Nonomura chuckled, and his men chimed in. ''Oh no, Lieutenant. We're not here for that. The Lightbringer hasn't a hope of success. The gods are too powerful to let him win. We're here to die, simple as that. This whole enterprise has an air of glorious futility about it. It looks like being as pointless and meaningless a sacrifice of life as it is possible to imagine. So naturally we want to be a part of that.''
David frowned, then held his cup out for a refill. ''That doesn't make any sense, but then maybe I need a bit more alcohol inside me.'' In truth, he was already buzzing from the sake and was starting to relish the clarity and calmness that being drunk brought.
''It makes sense to any Anubian, with or without the aid of alcohol,'' said Nonomura. ''We live to die. Life has no goal for us beyond taking us to the point at which we leave it. We despise life. We endure it while it lasts, but death is where we wish to be. Our ruler is Anubis, so why would we not want to be closer to him, in his realm?''
One of the Australians, a lanky giant with dyed black hair and skin that had seldom seen the sun, said, ''We all wind up in Iaru eventually. It's just that some of us want to get there sooner than the rest. You know what they call us in Oz, me and my type, the ones who go along with the Asians? We're the 'can't wait, mate' brigade.''
''But surely,'' David said, ''if you're keen to die, you at least want your deaths to mean something? To achieve something?''
''Forgive me, but that is Osirisiac thinking,'' said Nonomura. ''You are with the Lightbringer, you have come this far with him, so I can only assume you're aware that there's a good chance you may perish fighting on his behalf.''
''I'd prefer not to, but yes, it may well happen.''
''And if it does, you'd like to sell your death as dearly as you can. You don't want to throw your life away.''
''Of course.''
''There's the difference,'' said the Asian. ''For us, a good death is a cheap death. We show our contempt for life by dispensing with it as we might a… a…''
''A pair of old underpants,'' said the Australian.
''Thank you, Gunner Coburn,'' said Nonomura. ''Not as elegant a simile as I was looking for, but it'll do.''
''No worries.''
''So,'' David said, ''you're here effectively to commit suicide?''
''Yes. In the vainest and most fatalistic of circumstances. The moment we learned about the Lightbringer, we knew we had to come and take part. The Nephthysians are going to slaughter this little army of yours. You're doomed. That appeals to us greatly.''
''You're not even going to try to fight?'' David felt cold disgust snaking through him, counteracting the heat of the sake. ''So what's the good of you? You've brought us seven abso-bloody-lutely lethal helicopters and you're just going to, what, crash them into the enemy the moment you see them? Thanks a lot!''
''No, no, please don't misunderstand, Lieutenant. We will fight. We will fight till every last one of our bullets, missiles, and ba bolts is gone. That is the only honourable and fair thing to do. But after that our lives are forfeit. Then we will crash our aircraft into the enemy, and take as many of them with us as we can.''
''Oh.'' David unclenched. ''Well, that's more like it.''
''Your enemy isn't strictly speaking our enemy,'' said Nonomura, ''so we gain nothing and lose nothing by killing them.''
''Adding to the meaninglessness of your deaths.''
''Indeed.''
''Well, you're all mad,'' David said, raising his cup, ''but I salute you.''
The Anubians reciprocated, saluting him with their cups.
David stayed with the Anubians a while longer, till a sliver of pre-dawn grey appeared behind Mount Tabor, levering sky and land apart. He got steadily drunker, and when the Australian, Gunner Coburn, started singing a song in praise of Anubis, he joined in. He wasn't familiar with the verses, but the chorus had a catchy tune and was easy to pick up:
Oh, a knife to the heart
Or a bullet in the back'll
Get you quick-smart
To the kingdom of the Jackal.
The Asian Anubians sang along too with this death-affirming ditty, swaying to the rhythm and slurring the words merrily.
When, finally, David stood up to leave, his head rushed down to his boots. The world whirled and wobbled, and he knew he was going to be sick. It was a matter of when, not if.
''Got to… got to go now,'' he told Nonomura.
The squadron leader nodded vaguely, like someone dropping off to sleep.
''I'll see you around.''
''Yes,'' said Nonomura. ''Yes. We shall meet again in the Field of Reeds.'' The Anubian for farewell.
''Not too soon, I hope,'' David said, staggering away.
Moving like a sailor on deck in high seas, he made his way back to the footpath that led up the mountainside. Halfway up, he stopped and puked, so violently it felt as though he was turning himself inside out. He couldn't recall when he had last been quite so severely, so incapacitatingly inebriated. Not since he'd learned the news of Steven's ''death'' and had gone out on a bender with a couple of friends in London and woken up in an alley with a policeman prodding him and advising him to move on or be arrested. Even the vomiting brought no relief. He cursed himself for being so careless and rice wine for being so beguilingly potent. He continued the uphill journey bent double, sometimes on hands and knees. He planned on crawling into his little camp bed before anyone saw him and catching a few hours' sleep. If war came today, he'd be in no fit state to face it without some shuteye beforehand.
Gaining the summit, he looked around. Sunrise was still several minutes away. Everything was grey and bleary. He could see his little bivouac, perched with several others among the rubble of shattered, ancient houses. Not far. A few hundred paces.
He blinked, and the sun was nearly up, and his bivouac was still a few hundred paces away. He stood up on the spot where he had briefly passed out. He tottered forwards. Then he passed out again.
He half-opened his eyes, hearing voices. He was lying on his side, cheek in the dust. Two people were talking softly nearby, a man and a woman, in Arabic. Dimly David knew that he knew both voices. They were so familiar, it seemed absurd to him that he couldn't for the moment identify them. There was a time lag between what he was thinking and what he wanted to think.
Steven. And… Zafirah?
He tried to stand, so that he could see them. Standing, however, had become a skill as hard to master as juggling. The best he could manage was hauling himself up onto all fours, from which position he was able to peer over the top of an old stone rain-cistern.
His brother and Zafirah weren't as close by as he'd thought. They were at the entrance to the command post, perhaps 200 yards from where he was crouching. In the dawn stillness their voices, though low, carried far.
He couldn't make out their words, and anyway his Arabic wasn't up to translating. He focused on their body language. What did it tell him? Might it reveal what Zafirah was doing up here, talking to the Lightbringer at this hour?
Zafirah looked perplexed, to him. Her usual swagger was gone. There was a hapless hunch to her shoulders. Afraid? Maybe. Almost everyone in the Lightbringer's army was tense, anxious, and understandably so. Attack was imminent. But somehow he didn't feel Zafirah belonged in that category. This was a fight she'd long been spoiling for, and if she harboured any fears, she was the type to keep them to herself.
What, then? What was the reason for the stooped stance, the one foot toeing the other, the hands that didn't seem to know where to put themselves?
And Steven. He was looking concerned. Conciliatory. His head was canted to one side. The patient listener. The man who cared.