Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena

by A. D. Phillips

  “Kostis!” I shout. Strange that I’m trying to get his attention and not avoid it. There’s no time to dwell on irony, though.

  Kostis didn’t hear me. Maybe the wind drowned out my voice. I cup my hands around my mouth and try dragging out the syllables.

  “Kos… tis!”

  He kicks open a supply chest, pulls out a machine gun, and aims up at the deck. Nifty moves for a man who must be in his fifties by now. The gun is metallic black with two wooden handle grips, one fitted either side of a drum shaped magazine. I think it’s a Thompson – or Tommy – gun. I’ve seen them in American gangster films.

  I raise my hands to show I’m unarmed. “It’s me! Edith! Edith Clayton.” Hopefully Kostis has a good memory, or at least wonders why I’m speaking English.

  He relaxes his grip. “Where Lydia?”

  “Here!” she shouts.

  I turn to check. Lydia pulls the bulkhead door closed and rotates the valve, firming her grip. Her cloth outfit is torn in multiple places. Minor wounds, with most in the process of healing. The handle squeaks, turning despite Lydia’s best efforts to stop it with one hand. The hatch window cracks, thumped from inside. My sister’s alive, then.

  “Did you tell him?” Lydia asks, her voice strained.

  “Tell him what?” Then I remember her instructions and pass them on to Kostis. “Start the engine!”

  Kostis puts down the Tommy gun and lifts a weathered sheet of grey cloth, revealing a portable motor and propeller. He sets about fixing the engine to the rear of the boat, slotting steel bolts through pre-drilled holes.

  “Get on board,” Lydia groans. “I’ll follow.”

  I do what I’ve wanted to for weeks: climb the brass railing and jump. I splash down into the refreshingly cool sea. My clothes take on water, and the extra weight drags my chin below the surface. Fortunately it’s a short swim to the boat, and there’s a steel ladder for easy boarding.

  “Get gun,” Kostis says, tightening the engine bolts with a greasy wrench. “Provide cover fire.”

  Shoot? Me? Should I tell them I’m useless? Lydia jumps from the Aegir’s bow into the sea. And Kostis is busy. Like it or not, I’m the designated gunner.

  I grab the weapon and fire a short burst into the air. I’m aiming nowhere in particular. They’re warning shots. Hopefully Irene will be more worried about a machine gun than a harpoon.

  Lydia swims to the ladder. “Go!” she shouts, grabbing the lowest rung.

  Kostis tugs a starter cord. The engine roars into life, its spinning propeller turning the water frothy white. The sailboat powers off. Lydia clings onto the ladder, sea churning around her submerged legs.

  Irene mounts the guardrail, preparing to dive after us. I aim and shoot. My sister drops prone on the deck and crawls back to safety. The two grips make the Tommy gun easy to hold steady, unlike the German weapon I fired in Berlin’s sewers. Irene doesn’t pop her head up once. The gun clicks, signifying an empty magazine. But by then we’re two hundred yards from the Aegir, well out of harpoon range.

  “It’s as we thought. The stupid girl read the symbols.” Lydia talks in Greek, which explains the open criticism. “Now the Germans know where to look for the tomb. Not the exact place, but they’ll find it. I was furious with her, but… she’s young and impulsive. Like you once were. She’ll learn to make sacrifices.”

  I learnt her language for this exact reason. They won’t keep secrets from me this time. I play dumb, pretending I don’t understand a word.

  “You changed your mind,” says Kostis. “About destroying the ship.”

  Lydia folds her arms, looking ashamed of herself. “The girl talked me into sabotaging the fuel supply. And I listened.”

  “Your hand!” Kostis exclaims. “What happened?”

  Lydia’s face hardens, her eyes focusing on the Aegir. “She did.”

  Irene stands at the crest of the ship’s bow, blonde hair blowing in the breeze. Sunlight reflects off a glass vial in her hand. The one Matthau had. Was he discovered? Irene throws the container overboard.

  “Is that…” Kostis glances at me.

  “Yes,” confirms Lydia. “Her sister.”

  Irene reaches down. She bends her back, teeth gritted as if performing a circus act. It soon becomes clear why when my sister lifts up the harpoon. Matthau’s body is impaled on the end. Folded forward, with the spearhead protruding from his heart. Irene holds him aloft like a huntsman would a trophy.

