Lady Jocasta nodded. ‘Forward planning is one of your strengths.’
‘A most coincidental selection of words,’ said Remus. ‘Before I take my leave, I need to be sure that your plans proceed in alignment with your schedule.’
‘Why so concerned, Baron?’ teased Jocasta. ‘Afraid that I will not succeed…or afraid that I will and it will outshine your little fracas in the Crimea?’
From out of nowhere, the Baron lunged towards her, sending the contents of the table flying into the air. His thick, hairy hands compressed around her neck, his nails digging deeply into her flesh. Jocasta tried to force air down her throat as the Baron’s grip squeezed ever tighter.
‘Do not test me, woman!’ he snarled, his teeth bared like fangs. ‘There is more at stake here than you realise!’
‘You are…hurting me,’ Jocasta gasped, trying to unlock the Italian’s fingers from her throat. ‘Please, I beg of you – you’re…killing me!’
At her words, the Baron released his hold, staring at his hands as if they were dripping with blood. Jocasta steadied herself against the bedside table, clawing at her neck. Thick red marks were smeared like a scarf around her throat, and tears were in her eyes as she stared up at the Baron. He made a move to grab her hand, but the Greek woman snatched it away. She glanced at him nervously as he fought to master his rage, his broad shoulders quivering as he turned his face from hers.
‘Jocasta, I apologise…’ he said. ‘This place…its confinement is affecting my condition. My campaign in the Crimea is at a critical stage…and I should not have taken my anxieties out on you. Please forgive me.’
‘You sought only assurances of my plot’s success, teacher,’ said Jocasta hoarsely. ‘You need make no apology for that. But your concerns are unnecessary, Baron. Every eventuality of my plot has been catered for. Soon the banks of the Nile will burst, but this time the river will be overflowing with corpses.’
‘I hope your plot matches your confidence,’ growled the Baron, as he removed himself from her quarters, lingering at the door. ‘If it does not, your corpse will be amongst that number…and everything that we have fought for will be for nothing. Remember my words, Jocasta…for one day soon, it might not be me that seeks assurances from you, and you need to be prepared.’
Lady Jocasta watched the Baron leave, wondering what on earth he could have meant.
CHAPTER XXIV
The Clouded Truth
MADAME DESTINE WAS uncomfortable – not just perched upon the wooden stool at the table in Ahman’s carpet store, but generally uncomfortable from all that she had discovered from the stout Egyptian. Gradually, the clouded truth about her past was being revealed, and for one formerly practised in foretelling the future, it was an uncomfortable experience.
‘But I don’t remember it, Ahman. Any of it!’ Destine exclaimed. ‘I am forced to believe this letter is genuine, and yet what other truths am I then forced to accept? That I was here in Egypt twenty years ago in 1833, and I foresaw that one day I would return to complete a task that I could not? But what task? This letter speaks of everything and nothing! Who is this Aloysius Bedford character? The more questions I ask, the more confused I become.’
‘I am sorry, Madame, but I can add nothing other than what I have already told you…and what you have already told yourself,’ said Ahman, watching Destine’s deflated expression waver. ‘Back then you entrusted me with two letters and one very large mystery…but no answers. I have been waiting all this time for you to come back.’ Ahman smiled, trying to coax one in reply from Destine – to no avail. ‘This is as strange for me as it is for you.’
‘I doubt that, monsieur, for you are an integral part of the enigma,’ said Destine, as she slipped off the stool and began to pace around the carpet store. ‘You bake my favourite cinnamon bread – a lot better than I do, I might add – you know my name, you know me. I have so many questions that I cannot speak them fast enough!’
‘Then perhaps our journey will enlighten you in time,’ Ahman said.
Destine stopped pacing. ‘Journey? What journey?’
‘The one the letter speaks of, Madame,’ said Ahman. ‘We are going to continue this trail for the markers, are we not?’
‘We?’ asked the Frenchwoman.
‘Of course we!’ replied Ahman cheerily. ‘You do not expect me to let you carry this burden alone, do you? What kind of friend would I be then?’
