City of Jasmine. Deanna Raybourn
seem to get enough of her—no doubt because they never know what she’s going to say.”
He gave a short cough and patted his mouth. “She is an original,” he said gallantly.
“And so we started off, and here we are. Heading for the Caspian next and lands as yet unseen.”
“Here you are,” he said softly. His eyes were warm, and for an instant, his hand hovered over mine. But he dropped it to the table and when he spoke, his tone was bright but forced.
“Have you finished your coffee? Then let’s be off. There’s something I want to show you.” He fished coins out of his pocket while I tactfully turned away. Through the window I caught a flash of striped robe, but as soon as I blinked it had gone. It meant nothing, of course. There were thousands of such robes in Damascus, and doubtless hundreds on that street alone. Still, when we emerged from the coffee house, I looked about for a glimpse of a familiar profile or that slender, darting figure.
“Everything all right?” Halliday asked.
I slipped my arm into his and gave him a smile. “Perfectly.”
He led the way, winding through a few small backstreets until we came to the Gate of the Sun, the Bab Sharqi, the most ancient way into the city, and from there down into the street called Straight. As we walked he told me the history of the road, how it had been built by the Greeks and improved by the Romans with arches and colonnades.
“On this road, you will find synagogue, church and mosque, sitting cheek by jowl and getting along rather nicely together,” he explained.
“It’s good to think such things are possible somewhere in the world.”
He paused, propping his hand against a bit of Roman stonework. “This has been here since the time of St. Paul, when he stayed at a house in this very street. The man is long gone, and yet this bit of stone endures. Astonishing, isn’t it? How many temples and tombs outlast us all? They were put there by the hands of men, at the orders of kings and priests, and yet they stand on long after the men of power have dried to dust.”
“‘All human things are subject to decay, and when fate summons, monarchs must obey,’” I murmured, hearing Gabriel’s voice ringing on the words as he had once spoke them.
“What’s that?” he asked.
I shuddered as if a goose walked over my grave. “Just a bit of poetry.”
“It sounds familiar. What’s it from?”
I shook myself free of the past and smiled up at him. “I can’t remember.”
He returned the smile and extended his arm. I slipped mine through his and we walked on in the warm sunshine, the smell of jasmine faint on the air as somewhere behind us trailed a ghost who whispered poetry in my ear and teased a breeze to touch my cheek.
* * *
That evening we dined with Miss Green, and our companions met us in the hotel court. Aunt Dove was wearing another of her turbans, this one an Indonesian batik pinned with a great lump of turquoise while her favourite green brooch winked from her considerable décolletage. She looked like a particularly winsome peacock, and Miss Green, subdued in a stern and rusty black gown, complimented her. Halliday looked every inch the proper English gentleman in his beautifully tailored evening clothes while I had shimmied into a darling little black dress dripping with silver bugle beads. Halliday’s brows raised and stayed there when he saw me.
“I say,” he breathed as he took my hand.
I dimpled at him. “I shall take that as approval.”
“Rather,” he agreed. He turned to Aunt Dove. “Lady Lavinia, resplendent as usual.”
She gave him a fond look and fluttered her lashes a little while Miss Green organised us. She insisted upon taking us to a proper Levantine restaurant not far from the main bazaar. “Authentic fare,” she promised as our taxi alighted outside a nondescript stone building. “The real Damascus.”
Mr. Halliday manfully hid his reluctance, and we made our way to a thoroughly nondescript-looking place with no sign and a beggar reading in the doorway. He held out a cup towards us, never taking his eyes off of what looked like a copy of Les Misérables.
“Pay no attention to Selim,” Miss Green instructed. “Just step over his stump. That’s right.” She ushered us through the stout wooden door and into a courtyard with a fountain. Across the courtyard, a pair of elaborately carved wooden doors had been thrown open and delectable smells were wafting from inside.
Miss Green grinned. “Trust me, Mrs. Starke.”
She led us into one of the most beautiful rooms I had ever seen. The walls and floor were tiled in extravagant patterns and the ceiling soared overhead to a graceful gilded dome. Another fountain stood in the center, this one festooned with lush water lilies and the darting flash of goldfish. Lanterns with coloured glass panes hung about the room, interspersed with golden cages full of songbirds. The brass tables were low and surrounded by piles of silken cushions. The proprietor, a plump, jolly sort of fellow, greeted the archaeologist with great affection and bowed repeatedly as he showed us to a table directly underneath the golden dome. We seated ourselves as best we could—Miss Green with a surprising sinuous grace and Aunt Dove with a decided plop. Halliday waited until I was settled with my feet tucked aside before taking the cushion next to me, arranging himself into a languorous posture.
“When in Rome,” he murmured.
Just then, a rather shabby character appeared, an Englishman, and from twenty paces I could tell he was another archaeologist from the telltale stoop. His hair was dirty with streaks of dull grey and his teeth, protruding unpleasantly from an unkempt beard, were of the prominent and horsey sort. His eyes—which might have been a pleasant dark brown once—were rheumy, and his features were set in a scowl.
“All right, Green. I’m here to make nice. Introduce me before I change my mind.”
Miss Green jumped up with alacrity. “Rowan, I’m so glad you could join us. Lady Lavinia Finch-Pomeroy, Mrs. Starke, Mr. Halliday, may I present the co-leader of our expedition, Mr. Oliver Rowan. Rowan, you might have met Mr. Halliday before. He’s attached to the British diplomatic delegation. This is Lady Lavinia Finch-Pomeroy and her niece, Evangeline Starke, the aviatrix.”
Mr. Rowan seated himself next to Miss Green. She graciously served as hostess, ordering local specialties for us and instructing us how to eat politely—with the right hand only. Almost as soon as we sat, waiters began to appear. The first came carrying brass bowls of hot, perfumed water with petals floating lazily on the surface. We dipped our fingers and dried them on soft linen then turned our attention to the food. Platter after platter was set before us, rich dishes of stewed meats and vegetables and tiny, delectable meatballs, and heaps of couscous jewelled with pomegranate seeds. There were smaller dishes of spicy sauces and savoury pastries as well as nuts and olives and dried fruits, all of it accompanied by discreet but potent glasses of arak, the anise-flavoured liqueur of the region.
When we had eaten our fill of the savoury courses, the desserts came—more pastries but these filled with nuts and citrus custards and drizzled with honey. There was a sorbet of pistachios and another of rosewater, and we ate ourselves into a stupor. The conversation, which had ranged from books to travel, turned more serious when Miss Green addressed Mr. Halliday.
“I think you might be a useful fellow to know. Those Frenchies think because they’ve sponsored part of the expedition they can send their government advisors out from Damascus to harass us on a routine basis. Could do with a bit of British support in getting them to let us be,” she told him firmly.
“Hear! Hear!” Mr. Rowan grunted through a mouthful of couscous. A few bits of it were stuck in his beard and I turned away with a grimace.
Halliday put up his hands. “Dear lady, I am the most minor sort of functionary, I assure you. My days consist of reading and composing the lowliest of memoranda, which I am given to understand are sent to very unimportant