“Don’t just stand there; help me look for them,” Ricardo said, stumbling off in the direction of the temple.
I searched Trajan’s Kiosk, a temple dating back to Emperor Trajan, maybe even as far back to Emperor Augustus, but there was no one underground,no one shoveling or picking their way through the tunnel. I climbed up the hidden stairs and walked back to the campsite. Perhaps someone had left a note. But there was nothing. Only the hallmarks of a fight—equipment stolen, blood on the sand. Without warning, memories flooded my senses. Anguished screaming, the sound of horses shrieking in pain, the clang of steel against steel. My breath turned cold in my chest, and I rubbed my arms.
Hold it together.
A soft groan came from the stone structure we’d used as makeshift rooms. I spun, veering toward it as a figure stumbled out of one of them. His eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks hollowed out.
“Thank God,” Abdullah said in Arabic. “I hoped you’d be here days ago.”
“We came as soon as your telegraph arrived.” I peered at him, anxious. His clothing had seen better days—his shirt and right jacket sleeve were ripped. A bruise on his cheek bloomed an angry dark purple. “You look awful.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are clearlynotfine,” I said. “Have you been sleeping here? Alone?”
“I know, I know.” Abdullah wiped his sweating brow. “If Farida knew, she’d be furious with me.”
“Abdullah!” Footsteps thundered as Ricardo stomped toward us. His cotton shirt clung to him like second skin, soaked in sweat. “Her tomb! It’s all… it’s all—” He broke off with a hoarse cry, his gaze latching on to his brother-in-law’s battered state. “Dios mío, ¿qué te pasó?”
Abdullah frowned. “Why are you bleeding?”
“I was shot,” Ricardo said, pale and sweating, holding his arm. It was clear I needed to take control of the situation. I immediately went to his side and inspected his shirt. His bandage was soiled again. I rubbed my eyes, muttering curses to myself. Ricardo didn’t notice, his attention still fixed on Abdullah. “Where is everyone?”
“They left after the attack on the campsite,” he said, tugging at his graying beard. “So many were injured.”
“Let me help you,” Ricardo panted. “You need medical attention.”
“Sit down before you fall over,” I snapped at him. “You have to helpyourself, too. Let’s go to the boat. I brought supplies and your medicine that will help you both, and Abdullah will tell us what the fuck happened.”
“Why haven’t you gone to a doctor, Abdullah?” Ricardo demanded.
Pot, meet kettle. I barely restrained my eye roll.
“I couldn’t leave camp until you got here,” Abdullah said. He had the good sense to sound sheepish, before turning grim. “Even if it’s all gone.”
“What?” I asked sharply, trying to herd them both toward the river. They were worse than cats. “What did you say?”
“Cleopatra’s tomb was ransacked. Everything has been stolen,” Ricardo confirmed dully. “The sarcophagus, all the statues, the jewelry. Gone.”
“Christ.” My gaze swung to Abdullah. “Who attacked the camp?”
Abdullah licked his dry lips. “It was Mr. Fincastle.”
Then his eyes rolled heavenward, and he keeled over. Ricardo lunged for him as I turned away and sprinted to the boat, my heels kicking up sand. Behind me, Ricardo shouted at his brother-in-law, demanding that he wake up and not frighten the hell out of him.
I swear to God the pair of them would send me to an early grave.
By the time I’d gotten both of them settled, given them medicine, and rewrapped Ricardo’s wound in fresh bandages, they were both stable enough to move. Abdullah had woken a few times and now fitfully slept as I rowed us away from Philae.
Ricardo’s normally tanned face was pale and wan and half turned away from me as we left the island. Despair worked itself across his lined brow, deepening the grooves. “He’ll be all right,” he said.
I would have replied, but I didn’t think he was speaking to me. His voice was a murmur, barely loud enough to hear over the sound of the river pulsing around us. Ricardo abruptly turned away from the sight of the temple, rubbing his eyes.
“He took everything,” he said. “Hundreds of artifacts and every single roll of parchment. I never got the chance to read any of them.” His shoulders slumped. “He has the Chrysopoeia of Cleopatra—I’m sure of it.”
Without thinking, I shook my head and said, “He doesn’t.”
Ricardo slowly straightened, pierced me with an intense glare. “¿Cómo sabes?”
