The Lost Army Of Cambyses Read online

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Praise for The Lost Army of Cambyses

  By the Same Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  EGYPT

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 CAIRO, SEPTEMBER 2000

  Chapter 2 THE WESTERN DESERT, A WEEK LATER

  Chapter 3 LONDON, FOURTEEN MONTHS LATER

  Chapter 4 CAIRO

  Chapter 5 LUXOR, THE NEXT MORNING

  Chapter 6 CAIRO

  Chapter 7 LUXOR

  Chapter 8 CAIRO

  Chapter 9 CAIRO

  Chapter 10 LUXOR

  Chapter 11 CAIRO

  Chapter 12 NORTHERN SUDAN, NEAR THE EGYPTIAN BORDER

  Chapter 13 CAIRO

  Chapter 14 CAIRO

  Chapter 15 LUXOR

  Chapter 16 CAIRO

  Chapter 17 SAQQARA

  Chapter 18 LUXOR

  Chapter 19 CAIRO

  Chapter 20 LUXOR

  Chapter 21 CAIRO

  Chapter 22 CAIRO

  Chapter 23 CAIRO

  Chapter 24 LUXOR

  Chapter 25 CAIRO

  Chapter 26 LUXOR

  Chapter 27 CAIRO

  Chapter 28 LUXOR, THE THEBAN HILLS

  Chapter 29 LUXOR, THE THEBAN HILLS

  Chapter 30 LUXOR

  Chapter 31 THE WESTERN DESERT

  Chapter 32 LUXOR, THE THEBAN HILLS

  Chapter 33 THE WESTERN DESERT

  Chapter 34 THE WESTERN DESERT

  Chapter 35 CAIRO

  Chapter 36 THE WESTERN DESERT

  Chapter 37 CAIRO

  Chapter 38 THE WESTERN DESERT

  Chapter 39 THE WESTERN DESERT

  Chapter 40 THE WESTERN DESERT

  Chapter 41 THE WESTERN DESERT

  Chapter 42 THE WESTERN DESERT

  Chapter 43 THE WESTERN DESERT

  Chapter 44 EPILOGUE

  Author's Note

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  Paul Sussman's two great passions have always been writing and archaeology. He fulfils the former by working as a freelance journalist and the latter by spending two months of each year excavating in Egypt. He lives in London with his wife. The Lost Army of Cambyses is his first novel, his new novel, The Last Secret of the Temple, is also published by Bantam Books.

  Praise for The Lost Army of Cambyses

  'A great adventure, one of the most intriguing mysteries of the past, a great novel masterfully written' Valerie Massimo Manfredi, author of The Spartan

  'A tough, sometimes brutal, but always engrossing thriller. Sussman knows his Egypt, past and present, and he has the gift of creating engaging heroes of both sexes and really, really vile villains' Dr. Barbara Mertz, archaeologist

  'At last, a thriller that gets away from the hackneyed old 'curse of Tut' stuff; and since Sussman has actually excavated in Egypt himself, we can trust his background detail . . . the fast-paced plot is one among many good things in this very assured first novel . . . There is also a great description of a khamsin, the sandstorm wind, and I can vouch for Sussman's accuracy, having been terrified silly by enduring such a phenomenon myself Scotland on Sunday

  www.booksattransworld.co.uk

  'Gripping . . . a spine-chilling, fast-paced thriller packed . . . It has all the ingredients of a James Bond adventure: exotic locations, priceless antiquities, evil fanatics bent on global domination, brutal murders, corrupt policemen, human heroism, and it keeps you guessing right up to the final chapter. It's rare to find a book which sets your heartbeat racing as you timidly but compulsively turn the page, terrified at what might jump out in the next paragraph. But in a style reminiscent of Patricia Cornwell's early books, The Lost Army of Cambyses shocks as well as enthralls . . . A compelling read' Sunday Business Post

  'Adrenaline-packed . . . combines all the elements of a truly great adventure story – a 2,000 year old historical mystery, buried treasure, a race against time – with a profound knowledge of, and feel for, the land of Egypt, both past and present. At the end you feel like you've been on a rollercoaster, in a library, and down the Nile all at the same time . . . Superbly evocative, with a huge epic sweep' Crime Time

  'A textured, well-researched and expertly paced debut . . . the murders and thrills accumulate . . . truly inventive' Publishers Weekly

  'An enjoyable adventure story, replete with archaeological lore and set against a backdrop of Islamic militant action' Spectator

