by Paul Sussman
Some threw aside their packs and charged madly up the valley. Others laboured up the side of the dune, or fell to their knees, or crouched down in the shelter of the pyramid rock. One man fell face forward into the sand, weeping. Another was trampled by a horse as he struggled to mount it.
The Greek alone held his ground. He neither moved nor spoke, just stood leaden-limbed as the wall of darkness rolled inexorably towards him, seeming to gather speed as it came. More pack animals thundered past and men too, their weapons discarded, faces twisted in terror.
'Run!' they screamed. 'It's already taken half the army! Run or you'll be lost!'
The wind was raging now, whipping sheets of sand about his legs and waist. There was a roar, too, as of a surging cataract. The sun dimmed.
'Come on, Dymmachus, let's get out of here,' cried his companion. 'If we stay we'll be buried alive.'
Still the Greek didn't move. A faint smile twisted his mouth. Of all the deaths he had imagined, and there had been many, this one had never crossed his mind. And this his last campaign, too! It was so cruel it was laughable. His smile broadened and despite himself he began to chuckle.
'Dymmachus you fool! What's wrong with you?'
'Go,' said the Greek, shouting to be heard above the rising bellow of the storm. 'Run if you want! It makes no difference. For myself, I shall die where I stand.'
He drew his sword and held it in front of him, gazing at the image of a coiling serpent inscribed onto its gleaming blade, the jaws levering open around the sword's tip. He had won it over twenty years ago in his first campaign, against the Lydians, and had carried it with him ever since, his lucky mascot. He ran his thumb along the blade, testing it. His companion took to his heels.
'You're mad!' he screamed over his shoulder. 'You filthy mad fool.'
The Greek ignored him. He gripped his weapon and stared at the great darkness looming ever closer. Soon it would be upon him. He flexed his muscles.
'Come on then,' he whispered. 'Let's see what you're made of.'
He felt suddenly light-headed. It was always like this in battle: the initial fear, the leaden limbs, and then the sudden surge of battle joy. Perhaps growing olive trees wasn't for him after all. He was a machimos. Fighting was in his blood. Perhaps this was for the best. He began to chant, an old Egyptian charm to ward off the evil eye:
'Sakhmet's arrow is in you!
The magic of Thoth is in your body!
Isis curses you!
Nephthys punishes you!
The lance of Horus is in your head!'
And then the storm hit, pulsing against him with the force of a thousand chariots. The wind nearly swept him off his feet and the sand blinded him, ripping at his tunic, tearing at his flesh. Shadowy forms loomed through the darkness, arms flailing, their screams drowned by the deafening roar. One of the army's standards, torn from its mounting, flew against his legs and clung there for a moment before being snatched away again and disappearing into the maelstrom.
The Greek slashed at the wind with his sword, but it was too strong for him. It pushed him backwards and to the side, and eventually forced him down onto his knees. A fist of sand punched into his mouth, choking him. Somehow he struggled onto his feet again, but was knocked down almost immediately and this time didn't get up. A wave of sand swept over him.
For a few moments he bucked and struggled, and then lay still. He felt, suddenly, very weary and very calm, as if he was floating underwater. Images drifted slowly through his mind – Naxos, where he had been born and raised; the tomb in Thebes; Phaedis and the scorpion; his first campaign all those many years ago, against the fierce Lydians, when he had won his sword. With a final supreme effort of will he lifted the weapon high in the air above him, so that even when the rest of him had been buried its thick blade still protruded above the surface of the sands, the inscribed serpent coiling around it, marking the spot where he had fallen.
1
CAIRO, SEPTEMBER 2000
The limousine pulled slowly out of the embassy gates, long and sleek and as black as a whale, pausing momentarily before easing forward into the traffic. Two police motorcycles took up position in front of it, two behind.
For a hundred metres the convoy continued straight, trees and buildings slipping past to either side, then swung right and right again, onto the Corniche el-Nil. Other drivers glanced over, trying to see who was inside the limousine, but its windows were smoked and revealed nothing but the blurred silhouettes of two human heads. A small Stars and Stripes pennant fluttered on the corner of its front left wing.
After a kilometre the convoy came to a confused intersection of roads and flyovers. The lead motorcycles slowed, sounded their sirens, and pushed forward, leading the limousine carefully through the tarmac labyrinth and up onto an elevated carriageway where the traffic wasn't so heavy. The convoy picked up speed, following the signs to the airport. The rear motorcyclists leaned towards each other and began talking.
