Monsters in the Sand Read Free Page A

scooped up a handful of dirt and patted it over his head, which had been shaved bald. He rubbed more dirt and twigs into his beard, now dyed black.
    Gathering the filthy cloak around him, he was a shadow among shadows as he crept through the forest. Two soldiers patrolled the barricade of empty baggage carts at the back of the army camp. A burst of gunfire erupted on the far side and the guards stopped, then peered nervously in the direction of the sound.
    Silent and swift as a wolf, Austen slipped from the trees and was among the carts. He crawled between wheels and shafts. When it was safe to move, he climbed from under the carts and began to beat his bare head with his hands and chant a prayer. Soldiersglanced at him, then quickly turned away in fear from one of the eunuch’s dervishes. To see into the eye of a dervish in trance was to receive the curse.
    He staggered and sang his way towards the big tent in the centre of the camp. When he was near the eunuch’s tent, he slapped his head and face to cover his searching eyes. Russian officers in red and gold uniforms stood near the twenty cannons aimed out at the chief’s army. Near each cannon was a stack of bags holding grapeshot of musket balls and sharp metal. One blast would reduce men and horses to a bloody mess.
    In front of the cannons, the chief’s horsemen made mock-charges, firing muskets into the air. They galloped close to the cannons and at the last moment dragged their horses back on their haunches. Dust swirled high, then they galloped away, shouting war cries.
    Austen knelt in prayer near the corner of the eunuch’s tent.
    Over on the right flank, chain mail glinted. The chief was leading his elite cavalry into position.
    A single rider emerged from the tumult of dust and horsemen. His cloak was a rainbow of colours and a shining mace hung from one side of his saddle. The royal sword glittered with rubies and onyx. Husseinwas a splendid chief, but his body swayed and he leant so far forward that he almost fell from the saddle. He passed between the cannons, into the eunuch’s camp and stopped only a few yards from Austen.
    Five officials in flowing robes and absurdly high turbans strutted out to greet him. One stepped forward and said, ‘I am the lord of the bath towels. This is the lord of the coffee grinders, the lord of inkpot cleaners, the lord of the pipes, and the lord of the spurs.’
    From the door of the eunuch’s tent ran the
farrashes –
the whippers – who slashed invisible people in the eunuch’s path. Dervishes in rags fell to their knees and beat their backs with thorny branches. Clowns dressed as hunchbacks, apes and skeletons tumbled over the ground. An orchestra of flutes, drummers and bell-ringers marched out and danced around them.
    And here he was, with that bloated face and those smooth, hairless cheeks. The eunuch’s enormous thighs rubbed, so that he waddled rather than walked. His turban danced with the lights of sapphires and rubies, and his pudgy fingers sparkled with rings. Austen tried to imagine what he’d looked like as a young Russian boy the day his parents had sold him to slave traders. At the age of just twelve, he was taken away and castrated.
    ‘Welcome, Prince Hussein!’ He stretched out his arms. ‘Climb down and kiss me.’
    ‘You are outnumbered. Your cannon will not stop all of us.’ Hussein’s head wobbled from the effort of speaking. He slid one finger into his mouth, drew it out and held it up in the tribal challenge:
Any of your men who survive will return to you as naked and weak as this finger.
    The eunuch laughed. ‘Insect! Your father hides gold that is owed to me as lawful taxes.’
    ‘I am ten years old. What do I know of taxes?’
    The eunuch gestured angrily and a cart, loaded with red-hot pincers, spikes and chains, rattled towards Hussein. He examined them and smiled. ‘I know nothing about hidden gold.’ He paused to gain his breath. His forehead ran with sweat. ‘Even if I did