by Jodi Taylor
‘Good afternoon,’ called Ronan, looking up at me from ground level.
I spun around. Where the hell had he come from?
He stood, unmoving, as if we were both waiting for my heartbeat to return to normal. He wore the same black T-shirt and jeans but with a bandana tied around his head against the sun. I noticed that this time, however, there were no reassurances about not being armed.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘isn’t this nice? A little hot, of course. Would you like to climb down so we can sit in the shade?’
I slid down and we squatted in the deep shade at the foot of the rock. He politely offered me some water. Equally politely, I declined. Drug me once – shame on you. Drug me twice – not bloody likely.
‘I don’t want to keep you hanging around in this heat,’ he said, a sentiment I would have found so much more sincere if he hadn’t spent the last twenty minutes keeping me hanging around in this heat until he could confirm I was alone.
We looked at each other. Dr Bairstow had given me his decision and a message for Ronan, but I had discretion to act on my own initiative should the situation require it.
‘Well?’ he said, casually, although his voice was not quite steady. ‘Is there a response?’
‘Yes, there is. I’ve spoken to Dr Bairstow. In fact, we discussed it all afternoon.’
I stopped, remembering pacing the carpet in front of his desk, waving my arms, arguing … Because what we were proposing was not without risk. Strictly speaking, we should report immediately to the Time Police and await instructions. Let them handle it. Yeah, like that was ever going to happen. The Time Police are not noted for their lightness of touch. We had a chance here – a real chance – to end this now. Once and for all.
‘Yes,’ he said, impatiently. ‘And?’
‘Dr Bairstow completely…’
And that was as far as I got.
I stood up, staring over his shoulder. Over on the horizon, far over to my right, a tiny flash of light. And then another one.
I spun around to face him.
Whatever it was, it was too far away to be an immediate threat. A caravan, maybe, on its way to … I racked my brains. I’d studied maps of the area before setting out. The oasis at Siwa was too far north, and anyway, the traditional route was off to the east via the Dakhla and Farafra oases. I turned to Ronan in sudden suspicion. ‘These were your coordinates. Is this a trap? What’s over there?’
He was staring too. ‘How should I know? It could be anyone.’
‘Out here? In the middle of nowhere? Caravans travel to the east.’ I gestured vaguely in what I hoped was an eastwards direction. ‘There’s nothing here except us.’
Except me.
Dr Bairstow and I had discussed the possibility of an ambush. Or kidnapping. Or even murder. I was armed and equipped for anything. I was certain he would be as well. So much for detente.
I opened my com and he pushed me back against the rock, a gun appearing from nowhere. ‘Who are you talking to?’
I pushed his hand away. ‘My computer, of course. Computer.’
It gave that irritating little trill.
‘Computer, using current coordinates, speculate on approaching traffic.’
There was a slight pause as, presumably, it gave the matter some thought.
‘There is no evidence of any major trade routes in this area. Subjects may be lost. Or…’ It does this. I think it likes to build up the suspense. One of these days, I’m going to rip it out by its peripherals and show it who’s the boss around here.
‘Excavations in this area have revealed a considerable number of human bones and some artefacts, which date back to approximately two and a half thousand years ago. Some theorise they are the remains of an Egyptian army, believed to have been lost in a possible sandstorm, as it made its way to the Oracle of Amun at Siwa, resulting in the deaths of fifty thousand men.’
It stopped, presumably to give me some time to digest this.
‘Oh my God,’ I said, feeling the slow burn of excitement. ‘The lost army of Cambyses.’ I stood on tip-toe – as if that would make any difference – and squinted. Ronan, his gun, his offer of peace, the current location of his pod – everything was completely forgotten, because I’m an historian and my priorities may sometimes be a little different from everyone else’s. Not my fault.
He turned to me, bristling with a suspicion equal to my own. ‘Who are they? Did you alert someone?’
I squinted into the harsh sunlight. ‘Yes, of course I did. Knowing how you can be, I alerted the Pharaoh himself and he’s sent his entire army just to take you down. Impressive levels of paranoia, Ronan. Well done.’
