The Lost Army of Cambyses (41 page)

the shaft. The man in front of Daniel raised his

gun.

'No!' screamed Tara, thinking he was going to

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shoot. Instead he swung the weapon so the butt

was towards Daniel, and smashed it into the side

of his head. Daniel crumpled to the ground,

unconscious, a trickle of blood running down his

neck. Tara went down on her knees beside him,

touching his face. She heard movement behind her,

something coming down through the air, and then,

suddenly, she was falling very fast towards what

seemed like an immense ocean of still black water.

NORTHERN SUDAN

The boy sprinted through the camp with the radio

message in his hand. A herd of goats, startled by

his approach, sprang to their feet and scattered

before him, but he ignored them and continued

running until he reached his master's tent. He

threw back the flap, panting with exertion, and

stepped inside.

The interior was dimly lit by a single kerosene

lamp. Sayf al-Tha'r was sitting cross-legged on the

carpeted floor, a book held up close to his face, so

still he might have been a statue. The boy came

towards him.

'They've found it!' he cried, unable to contain

his excitement. 'The piece. Doktora Dravic has

found it!'

The man rested the book on his lap and looked

up at the boy, face expressionless.

'It is written that we should be moderate in all

things, Mehmet,' he said quietly, 'both in our joy

and in our despair. There is no need to shout.'

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'Yes, Sayf al-Tha'r.' The boy lowered his head,

crestfallen.

'It is also written, however, that we should

rejoice mightily in the goodness of Allah. So do

not be ashamed of your joy. But control it,

Mehmet. Always control it. That is the way to

God. By becoming master of yourself.'

He held out his hand, and the boy passed him

the message. He inclined his head and read. When

he had finished he folded the message carefully

and slipped it into a pocket of his robe.

'Did I not tell you we were God's chosen?' he

said. 'So long as we stay true and trust in his

greatness, all things will come to us. And now they

have. This is a great day, Mehmet.'

A huge smile suddenly broke across his face,

like water over parched land. The boy had never

seen him smile like that, and his heart leaped at the

sight. He wanted to fall to his knees and kiss his

master's feet, tell him how much he loved him,

how grateful he was for all he had done for him.

He fought the urge, however. The way to Allah

is by becoming master of yourself. His master's

words still rang in his ears. The lesson had been

learnt. He allowed himself a smile, but no more,

even though his chest was bursting with joy.

The man seemed to understand what was going

on in his head, for he came to his feet and laid his

hand on the boy's shoulder.

'Well done, Mehmet,' he said. 'Allah will always

reward the good pupil. Just as he will always

punish the bad one. Now go and tell our people to

make ready. As soon as we know the place we

begin flying in the equipment.'

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The boy nodded and stepped back towards the

entrance.

'Master,' he said, turning, 'will all bad things

stop now? Will the
Kufr
be destroyed?'

The man's smile grew even broader. 'Of course

they will be, Mehmet. How could they not when

we have an entire army to help us?'

'Allah u akbar.'
The boy laughed. 'God is great.'

'He is. Greater than any of us could ever understand.'

When the boy had gone Sayf al-Tha'r returned

to his place beside the kerosene lamp and retrieved

his book. Its leather binding was worn and

tattered, and he cradled it gently in both hands.

The text inside was in neither Arabic nor English,

but Greek, as was the title on the cover:

HPOΔOTOY IΣTOPIAI –
The Histories of

Herodotus.

He turned up the kerosene lamp slightly, and

lifted the book to within a few inches of his face,

sighing with pleasure as he lost himself within it.

347

30

LUXOR

Khalifa's train pulled into Luxor just before eight

a.m. After his nightmare he hadn't slept again and

he now felt tired and heavy-eyed. He decided to go

home and freshen up before going into the office.

The town was already busy. The Feast of Abu

el-Haggag was due to start that afternoon and

even at that hour crowds were gathering in antici-

pation, jostling around the brightly coloured

roadside stalls piled with sweets and cakes and

party hats. Normally Khalifa would have been

looking forward to the festivities. Today, however,

he had other things on his mind and, lighting a

cigarette, he set off down al-Mahatta Street,

oblivious to the bustle around him.

His flat was fifteen minutes' walk from the

centre of town, in a drab concrete block wedged

like a domino in the midst of a row of other drab

concrete blocks. Batah and Ali had already left for

school when he got in and baby Yusuf was fast

asleep in his cot. He took a shower and Zenab sat

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him down and brought him coffee and bread and

cheese. He watched her appreciatively as she

moved to and from the kitchen, her hair falling in

a black cascade almost to her waist, her hips slim

and provocative. Sometimes he forgot how lucky

he was to have her as his wife. Her family hadn't

wanted her to marry him, a penniless student from

a poor family. Zenab, however, was a wilful

woman. He smiled at the memory.

'What's funny?' she asked, carrying through a

plate of sliced tomatoes.

'I was thinking of when we first got married.

How your parents were dead against it and you

told them it was me or nothing.'

She handed him the tomatoes and sat down at

his feet.

'I should have listened to them. If I hadn't been

so stubborn, I could have had my very own Hosni

by now.'

