In a few short moments a tent had been prepared for Daia. They lifted her inside, atop skins pulled tight like a litter. Serena and Anna helped get her settled on a soft bed of skins. Already her cheeks were flushed red and she was wet with perspiration. Serena stood aside and let Anna take over. She looked outside and saw Lufti in the distance. He waved when he saw the camp. Behind him rode another man, a Targui she recognized immediately. It was Mahdi.
Serena greeted her nephew as he dismounted. “Ma’-tt-uli,” she said without warmth. She looked behind him. “Where are the others, Mahdi? Tamrit and the rest? Surely you are not alone?”
“No. They have camped near the gorge. They did not wish to… intrude.”
“They are wise. Tamrit will never find welcome among those he dishonored. The rest would not find a warm reception here, either.”
“Speak for yourself, Aunt Serena. There are others who will not be so cold as you.”
“Perhaps. We shall see.”
Mahdi looked around, puzzled. He had expected a full camp, but saw only children and slaves. “Where are the others? The amenokal? And Attici?”
“We came ahead. Daia will deliver soon. We wished to make her comfortable.”
Mahdi nodded. “For that I thank you.” He paused a moment. He knew he had to tell her.
“There is danger for you, Serena. I fear I have brought the French to Arak.”
“Danger? What do you mean?”
Mahdi was genuinely worried now, knowing the Tuareg men had not yet arrived. He worried not for himself, but for Daia, for Serena, for all of them. Only that morning he and Tamrit had spotted their pursuers. For weeks they had seen no trace, certain that the French had stayed in the north, where the ikufar always remained.
But this Frenchman was different. He did not stop, did not rest. He had abandoned his Arabians for fast Shamba meharis and he traveled light, like a Targui himself. He traveled as if possessed, riding into forbidden land, indifferent to the fact that his life might well be forfeit as a result. It was puzzling. Ikufar did not give up their lives so easily.
“This Frenchman is the demon himself.” Tamrit had chuckled in amazement when he saw the column of tirailleurs, still specks on the horizon when the light of dawn was just bright enough to make them out. He was surprised and delighted. “Into the arms of Islam they ride,” he said.
Mahdi had initially shared his enthusiasm. He feared no man – not this officer, nor any ikufar, nor any Arab or Tuareg. He looked forward to the battle. But Mahdi had expected all the warriors of the Ihaggaren to be in Arak by now, along with their women and children and slaves. He knew Daia would be in one of the camps, waiting for him. They had talked of it after the wedding. He had come to see her and their new child, if it had been born. He had longed for the day. Now he realized he had brought peril to her very tent.
“You will have to move quickly,” Mahdi told Serena. “Without the men of the Ihaggaren you are in grave peril.”
Serena shook her head. “Daia is in labor. She is having difficulty. She cannot move, not now. Not for some time.”
“Hear me! There is no choice!” He calmed himself. He knew his aunt did not respond to orders. He had to persuade her. “There is a French officer. It will not trouble him to kill everyone in this camp. The women, even the children. No one is safe.”
Serena scoffed at that. “Have you forgotten my own past? The French are not demons, Mahdi. I know them well. Spare me, Nephew. Spread your lies among those who know no better.”
“This one is not like the others you have known, Serena. I have seen his rage. He is a demon. He is a pig.”
There was something he wasn’t telling her, she knew. “From whence springs such rage? Why has he come here? Why would such a man wish us ill?” And then it dawned on her. “Ah. Sheikh Flatters. This man seeks vengeance for your treatment of his men. Poison for poison?”
Mahdi’s disgusted grunt told her she was right. “There is no time for this. Listen to me well,” he said. “You must leave immediately. If you will not move Daia then I shall do it myself.”
“Then you will have her death on your hands. Perhaps that of the baby as well.”
Mahdi cursed. Angrily he pushed past her and went inside the tent.
He could see for himself that Daia was in great difficulty. A spasm made her go rigid, and she arched her back until it passed. Anna held her hand and wiped sweat from her brow. “Get out, woman,” Mahdi said.
Anna glared at him, but obeyed quickly.
