“Right? What about this wears the cloak of rightness? If you would have me, that is the important thing.” His eyes were filled with hurt, his voice with longing. “That is, if – answer me this, Daia. Is it finished, then, with Moussa? Truly finished?”
She knew the importance of her answer. “He has made it clear he is finished with me, Mahdi. He sent a gift, for the wedding. A book. And a note to wish me happiness.”
“My question is unanswered. I asked your feelings, not his.”
She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. “Do not force me this way, Mahdi. Have I not said it was finished?” She turned away. She could not lie again, and she could not say what he wanted her to say. Mahdi looked down, defeated. But then he began to understand. This was her weakness. There was, at last, an advantage to be had.
“Your answer is clear enough. It does not make it easier for me to kill him, knowing that he holds such a place in your heart.”
It was what she feared most, and as he said it she knew instantly what she must do. She could not ruin other lives for her own selfishness. She would make the bargain for the life of Moussa, and to make a place for the child.
“I will marry you, Mahdi, if it truly remains your wish. But first I must know that Moussa is safe from your wrath. That you will do nothing to harm him for this. It is not a thing that he did. It was my doing.”
“Do I look a fool, Daia? Such things are not done alone.”
“He did nothing to encourage it. This you must believe, Mahdi. He kept his honor; it was I who lost mine. You must leave him be. I must have your promise.”
“When I am the one wronged, is it for you to make terms?”
“This I must have, Mahdi.”
It was more than a reasonable person could ask, that he leave this stain uncleansed. But the thought of losing her was a price greater than he was willing to pay. He would make the promise. And when something happened to Moussa – and as Allah was his witness, it would – well, malish, mektoub. It was the way of things. The desert was a dangerous place.
“Then I promise it.”
CHAPTER 28
Prayer is better than sleep, than sleep!
Prayer is better than sleep!
Allah is great! Great is Allah!
There is no God but one God,
and Mohammed is His Prophet!
The singsong voice floated over the camp. It belonged to a tirailleur who had taken the place of the hostage mokkadem. Exhausted men and camels stirred themselves from sleep and groaned a chorus of collective agony. The Muslims in the camp performed their ablutions with sand instead of water, and drew themselves up onto their mats for the morning prayer, to face the east and find God. The sun would be up soon, time to order spent muscles and used-up flesh to move again.
Paul stared at the sky and rubbed Floop’s belly. He listened to the prayers. Like the Flatters mission, his own prayers had started dying at Tadjenout. The words he had used all his life seemed as useless here as his muscles. He didn’t miss them, really. They didn’t seem to affect things one way or another. And Allah wasn’t doing much better than God.
He chewed absently on a piece of leather from an old water bag. Hakeem said it would help the thirst. It didn’t, but it did help keep his mind off it. There was never enough water. They could only wet their mouths three or four times a day. His lips were deeply cracked, too dry almost to bleed. His throat was choked with volcanic ash kicked up by plodding feet. The water he sipped was gone before it reached his throat, sucked into the parched places of his mouth. His head pounded fiercely from dehydration. As tired as he was, sleep came only fleetingly. He was running on will.
Two days earlier Dianous had ordered one of the precious camels killed. The Muslims cut its throat and said the ritual prayers. Belkasem wielded the colonel’s ceremonial sword to do the cutting afterward. Some of the men ate the meat raw, unable to wait for it to be cooked. Most of them doubled over and vomited from the rich meat after so long without. There had been liquid in the camel’s stomach, but it was nauseating green muck. Paul hadn’t been able to drink it. He chewed his meat and looked away while others choked it down.
The meat was gone too quickly. He could barely remember now what it tasted like. A camel didn’t go far among fifty starving men.
* * *
“Tuareg!”
The cry sent a ripple of fear through the column. In the distance, just out of rifle range, two tall figures sat atop their meharis, watching. Apparently they wanted to talk.
“I can make the shot, Lieutenant.” The tirailleur was eager to try. They all were.
