Empires of Sand

by Empires of Sand (retail) (epub)

  It was hopeless.

  Yet each day he had repeated it, I will find a way. I will never give up. He said it between strokes of his mattock. He said it when he slid on his belly in the cold muck. He said it because he was afraid he would become like the others, from whom all hope had been drained like water from the sands. He fought the routine, trying not to get comfortable with the patterns of Timimoun. But inexorably he found himself caught in it – looking forward to his meals, or to the peace of the evenings, to the chatter of the courtyard, to the glow of the sunrise as each day began. One could learn to live with such cadence. One could say this is all there is, all there ever will be. Other men did, good men. Some even became obsessed with the foggaras, impressed with their own coerced achievements.

  But not I! I will find a way! I will never give up!

  Until now. Until the flood. In its wake the waves of despair lapped too close. The others were right. There was no escape from Timimoun. He closed his eyes and lost himself in thoughts of his other life, his life with Daia. She would be married by now, a mother perhaps. He imagined what they might have been like together, what their life might have been. The color of their tent, the texture of it, and how it would be inside. What their children might look like.

  He constructed whole days with her, thinking out every detail, having complete conversations. She traveled with him as he patrolled the camps of his vassals. At night they sat before their tent and watched the sun set. They moved camp with the seasons and followed the grasslands in the timeless ritual of the Tuareg. He presented her with a great white horse, a magnificent Arabian, and she rode it like the wind.

  It wasn’t torture, thinking of those things. It was wonderful. It kept him sane.

  * * *

  “Targui! Yal-la! Wake up! Come!”He awoke slowly, holding on to his dream, but the foot lashed him savagely in the side. He opened his eyes and sat up, blinking. Was it night or day? He didn’t know for sure. He had been dreaming.

  It was Atagoom, the guard.

  “What?”

  “Come, I say. Be quick.”

  Monjo, Mahmoud, and Abdulahi all stirred. It was night, then.

  “Fee ’eyh!” Abdulahi groaned. “What is it?”

  “None of your affair,” Atagoom snapped. Moussa got up. His toe was throbbing, his skin raw. They left the hut and walked through the compound. Slaves sat in small groups around their night fires, chattering and laughing and talking in low voices. They hardly noticed his passage. Atagoom prodded him with the palm branch, his sword sheathed at his side. He carried a torch in one hand. Atagoom was a big man. Unlike most guards he was strong and alert. He never left prisoners an opportunity to break away, never let his guard down.

  They left the compound and walked down the long path toward the gates of the oasis. Cookfires flickered in other compounds. The walls were lit at large intervals with torches. Guards opened the gates at the command of Atagoom and passed them through into the town. Moussa’s eyes darted everywhere, looking for details that might help one day. He was led through a bewildering maze of streets, some covered, others open to the sky, and he quickly lost his bearings. He would never find his way out, not without help. Presently they arrived at the northernmost casbah, the fortress where the pasha’s quarters were located. They went up a wide stairway and onto a veranda. Sleepy guards stood before the doors, armed with swords. Atagoom said something and one disappeared inside.

  Vines covered one side of the veranda, which overlooked a large garden that sloped gently down toward the oasis. He heard water trickling somewhere below, beneath the trees – water from the foggaras, water that brought life and pleasure to people who lived here, water bought with the lives of slaves. A warm breeze brought the smells of the oasis to him. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, savoring the scent of lilacs and violets, of apricot and peach blossoms. Behind the flowers and fruits there were other smells. Something cooking, something with spices he didn’t recognize but that made his stomach begin to stir. And then – perfume, the lovely fragrance of a woman. Through the leaves of the palms he saw the stars overhead. It was wonderful to be outside his hut. Wonderful to be above-ground, to smell the evening.

  The guard reappeared. “Enter.” Atagoom prodded him and they stepped inside. Moussa blinked. He was in the pasha’s reception hall. The lights were dim. Music played from some unseen place, a stringed instrument he couldn’t identify. Across the hall in the shadows he saw the vague forms of veiled women. They were leaving the hall through a door in the back, laughing and chattering. Evidently a banquet had just ended. Trays of unfinished food sat on the floor, more food than the slaves’ compound saw in a week. Moussa eyed the trays. He never had enough.

