Thunk Thunk. Scrape.
Sweat. Shiver. Freeze.
Thunk thunk. Scrape.
The mattock chipped at the soft stone in the blackness as the tunnel progressed.
Moussa labored with a practiced swing. His arms had grown accustomed to the work, his muscles rippling with the motion. His skin had grown used to the constant trickle of moisture in which he lay as he worked. But he would never get used to the dark, or to the cold, or to the damp walls pressing in on him. Instead he lost himself in the slow steady rhythm of his work, finding that in its repetition he could forget everything else. Abdulahi was at the other end of the rope. They worked well together, he and the little Ouled Nail, as they fed the hungry dragon. They moved more earth than any other two men.
Thunk thunk. Scrape.
Thunk thwack—
He heard and felt it at the same time, the danger telescoping itself through his mattock into his arms, his brain registering the peril as he scooted back instinctively.
Water!
First a spurt, up in the air where it shouldn’t have been, water mixed with bits of earth and sand that stung his face, then stronger, a spout that slammed into him with incredible pressure. Then it burst through with all its fury, driven by a hidden reservoir on the other side of the rock. How many thousands or millions of liters backed up behind it no one knew. Water waiting for release, waiting to overwhelm him, waiting to flood the tunnels.
Abdulahi had promised he would have plenty of warning. There had been only one stroke of the mattock. Abdulahi was wrong.
He screamed at the top of his voice, trying to warn his companion, but his voice was lost in the roar of the rushing torrent. He tried again and took a mouthful of water and gagged. He coughed and managed to suck a lungful of air.
The water rushed to fill the tunnel, sweeping away the precious pockets of air that would give him life. Instinctively he tried to rise above it, but there was nowhere to go. The water hurled him back, banging him like a toy against the walls. He slipped back down onto his stomach, and the water propelled him furiously backward, feet first, down the side shaft toward the main tunnel, the torrent raging through the blackness. All the way he tried to catch hold of the sides, to brace himself as Abdulahi had told him to do, but it was useless. He wasn’t strong enough.
Don’t try to fight. Ride with it!
He fought the desperate impulse to take another breath. There was only water. How far to the end? How far to the main tunnel? Twenty meters? Thirty? He held his breath, lungs raging, arms groping, as he tried both to go with it and to gain some semblance of control. It was impossible. The water’s force banged him against the sides of the tunnel, shredding his skin as it scraped along. He felt himself beginning to panic.
I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!
He fought back the terror, forcing himself to think.
Float to the main tunnel. Maybe there you can find air.
He was moving fast now, still facedown, feet first, when he hit the main tunnel. His feet smashed against the wall, his knees buckling as the torrent turned the corner and raged violently down the main shaft. The impact stunned him, nearly knocking what little breath he had out of his tormented lungs. Still completely submerged, he fought the impulse to draw a breath. The burning was awful.
He thought about the tunnel. There was a slight elevation in the ceiling, midway between the area where he’d been working and the shaft to the surface. Part of the ceiling at that point had collapsed in a minor cave-in. He thought there might be an air pocket there. It was his only chance.
Get on your back. Your back!
He used his arms with the current and turned over, trying to judge the distance. He would be close now. He spread his arms and legs and tried to stop himself. The little toe of his right foot caught something. The toe snapped and he went on. There was no pain; he pushed harder. Little by little he slowed, and then stopped. The water raged around him, but he had gotten some control. He edged himself upward, his nose searching for air.
There!
It was tiny, precious. He spit and gasped and drew a sweet breath, his face in a space not much bigger than the breadth of a man’s hand. Another gasp, and another. His lungs ached deeply. He knew he had little time to decide what to do. Wait? Perhaps the flood would recede quickly. He’d heard they often did. But some went on for hours, depending upon the size of the underground reservoirs waiting for release. If he waited he would run out of air. If he let go he might not find more.
