by Marie Laval
He rose, bowed in front of Harriet.
‘Mademoiselle, I am sure we’ll meet again.’ He looked at her and she felt sucked into the dark pits of his eyes.
‘By the way,’ he then told Saintclair. ‘I am sending my trackers into the mountains at first light. We will torch the Mouzaia village and get rid of them once and for all.’
He turned around and walked out.
Saintclair cursed under his breath and poured himself a black coffee.
‘Torch the village?’ Harriet remembered the young shepherd they had met in the mountains. Was he in danger? Was his family?
‘Scorched earth. That’s what the French army have been doing for the past ten years. Burn villages, grain stores, fields.’ Saintclair’s eyes were hard, his jaw set.
‘But what about the people who live there?’
He looked at her, a nasty glint in his eyes.
‘If they’re not killed in the raid, they die of famine or they have to leave. That way, the French get the land for nothing.’
‘Where do they go?’
Saintclair shrugged, threw his cigar on the floor, and stubbed it out with his boot.
‘Who cares, as long as they’re gone?’
He got up, signalled to Ahmoud. The two men talked with hushed voices for a while then Ahmoud slipped out with a couple of his men.
‘Get back to your room now,’ Saintclair said. ‘I have things to do. I’ll see you in the morning.’
This time, exhausted and longing for her bed, Harriet did as he said. She went upstairs, unlocked her room. Her hand on the door knob, she hesitated.
Something was bothering her, a nasty, niggling thought.
Her cheeks hot with shame, she tiptoed up to Archie’s room and stuck her ear to the door. It was silly to give any credence to Saintclair’s malicious gossip. Archie was too much of a gentleman to ever consider taking a tavern woman to his bed.
The sounds from behind the door told another story. The throaty chuckles, the low moans, the regular creaking of the bed… Even someone as inexperienced as Harriet understood that these noises were made by a man and a woman engaging in an intimate relationship.
Her hand flew to her mouth, stifled a gasp. She walked back to her room and shut her door. Her head ached, her heart throbbed, and she was overcome by a wave of nausea. She rushed to the basin on the wash stand.
When it was over, she wiped her mouth with a cloth and sat on the bed.
Would she be able to face Archie tomorrow? And what about Saintclair and the others? They would make fun of her, they probably already did…
Chapter Six
They were three men short when they set off from Safir’s the following morning. Saintclair explained that Ahmoud and two of his companions were running some errands and would catch up with them later on the road to Berroughia.
‘Where did he send his men to and why, I wonder?’ Archie muttered. He eyed the scout with suspicion.
Harriet didn’t answer. She gave her horse a kick to set it on its way.
‘Is everything all right, dear?’ Archie leaned towards her and touched her forearm. ‘You are awfully quiet.’
She glanced at him and tightened her lips. Her sense of betrayal was so acute she even wondered if she’d ever known him at all. Yet he looked like he always did—the same familiar, closely shaven face, neat blond moustache. The same trusted blue eyes.
Ignoring the puzzled look on his face, she spurred her horse on and found herself riding next to Saintclair at the front. He turned to her, lifted his eyebrows. She didn’t really want his company but the street suddenly narrowed and she had no choice except ride beside him.
Medea was a small town with a market square at its centre and arched buildings along its main street. A few Roman ruins were dotted around—columns and half derelict walls, some still covered with faded, chipped mosaics. She knew of the vast ancient Roman towns further north—Tipasa, Djemila, and especially Timgad—her father and his team had helped excavate two years before. Here in Medea, there wasn’t much left.
What she noticed, however, was the large French army presence. Soldiers and cavalry officers of the colonial army, wearing red trousers, light blue coats, and matching kepi seemed to have taken over the town.
‘Why are there so many of them?’
‘Because of Abd-el-Kader,’ Saintclair answered.
‘I thought he was no longer a threat since he lost most of his men two years ago.’
‘He’s still the emir, the leader of the rebellion. He won’t give up that easily.’
