‘They haven’t for some years,’ William replied. ‘But they said they would if they could. That’s all I can say.’
Peruzo watched him go, and returned to Vittore’s company.
‘I could have done with some food,’ Vittore grumbled, patting his belly.
‘As could we all,’ Peruzo said.
‘I am surprised he is so . . . optimistic,’ Vittore marvelled.
‘That is why he is our captain, and we are simply lieutenants,’ Peruzo said. ‘A good soldier will see a hopeless cause. but a good captain will see a way out.’
Vittore nodded. ‘I hope you’re right, Peruzo. Right now, I see no way out for us, except across the River Styx.’
III
Thick dust clouds flew up as the column of horses cantered down the stony track that wound its way through sand dunes and chunks of weathered rock. Marco kept his covered head down as the intense heat made him feel drowsy He wished for water, but would not ask for it. The monks had drunk less than he and were soldiering on. The belief that refreshing waters lay ahead seemed to spur them.
William cantered with Peruzo to the front of the column, and then further ahead, aiming for the top of a ridge. He grunted in dismay as the hard skin of the dune simply cracked and his horse’s forelegs sank in, forcing him to dismount. Peruzo too swung himself from the saddle and both led their weary horses back down the dune.
‘We’ll go on foot,’ Peruzo suggested and William nodded, trampling through the deep sand as they climbed to the peak of the dune.
Covered in sand and with sweat glistening on their faces, they arrived at the summit and looked eastward. Desert stretched as far as they could see, until the wasteland struck a horizon black with mountains.
‘The Sinai?’ William said.
‘I think so,’ Peruzo replied.
‘There, William said and pointed to a small roll of dust between them and the black shadows.
‘I see it,’ Peruzo replied. ‘Militia?’
William pulled out his spyglass, lowered it again to wipe sweat from one eye, then closed the other and tried to focus.
‘I see men,’ he said vaguely. ‘Men on horseback.’
‘How many?’
‘Fifteen, maybe twenty.’ He handed the lieutenant the spyglass.
Peruzo scrunched up his face and held still. ‘Yes. Twenty men.’
‘What do you make of them?’
‘Can’t be sure. Arabs . . . But their purpose . . .?’ Peruzo shrugged.
After one last look, William shut the spyglass and sighed. ‘The scouts said over a hundred men pursue us again from the west,’ he mused as they trudged back down the dune, ‘and it would be fair to say in our current condition we would not defeat so many. Twenty we could manage.’
‘There is the question of provisions, Captain,’ Peruzo reminded him.
William nodded thoughtfully, mentally digesting this further concern. Climbing back onto his horse he waved Vittore over.
‘Where is the nearest oasis?’
Vittore pulled the map from his saddle, and laid it against his horse’s neck. ‘There is one here, behind that long bank of dunes I suspect,’ he said and then gestured towards the clouds of newly formed dust near the horizon.
‘Straight to those riders,’ Peruzo groaned.
‘A perfect place for a trap?’ William suggested.
‘I would say so,’ Peruzo agreed.
‘I said before, we can handle twenty militia,’ William said confidently.
‘Only if we have to,’ Peruzo reminded him.
‘We have no choice. We need food and rest, Peruzo,’ William told him. ‘And without water, we will soon perish.’
The water skins were all but spent, while the heat cooked the brothers in their saddles. Several monks looked ready to topple from dehydration.
Thomas Richmond did his best to share out his water with those near him. He handed Marco his canteen for a sip, and the boy almost refused, but his mouth was so dry he could feel the skin tearing when he moved his lips in anticipation of just a trickle of water. He took the canteen shamefully, tempted to gulp down the remaining drops, but the other monks around him watched patiently, and Marco halted as he lifted the canteen to his lips. He felt on trial and wondered if Brother Jericho had told them he had been wasting water. He had learnt to sip over the last few days, but that would not matter to thirsty men.
Uncomfortably Marco tipped the canteen back just to wet his lips and tongue. He passed the canteen back to Thomas, lamenting he hadn’t taken a bigger sip as he saw him take a longer swig.
