Empires of Sand

by Empires of Sand (retail) (epub)

  He pulled out his dagger to cut a strip off the bottom of his robe. It was the third time he’d done it, the width increasing each time so he could get more protection. He wound the cloth around his feet. When new holes appeared he would shift the material, tying it in a new position until that wore out as well. So it would continue until the strip was a ragged wisp of bloody cotton and he had to cut another. He wondered whether his blood or his robe would run out first. Malish, he thought. He still had his shirt, and then his pants. With Allah’s help he would make Wargla before he was stark naked and all emptied out. Of course, he reasoned, that presumed he wouldn’t starve to death first. They’d run out of food. His good spirits, tested sorely by everything else, were being slowly strangled by the knots in his stomach. Skinny as he was, he was accustomed to eating several times during the day, but there was nothing to be done. He finished wrapping his feet, slipped on his sandals, and hobbled painfully into the wind.

  The procession wore the wind’s burden like a yoke, made heavier by the need to wait on stragglers. In ten hours they’d come less than ten kilometers, when they should have made twenty. They were forever stopping, tending to wounds and sores and cramping muscles. The stronger men walked in little circles or stamped their feet while they waited, trying to avoid the spasms that would overcome them if they stopped moving.

  “We should leave them,” complained one of the Shamba. “They can catch up tonight.” There were murmurs of agreement.

  El Madani scowled at them. “Any of you who think you can deal with the desert and the Tuareg alone are welcome to move out in front,” he growled. “The rest of us will stay together.”

  The Shamba who had spoken gave him a scornful look. “Die alone or die with company – what difference does it make?”

  “A great deal, when you’re alone. If you’d like to try, get on with it. The tirailleurs will stay together. We’ll bury you on the way past.”

  The Shamba’s gaze fell. He kept trudging.

  Paul walked with Sandeau. The engineer’s low fever remained, slowly sapping his strength. His green eyes were lost in dark circles. The knees of his trousers were torn and stained with blood where he’d fallen. As soon as the wounds were cleaned and wrapped, Sandeau would fall again. He walked in a stoop, his knuckles white around the Tuareg lance he’d been given as a walking stick. He knew he was the slowest of the slow, yet he plodded on and tried to remain cheerful.

  “God’s blessings everywhere,” he said as they walked.

  “What?” Paul hadn’t heard him over the wind.

  Sandeau raised his voice. “The wind! For the first time in a week I don’t have flies all over my face!” He smiled and wiped the sandy film off his teeth. As he did so, his hand slipped on the lance and he fell hard to one knee. He didn’t cry out, but the pain brought tears to his eyes. Gasping, he struggled back to his feet. Paul bent down to look at his knees. “You’ve torn it open again. We’ll have to rewrap it.”

  Sandeau slipped down the lance and sagged to a sitting position. Paul unwound the cloth and exposed his ragged flesh. “It’s hard watching your body fail,” Sandeau said.

  “No failure here,” Paul replied as he wiped away the blood. He could see the bone of the engineer’s kneecap and tried to shield it with his hand. “Your knees are just getting a little knobbier, Sandeau, that’s all. I’m told Arab women fancy that. You’ll be swamped in Wargla.” Sandeau laughed through his pain as Paul cleaned out the wound.

  “Kind of you to say so, but I’m afraid I can feel everything just giving up. A humbling experience. Your mind can be good as ever, but it’s only baggage on dying transport. A pity it can’t be made of something stronger.” He raised his eyebrows and looked upward. “Not that it isn’t the most remarkable creation,” he said quickly. “I wish I’d come up with something half as good. But like all structures it eventually fails.”

  “I wish you had more faith in yourself. Wargla isn’t that far.”

  Sandeau snorted. “I said my body’s going, Lieutenant. Not my brain.”

  * * *

  At dusk the wind died. The sun went down and just as suddenly, dead quiet settled over the camp. There were no fires. There was nothing to cook, nothing to eat. No one wanted to talk. Men fell asleep where they sat. Pobeguin and his troopers Marjolet and Brame took turns walking the perimeter, peering into the night. There was no sign of the Tuareg.

