Zafirah swore loudly and angrily. The two Freegyptians in the back seat of the ZT swore too.
The Locusts veered around for a third pass, but this time they did not open fire. As they thundered overhead they see-sawed their wings in a victory salute, then peeled off in a 180 degree turn, heading back to base.
''Bastards,'' David hissed, but in his heart he knew the pilots had let them off lightly. They could have kept on strafing till all three vehicles were gone. This way, honour was served and there were survivors left to carry the message back home: That's how we treat people who come into our country and cause trouble.
The ZT and the remaining truck drove the rest of the way to Luxor at a sombre pace, much like a funeral cortege.
16. Fraternity
The inner chamber of the Temple of Hatshepsut had been transformed since David's first visit. Now there were maps tacked to the walls, showing Africa north of the equator, most of Arabia and even the southern reaches of the Ottoman Empire. There were trestle tables and canvas chairs. There was electric lighting, a TV set, a shortwave radio, a phone. Cables snaked around the floor, all leading to a side chamber where a generator hummed. A mausoleum, a place of the dead, had become a place of activity, a base of operations - a command bunker.
When David walked in, the Lightbringer was busy conferring with half a dozen of the local faction leaders. Glancing round, the Lightbringer held up a hand - won't be a second - and continued his discussion. David stood by and listened. He barely understood a word being said but it was clear who was in charge here. He marvelled at the authority his brother commanded. The warlords were a slab-faced, rough-and-ready lot, the sort of men who were very hard to impress. The Lightbringer had them hanging on his every word.
David was still finding it hard to reconcile the Steven he used to know with the masked figure before him, this self-made icon, this sweet-talking demagogue. Five years was a long time. People changed. But they tended to change into slightly different but still recognisable forms of themselves. They didn't, as a rule, undergo a complete metamorphosis, as from caterpillar to butterfly. Watching Steven at work, he was filled with a sense of pride. He imagined this was how younger brothers felt about older brothers, how Steven had once felt about him: pleased to be able to look up to him, glad to be related by blood, conscious that what was great about the other might be great about himself as well.
The meeting ended. The Lightbringer dismissed his confederates. They filed out, most of them giving David a nod of acknowledgement as they passed. One of them patted him on the shoulder, a gesture of congratulation and of commiseration too. He had done well in Libya. Such a shame that Freegyptian lives had been lost.
''Beer?''
Once it was just the two of them left in the chamber, the Lightbringer relaxed his shoulders, eased out his spine. Mask notwithstanding, he was Steven once more.
''Why not?'' said David.
Steven fetched two bottles from a small refrigerator. He uncapped them and handed one to David. Then he rolled up his mask to just below his nose and took a sip from his bottle. David drank too, sneaking a sidelong, surreptitious glance at his brother. A small portion of Steven's left cheek was exposed and he could see the bottom of the burn-damaged area, hard, waxy scar tissue puckering the unmarred skin next to it. The edge of the scarring formed a surprisingly rounded, neat curve. It looked almost like a cattle brand.
''Don't stare,'' Steven said. ''It's rude.''
''Sorry. I just... One day you'll show me your whole face, won't you? I'm sure I can take it.''
''I'm sure you can, and maybe one day I will. For now, though, it's not something I'm happy about sharing with others. You understand. I used to be a good-looking young lad. Handsome, I'd even go so far as to say.''
''Hey, you are my brother.''
''And you, Dave, are still good-looking. Try to imagine suddenly losing that, becoming the opposite of handsome, having a face that makes people wince and turn away. You wouldn't like it, trust me.''
''I'm sorry it happened, Steven. I'm... I'm sorry about a lot of things that have happened.''
''You mean between us? Ah, fuck it. It's all in the past.''
''I don't think I was the best of brothers to you.''
''What are you talking about?'' Steven exclaimed.
''You know, I wasn't very tolerant. I didn't--''
''Don't talk bollocks. You were a brilliant brother. You looked after me. I know Dad often paid you to, but you could have just taken the money and ignored me. He wouldn't have known. And I was a proper little shit. I'm not afraid to admit it. I was a pest to start with, and I grew up into a pain in the arse. I wouldn't have looked after me if I'd been you. I'd have told me to fuck off.''
''I more or less did at school.''
''And I had it coming, and it was probably the best thing you could have done. You're talking about the day you beat up those three boys who beat me up, right? What you said afterwards, that this was the last time you'd do anything like that for me - bang, a revelation. I realised I'd always been counting on you to protect me and it meant I could get away with anything. I'm a born troublemaker, but I was safe because big brother Dave would always be there to mop up my messes. And then, all at once, it seemed he wasn't going to any more. I knew then that I had to sort myself out and think about the consequences of my actions in future and take responsibility for them, because otherwise I was going to keep screwing up and there'd be nobody to bail me out. That was the day - I'm not kidding - when I started to become an adult. You shouldn't feel guilty about what you did. You should give yourself a thumping great pat on the back.''
''Really? OK then, I will.''
