''As I recall, the Spartans all died.''
''But they saved Greece, and their memory lives on.''
''You're not in this for posthumous fame, though,'' David pointed out.
''No. I'm after the world's freedom, nothing else. Your freedom, mine, everyone's. An end to religious wars. An end to multiple, fractious divine dictatorship. A better future. Getting the human race up off its knees and standing on its own two feet. We may well die achieving it but I'd prefer not to. I'd much rather live to enjoy the benefits of what I've done.''
''But still,'' David said, ''you're feeling that this is the moment you could back out, if you were going to.''
Through the mask Steven scratched one side of his face, the scarred side, pensively.
''I'm feeling like Caesar must have when he was about to invade Rome and spark civil war,'' he said. ''This is my Rubicon. I have to forge ahead, knowing that there's no real alternative. Happy, in a way, that there's no real alternative. Why are you talking like this anyway? You thinking you'd like to back out?''
''Not me.''
''I wouldn't blame you. I wouldn't hold it against you either. If you want to call it a day, Dave, feel free. I mean it. You've done all that I could have expected or asked for. More. You can bow out now with my complete blessing. I'd be disappointed but I'd understand.''
''No,'' David said firmly. ''I'm here to see this through — all the way through.''
''Spoken like a true Westwynter.''
''Spoken like a true brother, I think you'll find.''
The Lightbringer mask creased into a smile. ''If we were the hugging kind we'd hug right now, wouldn't we?''
''But we're not the hugging kind.''
''I know. Born British, boarding school education, emotionally constipated parents — it's a recipe for repression. I think even a manly bonding handshake is beyond us.''
''How about a clap on the shoulder?'' David offered.
''A mutual infliction of slight pain? That'll do.''
David clapped him on the shoulder. Steven clapped back.
''And don't worry about what's coming,'' Steven said. ''It's like a game of senet. Whatever the other fellow does, there's always at least one move you can make to counteract it. And then there's the throw of the sticks, the element of randomness that can bring you a stroke of good fortune when you're least expecting it and most need it, and hang on a tick, what in the name of hell are those?''
Steven leaned forward, peering at the horizon.
Out of the low orange sun seven black dots had appeared. A sound could be heard, all but swallowed by the vast desert stillness, a throbbing bassy pulse that resonated through the bones of the skull. The black dots grew larger, each taking on a recognisable outline.
''Helicopter gunships,'' Steven breathed. ''Shit. The Nephs aren't messing about. They're coming for us already. Right! We need to get those Scarab tanks front and centre, pronto!'' He snatched the shortwave handset from his belt and switched it on.
''Wait.'' David laid a hand on his arm. ''Just hold on.''
''Hold on? The fucking things'll be on us in no time!''
''They're not Nephthysian. Profile's wrong. No Neph choppers have wheel farings like that. Those ones haven't got camouflage paintjobs either. Not khaki desert-pattern. Plain black.''
''Black?''
''Anubian.''
Steven's next question was ''What the fuck are Anubian gunships doing all the way over here, about a million miles from home?''
David was wondering the same thing, and he was minded to think that Steven was right. The tanks with their ba artillery should be brought into play to defend the encampment.
Instinct was telling him something different, however. The choppers were not flying at top speed and they were taking an all too obvious line of approach. If this were a sneak attack, they'd be coming in from two sides at once and would almost certainly have opened fire already. They were well within range. The element of surprise had been theirs. They had chosen not to take advantage of it.
Why?
David had a sneaking suspicion he knew why.
The gunships roared over his and Steven's heads in a chevron formation, then over the camp. Down there, people were milling about in confusion. David could see armaments being broached, men running to the Scarab tanks.
''Order everyone to stand down, Steven,'' he said. ''It isn't what it looks like.''
''You sure?''
''If it were, we wouldn't be alive and having this conversation.''
Steven barked into the shortwave in Arabic. Then, together, the two brothers set off down the hill at a run.