William trotted by the side of the lead wagon, the dwarf-cannon hidden under canvas. Two brothers manned it, while two more sat behind, their Baker rifles hidden at their feet. William glanced behind them, examining the rest of the company Despite the desert’s ravages, all seemed ready to fight.
The sun was beginning its steady decline again and William considered their situation was grave. On the one hand, pursuit by a native army that believed them murderers. On the other, trailed by vampyres. Yet it was this latter thought that provided a strange glimmer of hope. William reasoned that if the vampyres had already found the Hoard they would have returned to the Carpathians with their prize. That they still hunted William and his men might imply that the vampyres were as much in the dark as they were about the Hoard’s location.
It was a fragile hope, but one he clung to.
‘I will not fail’ he told himself.
IV
The company rounded the corner of a large humped dune that towered over them, shading them all for a moment before they rode out into blinding light. The heat was punishing, and William put a hand to his eyes to shield against the glare. As the dazzle persisted, there came a chorus of shouts and the monks began loading their rifles. Now his eyes began to focus; outlines took shape . . .
William was aghast.
Spread out along the ridge were some forty riders, all of them armed. Not the twenty his spyglass had found.
‘Damnation!’ The cry was torn out of him. He spurred his horse towards the head of the column where Peruzo and Vittore sat, and stared back at the Arab force waiting above.
‘Where the hell did they come from?!’ William griped.
‘They used the sun to set a trap, Captain,’ Vittore replied and laughed bitterly. ‘And we rode straight into it.’
‘Get the men ready to fight.’ William drew his sword halfway out of its scabbard and gestured for Marco to hang back with Thomas. But the Englishman was galloping towards him.
‘Trouble, Captain?’ Thomas rasped as he squinted towards the men on the ridge.
‘This is not your fight, Mr Richmond,’ William replied. ‘They came for us. Only us. You will not be harmed.’
‘Are you sure?’ the Englishman said. ‘I’m a foreigner here, am I not?’
William compressed his lips. The merchant was right. In battle, the Englishman would look much like the monks, and was just as apt to be cut down. William pulled his horse about, his hand on the hilt of his sword, before Thomas reached over and took his shoulder.
‘I’m not afraid of a fight, Captain, but . . .’ he began, and then looked over to where Hammid was cowering in the wagon, star-ing wide-eyed at the riders on the ridge, ‘. . . we could use my servant.’
‘Hammid?’ William said.
‘He was inconspicuous enough during the slaughter of my caravan. I wonder if he has the courage to step up and parley,’ Thomas mused. ‘It’s worth trying at least.’
‘If he doesn’t get nailed through the heart before he opens his mouth.’ There was no humour in William’s grin. ‘I’ll go with him.’
‘Hammid is my responsibility,’ Thomas asserted. ‘We will both go, Captain.’
William conceded. ‘Very well. Peruzo?’
Peruzo steered his horse through the two ranks of brothers, all with their rifles in their hands, tense with the expectation of the fight.
‘If this fails and I am killed,
get the company out of Egypt,’ William instructed. ‘Somewhere we are not being hunted as criminals. Our mission is as good as over anyway. I think the Hoard is now beyond our grasp, and I won’t lose more men in a hopeless cause. Maybe if Charles Greynell had been with us . . . If we hadn’t wandered this desert for so long without food or water, we would have stood a chance. Vittore was right. The men are not fit to make a stand.’
‘I hear you,’ Peruzo replied, and could not hide his sadness. ‘Captain, I . . .’
‘No further words, Lieutenant. Good luck,’ William said abruptly.
‘And to you, Captain,’ Peruzo replied.
William pulled his horse about as Thomas reappeared with Hammid, slumped in the saddle behind him. ‘Shall we go, William?’ It was a breezy invitation.
They rode ahead of the company and down the track towards the ridge. As they arrived at the foot of the dune, they kept their eyes on the riders above them. The Arabs were dressed in long silk robes and keffiyehs, their faces veiled, eyes dark and foreboding. They sat like flamboyant executioners, resplendent but deadly.
