Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena by Phillips A.D

Author:Phillips, A.D. [Phillips, A.D.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Action Girl Books
Published: 2014-10-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve: In Father’s Footsteps

Another bazaar. This must be the fifth? Sixth? Overcrowded street markets are common in Alexandria.

Carpets stitched from colourful, Arabian threads double as stall covers, providing shade for haggling tradesmen. The trinkets they flog are worthless junk: carved wooden figurines, pocket watches, dirty jewellery with empty gemstone sockets. But the poor quality doesn’t stop gullible tourists buying merchandise in bulk.

“Make a left here,” Lydia shouts over the bustle of the crowd.

She disappears down a narrow alley. Me and Kostis quickly catch up in case she makes a blind turn. The din quietens as we leave the marketplace behind. There’s no breeze between the old stone buildings, but at least we’re sheltered from the Sun. Flies buzz around discarded food scraps. Don’t they use dustbins in Egypt? I hop over a half-eaten chicken, shake a fish bone off my boot, and rush by the pests before they decide to nibble at me.

How much further? I want to ask, but I remain tight-lipped. Nobody likes a grumpy child.

“Morgan agreed to meet us at Diocletian’s Pillar,” Kostis says in Greek. My cue to act ignorant.

“Don’t you mean the pillar of Pompey?” Lydia’s tone is half-serious, as if disputing an erroneous fact everyone else believes is true.

Their banter means nothing to me. I’m just shocked to see Kostis smile. Where’s the nasty knife-wielding cab driver who kidnapped me? Was he bluffing all those years ago?

“Edith! Come!” he shouts, rediscovering some of his brutishness.

Pompey’s Pillar – I’ll call it that since it’s easier to say – stands on a flat-top hill. The trek to the summit is arduous. If I didn’t have the power to heal, my feet would swell like rubber balloons. Other visitors – men in tailored suits and elegantly-dressed ladies with little white umbrellas – treat me as if I’m contagious. To them, a scruffy-haired girl in dusty overalls must seem manly and unsightly. Lydia and Kostis changed into less conspicuous robes before we disembarked at the harbour, but they didn’t bring fresh clothes for me.

The spectacular view is almost worth the Herculean effort it takes to get up there. Pompey’s Pillar is between two sphinxes on gleaming white pedestals. The column is the tallest I’ve ever seen, smoothly circular with no grooves or indentations. It appears to be monolithic, carved from a single, giant piece of reddish granite. Scale that, and all of Alexandria would be visible, but I’ve done enough climbing for today.

A square-jawed man is waiting for us. I don’t know him personally, but he’s either an officer in the British Army or very good at acting the part. Neatly-combed ginger hair, cheek-length sideburns, and a tapered moustache. Then there’s his uniform: green coat with leather straps, polished boots, and flat cap. All that’s missing is a swagger stick.

“Captain Morgan.” Lydia greets him with a firm, businesslike handshake. I get the impression he’s more of an acquaintance than a friend.

“You said the matter was urgent,” Morgan says in a gruff, northern English accent.

“I need men for an expedition.

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