David Gibbins - Pharaoh

Gordon lit another cigarette, and exhaled forcefully. ‘This land might one day fall again under our jurisdiction, but it will never be free of those who believe in jihad. And for those whom the Mahdi has appointed as his successors, those of his closest circle who know the true wealth of our El Dorado, the quest for the temple of light will be all-consuming and never-ending, becoming in their minds like the light that shines through from the east as they pray. It is a discovery that we must hope does not become the domain of those who would use it to gather more supporters bent on destruction and jihad. Whomsoever among my people are able to continue this quest must know that they are not the only ones.’

‘Kitchener will surely take up the mantle.’

‘Perhaps. But he will be driven towards his own destiny. Schliemann cannot hope to finish Troy in his lifetime. Von Slatin is a prisoner of the Mahdi, and may never be free. And Chaille-Long I no longer trust. His theories of the location of this complex do not seem remotely credible, some as far-fetched as Atlantis. He has gone back to America and may not be heard from again.’

‘Then it is for archaeologists of the future.’

Gordon wrapped the journal in waxed brown paper, and tied it up with string from his desk. He passed it to Mayne, who reached into his tunic pocket and took out the folded paper containing Gordon’s edict abolishing slavery, and then slipped it under the paper and into the journal. Gordon took another drag on his cigarette, and tapped the package. ‘Have no fear: I’ve learned my lesson from Reflections in Palestine . This book contains no mystical ramblings, no musings about God. It’s the journal of a commanding Royal Engineer, full of facts and figures. But that’s what it’s been about, Mayne, when all is said and done. It is facts and figures that would have kept Khartoum alive, yet it is facts and figures, minutely calculated by Wolseley – daily average distances up the Nile, ideal tonnages of whaleboats – that have inhibited our rescue and will lead to the city’s destruction.’

‘I will see to it that it reaches Howard.’

‘One last request.’ He pointed to Mayne’s holster. ‘I wonder whether I might have a look at your revolver?’

‘Certainly.’ Mayne unholstered his pistol and passed it to him. ‘Webley Government model, .455 calibre. The latest improvements, bought this year. The best revolver yet available for campaign service, in my opinion.’

Gordon inspected it appreciatively, spinning the cylinder and breaking it open, careful not to eject the cartridges. ‘My problem is this.’ He took out his own revolver and placed it on the table. ‘Webley-Pryse, in .450 calibre. Perfectly serviceable, but lacks punch. I don’t think it would put down a dervish coming at me with forty thousand angels egging him on. If I’d had time to visit my agent in Piccadilly before coming out here, I’d have bought one of yours.’

Mayne took out the box of cartridges from his belt, handed them to Gordon and picked up the Webley-Pryse. ‘A straight swap. Your need is greater than mine. I just wish I could help you with a sword.’

‘I’m most grateful, Mayne. And not to worry.’ Gordon reached behind the desk and pulled out a Pattern 1856 Royal Engineers officer’s sword. He unsheathed it halfway, revealing the blade, immaculately polished and oiled. ‘When I was a cadet at the Royal Military Academy, a fearsome old quartermaster sergeant taught us swordplay, a man by the name of Cannings. Probably long gone by the time you were there.’

‘Quartermaster Sergeant Major Cannings, sir. Probably still there now. We all thought he was old enough to have been at Waterloo.’

‘ Gentlemen ,’ he would say. ‘ These ’ere swords is not for display .’

‘And then he’d proceed to split a melon in half with it.’

Gordon suddenly gave Mayne a steely look, all humour gone. ‘Well, I intend to do Cannings proud. Only this time it won’t be melons. There will be people out there among my staff shooting themselves rather than be caught by the dervishes, and there will be others who will go over to the Mahdi. But if I get half a chance, I’m going down fighting. Soldier first, engineer second. You remember?’

‘Impossible to forget, sir.’

‘Will you see to that, Mayne? Will you give me that half-chance?’

Before Mayne could think of a reply, Gordon had walked over to the sideboard to pick up his brandy glass and take another cigarette from the box. He lit it and took a deep lungful, and then downed the glass in one, exhaling with satisfaction and pouring himself another. He took it and stood in front of Mayne, the pallor in his cheeks tinged with colour, then raised the glass and the cigarette. ‘And you need have no final qualms that I might go over to the Mahdi. He has banned alcohol and tobacco. I still need my creature comforts.’ Mayne thought he detected a twinkle in those brilliant blue eyes, a brief spark in a face haunted by what he had been obliged to oversee during the past weeks and months, and by what lay ahead.

Mayne held out a hand. ‘I must go. It will be light in a few hours.’

‘Of course. And thank you for coming. It has been most agreeable. I fear I’ve rambled, but I am a man not used to company, especially that of a fellow sapper with such congenial shared interests.’ They shook hands, and Gordon led him to the door. ‘And look after that diary. If there’s anything to be salvaged from this sorry mess, it’s in there.’

Mayne began to walk down the corridor. There was a chill in the air; the warmth of early evening had gone. He felt like a priest walking away from a condemned man’s cell for the last time, but it was worse than that; he was more like an executioner having sized up his victim. He felt nauseous, but perhaps because of lack of food and the terrible stench, and he was suddenly light headed, and blinked hard. His mind was reeling from what he had heard. He had to keep up his strength for what was to come next.

Gordon had remained at the door, watching him; now he spoke again. ‘And Edward?’

Mayne stopped, and turned around. ‘Sir?’

‘Godspeed, Edward.’

Mayne heard the words, and then he heard his own voice, disembodied and wavering, as if he were watching himself on a distant stage.

‘Godspeed to you too, sir.’

Mayne slid off the reed boat into the water and pushed it towards the bank of the creek, feeling his feet sink into the ooze as he clung to the stern. The water was cool and dark, and he tried not to think of the horrors he had seen floating in it off Khartoum or of what might lurk in its depths. The level of the Nile had fallen at least two feet since he had left the creek the evening before, and the plank he had laid on the bank was now just out of reach. With a final effort he hauled the boat as far as he could out of the water and used it as a support, holding on to it as he struggled up the muddy bank. He stopped for a moment, panting hard, and wondered what it would be like to fall backwards into the water, to kick off from the bank and let the river take him; whether he would be mired in the horror of this place or whether the current would find him and take him past Khartoum and the cataracts and out into the sparkling clarity of the sea, away from here for ever. He felt himself sinking, and snapped back to reality. He heaved his legs up, then squelched and sucked through the mud until he reached the plank and pulled himself up. He was dripping with ooze, but he no longer cared. All that mattered to him now was to get back to Charrière and set up his rifle before the break of dawn.

He remembered his conversation with Gordon, and patted the journal in his upper tunic pocket. Something had been nagging at him, and then he remembered: it was the empty square in the centre of the drawing Gordon had shown him, where the ancient sculpture had been missing a piece. Gordon had said that he and his companions had searched everywhere for clues to its appearance, in ruins from the time of Akhenaten across the desert. And then Mayne remembered the slab he had taken from the wall in the crocodile temple, the one that he had given Tanner to pass on to Corporal Jones for safe keeping. It had lines radiating from the edge where it had formed part of the Aten symbol, but it also had shapes on one corner, obscured under slime. He cursed himself for remembering too late to tell Gordon: it might even have persuaded him that there was a shred of reason left for staying alive, for coming across the river with him. But there was nothing to be done about it now. It was too late.