''And speaking of pats on the back,'' Steven said, ''excellent job in Libya, Dave. Fucking fantastic. I've been watching one of the Libyan national networks.'' He nodded at the television. ''Reception's crap but the message is loud and clear. Our little invasion is all over the news. Tripoli's up in arms. They've lodged a formal complaint with Cairo and they're lobbying the Afro-Arabian Synodical Council to take action. The hawks on the Council are arguing for military retaliation and even the doves are cooing about some form of 'robust response', which is liberal-speak for the same thing. Whether they end up approving reprisals is open to debate, but it's looking likely. The Libyans are pretty hot under the collar about it all and say their priests have been having visions of disgruntlement from on high, which, if true, is hardly surprising. We've stopped worshippers worshipping. It's only temporary but that doesn't stop the gods feeling the pinch. Meanwhile the parliament in Cairo is strenuously denying any involvement in the attacks and blaming a terrorist element in Upper Freegypt.''
''That'd be us.''
''It would. They've even named me, in the hope of diverting the blame. For the first time Freegyptian politicians have publicly acknowledged the Lightbringer's existence. They're pointing the finger of blame right at me, but it's not helping. They still look bad, weak, because it appears they're not in full control of their own country.''
''Which they aren't.''
''Not down here they aren't. Down here, I am. So Cairo can whimper all it wants about its innocence but Libyan tempers aren't going to be soothed, and if retaliation is sanctioned, you can bet the Libyans won't do it by halves. They'll mobilise everything they've got, and they'll have backup from the Sudan and Chad, who're scared we might go in and do something similar to them and would like to pre-empt that if possible. All in all it's looking good. We tweaked the Nephs' noses and they're going to react exactly as hoped, lashing out. And it's thanks to you, Dave.''
Steven clinked the neck of his bottle against David's.
''You don't look completely delighted,'' he said. ''Why not?''
''I'm exhausted,'' David replied. ''A week on the move, without a decent night's rest...''
''And?''
''And we lost four men, don't forget that.''
''I regret it, truly I do,'' said Steven, sounding sincere. ''I've already sent my condo
lences to their families. But we knew, going in, there'd be casualties. I was hoping it wouldn't be so soon, but still. Troops die. Leaders have to be prepared to accept that, otherwise they have no business starting a war.''
''I know. But I saw those men die, with my own eyes. You weren't there. I was. You can talk casually about casualties, but watching it happen is a whole different thing. It's not something anyone can ever get used to. I just want you to bear that in mind, Steven. You sent four of your men out to their deaths. And they're only the first. There will be others.''
''Fair point,'' said Steven. ''Duly noted. What you haven't mentioned is that I nearly send you out to your death.''
''You didn't send me. I volunteered.''
''Even so, I could have said no. Would have, if you hadn't been so damn insistent.''
''The mission needed someone in charge who had proper military experience.''
''Well, for the record, I was worried sick all week. If you'd been killed, I'd never have forgiven myself. What was I thinking? I must have been crazy to let you talk me into it. Zafirah would have managed fine without you. Fuck it, I shouldn't even have sent her. She's not expendable. Neither are you.''
''No one is,'' David said firmly. ''That's what I'm getting at.''
''OK, OK.'' Steven put up his hands, surrendering. ''Enough of the lecturing. I understand where you're coming from. I don't disagree.''
''Just as I promised, I'm here to make sure you don't do anything rash.''
''My brother, my conscience.''
''Bingo.'' David drained his beer. ''And now I'm going to stop giving advice and ask for some instead.''
''Advice? From me? Well, there's a turn-up. Fire away.''
David hesitated, then said, ''Zafirah.''
''Zafirah? What do you-?'' Steven stopped, and his mouth curled into a sly smile. ''Oh, don't tell me. You're smitten. Dave's smitten with Zafirah. Who'd have thought?''
''I wouldn't say I was-''
''It's written all over your face,'' Steven said, the smile turning gleeful. ''And I can't honestly say I blame you. She's a looker all right. Nice tits. Firm, round arse. And those eyes...''
''You know her. Pretty well. Don't you?''
''Could say that. As well as anyone can get to know Zafirah. It's been three years - more - and I like to think she and I have a pretty good understanding of each other. Even so, I feel I've only scratched the surface with her. She doesn't let people in easily.''
''I've noticed.''
''Desert girl. Hard, hot, beautiful, inhospitable. And so now you're the mole-rat, wanting to make himself a burrow.''
''Don't take the piss.''
''I'm not taking the piss. I am surprised, though. She doesn't seem your type.''
''I don't have a type. Do I have a type?''
''Blonde. Wealthy. Brittle. That's the woman I always remember you going for.''
David cast his mind back over his past relationships. Girls like Kismet, Aida, 'Titi, Alex. Each had seemed as different from the others as trees in a forest. But they had all belonged to the same forest; that was undoubtedly true. The same species of tree, moreover.
''Alex wasn't blonde,'' he said, adding, ''Well, not naturally.''
Steven chuckled. ''A collar-cuff mismatch, huh? Well, be that as it may. Your choices were never anything less than classy. Never anything less than frosty, either. The kind of women you could keep at arm's length, because they didn't mind. That's how they kept you. Zafirah, though, she's a whole different proposition. And if you really want my advice...''
''I do.''
''I'd steer clear.''
