by Seth Hunter
‘So what made you change your mind?’ he asked.
‘I am afraid I stopped believing in God, sir,’ said Blunt.
‘Oh.’ Nathan was taken aback. Not many would admit that, even if they felt it. ‘That is a pity, but it don’t seem to stop most parsons.’ This was tactless, but it was out before he could think better of it. ‘I do not mean to say that your father … I mean, there are obviously exceptions,’ Nathan blustered. He thought of another way of putting it. ‘I mean, it does not entirely disqualify you, does it? Not in the Church of England, at least.’
‘I think it does, sir,’ Blunt asserted diffidently. ‘I think you would have to be a great hypocrite to serve the Church if you did not believe in God.’
‘Hmmm.’ Nathan nodded to himself a little, thinking of Reverend William Judd, who had been the local parson when Nathan first came to Alfriston and had been there ever since. Even after attending several hundred of his sermons, Nathan could not, with any confidence, say what the Reverend Judd believed in. Certainly it was not ‘Judge Not, Lest Thou Be Judged’.
‘Well, there are gods and gods, are there not, Blunt? That is to say, men – and women – have very different ideas of the meaning of the word. Parsons too, I dare say.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Blunt exclaimed with sudden enthusiasm. ‘That is exactly what – well, one of the reasons I wanted to travel to the East, sir. I thought I might find something that made me – that is, that gave me something else to believe in.’
‘You mean become a Mohammedan or a Hindoo?’
‘Oh no, sir, I don’t mean that. Well, I don’t think I mean that. Only, well, to see if – if there is anything else,’ he finished lamely.
‘Oh. I see. Well, I hope you find it, Blunt,’ said Nathan, ‘whatever it is.’
This time neither of them cared to break the silence and they rode their own ways until the sheik planted his standard and it was time for them to crawl under their scraps of canvas again.
On the morning of the fifth day, when they were down to the last skin of water, the terrain began to change. The sand gave way to shale and small patches of vegetation began to appear. It was little more than withered scrub but it encouraged them to hope for improvement and in the distance they could make out a range of foothills and some quite tall mountains beyond. Even better, the scouts came riding in with the report of a watering hole little more than a few miles distant.
This was when they had to be most on their guard, however, for it was a notorious haunt of robbers, Spiridion warned, and they mounted their ponies and rode with their guns at the ready. Happily, there were no robbers, none at least of the bandit order. Instead, there was a small garrison of Janissaries under a cavus basi – a kind of sergeant, said Spiridion – who charged ‘protection money’ of two piastres a camel. But this was normal practice apparently, throughout the Ottoman Empire – a bit like prize money in the service of King George – and they were able to draw water from a small well, enough for themselves and their animals, though the foreigners had to pay another fee to fill the skins they had brought for their horses.
They rode on more cheerfully, for the country was much less arid and there were small hills on either side, some of a dark-hued stone, others resembling chalk cliffs which reminded Nathan of the Seven Sisters in Sussex, though what little grass there was remained parched and withered. However, there were a great many holes in the ground, rather like rabbit burrows – so much so that they had to proceed with great caution for fear of the horses stepping into them and breaking a leg. They were mostly made by lizards, Spiridion informed him, or hares, which had assumed the practice in this part of the world of burrowing into the earth like their lesser brethren, the rabbits. Nathan suspected this was one of his tall stories, but, sure enough, as they rode on he was astonished to see several creatures, very alike to hares, watching from a slight distance with their ears up. He was so moved by this – and by sentimental memories of his boyhood on the Sussex Downs – that he rode off a little way and shot at one with his carbine. Rather to his surprise, and doubtless the hare’s, he hit it. The rest took instant refuge in their burrows, but as they rode on, over the course of the morning, Nathan shot three more, and Tully and Spiridion one each.
‘We will have a feast,’ Nathan exulted as he and Tully rode out to pick up the sixth. ‘Jugged hare was always one of my favourite dishes in Sussex. It was a regular treat in autumn.’
‘I was wondering if perhaps you should not make a present of them to the sheik,’ Tully proposed.
Nathan regarded him with concern. But it was probably a good idea. Tully had an instinct about such things – it was one of the qualities that made him such a good officer. The sheik’s remoteness was beginning to bother them; the two groups, though they had been travelling together for some time, had no form of contact. They even travelled slightly apart – the foreigners in a bunch on their horses, and the sheik and his escort twenty or thirty yards ahead – and the rest, after a similar gap, behind. Spiridion said this was because horses and camels did not like the smell of each other, but Nathan thought there might be other reasons beside. Reasons of religion and culture, the long years of enmity between Christians and Muslims, their sense of otherness.