  'An all-action archaeological adventure . . . an edge of your seat thrill ride . . . There is also a great feeling of the desert's vastness, especially in the cinematic adrenaline-packed ending' Wealden Times

  Also by Paul Sussman

  THE LAST SECRET OF THE TEMPLE

  and published by Bantam Books

  THE

  LOST ARMY

  OF

  CAMBYSES

  PAUL SUSSMAN

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ISBN 9781407041209

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  THE LOST ARMY OF CAMBYSES

  A BANTAM BOOK :

  ISBN: 9781407041209

  Version 1.0

  Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press,

  a division of Transworld Publishers

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Bantam Press edition published 2002

  Bantam edition published 2003

  Bantam edition reissued 2006

  7 9 10 8 6

  Copyright © Paul Sussman 2002

  Map and illustrations © Neil Gower 2002

  The extract on page 7 from The Histories by Herodotus, translated by Aubrey de Sélincourt, revised by John Marincola (Penguin Classics 1954, second revised edition 1996), translation copyright 1954 by Aubrey de Sélincourt, revised edition copyright © John Marincola, 1996, is reproduced by permission of Penguin Books Ltd.

  The right of Paul Sussman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Condition of Sale

  This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

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  The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009.

  To beautiful Alicky,

  for putting up with me,

  and to Mum and Dad,

  for supporting but never pushing

  'The force which was sent against the Ammonians started from Thebes with guides, and can be traced a
s far as the town of Oasis, which . . . is seven days journey across the sand from Thebes. General report has it that the army got as far as this, but of its subsequent fate there is no news whatsoever. It never reached the Ammonians and it never returned to Egypt. There is, however, a story told by the Ammonians themselves and by others who heard it from them, that when the men had left Oasis, and in their march across the desert had reached a point about midway between the town and the Ammonian border, a southerly wind of extreme violence drove the sand over them in heaps as they were taking their mid-day meal, so that they disappeared forever.'

  Herodotus, The Histories, Book Three,

  translated by Aubrey de Sélincourt

  PROLOGUE

  THE WESTERN DESERT, 523 BC

  The fly had been pestering the Greek all morning. As if the furnace-like heat of the desert wasn't enough, and the forced marches, and the stale rations, now he had this added torment. He cursed the gods and landed a heavy blow on his cheek, dislodging a shower of sweat droplets, but missing the insect by some way.

  'Damned flies!' he spat.

  'Ignore them,' said his companion.

  'I can't ignore them. They're driving me mad! If I didn't know better I'd think our enemies had sent them.'

  His companion shrugged. 'Maybe they have. They say the Ammonians have strange powers. I heard they can turn themselves into wild beasts. Jackals and lions and suchlike.'

  'They can turn themselves into anything they want,' growled the Greek. 'When I get my hands on them I'll make them pay for this damned march. Four weeks we've been out here! Four weeks!'

  He swung his water-skin from his shoulder and drank from it, grimacing at its hot, oily contents. What he'd give for a cup of cool, fresh water from the hill springs of Naxos; water that didn't taste as if fifty pox-ridden whores had just bathed in it!

  'I'm giving up this mercenary business,' he grunted. 'This campaign's the last.'

  'You say that every time.'

  'This time I mean it. I'm going back to Naxos to find a wife and a nice bit of land. Olive trees – there's money in that, you know.'

  'You'd never stick it.'

  'I will,' said the Greek, taking another vain swat at the fly. 'I will, you know. This time it's different.'

  And this time it was different. For twenty years he'd been fighting other people's wars. It was too long, and he knew it. He couldn't stand these marches any more. And the pain from the old arrow wound had been getting worse this year. Now he could barely lift his shield arm up above the level of his chest. One more expedition and that was the end of it. He was going back to grow olive trees on the island of his birth.

  'So who are these Ammonians anyway?' he asked, taking another gulp of water.

  'No idea,' his companion replied. 'They've got some temple Cambyses wants destroyed. There's an oracle there, apparently. That's about all I know.'

  The Greek grunted, but didn't pursue the conversation. In truth he wasn't much interested in those he fought against. Libyans, Egyptians, Carians, Hebrews, even his fellow Greeks – it was all the same to him. You turned up, killed who you had to kill and then joined another expedition, as often as not against the very people who'd just paid you. Today his master was Cambyses of Persia. Yet not so long ago he'd fought against that same Cambyses in the army of Egypt. That's how it was in this business.

