Shatter War

by Dana Fredsti

  “Cam, my brother,” he whispered as they proceeded, his voice raw with emotion, “this chaos is all that remains of Men-nefer, the great capital city. Its great port, gone. Inbuhedj, we called it. Its high walls, gleaming white as my teeth, white as my eyes, all gone. In my time, it had already stood for two thousand years. The warring gods Horus and Set made their peace here, at the center of the world. I thought the city would surely last forever.”

  Cam nodded silently, suddenly struck by the thought of Camulodunon—his own lost home, and his people, the Trinovantes—washed away by time.

  * * *

  As a wealthy merchant captain, Kha-Hotep was used to a certain level of respect, but every time their party passed a group of Egyptians, the native peasants and craftsmen bowed low, as though paying due homage to their Pharaoh. He found it disconcerting.

  Their armed guard continued to march them through the mélange of different terrains and disjointed pieces of cityscape, heading toward the largest remaining structure, a temple complex. It towered over the center of the lost city. Even though its walls and grounds were truncated and pruned by the edges of its shard, it remained impressive in scope.

  “What is that place?” Cam asked, nudging his companion.

  “It is the Hikaptah,” Kha-Hotep answered, “the House of the Soul of Ptah, he who is the creator and sustainer of all things.” He continued to proudly point out the sights as they crossed the rim of the central shard and went down a stretch of flagstone pavement between twin rows of crouching alabaster sphinxes leading to the colossal gateway of the Hikaptah.

  Two tall white buildings flanked the gate itself, the walls inscribed with impressive murals depicting the deeds of the great god Ptah. A line of eight gargantuan statues of the Pharaoh Ramses stood guard in front—when their party marched past, Kha-Hotep’s head only reached as high as the ankles on the stone titans.

  They continued through the great gate and past the enormous stone forecourt, up a series of broad steps and through the ornate gilded doors of another magnificent temple. There they entered a vast pillared hall, every column and surface covered in dense, intricate stanzas of hieroglyphs and a thousand vibrant colors illuminating parades of the gods and mythical beasts. High overhead in the walls and ceiling the ancient architects had cunningly worked half-concealed apertures and polished brass to allow the sun to flood the temple with natural light. In addition a vast array of perfumed candles fluttered in sconces.

  Kha-Hotep had dealt with too many priests to ever fully trust the gods. Even so, he was shocked at the sight before him. The sacred space had been turned into a banquet hall, arrayed with long tables and benches fit for hungry soldiers. Off in the side chambers, shrines and altars had been converted into ovens for baking bread and fire pits for roasting great hunks of meat on spits.

  It was sacrilege.

  * * *

  Durand led them to the far end of the great hall and left them behind with the guards while he strode up to where another French officer, dressed in the same red uniform of the sergeant-major, conferred with a trio of blue-clad subordinates. They stood over a table crowded with sheets of papyrus parchments and hand-drawn maps.

  The officer glanced up at the new arrivals. He was black-haired, with a broad face, serious, sunken eyes and bushy muttonchop sideburns, wearing a distinctive bicorn hat.

  Amber stared at the man.

  Holy shit, that’s not Napoleon, is it?

  No, she decided, the man was too tall, and she couldn’t remember seeing such crazy facial hair in any of Napoleon’s portraits—but then again, she was no expert. Maybe it was just the hat.

  Saluting smartly, Durand spoke a few quiet words to his superior, who nodded silently and then came over to inspect the newcomers for himself. He looked them over carefully, each in turn, before finally stopping in front of Cam.

  * * *

  “I am Lieutenant Alexandre Maximilien Barthélémy Géroux,” the officer said with authority. “I am in charge here. My sergeant-major informs me that you speak passable French. Is this true?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Cam replied politely.

  Géroux chuckled. “I am not a lord, my friend. I am a soldier of the free and egalitarian French Republic. You may address me as sir, or lieutenant.”

  “Forgive me, sir.” Cam’s voice was still polite.

  “Your accent is strange to me. You are not French, I presume?”

  “No, sir. I am Trinovantian, from the eastern shores of Pritan.”

  “Where is that? In Syria?”