“No. Let’s see what they want. DeVries, stay here. El Madani, come with me.”
Dianous and El Madani walked alone across the plain. The Tuareg didn’t move. Paul watched through the field glasses. His throat tightened. Arrogant bastards, he thought. So bold, coming so close. He wanted to shoot them himself. He could see Dianous and El Madani talking to them. The lieutenant was agitated, shaking his head and gesturing with his arms. El Madani said something, first to Dianous and then to the Tuareg. Then they both turned and trudged back to camp.
“They say they have two camels to sell. And dates and biscuits.”
“It’s a trick,” El Madani grumbled. “I don’t trust them.”
“What trick? They either have what they say or they don’t. If they don’t we don’t pay. If they do we take it.”
“Why don’t we just shoot them?” one of the tirailleurs grumbled. “Take the camels they’re riding.”
“What good would that do? We need more than that. Maybe they’ll sell us more, later.”
“We don’t have much choice.” Paul shrugged when Dianous looked at him for his opinion. There was little to debate. Dianous still had the expedition’s silver. He counted it out. Paul whistled as the pile grew.
“That’s a lot of money for two camels and some food.”
Dianous shrugged. “It was their price. Do you have something better to do with it just now?”
Dianous sent Pobeguin and El Madani back with the money. One of the Tuareg disappeared behind a low hill in the distance and quickly returned leading two animals laden with packs. Pobeguin and El Madani returned with the camels.
Pobeguin opened the bags eagerly. As promised, there were dates and biscuits, all as tightly wrapped as the day they’d been packed in Wargla.
El Madani laughed bitterly when he saw. “Just like the blue devils,” he said. “They’ve sold us our own food.” The irony was lost on empty stomachs. The men began to eat. Even Floop nosed into the dates.
In the distance the two Tuareg watched as the starving men attacked the food.
“They have acted as Tamrit predicted,” said one. “One foot in the trap. Attici will be pleased.”
* * *
They were passing in the shadow of the Garet el Djenoum, the Peak of the Devil, when Floop’s howl soared over the rocks and low hills, a terrible howl rising to the shrill excited frenzy of a mad dog. There was another sound, an animal sound that Paul couldn’t make out. He rushed forward, followed at some distance by El Madani and four tirailleurs. Desperately he looked around, trying to find the source of the noise; the terrain played tricks with the sounds. He rounded a corner expecting the worst when he saw Floop nose-to-nose with a wild ass, the ass braying, Floop running around in front of it, darting from side to side. Floop had never seen such an apparition and concealed his terror behind a curtain of noise. When Floop saw Paul the dog raced to get behind his master, his bravery rising with his bark.
El Madani arrived and with the other tirailleurs quickly got a rope around the animal’s neck. Paul calmed Floop and scratched him behind the ears, pleased. “Much better than a lizard, even if he caught you.”
El Madani scouted the area, studying the ground. He knelt, his fingers on the gravel and sand. “Again they appear,” he said, almost to himself.
“Madani?”
“The prints of a mehari, out of place,” the ol
d tirailleur said. “I saw them the first time the night we found you. Then again near the four wild camels.” He shook his head, puzzled. “Why would someone help us?”
On the way back to camp Paul watched the terrain for him, but saw nothing. He knew he wouldn’t. So you’re still there. It doesn’t matter. Men are dying and you’re trying to buy your way out of it with food. Damn you, Moussa! It isn’t as easy as that!
They cooked the ass for dinner.
* * *
There had been no water for two days. One of the scouts found a small field of edible cactus and they collapsed in it, cutting it into pieces and eagerly sucking the bitter liquid. Paul tried to give some to Sandeau but he was nearly unconscious, tied to the camel now to keep him from falling off. He mumbled something and weakly squeezed Paul’s hand. The cloth covering his head and neck had fallen away. The motion of the camel had worked his shirt down off one shoulder and he had ridden for hours exposed to the sun. Angry blisters bubbled on skin that was a field of fire. Paul tried to fix the shirt and tuck the cloth into Sandeau’s collar. His hand accidentally brushed the skin. A patch of it came off and exposed the muscle beneath. Sandeau seemed not to notice.