William glanced nervously to Thomas as they came to a cautious halt. The Englishman licked his lips and said a few words to the cowed man sitting behind him. Hammid looked afraid as he stared up at the riders;reluctantly he dismounted and shuffled along the side of Thomas’s horse. A She came to the horse’s head, he paused, looked back at the Englishman for some prompting (he met only a glare from Thomas) and then walked slowly up the ridge.
‘What did you instruct him to say?’ William asked quietly, His eyes never straying from the riders.
‘I told him to say we are foreign merchants bringing cloth to the Bedouin tribes in the Sinai, and could they tell us the way to the nearest tribe.’ Thomas grinned.
‘Subtle,’ William laughed lightly. ‘Do you think they’ll believe him?’
‘They have only to search our wagons.’
‘And find them packed with weapons and ammunition.’
‘Quite, Captain. Quite,’ Thomas sighed.
Hammid crept closer to the men on horseback, their outlines dark with the sun at their backs. They seemed to view Hammid with indifference, and William held his breath, his hand hovering near his sword in case these strangers came charging down the slope. The sun sent rivers of sweat to trickle down his brow and neck, and down the small of his back.
The sunlight blurred what happened next, the distant talk too quiet to be heard, the words too alien to be understood. William was left in tantalizing ignorance. Hammid stumbled back to them, half upright and then tumbling down the loose sand.
William waited as the line above parted and several more riders emerged, armed to the teeth and carrying muskets. ‘Blast!’ he murmured. ‘It’s bad.’
Hammid fell at the feet of Thomas’s horse and was gabbling to his master.
‘What does he say, Thomas? What does he say?’ William demanded urgently as the newcomers lined up on the ridge and drew their swords.
Thomas looked up blankly.
‘Thomas?!’ William shouted.
The Englishman said something quickly to Hammid as the riders with formidable curved swords began to descend the slope towards them. Hammid shouted back breathlessly.
‘Are they attacking or . . .?’ William yelled as he drew his sabre.
‘No, wait!’ Thomas said and lunged at William to pull his arm down.
William’s instincts were to push the other away, but the merchant’s hold was strong and threatened to unseat him, pulling open his jacket and shirt. ‘What are you doing, damn you!’ William cursed him.
‘I think they wish to talk!’ Thomas insisted.
Behind the riders came a booming voice, an order to do something that William hoped neither side regretted. The mounted Arabs lowered their swords and began to part. From the centre appeared two more riders, one broad with a large curved sword at his side, while a lone rider dressed in loose white robes and jet-black keffiyeh appeared just behind. Both men began to descend towards them.
As they came closer, William saw that the Arab in the white robes had a narrow face with gleaming eyes. He was cleanshaven and probably younger than William. Judging by his clothes and the scimitar gleaming from his saddle, he appeared to be someone of prominence, spearheading the body of riders as they descended.
Was this an officer of the militia? If so, he was grander than William had expected.
Thomas move d his horse away, with Hammid half stumbling and scampering behind him. William backed away too, his hand still hovering near his sabre as the riders converged around them, now only yards away. They were dark-skinned and dark-eyed, apart from the single rider in the white robes who stared at William with bright blue eyes, quite distinctive amongst the other riders.
William glanced at Thomas. ‘Ask them what they seek,’ he prompted.
Thomas cleared his throat and asked.
The man in the white robes stared at William with an intense and threatening look. ‘Where did you get that?’ he said, pointing to William’s chest.
William was taken aback. ‘You speak English?’
The other man nodded. ‘You are surprised?’
‘Very,’ William murmured.
‘Where did you get that necklace?’ the speaker asked again.
William looked down and found the pendant, revealed beneath his shirt after Thomas had grasped at his arm.
‘It was a gift,’ he answered.
‘Who gave it?’ the man in white pressed.
‘A good friend,’ William ventured.
‘A foreigner like you?’
‘A merchant like me. A man called Charles Greynell.’
The man in white eyed William for a few moments and then he reached into his robes and pulled out the selfsame pendant.
‘That necklace was a gift,’ the man said. ‘If you have it now it means that you are either a friend of Charles Greynell or a thief.’