The decision was taken from him. He felt his grip slipping and before he could stop himself the current wrenched him away once again and propelled him into the black hole. He had time to draw more air before he went under. Now on his back, he felt the water going in his nose. Again he forced himself not to give in to the instinct to blow air out. He needed every bit. He had a fleeting thought of Abdulahi. Had he drowned? He would have been standing at the shaft when the rock gave way. Perhaps he had pulled himself up in time, or perhaps he had stayed down, trying to pull on Moussa’s rope, to help save him. It wouldn’t matter if he had. Moussa had lost his end of the rope.
His mind focused on the shaft. He would be there in an instant. He kept his hands up, running his fingers along the top of the tunnel, planning to act the instant he arrived. The rope from the surface hung down there. He would have less than a second, but maybe he could grab hold of the rope and pull himself up into the shaft, where he could climb to the safety of the surface.
It came and went too quickly. He felt the rope but it slipped past his hand before he could catch it. He caught the edge of the shaft, his fingers clinging to the sandstone, but then it crumbled and gave way, and he was gone again, but not before he took a mouthful of water. There had been no sign of Abdulahi.
Once more he slowed himself, turning his heels outward, trying to find purchase on the sides, stiffening his knees so they wouldn’t collapse on him. He knew he was running out of air, that he had only a few seconds before he would let go, let his lungs do what they were desperate to do, take a deep breath, and then the blackness would come, and death would take him.
Suddenly he hanged into something softer than a rock. His bare foot felt a shoulder. Another man had jammed the tunnel. Abdulahi?
He hadn’t meant to push on the shoulder, didn’t want to knock the man loose, a man who had probably found his own small pocket of air and was gasping in the blackness as he himself was trying to do.
But it was too late. He felt a hand on his ankle and then the current won and the hand slipped away and the man disappeared. By then Moussa himself had slowed just enough to stop. There was another pocket of air. Once again, thankfully, he took quick deep breaths, trying to store up whatever oxygen he could before the mad ride began again. His muscles strained against the current that still pulled violently at him. He was exhausted. He didn’t know how much longer he could do it. The air was glorious, but each breath brought relief mixed with guilt, for each breath was taken at the expense of another man’s life.
He knew how Abdulahi feared the water, feared this disaster above all others, that he would drown in the belly of the dragon. The little man couldn’t swim. At least death would take him quickly.
I am sorry, Abdulahi.
And then, almost as suddenly as the flood had begun, it finished. He felt the force of the water subsiding, the level dropping a bit and easing the pressure on his arms and legs. Then the level dropped more, and soon he was lying on his back on hard ground, completely spent, listening as the flood still roared below him, making its way to the oasis. He wondered how many men had been caught in its path, how many slaves had died this day. And the danger was far from over. Cave-ins would follow. For another week the tunnel would be a hole of death.
But I am alive.
He shuddered, the tremor starting deep inside as his body reacted to the cold and the fear. He had to get moving. With difficulty he turned so that he could crawl down the tunnel to try to find whoever it was, to see if he could help. Each movement required an immense effort. He forced himself forward.
“Abdulahi?” he called out. There was only silence. He scooted down the tunnel as fast as he could move. He found him near the next shaft. Moussa banged into him, jamming a knee into his head as he crawled.
“Abdulahi?”
Nothing. He leaned forward and bent over, holding his cheek to the man’s mouth, trying to feel a breath.
Suddenly the man coughed, sputtering and spitting into Moussa’s face.
“Sidi?”
“Yes,” Moussa said, so relieved he wanted to hug the little man. “Yes.”
Abdulahi gasped for air. “A pity. If it is you then I know this is not paradise.” He rested, gathering his strength in the dripping blackness. “We have beaten the dragon this day,” he sputtered.
“We have. We have at that. Come, turn over now. Let’s get to the shaft before he spits again.” He helped Abdulahi turn onto his stomach.
