The Lost Army of Cambyses (46 page)

walls, the flame of his lighter growing weaker all

the time until eventually, just as he completed the

circuit, it puttered out altogether, plunging him

into gloom. He returned the lighter to his pocket

and stepped back into the light.

'It's perfect,' he said quietly. 'Absolutely

perfect.'

The man looked up at him. 'There was sand,' he

mumbled. 'Sand, men, an army, all drowned.'

'I know,' said Khalifa, laying his hand on his

shoulder. 'And now I need to find out where.'

Chicago House, the home of the University

of Chicago Archaeological Mission, sits amid

three acres of lush gardens on the Corniche el-Nil,

midway between the temples of Luxor and

Karnak. A sprawling hacienda-style building, all

courtyards and walkways and arched colonnades,

it is, for the six months of each year that it is open,

home to a disparate collection of Egyptologists,

artists, students and conservators, some engaged

in their own private studies, most working across

the river at the temple of Medinet Habu, whose

reliefs and inscriptions the Chicago Mission has

been painstakingly recording for the best part of

three-quarters of a century.

It was afternoon when Khalifa arrived at its

front gate and flashed his ID at the armed guards.

A call was put through to the main house and

three minutes later a young American woman

came down to meet him. He explained why he had

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come and was ushered through into the com-

pound.

'Professor az-Zahir is such a darling,' said the

girl as they walked back through the gardens. 'He

comes here every year. Likes to use the library.

He's practically part of the furniture.'

'I hear he hasn't been well.'

'He gets a bit confused sometimes, but then

name me an Egyptologist who doesn't. He's OK.'

They passed along a tree-lined path and up to a

colonnade at the front of the building, the air

heavy with the scent of hibiscus and jasmine and

newly mown grass. Despite its proximity to the

Corniche, the compound was quiet, the only

sounds being the twittering of birds and the

spitting of a garden sprinkler.

The girl led him through the colonnade, across

a courtyard and out into the gardens at the back

of the house.

'He's over there,' she said, pointing to a figure

sitting in the shade beneath a tall acacia tree. 'He's

having his afternoon nap, but don't worry about

waking him. He loves visitors. I'll get some tea

sent out.'

She turned and went back into the house.

Khalifa walked over to the professor, who was

slumped in his chair, his chin resting on his chest.

He was a small man, bald and wrinkled as a

prune, with liver spots on his hands and scalp, and

large ears that glowed translucently in the after-

noon light. Despite the heat he was wearing a

thick tweed suit. Khalifa took the seat beside him

and laid his hand on his arm.

'Professor az-Zahir?'

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The old man mumbled something, coughed, and

slowly – first one, then the other – his eyes levered

open and he turned towards Khalifa. He looked,

thought the detective, distinctly like a tortoise.

'Is it tea?' he asked, his voice frail.

'They're bringing some.'

'What?'

'They're bringing some,' repeated Khalifa more

loudly.

Az-Zahir lifted his right arm and looked at his

watch. 'It's too early for tea.'

'I've come to talk to you,' said Khalifa. 'I'm a

friend of Professor Mohammed al-Habibi.'

'Habibi!' grunted the old man. 'Habibi thinks

I'm senile! And he's right!' Chuckling to himself,

he extended a quivering hand. 'You are?'

'Yusuf Khalifa. I used to study under Professor

Habibi. I'm a policeman.'

The old man nodded, shifting slightly in his

chair. His left hand, Khalifa noticed, lay heavily in

his lap, like something dead. Az-Zahir noted the

direction of his eyes.

'The stroke,' he explained.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to . . .'

He waved his good hand dismissively. 'Worse

things happen in life. Like being taught by that dolt

Habibi!' He chuckled again, his face crumpling into

a broad, toothless grin. 'How is the old dog?'

'Well. He sends his regards.'

'I doubt it.'

A man came out with two cups of tea, which he

set down on a small table between them. Az-Zahir

couldn't reach his cup, so Khalifa passed it up to

him. He slurped noisily at its contents. From

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somewhere behind them came the rhythmic smack

and thud of a game of tennis.

'What's your name again?'

'Yusuf. Yusuf Khalifa. I wanted to talk to you

about the army of Cambyses.'

Another loud slurp. 'The army of Cambyses,

eh?'

'Professor Habibi says no-one knows more

about it than you do.'

'Well, I certainly know more than him, but then

that's not saying much.'

He finished his tea and motioned to Khalifa,

who placed the empty cup back on the table. A

wasp swung in and hovered over the tray. For a

long while they sat in silence, az-Zahir's chin

gradually sinking into his chest again, as though

he was made of wax and was slowly melting in the

afternoon heat. It looked as if he was going back

to sleep, but then, suddenly, he sneezed and his

head jerked upright.

'So,' he grunted, tugging a handkerchief from

his jacket and blowing his nose on it, 'the army of

Cambyses. What do you want to know?'

Khalifa pulled out the cigarettes he'd bought on

the way back from the west bank and lit one.

'Anything you can tell me really. It was lost in the

Great Sand Sea, right?'

Az-Zahir nodded.

'Can we be any more precise than that?'

'According to Herodotus it went down midway

between a place called Oasis, or the Island of the

Blessed, and the land of the Ammonians.' He

sneezed again, and buried his nose in the hand-

kerchief. 'So far as we know Oasis refers to

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al-Kharga,' he said, voice muffled by the hand-

kerchief, 'although some people maintain it's

actually al-Farafra. No-one really knows, to be

honest. The Land of the Ammonians is Siwa.

Somewhere between the two. That's what

Herodotus said.'

'He's our only source?'