He knelt near Daia. His face softened beneath his veil. He took her hand in his own. His voice was strong, reassuring.
“It is I, Daia. I am with you now.”
“Mahdi,” she said, trying to smile but gritting her teeth as the pain swept over her.
“It wounds me to see you suffer so.”
“It is not so bad. Like being trampled by mad camels, I think,” but at that she gave out a gasp.
“Anna!” Mahdi called out nervously. Men with mortal wounds did not worry him like a woman in labor. Anna returned at once and knelt beside her. Mahdi held Daia’s hand while the old woman worked.
“There are no inad with you, sire?” Anna asked him. The inad were smiths and surgeons, mysterious vagrants generally despised by the Tuareg but quite useful as they moved among their camps. Anna wished for one now. The baby was turned wrong. She was sure of it.
“No.”
Anna shook her head, hoping for a miracle. “Then she shall need much baraka.”
* * *
“Mistress Serena! Men approach!” Lufti called from his post atop an outcropping from which he could observe the passage that led out to the gorge. Mindful of Mahdi’s warning, Serena had sent him there to stand watch. She ran across the clearing and climbed to where he stood.
“Is it the French?”
Lufti peered at them. “No, mistress. I think not. I cannot tell. Travelers, not soldiers. I don’t know their tribe. Four men and twice as many meharis.”
She watched the little band of men. The one in front wore robes of white. His turban was oddly tied, a cross between a litham and a turban of Morocco. There was a slave behind him leading a few of the camels, followed by two men carrying rifles. Perhaps a rich merchant, she thought. It was a rare traveler, bold indeed, who entered a Tuareg camp uninvited, yet this one approached as if without a doubt as to his welcome.
He halted his mehari twenty meters from where she stood. He saw the woman and the slave and watched them without saying a word. Lufti fiddled with his knife in its sheath, uncertain and afraid and all but useless. Serena waited for a sign of the man’s intentions. At length he made a soft sound and the camel sank to its knees. Dismounting, he strode directly toward them, his bearing strong and sure. It was then that she knew, even before she could see him more closely. Lufti had seen it at the same instant. They knew his walk as surely as they knew his eyes, that strong, purposeful stride so like his father’s, yet so much his own.
“Master?” Lufti said it tentatively, in disbelief. His knife fell to the ground and he clutched the amulets around his neck, pumping them as if to summon the protection of their baraka. “Oh-oh-oh, is it you truly, or the djenoum come to take me?” At last he knew it was not a spirit. He jumped and spun and gave a great whoop. “Hamdullilah, sire, you are alive!”
Moussa broke into a run toward his mother, who stood overwhelmed. He swept her into his arms, lifting her easily. He felt her trembling, and heard the cry of delight that rose from her heart.
Then she whispered, the words pouring out in a torrent of French, the language of his childhood. “Est-ce possible – Is it – oh, mon Dieu, my son, I thought you dead! How can this be? How can this be?”
“Maman, Maman, how beautiful you look! Que tu es belle! How I have missed you!” He spun her around, hugging her tightly. She could see his face and she took it between her hands as she spun, crying as she did, tears of joy mingled with those of disbelief. She felt weak with happiness. “Come, come ins
ide, sit, tell me, tell us all—” and then she hesitated, suddenly confused, everything crashing together in her mind, and with growing purpose she led him by the hand across the clearing and into the tent, where Mahdi was absorbed with Daia.
“Mahdi!” Serena said, her voice imperious and cold. “A most curious thing. The dead man lives!”
Mahdi stiffened. He turned, his eyes taking in the white robes, the odd jeweled turban, the partially exposed face – and he gasped when he realized who it was. He stood quickly, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Cousin.” His voice was low with menace.
Daia’s eyes opened. Mahdi had only one cousin. “Moussa?”
Moussa ignored Mahdi. His eyes brimmed with tears as he saw her. For a moment he couldn’t speak. So many thoughts he had had of her, so many dreams of this moment. Finally he managed to nod. “Eoualla. Yes.”