The blast was sudden and so understated that it wasn't immediately clear there had been an explosion. There was a muffled thud and whoosh, and the limousine bucked up into the air, swerving across the centre of the carriageway into a concrete wall. It was only when another thud, louder this time, rocked the stricken vehicle and a spurt of flame roared from its underside that it became clear this was more than just a road accident.
The motorcycles skidded to a halt. The limousine's front door flew open and the driver staggered out, screaming, his jacket on fire. Two of the riders smothered him with their own jackets; the others tried to reach the vehicle's rear doors, against the inside of which frantic hands were drumming. A pall of black smoke umbrellaed upwards into the sky, the air grew thick with the acrid stench of burning petrol and rubber. Cars slowed and stopped, their drivers gawping. On the limousine's front wing the Stars and Stripes pennant burst into flames and swiftly crumpled to ash.
2
THE WESTERN DESERT,
A WEEK LATER
'Motherfucker!'
The driver let out a scream of exhilaration as his Toyota four-wheel-drive crested the summit of the dune and took off, hanging in the air like an ungainly white bird before thudding down again on the far side. For a moment it looked as if he might lose control of the wheel, the vehicle slewing downwards at a dangerous angle, but he managed to bring it back in line and, reaching the bottom of the slope, jammed his foot on the accelerator again, powering up and over the top of the next dune.
'Motherfuckingcocksucker!' he bellowed.
He roared on for another twenty minutes, music blaring from the jeep's stereo, his blond hair whipping in the wind, before eventually skidding to a halt on a high sandy ridge and cutting the engine. He took a drag on his joint, seized a pair of binoculars and got out, his boots crunching on the sand.
The desert was eerily silent, the air thick with heat, the bleached sky seeming to press down from above. He stood for a moment gazing at the untidy collage of dunes and gravel pans stretching all around him, a strange, unearthly landscape devoid of life and movement, and then, taking another drag on the joint, lifted the binoculars and focused them to the north-west.
A crescent-shaped limestone scarp curved across his line of sight, with a swathe of green oasis spread along its bottom. Tiny white villages were scattered among the palm groves and salt lakes, while a larger smudge of white at the western end of the cultivation marked a small town.
'Siwa,' smiled the man, exhaling a curl of smoke from his nostrils. 'Thank God.'
He remained where he was for a few minutes, running the binoculars back and forth, and then returned to the jeep and started the engine, the blast of its stereo echoing once more across the sands.
He reached the edge of the oasis in an hour, bumping out of the desert onto a compacted dirt road. Three radio masts rose to his right and a concrete water tower. A pack of wild dogs came yapping around his hubcaps.
'Hey, guys, it's good to see you too!' He laughed, beeping his horn and swerving
the jeep to and fro, throwing up a cloud of dust and forcing the dogs to scatter.
He passed a pair of satellite dishes and a makeshift army camp before hitting a tarmacked road that carried him into the centre of the large settlement he'd seen from the dune-top: Siwa Town.
The place was all but deserted. A couple of donkey-carts clattered along the road and in the main square a group of women were clustered around a dusty vegetable stall, their grey cotton shawls pulled right down over their faces. Everyone else had been driven indoors by the midday heat.
He pulled over at the side of the square, beneath a high mound of rock covered with ruined buildings, and, retrieving a large manilla envelope from the back seat, got out and set off across the square, not bothering to lock the doors behind him. He stopped at a general store and spoke briefly to the owner, handing him a piece of paper and a wad of money and nodding towards the Toyota, then moved on, turning down a side street and stepping into a shabby-looking building with Welcome Hotel painted down the side. As soon as he entered the man behind the desk leaped up with a cry of delight and rushed round to greet him.
'Dr John! You are back! It is so good to see you!'
He spoke in Berber and the young man responded in the same tongue.
'You too, Yakub. How are you?'
'Well. You?'
'Dirty,' said the young man, patting dust off his 'I Love Egypt' T-shirt. 'I need a shower.'
'Of course, of course. You know where they are. No hot water, I'm afraid, but have as much cold as you want. Mohammed! Mohammed!'
A boy appeared from a side room.
'Dr John has come back. Fetch him a towel and soap so he can shower.'
The boy scampered away, his flip-flops slapping loudly on the tiled floor.
'Do you want to eat?' asked Yakub.
'Damn right I want to eat. I've been living off beans and tinned pilchards for the last eight weeks. Every night I've been dreaming of Yakub's chicken curry.'
The man laughed. 'You want chips with it?'
'I want chips, I want fresh bread, I want cold Coke, I want everything you can give me.'
Yakub's laughter redoubled. 'Same old Dr John!'
The boy reappeared with a towel and a small bar of soap, which he handed over.
