The Sleeping Sands (14 page)

He suddenly grasped Disraeli firmly by both shoulders. Despite William Layard’s comical appearance and effeminate manner, in his grip the younger man felt an enormous power. Behind the twinkling eyes and playful syntactical vandalism of his speech, Disraeli sensed something made of steel, shadows and looming menace.

‘Rest assured, my dear young friend,’ whispered Uncle William softly, ‘there will be a part for you. It may be a greater one than you dare to think.’

*                      *                      *

Charles Wherry, Her Majesty’s Consul in Damascus lived in a fine house, typical of the city. It was built of hard-baked red clay, its exterior walls solid and featureless. It presented not a single window to the narrow, filthy street that heaved with a great mass of people and animals. Its crumbling, austere walls expressionlessly watched the constant eddies and currents that flowed by. Here were Egyptian soldiers, Muslims, Christians, Maronites, Druses, Bedouins, silk traders, missionaries, thieves, adventurers, caravans and the colourful Damascenes themselves, sporting a riot of coloured silk robes and turbans. The hot narrow street created a unique melange of smells. Sandalwood and mutton fat; Saffron and cinnamon; camel dung and sewage; the sweat of travel, fanaticism and greed and the odours of countless goods and opportunities that made their way to this great crossroads of the world to be sold. All this, the walls watched inscrutably and impassively.

Insulated from the chaotic exuberance of the street by a long, narrow vaulted passageway, the courtyard of the house presented a picture of complete contrast to its external façade. The walls enclosed a garden of exquisite beauty, with sweet running fountains feeding a long rectangular pool; thickly blossomed orange trees and tumbling beds of richly coloured flowers, the fragrance of which quickly overwhelmed any trace of the street that had the audacity to waft in along the passageway. Onto the courtyard opened spacious and airy rooms, adorned with intricate carvings and finely traced patterns in gold and bright colours. The recent heavy rains had imbued the garden with a sudden burst of growth and the scent of flowers and aromatic foliage hung heavy on the air.

Charles Wherry was lounging on a couch in the garden, smoking a narguile pipe and enjoying the sensation of breathing in the fragrances of the garden along with the sweet tasting tobacco. His diplomatic experience had taught him the art of maintaining the illusion of polite attentiveness, while letting his thoughts wander to more enjoyable places. It was this technique that he was currently practicing as he pretended to listen to the conversation of his two guests. Seated opposite him, Mrs Edith Walmington, a formidable middle-aged woman, dressed in a somewhat bizarre hybrid of Bedouin robes and English travelling dress was arguing volubly with Sir George Lackland, who was, if anything dressed even more bizarrely than she. The subject of their debate was astrology, of which Mrs Walmington was an avid devotee. She had recently arrived in Damascus, en route to Mesopotamia, where she was hoping to engage in research into antique Chaldean astrological lore. Mr Wherry had gathered sufficient of her conversation prior to engaging in his reverie, to ascertain that Mrs Walmington was one of those people who would exploit a very small portion of learning in a subject to the fullest of its polemic potential; unburdened by the necessity to support an argument by either fact or reason. Wherry was happy that her lunch appointment had coincided serendipitously with the unannounced visit of Lackland as it had relieved him of the onus of bearing Mrs Walmington’s philosophical assault single-handed. In fact, Lackland seemed to be enjoying the debate. He was an English resident in the country and an occasional visitor to Wherry’s house. Lackland, if that indeed was his name, had settled in Syria many years ago, appearing out of the desert in a sandstorm, on foot, empty-handed and with no-one for a companion save a skinny, yellow dog. He had converted to Islam and had taken three beautiful young Syrian wives, settling in the village of Scanderoon, near Aleppo. Wherry had long suspected that exposure to the sun during his desert ordeal had turned the man’s wits as his eccentric behaviour outraged European and local alike. On one hand, he paraded around in the most bizarre oriental costume, his three young wives in train. On the other, when his dog died, he insisted that the whole village turn out for its funeral and raise a stone monument in the desert to its memory. It had been an insult to local Muslim sensibilities, yet there was something about Lackland that led people to tolerate his erratic behaviour. Wherry had come to even enjoy the sporadic and always unheralded visits of the Englishman, who from time to time would take himself off on travels around Syria for no particular reason. Although the Vice-Consul at Beirut had shut his doors to the itinerant eccentric, Wherry found his company entertaining; although he had, for the sake of other guests, trained Lackland eventually into not bringing his wives with him to the Consulate. Lackland was affable and charming and had often proved entertaining company. He was certainly far more tolerant of Mrs Walmington’s ideas that Wherry thought he himself might have been. The Consul drew deeply on his narguile and half listened to the conversation.

