Empires of Sand

by Empires of Sand (retail) (epub)

  In the oasis of Ghat a cabal of Senussi fanatics held council to deal with the infidel threat. Their lives were dedicated to Allah and the jihad against the heretic. Their order was small but growing, an army of zealots prepared to sacrifice their lives in the holy cause, which did not stop with exterminating unbelievers. They cared not that the current threat was French. It could have been Italian, or Turkish. All foreigners were devils – even the Turks, who, although they were believers and would surely find eternal comfort at the side of Allah, could not stay the holy wrath of the Senussi. The Sahara was not a free river from which any man could drink. The Sahara was for Saharans, where Allah would one day reign supreme, even among the heathen Tuareg. Until that day, the foreigners must die.

  One man among the Senussi had a particular interest in the French. Tamrit ag Amellal had joined the order more than twenty years earlier. Until his self-imposed exile he had been a Tuareg of the Kel Rela. He had attempted to kill the ikufar deVries, a nobleman traveling under the protection of the woman Serena. He had loved Serena then more than his life, more than Allah. But he loved her no more. Now the fires of passion that lit his eyes were stoked only by his devotion to God. In the coming of the French he saw the opportunity to redeem himself.

  In Morocco, the sultan listened to the entreaties of his subjects as they implored him to intervene, to protect the oases of the Tuat from the French menace. The rebel Bou Amama swore that if the sultan allowed the French to penetrate farther, he would raise his own jihad. The rebel Abd-el-Kader traveled to In Salah to await Ahitagel, the amenokal, a man he was determined to bend to his own purposes.

  In Wargla, the sheikhs of the Shamba debated their own response to the unwelcome advance of the arrogant and ignorant Europeans who were venturing into the nest of scorpions.

  In the Hoggar, the very land through which the French proposed to march, the amenokal and the nobility listened as Mahdi and Attici, the most rabidly anti-French among them, carried the arguments for the death of the intruders, while Moussa and his friend Taher argued moderation.

  “As we speak, the barbarian Flatters makes his preparations to leave Wargla,” Mahdi reported. “Our spies there tell us he has assembled three hundred camels for his passage. He has announced his intention to pass through In Salah. In Salah belongs to the Ihaggaren! How dare he think he can sully these lands with his band of unbelievers! The Lord Amenokal has told them already the way is not open to them, yet they come even so. Such arrogance must be met with the sword of Heaven, not the palm of friendship.”

  “You are too quick to strike, Mahdi,” said Taher. “We have also heard that his baggage is filled with money and gifts. He has two white horses of the finest Arabian stock. It is only logical that we relieve the colonel of his possessions, then let him pass. His passage can have no effect upon us, while his wealth will be welcome.”

  “Welcome! They will have Shamba cameleers with them. They are hiring them now in the souks, bribing them with ease. Shamba!” He spat the word. “Would you permit such men as these, men in league with the devil, to defile the Hoggar in exchange for French wealth? Does the sweet breath of the lion make his mouth any less dangerous?”

  “They wish only to pass. Let them pass and take their money, I say!”

  “Take their money, yes! But kill them!” Mahdi was livid. “Are they not unbelievers? What infidel has the right to enter this country for any purpose? What ikufar deserves other than the sword of Allah?”

  Attici raised his hand to caution Mahdi. Pressing the issue on religious grounds was unlikely to carry the day. Among the Tuareg such arguments often fell on deaf ears. Attici wanted to turn the argument on more practical grounds: the Ihaggaren must control the caravan routes and never give way to any outside force.

  “Do you believe these will be the last of the barbarians to come?” Attici asked. “That the devil Flatters is the last of their number who will show an interest in the Hoggar? Who among you believes the French will not interfere with the passage of caravans, which until now have traveled only at our pleasure? Who among you believes the French will not try one day to banish the trade in slaves? The man who believes this must also believe that camels may fly!”

