The Age of Ra

26. Armed

The Lightbringer got swiftly out there, crossing the plain, assessing the state of play, seeing what had been lost and what was still intact, redeploying his resources, shoring up gaps in the lines, and, wherever he went, strengthening his troops' resolve with a few well chosen words, a congratulation here, an encouragement there.

''Remember,'' he said, at every opportunity, ''it's not the size of the army in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the army. Which makes us the strongest army there's ever been.''

He also oversaw the burial of the dead and the triage of the wounded. Anyone too badly hurt to engage in combat again was pulled back to the field hospital that had been set up on the northern side of Mount Megiddo. The rest were treated on the spot and offered a choice of recuperation behind lines or staying put. Invariably they plumped for the latter, much to their leader's delight.

When the Lightbringer returned from his tour of inspection, David was all set to challenge him about the Zafirah incident. He headed for the command post, intending to intercept him and demand a private audience. It seemed churlish under the circumstances — petty, even — but he had to know if what he'd seen earlier that morning was what he thought he'd seen. The Lightbringer's army had just skirmished with the enemy, and a bigger, fiercer battle was looming, but something important was at stake here: his faith in his brother, what remained of it.

The Lightbringer appeared with an entourage of warlords. He greeted David with a weary wave.

''Planning meeting,'' he said. ''Coming?''

David hesitated. A planning meeting could go on for hours, and all that time he would be sitting there, listening to conversations conducted in rapid-fire Arabic, with the Lightbringer clueing him in on what was being said, but only now and then, during infrequent lulls in the proceedings. He couldn't see himself waiting that long to have his man-to-man with Steven. Instead, he could see himself quietly fuming in a corner of the room, getting more and more agitated until in the end he stood up and said or did something rash and regrettable.

He swallowed hard. Much though it pained him, he would have to put the matter on hold. For now.

''No,'' he said.

''No?''

''You don't need me. I'd be better off finding myself some weapons and getting down there.'' He nodded towards the plain. ''That's where I'm needed, I think.''

A heartbeat pause. Then: ''Fair enough. If you say so.''

''I do,'' David said, and left.

He made a beeline for the armoury, which occupied the husk of a building that had probably been Megiddo's main counting-house. The city, in its heyday, had stood at the nexus of several major trade routes and had raked in revenue accordingly, in the form of levies and handling fees. Now, in a hall where actuaries had once hunched over ledgers and money had been accumulated, an arsenal was stockpiled. Under the eye of a man called Farooq, who was, for want of a better job title, quartermaster, David browsed. Farooq recommended an Argentine pistol, a Horusite mace. He proffered David several types of sub-machine gun. ''Very good, this one. Three-round-burst setting. Kill, kill, kill.'' With a gurning mime of firing the gun. ''And save on ammo.'' But what David was after, and found, were an Osirisiac ba lance and a crook-and-flail set.

He hefted the ba lance, then the crook and flail. This was what he understood. This was what he knew. The weapons felt right in his hands. They were things he had been trained to use and knew he could rely on. A god rod and a pair of modified farming implements — tools of the trade.

He checked the charge in the lance. Three-quarters full. Not bad going. He strapped it on his back. He hooked the crook and flail onto his belt.

Then, tossing a ''Shokran'' to Farooq, he exited the armoury and set off down the mountain.

Steven hadn't tried to stop him.

That was the thought that obsessed David as he headed south across the plain, past smouldering fields and around bomb craters, to the forwardmost line.

He'd said he was going down here, into the thick of things, and Steven had replied, ''Fair enough. If you say so.'' As if meaning: You go and face the enemy head-on, when he comes. Put your life in jeopardy. I don't care.

Perhaps he'd been preoccupied, too many other things to think about. Perhaps he'd seen the determination in his brother's eye and known there was nothing he could to dissuade him.

Or perhaps letting David go to the battlefront, where he might well get killed, was convenient for Steven. His rival for Zafirah, eliminated.

No, Steven wasn't like that.

Was he?

David wasn't sure he knew his little brother any more. Steven hadn't simply changed into the Lightbringer. Being the Lightbringer had changed Steven. It was more than a role, more than the donning of mask, jumpsuit and gloves. As David walked across the plain, he looked at the Lightbringer's troops recovering from the raid and preparing themselves for the impending ground battle, and he admired them and pitied them in equal measure. The Lightbringer had given these Freegyptians something to believe in. He'd drawn them on with a vision of their god-independent way of life being spread across the globe. What they didn't understand, at least not at any conscious level, was that he had achieved this by behaving much like a god himself. He had bent them to his will, as a god would. He refused to show them his true face, keeping a godlike distance between him and them. He pretended to care about them, and perhaps he did, but in a lofty, aloof way, and it was important to them that they loved him as much as, if not more than, he did them.

And now they were cleaning their guns, checking the magazines, attaching grenades to bandolier belts, sharpening knives, sitting in tight-lipped anticipation of what was to come. Some had brought bleached-white cotton balaclavas with them, which they were wearing now, to resemble their leader. Some were smearing their faces with chalk dust or pale foundation make-up — war paint — for the same purpose. And some were so sick with nerves, their faces were ashen, whitened by natural means. It was all so brave. So wonderful. So inexpressibly sad.

He passed near the spot where he knew Zafirah and her fellow Liberators were positioned. They had come through the bombing unscathed. He saw Zafirah busy stripping a rifle down to its components, hunched over the task like a concert pianist tackling a difficult passage in a sonata. He slipped by without her seeing. He didn't want to face her at present. Whatever was going on between her and his brother, he didn't hold her to blame. To some extent it was his own fault. He'd had his chance with her and blown it. Talking to her would only remind him of that, and of Steven's underhand behaviour. It would deepen the mire of bitterness he was sinking into.

David's skull crackled with the onset of a hangover. Somewhere amid the brittle pain a voice was telling him that he could, should, simply walk away from all this. Go west, the only direction from which the enemy hosts weren't approaching. Aim for the coast, get on a boat, find his way back to Cyprus and his garrison. Now was the time. His last chance, really. Wash his hands of this whole business. Forget Steven. Forget Zafirah. Return to the army and all he was familiar with. Return to his gods, Osiris of the Djed-pillar, Isis of the Harvest, begging their forgiveness with prayer and altar-sacrifice. Disentangle himself from the coils of a cause that he didn't truly hold with and a fraternal relationship that had turned upside down, with the older brother the thrall of the younger. Everything was wrong here. He knew it. He didn't belong. This was not his fight. He should quit while he still could. Getting through and out of Arabia would be difficult but not impossible. He was a smart and resourceful fellow. And if what was waiting for him when he rejoined the army was a court martial, so be it. He suspected, though, that in the light of its deeds at Petra the army might prefer to let him slip quietly back into the ranks. No questions asked, no awkward answers raised. Or else grant him an honourable discharge if he wanted it. Were he to leave Megiddo now, it would be to face an uncertain future — but there would at least be a future. Staying meant facing a very certain future, and a very short one.

He was tempted. But he resisted. And the temptation was unexpectedly easy to resist.

He would finish what he had started. He would fight here.

Not for the Lightbringer. Not for Steven.

For these people. The Freegyptians. For their sake.

He was David Westwynter, a paratrooper, a soldier, a good one.

His presence here would make little or no difference to the outcome of the battle.

But it would make all the difference in the world to him.