While the water bags were being filled El Madani had rounded up a hunting party and set off up a wadi searching for game. He took the two Salukis, who had returned to the caravan after Tadjenout. They were marvelous hunting dogs of the Shamba with pedigrees that spanned a thousand years, companions to the great sultans and sheikhs of the north country. It was not their sense of smell but their keen sight that helped them find their quarry. With phenomenal speed and endurance, they would chase their prey until finally it dropped of exhaustion.
But there was no game and El Madani and the Salukis returned empty-handed. The Salukis set about working on the bones of a long-dead camel, snarling when Floop came near. Floop set off on his own. Before long he returned with a lizard in his mouth, its tail, as always, dangling in place of his tongue. Paul thought he walked rather haughtily past the Salukis. Paul greeted the find with such uncharacteristic enthusiasm that before long Floop was back with another, and then another. Each time he trotted up to Paul, Floop would nearly let him have the lizard but then dash off at the last instant. He’d drop it on the ground and paw at it for a while, or crunch around its head a bit if the lizard was too perky and tried to run. Eventually he’d give them up. Floop kept at it until he’d caught six, when he plopped down and refused to part with the last one, preferring to keep it for his own dinner.
To the Shamba, Floop was a hero. Lizards were a much-favored delicacy among them. They quickly built a dung fire and cut the lizards’ throats to the ritual prayers. Then they gutted and skewered them with the branches of the acacia tree, and roasted them over the. Each man took a tiny bite, then passed the skewer along. The Algerians refused them. Paul didn’t mind the taste, remembering the lizard Moussa had cooked him in the cave, but the other Frenchmen declared the delicacy bitter, and settled for the last of the dried meat.
Spirits were high that night in the camp. Nearly everyone had found something to do, some encouragement in the face of the overwhelming challenge that lay before them. The afternoon’s events were the subject of much discussion and laughter.
Paul took a cup of rice to Sandeau, who sat propped against the acacia tree. “Bless you, Lieutenant,” he nodded gratefully. “I didn’t have the energy to get it myself.” Paul was dismayed by the engineer’s appearance. His face was flushed with the first stirrings of fever. His eyelids were red and swollen.
Sandeau was going downhill quickly.
CHAPTER 27
The fires glowed at a different camp on the plain, red-hot embers of acacia branches and camel dung smoldering in soft beds of sand. White ash danced through red coals to the rhythm of a cold uncertain wind. The rich sweet odor of bread baking in the sand mingled with the pungent aroma of the camels.
Attici, Mahdi, and Tamrit squatted at one of the fires on the edge of the encampment, talking together as a slave prepared their tea. Their great swords lay on the ground beside them, next to their Gras rifles.
With bare hands the slave quickly pushed aside the bed of glowing coals. He brushed away a layer of sand and felt the bread underneath. It was the shape of a fat pancake. Deftly he flipped it over, covered it with more sand, and moved the coals back onto the fire.
“I tire of waiting,” Mahdi said in a strident voice. “We should finish them now.”
“It would be foolish,” Attici said patiently. “They are too strong. There is no sense in hurry. Let time and the infinite desert wear them down. We have no need to sacrifice a single warrior.”
Mahdi lifted the bottom of his litham and spat. “When has a caravan with ten times their number deterred us before? They cannot slay us all.”
“When was another caravan armed as theirs? They carry too many of these.” Attici nudged his rifle. He was very respectful of its performance. “We do not have enough ammunition or the marksmen to use them.”
“What is lost in fighting the infidel is not life,” said Tamrit. “To be slain in the way of Allah is to live eternally. We are His right arm and cannot die. He has made special provision for us in paradise.”
Attici sighed. Did he not have enough trouble without taming wild dogs who panted the Koran? Attici cared nothing for Allah or the Koran. It was only the Ihaggaren he cared about, nothing else – nothing except becoming amenokal one day. But Tamrit and his Senussi brethren were gathering strength. Each day there were more among the Sons of the Desert who embraced the way of Islam, enough that Attici could not dismiss them, nor did he wish to. He merely needed to tame them for a short while, to fulfill the amenokal’s orders. “It is clear the French cannot understand a message written in ink,” Ahitagel had told him the last night at In Salah. “You will write them for me once again, nephew. In blood.”
