The Sleeping Sands (15 page)

Edward Mitford was in the process of packing his belongings for departure when Layard called on him at the small but comfortable lodgings he had been renting. Mitford was absorbed in the task of checking his travelling papers as Layard quietly stepped into his rooms. Layard coughed politely and Mitford looked up, his eyes widening momentarily in surprise before he collected himself.

‘Ah, the Man of Destiny,’ commented Mitford, dryly. ‘I was beginning to give up hope for you. I thought that your beloved desert must have swallowed you up.’

Layard tried to speak, but a sudden surge of emotion caught in his throat and all he could do was stride forward and embrace his companion.

‘Edward,’ he said at last, ‘you have no idea how happy I am to see you.’

‘You look different,’ observed Mitford. ‘You have seen plenty of sun – and more, I warrant. There was a lot more Henry when we left,’ he pinched Layard’s wiry arm. ‘I wonder how much of you survived the desert. Did you teach the savages a thing or two about civilization?’

‘Edward,’ replied Layard, ‘I would not be standing here before you without the aid of good men. I have to confess, more civilization remains in the desert than I had expected. I am tired, Edward. Don’t make me eat humble pie.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ replied Mitford, kindly. He looked appraisingly up and down Layard’s tall body. ‘You have grown Henry.’

Mitford summoned the landlord and arranged supper and an extra divan for Layard. When the man had departed, he turned once more to his friend.

‘And what of your dragoman,’ he asked, ‘Antonio, was it not? How did the little fellow cope with the desert?’

Layard felt a spasm of cold pain in his chest. The picture of Antonio, plunging into the darkness filled his mind. In a moment of panic, he fantasised that the boy was falling even now. No matter how far the figure fell nor how dark the void, Layard could not escape the silent plea of his dragoman’s wide, desperate eyes. He swallowed and said, speaking in a quick, low voice, ‘I found a passage back to Jerusalem for him, with the Jews in Tiberias. I am sure he is safely home with the friars as we speak.’

Layard fell to the task of unpacking and checking his instruments. For the rest of the evening, Mitford could not get another word from him.

The next morning, Layard and Mitford left Aleppo. Once more, the sun was shining and the countryside around the town was a riot of birdsong. Six weeks of steady riding along mankind’s most ancient road lay before them until they reached Baghdad. Behind them, something still more ancient followed.

E
ND OF
B
OOK
I

B
OOK
II

T
HE
M
OUNTAINS

C
HAPTER 7

F
ROM THE SAFETY OF AN UPPER WINDOW,
the European looked out onto a bustling Baghdad street. His gaze was fixed firmly on a tall figure that was negotiating its way through the crowd. The subject of his observation was lean and hard-faced. He was dressed well, but unostentatiously, with a long flowing robe belted over a typical Persian salwar tunic and light boots. His thick black beard was tinted red with henna. Beneath a tall black lambskin cap, his shaved forehead and long ringlets marked him out as an orthodox Persian. He walked slowly, yet with a sense of purpose, the crowd parting around him with anxious looks. It was not that he bore himself in any aggressive manner. Indeed, unlike the many petty officials of the Pashalic and rough-mannered janissaries who strutted about the city, the man made no particular attempt to assert his passage. It was something else. Something in the way the man carried himself caused people to make room. His road was unimpeded by beggars or hawkers or any of the usual nuisances to be found in the city’s thoroughfares. He seemed to change the very tone of the street: gossip and laughter died on men’s lips as he passed. The only individual who seemed unimpressed by the man’s silent authority was a tall Lur tribesman, who followed him quietly through the crowd.

The watcher in the upper window saw the first man turn from the street into a passageway; the entrance to a rooming house. The Lur stood for a moment, buying a small basket of dried figs from a street vendor. He looked once up and once down the street and then turned and strode towards a doorway in the building below the watcher, hurrying without giving any impression of haste. The European listened for the sound of footsteps in the house below. Suddenly conscious of the heat, he pulled a perfumed handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at drops of sweat that had gathered on his brow. There was the faintest sound of steps outside the door. A moment later, it opened and the Lur slipped quietly in.

‘You followed him all day?’ asked the European, carefully folding and replacing the handkerchief.

The Lur nodded and walked over to stand beside the window.

‘And did he follow his usual routine? The same as for the last two months?’