The helicopters landed a mile beyond the camp, their downdraught kicking up a small sandstorm. Steven and David commandeered a jeep and drove out to greet them. By the time they got there the choppers' engines were powering down, their rotors resolving from disc-shaped blurs to sets of whirling vanes and finally coming to a rest. They were C39 Cranes, superb aircraft, Japanese-conceived and Indonesian-built, sizeable yet agile beasts, sporting a full suite of conventional and ba-tech offensive capability. In design they were all smooth planes and sharp angles. Even their undercarriage was cowled for extra sleekness and aerodynamicity. Viewed side on, their shape was reminiscent of a meat cleaver. Their function was much the same.
David's guess was that they had flown up from the Indian Ocean. Anubian aircraft carriers prowled the international waters there, keeping an eye on things across the way from the Malay Archipelago. Refuelling stops could have been made in Ethiopia and Arabia, at commercial airports and most likely at gunpoint.
This was a rogue unit. The helicopters would not, could not, be here under official sanction. The men in them were deserters.
A door opened outward from one of the choppers and a black-clad soldier emerged. He jogged through the thinning dust clouds holding his hands high to show he was unarmed.
Reaching the jeep, he saluted the Lightbringer.
''Squadron Leader Hideo Nonomura,'' he said, his black leather flight gear creaking as he gave a tiny, tight bow. ''Former subject of the Demigod Emperor of the Anubian States. Former member of the Imperial Navy 'Sea Dragon' Special Airborne Regiment. Now wishing to be a loyal disciple of the Lightbringer of Freegypt. My men and aircraft are at your disposal, sir. We wish nothing except to meet death in your name.''
Steven turned to David. ''What was I saying?'' he said in tones of barely restrained delight. ''The sticks in senet. We've only just gone and thrown a bloody six!''
22. Godsend
The arrival of the renegade Anubians and their gunships buoyed up the Freegyptians' morale, for a time. All at once, the Lightbringer's army had some airpower, an edge that the Nephthysians were unaware of. The convoy of vehicles travelled onward, up through the Negev Desert, up through the Wilderness of Judaea, along the shores of the Dead Sea, and beyond, feeling a little less vulnerable than before. The Anubians kept pace, hopping ahead in their C39s to meet up again at prearranged rendezvous points. If air support were called for, the helicopters could be summoned back at a moment's notice. After all, a Nephthysian attack of some kind was surely in the offing.
But it didn't come. No airstrike on the convoy, no ground assault, no ambush, nothing. The Lightbringer and his band of followers drove unmolested through the western fringes of Arabia, and with every mile their mood began to darken, turning warier and more apprehensive. After the mummies at Suez, why were the Nephs now ignoring them? Were they trying to lull them into a false sense of security? Was a trap waiting for them further up the line?
If the news broadcasts on local radio stations were to be believed, the Nephthysians weren't being anywhere near so canny. Their inactivity stemmed from indecision. The Afro-Arabian Synodical Council was itching to make a move against the Lightbringer, who had had the temerity to march across the border onto Nephthysian turf. The Kommissariat Svyatoy Dyela, however, had begun urging the Nephthysians to bide their time and hold their fire. The auguries received by
the Setic high priests were, it seemed, sending a mixed message. There was confusion in the bowels of the animals they cut open, a vatic vagueness. Some of the innards were in good condition, suggesting Set regarded the KSD's original, censorious policy towards the Lightbringer with favour. Others contained horrendous abnormalities, suggesting the opposite. The priests' dream-visions were inconsistent as well, sometimes undeniably in favour of attacking the infidels, sometimes not. For every hierophant who was visited in his trance by the image of, say, a hawk swooping on a rabbit and tearing it to bits, there was another who came round remembering nothing but a flock of doves gliding in the sky.
In other words, the Setics, having at first offered unstinting support for whatever the Nephthysians wished to do with regard to the Lightbringer, had subtly shifted their stance. Publicly, High Commissar Chang was no longer using the kind of inflammatory language he had before, with his talk of vipers and poison. Now, in more measured tones, he was comparing the Lightbringer and his Freegyptian army to cockroaches, rats, and the like — pests rather than dangerous beasts. He was also suggesting that an all-out blitz on these vermin, of the kind the Synodical Council was desperate to launch, would be overkill and would make the Nephthysians look intemperate and vindictive. Best to wait, for now. Wait and see what the Lightbringer was up to in Arabia. Where he was headed. How far he would go.
