He whirled.
A huge horse and pale rider were wildly thundering out of the shadows and bearing down on the little square, the rider a fierce bedouin straight from the interminable depths of the desert, his great sword of Allah raised high as he charged headlong through the dim alley toward Joe. The hooded bedouin crouched low as the animal leapt and smashed its hooves into the cobblestones, rearing out of control in the half-light, enormous and fiery beneath the crackling robes of the horseman.
God help us, thought Joe, huddling in the little square and not daring to take his eyes off the monstrous vision, lest he be trampled or cut in half by the demon's slashing sword. The beast reared and charged anew, plunging recklessly back and forth as the bedouin whipped his mount into an ever greater frenzy, hair streaming and sparks flying, horse and rider hurtling skyward and filling the air with a stench of cold sweat.
Joe threw himself to the side as a blast of damp breath shot by his head. He slipped and went crashing down on one knee, catching himself at the last moment and spinning toward a wall, limping and stumbling, running, the awful vision of the horseman's face towering over him.
. . . gaunt stony features and a ghastly pallor in the eerie light. A hawk's beak and sunken glittering eyes and cruel twisted lips. A crazed primitive face from some lost wilderness.
Death, thought Joe, the image flashing through his mind despite himself.
Death's the rider and there's no escape.
He was pressed against a wall and moving sideways, frantically groping for a doorway, shelter, anything.
He felt a cavity in the wall and slipped into it, shrinking backward, pushing against the stone with all his strength.
But as soon as Joe had slipped into the safety of the doorway, he began to notice things.
For one, the huge sleek stallion seemed to have curiously knobby knees. And its stomach sagged and it was swaybacked, and there were thick clumps of matted hair spreading down over its hooves.
For another, the huge beast wore a heavy wooden halter of the kind used to weigh down common workhorses. And there were strands of old rope trailing from the halter that looked as if they might have been attached to a wagon not too long ago.
Joe stared.
Instead of the fierce bedouin who had come thundering out of the shadows, he now saw a frightened figure desperately hanging on to his tired mount as best he could, a man who was all elbows and knees and terrified squeals as he crashed around on top of the old horse, his perch so precarious he was clinging to the horse's head and squashing an old rag over the poor animal's nostrils.
Even the long powerful sword was no longer what it had appeared to be. In fact it wasn't a sword at all but a long cylinder of dull metal thrashing harmlessly this way and that, obviously wielded more for balance than anything else.
In any case the spectacle was abruptly over, the strange illusion gone as quickly as it had come in the shadows of the little square. With a groan the exhausted workhorse heaved itself into the air a final time and came tumbling down on the cobblestones, its bones cracking ponderously in the stillness and its legs nearly buckling under the impact, the old creature shuddering once before becoming instantly immobile, its head hanging, a vision of worn-out flesh weary beyond belief.
Just before the horse landed, Liffy jumped free. He pushed back his hood and grinned.
Double-time, he whispered. This way.
In another moment they were running down an alley. As Liffy pulled him along, Joe looked back and saw the huge old workhorse standing alone in the little square, its belly sagging and its tail swishing, its nose nestled against the alarmed marble face of the small Roman fountain. Liffy wheezed happily.
We needed that to get the day started, he whispered. Quick, this way.
Why are we running? asked Joe.
Liffy slowed to a trot.
No reason really. It's just more dramatic.
But what was all that about?
Liffy sneezed. He smiled.
Drama, he whispered. The inescapable drama of life. I decided we needed a bracing event to get ourselves going this morning.
Bracing? You scared me half to death.
Liffy laughed.
I did, didn't I, I could see it in your face. For just a moment you must have thought fate had come riding in from the desert to pay you a call.
Joe tugged on Liffy's arm, slowing him to a walk.
And not just fate either, Liffy.
No?
Liffy stopped, suddenly serious. He stared at Joe.
And I looked, he murmured, and behold a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death.
Liffy touched Joe's chest.
But you just see how it is? You must be careful, Joe. The desert is never far away here, and even Old Cairo can be a dangerous place. And perhaps even the Hotel Babylon, if you're its only guest.
Joe looked at him.
Is that true? There's no one else staying there but me?
No one, said Liffy. And what's more, no one has stayed there in several months. You can ask Ahmad.
But why?
Who knows, Joe? Perhaps it was condemned or forgotten by certain sinister secret forces . . . until you arrived on the scene. Perhaps there's even far more to Bletchley's potted palms than we suspect.
Liffy nodded. He smiled.
But we've had enough of the Hotel Babylon for now. The point is the classical world still lives and the trick works. It took me awhile to find an old horse unattended, that's what kept me. There he was just roped to his wagon in a dreary back alley with the prospect of another dreary day ahead, old and tired and thinking he'd seen it all, when suddenly he shed the bonds of a lifetime and the two of us went flying away like the wind. Like the wind, Joe, I could feel it. Will wonders never cease?
Joe smiled.
I don't think they could if they wanted to, Liffy, not when you're around. But what did you do to that old workhorse to make him move like that?
I merely reminded him of the joy of life, answered Liffy.
How?
By recalling a day in the life of Alexander the Great.
What?
Yes. That rag I had pressed to the old gent's nostrils is actually a footnote from history. You find a mare in heat and acquire her scent, then when the magic is applied to the nose of a stallion, even a decrepit old jade as tired as that one, his blood wildly surges and all at once he's a bounding prancing colt again, deliriously out of control. Can't help himself, you see, not when you put it right under his nose. Sex, it's called.
Alexander the Great did that with a horse? asked Joe.
It was either him or one of his lackeys, and there you see how well it works. The scent seems to be good for several days, as well it might be. Clever, these ancients. Had their wits about them on occasion and discovered a thing or two about the meat of the matter. Including the fact that it's all in the mind, as we've often suspected. Sex, I mean.
Liffy hummed, whistled, sneezed.
Do you think Cynthia would be shocked if I told her about this? My guess is she'd pretend to be shocked while secretly relishing the whole idea. And who knows what it might lead to later in the evening, for who knows what lechery lurks in the minds of women? Or who knows what lurks in anyone's mind?
Or . . .
Joe smiled. Liffy threw back his head and studied the sky.
Now where did I leave that secret van? Our wholly inconspicuous Ahmadmobile?
He laughed and they started off again.
Oh I remember, it's just that it's like everything else in this world. We're not there yet, but we're getting there.
***
After twisting and turning through more alleys, they finally arrived at the small delivery van, its side panels boldly advertising AHMAD'S GREASY FISH & LEVANTINE CHIPS. Before they climbed in Liffy zipped up his former sword, a long collapsible spyglass, in its leather case.