“I thought that was you on my shoulder, Sidi. You were trying to ride me, perhaps?” He coughed again. “I thought we had agreed. In a flood, I was to ride you.”
In spite of their pain and fear they collapsed together in laughter.
For the first time in nearly six months of captivity, Moussa allowed himself to feel despair. The flood had driven it home. He was trapped. There was no way out. At first he had refused to believe it. But he was beginning to see now.
Slaves lived in Timimoun until they died.
In all, six men had died that morning, men drowned beneath a harsh desert. They were the only ones free.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t kept alert. Each morning on his way up the hill to the foggaras he watched and listened. Each evening on his way down the hill he did the same. But life in the oasis was timeless and predictable. Caravans came and went. Guards patrolled with their swords and their spiked palm branches. Slaves worked and ate and slept and reproduced and died. The muezzin called five times each day, and five times each day men set down their tools and humbled themselves before their merciful God. The sun rose and set and rose again, and the waters flowed in the red oasis of Timimoun, fed by the great dragon.
Moussa thought of organizing a rebellion, but for the most part he found the slaves resigned, exchanging their bodies for the guarantee of food and shelter. Only a few, like himself, were confined to a hut at night. Even if they wanted to fight, the men had little strength for it, or for flight after. They lived on next to nothing. They managed from day to day; there was nothing more in them. They fed the dragon, waiting each day for it to turn on them. And even if they could fight, what would be gained in an uprising? If they killed every guard in the compound, they would be left holding one compound and nothing more. Sooner or later the pasha’s main guard would have its way. Men would die to win nothing.
Other choices were equally bleak. The only animals on which to escape were hidden behind forbidden walls. If one tried to sneak out to a departing caravan, its master would instantly find out and return him to Jubar Pasha, the valued client whose favor they all curried. There was no money for bribery. He thought about getting word out to the Tuareg. It seemed his best hope. But how? Who would treat with the Tuareg? Who would carry his message into the forbidden heart of the desert?
It was hopeless.
Yet each day he had repeated it, I will find a way. I will never give up. He said it between strokes of his mattock. He said it when he slid on his belly in the cold muck. He said it because he was afraid he would become like the others, from whom all hope had been drained like water from the sands. He fought the routine, trying not to get comfortable with the patterns of Timimoun. But inexorably he found himself caught in it – looking forward to his meals, or to the peace of the evenings, to the chatter of the courtyard, to the glow of the sunrise as each day began. One could learn to live with such cadence. One could say this is all there is, all there ever will be. Other men did, good men. Some even became obsessed with the foggaras, impressed with their own coerced achievements.
But not I! I will find a way! I will never give up!
Until now. Until the flood. In its wake the waves of despair lapped too close. The others were right. There was no escape from Timimoun. He closed his eyes and lost himself in thoughts of his other life, his life with Daia. She would be married by now, a mother perhaps. He imagined what they might have been like together, what their life might have been. The color of their tent, the texture of it, and how it would be inside. What their children might look like.
He constructed whole days with her, thinking out every detail, having complete conversations. She traveled with him as he patrolled the camps of his vassals. At night they sat before their tent and watched the sun set. They moved camp with the seasons and followed the grasslands in the timeless ritual of the Tuareg. He presented her with a great white horse, a magnificent Arabian, and she rode it like the wind.
It wasn’t torture, thinking of those things. It was wonderful. It kept him sane.
“Targui! Yal-la! Wake up! Come!”He awoke slowly, holding on to his dream, but the foot lashed him savagely in the side. He opened his eyes and sat up, blinking. Was it night or day? He didn’t know for sure. He had been dreaming.
It was Atagoom, the guard.
“What?”
“Come, I say. Be quick.”
Monjo, Mahmoud, and Abdulahi all stirred. It was night, then.
“Fee ’eyh!” Abdulahi groaned. “What is it?”
