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.
They made no pretence at marching in neat lines. They had cloths tied around the lower part of their faces and, heads down, were eating up the miles. Several chariots broke ranks to check out our rock. Ronan and I lowered our heads and kept very, very still, but the check was cursory. It had already been cleared and everyone out there in the heat had other things to worry about anyway.
It took the army nearly two hours to pass by, and towards the end, we didn’t even bother trying to record. Visibility was almost zero and the dust wasn’t doing my equipment any good at all. The ground was shaking as they passed, and dust, grit, tiny pebbles and the odd stinging insect kept dropping from the stone roof over our heads.
Finally, the last of them marched out of view and silence fell. We sat up, drank some water, and literally waited for the dust to settle.