Shatter War

by Dana Fredsti

  “A name we are proud to embrace,” one of the Zouaves declared.

  At this, all three stepped forward and simultaneously performed an elaborate obeisance, stretching their front leg forward as they leaned back and bowed low, unrolling a swirling movement of their arms. They rose and introduced themselves in turn.

  “Armand Ibn Wasif.”

  “Jean-Lazare Bu-Akkash.”

  “Giraud Abdul Didier Ibn Bu Yussef ait Mengallat.”

  “We are all at your service, Monsieur Professeur,” the three said in unison.

  Second Lieutenant d’Alsace continued. “We all left Oran aboard the ship of the line Donawerth, bound for Gallipoli, to fight against the Russians in the Crimea, but our ship was broken up by a horrific storm in the Mediterranean. We were able to get in one of the boats and make it back to the coast here. As far as we can tell, we are the only survivors.”

  “The Crimean War? Let me see then you must have left port—”

  “We set off on the ninth of June.”

  “Could you tell me, what year?”

  “What year? Well, this year, of course—1854.”

  “Of course,” Harcourt said. “Pardon me, Messieurs. I see there’s one last man I should meet.”

  “Bonne chance, Professeur. Whatever tongue that one speaks, it’s Greek to us.”

  The professor turned to a young man dozing in the corner of the chamber. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, with olive skin and Mediterranean looks. His belted tunic—white with burgundy trim over gray hose and leather boots—set him apart from the rest of the pit’s inhabitants. Harcourt first hazarded a greeting in Latin. The lone man opened his eyes and looked up at the Victorian’s strange outfit in surprise.

  “Den faínesai moiázeis gia Romaíos. Orkízomai ston Serápi kai ston Christó, se parakalo pes mou óti boreís na milíseis tin glóssa mou?” he asked in a hopeful voice. You don’t look Roman. I swear by Serapis and Christ, please tell me you can speak my language?

  Harcourt turned to the others. “It seems our friend here is speaking Greek.”

  His name was Lucius, Harcourt quickly learned, and he was delighted to finally have someone to talk to. The rest of the prisoners gathered around to enjoy the novelty of Harcourt translating the Alexandrian’s speech. Lucius explained that he served the Prefect of Alexandria, a minor agens in rebus under Calix, the prefect’s chief magistrianos.

  Harcourt held his tongue, not wishing to tell Lucius that Calix had been murdered—by the same man who had brought Harcourt to the city. After the Wrath-Fall, as Lucius called it, he had been dispatched to the west while another rider went east, and a third up the Nile, to report on the new reality of the region.

  “Before I could return with my report, I was captured by those damned foreigners with their smoking iron carriages, and put in here to rot with these barbarians,” Lucius said with a wave of his hands.

  Harcourt translated more diplomatically. This provoked a barrage of questions in a variety of languages from the other soldiers, all at the same time. Exasperated, Harcourt held up his hands for silence.

  “One moment!” he said. “One moment, gentlemen, and I will endeavor to explain, to the best of my ability.”

  “Professor,” MacIntyre pleaded. “Dae ye hae a plan tae gie us oot ay thes place?”

  “Yes!” One of the Royal Dragoons nodded enthusiastically. “We’ve got to do something before the Jerries decide to shoot the lot of us, or cover up the hole, or sell us to those Arabs out there.”

  “Do calm yourselves, gentlemen! To begin with, those natives are not Arabs. They are traders from Carthage.”

  Some of the soldiers frowned at this news. “Carthage?” one said. “You mean ancient Carthage, like Hannibal’s bunch?”

  “The very same. Allow me to explain. First of all—”

  Harcourt paused, taking in all of the expectant faces. Speaking before large audiences was old hat, but telling the unvarnished truth, with the authority of the informed, and without ulterior motive? Quite the novelty.

  He began again.

  “Apokaleitai i Ekdílosi.”

  “C’est ce qu’on appelle l’Événement.”

  “It is called the Event…”

  45

  On the Nile outside New Memphis

  Night – Eight days after the Event

  The Star of the Dawn still stood tied up where they had left her, somewhat battered by its run-in with the bull hippo, but still ship-worthy. With an arm around Cam, Ibn Fadlan helped the wounded Celt aboard and laid him down on a reed mat, kneeling to tend to the stab wound in his side.