  Before dawn El Madani took four men out to search for game, as was his custom. They followed a wadi for more than an hour, finding nothing. But then one of the men gave a great whoop. There were four wild camels, grazing on weeds and tufts of dry grass.

  El Madani noticed the extra set of camel prints in the soft sand. He squatted to examine them. They were fresh and deep, heavier than the tracks of the wild animals. A mehari had made them, bearing a man. The tracks disappeared up the wadi. He followed them a short distance, Gras at the ready, but they led up over an embankment and disappeared in gravel. El Madani shook his head. It was as if someone had left the camels where he could find them.

  He returned to camp a hero. Even the reserved tirailleurs jumped up and down and danced in ecstasy. “Hamdullilah! Allah has heard our prayer!” It was an omen; the Almighty would lead them from this wilderness on the backs of four wild camels. Packs were lifted from the shoulders of the weakest of the men and loaded on the animals. Sandeau went atop another, his frail form slumping. Djemel was beside himself, snorting and coughing and spitting, slapping the animals affectionately, lining them up in proper form, then growling and snarling at them as they all began to move.

  Jubilation carried the morning, but heat and hunger ruled the afternoon. By dusk Dianous was staggering. Paul was doing better but felt light-headed. Three times the column halted while men who passed out were revived. They pushed on until nearly midnight. Again they built no fires.

  In the middle of the night a single shot rang out. Pandemonium broke out in camp as men scrambled awake and clutched cold weapons, peering into the blackness. El Madani had been awake and had seen the flash of the muzzle. He was there in an instant, pistol drawn. Quickly he saw what had happened. He knelt next to the dim form on the ground. It was one of the Algerian tirailleurs.

  Dianous came up behind him. “What is it, Madani?”

  “Abdel Krim, Lieutenant. He has shot himself.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No sir. He is a poor shot.”

  Abdel Krim had passed out. The bullet had only torn a bloody crease in his skull. El Madani bandaged his head. “Take away his weapons,” El Madani told another tirailleur, “and tie his hands.”

  Slowly the camp slipped back into uneasy exhaustion. Few men slept. The mood the next morning was somber. The omen of the camels had been surpassed by the omen of suicide. The unfortunate man marched alone with his failure, a pariah. Men looked at Abdel Krim with varying degrees of pity for him and fear for themselves. He had been the first to crack, the first to give up. They told themselves they were stronger than he. But no one really knew for sure. “It is a mortal sin, to steal destiny from the hand of Allah,” nervous men reminded each other. They missed the mokkadem. He would know the things to say, the things to do.

  Two men collapsed in the afternoon and were heaped onto the camels like more baggage. Dianous called an early halt that night, his men unable to take another step. He walked slowly through the ranks of exhaustion, past gaunt faces and haunted eyes. He stopped here and there to check supplies of water. At the edge of camp Djemel was settling his babies down for the night. Beyond him, near a low escarpment, Dianous noticed the Salukis. Having had no luck on their own, the dogs were prowling nervously back and forth in front of Floop, who was munching on a lizard and ignoring them. The mighty Salukis were useless at catching reptiles, yet there was no other game on the Amadror. Dianous studied the dogs and made a decision.

  “Pobeguin!” he called.

  “Sir?”

  “Kill the Salukis.”

  “Yes sir.�
�

  Hakeem heard the order and with horror in his eyes limped quickly to Paul. “Patron,” he gasped, “you must stop him!”

  Paul shook his head. He’d heard the order and agreed with it, but his heart was pounding all the same. “The men are weak. We need the meat.”

  “You do not understand, Patron. The Salukis are allies of the Shamba. Their history is our history, their blood our blood. It is wrong to kill them.”

  “They can give us life, Hakeem, and we must take it. There is no other way.”

  For the first time since Paul had met him the aide’s eyes were furious. “It is wrong, Patron,” he repeated. “You are ignorant of the ways of the desert. You should kill a camel first.”