He looked down at me. ‘Surely I can’t be the only person in the world who wants to murder you.’
‘God, no. Sorry to puncture your massive ego, but you’re only one of many. Half the human race is ahead of you.’
As I spoke, I tried to push my way past him and he pushed me back again, demanding to know where the hell I thought I was going.
I regarded him with exasperation. ‘Back to my pod for recorders, cameras, and the solution to a two and a half thousand-year-old mystery.’
‘Are you insane?’
‘Is that a serious question?’
He still had hold of my arm. ‘And while you’re gallivanting around wasting time, do you expect me to just wait?’
I took an enormous chance. ‘No, Mr Ronan, I expect you to assist.’
He dropped my arm and we stared at each other. I became conscious that the wind was getting up. I could feel loose hair whipping around my face.
He shook his head. ‘I think you’re forgetting the key word here.’
‘What key word?’
‘Sandstorm?’
‘Possible sandstorm.’
‘If it can bury fifty thousand elite Egyptian troops, what the hell is it going to do to us?’
‘We’ll be fine,’ I said, with massively misplaced confidence.
‘Fine?’
‘Oh come on, Clive. When did you last do anything just for fun?’
He seemed a little surprised by my use of the f word and while he was still gathering his wits, I set off across the sand.
He caught up. ‘Just a minute…’
‘Look, this might be just an ordinary caravan. In which case, we wait for them to pass and continue our discussion. Or it might – it just might – be Cambyses’s boys, and I can’t let this opportunity go. And don’t worry about the sandstorm. It might come today, but it might equally be tomorrow or next week.’ I patted his arm reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, Clive. I’ll look after you.’
He stood thoughtfully. ‘It does occur to me to murder you now, bury your body, return to St Mary’s and collect a small reward from your no doubt grateful colleagues.’
I looked at him. ‘You were an historian once. Be one again. Just for one day.’
Ronan waited outside my pod, squatting in the shade. He wouldn’t come in and I didn’t want to push things at this stage. Once inside, I brought up everything I could find on the Pharaoh Cambyses and his army. It’s actually quite a famous story.
In 525BC, Egypt was part of the Persian Empire, after being conquered by Cyrus the Great. On his death, his son, Cambyses, having failed to persuade the powerful priests of Amun to acknowledge his right to the throne of Egypt, assembled a massive army, some fifty thousand strong, and sent them off to the Oracle at Siwa to show them the error of their ways.
None of those fifty thousand men would ever be seen again.
There had been a theory that instead of following the traditional eastern route, they’d travelled west, before striking out for Siwa, and the entire army had been enveloped in a massive sandstorm and completely buried. Recent archaeological discoveries had given some credence to that theory, although they remain controversial and nothing has been proved.
‘According to Herodotus,’ I said – and don’t get me started on that two-faced, conniving little git – ‘the sandstorm
comes from the south.’ I stood in the doorway, gazing around. ‘Which way is south?’
‘How do you ever survive?’ Ronan pointed in the direction of the approaching whatever it was.
‘Right, so they’re overwhelmed from behind which means…’
‘Which means they’ll be running like mad in this direction. Towards us.’
‘Not necessarily. I mean – there’s nothing to say the sandstorm will occur today. We can hide on top of that rock over there and get some fantastic footage as they go past. Marching to their date with destiny.’
‘Their what with what?’
I stared again. Another flash. And another. And a blurring of the horizon which would be the dust kicked up by men, horses, chariots, all on their way to sort out the Oracle of Amun and its obstinate occupants.
‘What about this pod?’ he demanded. ‘Are you just going to leave it here?’
‘Well, it’s a tiny pod in the middle of a vast desert. And they can’t get in and it’s too heavy to be towed, so apart from chucking a few spears at it, there’s not a lot they can do. What about yours?’ I said cunningly, hoping he would give me the location.
‘It’s fine. They’ll never find it.’
