With blood blinding his eye, Brother Angelo’s world turned over for a final time, before he passed out.
Peruzo heard the shooting as he was settling down inside his tent. He leapt to his feet, half-dressed, his braces down his legs, and snatched up his Baker rifle then ran outside. Other monks had dashed from their tents with the closest weapon to hand, just as the Rashid militia poured into the camp.
It was only exceptional judgement that stopped Peruzo from shooting down the first rider. Instead he dropped his rifle to the ground and ordered the rest of the company to do the same. Jericho looked at the lieutenant incredulously.
‘We’re not here to fight Arabs, Jericho,’ Peruzo shouted over to him. The monk relented and laid the rifle at his feet. ‘Don’t give them any reason to harm you.’
For some minutes the camp was in chaos. Peruzo silently cursed the Arabs as several monks were kicked to the ground despite having laid down their weapons. Brother Filippo emerged with Angelo over his shoulder and told Peruzo what had happened.
The militia had tracked them to the Ayaida and attacked under cover of darkness once the opportunity arose. For whatever reason, exhaustion or bad light, none of the sentries had seen the first wave of militia until it was too late. Brother Tore had been disarmed and beaten, his bleeding body hurled into camp for Argento and Filippo to tend to while the others were corralled. Vittore’s death had occurred soon after the militia stormed the camp, taking them by complete surprise. Vittore had killed two of the militia, but paid for the mistake with his life. It had all been quick and far too easy.
Peruzo listened with mounting despair. He cursed the militia again and the fortune that had led them here. He stopped short of criticizing his captain for ordering them to camp along the ridge. It had been a mistake, but the bigger mistake was to believe the Rashid militia had given up on them.
VI
The man who was watching the tents burn with some satisfaction was sinewy and muscled through years of discipline. When he dismounted from his horse, he did so like someone half his age. At his back were tied two scimitars, dangerous in any man’s hands, but in Khalifa’s, lethal.
As the militia ransacked the camp, Khalifa looked over their prisoners with disdain, noting Peruzo in particular. He smiled as he looked down at the lieutenant with no small measure of triumph. Peruzo stared back with contempt; it was the only spur Khalifa needed. He kicked Peruzo in the head, sending him sprawling in the dirt.
‘That was for Babel’s. Bind them,’ Khalifa commanded.
The sight of the tents burning in the darkness gave special pleasure to one onlooker, a man with a pot belly and dressed in expensive robes. His name was Haidar.
Ali had tasked Haidar personally to protect Rashid, a post that was worthy of a prince. While Ali was away, Haidar had been treated as royalty, courted by men of wealth and position. He had taken a bride and other women (especially in Babel’s), revelling in his status. There had been nothing to contend with in many months, except for the foreigners who corrupted the town.
The captain of the militia stared at the approaching riders from the camp below. At the head were around a dozen men and horses dressed like Mamelukes, but Haidar could see that more were gathering. A camp like this could have several hundred Bedouin riders. He was outnumbered.
Haidar turned to Khalifa and beckoned him over.
‘We’ve plundered the infidels’ tents and arrested the murderers,’ Khalifa announced.
‘Well done,’ Haidar said. ‘Your skills are beyond measure, Khalifa. I will reward you for this.’
Khalifa bowed. ‘What about them?’ He gestured to the horsemen approaching.
‘I will be both kind and forceful. These savages would not dare make war on Ali. But to be sure, send some of my men back to Bastet with news of our prisoners. If we do not return to the main camp, they are to go to Dumyat with word of insurrection.’
Khalifa bowed again and galloped in haste to the riders at the top of the ridge while Haidar with his personal guard of eight men trotted slowly down the track, one hand raised in peace to the approaching Bedouins. He halted before the tribal riders reached them and waited for them to halt a few yards away.
‘I am Haidar, first captain of the Rashid militia, under Ali,’ Haidar greeted.
‘I am Sheikh Fahd of the Ayaida,’ the sheikh retorted, his white robes in disarray. ‘What do you want here? This is our land.’
‘This is the land of Ali, my sheikh,’ Haidar corrected him.