They rode past several one-storey buildings guarded by French sentinels. It must be where that man, Lieutenant Mortemer, was based. She repressed a shiver as she recalled the Lieutenant’s cold, dark eyes.
‘Do you think the Lieutenant carried out his threat about the Mouzaias?’
‘Mortemer always carries out his threats.’
‘You know him, don’t you? Did you work for him as a scout?’ she asked, curious.
He winced, took a deep breath.
‘I made that mistake, once,’ he said at last, staring ahead.
‘Your mother and sister live in Bou Saada. That’s an oasis town in the South, isn’t it? Do you get to see them often?’
He turned his head sharply. His pale blue eyes were icy, his face stony.
‘What business is it of yours?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s none of my business, of course. You seemed a little worried when Lieutenant Mortemer mentioned them yesterday.’
‘I am worried about anything and anyone Mortemer mentions. The man is a snake, a dangerous, deadly snake. Even more so now he finally has what he’s been after all these months. Thanks to you.’
‘You mean the map of Abd-el-Kader’s weapons caches?’ she asked in a weak voice.
He nodded.
‘That’s right. The map I almost had in my possession, until your untimely intervention.’
The bite in his voice made her blush. He would never let her forget her mistake.
‘How was I to know you weren’t some dangerous thug?’ she asked, defensive. ‘Anyway, you told Mortemer the map was a fake, so why did you want it so badly?’
‘This is none of your concern, Miss Montague. This isn’t your country, your people, or your fight. In a few months’ time, when you are back sipping tea in your cosy London house, all of this will be no more than a bad memory for you.’
He picked up speed and left her behind to breathe in the cloud of dust kicked by his horse.
What fight, what people was he talking about—the French or the tribes, the native people from this country? He seemed to care an awful lot for a man who claimed no loyalty to anyone but himself.
They rode through a surprisingly green and lush landscape, through orchards—lemon and orange groves and well tended farmland. Shrouded in blue mist, the mountains looked mysterious and unreachable, like a land of dreams. They reached a high plateau and climbed further still, overtaking wagons and carts full of supplies, people on foot carrying baskets tied to their backs with ropes and scarves.
Once in a while they met small detachments of French soldiers or cavalry. Each time, Saintclair saluted the officer in charge and exchanged a few words. Although her French wasn’t fluent, Harriet understood he was asking if the road ahead was clear or if any rebels had been sighted that day.
By late morning, they reached the mountain pass overlooking Berrouaghia.
‘What is that?’ She pointed to a large, fenced estate lying apart from the town.
‘The French penitentiary,’ Saintclair said, ‘the largest in the north of the country.’ He pulled on the reins. ‘We’ll stop here for now.’
Harriet dismounted, tied her horse to the lowest branch of an olive tree.
‘I think we should push ahead.’ Archie approached Saintclair, a frown on his face. ‘We are wasting time.’ He took his hat off, mopped the sweat off his forehead, and put his hat back on.
Unhurried, Saintclair fi
nished untying his saddle bag, pulled out a parcel with flat bread, strips of dried meat and a packet of candied dates he handed to Harriet.
‘By the way, I forgot to give those to you the other day,’ he said. ‘They’re from Slimane, the innkeeper at Blida. He said you needed sweetening.’
She gasped. ‘Well, really…’
Ignoring her, Saintclair turned to Archie. ‘The horses need a rest, Drake. Don’t worry, we’ll be in Berrouaghia soon enough.’
He went to speak to his men, who were sitting in the shade of a grove of pines trees.
‘I bet he’s waiting for Ahmoud and the other two,’ Archie grumbled as he retrieved some food from his bag. ‘What got into you earlier, riding away from me in that way? You should always stay with me. Don’t forget we told the others that I am your fiancé.’
She faced him, eyes sharp with temper.
‘Really? So what were you doing last night with that girl?’
She left him standing there, his mouth gaping open. Flushed, and embarrassed already by her outburst, she went to sit on her own. She was behaving like a jealous woman.
