I also reread everything the travellers who had visited the oasis had written about the temples of Siwa and its antiquities. I paused as I always do at the description of the obliterated Doric temple near Lake Khameesa. The area and dimensions of the temple as described by the French traveller Cailliaud are those of a typical Greek temple. More important still is his reference to the style of the columns as Doric, and his statement that it was the only one of its kind in the oasis. Where, though, is that temple now, for me to deduce from it any evidence for anything?
Captain Wasfi could have helped me and we could have gone together to look around there, in places I could not have gone on my own. But Mahmoud continues to impose imprisonment. I'm not allowed even to invite Wasfi for a discussion. Fiona will have nothing to do with him after he described the revolutionaries as traitors, and she doesn't welcome the sight of him. Why such a puritan, Fiona? He's talking about the revolutionaries of his own country, so he can say what he likes, and Alexander the Great wasn't the English Cromwell, who declared open war on Connaught and slaughtered its people, so why take your anger out on the Macedonian king? Also I need Wasfi now to help me. I have to think of a way.
Before that, however, there's something I have to make sure of myself. What am I to do?
'Why not, Catherine?' said Fiona heatedly. 'Go out!'
I looked at Zubeida, on whose wrinkled face were written refusal and doubt. I had tried, with Fiona, to explain to her in Arabic, Siwan and sign language that I wanted to borrow her donkey for a short while and return it safely to her. She, however, kept repeating stubbornly, 'The izit is sick.' The donkey was sick! I tried to convince her with gestures that I wouldn't tire it and wouldn't be late; in fact, I'd be close to the house. Fiona tried to reassure her and pointed downwards with her forefinger, saying, 'Soldiers downstairs,' meaning they would protect me, and the donkey, if anything happened. Then she put her hand on Zubeida's shoulder and said with her bewitching smile, 'I'll buy you another izit!' At this, Zubeida agreed to lend me the donkey, but grudgingly.
I hadn't told Fiona the whole truth. I had seized the opportunity of Zubeida's unaccompanied visit and said that I was thinking of making a short outing in the vicinity of the house if the old lady would agree to lend me her donkey. Fiona agreed at once, saying, 'You really need to go out and take the air a little instead of staying a prisoner with me in the house.' Her words intimated that she blamed herself, and I didn't object that she had nothing to do with my being a prisoner. I needed her help to persuade the stubborn old woman.
The moment Zubeida agreed, I put on the clothes I'd prepared so that I'd look like a Siwan woman. I donned a flowing dark-coloured dress with long trousers underneath, then wrapped tightly around me Fiona's tarfottet mantle, which hung from the top of my head, and draped it over my face, completely covering it but for a space for the eyes.
As I was slowly descending the steps, my heart beating, I noticed that the soldiers of the guard were looking at me in astonishment. Too bad! I'd be back before they could think or do anything.
I mounted the donkey the way Zubeida did, dangling my legs on either side, and urged it quickly down the road to Aghurmi, the road of Maleeka, Sheikh Yahya, Gouba Spring and many other things. I felt certain I'd disguised myself well. Some zaggala were coming out of their gardens when they heard the bray of the donkey and gave me a passing glance, then returned to their work. All the same, my heart started beating faster. What did it mean, then, when I said I was afraid of nothing? Here I was, afraid! Was that another delusion with which I lied to myself?
I didn't have much time to think about that or anything else. I urged on the slow donkey, which was indeed weak, as its mistress had claimed. Often it stopped on the road and started braying, as though it were moaning, but we got there in the end.
I looked around me. No one.
I tied the donkey to the palm tree beneath which young Mahmoud had stretched out. Then I entered the temple. I had hidden my sketchbook and pen beneath the cloak, so I took them out and made my way quickly towards the wall from which I'd copied the text. I looked it over and traced the letters with my fingers. I hadn't been mistaken. It was indeed a prayer to Amun-Ra and none other. I wanted to be sure of the reference to water. I would not fool myself. I had to try to decode the symbols forming the columns of partially erased demotic writing. As I reread them, I discovered that I had made mistakes in copying some of the lines when I had written them down the first time. I rested the sketchbook against the wall and tried to be very precise in copying what I saw in front of me, but I still made mistakes because of the speed with which I was working, so I would rub out what I had written and do it over, reproaching myself for the error. I had no time to lose!
I had barely written out one page before I heard a murmur that changed into a clamour, which changed into yelling voices, just as my heartbeats changed into a drumming in my ears. My hand shook and the sketchbook fell from it, and I had bent down to pick it up when I saw the angry faces of the zaggala surrounding the entrance to the temple.
I was bent over, so the first stone didn't hit me, but the stones followed one another, raining down on me. I put my hands and arms over my head and face and screamed just as they were screaming. Then there was the sound of a horse and a shot and the stoning stopped as the zaggala turned and looked in the direction from which it had come.
After the silence that fell, I heard the deep voice of Salmawi and that of Sergeant Ibraheem calling out, then saw them together. Salmawi stood in the midst of the zaggala, his rifle slung over his shoulder, and started talking to them, smiling and patting their backs, while Ibraheem charged towards me and asked me anxiously, 'Are you all right, madame? Did anything hit you?'
He looked at the stones scattered about me on the ground and said, his apprehension increasing, 'Did those rogues hit you, madame?'
'No, Sergeant… Ibraheem.'
I wouldn't scream. I wouldn't moan. Many parts of my body hurt but I'd been able to protect my head and face. I wanted to be sure, so I felt them with my hand. There wasn't any blood.
Salmawi succeeded in dispersing the zaggala, talking to them in a loud voice and joking with them, while Ibraheem asked me in a sorrowful voice, 'Why, madame?'
Trying to keep my voice normal, I answered him with the question, 'How did you know I was here?'
The guards had informed the corporal. Zubeida's cloak was still on the threshold of the door, so they knew that it wasn't she who'd left, but…
Corporal Salmawi came up and said, 'Excuse me, madame, but we must return as quickly as we can before those men change their minds and before His Excellency hears what happened. We came without telling him anything.'
I picked up the sketchbook and walked with firm steps towards the palm tree. At least Zubeida's donkey hadn't come to any harm.
Salmawi mounted his horse and almost had to pick the sergeant up and put him on, the latter riding pillion behind him. Then he preceded me, his rifle in his hand, and I mounted the donkey and followed. There was no longer any point in my disguising myself, so I let the cloak fall open and left my face uncovered, feeling my wounds and suppressing my moans.