“None of your affair,” Atagoom snapped. Moussa got up. His toe was throbbing, his skin raw. They left the hut and walked through the compound. Slaves sat in small groups around their night fires, chattering and laughing and talking in low voices. They hardly noticed his passage. Atagoom prodded him with the palm branch, his sword sheathed at his side. He carried a torch in one hand. Atagoom was a big man. Unlike most guards he was strong and alert. He never left prisoners an opportunity to break away, never let his guard down.
They left the compound and walked down the long path toward the gates of the oasis. Cookfires flickered in other compounds. The walls were lit at large intervals with torches. Guards opened the gates at the command of Atagoom and passed them through into the town. Moussa’s eyes darted everywhere, looking for details that might help one day. He was led through a bewildering maze of streets, some covered, others open to the sky, and he quickly lost his bearings. He would never find his way out, not without help. Presently they arrived at the northernmost casbah, the fortress where the pasha’s quarters were located. They went up a wide stairway and onto a veranda. Sleepy guards stood before the doors, armed with swords. Atagoom said something and one disappeared inside.
Vines covered one side of the veranda, which overlooked a large garden that sloped gently down toward the oasis. He heard water trickling somewhere below, beneath the trees – water from the foggaras, water that brought life and pleasure to people who lived here, water bought with the lives of slaves. A warm breeze brought the smells of the oasis to him. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, savoring the scent of lilacs and violets, of apricot and peach blossoms. Behind the flowers and fruits there were other smells. Something cooking, something with spices he didn’t recognize but that made his stomach begin to stir. And then – perfume, the lovely fragrance of a woman. Through the leaves of the palms he saw the stars overhead. It was wonderful to be outside his hut. Wonderful to be above-ground, to smell the evening.
The guard reappeared. “Enter.” Atagoom prodded him and they stepped inside. Moussa blinked. He was in the pasha’s reception hall. The lights were dim. Music played from some unseen place, a stringed instrument he couldn’t identify. Across the hall in the shadows he saw the vague forms of veiled women. They were leaving the hall through a door in the back, laughing and chattering. Evidently a banquet had just ended. Trays of unfinished food sat on the floor, more food than the slaves’ compound saw in a week. Moussa eyed the trays. He never had enough.
The pasha sat on plush cushions, laughing at something the man sitting next to him had said. Moussa recognized the man, remembering the beating he’d suffered at his hands. El Hussein. The ambassador. A carafe of liquor sat near them, brandy brought from France by El Hussein for the pleasure of his brother-in-law. The devout fires of Islam had been dimmed for the evening by the forbidden liquor of the infidel. Both men were slightly drunk. At first they ignored him. He stood there with Atagoom behind him. After a time the pasha looked at him and saw his eyes on the food.
“The dog would have a bone from our table?” he said. He waved expansively. “Tonight is a night of generosity, a time to share Allah’s bounty with the very man who makes it possible. Don’t you agree, Hussein?”
El Hussein was the more cautious of the two. Even half-drunk, he preferred this man in chains. He remembered the knee in his groin. “He needs nothing, lord, only an end. It is better to let him stand.”
“Nonsense! Is it not written, that generosity is the path to Allah’s grace? Let him eat! Atagoom!”
“Lord?”
“Release his hands so that he may enjoy the scraps. Stand close to him. If he moves other than to eat kill him quickly.”
Atagoom untied the prisoner’s hands. Moussa rubbed his wrists. He looked at the food and stepped forward, then stopped. Jubar Pasha looked at him quizzically.
“You are not hungry? You eat so well, in your quarters? I must have the rations cut then, for all the men.”
“I have no interest in eating with you.”
Jubar Pasha laughed delightedly. “How I enjoy impertinence from a noble slave! Such excellent breeding in a half-breed! You wear the mantle of arrogance so well. It becomes you!”
“You did not bring me here to feed me.”
