The Sleeping Sands (9 page)

As the sun rose, painting the great courts of Jerash with a ballet of receding and interweaving shadows and giving vibrant life to the painted autumn leaves, Layard stood enchanted. Light sparkled on the surface of water held in a great marble cistern near to the triumphal arch and danced along the course of a narrow aqueduct that still fed the city. It was as if the dry desolation of the desert had been washed away by some antique and almighty power. He felt new hope fill his heart and fresh new possibilities fill his mind.

‘Donna nobis pacem
’ sang Antonio.

*                      *                      *

The European emerged from the cave-mouth above the ruins of Petra. His face betrayed a slight pallor and he held a perfumed handkerchief to his mouth – a curiously incongruous accessory for a man who gave every other impression of hardened stoicism. He squinted in the sunlight and turned to the two impassive Lurs at his side.

‘Your handiwork?’

Each gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

‘Well, well. It seems that another player might have entered the game. I do hope our young gentleman is faring well.’

He stood and surveyed the caves around about, from which dirty frightened faces were peering forth. Without removing his gaze, he spoke to the Lurs.

‘Find out what you can.’

He listened to the scrape of two long curved knives being drawn from their scabbards and the soft padding of two pairs of sandals on the sand. The footsteps faded and all he could hear now was the distant buzzing of flies.

*                      *                      *

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ roared the Bashi Bozuk, after entertaining Layard and Antonio with quite possibly the filthiest joke either of the travellers had ever heard. Antonio went quite pale and looked down at his slippers, suddenly fascinated by some minute detail of their stitching. Layard attempted something like a smile and tried to change the subject.

‘So, what brings you to Jerash?’

‘Taxes. A few of the locals have been a little slow at paying up recently,’ beamed the soldier. ‘In his wisdom, Ibrahim Pasha has sent me to help persuade them.’ He laughed good-naturedly and poked at their small fire with a stick.

‘They complain about failed crops; about animals dying; about the plague – well, we all have problems, don’t we?’ He beamed a huge, contented grin, giving every impression that he had never encountered a single problem in his long and corpulent life.

‘There is always money hidden away somewhere and I seem to have a talent for finding it. From your own account, a good deal of it in these parts has been relieved from your good self. So here I am, doing the Pasha’s dirty work, may a thousand flies take an unhealthy interest in his rear end. Still, it keeps me away from cavalry duty and the Pasha’s little local expeditions. There seem to be more and more skirmishes these days. It’s as if the locals don’t like being ruled by the Pasha. I can’t, for the life of me see why.’ He spat into the fire and belched.

‘Pardon me. I of course have no complaints, it’s not as if my wife’s cooking is any good anyway – nor do I enjoy the comforts of my fine house and garden. I exist merely to serve the Pasha, may his testicles…’

‘And you think you know a way through the quarantine?’ interrupted Layard, to spare Antonio more blushes.

The Bashi Bozuk leaned back and grinned, his face illuminated by the flames to give the impression of a somewhat travel-stained old Bacchus. His satin sash and bandolier glinted in the firelight. In the orange glow, the soldier reminded Layard of no-one more than his uncle William. The Bashi Bozuk took up a dirty goatskin bag and took a great gulp of wine from it, before handing it to Layard.

‘Oh, it can be done – by someone with a little spirit of adventure, and I see in you plenty of that.’

Layard, who had been thinking twice about the wineskin decided he should reinforce his companion’s good impression by taking a draught. The wine was reassuringly potent – strong enough, he thought, to counter any unwholesome agent from the skin’s doubtful hygiene. It tasted good after weeks of stale water and sour milk among Bedouin encampments. Perhaps there was just the faintest flavour of old goat – but its warmth spread quickly along his tired limbs and he began to relax. He stretched back and looked at the soldier.

The Bashi Bozuks were irregular cavalry used by Ibrahim Pasha to police the Syrian population. They had a reputation around the region for cruelty and dishonesty, but Layard could see no evidence of this in the good-natured tax-collector. He was a great bear of a man, hung about with pistols, knives and other seemingly barbaric accoutrements, but his eyes sparkled with a kindly, if not off-colour humour. From the moment they had met him in their rough lodging at Jerash, the Bashi Bozuk had seemed to take it as a personal duty to adopt them and help them on their journey. He had negotiated an almost ridiculously small price for their bed and meal and had given short shrift to all manner of hucksters and would-be guides who had swarmed about Layard, hoping to extort his remaining funds.

