by Amanda Vink
“What happened in there?” Frank asked when they were far enough away.
“Someone stole the ox,” Marjorie said, her voice strained and distant.
“How?” Frank sounded as bewildered as she felt.
“I have no idea.” After a moment, she added, “I met Wessaim Seif.”
Frank swore. “Can’t go anywhere without running into him.”
After a few more steps, a car pulled up slowly next to them and stopped at the curb. It was too dark to see inside, but Marjorie recognized it as the car that had dropped them off earlier—Nadine’s vehicle. They climbed inside and headed toward the nightclub.
Once they arrived, they went in through a back exit. Inside, Nadine sat at her table shuffling a deck of tarot cards. The steady rhythm of the cards stopped abruptly when she saw them. She slammed the cards down and split the deck in two perfect halves. Each rested on the table, face up. One card showed the Queen of Swords; the other, the Joker. Marjorie felt sick at the sight of the large, wicked grin of the face card.
Nadine snapped her fingers, and, like before, a man appeared from behind the curtain. In his hands he held a wooden board. When Marjorie saw the ox positioned in its center, she gasped again at its beauty.
“I want to show you what you’ve brought me,” she said, her voice gleeful, as though drinking in the success. With eager fingers, she lifted the bull into her palms and held it up so everyone might see.
“I could not let them have this,” she admitted. “This is the key to finding the Tree of Life.”
Marjorie turned to look at Frank. She could not hide the look of impatience that spread over her features. “I came here to find out what happened to my father,” she snapped, “not to seek out the Tree of Life. I can’t help but feel I’m getting further and further from my goal.”
Frank was about to respond when Nadine cut in. “Your father’s death is connected to all of this.”
“I know. I believe he had the ox when he died,” Marjorie said.
Everyone blinked, and Marjorie explained her reasoning—the shade of patina was inconsistent with what the research team in Memphis had reported, and what her father had hinted at in his letter to Uncle Charlie. Plus, her father had died just before giving Brother Alban a drawing of it. It had to be connected.
Nadine sat back, her expression unreadable. Finally, she spoke. “He chose you to finish this work, and I believe there was a reason for it. The only way to know for sure what happened to him is to follow this to its end. Will you do this?”
“Why are you involved?” Marjorie wanted to know. She could not go forward without knowing Nadine’s motivations.
“Ah,” Nadine said. “Forgive me for not being forthcoming before. My reasons are very personal.” She called out, and from behind the curtain a young boy emerged. He was perhaps ten years old and wore a serious expression. He kept his eyes on the ground, bowing his head in respect.
Nadine went to stand next to him. She put her hands on his shoulders, turning him to face Marjorie and Frank.
“This is my son,” she said. “Hamid Ibrahim al-Eissa Mostafa.”
The boy had Nadine’s face—and that was the only thing he had taken from her. His body, unlike hers, was small and spindly. He didn’t look up at Marjorie or Frank.
“Hamid, you may go back upstairs,” Nadine told him. Her voice sounded different when she spoke to him, gentler, which Marjorie found to be a strange mix coming out of Nadine’s mouth. Hamid nodded once then scampered away.
“His father was the last known descendent of Darius the Great, through Artobazanes. While he did not inherit his father’s kingdom, he inherited his birthright. It is said that only he or his descendants could discover the true meaning of the Tree of Life. Professor Hart—your father—discovered this information, and he traced the line all the way down to Hamid. I believe it is one of the reasons he died, protecting him. Until the Tree of Life is found, I fear he will always be in danger. I hope you will consider continuing your father’s work. Help me save my son.”
Marjorie hesitated. They may never find the Tree of Life, despite everyone around her believing they were close. Did that mean she would never discover what actually happened to her father? Was it better to give up while she was ahead?
Frank studied her with an intense expression. He had spent his entire academic life looking for mythology and lore—she knew that whether she helped or not, he was on this path and would not stop. Could she leave him to this road, knowing that he would face many dangers?
She turned back to Nadine. “I will stay.”