The pasha’s eyes sparkled with brandy and well-laid plans. “No, Moussa deVries. Or Count deVries, should I say? You are quite right. I did not bring you here to feed you. I brought you here to kill you.”
Moussa stiffened. Count deVries! No one had ever called him that. How would this man know? All this time he had thought himself a common prisoner, the chance casualty of a desert ambush. Obviously he had been naïve. There was more at work here, much more. He felt Atagoom’s hand on his shoulder. The guard had noticed his slight movement. He was alert and would tolerate nothing.
The pasha also noted his instinctive reaction. “You need fear nothing, Count. It will be done quickly, I assure you. I am a humane man – even to an infidel. And such an infidel! Twice over, I believe. The French infidel – Christian, I suppose?” There was no response from Moussa. “And the Tuareg infidel. Such a pity, that two halves should add up to less than nothing. If only you were a believer you would stand this night at the side of the Prophet himself, in paradise. Such a noble thing you do for the house of Islam, without doing a thing at all.”
El Hussein was disturbed. The pasha was saying too much, his tongue loosened by the unfamiliar liquor. He raised the voice of caution. “I do not think it wise, lord, to tell him—”
“What difference does it make?” The pasha waved him off. “What does a man remember from the grave? That he has been betrayed?”
“You speak in riddles,” Moussa said.
The pasha looked at Moussa triumphantly. “There is no riddle, Targui. Yes, you have been betrayed. Not once, like a common man, but many times, like a king! Such disloyalty, from one’s own! It does pain me, to see a man treated so poorly by his own kind.” He corrected himself. “Kinds. I forget myself with a half-breed.” He took a long drink straight from the carafe, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“A man should know before he dies just how much he matters, or how little. Evidently you matter not at all. So many people who wish you ill, and so much money to pay for it! I do not agree, of course, in the senseless disposal of a man. Even half a man. I could use you in my foggaras.”
A thought occurred to the pasha that seemed to amuse him. “There is such irony here! Only this afternoon the master of the foggaras was flogged for allowing you to come so near death. It was contrary to his instructions and would have been most unfortunate.” Moussa’s eyes betrayed his surprise. “Ah yes, I know of the flood. I know of all things that happen to you. I have kept you alive, Moussa deVries, and quite carefully so. But I am only a simple desert man. Now I must bow to the winds of persuasion.”
“Lord,” El Hussein said again impatiently. “Forgive me, but please, this is enough.”
Jubar Pasha sighed and took another drink. “Yes, I suppose.” He waved at the food. “A pity you will not eat. The food is really quite good. The goats will enjoy it, as the crows will enjoy you. The time has come. Atagoom, tie him.”
The big guard moved instantly to obey. He stepped behind Moussa and took his right arm.
Moussa moved without thinking. Like lightning he spun and struck the big man on the ear, a glancing blow that stunned Atagoom but did him no harm. Atagoom swung the palm branch that he still held in his hand. Moussa jumped back, but the branch caught him on the shoulder, the wicked spines ripping his flesh. He grabbed the branch, the spines now tearing his hand, and yanked. Atagoom lost his balance for an instant and tumbled forward. Moussa’s knee met the guard’s face with a vicious crack. Atagoom bellowed and fell heavily to the floor. Moussa whirled to face the pasha, who was tugging furiously at his belt for his dagger, his mouth open in disbelief. El Hussein was struggling to his feet, reaching for his own weapon. The guards at the far end of the room yelled and started running toward them. Behind them the door opened and another guard ran in. Outside there was more yelling and commotion. Moussa leapt over the plates of food and smashed into El Hussein, knocking him sprawling backward. The pasha was no fighter, his pudgy hand lost in the folds of his robe as he desperately clawed for his knife. Moussa was behind him in an instant, snatching the jeweled dagger from the pasha’s hand. He held the pasha around the neck with one arm, holding the knife to his throat with the other. It was all over in a few seconds.