  The pasha sat on plush cushions, laughing at something the man sitting next to him had said. Moussa recognized the man, remembering the beating he’d suffered at his hands. El Hussein. The ambassador. A carafe of liquor sat near them, brandy brought from France by El Hussein for the pleasure of his brother-in-law. The devout fires of Islam had been dimmed for the evening by the forbidden liquor of the infidel. Both men were slightly drunk. At first they ignored him. He stood there with Atagoom behind him. After a time the pasha looked at him and saw his eyes on the food.

  “The dog would have a bone from our table?” he said. He waved expansively. “Tonight is a night of generosity, a time to share Allah’s bounty with the very man who makes it possible. Don’t you agree, Hussein?”

  El Hussein was the more cautious of the two. Even half-drunk, he preferred this man in chains. He remembered the knee in his groin. “He needs nothing, lord, only an end. It is better to let him stand.”

  “Nonsense! Is it not written, that generosity is the path to Allah’s grace? Let him eat! Atagoom!”

  “Lord?”

  “Release his hands so that he may enjoy the scraps. Stand close to him. If he moves other than to eat kill him quickly.”

  Atagoom untied the prisoner’s hands. Moussa rubbed his wrists. He looked at the food and stepped forward, then stopped. Jubar Pasha looked at him quizzically.

  “You are not hungry? You eat so well, in your quarters? I must have the rations cut then, for all the men.”

  “I have no interest in eating with you.”

  Jubar Pasha laughed delightedly. “How I enjoy impertinence from a noble slave! Such excellent breeding in a half-breed! You wear the mantle of arrogance so well. It becomes you!”

  “You did not bring me here to feed me.”

  The pasha’s eyes sparkled with brandy and well-laid plans. “No, Moussa deVries. Or Count deVries, should I say? You are quite right. I did not bring you here to feed you. I brought you here to kill you.”

  Moussa stiffened. Count deVries! No one had ever called him that. How would this man know? All this time he had thought himself a common prisoner, the chance casualty of a desert ambush. Obviously he had been naïve. There was more at work here, much more. He felt Atagoom’s hand on his shoulder. The guard had noticed his slight movement. He was alert and would tolerate nothing.

  The pasha also noted his instinctive reaction. “You need fear nothing, Count. It will be done quickly, I assure you. I am a humane man – even to an infidel. And such an infidel! Twice over, I believe. The French infidel – Christian, I suppose?” There was no response from Moussa. “And the Tuareg infidel. Such a pity, that two halves should add up to less than nothing. If only you were a believer you would stand this night at the side of the Prophet himself, in paradise. Such a noble thing you do for the house of Islam, without doing a thing at all.”

  El Hussein was disturbed. The pasha was saying too much, his tongue loosened by the unfamiliar liquor. He raised the voice of caution. “I do not think it wise, lord, to tell him—”

  “What difference does it make?” The pasha waved him off. “What does a man remember from the grave? That he has been betrayed?”

  “You speak in riddles,” Moussa said.

  The pasha looked at Moussa triumphantly. �
�There is no riddle, Targui. Yes, you have been betrayed. Not once, like a common man, but many times, like a king! Such disloyalty, from one’s own! It does pain me, to see a man treated so poorly by his own kind.” He corrected himself. “Kinds. I forget myself with a half-breed.” He took a long drink straight from the carafe, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  “A man should know before he dies just how much he matters, or how little. Evidently you matter not at all. So many people who wish you ill, and so much money to pay for it! I do not agree, of course, in the senseless disposal of a man. Even half a man. I could use you in my foggaras.”

  A thought occurred to the pasha that seemed to amuse him. “There is such irony here! Only this afternoon the master of the foggaras was flogged for allowing you to come so near death. It was contrary to his instructions and would have been most unfortunate.” Moussa’s eyes betrayed his surprise. “Ah yes, I know of the flood. I know of all things that happen to you. I have kept you alive, Moussa deVries, and quite carefully so. But I am only a simple desert man. Now I must bow to the winds of persuasion.”

  “Lord,” El Hussein said again impatiently. “Forgive me, but please, this is enough.”

