took the battered cup of water offered to him. As he put it to his dry lips, he realised there was only a mouthful in it.
“Not too much just yet; you would be sick,” the stranger said with a polite smile as he took back the empty tin cup.
Felix studied the man’s neat turban and polished lapel badges, which he now recognised as the insignia of the Frontier Camel Corps. He couldn’t say a word; his throat was dry and his tongue felt as if it would choke him.
Lying on his stretcher in the dappled shade of a mastic tree, Felix observed his surroundings. A number of men were camped under palm trees with their camels; in the shade of the date palm grove stood two armoured cars; in the centre of the camp was a spring encircled by a low wall of stone. Lustrous bubbles danced a zigzag path through the crystal clear water. Despite his thirst, Felix looked again at the armoured cars; something most unusual demanded their despatch across such an arid desert, and to this far-flung outpost.
“Madness.” Felix turned to see the person who made the blunt remark. An Englishman in military uniform stood behind him; as their eyes met, he continued: “What could possibly bring you here? There must be a story behind your journey into this desert. I hope it is a worthy one…” His words trailed off as he walked away.
The Camel Corps soldier returned with a box. “Take no notice. In the Sahara everyone has a story to tell,” he said, watching the Englishman while he set up the box as a makeshift table. “I am Sergeant Ombud. If you need me, I’ll be over there.” He indicated the camp of men and camels only a short distance away. “Tomorrow, when you’re fit to travel, you can join your companions.”
A story. Yes, there is a tale to tel , thought Felix as he stretched his aching body. He recalled the day it all started very vividly. How naïve he was. Back then, how could any of them know what they knew now? It seemed hard to believe even now that he knew the truth.
Felix recalled how his fascination with Egypt had been initiated by his good friend Laszlo Almasy. As soldiers, years of war had forged a strong bond between the two men.
Felix had visited Laszlo at the Eastbourne Flying Club one day in June. It was a common interest in motor vehicles that brought them together again at an engineering workshop where Felix was employed.
Their conversations often turned to the obsession Laszlo held for the lost army of King Cambyses.
“How do you lose an army of fifty thousand without a trace?” Felix asked his learned friend.
“Felix,” Laszlo said, “imagination thrives on the question, not the answer.”
That was not the beginning; it was merely a prelude to it.
The adventure began in late November on a dismal, foggy day in London, when Felix received a letter from his uncle in Prague. A letter asking him to visit – and with some urgency. If there was one thing Felix knew, his uncle was never boring, having led a charmed life in the Orient. He’d had enough of fog and leaden skies, and needed no second invitation.
At twenty-four years of age, Felix’s youthful appearance and disarming smile belied the mind of a more mature man, shaped and sharpened by years of war and exploits that spanned the length and breadth of Russia. Resourceful and observant, he acted with unerring forethought, yet his mind and heart were locked in a struggle over his insatiable craving for adventure.
Felix felt caged in his dull job at the Eastbourne Technical Institute, while the Orient beckoned. His old friend aggravated his restlessness: the Austro-Hungarian aviation pioneer Laszlo Almasy shared and spurred on his adventurous ambitions with his passion for the desert.
Storm clouds gathered above the spires of St. Vitus cathedral. Felix was halfway across the bridge, feeling the air grow colder as a few icy raindrops fell. A gallery of saints lined the bridge and watched as a blinding blue flash split the air with an electrifying hiss and an ear-splitting crack that almost galvanized him to the spot. “Christ!” Felix muttered to himself. The rumbling receded and he watched the water swirling beneath the bridge where the thunderbolt had spent its force. Ozone hung pungent in the cold air.
Portents or omens, he did not believe in them; he was not superstitious, not even truly religious. As for coincidence, he considered it an idea used to sweep truth and other matters under the carpet. The very word irritated him. Among the procession of saints only one subject caused him to pause – a bronze of Christ crucified; a pang of sorrow flickered through him over his earlier profanity.
Clutching his collar to his throat, he hurried on to beat the imminent rain. He walked through the archway of the medieval tower at the end of the bridge, then into the narrow maze of streets past the Clementinum. Behind its solid walls, the Jesuit fathers had drummed Latin into his head, a task they carried out with special pleasure. By the time he left, he could recite the De Profundis in Latin – even if he did struggle to translate it. He remembered too the rector’s promise that the class would find it useful one day – and to his amazement, in his case it was true.
It was now quite a few years since Felix had visited his uncle’s apartment, but he remembered the heavy double doors, decorated with an impressive steel grill. He held the door open with a firm grip, to stop it slamming in the draught created as he entered. Without a pause, he raced up two flights of stairs and knocked on his uncle’s door. The door opened as he was about to knock again. If he was anxious, that emotion was displaced by surprise at the sight of the smiling person inviting him to enter. How time had changed him. Then he felt foolish for expecting his uncle to stay the same.
“Well my boy, don’t just stand there. Come let me have a good look at you.” Victor embraced him as he stepped clear of the doorway. “Felix, it was good of you to come. Now get that coat off and make yourself comfortable,” he said as they walked into the sitting room.
Not much had changed; the spacious room was as he recalled. One entire wall consisted of bookshelves. A bureau du plat, its edges decorated in gleaming ormolu, stood in the light that came through a large window with its heavy drapes drawn aside. Two comfortably upholstered armchairs faced each other on each side of a matching settee, a low table of oriental design positioned between them. A Persian carpet of exceptional beauty and workmanship covered the parquetry floor. Four large oil paintings in elaborate gold frames hung on the wall opposite the bookshelves. Here and there were sculptures and fine oriental artefacts. Of the four paintings, Felix particularly liked the one of Naples; it was dramatic and a focal point of the room.
“It’s good to be here, but tell me, Uncle, how’s Egypt?”
“More on that later, Felix. First you tell me about yourself. See over there?” He indicated with a flick of his hand. “I saved all your letters from Russia. It appears they’re in a lot of bother.”
“I would describe it more bluntly, and even then words would fail me.”
“I’ll make us a drink while you tell me about it.” Victor reached for two crystal tumblers. “I’d like to hear it first hand.”
Felix paused to pick up an object that held his curiosity. “What is this?” he asked, holding up a round piece of wood, about six inches long and one wide, with a piece of bevelled steel protruding at one end, like a claw.
“A chisel. That’s what the ancient Egyptians used to carve their hieroglyphs some two and a half thousand years ago.”
“That’s
