The Sleeping Sands (6 page)

‘Abu Dhaouk is known to us. He is a bloodthirsty bandit who has carried off hundreds of our cattle and sheep. Neither has the reputation of Ibrahim Pasha gone unheard in Petra. It is fitting that you hide behind the protection of these robbers and cut-throats for your blasphemous mission. Still. We have no desire to feel the attention of the Pasha. We will let you walk among the ruins for half of the usual price.’

Even half of the price was well beyond Layard’s means. He levelled his gun. Awad and Musa jumped to his side, raising their own weapons and Antonio half-crouched behind Layard, instinctively clutching at his jacket. The crowd stepped forward once more, drawing swords and knives and levelling their spears at the four men.

‘You will find that we sell our lives dearly,’ cried Layard. ‘Those of you that survive an attack on us will find no mercy at the hands of Ibrahim Pasha’s army – and your women and children will face the hospitality of the tents of Sheik Abu Dhaouk.’

For what seemed to be an age, no-one spoke or moved. There was no sound except for the faint buzzing of a lone insect, a little to Layard’s right, and the occasional snort from the camels. In the cruel desert sun, time seemed suspended. Layard became conscious of a rhythmic surging roar in his ears – the distant sound of his own heartbeat, slowed impossibly in the thick hot air.

At last, the tribesman dropped the point of his sword and gestured to the ring of warriors who drew back to allow a pathway for the travellers.

‘As a dog you came and as a dog you leave,’ spat the tribesman.

Layard reached into his pocket and drew out a small silver coin. He threw it disdainfully in the dirt at the tribesman’s feet.

‘Here is payment for your hospitality. We shall enjoy our visit to the ruins.’

As the party made their way cautiously back down the hill, the tribesman sang out once more.

‘Your road will be long and hard. You will see those you love suffer and die. You will know hunger and pain. When you eventually find that which you seek, Frank, you will find that it is not so easy to avoid paying its price!’

‘Superstitious savages,’ muttered Antonio, who had regained confidence as they moved away from the warriors. ‘Pay them no heed, Effendi – they do not know anything.’

‘Nor they do,’ smiled Layard reassuringly. However, he could not help but wonder how much the tribesman had known of his affairs. He turned to Awad. ‘Who were those men? They weren’t like any Bedouin I have seen before.’

‘They are not true Bedouin, Effendi.’ Awad spat in the dirt. ‘They are the children of the people that lived here long ago. They are not strict Muslims but worship ancient spirits in the rocks. It is said among the desert tribes that their ancestors lay with djinn to learn the secrets of building a great city – so they are not even whole humans. We would do well to be clear of here by nightfall or else they will crawl out of their holes like snakes and return to rob us.’

Layard turned to look back up at the tribesmen. Most had now dispersed and were hidden once more among the tombs. The leader stood for a moment, watching them. Then, he crouched and picked up the silver piastre that Layard had thrown at his feet, bit it and slipped it into a fold of his ragged jacket before slipping into the darkness of a nearby cavemouth.

‘See, Effendi. No true Bedouin would take payment for hospitality. These are dishonourable robbers, with nothing but lies on their tongues.’

‘For our sake, I hope you’re right.’

*                      *                      *

With a rustling of dry rags on dust and the soft rattle of bones, the caves returned to their silent and blind vigil. The tribesmen’s leader had watched the retreating party longest, so none saw him slip into the deepest of the caves, his hands absently clutching at the silver coin in his pocket. There were none to hear him muttering angrily as he hurried, sure-footed down a long, dark, winding tunnel. Nor did anyone see the contortions of rage on his brow freeze into a half-smile of shock at the sound of something both completely unexpected and compellingly familiar. A soft chink of stone on stone. A slight scrape of gravel and a short rapid hiss.

Then silence. There was no-one from his tribe to witness that half-smile widen into a grimace from which no sound would ever again issue. When some did find him, days later, he had a second smile stretched across his neck in a black mockery of his mouth. Around him was a dark stain of something congealed. In the flickering light of torches, the buzzing of unseen flies around this stain seemed to the ears of the frightened watchers an echoing taunting laughter, which came not from insects or any earthly throat but rather emanated from his impossibly animated second mouth.

They turned and fled that place, not even stopping to retrieve the dirty silver piastre that had slipped from his fingers.

