of the ill-usage he had suffered at the hands of the local governor. Mohammed Ali sent for the governor and had him pitched into the baker’s oven, where he was slowly roasted to death.” He turned his head and looked at her. “That is the kind of man he is.”
“Was the local governor corrupt?” she asked slowly.
“Absolutely. They all were, I’m afraid.”
“I see.In England we call actions like the pasha’s ‘Jedburgh justice.’ “
He grinned. “I believe you are right. The number of bad characters the pasha has hanged without trial is enormous, but it is far surpassed by the host of poor men whose wrongs he has righted. And he is the first ruler in Egypt for centuries who is trying to improve the agricultural base of the country. He has set in motion irrigation projects that should double the amount of crops the fellahin can raise.”
“That is certainly a good thing. But he is ruthless, is he not?”
“Yes. He has no regard whatsoever for human life.”
“Yet you have worked for him for years.”
“He’s a cunning bastard, but I like him.” A sardonic note crept into his voice. “We probably have a lot in common.”
“Probably,” she agreed, and he laughed and rose to his feet
“We leave for Alexandria tomorrow at seven.”
“I shall be ready,” she said. He stretched the muscles of his back as if they felt cramped from lack of exercise, nodded to her absently, and went into the house. After a minute, Julianne picked up her book again.
They went by boat to Alexandria, where they boarded one of the pasha’s prized new naval vessels. The Egyptian winter
Julianne saw nothing of John for almost a week after the massacre. She understood that for him her problem had receded to the background and philosophically she decided that he would get to her when he had the time. She went back to her books.
She was reading in the courtyard when he finally sought her out one afternoon. She looked up and was surprised to find him watching her. “How long have you been there?” she asked, laying her book aside.
“Not very long. What are you reading?”
“The Tempest.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked serenely up at him.
He smiled faintly and came to sit beside her. “Did you think I had forgotten you?”
“No. I thought you were probably very busy.”
He sighed, leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes. “You are a remarkable girl, Julianne. You don’t panic and you don’t make unreasonable demands. Remarkable.”
Julianne studied his face in silence for a moment. He looked very tired. There was a long silence which she did not disturb and then he opened his eyes again. “You will be leaving for England tomorrow,” he said. “I don’t imagine you have a tremendous amount of packing to do.”
“It shouldn’t take me very long at all,” she agreed with infinite calmness. “Have you located Mme. Rioux?”
“You are not going to travel with Mme. Rioux. You are traveling with me.”
There was a pause of utter astonishment, then Julianne said, “You?”
“Me. The pasha wants me to undertake a mission to England. It seems that only I am capable of persuading the British government that his massacre of the Mamelukes and his triumphs in Arabia do not mean that he has designs on India.”
“Good heavens. Then you convinced him that he was in danger of alienating England?”
“Yes,” he said with weary irony, “I did.” He closed his eyes again.
This time she did break the silence. “What kind of a man is Mohammed Ali, John?”
He stretched his long legs in front of him and answered in a roundabout fashion. “Two years ago the pasha was riding through a small provincial town, when a baker approached him and complained of the ill-usage he had suffered at the hands of the local governor. Mohammed Ali sent for the governor and had him pitched into the baker’s oven, where he was slowly roasted to death.” He turned his head and looked at her. “That is the kind of man he is.”
“Was the local governor corrupt?” she asked slowly.
“Absolutely. They all were, I’m afraid.”
“I see.In England we call actions like the pasha’s ‘Jedburgh justice.’ “
He grinned. “I believe you are right. The number of bad characters the pasha has hanged without trial is enormous, but it is far surpassed by the host of poor men whose wrongs he has righted. And he is the first ruler in Egypt for centuries who is trying to improve the agricultural base of the country. He has set in motion irrigation projects that should double the amount of crops the fellahin can raise.”
“That is certainly a good thing. But he is ruthless, is he not?”
“Yes. He has no regard whatsoever for human life.”
“Yet you have worked for him for years.”
“He’s a cunning bastard, but I like him.” A sardonic note crept into his voice. “We probably have a lot in common.”
“Probably,” she agreed, and he laughed and rose to his feet
“We leave for Alexandria tomorrow at seven.”
“I shall be ready,” she said. He stretched the muscles of his back as if they felt cramped from lack of exercise, nodded to her absently, and went into the house. After a minute, Julianne picked up her book again.
They went by boat to Alexandria, where they boarded one of the pasha’s prized new naval vessels. The Egyptian winter
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