Monsters in the Sand by David Harris Page B

an invisible cloak of violence. His predatory eyes stared with the blank malevolence of a snake. Though he was barely twenty years old, he’d stood at the mouth of a cave and killed seven irregulars in hand-to-hand combat, then fallen dazed as a musket ball clipped his forehead. His wife, who was just sixteen, had taken his sword and was guarding him as he struggled back to his feet. She’d killed four men before being cut down. Crazed with rage, Abraham had charged the surviving irregulars and they had turned and fled. Fires of that rage were still simmering.
    On this triumphant return to Nimrud, Austen was not armed with guns, but with letters from Constantinople, Mosul and London. He had money from the British Museum and a small bag of gold coins from Aunt Sara. His mad ride from Mirkan to Constantinople and his refusal to surrender had won him another chance at Nimrud.
    Hormuzd, the newly appointed paymaster at Nimrud, led a string of horses ridden by tall mountain men. Following them came more horses loaded with the men’s families, tents, cooking pots, and bundles of clothes.
    Little Hadla’s eyes opened wide when she saw unveiled women riding by.
    Around the corner of the mound, four greyhounds tore into sight. Flowing like water over rapids, they raced towards Austen and leapt up to lick his hands.
    Shouts of joy came from the camp at the base of the mound. ‘The Lion has returned!’
    ‘Ya bey,
you have come back to us!’ Mohammed Emin ran out to take Austen’s reins. ‘We were afraid you would never return. Now the people of Selamiya village will be prosperous again.’ He turned his cloak inside out so he would look his best as the procession entered the camp.
    Two of the Selamiya workers growled in anger and half-drew their swords when they saw the women without veils.
    Abraham Aghar slid a long-barrelled musket from its holster.
    ‘Peace, my brothers,’ Austen called to his men. ‘The Christians will camp out of sight on the top of the mound, and no offence will be given.’
    Hormuzd led the infidel around the edge of the camp and towards the south end of Nimrud, where there was an easy way to the top.
    ‘Where is the sheik?’ Austen asked Mohammed Emin.
    ‘He stays on the mound. He has not come down since you left, but wanders among the palaces with his guns. All I can do is take him food and water. While you were away, he built those huts with his own hands of pain and prayed each day for Allah to bring you back.’
    ‘Who is ploughing on Nimrud?’
    ‘Five men of the sheik’s tribe. Now that Tahyar has brought peace and justice to the land, the people are returning. The sheik’s men and their wives and children came from the mountains to find him. He commanded them to live there with him, plough the surface to look for alabaster walls and plant barley.’
    ‘Mohammed Emin, see that third horse behindme? Unload the sacks and share the raisins and figs with all the people.’
    Austen climbed the narrow path up Nimrud. Part way up, he looked back over the desert. A carpet of red poppies had been flung over it and the black tents of nomads and white tents of their wives had sprouted since the first rains. Flocks of sheep and camels roamed near the river. Green gardens grew around villages and ploughs broke the ground for new crops.
    At the top of the path, the sheik peered down. His huge turban was as tattered as an eagle’s nest, with two red silk handkerchiefs hanging from its folds.
    Austen ran the last few steps to the top. ‘Sheik Awad, my old friend.’
    ‘My Lord.’ The sheik’s eyes shone.
    ‘Well met, my kinsman in spirit.’
    ‘You must see.’ The sheik led him over to three mud-brick huts. ‘I have made these houses to protect you and the treasures.’
    The doors were strongly framed with poles that had been cut from the raft and the walls of the central hut were pierced with loopholes for muskets. The roofs were neatly thatched with reeds lashed to poles. Austen looked