‘So you see, Mr Lackland,’ Mrs Walmington was saying, ‘the Cadent House is the house of journeys – both physical and of the mind. The Chaldeans described it as a house of mutations.’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ nodded Lackland enthusiastically, slapping the arm of his seat. ‘A house of mutations – it is all very clear. There is a large rock in the hills above my house that, if you look at it in the daytime appears like a lion and yet the same rock in the moonlight looks like a plum-cake. I have often challenged the locals to describe the origins of this rock – which I am sure are mystical – yet so far none has dared to impart the secret. I wait in hope, however.’

‘Mr Lackland, it is a privilege to meet one who is as fascinated by the secrets of these savage lands as myself,’ said Mrs Walmington, ‘but I cannot understand how you reconcile your obvious intellect with your adherence to Islam, which is quite evidently a degenerate remnant of the true revelations held in the ancient knowledge of the Babylonians.’

‘But Mrs Walmington, Islam is but a perfect synthesis of all the truths that were hinted at in the ancient books of the East,’ smiled Lackland, opening his arms as if to offer a warm embrace. ‘Babylon, Assyria and Persia; Jews and Christians; all of the very best of their knowledge was revealed to the Prophet by Merciful Allah.

‘Islam,’ continued Lackland, ‘is the most modern and progressive creed, as it draws together all that has gone before. It is truly the religion of our age. My dear lady, any secrets that you are looking for in antiquity can be found in the Faith or else they were not worth knowing in the first place.’

‘How can you say Islam is progressive,’ spluttered the woman, angrily, ‘when it denies magic and sorcery in just the same, narrow-minded way as Christianity? The challenge for our modern age, sir, is to reclaim the esoteric knowledge of the ancients so that magic can be put to proper work for the common good.’

‘But Islam does not deny magic,’ said Lackland kindly, ‘why, I have seen miracles performed countless times by the dervishes. You would not believe what I have seen-‘

Suddenly, Lackland’s response was interrupted by a commotion in the mouth of the passageway. Half rising from the couch, Wherry twisted to see its source. He saw his dragoman, Michael, staggering back from the passageway, grappling with a wild-looking stranger. The man pushed the dragoman forcefully in the chest, so that Michael took two steps and tripped, flailing wildly into a flower bed. The stranger was a tall, brown-skinned rogue, with a growth of rough beard and a matted shock of hair. His dark, rangy body was almost naked save from some rags, a thick layer of caked mud and a tattered bundle slung across his shoulder. With eyes flashing, staring wildly at the seated party, the man came lurching forward on unsteady legs, brandishing an evil looking gun in his right hand. He was uncharacteristically tall for a Bedouin but had all of the feral savagery of the fiercest of the desert bands and a look of terrifyingly fanatical purpose. Wherry sprang to his feet and positioned himself gallantly in front of Mrs Walmington and the apparently unperturbed Lackland, who was watching the whole spectacle with an amused smile. Wherry braced himself for attack, lifting up the only serviceable weapon to hand; his narguile pipe. He squared off with the stranger, fixing those maddened eyes with a look of grim defiance and preparing to make a heroic last stand.

‘You are the British Consul?’ said the man, in perfect English. ‘My name is Henry Layard. I believe you are expecting me.’

The man coughed twice and collapsed in an exhausted heap at the Consul’s feet.

Layard woke to find himself lying on a divan in one of the Consulate’s guest rooms. His tattered clothes had been washed and were lying folded at his bedside along with his pack. There was no sign of his gun but, as was explained to him by Michael, when he called on Layard with some bread and milk a few minutes later, the gun had been taken by one of the servants to be cleaned and oiled. Layard suspected that his host was not yet entirely sure of his state of mind and had removed the weapon for reasons of safety, but he accepted the arrangement in good grace.

‘Monsieur Wherry trusts you are rested, Effendi,’ said the dragoman. ‘He requests your pleasure after breakfast, if you feel well enough.’

‘Breakfast?’ exclaimed Layard, ‘How long have I been sleeping?’

‘A day and two nights, Monsieur. I imagine you may be hungry.’

After breakfast, Layard dressed and found Wherry in the garden, alone. He was anxious for news from the Consul of Mitford and the Consul was equally anxious to hear Layard’s story. Wherry assured Layard that Mitford was well, but that he had tired of waiting for Layard in Damascus and had continued his journey, leaving money for Layard and a message that he should await him in Aleppo. Layard received the news poorly, the ordeal of his journey weighing upon him. With the aid of coffee and a narguile, Wherry coaxed forth his story.