  “The Romans called it Britannia, sir.”

  “Britannia? So you are English, then?”

  “No sir,” Cam replied. “I am a Celt.”

  “Ah! Now we are getting somewhere! Are you in their employ, or are you their enemy—a rebel perhaps?”

  “Neither, sir. They came after my time.”

  The lieutenant raised an eyebrow. “After your time, were they?” He shot his men a wry smile. “I see, I see… and where, may I ask, did you learn your French?”

  Amber spoke up. “It’s a little complic—”

  “I am speaking to this man, not to you, Mademoiselle!” the officer snapped. Cam bristled as Amber flinched. He saw the officer’s eyes narrow. Then Géroux bowed his head slightly. “You must forgive me, Mademoiselle,” he said, his voice softer. “That was most ungallant.” He turned back to Cam.

  “Now then, Monsieur…” He paused. “What is your name?”

  “I am Camtargarus Mab Cattus,” he replied, keeping his temper for the moment.

  “Cam-tar—?”

  “Camtargarus, sir, son of Cattus. They call me Cam.”

  “And so shall we, my good man, so shall we,” Géroux said with a slight smile. His soldiers chuckled. “Now, on the matter of your proficiency in French—how do you come to speak it so well?”

  “A magical device, sir. I speak all the tongues of men,” Cam replied. Amber winced. Now all the Frenchmen laughed outright, except for the lieutenant, who raised his hand for silence and nodded sagely.

  “Yes, yes, that would explain it very well. Is it too much to hope you have it on hand for us to see?”

  “I do not, sir.”

  “Ah. No matter.” The officer waved a dismissive hand. “And how did you come all the way from la perfide Albion, twelve hundred leagues away, to the heart of the Oriental desert… in an Egyptian boat?”

  “And sailing northward at that,” Sergeant-Major Durand added with a lift of his eyebrow.

  “Yes, there is that. Were you on your way back home to England, Monsieur Cam? After an extended trip abroad?”

  “No, sir. We didn’t come to this land by boat. We flew here.”

  “Flew? In a Montgolfière hot air balloon—un globe aérostatique?” The laughter increased.

  “I don’t even know what that is!” Cam’s cheeks turned red as the soldiers lost their composure. Even the lieutenant could barely hide his amusement as Cam struggled on, fighting to keep his temper from erupting.

  “How then, Monsieur?” he said, continuing his interrogation. “Via cannonball, à la Baron Munchausen?”

  “We flew in a vessel called the Vanuatu, a mighty ship bigger than this great hall, in the shape of a bird, made of magic fluid steel with wings of brilliant light.” The French howled. Undeterred, Cam continued to explain in earnest. “It was piloted by a great druid sorcerer, who brought it from the ice-bound southernmost end of the world.” Some of the soldiers were holding their sides, and the lieutenant could no longer control his laughter.

  Cam stood stiff with fists balled in angry knots. “I do not boast or speak idly, sir,” he said. No one heard him over the raucous laughter.

  “I do not boast or speak idly!” he roared.

  The hilarity stopped.

  “I am Camtargarus Mab Cattus, and I say nothing untrue or in jest!”

  Startled by the change, the soldiers brought their muskets to bear on him, aiming at his heart. Leila grabbed Kha-Hotep’s
arm and buried her head against him. He put a protective arm around her shoulder, his eyes blazing at the soldiers.

  Amber tried to keep her tone soft and calming.

  “Cam…”

  His voice went low and dangerous. “I will fight any man who disputes my word or my honor, be it one or a hundred—and I will fight them now.” He stared down the lines, locking eyes with every one of the soldiers. They froze, their guns still trained on him, awaiting their leader’s order. Unintimidated, Cam turned back to the lieutenant.

  “Hear me and know this—we are on a desperate mission to save the world.”

  Géroux looked at him with a newfound respect and doffed his hat. He spoke carefully.

  “You come as a savior,” he said, “and indeed, you have saved our spirits from ennui. I salute your courage, my brilliant madman. In truth, when I first laid eyes on you, I fully expected that I should be obliged to call for a firing squad to dispatch a most unusual ring of continental spies. But I see I was mistaken. Forgive us.”

