Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air (36 page)

Lewis gave a grunt that wasn’t quite laughter. “Colonel, you know there are plenty of places back home where I’m not exactly a white man. Besides, if things are as bad as they’re starting to sound —”

“You’re not African,” Iskinder said. “And you’d be taking a terrible risk — risking everything — when there’s an increasingly good chance that we won’t be able to stop the Italians.”

“I don’t care,” Lewis said. “I’ll take my chances.”

“Mr. Segura,” Robinson began, and Iskinder touched his shoulder.

“Give me a moment with him, John, if you would.”

Robinson hesitated, then shrugged. “Ok. But you know those are my orders. I’m sorry, Mr. Segura.”

He turned away, heading back toward the hangar. Iskinder watched him go, his expression unreadable, and Lewis couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Look, I don’t want to blow my own horn, but you need me — me and about forty more guys like me, men with combat experience. And it’s not like you don’t have white men flying for you. Von Rosen’s about as white as they come.”

“He flies for the Red Cross,” Iskinder said, almost absently. “And you’re right, we need — we don’t just need forty of you, we need a hundred, and the planes to match, and an army that isn’t made up of farm boys and goat herders — and you could throw in a few armored trucks as well, and artillery, and everything else a modern army has. Our men are brave, none braver, but being willing to charge tanks on horseback doesn’t mean they’re going to win.” He stopped, wincing, and looked around as though he was worried about being overheard. “One or two more men aren’t going to make any difference, and are all too likely to get themselves killed.”

“That’s my business, isn’t it?”

“What would Alma say to that?”

Lewis met Iskinder’s eyes steadily. “You know she would say to do what was right.”

Iskinder sighed, nodding. “Yes. Yes, I know.” He took a breath. “Jerry told me — he said you were bound, oath bound, to the Diana of Aricia, that you were the Rex Nemorensis. And — forgive me, but I do not think this is her fight.”

“How can it not be?” Lewis answered. “What’s happening here is wrong —”

“But not hers,” Iskinder said.

“How do you know? Why wouldn’t she be here as well?” Lewis’s anger was rising again, and it took an effort to keep his voice low.

Iskinder hesitated. “If you can tell me, one Lodge member to another — one initiate to another — that Diana herself tells you this is Her service, then — well, I’ll try to talk to Robinson. But I want your word.”

Lewis paused in turn, looking up into the clear night sky. The moon was nearly full overhead, an imperfect silver disk that drowned all but the brightest stars. It was a fair question, and he slid his hand into his pocket, reaching for the carnelian seal he had found at Nemi, in the grave he dug to bury the bound demon. He ran his thumb over the incised surface: a long, lean hound, stretched out in a hard run.
Well, Lady, what do I do? What do you want me to do?
There was no answer, just the anger washing away to leave nothing behind, none of the certainty he had felt before. The moon soared empty overhead, serene and silent, and he closed his eyes. This was not a no, but he had felt Diana’s approval, felt her urging him to action, and this was not it. “How do I know I’m not just talking myself out of this?”

“You didn’t have to offer,” Iskinder said. “No one who wasn’t serious would take that chance.”

Lewis took a deep breath, grateful for the darkness, the foreign night that freed his tongue. “This is not Her path. I wish it was.”

“We are both oath bound, you and I,” Iskinder said. “But our paths diverge. You must be ready when She does call.”

Because She will not spend my life lightly, Lewis thought. What She buys with my life will matter. He bowed his head. “Can I — can we take any messages back to Europe, to the States?”

“I would take that as a favor,” Iskinder said. “Thank you. I’ll have letters for you in the morning.”

Lewis nodded, and turned back toward the tent. He still felt empty, the anger fading to a dull sorrow, not even regret for his own choice, but for the lives lost here, and all the deaths to come. Iskinder was right, he was bound, and this was not his path. Mitch was already asleep, curled on one of the cots with his back to the door, but Alma sat up as he ducked under the flap. She had left the lamp turned low, and it was flickering weakly, the kerosene almost exhausted; he blew it out.

“Everything all right?”

He nodded, then realized she might not be able to see him in the dark. “Yes.”

They had pulled two cots close together on their side of the tent, and he sat carefully on his to take off his shoes. “I’m not staying.”

He heard her breathe out sharply. “I’m glad. I was afraid —” She broke off, and when she spoke again, her voice was carefully controlled. “It would have been really hard getting back without you.”