C
HAPTER 3

T
IME SEEMED TO MELT INTO ITSELF WITH THE SHIMMERING DESERT HEAT.
Layard found it hard to remember whether it had been weeks or just days since he had sat with Edward Mitford, his travelling companion; arguing long into the Jerusalem night over his plans. Layard had joked about the nature of breeding. He had dismissed Mitford’s concerns about the wisdom of his proposal to travel alone in the Syrian Desert, purely, as Mitford saw it, to indulge a curiosity about ruins. He had expounded at length over a glass of Palestinian wine, on the nature of civilization; how it had sprung from the East and how it had been inherited by the West, refined by Athens, wrought by Rome and handed down to men of spirit such as themselves. He recounted the conversations he had had with Benjamin Disraeli on his own return from the Ottoman lands.

‘Ben says we shall be an Empire soon – within our own lifetimes even,’ he clumsily gestured in the general direction of the window of their lodging. ‘We have as much right to be out there, where it all began, as any of the savage tribesmen who camp in the shadows of civilization without knowing the slightest bit of its history themselves.’

‘Disraeli is hardly the best model of political astuteness,’ observed Mitford. ‘How much did he lose in his South American mining endeavours – or with that ridiculous newspaper?’

‘Ben knows the future is in the East – not among the indolent and insular little coterie of clerks and tradesmen that make up English society. Out there is where we will find our destinies. That’s why Ben came to Constantinople – and why you and I find ourselves together on this journey. We are the generation that is building a new future. It is in our blood.’ Layard felt, not for the first time on the journey, slightly exasperated by Edward Mitford’s caution and lack of adventure. He was brave enough when it came to a fix, to be sure – he had proved a solid and reliable sort on their travels so far. Yet he seemed not to burn with the same romantic ambition that Layard had cultivated under Disraeli’s tutelage. Sometimes he felt he could not imagine what the Society had seen in Mitford nor what special instructions they might have given to him. He indulged himself with the notion that it was quite likely that Mitford had been given no special tasks whatsoever but was simply provided as a convenience for Layard in their more public responsibilities. He repeated, a note of frustration in his voice.

‘It is in
my
blood. That is why you should not fear for me, my friend,’ he leaned forward, ‘I was born to be out there. And besides…’ His voice trailed off as he perceived the wine had almost encouraged him to reveal something of the Society’s discreet request.

‘Besides?’ asked Mitford.

‘Besides – I have a longing to see Petra, Ammon and Jerash for myself. I couldn’t miss the chance to see them.’

‘Even despite the Consul’s warning?’

‘The Consul is over-cautious. He’s one of the old guard. The future belongs to men like us, Edward.’

‘Men like us nearly died of malaria in Constantinople,’ chuckled Mitford, refilling their wine glasses.

‘Exactly!’ Layard thumped the table with his palm. ‘I survived that – so what worse can the desert throw at me?’

Mitford sat back and looked thoughtfully at his friend’s flushed face for a moment or two.

‘Hmm. I will let you tell me that when we meet up in Damascus.’

*                      *                      *

‘Sheikh Ahmed – I am at your mercy. I cannot proceed further without your help.’

In the wilds of the Syrian Desert, begging for assistance from one of the savage tribesmen he had so readily dismissed, Layard wryly remembered his last exchange with Mitford. Still, the young son of the Mujelli presented to Layard the complete opposite to the tribesmen he had encountered in the ruins of Petra. Although he wore little more in the way of clothes, Ahmed’s athletic body was clean and the silver armlets he wore were polished to a brilliant sheen. His long, dark ringlets were well-kept and oiled and the fabric of his clothes was fine. He received Layard with a broad smile. After the usual formalities, Layard presented him with the letter from Colonel Yusuf Effendi. The young chief read the letter carefully and listened with a polite smile as Layard recounted his adventures. This gracious smile turned gradually to indignation as Layard described their most recent encounter, which had occurred at the very edge of the Mujelli’s territory and which was the reason for their audience. When Layard finished his story, Ahmed spoke angrily to the warriors clustered around his tent, pitched among a group of ruined tombs set deep into the mountain. The warriors responded with a chorus of shouts and oaths, speaking too fast and heatedly for Layard to follow. Awad translated: the warriors were outraged that an honoured visitor, under the protection both of the Colonel and Sheik Abu Dhaouk should have received such treatment within the territory of the Mujelli – where he should most have expected a welcome.