Archie had been part of her small family circle for almost as long as she could remember. She admired and respected his work. Her father often commented on his scientific approach and his vast historical knowledge. Even Lord Callaghan, the haughty and notoriously hard to please Chairman of the Board of the Trustees, had recently given him the responsibility of cataloguing the Museum’s Oriental stock. His new position had kept Archie busy, and his visits had been less frequent before her father left for Algiers.
Archie was also her oldest ally against Aunt Elizabeth. He always flew to her defence when his father’s older sister criticised her lack of interest in fashion or society gossip, or despaired at her passion for study.’ So what if Harriet is different? Intelligent, cultured women are so much more interesting than boring, brainless dolls,’ he would say.
What a hypocrite! Harriet snorted aloud, kicked a stone with the tip of her boot. He certainly hadn’t found the dancer boring last night.
She took a deep, calming breath. Why did she feel so betrayed? Archie was a dear friend, but he was also a man. She shouldn’t be outraged or disappointed to find out that he was like any other man—easily led astray by a beautiful woman. It wasn’t as if she was in love with him, was it? She shook her head, impatiently. Of course, she wasn’t in love with Archie. The very thought of it was ludicrous.
She had no idea what being in love felt like. She didn’t ever want to be in love. She wanted to devote herself to research and the study of ancient history. That was what her father had educated her for. He had taught her to be calm, rational and level-headed. She could only imagine the disappointment in his serious blue eyes if he had seen her just then, shouting at Archie like one of these those emotional, hysterical women he so despised.
High up in the cloudless sky, a hawk let out a piercing cry that reverberated around the rocky face of the mountains and seemed to go on forever.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Saintclair’s shadow stretched across the rocky ground.
He didn’t wait for her answer but sat on a boulder and started chewing on his bread and dried meat.
She sighed with impatience. Couldn’t the man leave her alone?
‘Tell me about your father.’ He passed his gourd of fresh water over. ‘I need to know what kind of man he is and how you think he’s coping.’
At once, and much to her disgust, Harriet’s eyes filled with tears. Here she was, being emotional again. She drank a long sip of water, and waited until she was sure her voice wouldn’t quiver.
‘My father is a tough man, Monsieur Saintclair. He has spent much of his life digging up ancient sites in Greece and Italy, and more recently in Timgad, in the north of this country. A few years ago he travelled to the Tripoli territories, where he discovered the Garamantes’ civilization.’
‘What made him set up this expedition to the Sahara?’ Saintclair took another bite of meat.
‘Last year, he came across incredible sketches of rock paintings made by travellers to the region and he became obsessed with proving that the Sahara hadn’t always been the desert it is now, but had once been a thriving part of the Garamantes’ lost kingdom. He also wanted to see for himself the Hoggar mountain range and the fabulous treasures hidden there.’
Her voice became dreamy. She shared her father’s passion about the Hoggar rock art.
‘For hundreds of years, the Garamantes controlled the salt, gold, and slave caravans linking sub-Saharan regions to the Mediterranean ports,’ she carried on. ‘They traded with Rome and Egypt, and with the great African kingdoms from Libya and Tunisia to Morocco.’
‘So what treasure was he after?’
‘One of the drawings featured what appeared to be gems—the emeralds mined by the Garamantes’ slaves which Herodotus wrote about. My father believed he might find inscriptions referring to the location of the mines.’
The mention of the Garamantes’ emeralds made his heart beat faster.
‘So it was all about the Garamantes’ mines…And you are telling me your father isn’t a treasure hunter?’
He carried on before she could protest. ‘I have seen some rock paintings in the Hoggar, and further East towards the Tripoli territories too.’
‘Have you really? Did you see drawings of giraffes and elephants? Of hunters and chariots?’
He smiled, amused by the enthusiasm in her voice and the wonder in her eyes.
