Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air Page 5

  The translation was modern and neatly typewritten. “I place the necklace of Queen Berenice into the keeping of Drusilla of Mauritania as part of her bride portion, once belonging to her grandmother the great Cleopatra, that she may carry the protection of Isis in her new place and that Isis may grant blessings upon her marriage. I, Demetria the Adoratrice of Isis, give this to her keeping with her mother’s blessing.”

  Iskinder shrugged. “Purportedly, the Emperor descends from Cleopatra via her granddaughter Drusilla of Mauritania, who married one of the Herods in the first century. I say purportedly, as that depends on the accuracy of documents that are not nearly that old, and which may have been concocted to shore up the legitimacy of kings several centuries ago. But to the best of our knowledge…”

  “Anyone who concocted a forgery in the fifteenth century couldn’t have read the cartouche,” Jerry said sharply. “Hieroglyphics weren’t deciphered until 1822. They wouldn’t have known it was the necklace of Queen Berenice. It could be anyone’s. Any Ptolemaic queen.”

  “True,” Iskinder said.

  Jerry rested his hand on the gold. Taken from Alexandria as part of Augustus’ loot, sent to Numidia with Cleopatra Selene’s dowry, given to her daughter as a wedding gift from the Temple of Isis that Selene established in Mauritania… And then a long trail down the centuries, treasured by women and men alike, given hand to hand from Jerusalem to Palmyra, and at last to Aksum in northern Ethiopia, gold like blood flowing through many veins to rest at last against Iskinder’s heart.

  “But it isn’t,” he said. “It’s the real thing.” His voice was sure and strong.

  “It’s the second oldest piece in our coronation regalia,” Iskinder said. “The Emperor gave it to me for safekeeping. It must not fall into the hands of the Italians.”

  No second Rome. The pectoral did not want it. No second Rome, no second captivity, taken away from those of its blood to ornament a conqueror’s triumph. Blood and gold, blood of the Ptolemies, steaming on a temple floor where Roman swords had shed it while a young priestess knelt in horror, the pectoral safe against her chest….

  Jerry blinked. Iskinder reached out and took it, cradling it in his hand. Iskinder’s blood, a prince of Ethiopia who now brought it back to Alexandria.

  Alive. Protective. Wakened by Iskinder’s blood shed upon it, the assassin’s knife turning against a ruby and sparing his heart…

  “You’re right,” Jerry said simply. “It mustn’t. What do you need me to do?”

  Palermo, Italy

  December 27, 1935

  Lewis leaned against the window of the suite’s main room, staring down onto the plaza and its massive fountain. Cars crept past, honking at each other and at the pedestrians darting between them, the old-fashioned gas streetlights giving everything a yellow tinge. They would be heading to the air show’s opening reception soon — there would be some sort of tribute to the French flyers, of course, and a rumor had spread through the hangar before he left that the Air Marshal was planning to donate some of the show proceeds to the flyers’ families, but the reception and the dance that followed would go on as planned. He didn’t feel particularly guilty about that — every flyer lived with that chance, and they’d all learned during the war to put the deaths into their own little box and move on — but he couldn’t help his sorrow. This was no way to start the show.

  “You’re thinking you should have been able to warn them.”

  He turned away from the window to see Stasi Sorley standing in the doorway. Mitch’s wife was dressed to the nines, her jet-black hair neatly waved beneath a pair of silver and rhinestone clips, her face white with powder and her lips a vivid scarlet that matched her nails. The black satin bias-cut evening gown made the most of her skinny figure, but the shoes that peeped from beneath the hem were sturdy dancer’s pumps: she was still planning to enjoy the evening, he thought, and felt his heart lift a little. And she was right, too.

  “What’s the use of being a clairvoyant if you don’t see something like that coming?” He did his best to keep his voice light, but the glance from her dark eyes suggested she saw right through him.

  Stasi waved her unlit cigarette at him, and he reached automatically for his lighter. Neither he nor Alma smoked much, but when Stasi was around, it was only polite to be prepared. She released a cloud of smoke, her eyes slitting in pleasure, and slipped the long jet holder from her lips. “Darling, be grateful you didn’t know.”

