Egypt, August 1936
I’m almost certain the man I’ve entrusted to lead me into the Temple of Seti I is not who he says he is.
Shifting uncomfortably in the outfit I’ve been wearing for nearly two days now, I wish I had the chance to change at the airport. Sunlight beats down on my exposed neck, sweat seeping from my pores and soaking my grimy clothes. Rivulets of it chart paths down my forehead and into my eyes, the salt stinging. Each time I wipe it away, more takes its place.
I glare up at the sweltering Egyptian sun and curse its creation. I’ve never cared much for scorching heat, but this continent has been pushing my limits since the moment the plane landed.
And barely a lick of shade in sight.
Worse than the sun, though, is my growing distrust of my guide from the museum. My guard has remained staunchly up since the moment we met. Even the deep buzzing of thehundreds of locusts hidden in the brush surrounding the path to the Temple of Seti I sets me on edge.
A head shorter than me and twice as wide, Claude, a stout, balding Frenchman with an awful combover, lumbers on ahead. He carries nothing with him but an unlit oil lamp swinging loosely at his side; my pack weighs heavier on my back at the sight. The beginnings of a tattoo peek out from the collar of his starched white shirt. Since Luxor, I’ve tried to deduce what it could be and come up empty.Perhaps it’s a fleur-de-lis.
“How much farther to the temple, Claude?” I ask, his silence grating on my nerves. “I could swear we’ve walked a mile and are no closer to it.”
When he doesn’t answer, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end once again. I peer around him to get a good look at the Temple of Seti I—a wide, flat structure with half a dozen columns on either side of the entrance—shimmering blearily in the distance. It nearly looks like a mirage. I squeeze my eyes tight and open them again to make sure I’m not imagining things, sweat clinging to my lashes.
Finally, he mutters something in his native French, but I can’t make out a single word of it. I whip back the wisps of my greasy blonde hair sticking to my slickened forehead in mounting frustration. Claude, however, remains unperturbed by the desert. Or, at least, he pretends to be.
He shuffles an arm’s length away now, his unmarred brown leather Oxfords kicking up sand; the grains hang in the heavy air and land on his pristine suit. My wariness rears its ugly head again. His outfit alone would be enough to raise my hackles, but my first impression of the man warrants my suspicions.
The moment he waved me down far too cheerfully at the airfield in Luxor, an uneasy feeling—one that’s gotten me out of enough sticky situations to trust it—settled into my gut.
Before that, I landed at the Almaza Airport near Cairo, knapsack and suitcase in tow. British soldiers swarmed the airfield, which I expected. Luckily, the only person there who gave me more than a glance before I boarded the next plane was a camel salesman who attempted to swindle me into overpaying for one of his beasts, despite my assurances that I couldn’t take one with me even if I wanted to.
Now, I almost wish I had.
Once I strapped myself into the only available seat on a cargo plane, one bound for the Sudan but stopping in Luxor first to refuel, I suffered more turbulence alongside the loud droning of the engines. Lucky me.
I can’t complain, though: the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities—whose Oriental Studies department is funding my expedition here—could’ve forced me into a car with this man for over eight hours instead.
Hewavedmeover at the airfield, as if he recognized me by my face despite never having seen me before, and asked if my name was Amelia Hawkins. I gave no answer, knowing it would be foolish to admit something like that to a stranger. But he kept on as if I had, claiming to be an emissary for the museum. He even provided the curator’s name and mentioned my Nonna Lucia, who put together all my travel plans and had been the one in communication with them about this specific expedition.
He knew exactly what to say to gain my trust. And so, without being presented with another option, I took him at his word.
After crossing the Nile in a ferry, the ancient river packed with dozens of white-sailed boats, Claude led us to a vehicle kept safe beside a mud-brick house owned by a local family. One he no doubt paid off.
Watching him step into the driver’s seat of a car far too extravagant to belong to a museum employee, I couldn’t help thinking he was being awfully quiet. I’ve met many a quietacademic in my life to know most of them aren’t very talkative. And yet, something about him rubbed me the wrong way. I should’ve questioned him then, or come up with an excuse for him to take me back to the museum instead.
Unfortunately, that might have tipped my hand that I was suspicious of him. Which, given my current circumstances, could’ve proven to be even more dangerous. I know no one else in Egypt—no one I trust, anyway—and my nonna told me to put my faith in the museum, as she always does on these sorts of archaeological excursions.
The more time I spend with him, though, the more I wonder if this man has evenseenthe inside of a museum, much less if he’s currently employed by one. Which is why I slid my hand inside my pocket, clenching around the worn ivory handle of my father’s switchblade, and kept it there for the entire three-hour car ride to the Temple of Seti I.
Though I’m not touching it now, the weapon sits heavy in my pocket, waiting for Claude to show his true colors. It’s been torturous. I could be wrong about him—it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve mistaken someone for a villain. I don’t believe I am, though. And I have no idea what being right about him entails at this moment.
This isnotwhat I imagined when I planned to go off on my own for the first time.After Nonna received the telegram from the museum to request our assistance retrieving the Amulet of Amun, we decided together that I was ready to take on my first solo expedition. And as much as I love my nonna, I couldn’t wait to go off on my own.
I hope we both didn’t make a gigantic mistake.
Claude finally answers my earlier question, a severe bite to his tone: “Plus longtemps, et je te ferai me porter au temple. Stupide femme Américaine.”
As we climb up the wide stone steps, I mull over his words:Any longer, and I'll make you carry me to the temple. Stupid American woman. Even if I didn’t know any French, I glean his irritation. I’ve never known a Frenchman who wasn’t rude. Considering he needsmyhelp and not the other way around, though, I thought he’d be more gracious.
The venom in his words should concern me, but the worst he can do is strand me out here. Hecouldtry to attack me, I suppose. I eye him up and down again. Despite how exhausted I am, if he came at me, I might be able to go toe-to-toe with him in a fight. The boxing and Jujitsu lessons I’ve taken over the years could actually prove valuable for once, although I’ve never actually put them to use in the real world.
I decide to feign innocence. “Come again?”
“Nothing. It is nothing,” he amends after a moment in broken English. “We are here now: welcome to the Temple of Seti the First.”
