''The Lightbringer,'' Ra says. He frowns, pensively. ''Yes. I can discern very little about him. I can hardly see him at all, in fact. There is something about him, a — a kind of pearlescent aura. It shifts and shimmers, like fog. He disguises himself. How?''
''This troubles you.''
''Of course it troubles me. As does his chosen name. Am I not the one who brings light?''
''There is an element of hubris there, I agree. Perhaps of challenge too.''
''The situation,'' Ra says, ''merits further enquiry. Thank you, Anubis. This hasn't been a wasted trip after all.''
''I am, O Ra, indifferent to you, remember?''
''And I feel the same way about you, Anubis,'' Ra says, with warmth.
19. Sheepdogs
David gunned the throttle, and the trail bike responded with a tremendous tinny roar, fishtailing in the sand as it accelerated. Zafirah was parked ahead, waiting for him to catch up. She sat astride her bike domineeringly, comfortable in the saddle. She rode it much the same way.
David wished he was half so confident. Back home he'd owned a motorbike once, a Norton Mongoose. It was a touring model, sturdy, stately and sedate, a prudent choice of machine, promising a safe level of adventure for the not-very-adventurous. Its 1150cc engine was great for cruising along A-roads and motorways, but around town the Mongoose was sluggish, nothing like as nippy as its animal namesake. At times David, reclining in the seat, felt as though he might as well be at the controls of a car. He'd had no regrets about selling the bike back to the dealership after three weeks.
The trail bike was another story. Lighter, livelier, it skittered around on its narrow, knobbly tyres, sensitive to the slightest shift of its rider's weight. Its unpredictable handling meant you could over-steer without intending to and skid onto your side. You could also, because of its lack of weight, easily over-brake and risk pitching yourself headfirst over the handlebars. In the first hour of riding, David had fallen off three times, much to Zafirah's amusement. He had since mastered the bike but he was still wary of it and would drop cautiously into third or even second gear if the going got rugged.
As the Lightbringer's army trundled north, it was David and Zafirah's job to scoot back and forth alongside the column of vehicles, making sure all was well. If a car broke down, they alerted a mechanic via shortwave. If they found stragglers, they guided them back to rejoin the main body of the column. David likened their role to that of sheepdogs. They kept the flock together and travelling in the same direction. Sheepdogs with two-stroke engines.
It was some flock, too. The column stretched a good five miles from the Lightbringer's lead car to the petrol tankers that brought up the rear. In between was a hodgepodge of civilian automobilia — rusty taxis, vans, pickups, off-roaders, puttering family saloons and station wagons, several motorhomes, a limousine that had seen better days but still exuded an air of battered, imperturbable elegance, and even a couple of buses — all overloaded with passengers, weaponry, plastic water kegs, tents, and non-perishable food. The captured military vehicles rolled in their midst, the half-tracks and the APCs, and of course the Scarab tanks, incongruous in all their roundness and their photovoltaic shimmer. The tanks' whirling drive spheres churned up great gobbets of earth and flung them high, meaning there was a gap of at least twenty yards between each one and the next vehicle in line. Otherwise, people drove pretty much nose to tail.
In all, David estimated that over three thousand people were on the move, perhaps as many as three and a half thousand. It was a fair-sized force. It was also hopelessly ragtag, as ill equipped and under-trained as an army could be. Seen from a distance the column resembled nothing so much as a line of refugees, an exodus from persecution or conflict. Military transport notwithstanding, this looked like a march away from battle, not towards.
He braked to a halt beside Zafirah, switched off the engine, heeled down the kickstand and pulled his riding goggles up onto his forehead. Like her he was wearing a cloth turban, secured under the chin, with a flap drawn across the lower half of the face to act as a dust filter. He pulled this down, to speak.
''Murder on the knees, these bikes,'' he said. ''And the backside.''
''Old man,'' she retorted.
He offered her his water flask. She drank. David then slaked his own thirst, his throat feeling so parched it ached.
Squinting, he surveyed the passing column. ''How far to Suez, do you reckon?''
''Sixty, seventy miles,'' Zafirah replied, with the merest of shrugs. ''Why?''
''Just wondering how long till we get attacked. Suez is where the Nephs will most likely hit us. We're making good progress but we'll have to slow down in order to cross the canal. It's a chokepoint, and we'll be sitting ducks.''
''Why not hit us sooner? Why not now? Aren't we sitting ducks out here in the open?''
''The Nephs aren't sure where we are. They know which way we went out of Luxor and where we're headed, because the people we left behind will have told them.''
''Then surely they're following us.''
''We have a couple of days' head start on them, and the desert's a damn big place and we're out of range of Saqqara Bird surveillance. So all they can do is send warships up to the head of the Gulf of Suez to lie in wait for us, with Saqqara Birds patrolling onshore. Soon as they get a glimpse of us they'll let loose with the heavy artillery.''
''We could cross the canal further inland, couldn't we?''
''Further inland there aren't any road bridges, and then you reach the Great Bitter Lakes and you're virtually at the Mediterranean coast. Suez is the only place where we can get onto the Sinai Peninsula easily, and the best chance the Nephs have of stopping us.''
It had occurred to David, more than once, that he was in the process of retracing the major portion of his journey from Petra to Luxor, and he felt that in a way this was helping him come to terms with the whole dreadful experience. A volunteer now rather than a captive, someone with a purpose more than merely surviving, he was erasing his own tracks, undoing what had been done.
''You've mentioned all this to the Lightbringer, I suppose,'' Zafirah said. ''Of course you have. You two are as thick as thieves. Is that the right saying in English?''
''It'll do. And yes, I've discussed it with him. Last night, in fact. He doesn't seem too worried.''
''He has a plan?''
''He says it's a contingency he's ready for. He disagrees with me about the possibility of a naval bombardment, though. He thinks the Nephs have upset the Freegyptian government too much already with the airstrike on Luxor. He says Prime Minister Bayoumi won't wear another Freegyptian town getting bombed, especially as Suez is so much closer to Cairo than Luxor is — practically next door — not to mention economically vital to Lower Freegypt.''
''The Nephthysians hardly care what Bayoumi thinks.''
''They might now, because he's made a public plea to the Hegemony and the Horusites to do something to help.''
''Help Freegypt? No one helps Freegypt.'' Zafirah said this with pride and some contempt. ''No one's ever given two figs what happens in my country. We've always been an ignorant, infidel backwater republic, and that isn't going to change.''