Nadine’s face broke into a large grin. “Wonderful. My people will arrange your travel from here to Persia.”
***
No continuous train route existed from Egypt to Persia, so their journey involved a series of trains and cars. They not so secretly bought train tickets to Istanbul, so as to give the illusion that they were leaving the Orient and heading back to Europe. Instead, they would buy the tickets to each next leg of the journey upon arrival so it would be difficult to track them.
Marjorie and Frank first took the train from Cairo to Suez. It was a comfortable commuter car and only a few hours’ journey. Marjorie had a small traveling bag in addition to her rucksack—the rest of her belongings she arranged to remain at the Shepheard for her return.
From over her father’s notebook, she enjoyed watching Frank, who sat across from her. He had almost immediately fallen asleep upon entering the train car and sitting down. Now he slouched in the chair, his long legs stretched in her direction. He looked like a boy without a care in the world, putting his complete trust in strangers. She laughed to herself.
Once they reached Suez, the next train didn’t depart until the afternoon the following day, so Nadine’s people arranged for them to stay on the east side of the river. In the morning, they would take a ferry across, where they could catch the next train. On and off, they would take different trains to Baghdad. From there, the railroad line dried up—and they would have to travel by other means.
In Suez, they checked in to a stately hotel. It was in serious need of renovation—with cracking walls made of sand-colored bricks on the exterior and faded frescoes in the lobby—but it was comfortable enough. The hotel clerk gave them two sets of keys. Marjorie’s room was located on the second floor, while Frank’s room was on the first. They agreed to meet in the lobby at eight o’clock for dinner, which left ample time for rest.
Exhausted, Marjorie didn’t even take her dusty travel clothes off before falling into bed. No nightmare could cling to her—she was so tired that she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When she awoke, the light in her room was pale and gray. She smoothed back the curtain and looked out: clouds covered the sun, and people were heading home for the day. She wiped the sleep from her eyes with the back of her arm and watched darkness fall.
Her thoughts turned to her father. What had caused him to fall in with Nadine? Was it the tempting realization that her son was the direct descendent of Darius the Great? Surely that was not a reason to put himself in so much danger. Of course, maybe he thought working with her was better than working against her. That was certainly the position Marjorie found herself in.
When it got closer to the time she was to meet Frank, she changed into a fresh outfit then made her way downstairs. He was already waiting for her, still wearing the same clothes, but at least he had brushed his hair and washed his face. He looked rejuvenated. He smiled when he saw her and offered his arm.
“Thank you,” Marjorie said, taking it. Her lips raised in a smile too.
They ordered falafel from a street vendor, and it came wrapped in the day’s newspaper. From what Marjorie could see, it looked like some kind of serialized short story. However, since it was in Arabic, she couldn’t read a word. Frank, however, laughed at something in the story his own falafel was wrapped in. Noticing her confusion, he leaned over and showed her the lines he translated. “It’s about a brickl
ayer who finds buried treasure under the road he’s working on.”
“It’s not an unreasonable assumption here in Egypt with its long history.”
Frank continued, “Only he doesn’t want anyone to find this treasure, so he makes up a story about the road caving in. In the end, it caves in on him and someone else gets the treasure. The way it’s written is funny.”
“When did you learn Arabic?” she asked.
“Oh, I’ve picked it up here and there.” He shrugged. “I’m better at speaking it than reading it, and I’m much better at understanding it than speaking it.” He winked.
They found a place to sit on some stairs. From this vantage point, they could watch the boats coming and going along the canal. Suez itself existed right at the same level as the water.
Marjorie took a bite of the falafel, still hot from the oil. It tasted of fresh herbs, and the cool yogurt sauce drizzled over the top was divine. Between bites, she asked, “What do you know about Darius’s tomb?”
Frank was in the middle of a large bite, and he spoke around his food. “It’s one of four tombs located at Naqsh-e Rustam, not far from Persepolis herself,” he said. “All four are resting places for Achaemenid kings. The city of Persepolis was built by Darius. He made it the capital of the Persian Empire, and it became one of the wealthiest places in the world. Following the conquest and victory at the Battle of Gaugamela in 331 BC, Alexander the Great and his men burned the palace at Persepolis to the ground. The city was left in ruins—forty columns standing bare in the sand.
