I think about what Bes said:a great evil in the world chases you because of your association with the amulet, but you must know by now that, at the very least, we’re not that evil.I don’t know my father well enough to be sure what he would do, but I do know he’s never stood for injustice or evil of any kind. He would want me to take control; he’d want me tofight.
Now, I need to decide whatIwant.
I could easily tell Bes that I’ve changed my mind about going tomorrow, take the boat to a port far from here, and try to get home that way.
If what Bes says is true about the God Men, about the Third Reich—and I’ve seen enough to confirm it is—then I have to consider what’s right. Not for me, but for everyone else. After all I’ve been through, all I’ve seen and done, can I justify fleeing back to the States with my tail between my legs? Can I leave Bes and Cec to fend for themselves in a fascist country when they must have a similar price on their own heads?
Remembering how Ailsa’s body fell lifeless into the sea, the stars above me blur before my eyes.No, I can’t.
The Nazis and God Men and whatever other fascist entities are chasing us may not be anywhere near my own country, but that doesn’t mean their agenda won’t eventually affect me. As John Stuart Mill said, ‘bad men need nothing more to compass their ends, than that good men should look on and do nothing.’ I can no longer turn a blind eye to what’s happening in Europe.
Especially given my fate and the amulet’s are now tied, Ihaveto keep it out of the hands of the Third Reich, whether it holds any magic or not.
By any means necessary.
And I can’t do that without trusting the two people who’ve saved my life, though that will take more time to come to terms with.
The amulet…
Removing it from my shirt, I hold it gently in my palm. The bloodstone is nearly black in the darkness, the gold wings dull and lifeless. Nothing like how it looked when I excavated it in the Temple of Seti I. The blood remains unchanged beneath the surface, but I continue to wonder if it truly can turn someone invisible. If I’mnotimagining the way it warms against my chest every now and then.
I speak aloud the ancient Egyptian word for wake, though it translates closer to dream. The Egyptians believed that, when you dream, you wake in another world, another dimension.
I don’t expect it to work, but when it doesn’t, I can’t help my disappointment. While I no longer plan to use it to get home, it could’ve come in handy.
A part of me wishes we weren’t wasting an entire day in Civitavecchia, just so we could get to Arturo’s house sooner. If he has any books on the Amulet of Amun, I want to read all of them.
First, I need to wash up.
Dropping my chin, I catch another whiff of myself and grimace, confirming it.
The Port of Civitavecchia is more heavily guarded than I thought it would be. And—except for the stench of fish and brine poisoning the air—is almost nothing like the port in Alexandria.
Tucked behind some exposed Roman brick on the outskirts of the thronging main port, Bes, Cec, and I observe the hustle and bustle from our hiding place. Along with the loading and unloading of goods from cargo ships passing in and out of the harbor, people crowd the streets in colorful clothes and plastered-on smiles.
The longer I watch them, though, the more I see past the façade. All of Italy reminds me of a carnival magician: showing me what they want me to see rather than what’s truly going on behind the curtain.
My limbs grow restless from just standing here. I tap my fingers incessantly against my thigh through my dress. Spending most of the day on the boat, waiting for the evening, was a kind of torture. The sun beat down on us beside the rotting dockmercilessly, the only saving grace a mild breeze wafting off the sea.
It didn’t help that I once again slept terribly. I couldn’t even say what my nightmares were about this time. Only that the fear I felt threatened to drown me.
Around noon, Bes managed to find a deck of cards hidden in the galley, briefly saving our sanity. I tried to teach them Euchre—which apparently is nearly identical to a British game called Whist—but it only works with four people. When that fell apart, Cec tried to teach me cribbage, which turned out to be a bust as well. In the end, we ended up playing Go Fish, with Cec holding his cards right up to his face the whole time. It was impossible to tell if he was lying or not, but he never once had the card I asked for.
Now, the sun has finally begun to set over the Tyrrhenian Sea, staining the water a deep sapphire blue. I tug on the thin lavender scarf wrapped around my head and neck, hiding my bright blonde hair as well as the amulet chain. I loathe having to wear this ridiculous thing—I’ve had to readjust it nearly a dozen times since we left the boat.
As Bes pointed out when I fought him on it, though, it’s a necessary evil: despite being able to easily pass as Italian inNorthernItaly, we’re too close to Rome to take any chances. Nothing—not even my blatant discomfort—is worth drawing unwanted attention to ourselves.
Pressed against the old stone archway, the three of us continue to bide our time until there’s enough of a crowd to slip in unnoticed.
That’s proving to be difficult, though. I easily recognize a dozen uniformed men scattered all around the port, standing at attention. By their dress, they look more like the Italian soldiers who murdered Ailsa in the Port of Messina, rather than the ones we hid from in Alexandria. Though none of them wear berets,most don black shirts beneath green military jackets, black ties around their necks, and black flames with two ends at the edges of their collars. One of them wears a black fez with a silver eagle on the front.
He looks important, I think, as he brushes the black tassel out of his face.Absurd, but important.
Their most notable accessory, however, is their weaponry. At ease but quite visible in their grips, they possess pistols, rifles, and a few other deadly weapons I don’t know the names of.
“How many soldiers does Mussolini’s army have?” I whisper to Bes.
Removing his coat and grasping it over his shoulder, likely to hide the bandages around his left arm from showing through his white shirt, he subtly eyes the uniformed men. I take stock of his clothes while he does, glad to see we’ll all be fitting in despite my reservations. He wears a white button-down collared shirt tucked into salmon-hued trousers with a brown belt, and a brown linen sport coat.