  Amber and Leila boarded next, Leila still awkwardly clutching both Amber’s fallen crossbow and the khopesh sword against her chest. The two women quickly helped Kha-Hotep use the oars to cast off and push the boat away into the current.

  The raised riverbank concealed whatever was happening back in the patchwork city of New Memphis, but judging from the howls that echoed in the distance, the enraged inhabitants were still hunting for them. Durand had bought them the time they needed to escape—they could only hope the price he paid was not as high as they feared.

  Suddenly torchlights appeared over the ridge behind them. The fastest of their pursuers had caught sight of them slipping downriver. Frustrated, the pursuers hurled rocks and makeshift fishing spears at the departing boat, but all fell short.

  “Thank you for the lovely dinner!” Kha-Hotep shouted back at the shore. “I’m sorry we cannot stay for dessert!”

  Ibn Fadlan gestured to Amber. “Can you ask the captain if there is any linen or poultice aboard?” he asked. “I need to bind the wound.”

  Alarmed, Amber came over to see for herself. He had pulled up Cam’s blood-soaked tunic. With only moonlight to see by, his side looked black and slick.

  “Don’t worry,” Cam said, looking up at her. “This is nothing. I will just rest for a short while.”

  Amber took a deep breath and shook her head, not sure if she was about to laugh or cry.

  Abruptly a fiery streak flew past, just over their heads. It landed in the river and sizzled out. A pack of Egyptian archers had arrived on the riverbank, shooting flaming arrows. The missiles flashed toward them through the night air, like shooting stars. One landed on the deck, narrowly missing Cam’s outstretched legs, and another two hit the upright cabin.

  More were coming.

  “Put them out!” Kha-Hotep yelled, pulling out the arrows stuck in the cabin and beating at the flames with a loop of rope. Leila and Ibn Fadlan didn’t need to understand his words to know his meaning. Dodging the incoming arrows, they kicked at the ones stuck in the deck and stamped out the fiery scraps of flaxen wrap.

  Amber took up position at the stern, and brought her crossbow to bear. She knew she wasn’t a good enough shot to be a sniper. So she took careful aim at the centermost man and then swept a three-shot burst at their line. One of the archers dropped his bow with a choked scream. He grasped at his throat and collapsed.

  The rest retreated back over the ridge.

  Lowering the crossbow, Amber stared at the man she’d shot. My god, she thought. I killed him. Her hands began to shake. I’ve just killed someone. She felt gut-punched. It had been different when she couldn’t see the faces of her targets—she didn’t even know whether she’d hit anyone.

  This was inescapable.

  Kha-Hotep lay a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “You must not worry, little warrior. Lord Osiris will weigh his heart, and receive him or reject him. You saved us. So let your heart be comforted.”

  Amber nodded, but continued to stare across the river.

  No further shots harried them. The Siu-Tuait continued to carry them through the black water.

  * * *

  It was dangerous to travel the river by night, but once again they had no choice. Kha-Hotep wanted to go at least as far downriver as the sprawling necropolis of Saqqara—if any of it still existed.

  Perversely, t
he gods chose this night to draw up thick river-mists from the waters, making their navigation all the more difficult. Perhaps, he reasoned, it was a blessing in disguise, since it would hinder any attempts to track them from Memphis, if their pursuers still hunted them.

  Regardless of whether the fickle gods chose to bestow favor or hindrance, they had to continue their journey. Assigning Amber to the tiller, he took point at the bow, using a long punting pole to search for hidden sandbars. He called out orders to Amber back at the stern, and whispered the occasional prayer to Khonsu the moon-god to aid them in their travels.

  With Leila’s help, Ibn Fadlan cleaned Cam’s wound as best he could, and the two kept watch over him while he slept. The rest watched for pursuit—either on foot or on the river. Then, after a few hours, the captain finally caught a glimpse of what he had hoped to find. Through the fog there appeared the upper half of an obelisk rising out of the fog. So at least some trace of the Saqqara necropolis remained.