“Alexander’s armies also ransacked the tombs of the Achaemenid kings, leaving behind practically nothing—at least that was the tale. But your father believed they missed something. He thought it was the gift, the secret to the Tree of Life.”
“What makes you so sure it’s there?” Marjorie asked.
Frank finished his sandwich. Sitting back, he chuckled. Marjorie had the sense he was laughing at himself. “Sure? I’m not. I just—” he looked for the words— “I just have to believe in it.”
“How do you do that?” Marjorie asked.
Frank shrugged. “Don’t you believe in anything, Miss Hart?”
She bristled a little and shifted away from him. “Of course, Mr. Ryan,” she said. “I believe in facts. I believe in the things I can see and touch.”
“Yes, of course,” Frank said. “But there comes a point where facts only go so far. There are plenty of things science hasn’t explained yet. That doesn’t mean they aren’t real.”
Marjorie shrugged. “And I’ll believe those things too—when they’re proven.”
Frank smiled broadly.
“And what’s that look for, Mr. Ryan?” she demanded, a little annoyed.
“Nothing,” he replied.
They sat in silence then, with Marjorie outwardly brooding. It had been a nice time before he went and spoiled it, she thought. She looked out at a steamship, heavily laden with cargo and bound southward. It looked comically big for the canal. Then she took the last bite of her falafel. It was cold now, but it still tasted great.
Frank was the first to break the quiet. “When we reach Persepolis, I think I’ve got a friend who will help us.”
“You do?” she asked. Her mouth must’ve fallen open in shock because he smirked and quickly spoke again. “You’re not the only one with resources, Miss Hart. I’ve been in the Near East a bit longer than you, yeah?”
She glared at him. This conversation was not going all that well. He must’ve taken the hint, for his tone changed as he continued, a bit softer now. “Amna Amin is a research assistant at the dig site in Persepolis. She’s been there on and off for three years—your father was the first to hire her. I think she’ll gladly help us.”
“I hope so,” Marjorie replied, her voice still sore. “We need all the help we can get.”
***
As the train pulled into the station at Baghdad, Marjorie looked out of the window and spotted the blue-domed top of the Haydar-Khana Mosque. It was gigantic and beautiful, the Ottoman designs of yellows and blues swirling against the sky. Next to the dome, a stately minaret reached toward the heavens.
Marjorie’s heart tightened at the sight. Wistfully, she wished she could stay a few more days to explore. But there wasn’t any time. It was a long journey already, and they couldn’t afford to tarry. Baghdad was where the train line ended, so now the journey would be by car. As soon as they arrived, she knew they’d be leaving again.
“There’s our ride,” Frank said when they stepped onto the platform. He carried both their bags and gestured with a long arm not far into the distance.
Nadine’s people had written down instructions for him in Arabic, and he held that paper aloft in his fingers. Marjorie tried not to let on how impressed she was at his ability to maneuver so much at one time. Glancing where he pointed, she recognized the logo on the front of the truck as a match to the one given to them. If she hadn’t been looking for the nondescript image—an inverted triangle with an Arabic word in the middle that represented a shipping company—she would have missed it altogether.
“Let’s go,” she said.
The driver greeted them by touching the side of his forehead. He was an old man with a long, ragged beard, the tips of which sported small braids.
With a closer look at the vehicle, Marjorie realized that the comfortable part of their journey was over. They climbed into the back of the truck and attempted to find a place to sit where they wouldn’t be jostled about too much. This secrecy existed for the safety of the mission: they couldn’t afford to have Seif and his men know they were traveling to Persepolis, to the tomb of Darius the Great. Discretion meant safety, and unfortunately, safety now meant some discomfort.
Marjorie leaned back against a brown burlap sack partly covered by a canvas cloth. Surprisingly, it moved. “Oof!” the sack said.