The Lur shook his head and spoke, the words uncomfortable on his tongue.

‘He has finished his lessons in the Persian language,’ said the Lur, simply. ‘He makes ready to leave.’

‘And has he met with any problem?’ asked the European, ‘British travellers are not exactly welcome in the Shah’s domains these days.’

‘Your agent supplied him with letters to the Physician,’ replied the Lur. ‘He will arrange safe passage.’

‘We can only hope.’ The European walked away from the window and went to a crude table in a far corner of the room upon which rested a pile of maps. He spread out the largest of the maps and studied it thoughtfully. The Lur waited in silence.

‘Too many gaps,’ said the man at length. ‘There are too many places that are still hidden to us. We can only hope that our young friend has the character to survive what is coming.’

He slid a stout travelling case from beneath the table and opened it, taking out a soft leather bundle. This he unrolled on the table to reveal three clay fragments, stamped with rows of ancient cuneiform characters. He spread the tablets out and sat down, peering intently at the inscriptions.

‘Too many gaps,’ he repeated to himself. Then, noticing the Lur was still standing at the window, he ordered, ‘resume your watch on him. I must not miss a single detail.’

*                      *                      *

‘I have the letters to Mirza Aga Baba,’ stated Layard, entering the lodging and waving a wad of documents at Mitford, who was lounging on a divan. ‘He is the Shah’s personal physician. I am told that he holds great influence at court. He will help us get the passes we need to travel across Persia.’

Mitford, who was dressed like Layard, in Persian costume, swung his legs over the side of the couch and reached for his cap.

‘Good. I am tired of waiting, Henry,’ he said. ‘It has taken far longer than I had hoped since we left Jerusalem. I plan to take the most direct route across Persia to India as soon as it is safe to travel. What news is there from Tehran?’

‘Not good, I am afraid,’ replied Layard. ‘A messenger arrived from Tehran at the Consulate this morning. He reported that our Embassy has been withdrawn. Another instance of petty-mindedness no doubt. The talk is of war. The Consul and all of his advisors counselled against venturing into Persia. Only one voice gave any encouragement,’ Layard waved the papers again. ‘One of the clerks must have taken pity on me, for he supplied us with these letters of introduction.’

‘That will mean more audiences, I suppose,’ sighed Mitford. ‘More meetings; more formalities; more waiting. I cannot wait until we are on the road again my friend. I don’t think I shall rest my horse until we reach India.’

Layard looked at his companion.

‘I have something to tell you, Edward,’ he said softly. ‘I am not coming with you to India.’

‘Why ever not?’ demanded Mitford, rising to his feet.

‘I wish to spend a little more time in Persia,’ explained Layard, ‘I want to travel to the Lake of Furrah. There are some monuments I wish to visit and also the Society asked me to update some maps.’

‘For Heaven’s sake, man!’ interjected Mitford, ‘hasn’t your journey taught you anything?’

For perhaps the first time since he had left Safed, Layard laughed.

‘Evidently not.’ He smiled kindly at Mitford and continued, ‘ever since we arrived in the Holy Lands, I have felt there is something out there, calling for me. I can’t escape the feeling that I have to go out and meet with my destiny.’

‘From what I have seen,’ observed Mitford, ‘whatever destiny is out there will probably either cheat you, rob you or eat you – and possibly all three. You are very welcome to your destiny, my friend. I have a job to go to.’

Layard gathered up a slim leather wallet from his pack and carefully slipped the letters inside it.

‘As have I, Edward,’ he murmured. ‘As have I.’

*                      *                      *

The city of Hamadan was unnaturally silent. Layard rode warily into the town through fields empty of livestock and gardens stripped of every fruit. The trees themselves had been hacked down and only a few rotten and flimsy twigs remained. Just a few hours earlier, he had ridden through the same city surrounded by a tumult of men, animals and children, joining together in the exuberant chorus of the East. Now, the streets were deserted; the bazaars were empty save for the detritus of overturned and ransacked stalls and there was no noise but for the distant forlorn sound of a loose shutter banging gently in the dry breeze. Layard slowed his horse to a walk and went warily forward; his hand resting on the stock of his gun.

From the edge of his vision, Layard sensed a movement. He started, swivelling in the saddle to see what it might be. Nothing. He thought for a moment that he may have seen the end of a black cloak or robe slipping into a patch of shadow by a doorway. When he screwed up his eyes against the afternoon sun and peered at the spot where he had seen something, he saw there was nothing to see; just shadows within deeper shadows. He murmured to the horse, which had begun to snort restively and bite at its bit.