“I know.” Lewis stretched out next to her, dragging the harsh blanket up over his shoulders. It was like sleeping under a saddle blanket, the same coarse, strong-smelling weight, and he shifted to get it adjusted more comfortably. “I was going to. But Iskinder — my oath is to Diana, and this is not the time.”

“I won’t say I’m sorry,” Alma said. She reached across the gap between the cots, her hand burrowing under the blanket until she’d found his, and clasped it tight. Her fingers were very cold.

Lewis wrapped his other hand around hers. “It’ll come sometime.”

“I know.” Alma’s voice was quiet. “But not today.”

January 4, 1936

I
t was almost eight o’clock before Henry Kershaw brought the boys back to the hotel, and Stasi met them at the door to the suite. “We’re a little late,” Henry said sheepishly.

“And how!” Stasi said, her hands on her hips. “You could have called. The hotel does have a telephone.”

“I’m sorry,” Henry said, perhaps a little more sincerely. “The boys had dinner at the field with us. It was a treat.”

Douglas pulled on her arm. “Mr. Kershaw showed us the Dart and Charlie let us climb all over it. Jim sat in the pilot’s seat and Mr. Kershaw showed him where everything was.”

“The engine was never on,” Henry said quickly. “It was just a cold walkthrough.”

“It better not have been,” Stasi said. “There are enough mad aviators in this family. Jimmy, I absolutely forbid you to fly Mr. Kershaw’s Dart!”

“Now, no chance of that,” Henry said, putting his hands in his pockets. “He’s got to learn on a trainer, not a plane like the Dart.”

“Mr. Sorley said…” Jimmy began.

“There are enough aviators,” Stasi said firmly. “Running off to God knows where, risking their necks at utterly unpredictable intervals…” She heard the tone in her voice, Henry’s suddenly sympathetic expression like he’d never seen her before. She stopped.

“I’m not going to be an aviator,” Douglas said staunchly. “I’m going to be a sailor. Merilee is the one who likes planes.”

“Merilee wants to be an aviatrix?” Henry asked.

“Merilee wants to be a plane,” Douglas said. “When she grows up. When she’s ten instead of three.”

“I don’t think she can be a plane,” Henry said. He looked bemused. “Where is she anyway?”

“Merilee and Dora have been in bed for hours,” Stasi said. “Which is where you should be. Douglas, Jimmy — go wash up and get ready for bed. I’m going to have a word with Mr. Kershaw.”

The boys trotted off to the bathroom, while Henry shifted from one foot to the other like Douglas in a jam. “Thank you so much for keeping them occupied,” Stasi said, “I have to do the dramatics. They’d be so disappointed if I didn’t. Jimmy would conclude I didn’t love him at all.” Stasi crossed to the decanters on the side table. “B&B?”

“Please.” Henry watched her fill a generous glass. “Are you planning to adopt them?”

“Yes.” Stasi handed him his glass, then filled hers. “Well, all three of them if Jimmy will. He’s old enough that it’s up to him. If he wants to stay and keep his own name and hope that his father… Well, that’s up to him. However he feels about it.”

“You’ll keep him anyway?”

“Of course. Mitch is very attached to them.”

“Ah,” Henry said. “Mitch is.”

“Absolutely.” Stasi gave him an insouciant glance over the top of the glass. “Cheers, darling.”

“Cheers.” Henry took a sip, then sat down in one of the chairs. “Actually, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about. I assume you have a way of cabling Mitch?”

“He said he wasn’t sure where he’d be staying and to reach him care of Jerry.” Stasi sat down too, a hint of worry winding its way up her spine. “Why? Is something wrong with the plane?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” Henry glanced toward the bathroom door, where the boys seemed to be doing a great deal of splashing. “There were a lot of people who wanted a look at the planes today while we were packing up. Unsurprisingly, one of them was the German Air Minister. It seems he’s lost his nephew.”

“He’s probably only misplaced, darling.”

Henry’s expression sharpened. “It’s not a joke. Hess told him that Von Rosen went to Alexandria with our guys.”

“Hess? How in the world would Hess know?”

“Not by any means I’d care to explore too deeply,” Henry said. “He’s well known in certain Theosophical circles. But I certainly wouldn’t work with the Lodges he used to work with.”