‘Not yet it isn’t,’ Sheikh Fahd replied angrily.
Haidar noticed the tension and smiled. ‘You are right, of course. My apologies.’
‘Accepted,’ Sheikh Fahd said coolly. ‘I ask again, what do you want here?’
‘You are harbouring fugitives,’ Haidar replied.
‘We have done no such thing,’ Sheikh Fahd retorted.
Haidar pointed up the track. ‘Then what are these?’
‘Neighbours,’ Sheikh Fahd said. ‘They’ve done us no harm, so we allowed them to camp there. What business is it of yours?’
‘These men are murderers, Sheikh Fahd. Surely you have heard?’
‘We take no notice of the affairs of others,’ Sheikh Fahd replied.
‘Of course you don’t,’ Haidar said wryly. ‘No matter. They have been arrested on your land, and I think you should be pleased they have been taken. After all, you would not want them associated with your tribe, would you? As enemies of the people of Egypt?’
Sheikh Fahd narrowed his eyes and compressed his lips. He knew what this man, Haidar, implied. His hand tensed on his sword.
‘There is no need to be aggressive, Sheikh Fahd. Any act against my militia is an act against Ali. You know this.’
‘No one will know what happens here tonight,’ the sheikh threatened.
‘My scouts have returned to our camp with news of the arrests. If I do not return soon after, it will be assumed that your people have massacred my men. That would be unfortunate,’ Haidar said. ‘Do not mistake my army to be the only one in this region. There are other militia searching for these murderers. All follow Ali.’
Fahd hesitated, and after a while his hand relaxed. ‘If they are your prisoners, take them,’ he said.
‘Oh, we will,’ Haidar said, as though this was not up for debate. ‘I would very much like to search your camp for other offenders.
Sheikh Fahd’s hand returned to his sword. ‘And I tell you there are no such men.’
‘I would like to see this for myself,’ Haidar insisted.
‘Do you call me a liar?’ Sheikh Fahd said politely. At once the dozen Bedouins behind Sheikh Fahd tensed, and so did Haidar’s guard.
Knowing that his bluff had been called, Haidar could only smile. ‘I meant no offence, my sheikh. I will leave you in peace.’
VII
William hastily strapped on his sword with a creak of leather.
‘Where are you going?’ Thomas said groggily still half-asleep.
‘I heard shooting from the ridge.’
‘Vampyres?’ Thomas asked.
‘Vampyres don’t have muskets,’ William replied and hurried from the tent. The camp swarmed with men, and he quickened his pace until he was almost running to his horse. Something bad had happened.
As he got to his mount, the animal pawed the ground impatiently. He loosed the tether, swung himself into the saddle and set out at a gallop towards the ridge, but he hadn’t gone far before he met the sheikh and his bodyguard on their way back. William slowed, and the sheikh turned his horse to bar his path.
‘Do not go up there, Captain,’ he warned him.
William gave a start. ‘What has happened?’
‘Your militia friends have arrested your men,’ Sheikh Fahd told him gravely.
‘Every one?’
Sheikh Fahd nodded. ‘I am sorry, Captain. There was nothing I could do. I told them nothing of you, the boy, or the merchant. You at least are safe. but if you ride up there, they
will take you too.’
William crumbled in the saddle, His arms falling slack in desperation. ‘What will happen to them?’
‘They will be tried for murder, Captain Saxon, if they are lucky,’ Sheikh Fahd said. ‘If they are not . . .’
‘They will simply be executed,’ William said.
Sheikh Fahd put his hand on William’s shoulder. ‘You may yet succeed in your mission, Captain.’
‘With my men gone, I don’t see how,’ William murmured.
‘You have at least one ally now, remember?’ Sheikh Fahd insisted.
William looked back at him, noting his sincerity. ‘Those are more than just monks, sir. They are the finest soldiers you will ever meet. If we are to defeat the vampyres and the Rassis Cult, then I need those men.’
Sheikh Fahd shook his head. ‘Impossible. A li needs only the slightest excuse to drive all the tribes from the Sinai. If the Ayaida attack the militia, it could start a war.’
