The captain nodded. “I understand.”
Moussa looked at El Hussein. “You should put something on. You look like a fool.” The naked ambassador stared at him coldly.
The others mounted and their camels rose. Moussa took the reins of the lead camel in one hand and, with his gun at his prisoner’s neck, led the procession away from the walls, up the hill past the compounds and into the darkness. He looked back several times. Men were milling everywhere near the walls, but none followed. When he knew a rifleman could no longer see them to attempt a shot, he stopped and put his pistol in his belt. He tied the pasha’s hands and got him into a saddle. It was awkward going. Jubar Pasha was fat and out of shape. A man for a litter, not a camel.
When it was done Moussa mounted his own mehari. He looked up into the heavens. The skies sparkled with the promise of a billion stars. The open desert lay before them. He wanted to laugh out loud.
We are free.
He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the new sensation. Then he nudged his mehari forward and led his little caravan into the night.
* * *
It took all of Moussa’s persuasion to keep his companions from killing Jubar Pasha prematurely. During their imprisonment they had each filled endless hours devising tortures for the very man who was now their prisoner. Greatly tempted, they tormented him with their talk.
They passed a well. Abdulahi dropped a rock down its blackness. They all heard the faint splash. “You will make more noise, much more,” he said happily to the pasha, poking at his ample belly. “Can you swim?”
“Drowning is too quick,” said Mahmoud, drawing his knife. “There is a more interesting way. Let us feed him to the crows, one piece at a time. He can watch himself disappearing,”
Abdulahi laughed enthusiastically. “As much of him as there is, that will be many hours of watching. It is a good plan, Sidi.”
Moussa shook his head. “We might yet need him. He is no use to us dead.”
“We have no need of a hostage,” Mahmoud spat. “No one could follow us the way you have pushed us! It is no wonder people say the Tuareg are mad.” They had ridden nearly forty hours straight before their first rest, changing camels frequently. Mahmoud’s own backside was sore. He had underestimated his Berber cousins to the south; they were a formidable race indeed. Even by Tuareg standards their march had been extraordinary. Moussa never seemed to tire as he led them across a plateau that ran to the southeast of Timimoun. It was not the easiest path, but Moussa thought it safest. The heights were stony and they would not easily be followed. He intended to skirt In Salah, which would soon be crawling with the pasha’s agents, and make directly for the safety of Arak, where there would be Tuareg establishing autumn camps.
But for all their progress Moussa did not relax. “I take more pleasure in freedom than revenge,” he said. “I must be certain we are not pursued before giving him up.”
“There is nothing barren in revenge,” Mahmoud growled, but he let it pass.
It was Monjo who worried the pasha the most. The Hausa rarely said a word, staring for long hours at the captive. His expression was blank, his eyes dark and impenetrable. The pasha split his time worrying about the Hausa and groaning from the effects of the journey upon his aching body.
When they ate it was Moussa who brought food to the pasha. No one else would do it.
“I would know my betrayers,” Moussa said to him.
“I will tell you nothing.”
“Very well. You heard the Moor. If you do not speak now I will let him have his way with you.”
The pasha eyed him fearfully. “And if I tell you?”
“I will let you go – when the time is right.”
“How can I trust you?”
Moussa laughed. “An amusing question, just now. You have no choice. But I am a man of my word.”
Jubar Pasha decided quickly. He began talking.
* * *
Three days later Moussa knew it was time. He stopped the little caravan. From one of the pack camels he retrieved a guerba of water and a small bag of dates. He untied the pasha’s hands and gave him the supplies. The pasha looked at him uncertainly.
“You are free to go,” Moussa said.
Mahmoud exploded. You release this pig?” You cannot be serious! Give him to me!”
“No. He is my prisoner. It is my right to deal with him.”
“It is so,” Abdulahi agreed, seeing what Moussa had in mind. Monjo just nodded.