‘You’re as jumpy as I am, old fellow. Let’s move on.’

The unseen shutter tapped ominously. Layard turned the horse into a narrow street where, only the day before he and Mitford had been followed along its length by a stone-throwing, spitting mob of irregular soldiers and camp followers. Now, in the eerie silence, he almost missed the epithets of ‘Infidel!’ and ‘Dog!’ that had been shouted after them. The late afternoon heat pressed down unbearably on Layard, muffling the unearthly deserted city. As he rode deeper into the maze of Hamadan’s narrow streets, even the errant shutter seemed to fall silent. All Layard could now hear was the unsteady breathing of his restive horse and a faint sound of hoof beats following him. He turned in his saddle at each turn and junction to challenge his pursuer, but each time the hoof beats would stop and there would be no living soul in sight. It was on the fourth occasion that he reassured himself the sound was nothing more than the echo of his own horse’s hoofs, bouncing softly from the walls of the deserted houses that loomed about him.

He was alone again. A few hours earlier he had ridden with Mitford as far as the village of Shaverin. There, they had parted. Layard had been unprepared for the sense of loss that he had felt as he watched his companion ride up the stony road towards Meshed. It had been over a year since they had set out together from England and Mitford had proved a solid and tolerant companion. He had stood by Layard when danger had threatened and when he was struck down by Malaria in Turkey. He had waited, first at Damascus and then at Aleppo, while Layard had indulged his hunger for adventure in the Syrian Desert. He had waited another two months at Baghdad while his companion learned Persian and a further month with the Shah’s camp at Hamadan while Layard lobbied a succession of court officials for the necessary permits to travel. The more adventurous traveller may have bemoaned Mitford’s lack of ambition, but his loyalty, patience and reliability were never at fault. Indeed, Layard felt that a better travelling companion could not have been found. He was deeply saddened to see such a companion leave. However, it was a deeper grief that now haunted him.

In the five months since he had spontaneously and inexplicably lied to Mitford in Aleppo about Antonio’s fate, he had been unable to discuss the matter. He had pushed the anguish of his dragoman’s death deep into an untouched part of his consciousness and set himself single-mindedly to the business of their journey. He had been tireless and obsessive in learning the customs and language of Persia; he had hunted relentlessly through the bazaars of Baghdad for the most authentic Persian travelling costume. When faced with the impenetrable bureaucracy of the Persian court, Layard had doggedly pursued first one official and then another, gaining audiences first with the Court Physician; then with the young Minister for Foreign Affairs; with his influential father and finally gaining an audience with the Prime Minister. Despite the hostility of the Prime Minister, who hated Layard for a Christian and suspected him as an English spy, Layard had gained the promise of separate firmans for himself and Mitford. It had been a long and tedious task yet Layard had thrown himself into it, dedicating every moment of his time and every iota of his attention to its success. Yet, beneath that single-mindedness and rigorous application, something dark was growing, quietly but equally relentless.

Watching Mitford’s tiny receding figure finally swallowed up by the vista of the mountains, Layard felt the weight of the effort of the last five months press down upon him. Feeling suddenly weary beyond words, he closed his eyes.

Instantly, he was back on the storm-wracked hillside above Damascus, watching in helplessness and horror as Antonio plunged wordlessly over the cliff. He was alone in the dark with the voice of some vast and terrible unseen thing roaring in his ears. Unmanned by terror he dragged his battered body to its feet and ran stumbling from the place. In blind panic, he crashed through bushes and rotten trees, tumbling over piles of boulders and slipping on the wet rocks, a tiny naked thing in the immense and elemental presence of the storm. His chest pounded and his exhausted limbs ached as he blundered through the night. The savage growling in his ears drowned out the noise of the rain and the thunder and even the frantic beating of his own heart. He lurched on, his knees buckling, driven by the awful noise until he felt that he could stumble no further. Before him in the blackness, a mouth of deeper black – whether a cave or the Pit of Hell, Layard neither knew nor cared. He threw himself forwards, tripping and crashing to the ground in exhaustion. The awful growling roared louder. As the last shred of his consciousness slipped away, he knew that he would not survive to see the morning.