  “They would not do such a thing,” Moussa said, uncertain he believed the words even as he spoke them. The fact was that he had no idea what the French might do. Yet he did not believe them capable of ill will toward the Tuareg. The French were, after all, his people too, though his memories of them had clouded with the years. Such memories might not be trusted. But all afternoon he had defended them against the most outrageous statements: The French would massacre their men, rape their women, kill their children. The French boiled their victims. Poisoned wells. Burned date crops of the northern oases.

  “The Hoggar is ours,” he argued. “There is nothing here to interest the French. They would not care to interfere with our commerce. Never! There is no logic in that, no need! If anything they would wish to increase commerce, then tax the caravans themselves on the Algerian end! That is the French manner!”

  “Moussa speaks with the French half of his tongue,” snapped Mahdi, “and without benefit of his brain. What they touch they steal. What they cannot steal they corrupt with their heathen ways and barbarian laws. In Algeria have they not taken the most fertile lands for themselves? Have they not pushed the harratin from their lands and forced them into their cities, where they die of filth and rot? Have they not filled their prisons with the men they have robbed blind? Have they not destroyed everything they have touched?”

  “There is no proof of such things, Mahdi,” said Taher.

  “I have proof enough. I have the word of Abu Hassan, who has been many times to the tell where these things have occurred. Who among you will cast doubt upon his word?” His voice challenged them all. No one would deny the word of the venerated marabout, who had spent much time in the northern provinces of Algeria.

  “It is as Mahdi says.” Abu Hassan nodded, his voice frail. “When they plundered Sidi Ferouk, their bombs rained for days on women and children. They burned houses and put the torch to olive groves. Women who wore jewelry had their ears and hands and ankles mutilated, their limbs removed by the infidel sword for their silver. Great plantations of the Kabyles were destroyed, their palms cut down. Animals and land were taken without payment. Whole villages were fined, innocents executed. Muslims were banished from their own markets if the French were present. The harratin were left with nothing. These facts are well known among those of the tell. There is no reason to believe the French jackal will lose his appetite among our camps.”

  “It serves the harratin right,” grumped Taher. “Shame enters the family that tills the soil. Their fate means nothing to us. We are not such farmers. Do you mean the French will seize our land? And then what will they do with it? Will they farm? Nonsense! There is nothing to farm within a thousand leagues of the Hoggar! There is nothing but the way of the nomad, of the Ihaggaren.”

  “No, they will not farm. But they will seek to control the land, to become masters of the caravan routes we have controlled since the beginning of history! And then they will stop the slaves! Without slaves where will the caravans be? Without caravans where will we be? What is to become of our way of life?”

  “I do not believe the French will do these things,” Moussa insisted.

  “If they have no designs upon our caravans or trade, Moussa,” said the amenokal, breaking the silence in which he had been listening to the exchange, “then why do they speak of a railway? Is not a railway for the purpose of transporting goods? Would not such a thing permit them to travel at will through the Hoggar?”

  Moussa was puzzled by this himself. “I cannot vouch for their sanity, Lord, in placing a railway here,” he replied. He knelt and drew a picture for them in the sand as everyone strained to see. Almost no one among them had ever seen a railway or an engine; in this Moussa’s knowledge was respected. “This is the manner of roadbed I remember,” he said. “They m
ust lay two rails of steel on blocks of wood. The steel is quite heavy, to support the weight of a train. It would have to be made in France or Spain and shipped all the way across the sea, piece by piece, then transported through Algeria. The same would be true of the blocks of wood, for nothing grows in the north that will support such a line. Then there is the matter of the train itself. Engines employ steam to turn the cranks to push the train along the tracks. They must have water for this, a great quantity of it, and some material to sustain the fires to run the engines. Between Wargla and the southlands there is no water for such needs. Nor is there anything to burn that will keep a train moving. And even if there were, they would have to pass through the great dunes, through the Gassi Touil, where the Ergs move fifty paces in a day. The sand will bury whatever they build. What can stand against it? Certainly not a train.” Moussa shook his head in puzzlement. “There is no logic to the French plan, Lord, this I must confess.”

  Ahitagel considered that for a time. “If we assume that the French are not stupid – and I am not at all certain we can make such an assumption – then these facts suggest they have a different motive for coming.”