  He took another swig of water, allowing his mind to drift back to Thebes, to his last day there before they'd set out across the desert. He and a friend, Phaedis of Macedon, had taken a skin of beer and crossed Iteru, the great river, to the valley they called the Gates of the Dead, where it was said many great kings were buried. They'd spent the afternoon drinking and exploring, discovering a narrow shaft at the foot of a steep slope of rubble into which, as a dare, they'd both crawled. Inside the walls and ceiling had been covered in painted images and the Greek, pulling out his knife, had begun carving his name into the soft plaster: ΔYMMAXOΣ O MENENΔOY NAΞIOΣ TAYTA TA ΘAYMAΣTA EIΔON AYPION TOIΣ THI AMMONIΔI EΔPAI ENOIKOYΣIN EΠIΣTPATEYΣΩ EIΓAP . . . 'I, Dymmachus, son of Menendes of Naxos, saw these wonders. Tomorrow I march against the Ammonians. May . . .'

  But before he could finish, poor old Phaedis had knelt on a scorpion, letting out an almighty scream and scrabbling out of the shaft like a frightened cat. How he'd laughed!

  The joke had been on him, however, for Phaedis's leg had swelled to the size of a log and he'd been unable to march with the army the next day, thus missing four weeks of torment in the desert. Poor old Phaedis? Lucky old Phaedis more like! He chuckled at the memory.

  He was dragged from his reverie by the voice of his companion.

  'Dymmachus! Hey, Dymmachus!'

  'What?'

  'Look at that, you dolt. Up ahead.'

  The Greek lifted his eyes and stared forward along the line of marching troops. They were passing through a broad valley between high dunes and there ahead, its outline warped by the fierce glare of the midday sun, rose a huge, pyramid-shaped rock, its sides so uniform they seemed to have been deliberately carved into that shape. There was something faintly menacing about it, standing silent and alone in the otherwise featureless landscape, and the Greek involuntarily raised his hand to the Isis amulet at his neck, muttering a swift prayer to ward off evil spirits.

  They marched on for another half-hour before a halt was called for the midday meal, by which time the Greek's company was almost alongside the rock. He staggered towards it and slumped down in the sliver of shade at its foot.

  'How much further?' he groaned. 'Oh Zeus, how much further?'

  Boys came round with bread and figs and the men ate and drank. Afterwards some fell to scoring their names into the surface of the rock. The Greek leaned back and closed his eyes, enjoying the sudden breeze that had come up. He felt the tickle of a fly as it landed on his cheek, the same one, he was sure, as had been tormenting him all morning. This time he made no attempt to swat it, allowing it to wander back and forth across his lips and eyelids. It took off and landed again, took off and landed, testing his resolve. Still he didn't move and the insect, lulled into a false sense of security, finally settled on his forehead. With infinite care the Greek raised his hand, held it for a moment six inches from his face, then slammed it violently against his temple.

  'Got you, you bastard!' he cried, staring down at the remains of the fly smeared across his palm. 'At last!'

  His triumph was short-lived, however, for at that moment a faint murmur of alarm came drifting forward from the rear of the column.

  'What is it?' he asked, wiping away the fly and standing, hand on sword. 'An attack?'

  'I don't know,' said the man beside him. 'There's something going on behind us.'

  The hubbub was growing. Four camels thundered past, their packs trailing in their wake, froth dripping from their mouths. Screams could be heard and muffled shouting. The breeze, too, was getting stronger, buffeting into his face, making his hair flicker and dance.

  The Greek shielded his eyes and stared southwards along the valley. There seemed to be a sort of darkness coming up behind them. A cavalry charge, he thought at first. Then a sudden furious gust of wind smacked into his face and he heard clearly what had until now been just a garbled cry.

  'Oh Isis,' he whispered.

  'What?' said his companion.

  The Greek turned to him. There was fear in his eyes. 'Sandstorm.'

  Nobody moved or spoke. They'd all heard of the sandstorms of the western desert, the way they came out of nowhere and swallowed everything in their path. Whole cities had been devoured by them, it was said, entire civilizations lost.

  'If you meet a sandstorm there's only one thing to do,' one of the Libyan guides had told them.

  'What?' they had asked him.

  'Die,' he had replied.

  'Save us!' someone croaked. 'May the gods protect us!'

  And then, suddenly, everyone was running and shouting.

  'Save us!' they screamed. 'Have mercy
on us!'