When men could talk, they talked of Amguid and little else. They had passed through it on their way south, and were drawing near to it again. Paul recalled a large gorge there with a little stream and wells with good water. But others remembered much more: cool breezes and birds that flitted over date palms, or dikes and the refreshing noise of the water, irrigating gardens filled with sweet fruits and vegetables. It was all a mirage, Paul knew. They were putting the name of Amguid to their memories of Wargla. Even Hakeem had done it.
“We should go fishing in Amguid, Patron. The fish were fat there.”
“I don’t remember fish at Amguid.”
“Oh yes, Patron, fine fish and a lovely stream. It ran through the oasis. There were palms and a little souk where they sold fruit. Allah left a thousand blessings on Amguid. Were you paying so little attention? We bought apricots there, and peaches.”
“No. I remember the stream, but none of the rest in Amguid.”
“Your memory is weak then, Patron. It is quite clear to me.”
Paul shook his head patiently. “There are no apricots in Amguid, Hakeem. And no fish. You’ve had too much sun.”
Hakeem laughed without humor. “That is wonderfully funny, Patron. Too much sun, indeed.” His face turned hard. “You mock me now. You were a good patron once, but you have changed and gone cruel. First you took the Salukis from us. Now you take the fish. I am ashamed for you.”
Paul thought he saw the little man’s eyes mist, but Hakeem turned away. He limped off on bloody feet to find someone who would listen about the fish.
Paul felt shabby after that. He hadn’t meant to steal a dream.
* * *
In the afternoon the officers had a different notion about Amguid. They sat paralyzed with heat, waiting through the worst of it.
“The sentry said the Tuareg are still there, matching our pace,” Dianous said. “Nearly two hundred of them. What do you think they’re up to?”
“Planning something,” said El Madani. “They’re too quiet.”
“Maybe they’re just making certain we leave.” Pobeguin said it hopefully.
“Don’t be stupid,” El Madani snapped. “What else would we do? That is not their way. I’ll tell you their plan. They are waiting for Amguid. Waiting until we are at our weakest from thirst and hunger. That’s where they’ll make their stand. They’ll force us to fight when we have no strength left.”
“Merde. We’re nearly finished now.”
“That’s what they’re counting on.”
“I think we should mount a raiding party. Hit them at night,” Paul said, dredging it up again.
“Shut up,” said Dianous.
* * *
The next morning three Tuareg appeared again in the distance, waiting to talk.
“Are they the same ones?” asked Pobeguin.
“How would I know?” Dianous snapped at the sergeant. “All the devils look alike. Take Madani. See what they want.”
Pobeguin and Madani set off across the open space. Presently they stood before the three men. Pobeguin didn’t like looking up at such an angle but had no choice. The sun was behind the Tuareg, making them even more difficult to see. He had to squint and shield his eyes.
“We are not of the Kel Rela tribe that torments you,” one of the Tuareg said. “We have heard of your treatment at their hands. It is inexcusable. They are vile men. We have often fought them ourselves. We want no part of what they have done. We will help you.”
“In what way?” asked El Madani, his manner hostile.
“We have dates to sell. We can arrange for camels and sheep as well. For a price, of course. We are but poor nomads. Such treasures are not easy to find in this place.”
“And your price?”
The man named an amount that was somewhat less exorbitant than the one they had already paid. “I will speak with our commander,” said Madani. He translated for Pobeguin.
“Tell him we need a sign of good faith,” the sergeant said.
Madani did. The Tuareg talked quietly among themselves. From the rear of a mehari one of them produced a heavy bag. He threw it at the tirailleur’s feet.
“We give you this as a sign of our own fidelity, knowing you are men of honor and that you will pay our price. Tomorrow morning you will arrive at the wells of Aïn El Kerma. We will meet you there with more.”