''What?'' David was startled.
''For one thing, that's a father-fixated girl you're dealing with. She told you about her daddy, the great freedom fighter and martyr? She still worships him. He's dead and no man will ever live up to him in her estimation. So you're competing against his ghost, and you're unlikely to win. Plus, she's wedded to the cause. This cause. My cause. It's what drives her on. It's all she really cares about. There's an emptiness inside her and this is what fills it. This is what gives shape and meaning to her life.''
''Oh.''
''Oh? You haven't noticed?''
''I knew she was... committed,'' David said. ''I didn't see it as anything more than that.''
''Committed to the hilt. She wants the Pantheon's hold over the world broken as much as I do, maybe even more.''
''And in the meantime she's not interested in anything else?''
''Nothing you can offer.''
David pondered this. He supposed Steven was right. Steven had had three years to get the measure of Zafirah's character. By all accounts they had been working closely together.
Yet, at the restaurant the other night, Zafirah had referred to her father in disparaging terms, as a ''coward'', and had shown a trace of scepticism when talking about causes.
Perhaps Steven saw things that he, David, did not. Equally, perhaps he was mistaken.
There was a third possibility, and it put David in mind of Steven's account of his adventures after the sinking of the Immortal.
Perhaps he was lying.
David trusted his brother. On the big issues, not least his crusade against the gods, he believed Steven meant everything he said. But on lesser issues, personal matters, he was not so sure. When it was just the two of them together, Steven didn't always seem to be entirely on the level.
He realised, in a flash of insight, that there was a clear distinction here.
He trusted the Lightbringer. Steven, on the other hand, he wasn't so sure about.
What did that mean?
''Can I ask a question?'' he said.
''Of course,'' said Steven.
''Do you fancy Zafirah?''
''Sure. Why not? Who wouldn't?'' This was said dismissively, as if David had wanted to know whether he liked sandwiches.
''So you wouldn't be trying to put me off her for any specific reason?''
''Such as?''
''Well, to, you know, keep her for yourself.''
''Dave, you wound me,'' Steven said, mock-hurt. But not wholly convincingly mock-hurt. ''I'm your brother. I'm just looking out for your best interests, and I'm telling you - listen to me - Zafirah isn't for you.'' He repeated it, in case David hadn't got the message - ''She isn't for you'' - and his voice took on a strange, resonant timbre as he spoke. The words seemed to penetrate deep inside David's head and lodge themselves there.
''Anyway, for your information, I've bigger fish to fry than Zafirah,'' Steven added, sounding more like himself again. He yanked the Lightbringer mask down, tucking the base of it inside the collar of his undershirt. ''In case you haven't noticed, I'm rather busy saving the world at present.''
''I understand. I'm sorry.''
''You'd better leave.'' Steven's posture had shifted. Stiffened. ''Go get some rest. You said it yourself: you're exhausted. 'Bye, Dave.''
David, dismissed, walked back through the Valley of Kings to Luxor, and with every step he took through the necropolis he could think only of his brother's advice that he should leave Zafirah be. He could hardly think of anything else.
It made a kind of sense. Steven knew her. He was trying to protect David. He didn't see them as a good match.
Zafirah isn't for you.
She wasn't for him. That was all there was to it.
17. Airstrike
David was home.
Home wasn't his London pad. Pleasant and well furnished as that was, it served as a convenient place to live, nothing more.
Home was Courtdene, the family estate on the Sussex Downs, the flint-and-brick manor house with its walled gardens and its long, valley-hemmed views of the Channel, the sheep-cropped fields, the oak copses and hawthorn thickets, the wide expanses of grassland that were treelessly bleak and bare, the curving driveway, the main gates capped with sphinxes, the pyramid folly which Archibald Westwynter commissioned to be built the day after he bought the property, the lake with its replica Solar Barque
dinghies and small overgrown island, this secure and private world where nothing intruded from the outside that wasn't permitted by the family within.
Home was always the place where life was at its simplest.
David strode up to the front door, pausing to glance up at the family cartouche that was carved into the lintel. It was the best kind, a compact, logogrammatic one. You could spell out any name in the uniliteral manner and get a string of simple demotic hieroglyphs, but that was little better than an alphabetical substitution code and looked ungainly. For real class, you paid the priesthood a small fortune - the current asking price was €50,000 - and had your surname translated officially into hieratic logograms. The cartouche for Westwynter consisted, logically enough, of the logograms for west (a bird crown and a sun setting over hills) and winter (four assorted geometric shapes), arranged one above the other and enclosed in a box.
David had always thought of a cartouche as a sign of vanity, but a necessary one. No family that was held in high regard could do without.
He passed under it and entered the house.
The hallway was empty. A clock ticked. Dust motes hung in a shaft of sunlight, swirled by a draught. He smelled the familiar musk of waxed floorboards, mixed with the hint of damp which hung around the draughty old building constantly, even in high summer.
No one.
He was home from war. He had a right to expect some kind of reception, a welcoming committee. Didn't he? He had been away for weeks. He was presumed dead. Why wasn't anyone waiting in the hallway to greet him, rejoicing? His mother at least, even if his father had chosen to disown him.
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