Aha! Camouflage device. I knew it. Bugger. That could cause me some problems.
‘Then let’s go.’
The rock was mostly one giant, solid piece, but towards the southern end, it had fragmented into five or six smaller pieces. One leaned slightly, making a shallow cave, some twenty feet up, which gave us some welcome shade and a small degree of cover. We scrambled up, checked carefully for scorpions and snakes, and made ourselves comfortable. Ronan picked up a recorder and examined it.
‘Point and press,’ I said. ‘It’s quite simple.’
He looked at me. ‘It would have to be.’
‘You’re very grumpy.’
‘It’s the company I’m keeping.’
Careful to remain in the shelter of the rock and not expose himself – because armies can sometimes be quite unkind to anyone they think might be spying on them – he stood up and stared thoughtfully. ‘Please remind me never to listen to any future predictions you might make concerning armies, sandstorms, or indeed, anything at all.’
I stood beside him. ‘What?’
He pointed at the horizon. Or rather, where the horizon had been. A dark yellow murky cloud obscured everything and was growing larger. Desert dust. I crossed my fingers that it was being kicked up by a marching army rather than the beginnings of a sandstorm.
‘Oh.’
‘Oh? Is that all you can say?’
‘What else did you want?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. How about “I’m so sorry, Clive. I’m a complete idiot who shouldn’t be allowed out on her own and, worse than that, I’ve risked your life for a few snapshots of a bunch of people who died two and a half thousand years ago when I could have been doing something much more important regarding world peace.’
‘Hey, grumpy, they weren’t my coordinates. Didn’t you check them at all?’
Silence. Well, that answered that question.
At this point, he could have gone back to his pod and left me to it. I wouldn’t have been the slightest bit surprised if he’d said, ‘You’re on your own with this one, Maxwell. See you around,’ and pushed off. Possibly pausing to shoot me on the way out if he was feeling really miffed. But he didn’t. He fiddled with his recorder, panned around for practice, and then settled himself down.
I was aware that I was pushing my luck. On the one hand, I couldn’t afford to let Ronan disappear with the situation he’d created still unresolved, but obviously, I wanted to see what might be the lost army of Cambyses as well. When I’d suggested Ronan remember his historian roots and assist, I’d never for one moment actually thought he would. But he was right – an approaching army was not a good thing. And an approaching army being pursued by a sandstorm was even worse. And a sandstorm that could bury said desert-hardened army was worst of all. If it all came our way, I would be trapped with a psychotic killer who had done me nothing but harm in the past. A sensible and prudent historian would pull out now.
Ah well…
‘Heads up,’ said Ronan softly.
Two chariots were heading our way.
Well, that settled one thing. Whatever was coming our way, it wasn’t a harmless caravan. I don’t know why I ever thought it would be.
‘Scouts,’ I said, drawing back into the cover of the rock and activating my recorder
A heavy sigh on my left indicated that Ronan was, at least for the moment, resigned to the situation.
We crouched and watched.
They approached at some speed. Each chariot contained two men, both balancing easily as the light vehicles bounced over the rough ground. The drivers concentrated on their horses, but the soldiers called to each other and gestured. They were checking out our rock.
‘I have plans for the rest of my life,’ said Ronan quietly. ‘I would be greatly obliged if you could refrain from doing anything stupid. Although I’m not tremendously optimistic.’
We cowered back in our little patch of shade and watched them circle the rock. I was confident my desert camouflage would merge with the surrounding rock, and Ronan’s dark clothing was almost invisible in the deep shadow.
Each chariot was pulled by two horses. I was surprised by the plainness of the harness. Contemporary pictures always show ornately dressed soldiers and drivers, in highly decorated chariots. Sometimes, even the horses wore headdresses. Not on a march through the desert, however. Perhaps they kept the good stuff for the victory parade. Or even for the battle itself. To dazzle the opposition with the wealth and power of the Egyptian empire. On this occasion, horses, men and chariots were smothered in desert dust and everything was a dirty brown.