At first Jubar Pasha was euphoric. He turned his mehari to the north. And then he hesitated. There was no track to follow. The nearest well was forty leagues distant and he had no illusions about his ability to find it. He wasn’t sure of his bearings. “But you must be mad,” he sputtered. “This is a mistake. I need more supplies, more water and food. I cannot survive here. Where will I go? What will I do?”
Moussa shrugged. “You are welcome to stay with us, but from now on I will have nothing to do with you. The others will see to your comfort. As it is, I am giving you your freedom. It is all you will get, and more than you deserve.”
Moussa’s mehari rose to its feet. The four men and their supply animals began to move. Jubar Pasha sat atop his mount, lost and afraid. He watched until they were gone.
“You are too soft, Tuareg,” Mahmoud growled, as they pressed toward Arak.
“Probably,” Moussa agreed.
“Soft?” said Abdulahi, snorting. “He will have much time to face death. He will perish out there as surely as if you’d fed him to the crows.”
“Yes,” said Monjo. “Only more slowly.”
CHAPTER 33
Paul listened to the muffled shrieks coming from within the cave, where Messaoud was interrogating the prisoner.
He had known they were close to Tamrit. He had felt his presence. Tamrit had grown careless. The tracks of his animals were fresh. Instead of running he had relaxed the previous evening. He had taken tea, assuming his pursuers were soft and lazy like all infidels.
Tamrit had misjudged him.
Darkness had been falling and the attackers couldn’t see well, with all the smoke and confusion and shooting. There had been two entrances to the cave. Luck had been with Tamrit and his men and most had gotten out the back. All but the one whose cries filled the air.
The patrol had gone into the cave when the shooting stopped. They counted eight rebel bodies, men with swords or guns.
But they had found other bodies too. Six women and four children, huddled together in a dark corner of the cave. Fire or smoke or bullets – anything might have killed them. He hadn’t looked closely. It was enough, that they were dead. They had been inside, with the warriors of the jihad. They had waved no flag of surrender, nor appealed for mercy, nor made their presence known. Instead they had hidden. And then they had died.
Paul noticed his hand was shaking. He took hold of his rifle to still the tremors. He needed to eat something but couldn’t. Fatigue clawed at him but there would be no rest. He was close to the breaking point, his insides trembling as badly as his hands. His eyes were glazed, almost wild. He closed them to the vision of the huddled dead in the cave.
Were they the wives and children of the rebels? Nomads? There was no way to know. They could say nothing now. There was no one left to claim them. No one left to tell.
Did it matter, really? There had been so much chaos, so much madness. No one could have known.
He told himself that, over and over. No one could have known.
There had been other instances. Once in a village, the next time a caravan. A few guilty men dead, a few innocents gone.
I am at war. War has done it.
It was growing harder to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time. He paced a great deal. He drove himself to extremes. Sometimes he felt himself unraveling inside, but he could not relent. He would show no weakness to his men. He would ask no quarter, and he would give none.
The desert is harsh. Ask the Tuareg about killing. Ask the
Tuareg about mercy.
The prisoner’s shrieks grew fainter. After a time they stopped altogether.
Messaoud appeared at the entrance to the cave. His face was bloody and caked with grime. He made his way to the rocks where Paul was waiting.
“He is dead, Lieutenant.”
Paul nodded without expression.
“He said Tamrit and his men are going to Arak. I think he was telling the truth. He was beyond lying.”
“Arak?” Paul had not heard of the place.
“In the Muydir Mountains. The Hoggar, sir. Some of the Tuareg make their winter camp there. It is good news, sir. Arak is quite distant. Tamrit must have tired of our pursuit and seeks safety there.”
Paul looked out over the hills. The Hoggar Tuareg.
“Arak.”
“Oui, Lieutenant. It is a shame to lose them so, but our mission has been a success. We have driven them away from the French settlements. The threat is ended. The captain will be pleased.”
Paul shook his head. “I am not finished, Messaoud. It is not done.”