  He waved away the barrels, and the bemused soldiers dutifully lowered their muskets.

  * * *

  Géroux turned to Amber.

  “Pray forgive my earlier sharpness, Mademoiselle. I took you all for agents of the Turks, or one of the European powers. Now I do not think so, but I must admit, I remain baffled by just what you are. May I safely take it that you are attached to this man, and these two are your manservant and handmaid?”

  “What? No!” she said. “And no, no, no, we don’t have any servants! This is Kha-Hotep, the captain of the barge, and this is Leila Suleiman, from Cairo. We rescued them, and now they’re traveling with us. And my name’s Amber. Amber Richardson.”

  Not that you asked.

  “Enchanté, Mademoiselle. Not to disparage your gallant companion, but I hope you can shed more light on his account.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” Amber replied firmly, not trusting Géroux’s sudden shift of attitude. “Well, it’s not magic, but we really did get here in a kind of airplane. It does sort of look like a bird, and it did come from the South Pole.”

  “A plein-air…” he struggled with the word. “Airplane? What is that, exactly?”

  Oh, right. Amber chose her words carefully. “It’s a, well, an aircraft. Sort of like a car and—” Géroux looked at her blankly. She tried again. “No, wait. It’s like a ship, but it has wings and flies through the air.”

  “A flying ship.” He looked dubious.

  “Honestly, that can’t be the craziest thing you’ve come across this week, is it?”

  “Touché, Mademoiselle.” The lieutenant laughed. “But where is your aircraft now?”

  “It’s a long story, but we’re on our way to meet up with it again. It’s somewhere downriver, near the coast.” I hope, she thought.

  Géroux nodded. “Very well.” Just as Amber breathed a sigh of relief, he continued, “Then let us commence your verification with the simplest test. Once that is done, we’ll know whether we need to arrange for a firing squad after all.” He turned to Durand. “Sergeant-Major, bring me Private Cochevelou. And Durand…?”

  “Sir?”

  “Bring our other captive to the temple.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  * * *

  In short order, a French trooper presented himself with a smart salute.

  “Private Cochevelou, step forward,” Lieutenant Géroux said.

  “Sir!”

  “Private, regale us with your mother tongue.” He turned. “Monsieur Cam, you will translate your fellow Celt’s words for us, if you please.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The private turned to Cam.

  “Gourc’hemennoù. Fañch Cochevelou eo ma anv ha komz a ran Brezhoneg –Te oar?”

  Cam bowed his head and answered.

  “Penaos `mañ kont. Na petra’ta.” Yes, I speak Breton. I speak every language.

  Pleasantly surprised, Cochevelou laughed, and then caught himself. He cleared his throat self-conciously and continued.

  “Divinadell am eus.”

  “You have a riddle for me?” Cam asked.

  The private nodded, and began.

  An marc’h glas ma moue gwenn en deus

  Hi kallout dougen ul koeswik-koad aezet,

  met n’eo ket skorañ an tuzun un spilhenn.

  Cam nodded as well. “I know this riddle.

  This blue horse has a mane of white

  It can carry a forest of timber with ease,

  but cannot bear the weight of a pin.

  The Breton soldier’s eyes widened. “Boul c’hurun! Lieutenant, he knows my language as well as if he had learned it from the cradle.”

  “Wait!” Géroux commanded. “What is the answer?”

  Cam smiled. “Don’t you know?”

  “Tell me all the same.”

  “The sea, of course.”

  “He is a true Celt,” Cochevelou insisted. “I would stake my life on it.”

  The lieutenant stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I think I should like to hear more from our new guests. Please, come sit down and eat.”

  38

  Off the Mediterranean Coast, North Africa

  Eight days after the Event

  Professor Harcourt had developed a strong aversion to water travel. Having survived the destruction of the Vanuatu, he now found himself a castaway, adrift for the better part of a day and a night on the open sea in a makeshift boat no bigger than a coracle, without rudder or oars. To add insult to injury, the coastline remained tantalizingly in sight, but all his efforts to paddle to shore by hand left him further away than ever.