William was both relieved and delighted. ‘I assure you, the former’
The man nodded slightly, not yet sure about this stranger’s honesty.
‘You knew Charles Greynell?’ William asked quickly.
The man nodded.
William found himself laughing. ‘Then you know what this symbol is?’
‘Of course,’ the man in white replied. ‘It is my tribe. The Ayaida.’
V
Brother Jericho sat with Marco, watching as the Arab riders explored the wagons.
We don’t have to fight?’ Marco whispered.
Brother Jericho shrugged. ‘Not at the moment,’ he replied. ‘They seem friendly enough.’
‘Now they do, said Lieutenant Vittore nearby. ‘These people can turn in an instant, Brother Jericho. Keep your wits about you. Both of you.’
Brother Jericho nodded and winked at Marco, smiling a little. Marco didn’t find the situation amusing, but then Jericho was thinking that at least they could get water or food from these Arabs.
Lieutenant Peruzo galloped up and Marco tried to listen as he began speaking with Lieutenant Vittore. Following the short exchange, both officers set about rousing the company .
‘Mount up, we’re heading out!’ Vittore bellowed. ‘Stow the rifles and the cannon!’
At the head of the wagons, William and Thomas were still speaking to the Arabs’ leader, Hammid having scuttled away to hide again.
‘You say you are Ayaida?’ William said.
‘My name is Sheikh Fahd. You are on my lands,’ the sheikh said, his tone aggressive.
‘Of course,’ William said, trying to ignore the veiled threat. ‘Forgive me for being rude, Sheikh Fahd. If I had known these were your lands . . .’
‘You would have been more polite than to come here armed?’ Sheikh Fahd smiled thinly. ‘I understand English etiquette well enough, Mr . . .?’
‘Saxon,’ William replied. ‘William Saxon.’
Sheikh Fahd nodded perfunctorily.
‘This is Mr Thomas Richmond, a merchant fr
om England,’ William went on. Thomas nodded, also disarmed by the current turn of events. ‘As you can see, we are not hostile.’
‘As for what I see . . .’ Sheikh Fahd said, and looked at William’s sword. ‘You are well armed for merchants. We know the militias are following you.’
William glanced at Thomas, who was not so surprised.
‘We have friends in Rashid and Alexandria,’ Sheikh Fahd declared. ‘It does no harm to keep an eye on your enemies.’
‘We are not your enemies, sir,’ William insisted. ‘And if you are a friend of Charles Greynell, you are certainly a friend of ours. As for the militia . . . It is just a misunderstanding.’
‘Many men have been executed for misunderstandings, Saxon,’ Sheikh Fahd said. ‘But I am no friend of the militias, and you are not the enemy I watch for.’
‘We are not?’ William said, relaxing again.
‘We fight for the Ayaida. Not for Muhammad Ali,’ Sheikh Fahd told them. ‘If you are their enemy, then perhaps you have some use.’
It was William’s turn now to be wary. ‘I see,’ he said and pondered. ‘What use might that be?’
‘Later,’ Sheikh Fahd said and smiled broadly. ‘These are dangerous lands, Saxon, perhaps too dangerous for the likes of you. I suggest we escort you to our camp. Including you, Mr Richmond?’
Thomas shrugged. ‘Sheikh Fahd, you are the very people I wish to trade with. I have no need to venture further into the Sinai.’
‘Then our meeting is fortunate for all,’ The sheikh said. He shouted to the riders, and like ripples of water the call passed swiftly from those waiting at the side of the dune to those on the ridge, who began to descend.
‘You will come with us and enjoy our hospitality,’ Sheikh Fahd told William and Thomas. ‘After that, we will decide what to do with you.’
William was now on his guard. ‘I suppose this is not a choice?’ he said, sitting erect on his horse and trying to appear unmoved by their predicament.
‘You are astute, Saxon,’ the sheikh replied. ‘No, it is not a decision for you to make. The moment you rode onto my lands was the moment your choices were removed. Whether or not you are friends of Charles Greynell, I will decide your fate when we reach my camp.’
The Hoard of Mhorrer Page 21