The Synodical Council complained to the KSD during a long and tetchy teleconference. Chang and colleagues listened over the occasionally crackly dedicated-landline connection as the Synodical Council members begged to be allowed to attack the Lightbringer and rebuked the Setics for telling them to hold back. Then, after they had aired their grievances, Chang proceeded, with great patience and restraint, to remind them that this was not the Osirisiac Hegemony, which was so equal a merging of blocs that they were to all intents and purposes a single entity. Who could tell where Northern Europe ended and Southern Europe began? Whereas the balance of power between Setics and Nephthysians was of a wholly different order. Economically speaking, they were well matched, with the Nephthysian states' mineral mines and oil reserves more than making up for their lack of industrial base and scarcity of other resources. However, it was doubtful whether they would ever have been able to exploit this natural wealth without Setic business leadership and technological know-how, and it was even more doubtful they would be able to survive in the modern world without the manufactured goods, including arms, which the Setics sold to them at special, subsidised rates. Put simply, were it not for the Bi-Continental Pact, the Nephthysian bloc would be stuck in a dark age, eking a meagre livelihood from agriculture and safari tours. Was that not, Chang concluded, a fair assessment of the situation? And furthermore, would the Synodical Council be keen to see a — for want of a better word — change in that situation?
Having thus firmly put the Nephthysians in their place, the High Commissar enquired if there were any further objections. The Synodical Council members grumbled but could come up with none. All they could do was acquiesce, reluctantly, to the Setics' wishes. The Lightbringer would be left alone. For now.
Hearing the news reports, nobody in the Lightbringer's army was convinced they were being told the whole and unvarnished truth. Someone was playing a game here. Someone was bluffing. The Freegyptians had ventured a couple of hundred miles into Arabia, and the Nephs were just letting them get away with it? All on the Setics' say-so? No, there was something going on behind the scenes. Had to be.
The Lightbringer himself agreed. ''Don't be fooled,'' he told his men. ''This grace period isn't going to last. Sooner or later the Nephs are going to come down on us. Hard. The Setics can't keep them on the leash forever. They'll act independently if they have to. In the meantime, all this dithering is to our advantage. It's, if you will, a godsend. It's giving us the opportunity to get to exactly where we want to be. The Nephs don't realise it but the longer they leave us alone, the more difficult they're making it for themselves in the long run.''
On the third day, the convoy was passing through farmland. Metalled highways rumbled beneath their tyres and caterpillar tracks. Locals watched them go by, and some just stared in a kind of indignant astonishment, while others hurled abuse and occasionally stones. All around was ordered greenness, irrigated fields of safflower, groundnut, and chickpea sheathing the slopes of gentle hills. The sun beat down just as fiercely here as in the desert but its force was mitigated by the man-made verdancy of the landscape.
They came, eventually, to a broad plain overlooked by low mountains. The Anubian helicopters were already there, waiting. The convoy trundled to a halt. The bedraggled, road-weary army stepped out of their vehicles. This was where the Lightbringer wanted them to be. This was it. They had arrived.
''Perfect spot for a battle,'' David opined, surveying the terrain. ''Flat. Open. Good lines of sight. Plenty of high, defensible positions.''
''I know,'' said his brother, looking around too. ''I'm not the first to realise that either. There've been battles here, way back in the past. Ancient Egyptians fought the Canaanites over three thousand years ago on this spot, and then a few centuries later they had a bash at the armies of the Kingdom of Judah. The earth beneath our feet is soaked with their blood. The place has history. It has precedent. Form.''
''So now we dig in, set up our lines, and brace ourselves. Is that the plan?''
''That is the plan.'' The Lightbringer drew in a breath and exhaled. ''The moment's coming,'' he said. ''There's going to be one hell of a clash, right here. I can feel it. I know it. It's almost as if it's been preordained.''
