The Lost Army Of Cambyses

by Paul Sussman

  There were several bales of straw nearby and, beside them, a solitary fuel drum. He looked at the wooden boxes behind him, each with a skull-and-crossbones stencilled on the side, and then, crossing to the drum, unscrewed its cap. A wisp of vapour drifted out. Diesel, as he'd thought. He grasped the rim and tipped the drum up, sloshing its contents out over the nearest bale. He continued pouring until the straw was sodden, then dragged the bale back to the crates, pushing it right up against them. He repeated the process twice more, petrol splashing over his shoes and robe as he worked.

  He was just pushing the third bale into place when a sudden swell of noise told him the prayers were ending. At the same time there was a shout from the dune-top above. He spun, lifting his gun, thinking he'd been spotted. Then there was a clatter of gunfire from the other end of the camp and he realized it wasn't him who had been seen, but Tara and Daniel.

  'Fa'r!' he hissed. 'Shit!'

  He turned back towards the mass of damp straw and, fumbling in his pocket, pulled out his lighter. The gunfire intensified. There was a commotion in front of him now too as the crowd of worshippers broke ranks and began running back towards the camp. He squatted and held the lighter to the base of one of the bales.

  'I wouldn't if I were you.'

  The voice came from behind him.

  'Just drop the lighter and stand up. And no sudden moves.'

  For a moment Khalifa remained motionless, the world seeming to condense around him, then he closed his eyes, drew a breath and flicked his thumb down on the barrel of the lighter. There was a click and a spark, but no flame. A spurt of bullets chewed up the sand around him.

  'I said drop the lighter. I won't repeat myself.'

  Defeated, Khalifa opened his hand and allowed the lighter to fall. More gunfire from the far side of the camp.

  'Now stand and turn around,' said the voice. 'Nice and slow. And get your arms in the air.'

  The detective did as he was told. Ten metres away, a machine-gun in his hands, stood Dravic.

  'You stupid little cunt,' snarled the German.

  Suddenly there were men everywhere. Dravic shouted and three of them grabbed Khalifa and forced him down onto his knees.

  'So this is our brave policeman, is it?' said the giant, coming forward. 'Our very own little Omar Sharif.'

  He stopped in front of Khalifa and, raising his hand, smashed it across his mouth, splitting the lip.

  'What did you think you were going to do? Arrest us all single-handed? You lot are even more stupid than I thought you were.'

  Khalifa said nothing, just stared up at him, blood streaming across his chin. The sound of gunfire was growing more intense. A man ran into the clearing and said something to Dravic, who glared down at Khalifa.

  'You'll pay for this,' he growled. 'Believe me, you'll pay.'

  He signalled to one of the men, who picked up Khalifa's lighter and handed it over. The giant took it and leaned forward, nostrils flaring, sniffing the air.

  'Now what's this I smell?' he said. 'This strange odour all over your lovely black robes. Could it be petrol?'

  He grinned sadistically. The men around him laughed.

  'We have been careless, haven't we!'

  He drew back a little and, holding the lighter just in front of Khalifa's chest, struck the flint. A yellowy-blue flame leaped up.

  'It's a knack, you see. All in the thumb.'

  He wafted the flame back and forth, moving it closer and closer to the petrol-stained material. Khalifa struggled, but the men on either side held him firm. The flame was almost on the hem of the robe.

  'Stop this! Stop it now!'

  The voice came from beyond the crowd, sharp and authoritative. Dravic's eyes rolled upwards and, muttering, he withdrew the lighter and stepped back. The circle of men opened to reveal Sayf al-Tha'r. He remained where he was for a long moment, staring at Khalifa, and then came forward, stopping in front of the detective and looking down at him. 'Hello, Yusuf.'

  'You know him?' asked Dravic, surprised.

  'Indeed,' said Sayf al-Tha'r. 'He is my little brother.'

  They hurried through the camp, flitting from tent to tent and angling towards the foot of the left-hand dune, as Khalifa had told them. Daniel led, Tara followed, adrenalin pumping through her, the aching of her body forgotten for the moment.

  At the camp's northern edge they stopped. Ahead the mayhem of the excavations stretched off into the distance, still and silent in the growing light of day, heaps of artefacts strewn across the ground like the wreckage of some enormous plane crash. They could see guards strung along the dune-top to their right, but they were facing away from them, eastwards, towards the rising sun. Those above were lost behind the angle of the ridge.

  'OK?' said Daniel.

  'OK.'

  They started forward again, hugging the bottom of the slope, the pyramid rock looming huge ahead of them. With every step away from the camp, every step they weren't spotted, Tara felt they were stretching their luck just that little bit further. It had been years since she'd last prayed, not since she was a child. Now, without even being aware of it, she began mumbling to herself, pleading with whatever power would listen to protect them, to let them get away.

