Perhaps he had left them off in order to impress the handsome woman with him. Mrs. Fortescue had been in Cairo less than a month, but she was already something of a belle, if a widow could be called that. Gossip spread like wildfire in Anglo-Egyptian society; it was said that her husband had perished gallantly at the head of his regiment during one of the grisly August campaigns that had strewn the fields of France with dead. Meeting Ramses’s speculative, shamelessly curious gaze, she allowed her discreetly carmined lips to curve in a faint smile.

As if to emphasize their disapproval of Ramses, the Pettigrews were extremely gracious to another group of diners. All three were in uniform; two were Egyptian Army, the other was a junior official of the Finance Ministry and a member of the hastily organized local militia known derisively as Pharaoh’s Foot. They met daily to parade solemnly up and down on the grounds of the Club, carrying fly whisks and sticks because there were not enough rifles for them. The situation looked promising. Ramses sat back and eavesdropped unabashedly.

Once the Pettigrews had finished dissecting his history and character, their voices rose to normal pitch—quite piercing, in the case of Mrs. Pettigrew. She talked about everything under the sun, including the private sins of most members of the foreign community. Inevitably the conversation turned to the war. The younger woman expressed concern over the possibility of a Turkish attack, and Mrs. Pettigrew boomed out a hearty reassurance.

“Nonsense, my dear! Not a chance of it! Everyone knows what wretched cowards the Arabs are—except, of course, when they are led by white officers—”

“Such as General von Kressenstein,” said Ramses, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard over her strident tones. “One of Germany ’s finest military strategists. He is, I believe, adviser to the Syrian Army?”

Pettigrew snorted and Hamilton gave him a hard look, but neither spoke. The response came from the adjoining table. Simmons, the Finance fire-eater, flushed angrily and snapped,

“They’ll never get an army across the Sinai. It’s a desert, you know; there’s no water.”

His smirk vanished when Ramses said, humbly but clearly, “Except in the old Roman wells and cisterns. The rains were unusually heavy last season. The wells are overflowing. Do you suppose the Turks don’t know that?”

“If they didn’t, people like you would tell them.” Simmons stood up and stuck out his chin—what there was of it. “Why they allow rotten traitors in this Club—”

“I was just trying to be helpful,” Ramses protested. “The lady was asking about the Turks.”

One of his friends caught the irate member of Pharaoh’s Foot by the arm. “One mustn’t bore the ladies with military talk, Simmons. What do you say we go to the bar?”

Simmons had already had a few brandies. He glowered at Ramses as his friends led him away; Ramses waited a few minutes before following. He bowed politely to each of the four at the next table, and was magnificently ignored by three of them. Mrs. Fortescue’s response was discreet but unmistakable—a flash of dark eyes and a faint smile.

The hall was crowded. After ordering a whiskey Ramses retired to a corner near a potted palm and located his quarry. Simmons was such easy prey, it was a shame to take advantage of him, but he did appear to be suitably worked up; he was gesticulating and ranting to a small group that included his friends and a third officer who was even better known to Ramses.

Whenever he saw his cousin Percy, he was reminded of a story he had read, about a man who had struck an infernal bargain that allowed him to retain his youthful good looks despite a life of vice and crime. Instead, those sins marked the face of the portrait he kept concealed in his library, until it became that of a monster. Percy was average in every way—medium height and build, hair and mustache medium brown, features pleasant if unremarkable. Only a biased observer would have said that his eyes were a little too close together and his lips were too small, girlishly pink and pursed in the heavy frame of his jaw. Ramses would have been the first to admit he was not unbiased. There was no man on earth he hated more than he did Percy.

Ramses had prepared several provocative speeches, but it wasn’t necessary to employ any of them. His glass was still half full when Simmons detached himself from his friends and strode up to Ramses, squaring his narrow shoulders.

“A word with you,” he snapped.

Ramses took out his watch. “I am due at Shepheard’s at half past ten .”

“It won’t take long,” Simmons said, trying to sneer. “Come outside.”

“Oh, I see. Very well, if you insist.”

He hadn’t intended matters to go this far, but there was no way of retreating now.

Unlike the Gezira Sporting Club, with its polo field and golf course and English-style gardens, the Turf Club was planted unattractively on one of the busiest streets in Cairo , with a Coptic school on one side and a Jewish synagogue on the other. In search of privacy, Ramses proceeded toward the rear of the clubhouse. The night air was cool and sweet and the moon was nearing the full, but there were dark areas, shaded by shrubbery. Ramses headed for one of them. He had not looked back; when he did so, he saw that Simmons’s two friends were with him.

“How very unsporting,” he said critically. “Or have you two come to cheer Simmons on?”

“It’s not unsporting to thrash a cowardly cad,” said Simmons. “Everyone knows you don’t fight like a gentleman.”

“That might be called an oxymoron,” Ramses said. “Oh—sorry. Bad form to use long words. Look it up when you get home.”

The poor devil didn’t know how to fight, like a gentleman or otherwise. He came at Ramses with his arms flailing and his chin irresistibly outthrust. Ramses knocked him down and turned to meet the rush of the others. He winded one of them with an elbow in the ribs and kicked the second in the knee, just above his elegant polished boot—and then damned himself for a fool as Simmons, thrashing ineptly around on the ground, abandoned the last shreds of the old school tie and landed a lucky blow that doubled Ramses up. Before he could get his breath back the other two were on him again. One was limping and the other was whooping, but he hadn’t damaged them any more than he could help. He regretted this kindly impulse as they twisted his arms behind him and turned him to face Simmons.

“You might at least allow me to remove my coat,” he said breathlessly. “If it’s torn my mother will never let me hear the end of it.”

Simmons was a dark, panting shape in the shadows. Ramses shifted his balance and waited for Simmons to move a step closer, but Simmons wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. He raised his arm. Ramses ducked his head and closed his eyes. He wasn’t quick enough to avoid the blow altogether; it cut across his cheek and jaw like a line of fire.

“That’s enough!”

The hands that gripped him let go. Reaching out blindly for some other means of support, he caught hold of a tree limb and steadied himself before he opened his eyes.

Percy was standing between Ramses and Simmons, holding Simmons by the arm. Unexpected, that, Ramses thought; it would have been more in character for Percy to pitch in. The odds were the kind he liked, three or four to one.

Then he saw the other man, his black-and-white evening clothes blending with the play of light and shadow, and recognized Lord Edward Cecil, the Financial Adviser, and Simmons’s chief. Cecil’s aristocratic features were rigid with disgust. He raked his subordinate with a scornful eye and then spoke to Percy.

“Thank you for warning me about this, Captain. I don’t doubt your cousin appreciates it too.”

“My cousin is entitled to his opinion, Lord Edward.” Percy drew himself up. “I do not agree with it, but I respect it—and him.”