  “But —”

  “What would you have done?” she asked, her voice gentle. “Gone and told the Tower or the French pilots — what? That they were going to crash? That there was something wrong with the plane? Almost certainly they wouldn’t have believed you, and even if they had, you’d have had to explain how you knew. And that would have been rather awkward, to say the least.”

  She was right, of course. He could just imagine what the French pilots would have said — could imagine what he himself would have said, in the same circumstances, and he was a part of the Aedificatori Templii, a lodge member and a trained clairvoyant who believed in such things. He would still have taken his chances and flown.

  Stasi nodded as though she’d read his mind. “You see, darling, sometimes things work out for the best. The powers don’t give us pointless knowledge.”

  “I suppose,” Lewis said, but his mood felt lighter. He’d stopped at the nearest church, San Giovanni Evangelista, on his way back from the airfield to light a candle and say a prayer for the dead; he’d stop there again tomorrow, and add another candle for thanks.

  The door to the suite’s smaller bedroom opened, and Mitchell Sorley came into the living room, a rather sheepish grin on his face. “Sorry. I had to get Douglas settled.”

  Stasi raised her voice to carry to the next room. “If Douglas doesn’t settle, there won’t be any pastries tomorrow. Or the next installment of Queen Esther versus the Barbarians.”

  Lewis blinked. He was fairly sure he didn’t remember that from his confirmation classes, but with the Old Testament you never really knew.

  “I think Elena has them well in hand,” Mitch said. Like Stasi, he was dressed to kill, the beautiful, conservatively cut tuxedo emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and tactfully blurring the thickening of his ex-athlete’s body. Behind him, Tiny Foster looked even taller and more gangly than usual in his first real evening suit, a fleck of blood on the point of his chin where he’d been extra determined with his razor. Lewis suppressed a smile, remembering when he had been that young, and glanced at his watch. Alma should be ready now, surely.

  At that moment, the hall door opened, and Alma slipped inside, her smile apologetic. “Sorry. Is Dora taken care of?”

  “Elena’s got them,” Mitch said again.

  Lewis nodded, his eyes on Alma. Floyd Odlum had paid them well enough that she’d bought a new long dress for the trip, ordered and fitted on a couple of her trips to Los Angeles. This one was heavy, old-gold satin only a shade or two darker than her blonde hair, cut to flatter her figure, more generous now after Dora’s birth, with the skirt sweeping into a tiny train. It was decidedly unfussy, deceptively plain, and it made her look like a million dollars. She held out her gloved hands, cocking her head just slightly in the subtlest of questions, and he took them with a nod and his most reassuring smile.

  “You look like a movie star.”

  She grinned, the familiar smile somehow only enhancing the resemblance, and nudged him in the ribs. “You don’t look too bad yourself, Ramon.”

  Lewis could feel himself blush. Alma had decided recently that he looked like movie star Ramon Navarro, which — they both had wavy hair that required a lot of brilliantine to keep it under control, but that was about it, as far as Lewis was concerned. He had a new jacket himself, a subdued black number with a fancy white vest, copying the Prince of Wales rather than Hollywood, but he thought he looked all right. Of course, the invitation had specified formal dress, which he suspected was Italian for white tie, but Hen
ry had assured him that tuxedos were acceptable for the flyers.

  “Are we ready?” Mitch asked. He had Stasi’s black wrap in hand, ready to drape it over her bare shoulders, and Lewis reached hastily for Alma’s mink. It was really too warm for the Italian winter, but she loved its luxury, and he loved to see her in it. The fifth member of their Lodge, Jerry Ballard, had won it for her during the Great Passenger Derby, and Lewis felt a little twinge at his absence. But Jerry was on the archeological dig he’d been planning for the last three years: he wouldn’t trade that for anything.

  “As ready as we’re going to be,” Alma said cheerfully, and turned for Lewis to drape the fur over her shoulders. “It should be quite a party.”