  Every stirring of the waves and every shape half-seen beneath the surface brought up vivid fears of sea-monsters. Even so, eventually fatigue took its toll, and he drifted off.

  Awakening the next morning after an uneasy slumber, he blinked to clear his vision, saw a bulky shape in the distance, and assumed the worst. Within moments, however, he realized his mistake, and sat up as straight as he could—nearly capsizing his little boat as he frantically waved his top hat.

  “Hello! Ahoy there! Help!”

  It was a simple wooden fishing craft with a plain square sail. A trio of fishermen tending their nets looked up in surprise to see him bobbing along. All three waved back at him.

  “Ave!” they called out, one after the other, and they leaned into their oars to bring the boat alongside his makeshift coracle. Hands stretched out to pull him up, and the moment his foot lifted off the shell closed up, collapsing into a tadpole-shaped glob which promptly swam off. The transformation stunned his rescuers, who touched their hearts and eyes and spat into the sea.

  “Baal-Hadad defend us from the frightful workings of Yam, and the deep wrath of the sea!” they recited in unison, eyes cast downward.

  Harcourt’s rescuers reminded him of the Lebanese spice merchants at Leadenhall Market in London. All three were bearded, with tightly curled black hair peeking out from beneath braided skull-caps. They wore long unbelted woolen robes, earrings, and all three had distinctive tattoos—one with small vertical diamond shapes running down his forehead, another with a crescent moon over a disk, and the third with horizontal stripes on his cheeks.

  They wore similar necklaces, as well. The finest was made of brightly colored glass and shell, the other two of bone and terra cotta. Each depicted a right hand with an eye in the palm. Harcourt recognized the symbol—it was the well-known Arab “Hand of Fatima,” their traditional protection against the evil eye.

  “Gentlemen, I stand in your debt,” he said enthusiastically, dusting off his sleeves and fixing his hat. Looking from one to the other, he added, “Since I am already obliged to you, might there be any chance of something to eat?”

  “Yes, yes!” they all nodded, and one pulled out little strips of what looked to be dried salted eel. Harcourt snatched them up and devoured them without a second thought. They laughed off his lack of manners.

  “Mother Tanit preserv
e you, Noble sir.”

  With a start, Harcourt realized he could understand them—Merlin’s linguistic trickery at work. The oldest man, with the brightly colored necklace, told him they were part of a small Carthaginian trading outpost on the border with Kemet, where they exchanged goods from Carthage with Egyptians, Phoenicians, Libyans, and Greeks. Fortunately his rescuers did not ask Harcourt where he hailed from, which saved him the bother of concocting a plausible story.

  The fishermen then busied themselves with the boat, turning it toward land. As they approached the shore, Harcourt looked with interest upon the seaside settlement.

  Little more than a caravanserai, really, he thought. Lines of camels, a crude jetty, and a handful of simple adobe huts surrounded by a ring of black goatskin pavilions sheltering an open-air bazaar. He was surprised to see three elephants, loaded with goods, being led along the seashore. Two more of the great beasts stood near the market. They were armored and outfitted to carry Carthaginian warriors atop their backs. A caravan’s bodyguards? Mercenaries, perhaps.

  An unfamiliar flag flew over the market. It boasted a white circle on a red field, with a black symbol in the center. It was vaguely familiar—one of those Hindu sun symbols, he thought. What was it called again?

  Oh yes—a swastika.

  * * *

  A pair of Europeans waited for them at the jetty. They were grim-faced and dressed in odd military uniforms, rather drab livery compared to the brightly outfitted regiments of his day. He didn’t recognize the make of their rifles, but they certainly looked dangerous enough. The soldiers beckoned them to bring the boat in.

  “Who are these white men?” Harcourt asked the Carthaginian fishermen.

  “They came from the sky in iron elephants,” the oldest of the fishermen replied in all earnestness.

  “They are called the Dass-Doi-Shahf’oke,” the second added. “You must pay them respect and obey their wishes. They have great powers.”

  “Dass-Doi-Shahf’oke…” Harcourt repeated, puzzled. On the jetty, the soldiers seemed very interested in him.

  “Halt!” one called out, raising his hand to Harcourt. “Du da—identifizieren sie sich!”