Marjorie sat up and whirled about. Frank, having seen the movement as well, pulled out a gun he had stored under his jacket. Marjorie pulled the canvas cloth out of the way … and two young eyes greeted them. Hamid.
“Janey Mack,” Frank cried. He sat back against a sack of rice and stuffed his eyes into his palms. When he looked back up, his expression portrayed equal parts relief and fear. He holstered his gun again.
“What are you doing here?” Marjorie demanded. Frank repeated the question in Arabic—at least Marjorie assumed that was what he asked.
Hamid smiled at her, but the gleam in his eyes told her he felt more than a little guilty. He clasped his hands together, trying to keep them still, but his legs kept bouncing. He opened his mouth to say something, but Marjorie intervened.
“What are we going to do?” she asked, turning to Frank. “We can’t keep him with us. It’s much too dangerous.”
“No!” Hamid said, his voice earnest. He raced to his feet, but after sitting so long in a strange position, his legs must’ve fallen asleep. He wobbled, falling into a sack. It didn’t stop him. “You need me!” he pleaded. “You’ll need me to fulfill the prophecy.” Marjorie was surprised at the boy’s flawless English.
“He may be right,” Frank said after a moment.
Marjorie glared at Frank. “No. No. Look, there isn’t a prophecy.”
Hamid looked like he was about to protest this blasphemy, but Frank spoke before he could get a word in. He said, “Either way, for now, it’s likely the safest place for him is with us.”
The truck lurched, and all three of them fell into nearby sacks and boxes. Marjorie cursed and righted herself. She reached over to her rucksack and started to dig through it. She was looking for a scarf to wave the driver of the truck down. Then they could hire someone to take Hamid home on the train.
She pulled the blue scarf from her bag and started to make her way to the end of the truck. No doubt figuring out what she was about to do, however, Hamid threw himself over the length of the truck and clung to her.
“There is a prophecy,” he insisted. She was surprised by his
strength and determination. “Besides, if you send me away, I’ll keep following you.”
Marjorie considered. The silk scarf felt heavy in her hands. It would be too easy to fling it out the side, to set in motion a plan that would send Hamid back to his mother.
Marjorie swore. She had a funny feeling about it—What are you really doing here and how did you sneak away from Nadine in the first place? “Your mother’s going to kill me.”
Hamid whooped, throwing his hands into the air in celebration, but that made Marjorie feel less sure of her decision to let him stay. She kept him at an arm’s distance. “Stay quiet, and if something happens to you, it’s not my fault,” she said. Cold comfort. If anything happens to you, I’ll be the first your mother comes after.
Then she found a place to lie down and used the scarf as a pillow. A short time later, she opened one eye and found Hamid very close, staring at her. He looked so serious, his eyes boring into hers. His face was so smooth, so young, but she couldn’t help noticing that his eyes seemed much older.
“Thank you, madame,” he said.
“For goodness’ sake, call me Marjorie,” she said.
“Marjorie,” Hamid repeated.
She couldn’t help but smile at the way he said her name with a certain amount of musicality. She then turned away. Covering her eyes with a hat, she tried to fall asleep. But it proved difficult—every time she drifted off, she saw Nadine’s angry face clouded with cigarette smoke. She had a funny feeling about the whole thing.
Marvdasht
Chapter Seventeen
They arrived in Marvdasht, tired, hot, and dusty, early in the morning almost an entire day later. The truck had traveled straight through the day and night, without stopping except to fill up the gas tank. They were all exhausted, except, it seemed, the driver—to Marjorie’s amazement, he dropped them off in the street where Frank told him to and then took off directly.
Together, the three walked the long, straight street before them. Frank explained it led north of the city. All around, the houses were short and squat with small patches of kitchen gardens—full of green, fragrant herbs and vegetables—around the front doors. Marjorie noticed that the ruins of Persepolis were nowhere in sight. Her spirits deflated a bit. She hadn’t realized just how much she had been looking forward to seeing the palace.