“Move another step and he dies,” he barked at the guards, who were nearly upon them, their swords drawn. Jubar Pasha gasped in fright, barely able to breathe. The guards stepped back uncertainly. “Set your swords on the ground,” Moussa snapped. They complied quickly.
Moussa looked at El Hussein. “I will take the pistol in your sash,” he said. He had seen its handle when the man had beaten him. El Hussein scowled but made no move. “Now!” Still El Hussein hesitated. Moussa’s blade pressed into the fleshy neck of the pasha, drawing blood.
“Give it to him, you fool!” Jubar Pasha squeaked. El Hussein drew back his robe and withdrew the weapon. He handed it over. “You will get nowhere—” he started to say.
“Quiet!” Moussa knew he would have to move fast, before they could organize against him. He leaned close to the pasha’s ear. “Tell the guard to bring fifteen camels. Well rested, fat humps. And food. Water enough for twenty days. Weapons. Rifles and pistols, with ammunition. They will have everything ready within thirty – twenty – minutes, at the gate. Tell him well, Jubar Pasha. Your life depends on it.”
The pasha whimpered.
“Tell him!”
“Do as he says,” the pasha gasped, snapping out a stream of orders. The captain of the guard said a silent prayer for himself and his family. His own head would fall from his shoulders this day. He ran from the hall to obey.
Moussa looked at El Hussein. “Take off your clothes.”
“What!?”
“Now, quickly. Give them to me.” El Hussein’s face was dark with humiliation. He was wobbly from the brandy. He took off his rich robes, and his silk shirt, and stopped when he had only his baggy pants left. He looked scrawny and quite pathetic without his rich clothing. He shivered in the cool air of the evening.
“All of them!”
Reluctantly El Hussein complied. At last he stood naked before them. Moussa released the pasha for an instant and held the gun with one hand while he quickly donned the clothes. “The turban,” Moussa said. Slowly El Hussein unwound the cloth, which he handed over.
Moussa wrapped it hurriedly over his own head. For the first time in Timimoun he felt whole again, his skin covered and his veins surging with hope. He couldn’t help smiling at the sight of El Hussein cringing naked. Moussa looked him up and down, and then laughed. “You are clearly a man of modesty, Ambassador,” he said. “And for good reason.”
He pulled the pasha to his feet, keeping the pistol jammed to his neck. “Move!” he commanded, and shoved his prisoner forward. They stepped over the food. Moussa stopped and kicked Atagoom. “Get up! Come!”
Atagoom struggled to his feet. He groaned, his mouth a bloody mess. “Leave your sword,” Moussa commanded, and it clattered to the ground. “Take us back to my compound,” Moussa said. “Do not miss a turn or your master will die. Do it quickly.” Atagoom looked at the pasha’s frightened eyes, at the barrel of the pistol at his neck. He nodded.
“You go behind him,” Moussa said to El Hussein.
The ambassador was mortified. “I will not walk naked through the streets of the town like a common slave—” Moussa lashed out with the barrel of the pistol, opening a small wound on his cheek. El Hussein gasped but began to move.
The guards stood aside as they passed quickly through the doors of the Great Hall and down the stairway. Another small knot of guards stood at the entry to one of the passageways leading to the oasis. Some had flintlocks, all had swords. They watched the procession, uncertain what to do. Moussa spoke to the pasha. “Tell them to stay back. If any man fires, I too will fire. They might miss. I will not.”
The pasha cried out at them. “Get away, you fools! Stay back, do you hear?” They melted back into the passageways, helpless, letting Moussa and his captives pass. Atagoom led them back through the maze. Curious people looked at the group, some dropping baskets they carried or gasping as they saw the pasha. Moussa moved them quickly at a half-trot, using the pasha’s big body as a shield. He smelled the stench of alcohol and fear mingled in the man’s sweat. They arrived at the gate, which opened at a command from Atagoom, and the little party hurried up the path toward Moussa’s compound. Jubar Pasha was gasping for breath. The exertion was far more than he was used to. “Please,” he said. “I must rest—” Moussa pushed him harder.