  Kostis and Lydia exchange grim looks, but say nothing. Irene dumps Matthau on deck – out of sight - and walks away without a care in the world. The harpoon shaft sticks up above the guardrail, bent out of shape.

  “I told Matthau to take precautions,” Lydia says. “To shift the blame to someone else if he was discovered. He always was too kind to be a Hoplite.”

  Hoplites… Weren’t they ancient Greek warriors? I have no idea what Lydia means, and I can’t exactly ask.

  “You would condemn an innocent man to death?” It’s obvious Kostis disapproves. “And blow up a ship full of people. You taught me restraint.” He’s a different man to the one I knew in England. There’s genuine compassion in his voice.

  “They’re Nazis,” says Lydia cold-heartedly. “None of them are innocent. We have to protect Athena’s tomb. If that means innocent men have to die… We do what me must.”

  That argument again. I stare out to sea and play stupid. Lydia and Kostis don’t say much else, anyway. I’ve become used to Irene’s brutal displays of strength, but it’s a new experience for them.

  It’s afternoon when we sail into Alexandria. Sandstone dwellings appear brilliant yellow under the scorching sun. The port has been modernised - and new buildings well outnumber the old - but the coastline is the same shape as in my vision. This is the hollow city by the sea, the starting point for the race to Athena’s tomb. And with Gustav, Zennler and my sister on the competing team, it’s a race we can’t afford to lose.

  Chapter Twelve: In Father’s Footsteps

  Another bazaar. This must be the fifth? Sixth? Overcrowded street markets are common in Alexandria.

  Carpets stitched from colourful, Arabian threads double as stall covers, providing shade for haggling tradesmen. The trinkets they flog are worthless junk: carved wooden figurines, pocket watches, dirty jewellery with empty gemstone sockets. But the poor quality doesn’t stop gullible tourists buying merchandise in bulk.

  “Make a left here,” Lydia shouts over the bustle of the crowd.

  She disappears down a narrow alley. Me and Kostis quickly catch up in case she makes a blind turn. The din quietens as we leave the marketplace behind. There’s no breeze between the old stone buildings, but at least we’re sheltered from the Sun. Flies buzz around discarded food scraps. Don’t they use dustbins in Egypt? I hop over a half-eaten chicken, shake a fish bone off my boot, and rush by the pests before they decide to nibble at me.

  How much further? I want to ask, but I remain tight-lipped. Nobody likes a grumpy child.

  “Morgan agreed to meet us at Diocletian’s Pillar,” Kostis says in Greek. My cue to act ignorant.

  “Don’t you mean the pillar of Pompey?” Lydia’s tone is half-serious, as if disputing an erroneous fact everyone else believes is true.

  Their banter means nothing to me. I’m just shocked to see Kostis smile. Where’s the nasty knife-wielding cab driver who kidnapped me? Was he bluffing all those years ago?

  “Edith! Come!” he shouts, rediscovering some of his brutishness.

  Pompey’s Pillar – I’ll call it that since it’s easier to say – stands on a flat-top hill. The trek to the summit is arduous. If I didn’t have the power to heal, my feet would swell like rubber balloons. Other visitors – men in tailored suits and elegantly-dressed ladies with little white umbrellas – treat me as if I’m contagious. To them, a scruffy-haired girl in dusty overalls must seem manly and unsightly. Lydia and Kostis changed into less conspicuous robes before we disembarked at the harbour, but they didn’t b
ring fresh clothes for me.

  The spectacular view is almost worth the Herculean effort it takes to get up there. Pompey’s Pillar is between two sphinxes on gleaming white pedestals. The column is the tallest I’ve ever seen, smoothly circular with no grooves or indentations. It appears to be monolithic, carved from a single, giant piece of reddish granite. Scale that, and all of Alexandria would be visible, but I’ve done enough climbing for today.

  A square-jawed man is waiting for us. I don’t know him personally, but he’s either an officer in the British Army or very good at acting the part. Neatly-combed ginger hair, cheek-length sideburns, and a tapered moustache. Then there’s his uniform: green coat with leather straps, polished boots, and flat cap. All that’s missing is a swagger stick.