  Jubar Pasha sighed and took another drink. “Yes, I suppose.” He waved at the food. “A pity you will not eat. The food is really quite good. The goats will enjoy it, as the crows will enjoy you. The time has come. Atagoom, tie him.”

  The big guard moved instantly to obey. He stepped behind Moussa and took his right arm.

  Moussa moved without thinking. Like lightning he spun and struck the big man on the ear, a glancing blow that stunned Atagoom but did him no harm. Atagoom swung the palm branch that he still held in his hand. Moussa jumped back, but the branch caught him on the shoulder, the wicked spines ripping his flesh. He grabbed the branch, the spines now tearing his hand, and yanked. Atagoom lost his balance for an instant and tumbled forward. Moussa’s knee met the guard’s face with a vicious crack. Atagoom bellowed and fell heavily to the floor. Moussa whirled to face the pasha, who was tugging furiously at his belt for his dagger, his mouth open in disbelief. El Hussein was struggling to his feet, reaching for his own weapon. The guards at the far end of the room yelled and started running toward them. Behind them the door opened and another guard ran in. Outside there was more yelling and commotion. Moussa leapt over the plates of food and smashed into El Hussein, knocking him sprawling backward. The pasha was no fighter, his pudgy hand lost in the folds of his robe as he desperately clawed for his knife. Moussa was behind him in an instant, snatching the jeweled dagger from the pasha’s hand. He held the pasha around the neck with one arm, holding the knife to his throat with the other. It was all over in a few seconds.

  “Move another step and he dies,” he barked at the guards, who were nearly upon them, their swords drawn. Jubar Pasha gasped in fright, barely able to breathe. The guards stepped back uncertainly. “Set your swords on the ground,” Moussa snapped. They complied quickly.

  Moussa looked at El Hussein. “I will take the pistol in your sash,” he said. He had seen its handle when the man had beaten him. El Hussein scowled but made no move. “Now!” Still El Hussein hesitated. Moussa’s blade pressed into the fleshy neck of the pasha, drawing blood.

  “Give it to him, you fool!” Jubar Pasha squeaked. El Hussein drew back his robe and withdrew the weapon. He handed it over. “You will get nowhere—” he started to say.

  “Quiet!” Moussa knew he would have to move fast, before they could organize against him. He leaned close to the pasha’s ear. “Tell the guard to bring fifteen camels. Well rested, fat humps. And food. Water enough for twenty days. Weapons. Rifles and pistols, with ammunition. They will have everything ready within thirty – twenty – minutes, at the gate. Tell him well, Jubar Pasha. Your life depends on it.”

  The pasha whimpered.

  “Tell him!”

  “Do as he says,” the pasha gasped, snapping out a stream of orders. The captain of the guard said a silent prayer for himself and his family. His own head would fall from his shoulders this day. He ran from the hall to obey.

  Moussa looked at El Hussein. “Take off your clothes.”

  “What!?”

  “Now, quickly. Give them to me.” El Hussein’s face was dark with humiliation. He was wobbly from the brandy. He took off his rich robes, and his silk shirt, and stopped when he had only his baggy pants left. He looked scrawny and quite pathetic without his rich clothing. He shivered in the cool air of the evening.

  “All of them!”

  Reluctantly El Hussein complied. At last he stood naked before them. Moussa released the pasha for an instant and held the gun with one hand while he quickly donned the clothes. “The turban,” Moussa said. Slowly El Hussein unwound the cloth, which he handed over.

  Moussa wrapped it hurriedly over his own head. For the first time in Timimoun he felt whole again, his skin covered and his veins surging with hope. He couldn’t help smiling at the sight of El Hussein cringing naked. Moussa looked him up and down, and then laughed. “You are clearly a man of modesty, Ambassador,” he said. “And for good reason.”

  He pulled the pasha to his feet, keeping the pistol jammed to his neck. “Move!” he commanded, and shoved his prisoner forward. They stepped over the food. Moussa stopped and kicked Atagoom. “Get up! Come!”

  Atagoom struggled to his feet. He groaned, his mouth a bloody mess. “Leave your sword,” Moussa commanded, and it clattered to the ground. “Take us back to my compound,” Moussa said. “Do not miss a turn or your master will die. Do it quickly.” Atagoom looked at the pasha’s frightened eyes, at the barrel of the pistol at his neck. He nodded.