They stopped at the gate of the compound, just beneath a torch that was fixed to the gatepost. Moussa spoke to Atagoom. “Fetch the others in my hut,” he said. “If you are not back within three minutes your master will die.” Atagoom moved to obey, disappearing through the gate into the shadows. Several guards stood inside the compound, unaware of what was happening.
Presently Atagoom reappeared. In the gloom Moussa could barely make out the faces he sought. “What is it?” Abdulahi said, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What is this?” With Monjo and Mahmoud at his side, he moved where Atagoom pointed, to the two men standing by the post. His eyes grew wide as saucers when he saw the pasha, standing like a common man in the darkness. His mouth opened when he realized there was a pistol at the pasha’s throat. Next to him stood a naked man, scrawny and shivering in the night. Abdulahi didn’t recognize him. He peered carefully at the man with the weapon. In the dim light he still couldn’t see his face.
“Our time has come,” Moussa said from behind his new shesh. “The pasha himself has been good enough to escort us. Are you ready to leave?”
Abdulahi nearly collapsed in sheer astonishment.
“Sidi?”
Mahmoud laughed out loud. “Well done, Tuareg dog!” He strode to the pasha and spat in his face.
“Not now,” Moussa said. “We must be quick. There is no time to lose.” He turned and started back down toward the gate to Timimoun. Without hesitation, Abdulahi and Mahmoud followed. Abdulahi stopped and turned.
“Monjo! What are you waiting for?” The Hausa man had not moved.
Moussa stopped and called to him. “Monjo! You will have no other chance.”
“I told you once. I have nowhere to go. Nowhere better than this. Plenty of places worse.”
“Stay with me. I will protect you. Don’t be a fool. You can’t stay anyway. They’ll kill you now for sure. Come on!”
Monjo wavered uncertainly for another moment. Then he shook his head and muttered a short curse. He fell in behind them.
The camels were waiting. “Monjo, Mahmoud. Check their condition,” Moussa said. “Abdulahi, make sure of the food and water. There should be weapons as well.” The three men hurried to check, opening packs, feeling pads and humps. They took their weapons from the waiting guards. It was all as arranged.
The pasha caught his breath at last. “You will never escape. My men will find you before this night has passed.”
“Then they will find you too, Jubar Pasha. You don’t think I would miss a chance to show you Tuareg hospitality on a journey?”
“You cannot do this!” the pasha sputtered. “I will not go!”
“You will.” Moussa picked out the captain of the guard. The man’s look of misery made clear that he knew he would pay with his life for his failure to protect his master. Moussa cocked his pistol and held it to the pasha’s temple. His words were sharp and loud enough for the rest of the guard to hear. “The pasha has decided to travel with us. We will watch carefully. If anyone follows, even ten leagues behind, I will know it and he will die. Do you understand?”
The captain nodded. “I understand.”
Moussa looked at El Hussein. “You should put something on. You look like a fool.” The naked ambassador stared at him coldly.
The others mounted and their camels rose. Moussa took the reins of the lead camel in one hand and, with his gun at his prisoner’s neck, led the procession away from the walls, up the hill past the compounds and into the darkness. He looked back several times. Men were milling everywhere near the walls, but none followed. When he knew a rifleman could no longer see them to attempt a shot, he stopped and put his pistol in his belt. He tied the pasha’s hands and got him into a saddle. It was awkward going. Jubar Pasha was fat and out of shape. A man for a litter, not a camel.
When it was done Moussa mounted his own mehari. He looked up into the heavens. The skies sparkled with the promise of a billion stars. The open desert lay before them. He wanted to laugh out loud.
We are free.
He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the new sensation. Then he nudged his mehari forward and led his little caravan into the night.