'I need to make a phone call first,' said the young man.
'No problem. Come. Come.'
The owner led him into a cluttered room with a rack of dog-eared postcards leaning against the wall and a phone sitting on top of a filing cabinet. Laying his envelope on a chair, the young man lifted the receiver and dialled. It rang for a few moments before a voice echoed at the other end.
'Hello,' he said, now speaking in Arabic, 'could you put me through to . . .'
Yakub waved his hand and left him to it. He returned a couple of minutes later with a bottle of Coke, but his guest was still talking so he put the Coke on top of the filing cabinet and went off to start preparing the food.
Thirty minutes later, showered and shaved, his hair brushed back from his sunburnt forehead, the young man was sitting in the hotel garden in the shade of a knotted palm tree, wolfing down his food.
'So what's been going on in the world, Yakub?' he asked, breaking off a hunk of bread and swirling it through the gravy around the edge of his plate.
Yakub sipped his Fanta.
'You heard about the American ambassador?'
'I haven't heard anything about anything. It's like I've been living on Mars for the last two months.'
'He got blown up.'
The young man let out a low whistle.
'A week ago,' said Yakub. 'In Cairo. The Sword of Vengeance.'
'Killed?'
'No, he survived. Just.'
The young man grunted. 'Shame. Wipe out all the bureaucrats and the world would be a far healthier place. This curry is superb, Yakub.'
Two girls, European, rose from their table on the far side of the garden and walked past. One of them glanced back at the young man and smiled. He nodded in greeting.
'I think she likes you,' chuckled Yakub once they'd gone.
'Maybe,' shrugged his companion. 'But then I'll tell her I'm an archaeologist and she'll run a fucking mile. The first rule of archaeology, Yakub: never tell a woman what you do. Kiss of death.'
He finished off the last of his curry and chips and sat back, flies humming in the tree above his head. The air smelt of heat and woodsmoke and roasting meat.
'So how long are you here for?' asked Yakub.
'In Siwa? About another hour.'
'And then you go back to the desert?'
'Then I go back to the desert.'
Yakub shook his head.
'A year you have been out there. You come back, you get supplies, and then you disappear again. What do you do out there in the middle of nowhere?'
'I take measurements,' smiled the young man. 'And dig holes. And draw plans. And on a really exciting day I might take some photographs too.'
'And what do you look for? A tomb?'
The young man shrugged. 'I suppose you could call it that.'
'And have you found it yet?'
'Who knows, Yakub? Maybe. Maybe not. The desert plays tricks on you. You think you've found something and it turns out to be nothing. And you think you've found nothing and suddenly you realize it's something. The Sahara, as we say back home, is one big mother-fucking prick-teaser.'
He reverted to English for this and Yakub repeated the words, struggling to get his mouth around them.
'On beeg modder-fockin peek-taser.'
The young man laughed, pulling cigarettes and a small bag of grass from his shirt pocket.
'You've got it, Yakub. On beeg modder-fockin peek-taser. And that's on a good day.'
He rolled a joint swiftly and, lighting it, drew the smoke deep into his lungs, leaning his head back against the bole of the palm tree and exhaling contentedly.
'You smoke too much of that stuff, Dr John,' admonished the Egyptian. 'It will make you mad.'
'On the contrary, my friend,' sighed the young man, closing his eyes. 'Out in the desert it's just about the only fucking thing that's keeping me sane.'
He left the hotel half an hour later, the manilla envelope still clutched in his hand. The afternoon was moving on now and the sun had slipped away towards the west, its hue thickening from a watery yellow to a citrus orange. He strolled back through the square to the jeep, now filled with boxes of provisions, and, climbing in, started the engine and idled fifty metres onto the forecourt of the town's only garage.
'Fill it,' he said to the attendant, 'and the jerry-cans too. And put some water in the plastic containers. From the tap's fine.'
He threw the man the keys and walked a hundred metres up the road to the post office. Inside he opened the manilla envelope, pulled out a series of photographs, checked them, and then returned them to the envelope and licked down the flap.
'I want to send this registered mail,' he said to the man at the counter.
The man took the envelope, weighed it and, pulling a form from a drawer beneath the desk, began filling it out.
'Professor Ibrahim az-Zahir,' he said, reading out the name written on the front, enunciating it to make sure he had it right. 'Cairo University.'
The young man took a copy of the form, paid and, leaving the envelope, strolled back to the garage. The jeep, jerrycans and water containers were all filled now and, with a last look around the market square, he climbed back into the vehicle, started the engine and motored slowly out of the town.