That afternoon, Hattie, Bing, and Berry accompanied Hafez to the government offices, Robbie having decided to enlist a translator and return to the site for another search, as there were rumors of a hidden map. No point in asking whether they should take Robbie into their confidence; it seemed clear that Berry would play his cards very close to the vest.
On the other hand, there was no need for the rest of them to accompany the minister when he went over to register the Priapus, but Berry had deftly arranged for it and Hattie surmised that this meant that Berry was monitoring Hafez—who according to Berry, was operating under some sort of duress—and keeping her close at the same time. It did seem that Berry’s manner was more preoccupied, and Hattie wondered what he had learned while eavesdropping on the contingent from the French embassy.
Hafez also announced that he would make another attempt to discover which of the workers from the worker’s village had helped with the Blackhouse excavation in their final days—or at least the days that they were last seen alive.
“I believe you have already performed this task,” Hattie commented to Berry as they were jolted along in the transport cart to the government compound. “And with precious little to show for it.”
But he shrugged and expressed his support for such a plan, “It does no harm to make another attempt, now that some time has passed. The minister has more authority than I, and we cannot overestimate the impact your presence may have.”
“The bereft daughter,” she noted with some irony.
“Burial rituals are important to these people; it may overcome whatever fears they have of speaking out.”
Hattie shifted her gaze to Hafez, who was listening to Bing with only half an ear as the cart made its slow progress. The French visitors indeed had wrought a change in the minister, who appeared distracted and was perspiring more than his usual. Thinking on it, she commented in a low voice to Berry, “All in all, perhaps it would be for the best if the secret chamber remains undiscovered; if no one can find it, no one can put it to its evil use.”
But Berry could not agree. “Such a trove will be very useful to whoever finds it—the weapons and the treasure will be an enormous advantage in the coming conflict.”
Hattie remained skeptical that the conflict would actually take place—although perhaps she was being naïve—and shook her head slightly. “It seems almost unimaginable that anyone would support Napoleon again—not after all that has happened.” Mainly, she didn’t want to think about Berry fighting in another war; there seemed little doubt he would wind up in the thick of things.
“It would be a grave mistake to underestimate him; there are many who only await a chance to support him again, and he is a very dangerous man.” Berry turned to check on their progress and Hattie understood that the subject was closed. I should not tease him about it, she thought—he may regret that he told me about Napoleon’s plans in the first place and so I mustn’t vex him.
The government compound was home to the local authorities who monitored and protected the historic sites as well as enforced the laws. The compound was located near the ruins of the huge Hypostyle Hall, which had served the same purpose forty centuries earlier. By contrast, the visitors’ building was foursquare and simple, with large archways that opened on to a veranda so as to access the river breeze. Several Egyptian officials processed paperwork behind ancient wooden desks while a number of civilians sat along the benches in the shade of the building, most of them elderly men passing the time by observing any visitors and conversing with each other in a desultory manner. As the stone walls made the interior relatively cool, it was with some relief that Hattie waited within for the gentlemen in her party to conduct their business. Hafez was treated with the deference due to his position, and Hattie could see Berry’s point; it seemed likely that more doors would be opened to the native minister in their quest for information.
Unable to resist, Bing wandered over to one of the open-air arched doorways to gaze upon the famous ruins next door, and Hattie strolled toward the west side of the building so as to feel the breeze from the river. In doing so, she passed by several of the old men seated on the benches.
“Halima,” cried one in surprise as she walked past. He then added an unintelligible sentence in Arabic, addressing her with some excitement.
I am definitely too brown, Hattie thought in amusement, and faced him to smile and spread her hands so as to indicate he had mistaken the matter.
The old man regarded her, the emotion in the rheumy eyes fading. “Your pardon,” he said in halting English, shaking his head. “There are times I forget how the years have passed.”
“No matter,” she said with a smile, and made as if to move on.
Bing appeared in an archway to ascertain her whereabouts and then indicated with a gesture, “I shall be just over here, Hathor,” before she ducked outside again.
“Hathor?” asked the old man in surprise. “Can it be that you are little Hathor?”
“My name is Hathor,” Hattie disclosed, thinking to humor him. She had little experience with the elderly, but she understood that sometimes their minds drifted.
Scrutinizing her, his grizzled face broke into a delighted grin that revealed yellow and broken teeth. With some satisfaction he nodded. “It is indeed you—the Blackhouse girl.”
Hattie stared. “I beg your pardon?”
Pleased with his role as the bearer of information, the old man continued, “You stayed here—with Halima and the soldiers. It was when I worked here—oh, many years ago. You would not remember; you were very small—hardly walking.” He indicated with his hand.
Hattie blinked, completely at sea. “Truly? I never knew I had been in Egypt; my parents never mentioned it.”
“You stayed here, with Halima. And the soldiers, who guarded you.” He paused, and nodded. “Yes; many soldiers.”