“But sir, what more is there? They have escaped. We cannot follow them. Not to Arak. It is too far south. Malish, mektoub.” He shrugged. It was unthinkable.
Paul watched the smoke rising from the mouth of the cave. A gentle wind carried it away to the south, toward the open desert where it disappeared. He could almost touch it. How like the smoke is my quarry. How close I am to touching it!
He could do it. He knew he could. His men were tough and well armed. They would not be caught offguard; they would not be out-gunned. And if he was wrong? If he failed, if death waited in Arak – yes, even if death there were certain? Well, that was all right. In death he might find release from his madness. In death he might find honor. He would die doing what he must.
“Prepare the men, Messaoud. Tamrit will be traveling more slowly now. He will never expect us to chase him into the Hoggar.”
Messaoud looked at the lieutenant as if he had gone completely over the edge. The Algerian relished killing Tuareg and the Senussi and all their lot, but had no wish to die foolishly in the pursuit of such pleasure. “Forgive me, sir, but of course they wouldn’t expect it, because they know we would be insane to try. None of us has ever gone that far. I don’t know if the men will follow, sir. We have no orders, no maps—”
“You have your orders, Messaoud, and I have no need of maps. Tell the men I will give them each a ten-thousand-franc bonus. From my own pocket. Those who are not man enough have my permission to return to Wargla.”
Messaoud passed the word and soon returned.
“Only four men want the money, sir. The rest want to go home.”
Paul stared into the smoke, his eyes unfocused. “A hundred thousand.”
This time only six men out of twenty chose to return to Wargla. Messaoud himself was one of the six. As they separated Paul issued final orders about those who had died in the cave.
“Burn their bodies.”
“But sir, they are Muslim. To burn their bodies will keep them from their heaven.”
“I said burn them, Messaoud. Let other Muslims follow them in peril of their souls.”
Lieutenant deVries, Messaoud decided, had indeed gone beyond cruel. But orders were orders and the bodies were burned.
* * *
Arak made her think of Henri.
Every year when the meager rains brought them there with their camels and goats and tents, Serena re-lived their first journey together through the magical lands near Arak. She could still see it all so clearly: the balloon rising over the dunes, the crash, her instant love for him, his danger at the hand of Tamrit, the night they made love for the first time. All her memories of Henri were sweet, but none sweeter than Arak.
Her little procession passed beneath the towering rock walls of a deep gorge, the early morning light streaming down to bathe the sand floor of the dry riverbed in soft pools of light. The sounds of their animals echoed softly against the cliffs as they moved. She watched the walls for aoudad, the wild sheep with curved horns and scraggly beards. If there were many it would mean the rains had been good, and they would be hunted with lances and the Tuareg would want for nothing. If there were few, the coming winter would be difficult, and the Tuareg would have to spread themselves far apart into many camps as they sought pasture for their animals.
Serena was coming early to Arak because Daia’s child was due, and she wanted to see her settled before the baby came. With eight children and a dozen slaves Serena had set out from their camp near Abalessa, while the noblemen concluded their affairs with their far-flung vassals and slaves who would remain behind. The men of her own douar would not arrive for a week or more, but it was no matter. Generally men got in the way when camps were to be made.
Serena watched for Lufti. He had ridden his mehari ahead, scouting for the best place. He is a good man, she thought. Moussa had done well by him. Lufti had come to her immediately upon hearing of Moussa’s death. She knew he had worshiped her son. “If it pleases I will serve you and your household as I served my master,” he said. “He would have wished me at your side.”
At first she had refused to believe the news in Mahdi’s letter, certain it was all a mistake. In the evenings she climbed to the rocks overlooking their camp and watched the northern horizon, thinking she would see his familiar figure atop his mehari, returning to camp as always. She could not allow herself to accept the fact of his death, and if she let Lufti into her household it meant a betrayal of her faith in Moussa’s survival. If she allowed him in it meant Moussa was dead. So she had declined his offer of service.
