The Lost Army of Cambyses (2 page)

PROLOGUE

T H E WESTERN DESERT, 523 BC

The fly had been pestering the Greek all morning.

As if the furnace-like heat of the desert wasn't

enough, and the forced marches, and the stale

rations, now he had this added torment. He cursed

the gods and landed a heavy blow on his cheek,

dislodging a shower of sweat droplets, but missing

the insect by some way.

'Damned flies!' he spat.

'Ignore them,' said his companion.

'I can't ignore them. They're driving me mad! If

I didn't know better I'd think our enemies had sent

them.'

His companion shrugged. 'Maybe they have.

They say the Ammonians have strange powers. I

heard they can turn themselves into wild beasts.

Jackals and lions and suchlike.'

'They can turn themselves into anything they

want,' growled the Greek. 'When I get my hands on

them I'll make them pay for this damned march.

Four weeks we've been out here! Four weeks!'

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He swung his water-skin from his shoulder and

drank from it, grimacing at its hot, oily contents.

What he'd give for a cup of cool, fresh water from

the hill springs of Naxos; water that didn't taste as

if fifty pox-ridden whores had just bathed in it!

'I'm giving up this mercenary business,' he

grunted. 'This campaign's the last.'

'You say that every time.'

'This time I mean it. I'm going back to Naxos to

find a wife and a nice bit of land. Olive trees –

there's money in that, you know.'

'You'd never stick it.'

'I will,' said the Greek, taking another vain swat

at the fly. 'I will, you know. This time it's

different.'

And this time it was different. For twenty years

he'd been fighting other people's wars. It was too

long, and he knew it. He couldn't stand these

marches any more. And the pain from the old

arrow wound had been getting worse this year.

Now he could barely lift his shield arm up above

the level of his chest. One more expedition and

that was the end of it. He was going back to grow

olive trees on the island of his birth.

'So who are these Ammonians anyway?' he

asked, taking another gulp of water.

'No idea,' his companion replied. 'They've got

some temple Cambyses wants destroyed. There's

an oracle there, apparently. That's about all I

know.'

The Greek grunted, but didn't pursue the con-

versation. In truth he wasn't much interested in

those he fought against. Libyans, Egyptians,

Carians, Hebrews, even his fellow Greeks – it was

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all the same to him. You turned up, killed who you

had to kill and then joined another expedition, as

often as not against the very people who'd just

paid you. Today his master was Cambyses of

Persia. Yet not so long ago he'd fought against

that same Cambyses in the army of Egypt. That's

how it was in this business.

He took another swig of water, allowing his

mind to drift back to Thebes, to his last day there

before they'd set out across the desert. He and a

friend, Phaedis of Macedon, had taken a skin of

beer and crossed Iteru, the great river, to the valley

they called the Gates of the Dead, where it was

said many great kings were buried. They'd spent

the afternoon drinking and exploring, discovering

a narrow shaft at the foot of a steep slope of

rubble into which, as a dare, they'd both crawled.

Inside the walls and ceiling had been covered in

painted images and the Greek, pulling out his

knife, had begun carving his name into the soft

plaster: ΔYMMAXOΣ O MENENΔOY NAΞIOΣ

TAYTA TA ΘAYMAΣTA EIΔON AYPION

TOIΣ THI AMMONIΔI EΔPAI ENOIKOYΣIN

EΠIΣTPATEYΣΩ EIΓAP . . . 'I, Dymmachus, son

of Menendes of Naxos, saw these wonders.

Tomorrow I march against the Ammonians.

May . . .'

But before he could finish, poor old Phaedis had

knelt on a scorpion, letting out an almighty

scream and scrabbling out of the shaft like a

frightened cat. How he'd laughed!

The joke had been on him, however, for

Phaedis's leg had swelled to the size of a log and

he'd been unable to march with the army the next

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day, thus missing four weeks of torment in the

desert. Poor old Phaedis? Lucky old Phaedis more

like! He chuckled at the memory.

He was dragged from his reverie by the voice of

his companion.

'Dymmachus! Hey, Dymmachus!'

'What?'

'Look at that, you dolt. Up ahead.'

The Greek lifted his eyes and stared forward

along the line of marching troops. They were

passing through a broad valley between high

dunes and there ahead, its outline warped by

the fierce glare of the midday sun, rose a huge,

pyramid-shaped rock, its sides so uniform

they seemed to have been deliberately carved

into that shape. There was something faintly

menacing about it, standing silent and alone in the

otherwise featureless landscape, and the Greek

involuntarily raised his hand to the Isis amulet at

his neck, muttering a swift prayer to ward off evil

spirits.

They marched on for another half-hour before a

halt was called for the midday meal, by which

time the Greek's company was almost alongside

the rock. He staggered towards it and slumped

down in the sliver of shade at its foot.

'How much further?' he groaned. 'Oh Zeus,

how much further?'

Boys came round with bread and figs and the

men ate and drank. Afterwards some fell to

scoring their names into the surface of the rock.

The Greek leaned back and closed his eyes, enjoy-

ing the sudden breeze that had come up. He felt

the tickle of a fly as it landed on his cheek, the

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same one, he was sure, as had been tormenting

him all morning. This time he made no attempt to

swat it, allowing it to wander back and forth

across his lips and eyelids. It took off and landed

again, took off and landed, testing his resolve. Still

he didn't move and the insect, lulled into a false

sense of security, finally settled on his forehead.

With infinite care the Greek raised his hand, held

it for a moment six inches from his face, then

slammed it violently against his temple.