“How is it possible? I thought you dead! All of us – Mahdi said – I don’t underst—” Her eyes went to Mahdi, and she bucked suddenly in pain and cried out. Anna bent over her. “Mahdi,” Daia gasped. “Your letter! I have it still! You wrote that he was dead—”
“And that you saw it with your own eyes,” Serena finished for her. “And tried to help him. All this time, on your word, we thought my son dead.” The pain in her voice was terrible. “I cannot believe such cruelty, Mahdi. Not even from you.”
Mahdi said nothing, his hand squeezing, then releasing the hilt of his sword. This was the thing he had feared least, for no man could escape Timimoun. No man! His fury was enormous. He wanted to throttle Tamrit and the fool Jubar Pasha with his own hands. He cursed himself for permitting the notion of ransom to override his own instincts. He should have killed Moussa long ago. Now he was tangled in deception before the very woman for whom it had all been done. His head pounded with rage.
“I was mistaken! I did not know! I thought it was you who had fallen—”
“You said in your letter… you… buried… him… yourself!” Every word was an effort, but Daia forced them out. Inwardly Mahdi cringed at her tone. He knew this damage could not be undone.
“He wrote such things?” Moussa stared at his cousin, shaking his head as the monstrous picture grew clear in his mind. There were so many things he had not understood after hearing Jubar Pasha’s rambling story, so many gaps he could not explain. Not until now. There was more sadness than anger in him as the extent of Mahdi’s treachery became clear. The long months in the foggaras had been the work of his own cousin. “How can a man despise another so? What have I ever done to you, to earn such treachery?”
Mahdi started to protest again but Moussa cut him off.
“It is time to stop the lies, Mahdi. I had a long conversation with Jubar Pasha himself, only a fortnight ago. He told me a wild tale, a tale of Tamrit and ransom. I thought him mad. By himself Tamrit would never have known enough. I see that now. The pasha didn’t know about you – he just didn’t know.”
“Ransom? Tamrit? What is this?” Serena asked. She was even more confused than before, and was becoming alarmed as she sensed the deadly tension growing between the two men.
There was no time to answer. Daia cried out again, whether from anguish or pain no one could tell. The sound drove Mahdi to action. Without warning he sprang forward and knocked Moussa hard to the ground. They rolled outside, carrying with them one of the posts that held up a corner of the tent. Part of the tent collapsed. Anna leaned over Daia to shield her as the post crashed down. Struggling against shock and labor and fear, Daia yelled past her. “Mahdi! Stop it! Do not harm him!” Her voice was lost in the bedlam.
Mahdi’s stabbing knife materialized in his hand. Instinctively Moussa reached for his own, only to realize it wasn’t strapped to his forearm. It hadn’t been there for months. His sword and pistol were with his mehari. He was unarmed. Mahdi’s blade flashed near his neck, but caught nothing except cloth. Moussa grabbed for Mahdi’s hand, pinning it to the ground. Their eyes locked as the deadly struggle wore on. “I should have killed you long ago, Cousin!” Mahdi hissed. Hatred burned hot in eyes that already sensed triumph. I have you now, the eyes said. You are mine.
Mahdi managed to push Moussa back as he sprang up to a crouch, slashing savagely but missing each time.
Monjo, Mahmoud, and Abdulahi had been waiting atop their mounts, expecting Moussa to beckon them inside, when suddenly they saw the two men explode out of the tent. Of the three only Mahmoud was a fighter; he responded quickly when he saw the knife in Mahdi’s hand.
“Take this!” he shouted. He drew the pasha’s jeweled sword from its scabbard and flung it to his friend. Moussa caught it deftly and spun to face Mahdi. Mahdi turned and ducked. His blade flashed again, this time at Moussa’s knee. He caught flesh through the robe. Moussa gasped and staggered back, falling heavily. With incredible speed Mahdi sheathed his knife beneath his sleeve and in the same motion drew his great sword. He lunged but Moussa turned aside and the blade pinged against rock, sparks flying from the cold Spanish steel. Instantly Mahdi struck again, and a second time the blade missed Moussa’s head by a millimeter. Moussa rolled to his feet and backed away.
