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The Nautilus crew picked their way among the rubble, not speaking, searching for some sign to give them hope. Instead, they found skeletons picked clean by carrion eaters and time.

This massacre had occurred many months ago, perhaps at the same time they’d killed Robur and escaped in the sub-marine vessel. While the captive engineers had fled, masters of their fate and oh-so-pleased with their victory over the bloodthirsty caliph, their families were being slaughtered at Rurapente.

The men could identify none of the remains, but the faces of wives and friends and children shone in every man’s imagination. Nemo held back the tears in his eyes as he surveyed the charred wasteland. He turned to his second-in-command, and his voice struck fear in even the gruff Englishman’s heart. “Mr. Harding, take teams and recover anything you can find -- keepsakes or memories, and then give a respectful burial to these poor people.”

“Aye, Captain,” Harding said. He had never argued with Nemo’s orders before, but now he hesitated and said, “And what will you be doing, sir?”

With his chin, Nemo gestured toward the steep cliff paths that led up to the plateau. In her note, Auda said she’d used the shepherds as couriers. Many of them were involved in the plot. “I need to find someone,” Nemo said.

He took a pack and food from the Nautilus, then began his long uphill trek. He plodded throughout the hot day until finally, at sunset, reached the top of the plateau. Finding a small windbreak of low bushes, he built a smoky campfire, but remained awake most of the night, staring at the stars . . . and remembering.

For two days he wandered the Anatolian Plateau, searching for the nomadic shepherds who had acted as secret watchers for the Sultan and his advisors in Ankara. At last he came upon a small group sitting crosslegged in front of their patched tents, while women tended a cookfire, roasting cubes of mutton.

Seeing a lone man in inhospitable territory, the shepherds brandished their ancient rifles at him, making signs to ward off evil. Indeed, the stricken expression on his face made him look like a vengeful spirit -- but Nemo made appropriate placating gestures, then a religious sign of Allah he’d learned during his time in Rurapente. He called out in their own language, claiming to be a friend. He wished merely to share their cookfire and ask them some questions over cardamom-spiced coffee.

The shepherds were dirty and scarred, and looked far older than their actual years. They grudgingly accepted his presence, following the rule of hospitality to wayfarers on the Turkish highlands. Nemo told them that he had spent much time in Rurapente, but that he’d been gone for a year.

“Can you tell me what happened?” His voice cracked with need.

The shepherds discussed the matter among themselves, wondering if he might be a spy testing their allegiance, or a deserter from the Sultan’s armies. Though Nemo had dark eyes and dark hair, he did not look at all Turkish. But Auda did . . . and so did his son Jules.

He took a chance, and the grief in his voice softened the men. “My wife lived in Rurapente -- and my son. She was Caliph Barbicane’s daughter. I’m trying to find her. I have companions who also wish to find their families. Can you help us? Please?”

One of the shepherds stood up, stepped away from the smoky fire, and stared appraisingly at him for a long moment. “You were Auda’s husband?”

Nemo cringed at hearing the past tense. “Yes. She warned me and my men of the uprising, and we managed to survive. Caliph Robur is dead.” Not knowing the loyalty of these men, he did not admit that he himself had killed the warlord.

“Auda was an infiltrator,” the shepherd said. “She was sold to Robur to become your wife, but she continued to watch Rurapente. Through us, she reported to Caliph Barbicane, for the Sultan in Ankara. We were part of the army that came to free them.” He patted his chest, then shook his head. “But there was great bloodshed, much fighting. Another caliph sent forces