‘Damn it, sir!’ William said desperately. ‘Don’t you see? The War has already begun!’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A Perilous Liberation
I
Lieutenant Vittore looked up into the dawn sky, his lifeless eyes catching the light all too briefly as it brimmed up over the ridge and across the valley extinguishing shadow And then a veil of scorched tent cloth was drawn over his face and Vittore was gone.
William’s expression hardened.
He had spent much of that night preparing to leave, and as the first rays of light shone over the mountains to the east he rode up to the smoking remnants of the camp, driven to see what was left. The swords and the cannon were gone. Those tents that were not reduced to ash had been torn apart. Pots and pans lay scattered, clothes had been trampled by horses. Amongst all this was only one body: Vittore’s. But that was still one body too many.
William pulled his belt tight while looking down at the shroud of the lieutenant.
‘I see your resolve is unchanged,’ Thomas noted. The Englishman had accompanied William to the camp, along with Hisham and several riders who stood aside and watched as William made his way forlornly around the site of struggle.
‘They’ve stolen all the weapons and the bastards have killed one of my officers!’
‘He would have died protecting the company, Captain, I’m sure,’ Thomas suggested.
‘He should not have died in the first place,’ William growled, kicking a dented tin across the dust.
After several minutes of calm, William said: ‘I need help to carry Vittore to my horse.’
‘Of course,’ Thomas said and dismounted.
The two men struggled with the lieutenant’s body, and as William lifted him over the saddle of his horse, Thomas recognized his resolve. ‘Your death will mean nothing, Captain,’ he remarked.
‘I’m sorry?’ William said, his tone rejecting the observation.
‘Your reaction to this man’s demise might be your undoing,’ Thomas remarked, and shrugged dispassionately.
‘This is not about vengeance, Thomas,’ William retorted, looking at Vittore’s body draped before him. He mounted his horse. ‘I only want my men freed.’
Down at the Ayaida’s camp they were met by Sheikh Fahd and several other Bedouins. Marco came up at the rear and helped with Vittore. Once the lieutenant’s body was laid on the ground, Sheikh Fahd addressed William.
‘Again I ask you not to go,’ he said. ‘It is a foolish errand. Three men against an army?’
‘One man,’ William corrected him. ‘Marco and Mr Richmond will stay here, if I may intrude on your hospitality further?’
‘As you wish, they will be treated well,’ Sheikh Fahd said. ‘What of your fallen friend here?’
William stared down at Vittore, The sight of his shrouded body arousing barely contained fury. He wanted to scream, but he would save all that for the militia.
‘I would be honoured if you would bury him here. Lieutenant Vittore was a man of the desert,’ William replied, his voice breaking. ‘It would be fitting for him to stay here permanently.’
‘It will be done,’ Sheikh Fahd promised.
William took a blanket, several canteens and a long coat from his tent. He tied them to his horse, Marco looking on in anticipation. ‘You will stay here under the sheikh’s protection,’ he said to him as he packed.
‘But I want to go with you.’
William seized his shoulders and shook them angrily ‘No, Marco! No! You will stay here, by God!’
Marco looked at his uncle pleadingly.
‘If you are to serve with me, you must take my orders. Understood?’ William told him.
Marco could not refuse. ‘I will stay’
‘Prove to me you are growing up, Marco. Show me that, and I will consider letting you join the Order,’ William said as he swung himself up to the saddle.
Marco brightened, but only a little. He was not too green to realize that his uncle was riding into peril and might not return. He wanted to reach up, to give him a hug as he had when he was younger. But the other part of him cried out to be a man, and he reined in himself and his doubts.
William saluted Thomas with a casual hand, smiling faintly. The Englishman simply shook his head but smiled also, looking quite hopeless.
‘Good luck, Captain,’ Sheikh Fahd said. ‘As I prayed to Allah to bring you here, I will pray you are returned to us.’
William nodded and kicked in his heels to gallop along the valley, leaving them all to watch the dust erupt and then settle in his tracks.
II
This was a disaster.
