Empires of Sand

by Empires of Sand (retail) (epub)

  “That will be enough, Lieutenant,” Dianous said coldly. He waved at the flat below them. “This isn’t the time or the place to attack. It’s too flat, too exposed. We will continue marching north until we find a more appropriate location. That’s an order, Lieutenant. I have permitted too much discussion already. Now I’m through talking about it. Get back to camp.”

  “ ‘A more appropriate location’?” Paul repeated the words incredulously. “What are you talking about? Don’t you remember the ride south? It’s all like this, until Amguid. It won’t get any better. For God’s sake, man, we’ve got to do something!” Paul had pulled himself up close to Dianous, their faces nearly touching, the anger about to explode.

  “Shut up, damn you!” Dianous was seething, his voice icy. “Perhaps you didn’t hear my order, Lieutenant. The matter is closed. We will march north. North! If you persist in challenging me, I’ll have you arrested. Is that clear?”

  “Come on, Dianous, surely—” But Dianous waved him silent and raised his voice.

  “I said, is that clear, Lieutenant?”

  For a moment Paul only looked at him, trying to comprehend. Embarrassed, Pobeguin looked away. At last Paul nodded. Dianous stood up and took the field glasses out of his hands.

  “Now get back to the column, all of you.” He turned and strode off. The others watched him go in silence. Stunned, Paul shook his head.

  “It’s the heat,” Pobeguin said lamely.

  “Camel shit,” snapped Madani. “It’s Tadjenout all over again. The man is a—”

  “A what?” Paul asked.

  “Nothing. Forget it.”

  They turned back to look at the Tuareg column. For a long time no one spoke. They watched the prisoners struggle in their torment.

  “Maybe we should shoot them now,” Paul said. “We could each take two. It would stop the agony for them, anyway.”

  El Madani laid his hand on Paul’s shoulder and shook his head. “It is not for us to take their lives,” he said quietly. “If they die at the hands of the Tuareg, mektoub. It is written.”

  Paul bit his lip and stared below. Madani gave him a gentle shake. “Leave it for now. It is for him to command. If we forget that, it is anarchy. We will all die then.”

  He and Pobeguin rose to go. “Are you coming, Lieutenant?”

  “I’ll be along after a while.” He watched until the Tuareg column became blurred by the distance and heat. The pathetic figures of the prisoners were lost behind the camels. He lay on his stomach, resting his head on his arms. He stared out at the empty plain, trying to make sense of it.

  Suddenly Floop ran up and pounced on him, licking wildly through Paul’s protests, nuzzling his nose into Paul’s armpits until he couldn’t ignore him anymore. They wrestled, rolling over and over each other on the gravel. When they were tired they lay back down and rested. The sun was low in the sky when they returned to the column.

  There were no fires in camp that night. They’d run out of wood, and had found no camel dung during the day. They ate their portions of rice raw, crunching noisily on the grain. Most of the men turned in early, exhausted, while others sat around talking. The news of the Tuareg and their prisoners had traveled quickly through the ranks, as had word of Dianous’s refusal to attack. El Madani tried to quiet the talk, but with only partial success. Paul was standing at the edge of the camp, looking out onto the plain, when one of the tirailleurs, Mustafa ben Jardi, approached him. The tirailleur was clearly nervous, and spent more than twice the usual time inquiring about the state of things in Paul’s life. Normally on the expedition their greetings were short and to the point, but Mustafa took advantage of their solitude to be more circumspect, more Algerian, in his approach.

  “Bonsoir, Lieutenant,” Mustafa said. “Comment allez-vous?”

  “Bien, merci, Mustafa.”

  “Very well? Praise God, after your most terrible trials alone.”

  “Oui, very well. And you?”

  “I am very fine tonight, Allah be praised, for it is very beautiful under His sky. Your wonderful dog, Floop, he is in good form?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “And your father, his health is good?”

  “My father has been dead many years.”

  Mustafa looked truly wounded. “A great tragedy. Yet it is Allah who is enriched with his presence now. But your mother, all is well with her?”

  “She is well.”