  “Captain Morgan.” Lydia greets him with a firm, businesslike handshake. I get the impression he’s more of an acquaintance than a friend.

  “You said the matter was urgent,” Morgan says in a gruff, northern English accent.

  “I need men for an expedition. And excavation equipment. On short notice. Will hiring them be a problem?”

  “Not if you have a few pounds to spare,” Morgan replies with a mischievous grin. “Work prospects don’t look so good after the treaty last month. Did you hear about that? We’re being pulled out of Egypt. The Government’s only interested in protecting the Suez Canal, and my platoon’s not stationed there. And no work means no pay.”

  Morgan’s a mercenary motivated by money. Not such a gentleman after all. Why is Lydia even dealing with this profiteer?

  “Who cares about pay?” I argue. “The Germans are right—”

  I catch my tongue, but it’s too late.

  Morgan’s eyes sparkle with delight. “So there’s some competition. That means a higher price. I think a relic or two should cover my expenses. You’ve always kept a few pieces in reserve.”

  “Follow me,” sighs Lydia.

  She struts past, bumping her shoulder into mine when she could easily have walked around. And the expression on Kostis’ face is… unfriendly. They’re not too fond of me right now.

  “I was hoping the girl would have matured,” says Kostis, reverting to his native language. “But she has much to learn.”

  “You’re welcome to teach her,” Lydia grumbles. “Once we find Athena’s tomb.”

  The three grown ups speed march down the hill. I can barely keep the pace even with my legs at full stretch. The others aren’t looking. Should I lose them in the crowd? Tempting, but I decide against it. The potential alternatives – sleeping rough in dirty alleys, or being recaptured by Nazis – are far worse.

  We keep to the main streets, which means more bazaars. I have nothing to spend, but that doesn’t stop shady merchants pestering me every ten feet. After five straight minutes of aggressive sale tactics, we escape to a relatively secluded amphitheatre.

  Lydia leads us away from the tourists and pauses by a padlocked iron grating set into a ruined sandstone tower. She checks nobody has followed us, pulls a metal pin from her robe, and steadies the lock with her knee.

  “The Kom El-Shoqafa catacombs,” Morgan reads aloud from an Arabic sign. “I thought the lower levels were flooded.”

  “They are.” Lydia picks the lock while she talks. “That’s what makes them such a good hiding place.”

  She has the grate open before she completes the sentence. For a one-handed woman that’s quite incredible. Lydia steps inside, disturbing a deposit of coarse, light brown dust. Wherever those rough-cut spiral steps lead down to – somewhere very dark - they haven’t been used for ages.

  “Wait here,” Lydia says, stripping down to her black cloth. The slow, slightly annoyed voice makes it clear who she’s speaking to.

  Lydia descends into the catacombs. She’s not carrying a lantern, so she must be relying on memories to find her way around. I hear two faint plops of water, then nothing.

  “Who’s the pretty girl?” asks Morgan.

  Pretty? In these clothes? I wonder if he’s being sarcastic or plain creepy.

  “Family friend,” Kostis grunts. “Not important.”

  That brings the conversation to an abrupt end, and we wait in silence. When Lydia returns to the surface, she’s dripping wet and carries a white marble bust of a bearded man nested in her elbow. She tilts the head forward so it catches the sunlight. The relic is in near perfect condition, with no scratches or defects.

  “A carving of Zeus, King of Olympus,” Lydia says. “First century BC. Worth a small fortune to the right buyer.”

  “Are you certain of the date?” asks Morgan.

  “Quite certain,” Lydia replies frostily. “Can you arrange men and supplies? Or should I find someone else?”

  “No,” Morgan is quick to respond. “Give me two hours.”

  When we reconvene at midday I’m not too impressed. Morgan’s men aren’t British troops – as I’m expecting - but robed, olive-skinned Arabs who conceal their faces behind hoods and scarves. Customary dress in this region of the world, but they’d be suspected as criminals back in Europe. Their equipment is basic, consisting mainly of dirty spades and blunt pickaxes. Cheap labour, cheap tools. Morgan must stand to make a sizeable profit on this venture.