'Yes, unfortunately. Some people say he made

the whole thing up.'

He finished blowing his nose and slid his hand

down the side of his jacket, trying to get the hand-

kerchief back in his pocket. It kept missing the

opening, however, and eventually he gave up and

stuffed it into the sleeve of his immobile left arm.

There was a crunch of gravel behind them as the

two tennis players, their game over, walked past

and up into the house. 'Ridiculous game, tennis,'

mumbled az-Zahir. 'Hitting a ball back and forth

over a net. So pointless. The sort of thing only the

English could invent.'

He shook his wrinkled head in disgust. There

was another long pause.

'I wouldn't mind one of those cigarettes,' he said

eventually.

'I'm sorry. I should have offered.'

Khalifa passed one over and lit it for him. The

old man took a deep puff.

'Nice, that. After the stroke the doctors said I

shouldn't, but I'm sure one won't do any harm.'

For a while he smoked in silence, holding the

cigarette close to the bottom of the butt, leaning

forward to puff on it, a look of intense concen-

tration on his face. It was almost finished before

he spoke again.

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'It was probably the
khamsin
that buried them,'

he said. 'The desert wind. It can be very fierce

when it blows up, especially in springtime. Very

fierce.' He waved away a fly. 'They've been look-

ing for the army almost from the moment it was

lost, you know. Cambyses himself sent an ex-

pedition to find it. So did Alexander the Great.

And the Romans. It's attained a sort of mystical

allure. Like Eldorado.'

'Have you looked for it?'

The old man grunted. 'How old do you think I

am?'

Khalifa shrugged, embarrassed.

'Come on, how old?'

'Seventy?'

'You flatter me. I'm eighty-three. And I've spent

forty-six of those eighty-three years out in the

western desert looking for that damned army. And

in those forty-six years do you know what I've

found?'

Khalifa said nothing.

'Sand, that's what I've found. Thousands and

thousands of tons of sand. I've found more sand

than any other archaeologist in history. I've

become an expert in it.'

He chuckled mirthlessly and, leaning forward,

finished the cigarette, tamping it out on the arm of

his chair and dropping the crumpled butt into his

teacup.

'Shouldn't leave it on the ground,' he said.

'Litters the garden. It's a beautiful garden, don't

you think?'

Khalifa agreed.

'It's the main reason I come to stay here. The

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library's wonderful, of course, but it's the garden I

really love. So peaceful. I rather hope I die here.'

'I'm sure . . .'

'Spare me your platitudes, young man. I'm old

and I'm sick, and when I go I hope it's right here

in this chair in the shade of this wonderful acacia

tree.'

He coughed. The man who had brought their

tea came out and removed the tray.

'So no trace of the army has ever been found?'

asked Khalifa. 'No indication of where it might

be?'

Az-Zahir didn't appear to be listening. He was

rubbing his hand up and down the arm of his

chair, mumbling something to himself.

'Professor?'

'Eh?'

'No trace of the army has ever been found?'

'Oh, there are always people who claim to

know where it is.' He grunted. 'There was an

expedition thought they'd found it earlier this

year. But it's all just hogwash. Crackpot theories.

When you push them for hard evidence they can

never provide any.' He drove his finger into his

ear, screwing it back and forth. 'Although there

was that American.'

'American?'

'Nice man. Young. Bit of a maverick. Knew his

stuff, though.' He continued digging his finger

into his ear. 'Worked out there on his own. In the

desert. Had some theory about a pyramid.'

Khalifa's ears pricked up. 'A pyramid?'

'Not a pyramid pyramid. A large outcrop of

rock shaped like a pyramid, that's what he said.

392

He'd found inscriptions on it. Was convinced they

were left by soldiers of the army. He called me,

you know. From Siwa. Said he'd uncovered traces.

Said he'd send me photographs. But they never

arrived. And then a couple of months later they

found his jeep. Burnt out. With him inside it.

Tragedy. John. That was his name. John Cadey.

Nice man. Bit of a maverick.' The old man

removed his finger from his ear and stared at it.

'Can you remember where he was digging?'

asked Khalifa.

Az-Zahir shrugged. 'Somewhere in the desert.'

He sighed. He seemed to be getting tired. 'But then

it's a big place, isn't it? I've spent enough time

there myself. Near a pyramid. That's what he said.

Nice young man. For a moment I really thought he

might have found something. But then he had a

crash. Very sad. It'll never be found, you know.

The army. Never. It's fool's gold. A trick of the

mind. Cadey. That was his name.'

His voice was growing fainter and fainter, until

eventually it petered out altogether. Khalifa looked

across. The old man's head had sunk down onto

his chest, the skin rucking up around his chin and

jowls so that his face seemed less like a face than

a bowl full of wrinkles. His good arm had

dropped over the side of the chair, and he began

snoring. Khalifa watched him for a while and

then, standing, left him to his slumber and walked

back into the house.

The library of Chicago House, the finest

Egyptological library anywhere outside Cairo,

occupied two cool, whitewashed rooms on the

393

ground floor of the building, with high ceilings,

rows of metal shelving and an all-pervasive smell

of polish and old paper. Khalifa showed the

librarian his ID and explained why he had

come.

The man – young, American, with round glasses

and a thick beard – rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

'Well we've certainly got things that might be

useful. Do you read German?'

Khalifa shook his head.

'Shame. Rohlfs'
Drei Monate in der Libyschen

Wüste
is very good. Probably the best thing ever

written about the western desert, even though it is

a hundred years old. But it's never been translated,

so I guess that's no use. Still, there's quite

a few things in Arabic and English. And we've got