Enrapt, Hattie stepped toward him. “Who is Halima? Did she care for me?”
Enjoying her attention, the man displayed his broken teeth again. “Yes, she was your nursemaid, your amah—a beautiful girl. While you learned to walk she would hold both your hands over your head.” He demonstrated with a gesture, rocking back and forth, smiling in remembrance. “She delighted in you.”
Hattie smiled in delight herself, fascinated by this glimpse into her childhood. “How extraordinary—how long was I here?”
The old man tried to remember, raising his eyes upward in calculation. “A month—perhaps longer.”
“That long.” Hattie was amazed; her parents must have left her behind with this Egyptian girl while they went on an excavation—the surprising fact was that they had taken her to Egypt at all, especially as an infant.
“Yes—it was a sad day for many of us when your parents came to claim you. Halima wept for days, but she was set to wed one of the soldiers. We told her she would soon have children of her own to make her smile again.” He beamed, misty-eyed. “Little Hathor—how wonderful that you have returned to us for a visit.” Shaking his head in apology, he confessed, “I was confused—I thought you were Halima.”
But Hattie’s smile had faded, and she could hear her heartbeat in her ears. This man had mistaken her for her former Egyptian nursemaid and Hattie could not be said to resemble either of her fair-skinned, thoroughly English parents. Had her father fathered an illegitimate child?
She was dimly aware that Berry touched her arm. “Hattie? Come away, now.”
But Hattie was staring out the archway, unseeing. Her parents had been married from the first—they had been married years before she was born. This visit to Egypt would have been around the time of—she closed her eyes with the effort to remember—their dig at Rashid.
“Let us go outside.” There was an edge to his voice—almost a desperation. With a firm grip on her arm, he swung her out through the archway and onto the deserted veranda.
She looked up into his face without seeing it because a black, black thought was hovering around the edges of her mind and she refused to give it entry. Impossible to believe her father, devoted to his wife, would father a child on a local girl. Even more impossible to believe they would bring a baby with them to Egypt, especially on one of their earliest excavations. Indeed, it must have been just when Napoleon had begun his campaign—about the time her parents had made their bargain with the devil. Their bargain.
Hattie stood very still and the black thought could be refused entrance no longer. She remembered Eugenie’s sly comments and the scrutiny of the Frenchmen today. She had been heavily guarded when here as a baby, when the French had held Egypt—no, not exactly the French—it was Napoleon who held Egypt. She swayed slightly, and through the roaring sound in her ears she heard Berry speaking intently to her as he supported her in his arms, although she could not comprehend what he said.
Suddenly she was furious, and lashed out at him, hissing through her teeth, “You knew.”
“I love you, Hattie.” He pulled her close.
“I was a joke,” she rasped out into his shoulder, clinging to him so as to remain upright. “They named me after Hathor, the goddess of fertility—they said I was the daughter of the god-king—it was all a joke to them and nothing more.” Maddened by the horror of it all and perilously close to hysteria she gasped, “Oh, God.”
“I love you, Hattie,” he whispered. “It does not matter.”
She pounded her small fists against his chest, emphasizing the words. “You knew this—everyone knows—”
“No.” He took her hands and folded them into his, against the chest she had been abusing. Pressing his cheek against hers he spoke gently into her ear, “Few know. You must hush, Hattie; we will marry and I will send you to my sister’s home until this is over and then I will come for you.”
She drew back to gaze at him in scornful amazement, her heart still beating in her ears. “You speak nonsense—utter nonsense.”
“It does not matter, Hattie.” He was in agony—she could tell—but she couldn’t find any comfort for him, having none.
“Of course it matters,” she bit out. She then ruined the effect by resting her forehead against his chest and closing her eyes, wishing she could crawl inside him.
She was vaguely aware that Bing was standing in the archway, taking in the strange tableau without comment. “I will take her home,” Berry said in a tone that brooked no argument.
But Bing did not move. “Hathor?” she asked quietly.
“Please go, Bing.” Breathing in Berry’s scent, she didn’t move while he held her tightly. She was a bastard—and not just any bastard, but the bastard of her country’s greatest enemy. And the people everyone assumed were her parents were base traitors; in truth, she was hard-pressed not to howl in despair.
Hattie wasn’t certain how long they stood thus, but eventually her practical nature reasserted itself and with an effort, she stood upright. He immediately tucked her under his arm and led her across the way to a café, not speaking. Clinging to his side, she was content to allow him to navigate across the dusty road and once at the counter, he ordered a brandy and held the glass to her mouth until she drank a healthy swallow, then downed the remainder himself. Gasping, she felt the burning sensation in her midsection and the world came into focus again.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
It was not easy—she was ashamed and had been avoiding his eyes. But she gazed at him for several long moments, and then nodded, to show him she was recovered.
“There’s my girl,” he said quietly.
“I would like to speak to the old man,” she replied.