He had been hugely successful. More than two hundred and fifty camels taken, and the insolent French were taught that the master race of Ihaggaren would not be so easily tamed as the peasant farmers of the north. The intruders had been dealt a mighty blow and would not soon return for more. But for others carefully watching – Turks and Italians, Shamba and Tebu, the sultan of Morocco, the amenokal himself – Attici needed complete victory, resounding victory, victory that left no one confused about supremacy in the central Sahara. Victory that left no one confused as to the identity of the next amenokal. Toward that end Attici had struck a devastating first blow at Tadjenout. Now it was time to let the Sahara do its work.
“Even Allah moves His right arm only when the time is right,” he replied.
“His right arm moved at Tadjenout,” Mahdi said. “He would have us finish it.”
“You are as impatient as a camel in heat.” Attici chuckled. “I see no gain in risking our success with unseemly haste. We will wait, Mahdi.”
“How do you know they will not arrive at Wargla still strong?” Tamrit asked.
“They are not people of the veil.” Attici shrugged matter-of-factly, sipping the hot sweet tea. “It is not possible.”
“I agree it is unlikely. But what if they do?” Tamrit picked up his Gras and examined it in the firelight, holding its barrel close to Attici’s face. He turned the gun over and over, admiring its lines, and then held it up as if to fire. “Even though we are four to their one,” he said, sighting down the barrel, “size is not the only thing that matters. A tiny scorpion can kill a full-grown man with a stinger much less powerful than this.” The barrel of the Gras caught the firelight and threw its reflection to Attici’s eyes. “The French scorpion is trained in the use of this weapon. We are not.”
“It is true,” Attici agreed.
“And so I have been thinking,” Tamrit said. “Perhaps there is a way to satisfy both needs. A way to attack the French now without attacking them at all.”
“I do not take your meaning.”
“Efeleleh.” Tamrit said it quietly.
Mahdi’s blood rushed at the thought.
Attici shook his head. “They would never let us near enough.”
“Of course not. We must toy with them first so that they will,” Tamrit said. He outlined his plan while they ate bread hot from the coals.
Mahdi and Attici listened carefully.
“I am glad you are not my enemy,” Attici said when Tamrit had finished. This dog of Islam might be rabid, he thought, but he is very, very much in control of his senses. “It is a good plan. A path neither too winding nor too direct. It shall be done.” He turned to Mahdi. “Leave tonight, with two others. Then find us at Aïn El Kerma.”
Before leaving Mahdi threw an extra blanket over his shoulder and picked up some bread and a freshly brewed pot of tea and walked to where the miserable figures of the prisoners lay huddled on the ground, freezing. He heard them whimpering and crying beneath their hoods. Their feet were bound, so that none could run. Twice each day they were given half an hour outside the hoods while they ate and drank. Experience had taught that they could be kept on a fine edge between life and death for weeks.
Mahdi set down the bread and tea and knelt at the side of the silent one, the one who never cried out
, and removed his hood. The man had thick eyebrows, a trim mustache and beard; he was hawk-nosed. He looked haggard and weak. He stared silently at his captor.
Mahdi cut his bonds and helped him sit up. As the man rubbed his wrists to restore the circulation Mahdi threw the blanket over his shoulders, drawing it around the neck that was red and raw from the ropes. He poured a cup of tea and held it out to the mokkadem. “Drink this, holy one,” he said in Arabic. The man closed his eyes and said a prayer, then downed it quickly. Mahdi poured another.
“I did not choose to treat you this way,” he said as the man drank. “You chose this path yourself, by giving aid to the unbelievers.” He ripped apart a piece of bread and held it out. It was eaten as quickly as it was proffered. The mokkadem ate noisily but said nothing.