  “Our spies tell us that the French have hired tirailleurs, Lord,” Mahdi said. “Of what use are Algerian riflemen for the exploration of a railway? The answer is that their purpose is hostile. We must meet hostility with hostility.”

  “Do we not travel fully armed when passing into another’s country?” asked Taher. “Would they not be fools otherwise?”

  “Who fears their rifles? What are five Frenchmen to one son of the desert?”

  “To have no fear of rifles is to wish a foolish death,” Taher warned. “A rifle makes the lowest coward the equal of the greatest warrior. Which Ihaggaren will not feel a bullet?”

  “The French are too strong to stop,” Moussa agreed. “I myself have seen their weapons as a child. They were fearsome then, and can only have improved. It is best to meet them in peace, to show them there is nothing of interest for them here. We must kiss the hand we cannot cut off. When they want to come, nothing we do will stop them.”

  “Nothing we do will stop them?” Mahdi repeated the words slowly, lacing them with sarcasm and scorn. “Is this the talk of a true son of the desert, or the whimpering of a weak, defeated child? You would expose your flesh for the lion to bite, then take its teeth willingly? Whether the French are strong has no meaning here. They cannot travel in force. There is not sufficient water. They will come in such numbers as will make them vulnerable, as all our enemies have done. The desert will sap their energy, and we will pick the bones of what remains.”

  “Where is the honor in killing them?” Moussa asked.

  “Where is their honor in coming uninvited?” Mahdi replied. He paced angrily back and forth before the group. “Logic and argument are the fetters of a coward. If Moussa lacks the courage to face the French, then at least let him stop hiding behind this pretense. Perhaps French blood runs too thickly in his veins. Perhaps he is in their pay.”

  Moussa was on his feet before Mahdi could react, the blunt side of his sword clubbing his cousin on the head. With a cry Mahdi tumbled backward, stunned. As quickly as he went down he was back up, sword drawn in rage.

  “Stop!” the amenokal thundered, and the tent fell silent. Moussa and Mahdi eyed each other angrily, but held their anger in check. Ahitagel’s voice lashed at them. “To fight in the djemaa is unforgivable.”

  “It is unforgivable that he calls me traitor,” Moussa snapped.

  “A lucky blow, Cousin,” Mahdi hissed. “We will finish—”

  “You will finish nothing,” Ahitagel said. “There is enough trouble facing us without stirring it among ourselves.”

  The amenokal was deeply troubled. The debate had done nothing to clear his mind. Every instinct told him to treat the intruders ruthlessly, for if he permitted the expedition other Frenchmen would surely follow. Yet if he stopped it, if he ordered them all killed, would the outcome be different? Were the French not many and vengeful? Could the people of the veil stand alone against them in war? For all of known history the Floggar had been the inviolate sanctuary of the Tuareg, feared by all who came near, a sanctuary over whose caravans and affairs the noble Ihaggaren had always been the undisputed masters. Always they had been able to defend that sanctuary, to keep it their unquestioned preserve. Always they had known the face of their enemy, and understood it. Now that mastery had been threatened. Grim foreboding flooded over him.

  Ahitagel was further troubled by the enigma of young Moussa. Despite his ten years in the Floggar, despite the blood of his mother, who was Ahitagel’s own cousin, Moussa was still part French. Could any man change the fact of his birth? Ahitagel did not believe Moussa could ever raise his hand against the Ihaggaren. Yet what troubled him was that he did not believe Moussa capable of raising his hand against the French. His loyalties would be divided. His mere presence could lead to trouble. Already the strains of division were showing.

  “I have heard your arguments,” he said to the waiting djemaa. “I must now travel to In Salah. The Turks have sent emissaries, and the Italians. Others as well wish to influence our decisions. It seems everyone has taken a sudden interest in Sheikh Flatters. We must consider our course with great care.” Mahdi started to object, but the amenokal waved him silent.

