The Lost Army Of Cambyses

by Paul Sussman

  He stopped briefly on the edge of the desert and glanced wistfully back towards the town. Then, switching on the stereo, he revved the engine and roared forward across the sands.

  They found his body two months later. Or at least the remains of his body, fried to a crisp in the furnace of his burnt-out jeep. A group of tourists out on desert safari stumbled on the vehicle about fifty kilometres south-east of Siwa, upside down at the foot of a dune, a broken metal hulk with something inside it that passed for a human form. He had, it seemed, rolled the jeep while cresting the dune, although it wasn't a particularly steep dune and, curiously, there were other tyre tracks in the vicinity, as though he had not been alone when the accident happened. The body was so badly disfigured it could only be conclusively identified after dental records had been sent over from the United States.

  3

  LONDON, FOURTEEN MONTHS LATER

  Dr Tara Mullray brushed a strand of coppery hair from her eyes and continued along the gantry. It was warm up there under the lamps and a sheen of sweat glowed on her smooth, pale forehead. Beneath, through the ventilation holes in the tops of their tanks, she caught brief glimpses of the snakes, but she paid them no more attention than they did her. She'd worked in the reptile house for over four years and the novelty of its inhabitants had long since worn off.

  She passed the rock python, the puff adder, the carpet viper and the Gabon viper, eventually coming to a halt above the black-necked cobra. It was curled in the corner of its tank, but as soon as she arrived it raised its head, tongue flickering, its thick, olive-brown body moving from side to side like a metronome.

  'Hi, Joey,' she said, putting down the bin and snake hook she was carrying and squatting on the gantry. 'How are you feeling today?'

  The snake probed the underside of the tank's lid, inquisitive. She put on a pair of thick leather gloves and also protective goggles, for the cobra could, and did, spit venom.

  'OK, lover boy,' she said, grasping the snake hook. 'Medication time.'

  She bent forward and eased the top off the tank, leaning backwards as the snake's head rose to meet her, its hood slightly distended. In one clean, choreographed movement she grasped the handle of the bin lid, scooped the snake up with the hook and, keeping her eyes on it all the time, dropped it into the bin and slammed the lid down on top. From inside came a soft slithering sound as the cobra explored its new surroundings.

  'It's for your own good, Joey,' she said. 'Don't be getting angry now.'

  The black-necked cobra was the one snake in the collection she didn't like. With the others, even the taipan, she was perfectly at ease. The cobra, however, always made her feel nervous. It was crafty and aggressive, and had a bad temper. It had bitten her once, a year ago, as she removed it from its tank for cleaning. She'd hooked it too far down the body and it had managed to swing round and lunge at the back of her bare hand. Fortunately it was just a dry bite with no venom injected, but it had shaken her. In almost ten years of working with snakes she'd never before been bitten. Since then she had treated it with the utmost caution and always wore gloves when she had to handle it, something she didn't do with the other snakes. She checked the lid to make sure it was secure and, lifting the bin, set off back down the gantry, manoeuvring her way carefully down a set of steps at the end and walking along a corridor to her office. She could feel the snake moving inside the container and slowed her step, trying not to jolt it too much. No point in disturbing it more than was necessary.

  Inside the office Alexandra, her assistant, was waiting. Together they removed the cobra from the bin and laid it out on a bench, Alexandra holding it flat while Tara squatted down to examine it.

  'It should have healed by now,' she sighed, probing an area midway along the snake's back where the scales were swollen and sore. 'He's been rubbing it against his rock again. I think we should leave his tank bare for a while to give it time to mend.'

  She removed some antiseptic from a cupboard and began gently cleaning the wound. The snake's tongue flicked in and out, its black eyes staring up at her menacingly.

  'What time's your flight?' asked Alexandra.

  'Six,' replied Tara, glancing up at the clock on the wall. 'I'm going to have to go as soon as I've finished here.'

  'I wish my dad lived abroad. It makes the relationship seem so much more exotic.'

  Tara smiled. 'There are many ways you could describe my relationship with my father, Alex, but exotic isn't one of them. Careful of his head there.'

  She finished cleaning the affected area and, squeezing a blob of cream onto her finger, smeared it along the snake's flank.

  'While I'm away he needs to be cleaned every couple of days, OK? And keep up with the antibiotics until Friday. I don't want the cellulitis spreading.'

  'Just go and have a good time,' said Alexandra.

  'I'll call at the end of the week to make sure there aren't any complications.'

  'Will you stop worrying? Everything'll be fine. Believe it or not the zoo can survive without you for two weeks.'

  Tara smiled. Alexandra was right. She got too intense about her work. It was a trait she'd inherited from her father. This would be the first proper holiday she'd had for two years and she knew she ought to make the most of it. She squeezed her assistant's arm.