  We set out later that afternoon. A trip across the Sahara Desert at the hottest time of year isn’t exactly pleasant, but at least I’m not required to travel in a supply truck. Me and Lydia sit in the convoy’s lead vehicle: an open-topped black staff car. Our driver is a brown-eyed Arab who doesn’t say a word, but I shouldn’t judge him too harshly. The clean, sandy-yellow robes he gave me are a lifesaver. They’re a foot too long with sleeves hanging off my fingers, but I’m not complaining.

  “Do you trust that man?” I look over my shoulder at the car transporting Morgan and Kostis.

  “He’s always been reliable.”

  I’ll have to defer to Lydia’s judgement on that. How much longer? We’ve driven for miles, and Alexandria is a distant, shimmering mirage. Lydia checks a magnetic compass on her lap. She talks to the driver in a foreign language – Arabic, I presume - and he turns a few degrees right.

  “Why do we need him? You know where—” Whistling wind lashes my face. I pull my scarf up, spit out the sand grains that blew in my mouth, and wait the breeze out. “Where the tomb is,” I say once it’s calm. “You’ve been there before.”

  “No. Stephen kept it secret from me. He must have buried the tomb after he found it. There were many different excavations, all with wide search areas. Eventually we ran low on capital. The men got restless, and the head labourer abandoned us. Not long after that we returned to London.”

  My heart sinks. “So… you don’t know where it is?”

  “Ernst is a genius,” Lydia praises him reluctantly. “His calculations were far more accurate than mine. Only one of Stephen’s dig sites was in the area marked on his map. The last of them, which makes sense. That gives us a rough location for Athena’s tomb, but unless we want to be out here for months…”

  “We need the captain’s help to find it.”

  I leave Lydia to do the navigating. What’s she planning to do with the tomb when she finds it? And the Germans… have they been rescued from the Aegir? They know where in the desert to look. Will we get there before them? I’ve a lot to think about, but in this searing heat the most pertinent question is: how much further to the dig site?

  Two long, sweaty hours later, Lydia taps the Arab driver on the shoulder and points to an overhanging rock ridge. The convoy stops in the narrow shadow cast underneath. Kostis and the labourers unload supplies from the trucks, pitch tents, and… Why are they marking areas with wooden poles and rope? It must be archaeology related. I assist the men – despite their unwelcome staring - while Morgan stays in his car, sips water from a canteen, and delegates hirelings to do the work.

  It’s sunset when we’re done. Lydia’s eager to start the search immediately, but the labourers understandably want some rest, and she wisely capitulates t
o their wishes. With only two females in the expedition party, there’s little choice who to sleep with. It could be worse. Kostis gets to share a tent with three Egyptians.

  Camping in the Sahara Desert is challenging. A rough blanket and hard pillow for a bed, frequent howling winds that could uproot the tent poles any moment, and the constant fear of being stung by poisonous scorpions. I shift my body, cushion the head with my folded robes, count imaginary sheep – Mother’s advice from when I was little – but none of it helps. In desperation, I freeze time repeatedly until I’m too tired to concentrate any more. No luck. I’m still awake.

  Lydia’s having trouble sleeping too. Her constant moving around hints at discomfort. I notice her reading something in the candlelight. My vision’s too blurry to make the object out, but I’m sure it’s papyrus. The same material as the scroll Zennler brought Gustav in Berlin, but a much smaller piece. Are those symbols? I can’t quite…

  “Edith!” Lydia rouses me. “Breakfast.”

  It’s daylight. So the freezing time trick worked after all. There are no fresh clothes to change into, so I put my robes back on, stretch my arms, and join the others outside. I’ve a feeling today will be taxing. The Sun’s only just risen, and already it’s like walking across hot coals.

  The dining table is a temporary fixture: a block of unfinished wood with slot-in, steel tripods for legs, and hinged platforms substituting for benches. An Egyptian labourer kindly makes room, and I sit down opposite Lydia. The bread rolls are rock hard, the beef tough, and cheese wedges melt in my fingers. But I’m too famished to complain.

  “Lydia?” I ask, pushing my empty tin plate away. “What are you expecting to find in the tomb?”

  She munches a chicken leg, swallows it, and empties her water into the earthenware jug. Classic stalling tactics.

  “More vessels?” I say. “Symbols?”

  Lydia places her cup by a partially chewed bread roll. “We’ve a difficult day ahead. You help Kostis. I need to talk with Morgan.”