And the Rest Is History(9)

‘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.

‘Well,’ Ronan said, handing me back the recorder he’d been using. ‘That brought back unpleasant memories. I had honestly forgotten how tedious History is.’

Which might well be true, but looking at his power levels, he’d nearly drained the battery, so he’d been recording solidly for at least two hours. I refrained from pointing this out.

We sat back to take a moment. The sun had moved around behind us and our patch of shade was a little larger. I eased my cramped position, groaned, and tried to stretch out my aching legs.

Ronan stood up stiffly and rubbed his back. ‘Do you think, after that unwelcome interlude, we could resume our negotiations?’