‘I wish I knew, Ahman. In fact, I wish I knew a lot of things.’
‘We cannot dwell on our yesterdays, Madame…what is done is done. We must focus on the here and now and unlock this trove of mystery. Blind to the past or not, we will follow your younger self’s trail to uncover the truth – together!’
‘If only I could remember!’ The Frenchwoman thumped her fist upon the table, sending the small wooden box flying through the air. Its contents spilled onto the floor, and as Destine stooped to pick them up, something caught her eye.
It was another letter, an exact replica of the previous. As she turned it over in her trembling hands, she noticed the words: ‘2 of 3’ written on the envelope’s reverse.
‘What is this?’ she asked.
Ahman scratched at his beard. ‘Ah, well…I did say you gave me two letters.’
CHAPTER XXV
The Second Letter
THE FURTIVE FORM of Heinrich Nadir stood at the alley’s corner in Agra Bazaar, staring intently at the doorway of Ahman’s carpet store. His quarry had been inside for well over an hour and he was getting restless.
Perhaps he had been careless and she had spotted him, making her escape through a rear exit. No, he had been vigilant, he was sure of that. His plan would all be for nothing without the Frenchwoman. She was still inside; she had to be. Even if she had seen him and recognised him from the Silver Swan, what did it matter? He was just an innocent sightseer, the same as she was. But he could not expect Godfrey Joyce to wait for ever for his prize. He folded his newspaper into the inner pocket of his jacket, just as Madame Destine appeared at the shop’s doorway, closely followed by a small bald Egyptian. Nadir was intoxicated by this intriguing development.
By his appearance, it was obvious that the bald man was a local, but there was an intense argument ensuing between the two. He was certainly desperate to sell her a carpet, whoever he was. Perhaps this might scupper Nadir’s entire plan. He would lose more than just face if he were to report to his employer of his failure – his life itself was forfeit. Deciding it required further attention, he removed himself back around the corner of the alley and silently observed, listening intently to every terse word carried on the back of the breeze.
‘Madame, please understand – I was only abiding by your wishes! You cannot just go off like this,’ called Ahman, rushing after Destine as she sped determinedly from his shop. Her dress billowed like a flag on a pole, and she clutched up handfuls of it within her fists, lifting the delicate skirts from the ground to ease her flight.
‘Do not try to stop me, monsieur,’ she warned. ‘Bigger men than you have tried and failed!’
‘But where are you going?’ Ahman asked.
‘Away from under this cloud of confusion!’ Destine replied. ‘I wish that I could trust you, Ahman…yet I do not feel I can trust anyone or anything any longer – least of all myself! Why did you not tell me about this other letter?’
‘Back then, you told me not to!’ Ahman protested. ‘You told me that you had to read the letters in sequence…that one would not make sense without the other!’
‘Well, I was wrong, for neither of them make any sense! The letters speak of a tragedy…but it is two decades old. Surely something so important would be the first thing you mentioned when chancing upon me in this bazaar – if indeed it was chance…for all I know, this is all part of some elaborate confidence trick and you are trying to take advantage of me just like those banshees in the marketplace!’
Ahman’s face dropped as Destine’s words stung at him. He looked at her, past
her furious fortifications, trying to find a spark of the woman he once knew. It was not easy, for her anger was difficult to pierce. He only wished that she could remember who she was and see herself as he did. Although Destine had no memory of her time in Egypt, for Ahman the years had passed slowly. How he had missed her. How he had yearned for her. His Destine was in there somewhere; he knew that, and he was not about to give up searching for her just yet. He could not lose her again.
‘I would never deceive you, Destine. Never!’ he said. ‘The envelopes were sealed! They were meant for your eyes only, and had I opened them, what good would it have done? They were written in your language…and I do not speak French, ah?’
Destine touched her hand to her forehead. She had to sit down somewhere and try to regain her sense of balance. She lowered herself onto a pile of stacked carpets outside the store.
Gingerly, Ahman joined her.
‘Please believe me, Destine,’ he said. ‘I did not deceive you.’