Both soldiers had bows at the ready, arrows nocked, covering every inch of the terrain. They circled our rock several times, shouting to each other as they went.
‘They’re very thorough,’ I whispered.
‘So would I be,’ said Ronan.
‘Not thorough enough to ensure no passing army would casually wander past when choosing your coordinates.’
‘A moment ago you were full of girlish glee at this opportunity. Make up your mind.’
Apparently satisfied, the two chariots broke away and returned back the way they’d come, soon to be lost in the dust again.
‘Happy now?’ he said. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Go? Why would we go?’
‘Temperature over a hundred degrees? Fifty thousand approaching Egyptians. Sandstorm?’
I did hesitate. This was not why I was here. I was here to deal with Ronan. And when I’d done that, I could easily pass the coordinates to the History Department and we could mount a proper expedition and do the job properly.
‘OK,’ I said, reluctantly. ‘Your pod or mine?’
‘Neither,’ he said, staring at the horizon. ‘It’s too late.’
It was too.
Over to our right, a cloud of sand was approaching and even as I stared, tiny figures began to emerge. More chariots burst out of the dust. They were clearing the way for the oncoming army. Which would pass only a quarter of a mile away.
I said to Ronan, ‘Any chance of getting back to your pod?’
‘No,’ he said curtly.
And my pod, although not in the army’s path, was squatting several hundred yards away on the other side of the rock. No chance then. We’d have to wait it out here. I drew back into the shelter of the rock and waited.
Actually, if this was the legendary sandstorm then it wasn’t too bad.
Yes, dust swirled madly, first kicked up by hooves, wheels and marching feet and then being blown around by the wind. I could feel it everywhere, getting down inside my clothes, in my hair, despite my hat, in my mouth, everywhere, but I could still see. They were about a quarter of a mile away. I set for extreme close-up and began to record.
First came what I assumed
to be the Pharaoh’s crack troops, all on foot, tramping solidly through the sand. Being at the front, they were more visible than the poor sods coughing their way along at the back.
They wore tunics, helmets and sandals. No one wore armour in this heat. Their helmets dangled from their belts. In their right hands, they carried the sickle-shaped khopesh, and in their left, a wood and leather shield with a short spear secured to its back. Quick, neat and easily accessible. They marched fast – almost at a trot. Every now and then, one of them would look back over his shoulder. They knew what was coming. What was behind them.
Following them was a single chariot, drawn by two horses. This would be the commander. The general. I had no idea of his name. I wished I was better prepped for this, but I could always check it out on my return. I tried to wriggle forwards for a better view and Clive Ronan pulled me back by my T-shirt.
‘I really don’t care about you, and if Cambyses’s crew want to break you on a chariot wheel then trust me, I’ll be cheering them on, but I do care about me, so stay quiet or I’ll thump you with a rock and leave you to the vultures.’
The general’s chariot was a good way back from his advance guard, so he wasn’t choking in the dust like them. I could make out his leather and bronze tunic, but he also was looking back over his shoulder, possibly checking out the oncoming storm, and not looking our way at all. Sometimes, my job is so frustrating. His driver said something and he turned to look ahead. In my viewfinder, I caught a quick glimpse of a prominent nose and thickly kohled eyes and then he resumed his scan of the horizon. Our rock didn’t even merit a glance.
He was followed by the archers, again wearing linen kilts and with the padded sporrans to protect their vital bits. I made a verbal note to check whether the Egyptians were familiar with linothorax, and whether it could turn back an arrow or spear thrust. Ronan rolled his eyes.
There were three companies of archers, and these were followed by the infantry. Row upon row of them, almost completely enveloped in dust and sand. They weren’t quite running – not in this heat – but they weren’t hanging around either. They knew something was behind them and they were pushing along at a brisk trot. Were they hoping to outrun it? There were no signs of panic or of physical distress. These were desert troops and accustomed to desert conditions, but imagine the size of a sandstorm that could bury an army so completely that no trace of it has ever been found.
