all of them from here,” Negev said.
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
“Come, missy, down. Maybe someone will see us.”
Seated again in the granite sanctuary, she gazed at the forlorn women, cradling their children, whispering to them. Her thoughts flew to the refugees in the tent-camp, in flight again, or killed, or taken prisoner. She was physically and emotionally spent; a deadness was in her heart.
IBRAHIM DISPERSED HIS men to form a perimeter around the church and its outbuildings, ordering the Brothers to fight on foot. They crouched behind dead horses and live ones, pulled down to lie on their sides. All the while bullets popped overhead, but nowhere near as thick as before. The rebel soldiers seemed to realize that the captives and the murahaleen were now bunched together, and they feared killing their own people. He ordered Hamdan to bring the captives into the church and to post men inside and out. His friend grinned through his beard, grasping what Ibrahim was up to. His first duty had always been to preserve his Brothers’ lives, for to preserve them was to preserve the future of the Salamat, of all who belonged to Dar Humr. He didn’t know the number lost today, but he would save the rest—and get what he wanted in the bargain. Inshallah.
As Brothers prodded the captives with rifles, shouting “Move, move, inside,” Ibrahim flew about the perimeter, shouting to his men to cease firing. Under the circumstances, it struck them as a strange command. Some obeyed, others did not, but gradually they stopped shooting. And when they did, the enemy did.
“Ya! Kasli, I may need you,” he said, finding the Nuban near a fire-blackened building, huddled behind a pile of tables and sewing machines. Ibrahim took off his guftan, tied it to his rifle barrel, and raising it high, waved it back and forth.
“You fool!” Kasli hissed. “What are you doing? They won’t take us prisoner, they will kill us all.”
“They are going to kill us all regardless. Be quiet. I am getting us out of this.”
A voice called out, “You Arabs, do you surrender?”
“Ah, I will not need you after all, Kasli. That one speaks Arabic.” He peered over the mound of sewing machines and spotted a man crouched beside a house, red on his shoulder—an officer.
“Ya! You,” he yelled. “I am Ibrahim Idris, commanding these murahaleen. No surrender. A truce.”
“You shall have it. The truce of the grave.”
“Esmah! We have a great many of your people captive in your church. There are two foreigners with them, a doctor and a nurse. If there is no truce, we will burn it down with all who are in it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“No? Will you believe me if I show the foreigners to you? Or do you prefer to see for yourself? Come alone. I promise your safety. We know our situation.”
Several minutes passed, then Ibrahim heard the officer speaking in Nuban.
“What is he saying, Kasli?”
“He is speaking to the commander on the radio, telling him what you have said . . . Now he is asking what he should do.”
In a short while, the officer came forward, cautiously.
“Kasli, escort him into the church. Show him.”
When this was done, the officer approached Ibrahim. “What is it you want?”
“As I said, a truce. And to present my terms to your commander and to no one else.”
The man left, had another conversation on the radio, and then called, “Ya! You will come alone and unarmed.”
“I have a guarantee of safety?”
“Yes.”
“If I am harmed, not one hostage will see the end of this day.”
“Stop talking and come to me, without your rifle.”
Ibrahim took the guftan off the rifle, tied it around his head, brushed the dirt from his jelibiya, and straightened his cartridge belt. He would present himself as a man of the Humr, omda of the Salamat, commander of proud murahaleen.
“Ya, Kasli,” he said. “Tell Hamdan that if I have not returned by sundown, kill them all without hesitation. Allah yisalimak.”
Ibrahim stepped forward, the longest and riskiest step of his life. Win all or lose all. Whatever Allah wills, he thought, so it shall be done.
“WHAT TIME IS IT?”
Negev turned his wrist toward her. One o’clock. Services had let out at ten-thirty. Already that seemed like days ago.
The battle subsided. Random gunshots, an isolated explosion, and then total silence. Negev climbed again to the lookout, returned, and stated that he had seen a number of murahaleen surrounding the church, but a greater number of SPLA surrounding the murahaleen.
“I