  “It is not yet time for that. We need the camels for transport.”

  Hakeem glared at him bitterly. He started to say something but then just hobbled off.

  “Why not the other dog?” demanded another Shamba. “You spare him because he belongs to the lieutenant?”

  “I spare him because he catches lizards,” said Dianous. “If he stops or there are no more lizards, and that is all we have to eat—”

  “—then the same order will be given.” It was Paul who said it.

  Two shots rang out in rapid succession. Paul flinched at each one and cringed inside. Floop wagged his tail.

  Everyone ate but the Shamba.

  * * *

  Daia was glad for a diversion. Moving the camp required all her attention. There were disputes over property to resolve, sheep to identify, goats to chase, pastures to scout, wells to check, packing to supervise for seven tents, bags to be mended, bags to be made. A dozen slaves asked questions and tended to the children underfoot and added good-natured cheer to the bedlam. Daia was good at moving. Like all Tuareg, Mano Biska moved his douar of tents and relatives and slaves and animals several times a year, depending on the pasturage. When his wife was away, the job was Daia’s. All the slaves looked to her for guidance and order, and when she stayed busy she didn’t have time to think.

  She had not been able to sleep of late, or to eat much. Her stomach was sour. Anna, the slave who knew her like a daughter, had spoken the truth of it before Daia herself. She beamed. “A child grows within you,” she said.

  “No,” Daia said, but it was a lie and they both knew it. She had never been late before. “Yes, Anna, it is true.”

  “It is goo—” Anna spoke before thinking, then caught herself. It was not good. It was terrible. There was great shame in bearing a child out of wedlock. A stain on the child, dishonor on the mother. She worried for Daia.

  “You must get married quickly, then,” she said.

  Daia only nodded. Anna didn’t know the worst of it. She assumed Mahdi was the father.

  Daia went to the guelta to think. She sat alone atop the rocks overlooking the water. She watched the sun set and was still awake when it rose again, but the long night in between brought no answers. She struggled with the burden. How could she have been so foolish? How could she have fallen so easily? Her own honor was in ruins for her lies to Mahdi. Never in her life had she been a liar or felt a cheat. Never before had she hurt another person. Now she had to decide what to do. She felt lost and weak.

  There was an old woman of the Dag Rali who could end the problem before it grew, but Daia didn’t know if she could do that.

  Or she could go away now before her stomach grew. She could have the baby and then leave it among the rocks for the animals to kill. Other women did that; often it was the lesser shame. She could return to her life then, and begin again.

  Or she could kill herself. But there was time to think about that too.

  Must someone die for my weakness?

  She thought of Moussa. It made her ache that he was not interested in her. Damn him anyway! So polite and solicitous of her feelings. So proper! He sent a book, a beautiful book of stories, with a note that hurt deeply. It had not been his intent, to hurt. He had simply wished her happiness. Of course he had. He was supposed to say that. But it wasn’t what she wanted him to say. She had admitted it to herself the eighth or tenth or twentieth time she had read his note, her fingers tracing every line of his writing, her mind envisioning his hand on the paper, wishing she could touch it, then lifting the paper to her nose, hoping that she might catch his scent there. She wanted him to say something much different, to say he wanted her, that he wanted them to be together. But he hadn’t and never would. Was she so undesirable to him? Why didn’t he care for her? She knew the answer; she had accepted Mahdi too hastily. She regretted ever saying yes to him, and now it was too late to back out, yet she had to back out because Mahdi—

  Oh, Mahdi! She could not lie to him again. Once was more than she had lied to any man. She could tell him the truth and call off the marriage. It was her right, the right of a woman to say. Yet Mahdi had done nothing to deserve that. Would she now compound her lie with rejection?

  Most of all she feared the truth for what it would do to Moussa. It was a death sentence. She, not Moussa, had been the one to make it happen. Yet when Mahdi learned the truth Moussa would pay with his life, and it would be her doing. She could only hope that Mahdi would kill her as well, and finish it all.

  Must someone die for my weakness? Oh, devil Iblis, when did you enter my heart?