In disjointed episodes, punctuated by long draws upon the pipe, the weary Layard described his journey from Hebron. Often he would pause in the middle of a sentence, his mind wandering, until prompted by Wherry. Of the last part of his journey through the quarantine, he would say little, as if the memory of it was too painful to speak. He said nothing of the strange voice on the wind or of Antonio’s fall. When he came to the onset of the storm and their departure from Kuneitirah, he fell into a moody silence. Wherry pushed him on the subject, keen to know how the traveller had circumvented the Syrian cordon. He called for Michael to bring more coffee and insisted that Layard explain how he had made it down from the hills to Damascus.

‘At some point in the storm, I knew I could go no further,’ explained Layard. ‘I collapsed in the mouth of a shallow cave that afforded a little shelter from the elements and fell into a deep sleep. When I awoke, it was morning and the rain had stopped. In the distance, I could make out the gardens of Damascus. I climbed down from the hills and made my way quietly through the orange groves, avoiding the paths and picking my way over the stone walls and terraces.’ He gestured at his feet, which were bare and caked in dried blood.

‘My shoes at last gave out on the rocks and when my feet could stand it no longer, I decided to brave the road. I was now past the cordon and almost upon the city itself.’ He paused, inhaled from the pipe and then continued. ‘I was virtually upon the doorstep of the city gate, when I heard hoof-beats rapidly approaching from the road behind me. It was a Bashi Bozuk. He drew his sword and challenged me, threatening to arrest me for breaking the quarantine. I showed him the firman I had from the Muteselim of Safed but it was no good. He demanded a bribe from me or else he said I should spend a month in the quarantine prison. I was desperate. My journey had left me with not a single coin. Then, fortune smiled upon me. I found, tucked in a fold of my clothes, a little silver token that I had been given by another soldier, in the ruins of Jerash,’ Layard paused for a moment, lost in a secret memory. He continued, ‘the Bashi Bozuk accepted the token. He was a little reluctant in the first instance but when I pointed out that he had solicited a bribe from me and that I would report him to his superior for doing so if he arrested me, then he grudgingly took the token and let me pass. Thus, I found myself at your door.’

‘I cannot escape the feeling that there is much more to your story than you have told,’ observed Wherry, ‘but you are tired and I have interrogated you for long enough. I have arranged a room for you at the Latin convent in the city. You are welcome to stay there until you are fully rested and equipped for your journey. My dragoman, Michael Sola, is at your disposal.’

After the privations of his journey, the simple room in the convent felt like a palace. Once he had been received by the friars at the convent, Layard set out for a Turkish bath, to ease his aching joints. Discarding his threadbare rags, he sent Michael to find him some ready-made clothes from the bazaar. The best that could be found for his tall frame was the simple soldier’s uniform of a Nizam: baggy trousers, leggings, linen shirt, a woollen tunic and a sash. It was not a costume he was used to, but it was comfortable. The resourceful Michael had also found a fine pair of stout boots that fitted him perfectly and what was more had arranged an appointment with a horse breeder. After weeks of being borne by petulant camels, cantankerous mules and enfeebled donkeys, the prospect of a horse lifted Layard’s spirits almost as effectively as the expert ministrations of the Hamam.

After a further day’s rest, Layard set out from Damascus on a fine Arab horse making good ground as he headed into the snowy passes of the Anti-Lebanon hills and from there, via Baalbek and Beirut, through the great Lebanon range itself to Aleppo. His road took him through the territory of the strange Mutuali sect, a loose conglomeration of tribes who clung to certain rites that dated to long before the days of the Prophet. Word had come to Layard in Damascus that the Mutualis were in open rebellion against the Pasha, yet he found among the tribes nothing but a hospitable welcome. At every Mutuali village, he was welcomed by the headman who assured him on each occasion that they had no quarrel with the English. Indeed, compared to his sojourn among the supposedly friendly subjects of the Pashalic in the Syrian Desert, his road to Aleppo proved uneventful and trouble-free. Layard reached Baalbek on the third day out from Damascus, where he found lodging with a Neapolitan employed as a cavalry instructor with the Pasha’s army. From Baalbek, he travelled a further three days to Beirut, negotiating high mountain passes, driving his horse forward to beat the onset of the snows. Two more days trekking through the snows and mud brought him to Tripoli and from there three more to the village of Hamah, where he enjoyed the hospitality of a Maronite monastery. His horse was limping by the time he left the Maronites, tired and lame from its long race against the winter. Four days later, and more than two months after leaving Jerusalem, Layard on his flagging horse, trotted wearily into the town of Aleppo.