“Yes, eat, eat,” Mahdi cooed, holding out more. “You must not die, holy one. You must live, for we have need of you now.” The man devoured the rest of the bread and finished the tea.
When the mokkadem had finished Mahdi retied his hands behind his back, more loosely than before. He left off the hood. He stared at the man through the slit in his shesh. He suffers in silence, Mahdi thought. He is strong because his faith is solid. He is a worthy man.
He turned and strode back to camp. He told one of the slaves to see that the other prisoners were fed and covered up. He chose two others to come with him, telling them to get the camels ready. One of them asked where they were going.
Mahdi smiled. “To harvest a crop,” he said.
* * *
The hawk gained altitude quickly through the superheated air, her powerful wings pushing gracefully as she climbed. When she was high enough she leveled off and cut a great slow circle in the sky, floating easily on the currents, dipping her wingtips now and then to steady herself. Taka played with the air, testing it, teasing it, getting her bearings. She hovered for a moment, then dropped her tail and let the drafts push her upward, where she caught another current and swooped down, head dropped, wings back. She reversed quickly on an updraft, bringing her wings slightly forward, feathers rustling, tail twisting ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, as she balanced herself. She could float for hours without effort.
She flew over the mountains on the west end of the plain, her eyes scanning the desert. Four camels looked for food in a basin in the rocks below. Far to the east, barely visible even to Taka’s sharp eyes, a tiny column of men trudged northward on the plain. The bird soared on the wind until it was over the camels, cut tight circles over their grazing figures, and then moved back over the rocks to hunt.
She studied the mountains below, her eyes ranging over the sun-drenched rocks and the shadows between in search of prey. A pair of sand thrushes flew among the trees in a wadi, their wings flapping in short bursts, then resting, then flapping again as they darted through the branches of one tree and raced to the next, perching momentarily and chattering, then descending to the sandy ground below. Taka watched with interest, the double foveas in her eyes rendering the thrushes sharply, as if they were much closer. Then she spotted a lizard sunbathing atop a rock. She had a choice and preferred the reptile.
The lizard sat perfectly still, its stubby legs splayed out on the hot rock, its dark scales soaking up the warmth of the sun. Only its bulbous eyes moved, blinking languorously. Taka swept back her wings, dropped her head and dived almost vertically, her speed increasing quickly, the wind rushing through her feathers. She carefully choreographed her lightning descent, judging wind speed and direction, watching the lizard for any movement. Just when it seemed she must crash she opened her wings and dropped her tail, legs stretching at the instant her wings spread, slowing her approach, her feet opening, stretching forward, six razor-sharp talons in front, two opposing in the rear, poised for the kill. Just before striking, she twisted her tail to adjust her path. The lizard sensed the danger but saw the shadow too late. Taka’s talons pierced its head and neck and soft fleshy sides, killing it instantly. She flapped her wings and rose quickly with her kill, her flight barely interrupted, the lizard hanging limply in her grasp.
She flew for a moment until she spotted Moussa waiting near his camel. There was a moment of choice when she could return to him or leave. Screeching loudly, proudly, she flew just past him and descended in a flurry of wings. She settled herself and hopped backward to wait.
Moussa strode forward, quickly drawing his wrist knife from its sheath. With deft motions he severed the legs, head, and tail. He ripped out the viscera and tossed it along with the head to Taka. Her beak ripped eagerly at the flesh, breaking through bone and devouring the brain.
He put the rest of the meat into a leather bag and wiped his hands and knife clean in the sand. He mounted his mehari, which rose awkwardly, tipping him backward, then forward, then backward, then forward once again as its long legs went through the complex motions of standing up. He whistled. Finished with her meal and preening, Taka rose to his outstretched arm with two easy strokes of her wings and accepted the hood. She took her place on the pommel of his saddle.
They moved in the direction where Moussa had seen Taka’s tight circles in the air. There would be men or animals there. He had to know. When he drew near the place, he slipped off his mehari and climbed quickly up the rocks. There were no humans in sight. Four wild camels pulled at the leaves in the tops of the acacia trees. He returned to his mehari for rope and set off to catch the camels.