  “You go behind him,” Moussa said to El Hussein.

  The ambassador was mortified. “I will not walk naked through the streets of the town like a common slave—” Moussa lashed out with the barrel of the pistol, opening a small wound on his cheek. El Hussein gasped but began to move.

  The guards stood aside as they passed quickly through the doors of the Great Hall and down the stairway. Another small knot of guards stood at the entry to one of the passageways leading to the oasis. Some had flintlocks, all had swords. They watched the procession, uncertain what to do. Moussa spoke to the pasha. “Tell them to stay back. If any man fires, I too will fire. They might miss. I will not.”

  The pasha cried out at them. “Get away, you fools! Stay back, do you hear?” They melted back into the passageways, helpless, letting Moussa and his captives pass. Atagoom led them back through the maze. Curious people looked at the group, some dropping baskets they carried or gasping as they saw the pasha. Moussa moved them quickly at a half-trot, using the pasha’s big body as a shield. He smelled the stench of alcohol and fear mingled in the man’s sweat. They arrived at the gate, which opened at a command from Atagoom, and the little party hurried up the path toward Moussa’s compound. Jubar Pasha was gasping for breath. The exertion was far more than he was used to. “Please,” he said. “I must rest—” Moussa pushed him harder.

  They stopped at the gate of the compound, just beneath a torch that was fixed to the gatepost. Moussa spoke to Atagoom. “Fetch the others in my hut,” he said. “If you are not back within three minutes your master will die.” Atagoom moved to obey, disappearing through the gate into the shadows. Several guards stood inside the compound, unaware of what was happening.

  Presently Atagoom reappeared. In the gloom Moussa could barely make out the faces he sought. “What is it?” Abdulahi said, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What is this?” With Monjo and Mahmoud at his side, he moved where Atagoom pointed, to the two men standing by the post. His eyes grew wide as saucers when he saw the pasha, standing like a common man in the darkness. His mouth opened when he realized there was a pistol at the pasha’s throat. Next to him stood a naked man, scrawny and shivering in the night. Abdulahi didn’t recognize him. He peered carefully at the man with the weapon. In the dim light he still couldn’t see his face.

 
“Our time has come,” Moussa said from behind his new shesh. “The pasha himself has been good enough to escort us. Are you ready to leave?”

  Abdulahi nearly collapsed in sheer astonishment.

  “Sidi?”

  Mahmoud laughed out loud. “Well done, Tuareg dog!” He strode to the pasha and spat in his face.

  “Not now,” Moussa said. “We must be quick. There is no time to lose.” He turned and started back down toward the gate to Timimoun. Without hesitation, Abdulahi and Mahmoud followed. Abdulahi stopped and turned.

  “Monjo! What are you waiting for?” The Hausa man had not moved.

  Moussa stopped and called to him. “Monjo! You will have no other chance.”

  “I told you once. I have nowhere to go. Nowhere better than this. Plenty of places worse.”

  “Stay with me. I will protect you. Don’t be a fool. You can’t stay anyway. They’ll kill you now for sure. Come on!”

  Monjo wavered uncertainly for another moment. Then he shook his head and muttered a short curse. He fell in behind them.

  The camels were waiting. “Monjo, Mahmoud. Check their condition,” Moussa said. “Abdulahi, make sure of the food and water. There should be weapons as well.” The three men hurried to check, opening packs, feeling pads and humps. They took their weapons from the waiting guards. It was all as arranged.

  The pasha caught his breath at last. “You will never escape. My men will find you before this night has passed.”

  “Then they will find you too, Jubar Pasha. You don’t think I would miss a chance to show you Tuareg hospitality on a journey?”

  “You cannot do this!” the pasha sputtered. “I will not go!”

  “You will.” Moussa picked out the captain of the guard. The man’s look of misery made clear that he knew he would pay with his life for his failure to protect his master. Moussa cocked his pistol and held it to the pasha’s temple. His words were sharp and loud enough for the rest of the guard to hear. “The pasha has decided to travel with us. We will watch carefully. If anyone follows, even ten leagues behind, I will know it and he will die. Do you understand?”