  “Hamdullilah,” Mustafa said. “May she live long and well, in Allah’s beneficence. And your brothers, they too are well?”

  “I haven’t any.”

  “Ah, a pity, truly. All men should be blessed with brothers. Surely your sisters are plentiful, and are well with their children and husbands?”

  “I haven’t any sisters, either,” Paul said, hoping the response would bring the interminable politeness to an end. Once Hakeem, seeing his impatience with the custom, had advised him to simply say, “My family and relatives all died of the plague ten years ago,” thus shortening the formalities.

  “Your wife is fine, I pray?”

  “I have no wife, and no children, either.”

  “That is indeed too bad, Lieutenant, that the world does not yet know the produce of your excellent line.” Mustafa shook his head sadly. “A man such as yourself, to be unmarried, not to leave the world his offspring…” He reflected a moment on the tragedy. “I have heard the president of France is a brave and wise man,” he said. “I hope he is well.”

  Paul murmured a vague assent.

  “And his wife—”

  Paul could take no more. “There is something on your mind, Mustafa?”

  The man lowered his eyes to the ground. “Oui, mon lieutenant. If you will permit me to speak frankly.” He looked around, as though someone might be listening.

  “Of course.”

  “We have heard about the prisoners with the Tuareg.”

  “Yes.”

  “We think that the mokkadem is among them. He was at the well. No one saw his body afterward. Without him we have no one to lead us in prayer.”

  Paul nodded. “He may have been with them,” he said. “I couldn’t tell. They all wore… hoods.”

  “Oui, Lieutenant, that is my point. If he is dead, mektoub, but if he is among them and being treated in this manner by the godless sons of camel turds the Tuareg, it is infamy that must be avenged. We cannot leave him in their hands.”

  “And what do you want?”

  “Well,” he said, lowering his voice, “we have heard that Lieutenant Dianous has refused to attack the Tuareg.” He cleared his throat. “And that you, well, that you felt differently.” Paul fought to control his anger. The sentry had talked. “We want you to know that we are willing to go with you, to fight like men. We wish to take the prisoners back.”

  Paul looked at him. “Who is ‘we,’ Mustafa?”

  “There are twenty-five or thirty others who feel as I do. Lieutenant Dianous would not attack after the massacre. He will not attack now. He will not attack tomorrow. He is – how should I say it? – too apprehensive. We are ready to obey your commands. We can leave tonight.”

  Paul didn’t want to alienate the man, but he was growing uncomfortable with the way the conversation was heading. “I understand,” he said at last, “but for the moment there is nothing I can do. Lieutenant Dianous is right. No attack is practical just now.” Mustafa eyed him for a moment, a skeptical look on his face. “But we heard that you—”

  “I don’t care what you heard, Mustafa. It was untrue. I agree with the lieutenant. We shall have the prisoners back. We shall avenge the mokkadem. But we must wait. There is no other way.”

  Mustafa clearly didn’t believe him, but he was not leading a mutiny, simply making an inquiry. He knew of nothing more to say. “Very well, Lieutenant,” he said, leaving, “but if you change your mind, you must please to let me know.”

  After the others had gone to bed Paul tried to raise the subject once again with Dianous, who ab
ruptly got up and stalked off.

  Paul’s sleep was troubled, his mind in turmoil. First El Madani, then Mustafa had subtly or openly accused Dianous of failure to act at Tadjenout. Of – cowardice. But Paul hadn’t been there and couldn’t make a judgment. Yet he had been there a few hours ago.

  He found no answers that night.

  * * *

  “By what right have you taken this course with the French?”

  Moussa thundered out the words. He had ridden hard into the camp of the Ihaggaren, riding his mehari straight through the swarms of Tuareg until he stood over the central fire of the camp. He looked down upon Attici, who was sitting at the fire. Next to him sat Mahdi and a man Moussa did not know. Attici looked up at the intrusion.

  “I will forgive your rudeness, Moussa, as you are clearly agitated. It does not become a nobleman of the Kel Rela to forget himself so. This courtesy, even the smallest child of the Hoggar has learned.” Mahdi filled his cup with tea, and then the others’. “Come down from your mighty mehari. Join us for tea.” He spoke as if to a child.