'Got you, you bastard!' he cried, staring down

at the remains of the fly smeared across his palm.

'At last!'

His triumph was short-lived, however, for at

that moment a faint murmur of alarm came drift-

ing forward from the rear of the column.

'What is it?' he asked, wiping away the fly and

standing, hand on sword. 'An attack?'

'I don't know,' said the man beside him.

'There's something going on behind us.'

The hubbub was growing. Four camels

thundered past, their packs trailing in their wake,

froth dripping from their mouths. Screams could

be heard and muffled shouting. The breeze, too,

was getting stronger, buffeting into his face,

making his hair flicker and dance.

The Greek shielded his eyes and stared south-

wards along the valley. There seemed to be a sort

of darkness coming up behind them. A cavalry

charge, he thought at first. Then a sudden furious

gust of wind smacked into his face and he heard

clearly what had until now been just a garbled cry.

'Oh Isis,' he whispered.

'What?' said his companion.

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The Greek turned to him. There was fear in his

eyes. 'Sandstorm.'

Nobody moved or spoke. They'd all heard of

the sandstorms of the western desert, the way they

came out of nowhere and swallowed everything in

their path. Whole cities had been devoured by

them, it was said, entire civilizations lost.

'If you meet a sandstorm there's only one thing

to do,' one of the Libyan guides had told them.

'What?' they had asked him.

'Die,' he had replied.

'Save us!' someone croaked. 'May the gods pro-

tect us!'

And then, suddenly, everyone was running and

shouting.

'Save us!' they screamed. 'Have mercy on us!'

Some threw aside their packs and charged

madly up the valley. Others laboured up the side

of the dune, or fell to their knees, or crouched

down in the shelter of the pyramid rock. One man

fell face forward into the sand, weeping. Another

was trampled by a horse as he struggled to mount

it. The Greek alone held his ground. He neither

moved nor spoke, just stood leaden-limbed as the

wall of darkness rolled inexorably towards him,

seeming to gather speed as it came. More pack

animals thundered past and men too, their

weapons discarded, faces twisted in terror.

'Run!' they screamed. 'It's already taken half the

army! Run or you'll be lost!'

The wind was raging now, whipping sheets of

sand about his legs and waist. There was a roar,

too, as of a surging cataract. The sun dimmed.

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'Come on, Dymmachus, let's get out of here,'

cried his companion. 'If we stay we'll be buried

alive.'

Still the Greek didn't move. A faint smile

twisted his mouth. Of all the deaths he had

imagined, and there had been many, this one had

never crossed his mind. And this his last

campaign, too! It was so cruel it was laughable.

His smile broadened and despite himself he began

to chuckle.

'Dymmachus you fool! What's wrong with

you?'

'Go,' said the Greek, shouting to be heard above

the rising bellow of the storm. 'Run if you want!

It makes no difference. For myself, I shall die

where I stand.'

He drew his sword and held it in front of him,

gazing at the image of a coiling serpent inscribed

onto its gleaming blade, the jaws levering open

around the sword's tip. He had won it over twenty

years ago in his first campaign, against the

Lydians, and had carried it with him ever since, his

lucky mascot. He ran his thumb along the blade,

testing it. His companion took to his heels.

'You're mad!' he screamed over his shoulder.

'You filthy mad fool.'

The Greek ignored him. He gripped his weapon

and stared at the great darkness looming ever

closer. Soon it would be upon him. He flexed his

muscles.

'Come on then,' he whispered. 'Let's see what

you're made of.'

He felt suddenly light-headed. It was always like

this in battle: the initial fear, the leaden limbs, and

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then the sudden surge of battle joy. Perhaps grow-

ing olive trees wasn't for him after all. He was a

machimos.
Fighting was in his blood. Perhaps this

was for the best. He began to chant, an old

Egyptian charm to ward off the evil eye:

'Sakhmet's arrow is in you!

The magic of Thoth is in your body!

Isis curses you!

Nephthys punishes you!

The lance of Horus is in your head!'

And then the storm hit, pulsing against him

with the force of a thousand chariots. The wind

nearly swept him off his feet and the sand blinded

him, ripping at his tunic, tearing at his flesh.

Shadowy forms loomed through the darkness,

arms flailing, their screams drowned by the

deafening roar. One of the army's standards, torn

from its mounting, flew against his legs and clung

there for a moment before being snatched away

again and disappearing into the maelstrom.

The Greek slashed at the wind with his sword,

but it was too strong for him. It pushed him back-

wards and to the side, and eventually forced him

down onto his knees. A fist of sand punched into

his mouth, choking him. Somehow he struggled

onto his feet again, but was knocked down almost

immediately and this time didn't get up. A wave of

sand swept over him.

For a few moments he bucked and struggled,

and then lay still. He felt, suddenly, very weary

and very calm, as if he was floating underwater.

Images drifted slowly through his mind – Naxos,

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where he had been born and raised; the tomb in

Thebes; Phaedis and the scorpion; his first

campaign all those many years ago, against the

fierce Lydians, when he had won his sword. With

a final supreme effort of will he lifted the weapon

high in the air above him, so that even when the

rest of him had been buried its thick blade still

protruded above the surface of the sands, the

inscribed serpent coiling around it, marking

the spot where he had fallen.

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1

C A I R O , SEPTEMBER 2000

The limousine pulled slowly out of the embassy

gates, long and sleek and as black as a whale,

pausing momentarily before easing forward into

the traffic. Two police motorcycles took up

position in front of it, two behind.

For a hundred metres the convoy continued

straight, trees and buildings slipping past to either

side, then swung right and right again, onto the