Even if he could somehow free the brothers – and William did not see how it was possible – they would need rearming by Sheikh Fahd. The company’s weapons had been all but removed and they would face the Rassis and the vampyres with sticks and stones (though at least Engrin’s gunpowder had been saved, hidden away in the Ayaida tents).
While his thoughts strayed to the tipping balance between success and failure, he continued to track the militia slowly, though the coming dark made progress slow. Then as twilight crept up behind him he heard a voice call his name.
William pulled up his horse and turned about to see two riders on the horizon. He brought up his spyglass and squinted, his tired sight causing the image to blur. When he focused again, he groaned, but smiled inside.
‘Thomas . . .’
‘You shouldn’t have followed,’ William said as he greeted the Englishman.
‘You would go by yourself?’ Thomas grinned.
‘It isn’t your risk.’
‘Yet if you fail and are killed, what would I do, Captain? Stay for ever in that God-forsaken camp?’ The Englishman laughed. ‘I am a gentleman, not a tribesman. You are my escorts, as I see it. So any help I can provide will be repaid in kind.’
William was only too grateful for the assistance, yet as he looked over toThomas’s companion he felt suspicious. Hammid rode alongside Thomas, but he had done so reluctantly. If the timid Arab had his choice, he would have no doubt stayed with the Ayaida.
‘Well, we should move out, don’t you think?’ William said finally, realizing that further argument would only waste more time.
‘At night?’ Thomas looked concerned. ‘What about those vampyres?’
‘They are the least of our worries, Thomas,’ William said grimly. ‘At least this way we can track our foe and gain a night’s ride. They have a lead of almost a day.’
‘What are we waiting for then?’ Thomas enthused, and urged his horse onwards.
III
To the east, the Ayaida camp roused itself as the sun came up. Marco woke to the sounds of tribesmen stirring. He sat up and put his arms around his legs, feeling terribly alone. With his uncle gone and the merchant Thomas following soon after, there was now no one he recognized, and no one who understood him.
Marco shuffled over to the tent flap and parted it. He felt like a pedestrian in a very busy market, just as removed from it all as w
hen he had visited the bustling streets of Rome. No one took any notice of him, which was fine, but what would happen when he became thirsty or hungry? What then? Would he try to speak to these dark-skinned men? Or would he be forced to steal to survive?
Marco turned back inside the tent and ferreted for a canteen, but all were empty. Even the food that had been sent to their tent the evening before was reduced to crumbs. He groaned and sat down to think.
Presently the tent flap opened and a broad man entered. He looked down at Marco, and something he saw made him laugh. It was not a menacing sound, but it grew irritating and Marco felt belittled. He scowled up at the intruder.
The broad man clapped his hands, barked words into the air, and another man appeared. This one had a scar across his temple. In one hand was a sack which he tossed over to Marco. When he looked at it suspiciously, the broad man began laughing again and left the tent.
He opened the sack and was delighted to find food, some bread, meat and cheese, which was too creamy for his usual tastes, but he was hungry and ate it gladly. After he finished eating, he noticed a water-skin left by the curtain. Several thirsty gulps later, he relaxed again and lay back, watching the sun glint through the cloth above him.
Perhaps life in the camp was not so bad after all, he thought. But while they might treat him well enough, he longed to be with his uncle, To fight at his side.
After dozing for a good hour, The food in his belly settling, Marco got to his feet and left the tent. He expected to find guards outside, but was amazed to see no one at all. With the entire camp open to him and nothing but freedom, he decided to explore.
The Ayaida camp was busy, far too busy to pay much attention to a single guest wandering among them. He smelled spices and cooking oils. Glancing inside the square tents as he passed by, Marco saw a woman breast-feeding a baby, men skinning sheep. Children were playing with their family’s livestock. Songs seemed to flow from each home; melancholy songs.
Marco halted near the entrance of one simple tent made from goatskin and listened as a woman began singing something that sounded sad at first, but grew light-hearted. She was dressed in a long black gown over a bright orange dress, her face concealed by an embroidered veil. Marco wondered if it was a song of mourning, whether this woman had lost her husband, or even a child.
The Hoard of Mhorrer Page 24