  'Please don't let us be seen,' she whispered. 'Please don't let us be seen. Please don't let us be seen.'

  It worked for fifty metres. Then, however, as they came level with the beginning of the excavation trench, there was a shout from above and an angry crack of gunfire.

  'Shit,' hissed Daniel.

  The shout was taken up by other voices and there was more gunfire. Forty pairs of eyes swivelled towards them. Daniel swung and fired.

  'Back,' he shouted. 'We have to go back.'

  'No!'

  'There's no cover here!'

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her back the way they had come. Men were leaping down the dunes to either side of them now, shooting wildly. Bullets cracked past Tara's head, thudded into the sand, smashed into crates and ancient armour. Daniel unleashed another volley of gunfire, and then they were back among the tents, their pursuers lost momentarily behind a mesh of canvas.

  'What now?' panted Tara.

  'I don't know. I don't know.'

  His voice was desperate.

  They ran forward, scrambling through the tents and equipment, hunted. The shouts were growing louder behind them. And in front too. They were caught in the jaws of a closing vice. There was nowhere for them to go. Fear pounded in Tara's ears. Everything had become a blur.

  They skidded round the side of a tent and there, standing alone in a clearing, was a single dune bike. They ran over to it. The keys were in the ignition. Without a word Daniel thrust the gun into her arms, leaped astride the saddle and slammed the kickstart. The engine sputtered, but didn't catch. He slammed it again. Nothing.

  'Come on!' he cried. 'Start, you bastard.'

  The shouts were just a couple of tents away now, all around, a tightening noose of sound.

  Frantic, Tara held the gun in front of her and fired, the weapon leaping violently in her hands, a hail of bullets puncturing canvas and wood. She loosed her finger, swung, fired again, in the opposite direction this time, emptying the clip. There was another clip taped to it, upside down, and, yanking the finished magazine from its slot, she flipped it over and jammed the new one in its place. The bike roared into life.

  'Get on!' screamed Daniel.

  She leaped up behind him, his hand twisting back on the throttle before her backside had even hit the saddle. A spray of sand lashed out from under the rear wheel and they flew forward. A figure leaped out in front of them, but Daniel raised his foot and kicked him out of the way. Other figures loomed, ahead and to either side and, clutching Daniel's waist with one hand, eyes half closed as if that would somehow protect her, Tara unleashed spasms of bullets all around, uncertain whether she was actually hitting anything. Somewhere nearby there was an explosion and a man staggered across the periphery of her sight, robes flaming
.

  They roared on, zigzagging madly through the tents, swerving this way and that, skidding, sliding, until eventually they burst from the northern edge of the camp and flew towards the mound on whose summit they'd stood the night the army was discovered. Black-robed figures were pouring towards them from either side of it. Daniel slowed, looked around, then heaved back the throttle.

  'Hold on!'

  They sped straight towards the mound. The men ahead held for an instant, then scattered. When she saw what he was about to do Tara threw the gun aside and clasped both arms tightly around his waist.

  'No fucking way!' she screamed.

  They hit the bottom of the slope, powered upwards and took off, arcing up, over and, after what seemed like an impossible length of time, down again on the far side, putting the mound between them and their pursuers. Their rear tyre slewed badly as it hit the ground and for a moment it looked as if they were coming off. Somehow they remained upright, however, and sped away along the valley. There were sporadic bursts of gunfire from behind, but none from above, most of the lookouts having left their posts and run back towards the camp as soon as the shooting started. They were out.

  'Jesus, look at all this stuff,' cried Daniel as they flew past the excavations.

  Tara tightened her grip around his waist.

  'Don't look,' she yelled. 'Drive!'

  41

  THE WESTERN DESERT

  'You're not my brother,' said Khalifa, staring up at the man in front of him. 'My brother's dead. He died the day he and his thugs came to our village and murdered four innocent people. The day he took the name Sayf al-Tha'r.'

  Now that they were beside each other the similarity was obvious: the same high cheekbones, narrow mouths, hooked noses. Only their eyes spoke of some fundamental difference. Khalifa's were clear blue; Sayf al-Tha'r's brilliant green.

  Their gazes remained locked for some time, their bodies motionless, the air between them seeming to crackle and burn, and then Sayf al-Tha'r held out his hand towards Dravic.

  'Your gun.'

  The giant stepped forward and handed him the weapon. Sayf al-Tha'r took it and aimed the muzzle at Khalifa's head.

  'Take the men and get back to work,' he ordered. 'Bring the lookouts down too. The helicopters will be here in thirty minutes and there is much still to do.'

  'What about the prisoners?'

  'Let them run. We don't need them.'

