“We may have lost your treasure master but as you’ll see it wasn’t my fault. With this map I will return to this place and find it again. And when I do I will bring it to you in Rome. And I, Marcus Marcellus, General of Caesar’s army, I will be a hero.”
He mounted his horse and taking one last look at the gorge he turned and set off towards Carthage.
He patted his horse’s neck.
“I did not choose this. It is my destiny.”
PART THREE
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Alfred Dennis cursed again as the Bedford lorry he was driving struck another pothole. It jumped, shuddered and jarred as it bounced along over the rough desert road. He swerved around another deep pothole and took evasive action to avoid the next. The Bedford slewed around and got dangerously close to leaving the road but he held it. In the passenger seat his long time friend Wilfred Burroughs held on to his gun and the map. Twice he had been on the floor because of the condition of the road.
“What a bloody shit road Alf,” he called out before going into a coughing fit from the dust that was all around them. Even with the windows closed it still found its way into the cab.
“Worst road I’ve ever driven.”
Wilfie looked out at the vast desert ahead of and around them. hills to either side, the mountains always on the horizon. This was a desolate barren expanse of sand covering most of North Africa. Its name?
The Sahara desert.
“What the hell did the Germans want with this anyway?”
“Beats me,” Alfred replied “perhaps that maniac in Berlin sent them to capture it. Now Rommel’s here to claim it. Sand, sand and more bloody sand.”
“Rommel,” Wilfie said “Well he hasn’t met Monty yet. Monty will smash him. Monty or Alex.”
“I certainly hope so,” Alf said avoiding another rut in the road. They were soldiers of the Royal Engineers, part of the greater eighth army under the command of General Sir Bernard Montgomery. They were the desert rats. Rommel the desert fox.
Alfred and his men were on their way to Matmata to move minefields laid by the axis powers. Part of the road had been extensively damaged by the fighting and they would make what repairs they could to that also.
Unsure as to whether the road was mined a column of Valentine tanks had ventured into the desert in heavy rain on either side of the road and had got stuck, bogged down. The tanks too heavy for the sand that turned to mud like a thick soup.
Alfred and his men in seven Bedford’s, twelve men in each truck, were to get the Valentines out if possible. Driving the lead truck Alfred crested a rise and the first view of Matmata lay before them. The ruins dominating the skyline. He sped past the first few scattered houses either side of the road and quickly arrived in a clearing in the centre of the small village. He brought the Bedford to a halt, the following vehicles fanning out to either side.
Alfred swung his cab door open and jumped down to the road as Captain Bill Rogers came strutting up. Bill Rogers was in charge of Alf’s group. Together he and Alf removed a pin each from the tailboard of Alf’s truck and lowered it. Rogers banged his hand on the side of the truck.
“Everybody out lads. Stretch your legs. We’ll rest here for an hour. Find yourselves some shade.”
Men gratefully jumped down onto the dusty road. Hours travelling in the backs of the trucks was far from comfortable. Many made jokes to their colleagues. Lots of shoulder slaps and ribs playfully punched. All were relieved to be out for a short while. The threat of enemy fighter planes strafing a canvas backed lorry that offered no protection a constant threat.
Many wandered off to relieve themselves before making their way back to the trucks. One of them eighteen year old Johnny Larder came excitedly up to Alfred.
“Hey ‘old un’ come and take a look at this.”
“I’ll give you old un,” Alf said grabbing Johnny playfully around the neck and pinning his head down by his ribs and knocking him on the skull with his knuckles.
“Cheeky sod,” Alf laughed. He was twenty five. He had been in the war since its start and at his age was the oldest and considered the wisest among them. Rogers was thirty. The men all trusted Alf over their Captain and they all believed that if they followed him they each had a chance of making it out of this mans war alive. Sergeant Alfred Dennis had turned down promotion twice.
He now let go of Johnny and the youth dashed forward a few paces. Alf caught him and they stood side by side and peered down. The ground was hollowed out like a basin. Alf guessed it was at least two hundred paces across and at least fifty paces deep. An entrance tunnel was cut down a gentle slope. They could see steps that had been cut out of the rock that led up to doors made crudely of wood. Rock cut dwellings for a simple people.
Home to the Matmata Berbers legend said that the warlike Berbers hid in their pit-homes to escape their enemies but the truth was they had found it easier to dig into the soft rock than to build with it. The whole area was clean and tidy. Swept meticulously by the women who lived there.
A lone goat wandered slowly down the slope, the bell around its neck clanking with an echo. It paused to watch the two figures above. Then it bleated and began to sniff about. The rest of the herd came wandering down the slope and bumping into each other they filled the pit. One side was shaded and they moved towards the cool shade and settled down. Their herder arrived and though he saw the two British soldiers he also took no notice of them.
British, American, German, French, Italian. It made no difference to him. His people had seen many invading armies over the Millenia. None of them had ever lasted or had a lasting impact on life for him.
“He doesn’t seem bothered by us,” Johnny said.
“Why would he? He has nothing to gain by our presence. Come on lets get back,” Alf said clapping a friendly hand across Johnny’s shoulder.
They went back to the trucks. Some of the men were sleeping, using rolled up blankets as pillows. Local people milled around trying to make a sale of various things they possessed. Four of the engineers were standing around a well. They had tied some new rope around the bucket and had so far successfully pulled up four pails of water.
“Fill some of our water barrels if you can,” Alf said “if there’s enough.”
“The bucket’s hitting something Sarge,” Jack smith said.
“Maybe the well’s empty,” Alf replied peering down it.
“Don’t think so. It doesn’t feel like it’s hitting the bottom.”
“Bring the bucket up.”
Alf began untying the bucket as soon as it was in daylight. He held the loose end of the rope as he surveyed his men.
“Johnny.”
“Sir?”
“Get up here.”
“Sir?”
Alf began passing the rope around his waist and tying a very large uncomfortable knot to his front.
“You just volunteered soldier.”
“To do what?”
“To go down there.”
“What!” Johnny backed away from the well horrified.
“Something’s blocking the well. We need water. You’re going to find out what’s blocking it.”
“I don’t want to go down there.”
He backed into Smith and Burroughs who stopped him, grabbed his arms and legs, tipped him up and carried him over to the lip of the well. The others sat around in the shade laughing.
“Mind your head,” Alf said pushing him face first. They lowered him slowly down. Alf feeding the rope across his back. It was dark in the well, light only penetrating a few feet in front of Johnny’s face. Halfway down he detected a stench. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. Then the smell got worse and he covered his mouth and nose. He could feel the temperature dropping the lower he got.