‘Indeed. There are rhinoceroses, ostriches, crocodiles and lions, as well as men and women, hunters and horse-drawn chariots.’
‘What about the writing? Can you read the writing?’
Saintclair closed his eye a moment, trying to remember how the Tuaregs described their language.
‘I wish I could, but I’m afraid the lines, crosses, dots and circles that form the alphabet don’t make any sense to me. The nomads of the desert say their writing represents their way of life. The lines are the legs of men, camels and gazelles travelling across the desert. The crosses are the cardinal points. The dots represent the stars and constellations leading them safely to their destination. A circle, of course, always stands for the sun.’
He opened his eyes to find her staring at him in disbelief.
‘It’s very poetic,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘I do hope my father had time to study the inscriptions before he went to Tamanrasset. He spent most of his life deciphering the ancient Garamantes’ writing. As far as I know, he is the only scholar who can read it.’
‘The Tuaregs would have left him in peace if he had stayed in the Hoggar. Why on earth did he decide to go to Tamanrasset and desecrate Tin Hinan’s tomb?’
‘He never wanted to desecrate anything!’ She pushed the top of the gourd down and handed it back to him. ‘Only ignorant people would confuse the documented study of an ancient monument with—’
‘Don’t expect the nomads of the desert to share your enlightened view of tomb raiding, Miss Montague,’ he interrupted sharply. ‘Whatever you choose to call it, it shows a lack of respect for people and their customs. Your father’s actions have cost many lives.’
She must have known he was right because she bowed her head. He was being a little unfair. She wasn’t responsible for her father’s actions after all.
‘He would never have knowingly put his men in danger. They were his colleagues, his friends.’ She choked on the last words, and wiped her eyes roughly with the back of her hand.
‘There is something I don’t understand. The location of Tin Hinan’s tomb has been a well guarded secret for centuries,’ Saintclair resumed speaking. ‘Even I, who spent years with the Tuaregs in the far South, was never told of its location. All I know is that it’s in an oasis near Tamanrasset. So how did your father find it?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
They were silent for a while. There was something else he wanted to ask.
‘What do you know a
bout the Barbarossa treasure?’
If she was surprised by his sudden question, she didn’t show it. She frowned in concentration.
‘I tried to gather information about it when I received the map but couldn’t find very much. All I know is that Khayr ad-Dīn—that was Barbarossa’s real name—had looted and pillaged the coasts of France and Italy two years before his death. When he finally decided to return to Istanbul, he set sail with over one hundred galleys filled with loot and captives for the Pasha’s harems. Only fifty actually arrived. He claimed the others sank in a storm. Several of his men, however, revealed that he had buried a large part of the loot in a secret location because he didn’t want to surrender it to his master, the Great Pasha of Constantinople. Nobody knew where to look for it, nobody knew if it was even true…’
She paused and smiled. ‘Until my father found the map in Algiers.’
‘And he didn’t tell anyone but you about it?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Not even Archie.’
He arched his eyebrows. ‘That’s strange, don’t you think? It looks like your father was planning to keep Barbarossa’s treasure for himself.’
‘No! Of course not!’ She stood up, indignant. ‘My father is an honest man. ‘Everything he does is for the British Museum.’
‘If you say so…I know from experience that greed does strange things to men, even the most upright, law-abiding citizens.’
She tightened her mouth. ‘Not all men have mercenary motives, you know,’ she retorted. ‘Some, like my father and Archie, devote their whole life to research and the advancement of knowledge.’
‘Their whole life? Really?’ He pulled a face. He couldn’t understand why he was suddenly so annoyed at Harriet Montague’s seemingly boundless admiration for her fiancé. He rolled the sleeves of his white shirt to his elbows.
‘What will you do with Barbarossa’s treasure when you find it?’ she asked, her grey eyes serious.
‘I haven’t thought about it yet,’ he lied. ‘I will travel around, I suppose, enjoy myself.’
‘You could do a lot of good with it. Build schools, orphanages, housing and hospitals.’