* * *
Paul’s aide, Hakeem, winced in pain. He couldn’t remember ever being quite so miserable. He dropped out of the column and sat down. The stream of men passed him by, laboring against the wind and their own problems, many of which were worse than his. A trail of blood marked his path, his imprint sizzling on the rock and sand.
He removed the remnants of his sandals. All that remained of the soles were the edges, which tapered down into holes cut there by sharp rock that shredded them like paper. Now the gravelly shards were tearing at his feet, ripping through thick calluses to make bloody holes in the balls and arches. He unwrapped the sticky strip of material, wincing as the cloth pulled away clotted blood. He threw it away. It caught on the wind and disappeared into the distance, a ragged crimson sail tumbling south over the plain. With grimy fingers he brushed the dirt away from his wounds, picking out the threads left behind by the cloth. He daubed at the shredded skin with the end of his turban. Blood oozed from the deepest wounds. As soon as time and heat sealed the vessels, his walking stretched the skin and reopened them. The holes became packed with sand, which was then ground in by other rocks, leaving his feet excruciating and raw. He tried picking his way carefully through the gravel but it was impossible. His calf muscles were cramped from walking on the edges of his feet. He was fighting a losing battle. He needed goat’s butter and new sandals. The thought struck him funny and he laughed to himself, not quite sure where he might find either one in the immediate neighborhood.
The wind lashed his face with stinging bits of silica. Hakeem drew the bloodied end of his turban around his nose and mouth and tucked it into place in back. He hated the wind. Sometimes the air in the desert was quite still. He liked it that way, especially at night when the silence covered him with a blanket so thick it seemed that the only noise was made by the stars passing overhead. But normally the wind blew to one degree or another. This one had begun the night before last, coming from the north, first a steady breeze fluffed by little gusts, then little gusts alternating with bigger ones, the bigger ones then blending together until they were long incessant blasts, whistling over the top of the gravel, flinging stinging bits of sand at eyes and tender skin. The sand coated his teeth and saturated his clothing, which grew stiff with the mixture of sweat and grit.
The noise grated his nerves like the sand did his body, scratching furiously at his sanity. After a few hours it was worse than the wind itself, its mournful howl invading those rare places where the sand couldn’t reach until it seemed there was no part of his body left unviolated.
&nbs
p; The wind had grown in velocity since that morning, whipping through the ranks of the column and slowing progress to little more than a crawl. It was no sandstorm, but all day they fought to make a meter at a time, the men leaning into the wind at exaggerated angles, pressing hard against the invisible hand trying to push them back.
Hakeem’s slight frame and light weight made it difficult to walk. The wind caught his gandourah and filled it like a kite. It was all he could do to stay on his feet; and because he had to take care to walk only on their edges, it was awkward going. He was quite certain he looked preposterous. He kept a hostile eye out for anyone laughing at him, but no one seemed to notice. They were all fighting their own battles.
To add to his problems the wind was frigid, an icy reminder of the Atlas Mountains to the north, or perhaps coming from as far as the great sea beyond. It cut through his robe like the rocks through his feet, raising gooseflesh in front, while his back, facing the sun, sweltered in the heat. He tried walking backward for a while until his front warmed up, then turned around to try it the other way until his back got so cold he had to turn again. It was the kind of thing that would have entertained him greatly as a child. To add to his misery, his eyelids were encrusted with sand. Blinking rubbed the particles deeper into his eyes, which were already filigreed with an irritated network of angry veins.
His mouth was parched, his tongue thick with dust, his throat tight. The wind sucked out the water faster than he could put it in, and with Sergeant Pobeguin around it didn’t go in very fast. His nose was raw and bleeding. The droplets gathered on the tip of his nose where the wind sprayed them back onto his robe, staining it until it looked like his eyes. He wondered how much blood there was inside his body and whether it would ever all leak out this way, bit by bit from his nose and feet. He would have to ask the patron.
Empires of Sand Page 59