  “Moussa, there are other matters that urgently require my attention. Regrettably, I shall be otherwise occupied. Therefore I place you in my stead. You will journey to Admer, to meet with the Kel Owi and negotiatethe annual salt trades. There is other business as well, which I shall discuss with you tonight.”

  “But Lord, I should meet the French! I can speak with them as no other can! I can help you to understand their mind in this!”

  “We have already communicated with them in Arabic,” Ahitagel said. “We shall do so again. And hear me clearly. It is not we who must understand their mind in this. It is they who must understand ours. Now obey me, as I require your presence in Admer.”

  He rose to leave. The discussion was over.

  CHAPTER 22

  “My God, it’s beautiful.”

  Paul deVries stood atop a dune at the southern edge of the world known to France, exulting in the infinite desert that stretched out before him like a quiet blanket of mystery. Remy Cavour stood next to him. Strong and stocky, the sergeant was a head shorter than Paul. He had bushy black hair, blazing eyes, and a dark complexion. They had met on the boat from France. Paul found the other officers remote and difficult to talk with. Remy was an irreverent NCO from the slums of Paris, opposite in nearly all things from the young second lieutenant and ten years older, but the two men had formed a close bond. Remy had teased him when he found out Paul was from the deVries family. “You’re the closest I’ve been to royalty,” he said, “except for when I was a boy and stepped in a mess left by the emperor’s horse.”

  Behind and below them they could see the town of Wargla, an oasis of more than half a million palms, a mighty forest of green planted to keep the great Sahara at bay. It was the oldest of Saharan towns, a pleasant settlement sitting on a plain of brilliant white sand. A rugged plateau rose to the south and west. A shott, a normally dry saltwater lake, lay to the north. The evaporating water in the shott left heavy salt deposits whose edges when dry were curled, crusty, and bright like frosted white coral, and provided a pleasant contrast to the palms that were planted in a great crescent. To the northeast was the tail end of the range of dunes that formed part of the Grand Erg Oriental, or sea of dunes, of the Algerian Sahara.

  The town was surrounded by a moat and two walls to keep out marauders. In the center was a large colonnaded square that served as the central market, lined with small shops whose interiors were dark and cool. Mosques stood on either side of the square. Bright minarets towered above them, from which the hypnotic words of the Koran floated over the oasis as the muezzins called the faithful to prayer. On market days a horde of people descended on the oasis from every d
irection, there to barter and banter and pass the hot day. There were faces and costumes from all over the desert, sights and sounds and smells Paul had never before imagined, foods he had never tasted, magic he had never seen, music he had never heard.

  Remy saw the look in Paul’s eyes as he gazed out over the desert. “You’re impatient, aren’t you?”

  “I feel my destiny out there.”

  Remy snorted. “From what I hear in the garrison you’re more likely to find flies.”

  “Flies are better than waiting. It’s a god-awful business getting a caravan organized.” Paul was assigned to provision parts of the expedition. In this he was helped immeasurably by his new aide, Hakeem, a skinny Shamba whose clothes hung in tatters and whose teeth had rotted from sugared tea. He was more boy than man but spoke both French and Arabic and seemed to know where to find anything a person could desire in the mysterious labyrinth of streets.

  Paul worked from a master list prepared by Lieutenant Colonel Flatters, who checked his progress daily and complained about every expense. “Trop cher!” he would invariably grump whether it was or not, and Paul would promise to do better.

  Yet as hard as he worked, the pace was slow; there was nothing easy about making large purchases, a process Paul had assumed would be simple. He or Hakeem would ask questions in the souks about a certain kind of merchandise they required. Inquiries would follow, then introductions to the appropriate merchant, who would speak in glowing terms of the excellence of his reputation, and of Paul’s good fortune in finding him. Paul soon learned to judge the merchants by these introductions: the more unsavory the man, the more sparkling the terms that bespoke his good name.

  But introductions were enough for one day. Only the next day would they visit the merchant in his shop. He would discuss the sterling qualities of his merchandise, assuring them that no finer goods could be found in any part of the desert. He would offer them tea, and tell tales of the oasis. That was enough for the second day.