“Used to?”

Henry shrugged. “Nobody’s very clear on who he’s working with now, or if he’s given it all up. I wouldn’t bet on that with the ring he’s wearing.”

Stasi took a deep breath. Madame Refin had called them Rosicrucians, but she didn’t know for certain either. It was like trying to put a jigsaw puzzle together when you didn’t have all the pieces because somebody had lost a bunch of them and you’d find them weeks from now under the bed. “Is it a Lodge ring?”

“It could be.” Henry took another drink of his B&B. “If so, I don’t know the group. But it’s definitely charged.”

“So Lewis said.” She frowned.

“I didn’t get a very good look at it,” Henry said. “I couldn’t under the circumstances. But all the same, I wish he had something to think about besides Alma and Mitch and where Von Rosen has gone.”

“So do I,” Stasi said.

January 4, 1936

T
he Roman sewer led up to the Roman street, though at one point the passage was narrow enough that Jerry broke out in a cold sweat, crawling on his knee just above the stump, Willi’s breath loud close behind. They emerged into a wider space, and Jerry caught his breath.

There was a short flight of stairs leading down and above them a shattered dome. Large chunks of stone which had once spanned a space as wide as the Pantheon in Rome lay helter-skelter, some of them supporting the weight of city above so that it didn’t collapse on their heads, while some were jumbled piles around them. The stairs led to a door, wood long since splintered though the stone lintels were intact, a winged Egyptian vulture across the top, while on the columns…

“That’s perfect,” Hussein breathed.

Snakes, a pair of rearing cobras, were carved in glorious Hellenistic relief, crowned with very Egyptian falcons in the register above, while laurel wreaths surmounted the tops of the pediments.

“An ideal example of Hellenistic syncretism,” Jerry said, finding his voice. “Egyptian and Greek symbolism both. And look at the wreaths!” Even at this distance, even in this light, every leaf was distinct. The snakes seemed to waver in the flickering beam of the flashlight. “Agathos Daimon,” Jerry said. “The Spirit of the City. And the echo of the Uraeus, the sacred serpent on Pharaoh’s crown.”

“Why do the steps go down?” Hussein said. “Shouldn’t they go up?”

“This is the Roman street,” Jerry said. “They went up to begin with, but five hundred years later when the Soma was shut, Alexandria had literally risen, city built on city. The entrance was down, not up. You can see the same thing in some buildings in London.”

“Is it…” Willi said tentatively, as though he didn’t quite dare to name it the Soma.

“We have to see,” Jerry said. He leaned heavily on a fallen block, looking at the jumble that choked the stairs and the doorway. And no doubt the space beyond.

“We have to come back with a proper crew,” Hussein said, his eyes alight. “This is the find of the century! Dr. Ballard! This makes King Tut’s tomb look like nothing. This is…”

“Impossible to excavate,” Jerry said. It struck him like cold water to the face. “Mohammad, look at it. It would take two years to dig down to this. Maybe more, depending on what’s right above. And then years more to clear. We don’t have five years.”

“We have all the time in the world,” Hussein said.

Jerry shook his head. “Stop and think. Everything that’s going on in the world. Do you think Egypt could prevent any power that wanted from taking this tomb and its contents? You’ve seen what’s happening with Ethiopia trying to resist Italy. Do you think Egypt would do better?” He reached for Hussein’s sleeve. “Where are your airplanes and tanks and artillery? What kind of army can Egypt put in the field? They’d take this from you, Mohammad. As surely as the Elgin Marbles or Nefertiti’s bust or innumerable other treasures. You would have no control over this tomb or its contents.”

“It would go to Berlin,” Willi said, his voice sounding choked and angry. “For a bunch of lunatics to use to support their ridiculous theories.”

“Alexander’s body,” Jerry said, cold touching him again that had nothing to do with the temperature underground. Alma had asked him three years ago if anyone could use a body that old as a material correspondence. The idea had been boggling then. How could anyone possibly possess something like this, much less be able to use it? What could you do with a body that had been the focus of worship for hundreds of years, a cult object of immeasurable importance in addition to being the body of Alexander the Great? What could their old enemy Pelley do? What could Pelley’s friends in the Ahnenerbe do?

Suddenly, completely, he wished Alma were here. What kind of stakes are we playing for, Jerry wondered? What enormous, overwhelming stakes?