  Deciding they had gone far enough for safety, Kha-Hotep looked for a place to weigh anchor. He knew the vast necropolis was serviced by a number of stone quays along the river, and hoped Ra would see fit to let them come across one—if any remained. As luck and the gods would have it, just as he was considering tying up among the sedge and the rushes, a jetty appeared ahead.

  Once he assured himself that their landing was clear of hippos and crocodiles, Kha-Hotep brought the Siu-Tuait to rest against the quay, securing it to the stone rings. Then they laid out reed mats on the deck to get some much-needed sleep. Wanting to keep an eye on his patient, Ibn Fadlan volunteered to stay up for the first watch.

  * * *

  Ibn Fadlan loved the feel of the cool night air on his face. After such a horrific day, he found the gentle rocking of the boat on the calm waters of the Nile immensely soothing. He had much to think about.

  A distant flash of light interrupted his musings.

  “The thunder praises the glory of Allah, tremendous in might,” he murmured. “He sends the thunderbolts, striking whomever He wills.” But to his astonishment, the brilliant display was no bolt of lightning. It remained in the sky, standing like a pillar up to the heavens—then vanished once again.

  From behind, a movement on the deck startled him. He was relieved to find that it was only Leila.

  “As salamu alaikum. Forgive me, Mullah,” she said shyly, lowering her gaze as she approached. “I don’t mean to intrude or be forward.”

  “Wa alaikum assalam wa aahmatullah,” he said, returning the greeting with a welcoming wave of his hand. “Please, feel free to join me in admiring the river. The moon is out, and the mists are not so incessant, thanks be to God. We are not alone here, there is no danger of Khalwah. Come, the believing men and believing women are allies of one another.”

  He politely avoided eye contact with the girl, continuing to look out on the play of dappled moonlight on the Nile. After a few minutes, however, he turned toward her in concern.

  “Something troubles you?”

  She gave a miserable nod, wiping at her eyes. “I’ve acted immodestly,” she replied, the shame clear in her voice. “This morning, when I thought the French soldiers were going to kill us, I touched a man—the captain—and he put his arm around me.”

  “Did you try to seduce the Nubian? Or he you?”

  “Oh no! It wasn’t like that! It was only for a moment, when I was scared.”

  He nodded. “That is well. So then, repent and flee from evil. God knows your heart, and forgives what is past. But remember, child, whosoever returns to their sins, God will exact retribution upon them.”

  “I understand, Mullah,” she said meekly.

  “We are surrounded by the unbelievers. Shaitan the deceiver whispers to our hearts and makes it seem right in our eyes to do evil.”

  “Yes, Mullah,” she said, wiping her eyes again.

  “Where is your mind?” he asked gently. “You still seem distant and troubled.”

  * * *

  Leila nodded, desperate to unload her doubts and fears, but afraid they would all come tumbling out in a flood if she spoke even a single word.

  “It’s just…”

  “You can tell me.”

  “Well, it’s just that… so much has happened. My cousins and I were in a car crash, and… they all died. I almost drowned. And then—Ya Kharaashy! So much else!” She shook her head. “It’s all so horrible. I miss my cousin so badly. She was my best friend…”

  He listened intently, smiling in sympathy, even though he didn’t understand all of her story. “Should we not be thankful that God in his wisdom put death at the end of life, and not at its beginning?”

  She tried to smile back, sniffled, and nodded. That was just the kind of thing her grandfather would say to cheer her up—a piece of joke-wisdom, always a bit tone-deaf and never entirely successful, and yet, the familiarity of his clunky attempt comforted her. Then it reminded her of her family back in Cairo, and sadness rushed in again.

  “I’ve lost everyone,” she whispered. “Everyone I ever knew. Everything in the world… and I’m still so scared.”

  “If God helps you, none can overcome you. In Him, then, put your trust.”

  She nodded, building up nerve to ask her next question.

  “Mullah?” she finally said. “Has Cam told you yet? About the storm? About how the timeline has shattered?”

  It was his turn to be silent for a moment.

  “Before the dinner he tried, a little. I confess, there is much confusion for me, as well. The One who sets all things in motion has placed us in a most trying time.”