  'And him?'

  'I will deal with it.'

  'We can't—'

  'I will deal with it.'

  Muttering, Dravic turned and walked away. The men followed, leaving the two of them alone. Sayf al-Tha'r motioned Khalifa to his feet and they stood facing each other, Sayf al-Tha'r slightly the taller of the two.

  'You should have killed me when you had the chance, Yusuf. When you came into my tent just now. It was you, wasn't it? I could feel you behind me. Why didn't you pull the trigger? I know you wanted to.'

  'I tried to think what my brother Ali would have done in that situation,' said Khalifa. 'And I knew he would never have shot a man in the back. Especially not when he was at prayer.'

  Sayf al-Tha'r grunted. 'You talk as if I'm not your brother.'

  'You're not. Ali was a good man. You are a butcher.'

  The generators stopped suddenly and the arc lamps flicked off, immersing the camp in the softer, more subtle hues of dawn. Northwards a column of heavy black smoke rose into the air.

  'Why did you come here, Yusuf?'

  Khalifa was silent for a moment.

  'Not to kill you,' he said. 'No, not that. Although you're right: I wanted to. For fourteen years I've wanted to. To wipe Sayf al-Tha'r from the face of the earth.'

  He fumbled among the folds of his robe and pulled out his cigarettes. He removed one, but then realized Dravic had taken his lighter and so just stood with it in his hand, unlit.

  'I came because I wanted to understand. To look you in the face and try to understand what happened all those years ago. Why you changed. Why Ali had to die and give way to this . . . wickedness.'

  Sayf al-Tha'r's eyes flashed momentarily, his hand tightening around the gun. Then his grip eased and he broke into a half-smile.

  'I opened my eyes, Yusuf, that is all. I looked around and saw the world for what it is. Evil and corrupt. The sharia forgotten. The land overrun by Kufr. I saw and vowed to do something about it. Your brother didn't die. He simply grew.'

  'Into a monster.'

  'Into God's true servant.' The man stared at Khalifa, eyes boring into him. 'It was easy for you, Yusuf. You were not the elder son. You did not have to bear the things I bore. Shoulder the same responsibilities. Eighteen, twenty hours a day I worked to feed you and Mother. I felt my life slowly draining from me. And all around the rich Westerners in their fine hotels, spending more on a single meal than I earned in a month. Such things change a man. They show him the world as it really is.'

  'I would have helped,' said Khalifa. 'I begged you to let me help. You didn't have to take the whole burden.'

  'I was the elder son. It was my duty.'

  'Just as it is now your duty to kill people?'

  'As it says in the Holy Koran: "Fight against the unbelievers until there be no opposition." '

  'It also says: "Let not hatred of a people incite you to act unjustly." '

  'And also: "Those who err from the way of God shall suffer a severe punishment." And also: "Against them make ready your strength to the utmost of your power to terrorize the enemies of Allah." Shall we stand here and bandy holy verses, Yusuf? I think I would outdo you.'

  Khalifa stared down at the cigarette in his hand.

  'Yes,' he whispered, 'I think you probably would. I'm sure you could quote from dawn to dusk and beyond. But it still wouldn't make your actions right.'

  He looked up again, into Sayf al-Tha'r's face, his eyes running back and forth across it.

  'I just don't recognize you. The nose, the eyes, the mouth, yes, they're Ali's. But I just don't recognize you. Not here.' He raised his hand to his heart. 'Here you are a stranger. Less than a stranger. A void.'

  'I am still your brother, Yusuf. Whatever you say. Our blood is the same.'

  'No, it's not. Ali is dead. I even made him a grave, built it with my own hands, although there was no body to put in it.'

  He raised his sleeve and wiped away the blood on his mouth.

  'When I think of Ali, I feel pride. I feel admiration. I feel love. That's why my elder son carries the same name. Because it will always fill me with joy and warmth. But you . . . with you I feel only shame. Fourteen years of it. Fourteen years of dreading to open a newspaper for fear of reading of some new atrocity. Fourteen years of hiding from my past. Of pretending I'm not who I am because who I am is the brother of a monster.'

  Again Sayf al-Tha'r's eyes flashed and his hands tensed around the gun, knuckles whitening. 'You always were weak, Yusuf.'

  'You confuse weakness with humanity.'

  'No, you confuse humanity with subservience. To be free one sometimes has to make unpleasant decisions. But then why should you understand that? Understanding, after all, is born of suffering and I always tried to protect you from such things. Perhaps it was a mistake to have done so. You talk of shame, Yusuf, but has it occurred to you the shame I feel? My brother, whom I loved and cared for, whom I worked my fingers to the bone to feed and clothe and send to university, now a policeman. A servant of those who did this to his own flesh and blood.'