  Honor ruined, a man dead, a child born without a father, or not born at all. The wretched fruits of her desire. She hated what she had done.

  And knew she would do it again.

  When the sun rose she counted five rays shining up from the horizon like the vanes of a fan. On her journey with Moussa she had seen the same sunrise. “The sunrise of good fortune,” she had told him then. “Five rays make the sunrise of a lucky day.”

  She wept.

  * * *

  She immersed herself in the joys of moving, her mind needing a rest from her trouble, when she saw him approach the camp on his mehari. She gasped.

  “Mahdi! I thought you were in the north!”

  “I had to come for – things,” he said. “I was near and could not resist stopping here to see you. I brought this.”

  He leaned down from his mehari and handed her a sand rose.

  It was beautiful, a delicate blossom of sandstone sculpted over the eons. Such roses were much prized.She accepted it guiltily, her misery now complete. “Come walk with me, away from camp,” she said.

  They walked past the place where the camels were being loaded and into a ravine beyond, heading toward her guelta. When they were out of earshot of the camp she blurted it out.

  “I am pregnant.”

  She needed him to know. She could not tell him more lies. She could not let him find out by seeing her swell. She had to be the one to do it, and waiting would help nothing.

  Mahdi stared at her. He said nothing, as if he hadn’t heard or didn’t understand, his brain reeling. His mind ranged back over the nightmares and suspicions, the ones he had forced with such effort from his thoughts – the ones that were true. He felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach.

  “You have lied to me most horribly.”

  “Yes. I thought it best then, Mahdi. It had already happened when we spoke. I thought I had put him behind me, Mahdi, this much is true. I was wrong to lie to you. I am sorry.” Her eyes welled with tears.

  He stood rigid and erect, fighting for control. His hands flexed, gripping the handle of his sword. It was all he could do not to draw it, but there was nothing against which to turn it. Rage could not be slain with a blade, nor sorrow. He wanted to kill Moussa, to kill her, to kill himself, to kill everything in sight. But even if honor demanded, he would never turn the blade on her. Another man would do it. Any man. For the thousandth time he wondered how she could have such an effect on him, how she could render him so helpless. For the thousandth time he found no answer. As for Moussa – well, he had already decided what to do about Moussa. Only the opportunity had been lacking, and that would come soon enough.

  “You are sor
ry, Daia? Is that anything at all? Should the word ease my heart or take away the wrong? Should the word make me content?”

  “There is no way to make anyone content in this, Mahdi, that I know.”

  “I must confess, Daia, that I did not expect this of you. Ever.”

  “I did not expect it of myself.”

  “To cheat and lie and then leave me only words – I never thought you so cruel.”

  She shook her head and bit her lip. “I did not intend cruelty.”

  “Does anyone else know?”

  “No one but Anna.”

  “Anna! Then the world will soon know. That woman is a toad of gossip.”

  “She thinks you are the father. She will say nothing. She wishes to protect me.”

  Mahdi brooded about that. His self-respect was everything to him. No, not everything, not anymore. This woman before him – she was everything. Next to her, his self-respect meant nothing.

  “That is my wish as well, Daia.”

  “I have brought us both dishonor. Of course there can be no marriage. I will go away.”

  His heart pounded. “No! Daia, you cannot do this! Do not say this! You promised marriage after the French matter had been dealt with. It will be finished in a fortnight, no more than two. You would pierce me first with a lance of lies, then strike me again with broken promises? Even the scorpion stings only once. Is there no limit to the loathing in your heart for me?”

  “There is no loathing, Mahdi, except for myself. But I cannot ask you to go forward with this.”

  “Please, Daia, do not speak for me. You have pledged yourself to me and I am willing.”

  “I cannot ask it.” She hated herself, hated what she was doing to the proud man before her.

  “My heart is with you, Daia. I have said it before. I would be – I would be willing even to call the child my own. For you would I do this.”

  She was astounded. It was the last thing she expected him to say.

  “I could not ask for that. It would not be right for you.”