  “You are a scholar. What does the holy Quran say about such a catastrophe? Is it—I mean, do you think—” She couldn’t say it out loud. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you think it could really be the end of the world?”

  “God forfend! The Fashioner and Former of the world directs all matters toward their proper conclusion, perfectly and righteously, and the holy Quran makes clear the great signs that point to the end, and the Day of Judgment.”

  “What are they?” she asked anxiously.

  “The Holy city of Mecca will be attacked and the Kaaba itself will be destroyed. A huge black cloud of smoke will cover the earth. The sun will rise from the west. The very moon will be split in two, and yet the unbelievers will still deny it.”

  Leila shuddered, vividly picturing it all.

  “The Dajjal—the false messiah—shall appear, but the prophet Isa, peace be upon him, will come down from the fourth heaven to slay Dajjal. There are two vicious tribes, the Gog and Magog, imprisoned by the great Macedonian king al-Iskander behind a great wall in the high mountains of the Far East. They will burst forth and ravage the earth, drink all the water of Lake Tiberias, and kill all believers in their way.”

  Her brow furrowed.

  “Also shall come forth from out of the ground the Dabbat al-ard, the Beast of the Earth,” Ibn Fadlan continued solemnly. “He will have the Seal of Solomon and the Staff of Moses, and shall mark the believers with the staff and the unbelievers with the seal.

  “And at last, God shall send a pleasant breeze to blow from the south, and that shall cause all believers to die peacefully. Then will the trumpet be sounded, and the dead will return to life. God shall resurrect all, even if they have turned to stone or iron.”

  She blinked, opened her mouth, closed it again. Ibn Fadlan was not finished.

  “Then, at the very end, out of Yemen shall come a great fire that gathers all to the Day of Judgment. The time is known only to God. Even Muhammad, blessings be upon him and peace, cannot bring it forward.”

  Leila was very quiet for a moment. “Mullah, about this Earth-Beast,” she said, “with the seal and the staff… and the, what did you call it, the Dajjal?”

  “Yes, the false messiah. He shall appear as a one-eyed man, his right eye blind and deformed like a grape, and he will be followed by seventy thousand Jews of Isfahan, wearing Persian shawls. He shall posse
ss great powers, and shall deceive many unbelievers.”

  “Stop!” she blurted out, closing her eyes. “Please, stop!”

  “Have no fear, child. The faithful ones, the true believers, shall most surely be saved from all those terrors. It is written.”

  “No, that’s not it!” She turned her head and faced him directly, staring into his eyes with a blend of unconcealed anger and need. “I must know, what does it say about this?” She waved a hand. “The Event. Everything that’s happening now—the broken timeline, the shards, the dinosaurs, so many people just vanished. What does it say about all this?”

  Startled by her directness, he remained silent for a moment before answering.

  “The Prophet tells us God, the Most Generous, is plentiful in responding to our supplications and our entreaties,” he said, slowly at first. “But we must be patient. For if he does not answer our questions in this life, we can be sure he will richly provide us the answers we seek in the hereafter.”

  She looked away, considering the night sky and the moon-touched highlights dancing alongside them in the river’s gentle current. She nodded to herself.

  “So, you don’t know.” She didn’t look at him.

  He opened his mouth to answer, thought better of it, and closed his mouth again.

  “Let us you and I pray that the One who has all knowledge of the seen and the unseen will guide us to the straight path.”

  She nodded silently. They stood there together while an awkward pause hung over them. At last the aristocratic Arab spoke gently to her.

  “You have great spirit, and all this surrounding madness has confused and frightened you, disturbed the peace of your heart.” He hesitated before asking his next question. “Why don’t you come back with me to Baghdad? You have no one of the faithful to look after you. It would be wrong of me to leave you here in the hands of the infidels.”

  She remained silent.

  “Have you been to the City of Peace, Child?” he persisted. “It is the largest and greatest city in the world. You would gasp in wonder at its palaces and minarets, its perfumed gardens, its bazaars and markets. All manner of silks and spices and precious things await you there. I would show you the libraries and schools of the House of Wisdom, where scholars, mathematicians, and philosophers from distant Byzantium to furthest China come to gather all the knowledge of the world.”