  'Sorry. Over-reacting.'

  'I mean it's not like the snakes are going to miss you, is it? They don't have feelings.'

  Tara assumed a mock-insulted face. 'How dare you talk about my babies like that! They'll cry for me every night I'm away.'

  They both laughed. Tara took the snake hook and, working together, they returned the cobra to its bin.

  'You OK to put him back?'

  'Sure,' said Alexandra. 'Just go.'

  Tara grabbed her coat and crash helmet and headed for the door.

  'Antibiotics till Friday, remember.'

  'Go, for Christ's sake!'

  'And don't forget to take out his stone.'

  'Jesus, Tara!'

  Alexandra snatched up a cloth and threw it. Tara ducked and, laughing, ran away down the corridor.

  'And make sure you wear the goggles when you put him back,' she called over her shoulder. 'You know what a bastard he is after he's had his medication!'

  The afternoon traffic was heavy, but she wove skilfully through it on her moped, crossing the Thames at Vauxhall Bridge and opening the throttle for the last couple of miles down to Brixton. Every now and then she checked her watch. Her flight left in just over three hours and she hadn't even packed yet.

  'Bollocks,' she muttered beneath her helmet.

  She lived alone, in a cavernous basement flat backing onto Brockwell Park. She'd bought it five years ago, with money her mother left her, and her best friend Jenny had moved into the spare room as a lodger.

  For a couple of years they'd lived a life of carefree bohemianism, throwing parties, drifting in and out of relationships, not taking anything too seriously. Then Jenny had met Nick and within a few months they'd moved in together, leaving Tara to manage the flat alone. The mortgage repayments were ruinous, but she didn't take in another lodger. She enjoyed having her own space. She sometimes wondered if she could ever settle down with a man in the way Jenny had. Once, years ago, there had been someone, but that was long since over. On the whole she was happy with her own company.

  The flat was a mess when she came in. She poured herself a glass of wine, stuck on a Lou Reed CD and walked through to the study, jabbing the 'Play' button on the answerphone. A metallic female voice announced, 'You have six messages.'

  Two were from Nigel, an old university friend, the first inviting her to dinner on Saturday, the second cancelling the invitation because he'd remembered she was going away. One was from Jenny warning her not to go on any camel rides because all the handlers were perverts, one from a school confirming a talk she was to give on snakes and one from Harry, a stockbroker who'd been pursuing her for two months and whose calls she never returned. The final message was f
rom her father.

  'Tara, I was wondering if you could bring me some Scotch. And The Times. If there are any problems call me, otherwise I'll meet you at the airport. I'm, uh . . . looking forward to seeing you. Yes, um, really looking forward to it. Bye then.'

  She smiled. He always sounded so awkward when he tried to say something affectionate. Like most academics Professor Michael Mullray was only really at home in the world of ideas. Emotions got in the way of clear thinking. That was why he and her mother had split up. Because he couldn't cope with her need for feeling. Even when she'd died six years ago he'd struggled to show any emotion. At her funeral he'd sat at the back, alone, expressionless, lost in his own thoughts, and left immediately afterwards to give a lecture in Oxford.

  She finished her wine and went into the kitchen to refill her glass. She knew she ought to tidy the flat, but time was pressing, so she contented herself with taking out the rubbish and doing the washing up before going into the bedroom to pack.

  She hadn't seen her father for almost a year, not since he was last in England. They spoke on the telephone occasionally, but the conversations were functional rather than warm. He would tell her about some new object he'd unearthed, or a class he was teaching; she'd dredge up some gossip about friends and work. The calls rarely lasted longer than a few minutes. Each year he sent her a birthday card and each year it arrived a week late.

  She'd thus been surprised when last month, out of the blue, he'd called and invited her to stay. He had lived abroad for five years and this was the first time he had suggested she come out.

  'The season's all but over,' he'd said. 'Why not get yourself a flight? You can stay in the dig house and I can show you some of the sights.'

  Her immediate reaction had been one of concern. He was old, well into his seventies, and had a weak heart, for which he was on constant medication. Perhaps this was his way of saying his health was failing and he wanted to make his peace before the end. When she'd asked, however, he'd insisted he was perfectly well and merely thought it would be nice for father and daughter to spend a bit of time together. It was unlike him and she'd been suspicious, but in the end she'd thought what the hell and booked a flight. When she'd called to let him know when she'd be arriving he had seemed genuinely pleased.

  'Splendid!' he had said. 'We'll have a fine old time.'