But the months had passed and he had not come, and there was no news of him from caravans or travelers. None of his vassals had seen him. Then Mahdi had given her more details when she had seen him at his wedding to Daia – not many details, but enough to dash her hopes, and as she sank into the desolation of grief her optimism had finally died. A mother wanted to die before her children, a wife before her husband. She had managed to outlive both husband and son. It was not the way of things. It was not right. She had lost everyone who was precious to her, first Henri, then her brother the amenokal, and now Moussa. Her nights were long and lonely and filled with private tears.
Serena was a strong woman; her grief would never pass, but she would not be paralyzed by it. She finally accepted Lufti’s offer. He brought Chaddy, the bride Moussa had bought for him, and their infant son, Rhissa, and all of Moussa’s animals, and overnight Serena’s ehen was transformed. She was thankful for the many distractions and took enormous delight in playing with Rhissa.
In those months she grew to love Daia as well. Serena had always wondered just how close her son and Daia had been. Daia had seemed as distraught about Moussa’s death as she herself had been. Serena knew that Daia wept for him, but if her tears seemed more than those for a friend, Serena never asked for details. It was none of her affair. It was enough that Daia said tender things about Moussa; they sat together at the fire and laughed and wept at shared memories of his mannerisms and humor. They became close friends. As Daia’s child grew larger within her Serena took a personal interest in her welfare, keeping her company while Mahdi was away, working leather with her and telling her stories about life in France. Daia always prompted her for more, even when she’d heard the stories a hundred times.
Serena did not envy Daia when it came to the man she had wed. Serena knew all the hard edges of her nephew. She knew he would be gone much from their tent, that he was destined to die violently. The tempests that raged inside him could not be stilled – not by Daia, not by anyone. His hatred for Moussa had always torn at her, but it didn’t matter anymore. Moussa was dead.
There were other things that concerned her for Daia’s sake. There had been disturbing reports about the Flatters expedition, stories of treachery and poison, and in all the accounts Mahdi had played a major role. There had been a great outcry among the Ihaggaren, but events of the year had kept the nobles sc
attered throughout the Hoggar, and there had been no reckoning. Moussa’s friend Taher had told her what he knew of Moussa’s efforts to preserve the honor of the Ihaggaren, and she treasured the knowledge but knew it could only have further alienated her nephew from her son.
Her reverie was interrupted by a piercing cry. Daia was on the mehari just behind her. The journey had been difficult for her. Lufti had rigged two saddles together so that she could ride nearly prone, but it had still been a long ordeal. Daia had not complained. Now Serena could see that her face had gone suddenly white.
“Daia! Are you all right?”
“The water… it – it is time,” Daia gasped, clutching the pommel of her saddle, leaning sideways as a contraction gripped her. “Ahhh!” She nearly slipped off. Serena quickly moved her mehari alongside Daia’s to give her support, while Anna, the old slave who had raised Daia, came up from behind on the other side. What she saw in Daia’s face made her worry. Like most Tuareg, Daia was stoic about pain, but her breathing was sharp and shallow. She was suffering a great deal. The women knelt their meharis and helped Daia down onto a pile of blankets. Anna stayed with her a few moments. “All is not well, Mistress Serena,” she said gravely. She had been through many deliveries. Outwardly she was calm, but Serena heard the edge to her voice. “There is difficulty. A breech, perhaps.”
“Lufti!” Serena yelled up into the rocks, her voice echoing back. Where was he? She couldn’t wait. One of their old camps lay just ahead. It was normally a good one, located in an amphitheater surrounded by rocks that provided shelter from the cold north wind. She would get them settled there. They could move later if need be. She gave instructions quickly. “Abdou, Chaddy! Quickly! Make the tents ready, there in the shade!” They hurried off to comply. The youngest of the children, excited to be stopping so soon in the day, scampered off to explore and play in the rocks. The older children pitched in to help the slaves set up camp.
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