They had halted at a point roughly equidistant between the River Jordan and the Mediterranean. They were twenty-five miles south-west of the Sea of Galilee and sixty north of Jerusalem.
They were standing on the Plain of Megiddo.
23. Nephthys
Ra is drawn to a corner of his Solar Barque by the sound of weeping. Nephthys is crouched on deck, her face in her hands. Each sob that passes through her is like a small death. Her body jerks as though stabbed.
''Come, come,'' says Ra gently, kneeling beside his great-great-niece. ''What's this? I won't have people crying on my boat. It's not allowed.''
Nephthys looks up, pink-eyed. As the tears spill down her face, Ra thinks of a flash flood, a river bursting its banks in rainy season, arid land inundated. With his thumbs he wipes her cheeks dry. The sobs subside. Nephthys regains her composure.
''Forgive me, O Ra,'' she says, sniffing. ''You weren't supposed to see me like this. I came to talk to you, to ask your advice, but then… it all got too much… overwhelming…''
She seems on the verge of crumpling, but manages to maintain control of her emotions.
''Hush,'' soothes Ra. ''It's all right. Don't be upset. What's the matter?''
''Can we go somewhere private?''
Ra looks round. Maat and Thoth are within earshot, but both of them are discreetly minding their own business. Maat keeps a steady hand on the tiller, guiding the Boat of a Million Years along the river of day, with faithful Ammut as ever at her feet. Thoth is studying the ripples on the water's surface, seemingly absorbed in contemplation. Amidships, Bast lies curled on her divan, asleep. In the bows, Set is likewise asleep, exhausted after his latest bout with the serpent Apophis.
''You can rest assured, nothing you say to me here will go any further.''
''Even so,'' says Nephthys, with a glance towards her brother-husband.
Ra nods, and he leans back and opens his heart to her, and all is light and heat. They are surrounded by perfect white fire. They are standing at the centre of the sun. It's a place to which none may go unless invited by Ra, and into which none may pry. Here, atoms crackle and bubble like eggs on a skillet, and everything is a swirl of blazing creation. This is the crucible of life, the furnace that forges existence.
''Tell me then,'' says Ra. ''Why the tears?''
Nephthys is not a relative Ra has any strong feelings for, or against. She is, he has a
lways felt, a little too in thrall to others to be truly interesting, and there is an air of duplicity about her, a kind of meek maliciousness which her sweet, heart-shaped face only just disguises. Nonetheless he regards her with fondness, as he does almost everyone, and he hates to see her upset.
''You're aware,'' she begins, ''of the infidel attacks on my domain.''
''I am.''
''And of how Wepwawet has suffered the indignity of seeing one of his few shrines despoiled by these unbelievers.''
''Sobek was a victim too, I understand. And there were others.''
''Wepwawet is unwell as a result.''
''I'm sorry to hear that.''
''My grandson has always been sickly,'' says Nephthys. ''His worshippers are few and far between, and he is overshadowed by his father. His dearest wish is to follow in Anubis's footsteps and rule over legions of death-lovers, but I'm afraid he lacks the drive and the influence. He will never be anything but a pale imitation. And now, poor creature, he is ailing, so thin you can almost see through him. It's heartbreaking. How I would love to see these wicked, faithless humans destroyed. I would gladly have them erased from the earth.''
She is close to crying once more. Only with great effort does she steel herself and stem the flow of tears.
Why do women cry when they are angry? It is a mystery even to great Ra. The fact that they do, however, makes their anger all the more devastating. They appear vulnerable just when they are at their most dangerous.
''O Nephthys,'' he says, ''your desire for vengeance is well warranted, and if it is your intention to visit retribution upon this Lightbringer and his cohorts, far be it from me to stand in your way. The blow that they have struck against you and your near kin is an offence of great magnitude. Although it is my belief that there is altogether too much strife and suffering among the mortals at present, in this instance I feel I can make an exception. The Lightbringer is not fighting at the behest of any god, he is fighting against us, all of us, and that must not be permitted. So if you and your husband wish to set about eliminating him-''
The Age of Ra aog-1 Page 19