The fight went on that way, Mahdi the stronger and faster of the two, always on the attack, a magnificent warrior swirling and slashing, Moussa on the defensive, rolling and twisting out of the way, the light blade of the pasha’s sword no match for the heavier steel of Mahdi’s great sword. The two men moved constantly, their blades clashing with frightening speed and power.
Mahdi was a patient fighter, his breathing labored but steady as he moved in for the kill. He stroked and slashed overhead, time and again bringing the heavy steel down, Moussa parrying and blocking and stepping backward, unable to strike a blow in return, Mahdi wearing him down with strength rather than cunning or speed. The mismatch was beginning to show when Moussa, desperate, spun and dropped suddenly to a crouch, clutching his sword to his side so that it came around like a scythe. It caught Mahdi in the thigh, drawing blood. Instantly Moussa spun the other way, unableto get his sword up for another strike but managing a powerful blow with his hand to Mahdi’s head.
Mahdi shook it off, wavering only a second before springing forward to attack once again, more determined than ever. But he swung and missed, and Moussa caught his hand this time in a powerful grip strengthened by months wielding a mattock in the foggaras. Mahdi pulled away sharply, but his balance was off and he had no chance. Moussa plunged his sword to the hilt. As quickly as it had begun the deadly struggle ceased. With a long gasp Mahdi sank to the ground.
Mahdi’s last thoughts were not for himself or for his soul, or for the jihad, or of his loathing for Moussa, who even now stood above him with a pathetic and tortured look on his face. Mahdi worked hard to form the words. Moussa saw his struggle and knelt to listen.
“Get Daia to safety, Cousin,” he whispered. “The Frenchman. Tamrit will not hold him long. He will kill her. He will kill you all.”
With that he died.
* * *
The French column grew ever larger as Tamrit made last-minute preparations. It was perfect; they were riding directly into his trap. He could see their meharis plodding along in a line, one after the other, unwary lambs riding to slaughter. They were better armed, but his men outnumbered them three to one and had the advantage of surprise. His men waited on either side of the entrance to the gorge, hiding behind massive boulders. The two with carbines overlooked the approaches, while the four with muskets crouched close to the canyon floor, ready to fire their ancient weapons at his command. After the first volley the fearful wrath of Allah would descend upon the invaders as the rest of his men fell upon them with swords and lances and knives.
Tamrit was impressed with the French officer. It would be an honor to kill such an earnest man.
* * *
Paul’s column had done the unthinkable, crossing uncharted desert straight to the lair of the enemy. He was proud of the tirailleurs who followed him, but found satisfaction not in the
feat itself but in knowing that his long tortured road was nearing an end.
He looked at the gorge of Arak, at the massive cliffs rising from the desert floor, and knew instantly it was there they would be waiting. Once before he had felt Tamrit’s presence, and had nearly caught him. He felt it again now, a peculiar tingling in his belly. He looked up at the soaring walls of the natural fortress. A spectacular place, he thought. A good place to die.
His men were somber but alert as they entered the forbidden country of the Tuareg. They were edgy, weapons at the ready, all eyes probing the long shadows for danger. Paul halted them and drew a tirailleur aside. He pointed to a massive granite pillar that stood like a sentinel at the entrance to the gorge. Its base was littered with boulders the size of houses, massive rocks that had broken off the walls. The pillar was reflected in a large pool of water, its image dancing through sunlight that gleamed on the surface.
“They are watching us now. Waiting for us just there, I think.”
“Oui, it is a good place, sir. But I am not so certain they even know we are following. For weeks they have given no sign.”
“They know.” Paul knew it without doubt. “Besides, you wish to take a chance?”
The tirailleur shook his head firmly. “No, sir.” Together they climbed to a place where they had a commanding view of the entrance to the gorge. Paul carefully studied the approaches and the rock walls with his field glasses, following the ledges and contours of the granite. When his plan was formulated he spoke earnestly with the tirailleur, giving instructions, pointing to ledges and boulders. Afterward they returned to the waiting patrol and ordered the men into action. Some dismounted, waiting, while others formed into what appeared to be two small scouting patrols. Before they left the lieutenant spoke briefly.
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