  “I ask again,” Moussa said, not moving. “By what right have you become a butcher?”

  “Regard the back of my mehari,” Attici said pleasantly, “where the tobol now rides. Have you not seen it?”

  “Then it is the amenokal who told you to do this to the French? This was his decision?”

  “If it is your business, Moussa, the amenokal was not specific, and left the matter in my hands. He told me only to ‘discourage’ Sheikh Flatters. I believe he is thoroughly discouraged now.” There was laughter around the fire.

  “Did he tell you to hack them to pieces? Is this your notion of honorable battle, to surprise and butcher an enemy? Even mouflon we do not mangle so.”

  “What ikufar is worthy of being butchered so kindly as a mouflon?” Tamrit asked. There was more laughter. “Is it that the Frenchmen are dead that troubles you, rude one, or that they are in pieces?”

  “Who is this man, Attici, who sits at your right hand?”

  “Tamrit ag Amellal,” Tamrit replied. “And you would be the tender son of the barbarian deVries?”

  Moussa slid from his mount, his hand on his sword. “Hold your tongue, Tamrit, unless you are ready to lose it.”

  Tamrit stirred angrily. “It is for respect of your mother that I do not take your head. Speak so again and I shall forget myself.”

  Moussa spoke scornfully to Attici. “You are surrounded by Senussi then? Is it they who lead you like a lamb? It is they who feed the fires of hatred and treachery?”

  “No one leads but I,” Attici replied evenly.

  “Then there is much blood on your hands. Never have I seen such savagery visited upon a foe by the Ihaggaren,” Moussa said.

  “Perhaps you have not lived among us long enough to have seen it,” Mahdi said. “Perhaps you should return to France as a true ikufar, where the sights are more to your liking.”

  “Was Tadjenout a sight for liking?” Moussa challenged the others standing nearby. “Was Tadjenout a battlefield of honor?”

  “Our honor is intact,” Mahdi said hotly. “Is deception not a weapon long used between enemies? Is surprise not a weapon, like the sword? Where advantage can be seen, it must be taken. And if our cause were unjust, Allah would not have ensured our victory.”

  “Through all of history we have warred with the Tebu and the Shamba,” Moussa said. “The rules of war are well known among our tribes. But we never spoke of war with the French, who expected peaceful passage. And then the limbs severed, the heads taken at Tadjenout. Is such the noble work we do?”

  “I will not argue this with you, Moussa. You are not speaking as Ihaggaren. Your words are soft, like those from a lamb.”

  “Then tell me this much. What are your intentions now? Those who survived are across the hill, on a parallel course. For what purpose are you following them? Another slaughter?”

  “Say nothing,” Tamrit said.

  “He is of no consequence,” Attici said with a contemptuous wave of his hand. “Do I fear the bite of the French puppy?” He looked at Moussa. “They will continue to be ‘discouraged’ back to Wargla,” he said, enjoying the word. “And from there to France, to carry the message to their countrymen that to mark a place French on the map does not make it so. That the Hoggar is no place for French adventure. Nor even a place to visit.”

  “They will not make it to Wargla. You have stolen their camels and they have but little food. They will die within a fortnight.”

  “Camels are the legitimate booty of war,” Attici snapped. “Whether the infidels and their Shamba dogs reach Wargla is of no concern to me. Their destiny is in the hands of Allah.”

  “No,” Moussa said. “Not in Allah’s hands. In your hands just now.”

  “Where is the difference? My hands move at His pleasure.” Attici was losing his patience. “I have said it already – I am not content to debate these matters with you. You should tend the business the amenokal assigned you and remove yourself from matters that trouble you so. Or have you cast your lot with the barbarians?”

  For the second time in three days Moussa heard himself saying the same words. “I have cast my lot with no one in this.”

  “That is a matter within your control,” Attici said. “There are many of us who will watch your actions with great interest. Now join with us, or leave the camp.”

  Moussa turned. A score of Tuareg stood behind him, listening to the exchange.