El Madani and Pobeguin hoisted the sack and returned with it toward the column. The three Tuareg watched them go.
“They dance flawlessly to your tune,” said Mahdi.
“To him who puts a rope around his neck, Allah will always give someone to pull it,” said Tamrit.
Attici laughed. “Tomorrow we will pull.”
A swarm of starving men fell on the dates without waiting for Pobeguin to distribute them. Hunger had destroyed any semblance of order. Shouted commands fell on deaf ears. Sticky gobs of dates were snatched from the bag. Men pushed other men out of the way. Belkasem’s elbow smashed teeth and flattened noses as he savagely sought the greatest share. There weren’t enough to go around. Paul managed to grab a handful for Sandeau, but went without himself. He hoped Floop would hunt well that night, but Floop was tired of lizards and squirmed eagerly into the chaos to snap up his own share.
Pobeguin watched the mayhem with the bitter realization that they were at the mercy of the Tuareg. “I have never seen such greed,” he said. “Now they won’t be satisfied until they’ve gotten all our money by selling us our own provisions. It’s humiliating.”
“As long as we eat, why do you care?” asked Dianous.
* * *
Moussa pushed east across the desert, hurrying his little caravan as fast as he dared. The camels were loaded with food and skins of water. He had ridden furiously to In Salah to get them, stopping only long enough to rest his mehari. He had arrived long after dark when the oil lamps had gone out and the town slept behind closed gates. He couldn’t rouse the guard so he scaled the wall next to the gate. The man was fast asleep and didn’t notice his passage. Immediately he began pounding on doors, rousting men from their beds and purchasing what he needed without taking the time to bargain. The traders there knew him well and cheated him only a little. He was gone again before dawn, letting himself out of the gate past the still-sleeping guard. The journey had taken only eight nights. It was record time. Still, he hoped he hadn’t been too long. Men died quickly here.
He intended to pick up the French track just to the north of Amguid. He would stay in front of them and leave the camels and supplies a little at a time where they could be found. He would lay a trail of survival to Wargla.
He reached a low plateau and led his camels up a difficult path. They groaned and stalled and complained. He had to dismount four times to adjust their loads to keep them from falling. It was hard going. H
e regretted sending Lufti back to Abalessa. He could have used his help.
He arrived at the top and began threading his way through a series of wadis. He turned to berate the animal in the rear, a stubborn beast that was more donkey than camel, and didn’t immediately see the riders who moved silently out to block his way.
“You have become a trader then, Moussa?”
Moussa drew up sharply. A dozen Ihaggaren were behind Attici.
“If it were your affair I would answer, Attici,” Moussa said curtly. “As it is not, kindly move. You are blocking my path.”
“My affair is the French,” Attici replied, unmoving. “I warned you to return to the south, to stay clear of those things that are not your domain. I believe you have forgotten yourself, if those camels pack supplies for the French. I say again – it is I who carry the tobol.”
“It is I who remember our honor.”
“Zatab, Mastan! Take his animals.” Two of the Tuareg moved to respond. Moussa drew his great sword. “Stop there. I have no quarrel with you.” They hesitated, then pressed ahead, closing around on both sides of Moussa. It was a classic maneuver he’d seen many times. He couldn’t go forward, couldn’t back up. He cursed himself for letting it happen, although there was nothing he could do to stop it short of killing. He was quickly penned in. He stared at them, sword ready, but they were all around.
One stopped just behind him, separating him from the pack animals. With both hands he swung his lance like a club. Moussa heard it coming and raised his sword, but too late. He tumbled from his mehari. Taka screeched furiously beneath her hood.
They stepped their meharis back gently, taking care not to let them tread on the unconscious man. They all knew Moussa. Even though he had lost himself in the matter of the French, no one wished him harm.
Attici calculated how best to keep Moussa from his meddling. “Leave only his mehari and enough water for two nights. No food at all. Leave the hawk in shade, with water. Take everything else.”
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