Sharif Mamud held up better than most of the others. His body was acclimated to the desert heat. Steadily and with sure feet he climbed silently now as they moved up the narrow trails to the pass. The rest of them were quiet except for gasps of labored breathing. Flies had come to buzz over them, swarming on their backs to suck at the salty sweat that had begun to turn their tunics white, adding a lighter pattern to the brown and green camouflage.
All breaks were set by Sharif Mamud. Only he knew how long it would actually take to reach their kickoff point. The team did well, no grumbling, no bitching; they had settled in. Once more Monpelier had proved his accurate judgment of men. They all helped each other, giving someone a hand or taking a load from another over the rough spots.
At midday they rested, taking shelter in the shade of sun-splintered boulders. They would wait now for a few hours and try to sleep. Most put scarves around their faces, leaving only their eyes uncovered. Exposed skin drew the flies.
Sharif Mamud squatted on his haunches, rocking back and forth for a time as though trying to reconcile great problems. It was in these lands that the great philosophers and prophets of the Moslem world had been inspired. Here where the supernatural djinns of the desert and God were always close at hand, to touch them one had only to reach out and feel the wind.
When the sun began its descent they moved once more. Loads became heavier with each kilometer. With the dark Sharif Mamud took the lead again, guiding the way through gullies and canyons that he had not seen in forty years. They were still fresh in his mind and here nothing had changed. They would march all night. It would be easier to keep warm that way and once they set foot on Baguezane, Carl would permit no fires. When they stopped it would be a cold camp.
Near midnight Mamud called a halt. Gratefully men slid to the earth, easing the pack straps from sore shoulders. Boots were taken off and feet rubbed to rid them of the thousands of tiny grains of sand that had worked their way inside. Canteens were drunk from sparingly, though each man wanted to open his throat and let the water flow. Some opened cans of fruit to suck at the sweetness of tinned peaches or pears.
Sharif Mamud ate nothing and only once had Carl seen him take a small drink of water. He knew it was the barren rocks and dry winds which fed something deep inside the old man and gave him strength. Carl came to sit beside him while Egon and Gus stood watch, one at each end of the trail.
Sharif Mamud stared into the distance. His nostrils flared, breathing in the cool air.
"What do you see in the night, old one?"
Mamud didn't move.
"I see the past and the present. I see times yet to come when my people will be lost. Bit by bit they will change, becoming less and less until they are no more."
Carl knew he was talking about their souls. This, the desert, was the true home of his Bedouin people.
Resting his back against the smooth hardness of a boulder, Sharif Mamud spoke softly. "Why do you do this, al-Kattel? I know that it is not for gold. I have read your eyes too many times in the past to believe that."
Carl scratched at the dirt with a fingernail. "Sharif Mamud, my friend. Has it not been written that one has no control over the path his steps will take? All has been written long before we drew our first breath or nursed at our mother's breast. I am no more than what has been ordained for me and do not control it. I am what God has made me. In sha' Allah! "
Mamud nodded his head in understanding. "As you have said, all is in the hands of God. Yet that troubles me. If it is so, then why do we attempt to change anything? Ah, I am ready for paradise. The questions of this life plague me more with each passing year. When one loses the passions of youth, the disease of thinking too much takes over." He paused. "Will you kill Sunni Ali, my friend?"
Carl shrugged his shoulders. "That depends on circumstances. I have no orders to that effect. If we could, I would prefer not to kill anyone. But I wouldn't bet on that happening, and from what little we know of Sunni Ali, I think that it will be very hard not to kill him. He may demand it."
Mamud understood. "Yes, there is a time to die. If one lives on dreams then what has one to live for when the dreams are dead? For such a one it is best that he go with his dreams. It would be a kindness."
Carl rose to make the rounds. ''Rest now for a time. We still have a long way to go before that judgment has to be made. Rest well. I will be close by if you need me."
He left Sharif Mamud in the same position as he had found him. He had the feeling that the old man had not only been talking about Sunni Ali; he had been speaking of his own dreams. Even in that Carl wished him well, for indeed there was time to die. For most men, anyway….
Leaving the camp behind, Carl climbed to the edge of a granite outcrop. From there he could look out over the endless wasteland stretching to forever. Forever… How long was that? For some it was minutes, for others, eternity. But all things must end. He believed that, though at times he had difficulty believing that about himself.
Cold winds washed over him, causing ripples over and through the myriad scars on his body. Closing his eyes he stood and swayed back and forth on the lip of the ridge. He almost let himself fall forward, but it would have done no good. Death was denied him now as it had been for two thousand years.
Two thousand years… From the time of Golgotha to now he, Casca Rufio Longinus, had marched and fought under the banners of innumerable armies and kings. Time and again he had been slave and soldier, and more often a slave to his own weaknesses. He was trapped in the pattern of his past and there was no escape. He was on the endless wheel which the ancient sage Shiu Lao had spoken of on the galley heading for Rome, the great wheel of eternity which turned upon itself, always repeating never-ending cycles.
The worst were the dreams. For weeks at a time he would fear sleep and the dreams that came with it. The lost faces, the lost loves. Futile to question, useless to fight against, he would go on as he always had, even though for him there was no purpose in doing so.
From the south the winds howled through the clefts and cracks of the massif. His mind asked, as it had a thousand times past, "When can I rest?" And the winds replied as always, "When we meet again…"
CHAPTER TWELVE
Before dawn Langers roused his crew.
"Let's do it. Time to move out." There were the expected groans of frustration from the men, whose tired bodies were not yet ready to rise. Eyes were sticky, legs and arms stiff.
In a couple of hours it would be time to try and contact Sims and his group. He hadn't been able to raise them at the last call. That didn't bother him a great deal; one call missed was no problem. If they missed the next one, however, he would start to be concerned.
Carl had Abdul take the point with Mamud behind him, then he was next and the rest trailed single file with Gus bringing up drag.
It was a little after 0700 hours when Mamud called a halt. "We are almost at the pass. From there it will be downhill."
Welcome words. "All right, Dominic. Send out sentries, then take a break and eat if you want to." Rations were broken out.
As they ate, Mamud spread his jacket on the earth to serve as a prayer rug and faced toward Mecca. The rest stopped their chewing and talking. The relationship between an old man and his god were to be respected, even by those who didn't believe or understand.
Their passing was observed mainly by mottled gekko lizards crawling on the rocks to sun themselves before the heat of the day forced them back into the shade. They made one stop at midday by a spring with cool water bubbling out from the mountain depths. There they waited for an hour, luxuriating in the incredible sensation of a cold wet rag on the face.