‘Don’t you worry about the plague?’ asked Layard, handing back the wineskin.

‘Bah! I have a surefire remedy for any plagues,’ chuckled the soldier and took another giant swallow of wine, for the purpose of illustration.

‘But surely the poor wretches who live among the ruins can’t offer up much in the way of taxes to the Pashalic,’ observed Layard, ‘I spent all day among the monuments and all I saw of its modern inhabitants were huddled in tents or rough shelters scavenged from fallen masonry.’

‘Poor? Ha!’ scoffed the Bashi Bozuk. ‘These wretches live in the finest palaces ever built. Just today I was in the home of one man who begged poverty, while he and his family sat upon a broken statue that might have been carved for the great Pompey himself.’

He noted Layard’s raised brow.

‘Ah, you are surprised I know something of the history of this place?’ asked the solider. ‘Don’t think that all the Pasha’s soldiers are illiterate brutes. I know plenty about Jerash. It is one of the most wonderful cities ever built.’

He leaned forward so that the flames lit more of his great wine-stained face and his eyes sparkled wickedly. He swallowed from the dirty skin once more and smacked his lips volubly before continuing.

‘Older than time, it is – this place.’ He wiped some sweat from his brow with the back of an enormous hand and continued.

‘Over there, the Temple of the Sun. Over, there’ he pointed into the dark, ‘the Temple of the Moon. Here, here and here, roads, squares, crescents – all laid out with perfect symmetry. Out there,’ he rolled his eyes dramatically, ‘out there, beyond the valley, it’s all chaos and savagery – twisted hills and rocks and blasted desert as far as you like. Here, it’s all different. It is order made manifest.’

The Bashi Bozuk paused, his face flushed, peering at Layard to see if the European was following him. He seemed to sense that some additional inspiration was required, so took another long swallow of wine.

‘Order made manifest,’ he repeated. ‘God isn’t in chaos; he is in order – in numbers.’

He nodded encouragingly at both Layard and Antonio, expecting some sort of acknowledgment. Antonio had been cowed into bashful silence by the Bashi Bozuk’s bulk and exuberant profanity, while the slightly intoxicated Layard was finding it hard to follow the erratic path of the soldier’s argument. Frustrated by his companions’ uncomprehending response, the Bashi Bozuk swallowed again and drunkenly explained.

‘Numbers. Numbers are pure and neither imitate nor mock creation. Each number is incorruptible – a three is always a three; a nine is always a nine,’ he hiccupped.

‘Excuse me, where was I? Ah yes, numbers can achieve perfection. Like six.'

‘Six?’ asked Layard, politely and half wishing that he had not.

‘You Franks!’ laughed the Bashi Bozuk, ‘you have the most amazing engineers and factories, yet you seem to lack so much learning. I suppose it is because you have no tradition of numbers – you even borrow those little numbers you do have from the Arabs.

‘Here, in these lands is where it all started, you see – in Babylon, Assyria, Antioch. This is where men started to understand numbers – or perhaps it is where they learned them from the angels. It is where they began to see the perfection in numbers. Six is the first of the perfect numbers after one. The sum of all its factors is its whole – it is the first expression of perfection beyond the divine. It is creation. Six. Six days.’

‘And on the seventh he rested,’ murmured Layard, ‘and Augustine said that the number six existed even before the moment of creation.’

He paused in his reverie.

‘What do perfect numbers have to do with Jerash?’ he demanded of the soldier and accepting a draught from the freshly proffered wineskin.

The fat Egyptian grinned triumphantly.

‘You Franks may be ignorant of it, but Jerash was the greatest centre for the study of numbers in the ancient world. It was here that the finest minds and the hungriest ambitions came; men like Pompey, looking for the power that numbers could give him. There is something about this place that brings our chaotic, twisted world closer to the secret order at the heart of things. Surely you must have felt it?’

‘I must admit, there is something about the valley. Ever since we arrived, I have felt a little,’ Layard searched for a word, ‘lighter, perhaps.’