  She sifted through the clothes on her bed, picking out the items she wanted and throwing them into a large holdall. She felt like a cigarette, but resisted the temptation. She hadn't smoked for almost a year and didn't want to start again, not least because if she could make the full twelve months she stood to win a hundred pounds from Jenny. As she always did when the urge came upon her, she fetched an ice cube from the freezer and sucked that instead.

  She wondered whether she should have bought her father a present, but there wasn't time now and, anyway, even if she had got him something he almost certainly wouldn't like it. She remembered the acute disappointment of Christmases as a child when she would plan for weeks what to give him, only for him to open her carefully chosen gift, mumble a half-hearted 'Lovely, dear. Just what I wanted,' and then disappear into his paper again. She'd get him some duty-free whisky and a Times, and perhaps some aftershave, and that would have to do.

  Throwing a few last odds and ends into the bag, she went into the bathroom and took a shower. Part of her was dreading the trip. She knew they'd end up arguing, however hard they tried to avoid it. At the same time she couldn't help feeling excited. It was a while since she'd last been abroad and if things got really bad she could always take off on her own for a few days. She wasn't a kid any more, dependent on her father. She could do whatever she wanted. She increased the heat of the shower and threw her head back so that the water slashed against her breasts and stomach. She began humming to herself.

  Afterwards, having locked all the windows, she stepped outside with her holdall and slammed the door behind her. It was dark now and a light drizzle had begun to fall, making the pavements glow under the streetlights. Normally this sort of weather depressed her, but not this evening.

  She checked her passport and flight tickets, and set off towards the station, smiling. In Cairo, apparently, the temperature was up in the eighties.

  4

  CAIRO

  'It's time to close up for the night, little one,' said old Ikhbar. 'Time for you to go home, wherever that might be.'

  The girl stood motionless, playing with her hair. Her face was dirty and a dribble of snot glistened beneath her nose.

  'Off you go,' said Iqbar. 'You can come and help me tomorrow if you want.'

  The girl said nothing, just stared at him. He took a step towards her, limping heavily, his breath coming in gasps.

  'Come on now, no games. I'm an old man and I'm tired.'

  The shop was getting dark. A single bare light bulb cast a weak glow, but in the corners the shadows were thickening. Heaps of bric-a-brac sunk slowly into the gloom, as though into water. From outside came the honking of a moped horn and the sound of someone hammering.

  Iqbar took another step forward, belly bulging beneath his djellaba. There was something menacing about his rotten brown teeth and black eye-patch. His voice, however, was kindly and the girl showed no fear of him.

  'Are you going home or not?'

  The girl shook her head.

  'In that case', he said, turning away and shuffling towards the front of the shop, 'I'll have to lock you in for the night. And of course it's at night that the ghosts come out.'

  He stopped at the door and removed a bunch of keys from his pocket.

  'Did I tell you about the ghosts? I'm sure I did. All antique shops have them. For instance, in that old lamp there' – he indicated a brass lamp sitting on a shelf – 'lives a genie called al-Ghul. He's ten thousand years old, and can turn himself into any shape that he wants.'

  The girl stared at the lamp, eyes wide.

  'And you see that old wooden chest there, in the corner, the one with the big lock and the iron bands across it? Well, there's a crocodile in there, a big green crocodile. By day he sleeps, but at night he comes out to look for children. Why? So he can eat them, of course. He grabs them in his mouth and swallows them whole.'

  The girl bit her lip, eyes darting between the chest and the lamp.

  'And that knife, up there on the wall, with the curved blade. That used to belong to a king. A very cruel man. Each night he comes back, takes his knife and cuts the throats of anyone he can lay his hands on. Oh yes, this shop is full of ghosts. So if you want to stay here for the night, my little friend, be my guest.'

  Chuckling to himself he pulled open the door, a set of brass bells jangling as he did so. The girl came forward a few paces, thinking she was going to be locked in. As soon as he heard her move, Iqbar swung around and, raising his hands as though they were claws, roared. The girl screamed and laughed, scampering off into the shadows at the back of the shop, where she crouched down behind a pair of old wickerwork baskets.

  'So she wants to play hide and seek, does she?' growled the old man, limping after her, a smile on his face. 'Well, she'll have a hard job hiding from Iqbar. He might only have one eye left, but it's a good eye. No-one can hide from old Iqbar.'

  He could see her lurking behind the baskets, peering out through' a gap between them. He didn't want to spoil her fun too quickly and so deliberately shuffled past her and instead opened the doors of an old wooden cupboard.

  'Is she in here, I wonder?'

  He made a show of peering into the cupboard.

  'No, not in the cupboard. She's cleverer than I thought.'

  He closed the cupboard and passed into a room at the back of the shop, where he made as much noise as he could opening drawers and banging on filing cabinets.