It took all of Moussa’s persuasion to keep his companions from killing Jubar Pasha prematurely. During their imprisonment they had each filled endless hours devising tortures for the very man who was now their prisoner. Greatly tempted, they tormented him with their talk.
They passed a well. Abdulahi dropped a rock down its blackness. They all heard the faint splash. “You will make more noise, much more,” he said happily to the pasha, poking at his ample belly. “Can you swim?”
“Drowning is too quick,” said Mahmoud, drawing his knife. “There is a more interesting way. Let us feed him to the crows, one piece at a time. He can watch himself disappearing,”
Abdulahi laughed enthusiastically. “As much of him as there is, that will be many hours of watching. It is a good plan, Sidi.”
Moussa shook his head. “We might yet need him. He is no use to us dead.”
“We have no need of a hostage,” Mahmoud spat. “No one could follow us the way you have pushed us! It is no wonder people say the Tuareg are mad.” They had ridden nearly forty hours straight before their first rest, changing camels frequently. Mahmoud’s own backside was sore. He had underestimated his Berber cousins to the south; they were a formidable race indeed. Even by Tuareg standards their march had been extraordinary. Moussa never seemed to tire as he led them across a plateau that ran to the southeast of Timimoun. It was not the easiest path, but Moussa thought it safest. The heights were stony and they would not easily be followed. He intended to skirt In Salah, which would soon be crawling with the pasha’s agents, and make directly for the safety of Arak, where there would be Tuareg establishing autumn camps.
But for all their progress Moussa did not relax. “I take more pleasure in freedom than revenge,” he said. “I must be certain we are not pursued before giving him up.”
“There is nothing barren in revenge,” Mahmoud growled, but he let it pass.
It was Monjo who worried the pasha the most. The Hausa rarely said a word, staring for long hours at the captive. His expression was blank, his eyes dark and impenetrable. The pasha split his time worrying about the Hausa and groaning from the effects of the journey upon his aching body.
When they ate it was Moussa who brought food to the pasha. No one else would do it.
“I would know my betrayers,” Moussa said to him.
“I will tell you nothing.”
“Very well. You heard the Moor. If you do not speak now I will let him have his way with you.”
The pasha eyed him fearfully. “And if I tell you?”
“I will let you go – when the time is right.”
“How can I trust you?”
Moussa laughed. “An amusing question, just now. You have no choice. But I am a man of my word.”
Jubar Pasha decided quickly. He began talking.
Three days later Moussa knew it was time. He stopped the little caravan. From one of the pack camels he retrieved a guerba of water and a small bag of dates. He untied the pasha’s hands and gave him the supplies. The pasha looked at him uncertainly.
“You are free to go,” Moussa said.
Mahmoud exploded. You release this pig?” You cannot be serious! Give him to me!”
“No. He is my prisoner. It is my right to deal with him.”
“It is so,” Abdulahi agreed, seeing what Moussa had in mind. Monjo just nodded.
At first Jubar Pasha was euphoric. He turned his mehari to the north. And then he hesitated. There was no track to follow. The nearest well was forty leagues distant and he had no illusions about his ability to find it. He wasn’t sure of his bearings. “But you must be mad,” he sputtered. “This is a mistake. I need more supplies, more water and food. I cannot survive here. Where will I go? What will I do?”
Moussa shrugged. “You are welcome to stay with us, but from now on I will have nothing to do with you. The others will see to your comfort. As it is, I am giving you your freedom. It is all you will get, and more than you deserve.”
Moussa’s mehari rose to its feet. The four men and their supply animals began to move. Jubar Pasha sat atop his mount, lost and afraid. He watched until they were gone.
“You are too soft, Tuareg,” Mahmoud growled, as they pressed toward Arak.
“Probably,” Moussa agreed.
“Soft?” said Abdulahi, snorting. “He will have much time to face death. He will perish out there as surely as if you’d fed him to the crows.”
“Yes,” said Monjo. “Only more slowly.”