  The reception was held in a palace — apparently a real one, though the current owner had renounced his title in favor of a position in Mussolini’s government. It didn’t seem to make any difference in the ex-count’s housekeeping: the cars were directed around the circular drive by uniformed men, their boots and belts polished to a shine that reflected the headlights, and there were actual footmen in white wigs and powder-blue satin coats who rushed to open the doors and direct them into the marble-tiled halls. There were maids in black dresses and little white caps to take the women’s coats, and Alma avoided Stasi’s eye as they paused in the powder room to primp for their entrance, afraid that she would break out in unseemly giggles. She checked her reflection a final time — nothing more she could do — and squared her shoulders.

  “Ready?”

  “Of course, darling,” Stasi answered, tossing her head, but Alma wasn’t deceived.

  The men were waiting in the hall, Tiny Foster pale and sweating, and Alma made sure to give him a reassuring smile as she took Lewis’s arm.

  “You look very nice, Tiny.”

  The lanky young man tugged at the hem of his jacket. “If you say so, ma’am.”

  He looked as if he were about to bolt, and Alma put her other hand through his elbow. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”

  “It’s just like a Legion dance,” Mitch offered.

  “It had better not be,” Alma said in spite of herself, remembering a very memorable Legion dance just before Mitch and Stasi’s marriage, and Mitch blushed to the roots of his hair.

  Stasi laughed. “Don’t worry, darling, I’m not dressed for that.”

  Lewis leaned back to catch Tiny’s eye. “Just smile and be polite, and if anybody asks you anything you don’t understand or you don’t want to answer, send them to Al or Mitch. Or me. Enjoy the buffet, and be careful of the liquor. The wine doesn’t taste like it’s got a kick, but it’ll go straight to your head.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tiny looked reassured, and Alma squeezed Lewis’s arm in thanks.

  “Well,” she said. “Shall we?”

  The ballroom was even more like something out of a movie. They were stopped at the doorway by a severe-looking man in an impeccable tailcoat, who collected their invitations while contriving to glance at the names, and then two more footmen threw open the door.

  ”Mr. and Mrs. Segura, Mr. and Mrs. Sorley, Mr. Foster. Gilchrist Aviation.” The announcement made, the tail-coated man bowed sharply. Alma took a deep breath, and started into the room.

  They made their way down the receiving line, Alma relieved to find her Italian adequate. The hosts all knew exactly who she was, everyone carefully briefed that she was the aviatrix and Stasi wasn’t, and she fetched up in front of Air Marshal Balbo with a sense of relief. Governor-General, she reminded herself, he was Governor of Libya now, and for a panicked moment wondered which title she should use.

  “Signora Segura.” Balbo was short and stocky, with a moustache and a beard that covered the point of his chin and crept along the edges of his jaw. His dark hair was cut short, but that failed to hide the tight curl that he’d subdued with a dose of pomade. His uniform was impeccable, short white mess jacket with an order star and a row of ribbons beneath his pilot’s wings, and there was a scarlet sash beneath the jacket that ended at his left hip in a rosette and another impressive-looking cross.

  “Air Marshal,” Alma answered, extending her hand, and he bowed politely over it.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” His English was only slightly accented. “And Signor Segura. And of course I am extremely interested in this new flying boat of Consolidated’s. I hope that if I am able to get away I can prevail upon you for a personal tour?”

  “I’d be delighted,” Alma answered. “I’d be glad to take you on a test flight, too, if you can find the time.”

  Balbo put his hand over his heart and bowed again, the gesture only faintly theatrical in this setting. “Dear lady, it would be my greatest desire.”

  “Any time,” Alma said, feeling terribly American, and she and Lewis moved away.

  “Now what?” he asked, when they had reached a suitable distance. The dance floor opened to their left, a marble floor inlaid with what looked like a giant, multi-colored compass rose. The orchestra was confined to the low mezzanine above it, and the conductor was peering over the edge as if trying to choose his next tune. Beyond the dance floor, a row of arches led to a second room, and through it Alma could see the tables set up for the buffet supper, as well as the first of a crew of waiters carrying trays of what looked like champagne. “Nobody’s dancing yet —”

  “Drinks,” Alma said definitely, and Lewis grinned.