‘Ahman, I am so sorry…but please understand that I must place a lot of faith in your words, and faith in you – a total stranger. I thank you for your hospitality, but I have to return to my ship.’ Destine tightened the knot at the rear of her headscarf and stood swiftly, keen to resume her course. ‘Cornelius will be waiting for me.’
Ahman reached after her. ‘Cornelius? But, Destine, after what the other letter said…how can you go to him knowing what will happen?’
Destine lowered her eyes to the ground. ‘Because I have nowhere else to go.’
‘I am your friend, Destine – if only you would remember me as such,’ said Ahman, earnestly. ‘You may have tasked this mystery to yourself, but that does not mean you have to accomplish it alone. We shall discover the truth together!’
‘I do not think I could cope with much more truth!’ Destine adjusted her corset and regained her composure. ‘If I listen to my heart, I do know you as a friend, Ahman…but if the revelations within this second letter are to be believed, the road ahead will be long and arduous, and I do not know if I have the strength to walk it.’ She pulled the letter from inside the sleeve of her dress and unfolded it, holding it with trembling hands as she read aloud:
‘My dear Destine,
‘This letter is the second of my three markers to you. I have done what I can to point you towards the truth, and I have laid the clues that you must follow. You must go to a sacred place where the sun’s rays touch just twice a year. Seek the temple of the Shaded God, one that was once lost, but has since been found. There, you will find the answers to this great mystery, and the knowledge of what you must do.
‘The truth is hidden within the third marker.
Of utmost importance is this: My visions have warned me that you MUST NOT involve Cornelius in this task, for your reunion shall signal the beginning of the darkest chapter of his life, where everything he once believed will crumble before his eyes. He must not face this peril until the time is right. You must promise me on this, Destine. Cornelius must be allowed to discover his own destiny in due course, even though in truth, it is that which is my greatest regret of all.’
‘Whatever does she mean by that?’ Destine said. ‘Cornelius might be in grave danger, just as I foresaw before my prophetic gifts deserted me, but if I were to run to him, it would spell his doom…perhaps even his demise. How could I have forgotten something such as that? What has guided me here to you, and brought me in contact with these secrets hidden from my memory…and why now?’
‘What makes you think you were guided here at all?’ asked Ahman. ‘From what you say, it is sheer blind luck that has led you back to Egypt.’
‘I doubt it,’ Destine replied. ‘As you said, I purport that accidents rarely happen. If my experience with premonitions has taught me anything, it is that all things happen for a reason, Ahman. As much as Cornelius hates to admit it…everything is connected. It seems that I must collect every missing piece of my past and put this jigsaw back together again. But where do we start looking, mon ami?’
Ahman scratched frantically at his bearded jaw, watching a brand new Destine rise from the pile of carpets. ‘Well, the first clue would seem to be this temple that we are supposed to travel to, ah? This “temple of the Shaded God”. The letter called it “a sacred place where the sun’s rays touch just twice a year”. Whatever can that mean?’
‘I wish I knew,’ said Destine, hungry now to accept her task. ‘And what is this in the centre of the page? This strange symbol seems more than just a random doodle. What is it supposed to mean? Could it be a clue of some kind?’
Ahman’s eyes lit up. ‘What did you just say?’
‘This triangular marking here,’ said Destine. ‘Perhaps my younger self means for us to seek a pyramid of some kind?’
‘Symbol,’ Ahman muttered, as though talking in his sleep. ‘I wonder…’
‘You wonder what?’ asked Destine, vexed by Ahman’s response as he buried his head in his hands, chuckling merrily to a silent joke. ‘What is it? Do you know what this symbol means?’
‘Can it be that easy?’ mumbled Ahman. ‘You thought that this pictogram might be a clue of some kind…and if I am right…I tend to agree with you. You see, if I recall it correctly from teachings in my youth, it is an ancient Nubian text. The triangle with the circle inside was the hieroglyph for “temple”…but if I am correct, it means a whole lot more than that.’