Ahmed sat glowering amid the general hubbub, drinking coffee and scowling as he re-read the letter. He finished his coffee and sprang to his feet, calling for his horse, sword and guns.

‘Effendi, we shall settle this now!’

*                      *                      *

It had started well enough with Sheikh Mahmoud. On the road to Kerak, the travellers were greeted by the site of what at first appeared to be a large bundle of rags, being carried by an otherwise unaccompanied donkey.

‘Get a move on, you bag of bones!’ shouted the bundle of rags as it came abreast of the travellers. A short, bony arm holding a horsehair fly-swat emerged from within the bundle and gave the donkey a switch. The donkey continued to plod along at exactly the same pace it had been travelling before.

‘Recalcitrant brute, I’ll have you skinned,’ shouted a wizened brown face poking out of the rags. ‘Ah, good day to you!’

The bundle tumbled from the donkey, which continued plodding, with perhaps a slightly lighter air than before. The bundle, which turned out to be a short, implausibly round little man with a pair of scrawny arms and spindly legs that impossibly supported his extraordinary rotundity, genuflected expansively to the party.

‘Salaam Alaikum – ah, if you’ll excuse me.’ The little man scampered after the donkey, which had now made up a fair bit of ground and which proved to differ in opinion from the man on the subject of its being dragged back along the path it had so blissfully just traversed. Sweating and cursing the man dragged the donkey to a halt before them and bowed again.

‘Greetings, travellers. May I ask you who you are and what is your business in the lands of the great Mahmoud?’ He fixed Layard with a bright, curious eye.

‘I am Henry Layard, travelling under the auspices of Colonel Yusuf Effendi and with the blessing of Ibrahim Pasha. These are my men.’ Layard looked down at the little man, and inclined his head in a polite half-bow.

‘And whom do we have the honour of addressing?’

‘I am Sheikh Mahmoud.’ The little man stretched to his full height and placed his hands at his waist, pulling back his ragged robe to reveal a short, rusty sword at his belt.

‘These are my grazing lands – as far as the eye can see,’ he swept his hand grandiosely about in the general direction of the barren stony desert, coming finally to rest on the donkey, which had begun to chew affectionately on Antonio’s jacket.

‘And you, travellers – you must pay me the usual toll for crossing my lands.’

Awad whispered to Layard, who turned to the little man and said sternly, ‘I am informed that these lands are within the territory of the Mujelli, to whom I take letters of business, in the name of the Pasha. I certainly don’t need to pay you any tolls.’

Awad leaned forward, propping himself on the butt of his long gun and spat casually into the roadside dirt.

‘Ah, well, such important travellers of course have no need to pay any toll,’ said the man hurriedly, ‘which of course, I collect from
my
lands with the Mujelli’s blessing. However, you will no doubt require a guide through this country – and I know of none better than he who is before you.’ Sheikh Mahmoud grinned widely, revealing a mouthful of stained and broken teeth.

Layard maintained the severity of his expression and pulled forth his bundle of letters and permits from Yusuf Effendi. He said, imperiously, ‘I am travelling upon the very highest authority, Sheikh, and that authority has already provided me with the most adequate guides. There really is no need for you to trouble yourself with our affairs.’

He held forth the letters for the sheikh to inspect. The little man looked at the bundle of documents as if it was some kind of unfamiliar and possibly venomous reptile and made a slight hand movement as if to ward it away. Layard pocketed the documents and bowed once more to the sheikh.

‘We will be on our way now, sir – and I wish you the best of fortune on your own journey. Unless,’ he paused slightly, his face and tone softening, ‘unless you wish to join us at our breakfast?’

The sheikh’s countenance brightened.

‘You have food? Ah, most welcome travellers – that is an excellent and noble suggestion.’

Antonio spread out Layard’s fine travelling carpet and the sheikh joined the party in a simple but wholesome breakfast. As they neared the fastness of Kerak and friendly territories, Awad and Musa had relaxed their vigilance a little and had permitted Layard to use his gun in sport. As a result, three fat desert partridges were put to good use by the hungry travellers and the even hungrier Mahmoud.