‘Ha! You have felt it. There are truths locked away here – truths that can be peered at through our broken fragmented myriad world,’ he slurred, ‘many becomes one; one becomes many…’

‘Is that why you’re here, looking for some secret?’ asked Layard softly to the now gently nodding bulk of the Bashi Bozuk.

The cavalryman murmured, his eyelids heavy, ‘no more than you, my friend. They all come here. Even the prophet Isa, your Jesus, he came here too.’

‘The land of the Gerasenes,’ remembered Layard, ‘in the Gospel of Mark, if I recall. But that was to cure a man who was possessed by an evil spirit.’

‘And Jesus asked him his name,’ whispered Antonio, ‘and the man said,
My name is Legion
.’

The soldier’s eyes opened for a moment and he grinned demonically at Layard, before muttering a single obscenity and slumping into a loud, snoring heap.

In the morning, Layard found that he could remember little of the night’s conversation. He awoke with no memory of having retired to bed, with a dry mouth, a rebellious stomach and a resounding headache. Ever attentive, Antonio fetched a jar of sweet fresh water from the stream and insisted Layard swallow a few mouthfuls of bread, despite his protestations. The Bashi Bozuk joined him at breakfast, as loud and convivial as ever and showing no evidence at all of any ill effect from the night before. He laughed at Layard’s sorry countenance.

‘That’s good wine, eh? There’s still a little left. Would you like some with your bread?’ He held out the skin and roared with laughter to see Layard turn pale and rush for the shelter of some nearby fallen columns.

He was still laughing when the Englishman returned a few minutes later, calling for fresh water from Antonio.

When Layard had recovered sufficiently to consider travelling, he and the Bashi Bozuk discussed the various options for travelling safely to Damascus.

‘You can get a firman from the Egyptian governor in Tiberias,’ explained the soldier. ‘Supposedly it should be good enough to get you through the quarantine – if it states that you have been clear of the plague for sufficient time and haven’t been in contact with any victims. Supposedly.

‘Truth is, everyone is getting twitchy about the plague – and other things,’ he scowled at the floor for a moment, an uncharacteristic solemnity dulling his features. ‘The soldiers on picket duty are unlikely to pay much attention to any firman from a minor official in Tiberias; the way things are going they are more likely to shoot you on sight as a deserter. The best you can hope for is that they recognise you as a European and arrest you for a month or two while they try and work out what to do with you. If you’re lucky, they might let you keep some of your clothes. Not that you’ll need too many. It can get pretty hot in a quarantine prison.’ He chuckled and drained the last few drops of wine.

‘The boy wouldn’t stand a chance. They’ll either cut his throat for his fine red tarbush or press him into service as a Nizam – a regular trooper. They’re losing more men to desertion and the plague each day than they can recruit, so every able body is a target for them,’ he appraised Antonio professionally, ‘even a body like his.’

Antonio swallowed and crossed himself. The Bashi Bozuk roared with laughter and continued, ‘so get your firman, if you want – but don’t rely on it. Perhaps it will keep you alive if you’re caught trying to cross the quarantine, but you need to find another way through.

‘There’s a friend of mine in Tiberias. He is a good man – a Jew from Poland. A European, like you. His name is Haym. He is a sort of doctor – well, at least he seems to have read a book or two, which is about all the qualification needed in these parts. Haym gets about the country. He knows the paths and roads and he knows the people that can travel them. He can help you.’

‘And can he be trusted?’ asked Layard

‘Oh yes – he’s as trustworthy as me,’ beamed the soldier. ‘There was an earthquake a few years ago. A lot of people died – Muslims, Christians, Jews – but some of the sheikhs started blaming the Jews. They accused them of all sorts of abominations and dark practices that had awakened dark forces; the normal ignorant fanaticism. There always has to be somebody to blame when things go wrong. The Jews were the perfect candidates – they had lost the larger part of their people in the earthquake, but they were mostly foreigners, so they were the easiest to blame.

‘When I called on Haym, to see if a crate of Tokay he had been saving for me had survived the ‘quake, I found a mob trying to batter down his door. Those fanatics would probably have torn him and his family limb from limb – and smashed all the wine for good measure. Well, I couldn’t have that, could I? I put my horse in among them and let them have a fine taste of her hoofs and the flat of my sword.’ He smiled fondly at the memory.