  They made their way toward the supper room. Alma exchanged greetings with a couple of the Italians who’d been part of the mass fly-over, and Lewis excused himself to fetch their drinks, leaving her to chat with two young men in what looked like brand-new dress uniforms and a slightly older man in civilian dress. They made stilted conversation for a few moments, until Alma made a lucky remark about conditions in the harbor, and they all relaxed into complaint. The two lieutenants excused themselves after a moment, but the civilian remained, introducing himself as Arturo Tiozzo, from Venice. He must have seen her face change, because he cocked his head to one side.

  “Do you know Venice, Signora?”

  “I was married there,” Alma said, and then, because she and Lewis had been married at City Hall in Denver one Thursday afternoon when there wasn’t any work, “my first husband, that is.”

  “Gilchrist?” Tiozzo asked, not quite mangling the name, and she nodded.

  “He fought in the Veneto. After he died, Mitch and I kept the company name.”

  And that was a remarkably bland description of a hectic, complicated, and profoundly happy part of her life, but it had been over for a long time. Gil had died in 1927; she’d met Lewis two years later, and married him a year after that, and at the moment it was the future they were building that mattered, not the well-loved past. Though it was hard not to feel Gil’s presence here in Italy, where they had served together…

  “Just so,” Tiozzo said, but his eyes slid past her. “Ah, Count.”

  “Arturo.” The speaker was a slim, elegant man in a flawless tailcoat and white tie, light brown hair parted neatly on the side and a blade-like nose. “A pleasure to see you again. Perhaps you could introduce me to the lady?”

  “But of course,” Tiozzo said, with another little bow. ”Mrs. Segura, may I present Count Carl Gustav von Rosen? Alma Segura of Gilchrist Aviation. “

  “A pleasure,” Alma said, extending her hand. Something prickled at the back of her neck: despite von Rosen’s casual attitude, she didn’t think this was a chance meeting at all.

  “You’re the lady in charge of the Consolidated flying boat,” von Rosen said. “I think someone told me your company did some of the testing over the summer?”

  “That’s right.” Not a casual meeting at all, Alma thought, and kept her smile serene. “Floyd eventually intends to offer a civilian version to companies doing the Pacific long-haul routes. We did the preliminary testing in Hawaii.”

  “And were your people satisfied?”

  “I liked the Cat very much,” Alma answered, and saw the quick blink as he adj
usted his expectations. “Mitchell Sorley and I were lead pilots for the test.”

  “Quite so. I don’t suppose you know what the maximum cargo load would be? Roughly speaking.”

  “The maximum takeoff weight is 35,420 pounds.” Alma suppressed her annoyance. “That should work out to roughly 13,000 pounds, not including fuel weight. But that hasn’t been fully tested yet.”

  “That’s still impressive, though,” von Rosen said, and seemed to relax for the first time — as though, Alma thought, she’d passed some test. “Do you know if there are any plans to turn it into an amphibian?”

  “I don’t really know,” Alma said cautiously. She thought the Navy had asked Floyd to make that conversion, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to discuss that too deeply with a — what was he, anyway? He couldn’t be a German, they’d gotten rid of their nobility after the war. Unless Hitler had brought them back, though that didn’t seem to be his style. “Carl Gustav” sounded Scandinavian — Swedish, maybe? She couldn’t tell.

  “If it’s a possibility, I’d be interested in looking over the plane,” von Rosen said. “With an eye to an eventual purchase, of course.”

  “I’d be glad to give you a walk-through,” Alma answered. That was her job, to show the plane to potential buyers, and it didn’t matter where they were from. “We’ll be doing some demonstration flights on Saturday, and there will be places on board for interested parties.”

  “Thank you.” Von Rosen bowed slightly. “That is very kind.”

  With some relief, Alma saw Lewis approaching with two glasses of champagne, and accepted the one he held out to her. “My husband, Lewis Segura. He’s a Reserve Captain in the Army Air Corps. Lewis, this is Count Carl Gustav von Rosen.”

  “A pleasure,” von Rosen said, sounding almost sincere, and they shook hands gingerly. “I think you were flying Republic’s Dart today?”

  “Kershaw’s pilot was sick,” Lewis said. “And I had done some of the earlier testing.”

  “Did you fly in the war, then?” von Rosen asked.