  “Who among you will quit this? Who has had a fill of it? Who has not forgotten how to treat travelers such as those who now walk on the other side of that hill, when they are without food and water? Fight them later if you will, but for now extend to them the hospitality of the desert.”

  “They are not common travelers,” one said. “They are foreign scum. Invaders, not entitled to the desert’s just laws.”

  “Eoualla,” said another. “Foreigners. Like you.” Moussa struck him, and the man dropped like a stone. No one else moved, but Moussa sensed in many of them a hostility he had never felt before. He took the lead of his mehari and led it through the crowd. Taka sat atop the pommel of the saddle, her head turning and nodding. She was nervous.

  Attici’s voice followed him to the edge of camp.

  “Do not interfere in this, Moussa. It will go hard on you.”

  Taher, his old friend, caught up with him just out of camp.

  “You have spoken truly. The French were tricked and then betrayed. It was bloodlust at Tadjenout. I have not seen the like of it. Once begun there was no stopping it. It was as if they were possessed, Moussa. I do not know the answer of it, except that Tamrit has said much to inflame them. I did not help them.”

  “Nor I,” said Moussa. “But the result is the same.”

  “It is true. Many are not acting themselves in this. I will ride with you, Moussa, if it pleases you.”

  “No, Taher, but thanks. In this I am alone.”

  * * *

  They arrived at the well of Temassint the following afternoon. It was situated in a large sandy wadi in the plain. There was a forlorn acacia tree there, flat-topped and twisted from the wind, and a few bushes, but the way the men whooped and cheered it might have been the lush oasis of Wargla.

  Most of the men collapsed around the wadi, their leaden limbs heavy and sluggish from the sun. The first four or five fought for position under the acacia, but its shade was hardly worth the effort. Pobeguin detailed some of the others to set about the laborious task of refilling the water skins. Temassint was not a well with solid sides to it, such as at Tadjenout. It was a tilma, a seeper. A man could stand on top of it and die of thirst, never knowing it was there. The sand had to be dug out to a level where it became damp, and then deeper, until it got wet. Only two or three bags could be filled before the waiting began again.

  Near the well they found evidence of their prior passage, including broken baskets, ashes from campfires, and, to their delight, food. They were gratefu
l for what now appeared to be profligacy on the way south. There were dates that earlier seemed rock hard and had been discarded, but which now looked juicy and perfect. Bits of rice were strewn about, and even little pieces of meat, rejected by complacent men with full bellies. No one was suffering from extreme hunger yet, for they still had a little food. But Pobeguin got a detail working to collect everything. The men chattered excitedly and scooted around on the scorching black rock, salvaging even single grains of rice. When the area had been picked clean Pobeguin divided everything as equally as he could. Each man received a small handful.

  Djemel, the chief camel driver, had been desolate on the return trip without his charges, and busied himself collecting their dung for the fires. Djemel’s father had been a camelman, and his father before him. He was a short, hyperactive coil of a man, all sinew and passion wrapped in a sickly green turban, dyed permanently that color from camel saliva. His most notable features were his temper, which was legendary, and his nose, which was missing. During one of his heated arguments with a camel the beast had bitten it off. It was said that Djemel had bitten the camel first, but he never talked about the incident and had long since learned to put up with the jests of his fellow drivers and impolite stares on the street. He rarely talked or socialized with human beings, spending all his time among his camels. As the years passed his sounds and mannerisms took on those of the camels he tended. When he growled his missing nose produced a sucking sound not unlike the camels themselves. His looks of arrogance or disdain matched those of any mehari.

  That he was miserable without them was evident as he walked around the area picking up pellets and dropping them into the bag. Every so often he would stick his nose, or that part of his face where his nose had been, into the bag and take a deep breath. He seemed to get almost drunk from what to him was the desert’s most intoxicating aroma, short of the animals who’d made it. He even talked to the bag’s contents, much as he did to the animals themselves, snorting and growling and mumbling as he stooped and grabbed. When others tried to help with the gathering he chased them away. The camels were his responsibility.