‘You are speaking gibberish, Ahman,’ said Destine.
‘Bear with me, Destine…but what if we took the symbol literally? Using the clues from your letter…what if we translate “symbol” into “Simbel”?’ asked Ahman.
Destine shrugged. ‘I do not know…enlighten me.’
‘Now this is merely a guess, you understand. There is a place I know…an old temple on the outskirts of the Wilderlands a little way south of here. Sekhet Simbel is its name! It was consumed by the desert, lost for all time until it was rediscovered. “Once lost, but has since been found.” Sekhet Simbel would seem to match that description. Do you see? If the word “symbol” becomes Simbel…it all fits!’
‘But this temple…if it is indeed the place mentioned in my letter – what about the sun? How can its rays only strike this temple twice a year?’ asked Destine. ‘These clues…they are so cryptic!’
Ahman laughed heavily. ‘Destine, is that not the point? “The truth is hidden within the third marker” – remember your own words? And it is up to us to seek it out. This is it, I am certain of it, my dear! We can be in Sekhet Simbel in a matter of hours. Well? Are you coming?’
‘I have little choice, my newfound old friend,’ said Destine. ‘To Sekhet Simbel we will go…and may we finally discover the truth when we get there.’
CHAPTER XXVI
The Scarab’s Nest
DECIDING THAT HE would make better headway on foot, Cornelius Quaint discarded his mule and walked the rest of the way to Bara Mephista. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his recently reacquired fob watch. It was late afternoon, day one in Egypt. At the rate he was going, he would be lucky to get to the Clan Scarab settlement by sundown, and if there was one thing that he knew would be suicidal, it was wandering around that camp after dark.
It was dangerous enough doing it in daylight.
Several stone buildings were peppered about in two split semicircles around a central, rectangular building. Bleached sugar-white by the wind-whipped sandblasting over the years, it was remarkable that it was still standing. There were no ‘locals’ as such to Bara Mephista. If the remote location this far out in the desert failed to put people off, then rumours that it was Scarab territory almost certainly would.
Arriving at the main building, Quaint noticed a row of horses, donkeys, and even a young camel, tied to a long wooden post outside. This was the place, he assumed – an assumption given weight by the hubbub of cheers, jeers and catcalls that filled the air.
By the time he reached the door of the building, the noise from inside was l
oud and raucous; an atmosphere that would no doubt be shattered the moment he entered the place. If Bara Mephista was to be likened to an uncivilised town on the frontiers of the Wild West of America, then Cornelius Quaint was about to set foot in the equivalent of a saloon bar at high noon.
He pulled the rope handle and opened the door to the smoke-filled building, sending streams of stilted daylight into the place. Momentarily blinded, his eyes were unable to adapt to the contrasting light, and he stood exposed.
One by one, the occupants inside the place quietened their row as every one of them stopped and gawped at the stranger in their midst. As Quaint entered the tavern, the only noise that he could hear was his boots striding across the uneven, creaking wooden floor like the ominous ticking of a grandfather clock. This place obviously served as the Scarabs’ resident drinking establishment, with rows of benches and tables scattered about against the walls, each one populated by hunched, shadowed figures scowling in his direction. Feeling many sets of eyes follow his approach, Quaint walked confidently towards the long, wooden bar.
‘Good afternoon, my good man!’ he said in fluent Arabic, smiling broadly.
‘What do you want?’ asked the bartender in his native tongue.
‘Wine, please. Red, if you have any. I don’t know about you, but I simply can’t stomach white wine. It’s far too watery for my tastes. Give me a nice, earthy red any day of the week,’ Quaint rambled.
The bartender glared back at him. ‘You misunderstand me, stranger – I meant what do you want in here?’ he sneered, his greasy brow glinting with sweat.
Removing his hat, Quaint placed it upon the bar next to him and scanned the dusty array of label-less bottles lined up on the shelves, searching for a clue as to their contents. ‘No wine, eh? Goes without saying, I suppose. What do you recommend?’ Quaint asked, ignoring the distemper in the bartender’s eyes.
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