Khalifa laughed and, leaning forward, kissed

her on the head. Her hair was warm and scented

and, despite his tiredness, he found it distinctly

arousing. He laid aside the plate of tomatoes and

wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

'How was Cairo?' she asked, kissing his arm.

'So-so. I saw the professor.'

'Is he well?'

'Seems so, yes. He sends his love.'

She shifted slightly and hooked her arm over his

knee. Her dress had slipped down slightly, reveal-

ing her shoulder, and the top of her chest, just

where her breasts started to swell. Khalifa lowered

his elbow and nudged the plate of tomatoes

further away.

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'What's this case you're working on, Yusuf?' she

asked gently, drawing patterns on his thigh. 'It's

important, isn't it?'

'Yes,' he replied. 'I suppose it is.'

'Can you tell me?'

'It's complicated,' he said, stroking her hair.

She knew this was his way of saying he didn't

want to talk about it and she didn't push him.

Instead, she moved round some more and, lifting

her face, kissed him softly on the lips.

'The baby's asleep,' she whispered.

Khalifa caressed her neck, breathing in the

perfume of her hair.

'I should be getting down to the office,' he said.

She kissed him again and, coming to her feet,

allowed her dress to slip off her. She was naked

underneath.

'Should you?'

He gazed at her body – slim and dark, with

high, firm breasts and a soft mound of coal-black

hair between her legs. God, she was beautiful. He

stood up and took her in his arms.

'I guess it won't matter if I'm a bit late.'

They kissed and, taking his hand, she led him

into the bedroom. She sat on the bed and un-

buttoned his shirt and trousers, pulling them

down and clasping him around the waist. He

pushed her back and lay down beside her, stroking

her breasts and belly and thighs, kissing her

shoulders, feeling her against him, breathing

her . . .

The telephone rang.

'Leave it,' said Zenab, rolling on top of him and

kneading his chest, draping her hair across his face.

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They continued for a moment longer, but then

the baby, disturbed by the ringing, started to cry

and with a groan of frustration she got up and

went over to the cot. Khalifa swung himself onto

the side of the bed and picked up the phone. It was

Professor al-Habibi.

'I hope I'm not disturbing you,' he said.

'Not at all. I was just . . . helping Zenab with

something.'

She shot him an amused look and, pulling the

screaming baby from his cot, went through into

the other room, stooping to kiss his head as she

passed. He kicked the door shut.

'Listen, Yusuf,' said the professor, 'there's some-

thing I thought you ought to know. About those

objects you brought me yesterday.'

Khalifa bent and pulled his cigarettes from the

pocket of his trousers. 'Go on.'

'I was looking at them last night, after you'd

gone, and I found an inscription on the handle of

the dagger, underneath the leather grip. Not a

proper inscription. Just words scratched into the

metal, very crude. The letters were Greek.'

'Greek?'

'That's right. And they spelled out a name.

Presumably the dagger's owner.'

'Go on.'

'The name was Dymmachus, son of Menendes.'

'Dymmachus?' Khalifa turned the name over in

his head. 'Does that mean anything to you?'

'That's the funny thing,' said Habibi, 'I was sure

I'd seen it before. It took me a while to remember

where, but then it came to me.' He paused for

dramatic effect.

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'Yes?'

'In the Valley of the Kings. The tomb of

Ramesses VI. The walls are covered in ancient

graffiti, Greek and Coptic, and one of them was

left by a certain Dymmachus, son of Menendes of

Naxos. I looked it up in my Baillet.'

'The same man?'

'Well, I can't be a hundred per cent certain, but

I'd be surprised if there were two people in Thebes

named Dymmachus with a father called

Menendes. They're hardly common names.'

Khalifa let out a low whistle. 'Incredible,' he

said.

'Indeed so. But not as incredible as what comes

next.'

Again he paused for effect, and again Khalifa

had to urge him on.

'This Dymmachus didn't just leave his name in

the tomb. He left a short inscription as well.'

'Saying what?'

'Well, it seems to be incomplete. Either it's been

written over or else he broke off in the middle of

inscribing it . . .'

There was a sound of rustling paper at the other

end of the line.

'It says: "I, Dymmachus, son of Menendes of

Naxos, saw these wonders. Tomorrow I march

against the Ammonians. May . . ." And then it

stops.'

Khalifa still hadn't lit his cigarette. 'The

Ammonians,' he said, thinking aloud. 'Wasn't that

the name the Greeks gave to the people of Siwa?'

'Exactly. From the name of the god Amun, who

had his oracle at the oasis. And so far as we are

352

aware there was only one military expedition sent

against the Ammonians during this period.'

'Which was?'

Again the dramatic pause.

'The army of Cambyses.'

Khalifa's cigarette snapped in his hand. 'The

army of Cambyses! The one that was lost in

the desert?'

'So the story goes.'

'But no-one survived that. How can we have a

dagger belonging to one of its soldiers?'

'Well, that's the question, isn't it?'

Khalifa could hear the professor puffing his pipe

into life. He pulled another cigarette from his pack

and lit it. There was a long pause.

'The dagger definitely came from a Theban

tomb?' asked Habibi eventually.

'I think so,' said Khalifa. 'Yes.'

'Then there would seem to be several possible