Five times a day at a signal from the sheik, the expedition halted for a few minutes for the Muslims to say their prayers. Nathan’s party always dismounted respectfully on these occasions and preserved a considerate silence. But it underlined the difference between the two groups. And when they made camp, they slept and ate apart. It made Nathan uneasy. He would have liked to establish more of a rapport, if only to ensure that if they did encounter robbers, or any other enemy, he could rely upon their support.
But he was not sure if he wanted to sacrifice his dinner to achieve it.
‘I suppose we could give him three,’ he said.
It had the desired effect. Shortly after midday, Spiridion appeared in the mouth of Nathan’s tent and reported that the sheik had invited them all to join him for dinner.
‘Excellent.’ Nathan beamed. ‘Tell him we would be honoured. And give him the other three. But make sure he knows how to cook them. I suppose it is too much to ask him to jug them, but if he is to spit them over the fire they should be turned and basted every few minutes – ideally with a little wine poured over …’
‘I think perhaps we should leave the cooking to him,’ Spiridion replied firmly.
‘You are probably right,’ Nathan acknowledged. But after a moment’s consideration, he remarked that whenever they were roasted, rather than jugged, his father’s cook had always wrapped them in bacon to preserve the juices and served them with a sprig of parsley.
Spiridion did not trouble to respond.
They usually ate at four, just before setting off again – much later than the practice at sea – and by two o’clock, Nathan was invariably ravenous. The smell of roast hare drifting across the encampment made it far worse.
‘I suppose we should not bring wine,’ he said to Spiridion, hopeful of being contradicted, ‘as they are Muslims.’
‘It is probably better not,’ Spiridion advised.
‘And are we to dress for dinner? I dread the thought of wearing a uniform in this heat.’
‘I think you will probably be excused the uniform, provided you wear a clean shirt and wash your hands,’ said Spiridion.
A little before the appointed hour, an attendant arrived to tell them that dinner would shortly be served and they duly presented themselves at the sheik’s tent, as clean and spruce as circumstances allowed. There was a carpet spread upon the ground for the food and a number of cushions for them to sit upon. Nathan was invited to sit on the sheik’s right side and Spiridion on his left. The others placed themselves wherever there was an available space, along with four of the sheik’s followers who were also present at the feast. There were some appetisers to start with, none of which met with Nathan’s unmitigated approval, and then the main course was delivered, all six on a la
rge platter, heads and all, ungarnished with either bacon or parsley. Nathan was courteously invited to take the first helping. Denied any means of carving, he wrenched off a piece of leg and watched with an unhappy smile as the company dismembered the creatures with their bare hands. The only accompaniment was a large bowl of rice which everyone was expected to share, also using their hands.
The conversation was no better. Nathan tried, but was inhibited by the need for Spiridion to translate and the fear of asking any questions which might be construed as offensive. The sheik appeared to have no interest in the war between the English and the French, and Nathan resorted to the subject of husbandry, asking him a great many questions about the rearing of camels and supplying a good deal of information, which he had not thought he possessed, about the breeding of sheep on the South Downs. It was possibly as interesting as a conversation between two farmers on market day in Lewes, relayed via an interpreter. He attempted to engage him on the subject of brigands, which was uppermost in his mind, but the replies were short and obscure. In the end, he let Spiridion gabble on without him while he gnawed silently at a bone.
When they left, with expressions of mutual esteem and relief, Nathan asked Spiridion if he thought it had been worthwhile.
Spiridion shrugged. ‘I suppose it did no harm,’ he conceded.
‘I was surprised he was not more interested in the war,’ Nathan remarked.
‘Why should he be?’ Spiridion demanded. ‘What is it to him?’
‘Well, with Bonaparte in Egypt – and Egypt being a part of the empire …’
‘Egypt might as well be the far side of the moon as far as he is concerned. And I doubt he could give a toss for the empire.’
‘I see. So. I take it he is not a Turk.’
‘Never say it.’
‘A Bedouin?’
‘Or that.’ Spiridion shuddered. ‘You know what Bedouin means in Arabic?’
Nathan did not.
‘It is from the word badiyah meaning those in the desert. Nomads, tramps, like your Irish tinkers. The sheik holds them in contempt.’
‘So what is he, then? He and his tribe?’
‘Well, it is difficult to say. They are Nizari, but I am never sure if that is a tribe or a religion or both. They are from the Jabal Amariye, which is the mountain range south of Aleppo. The sheik himself claims to be a direct descendant of Rashid ad-Din Sinan, the Old Man of the Mountain.’
He said this as though it should mean something to Nathan. It did not.
‘He was the leader of the Hashishin,’ Spiridion informed him, ‘who you probably know as the Assassins.’ There being no indication that this was the case, he continued: ‘They were a professional association of zealots who hired themselves to the highest bidder and were expert at the various forms of murder. The most feared were based on the Nizari stronghold of al Masyaf at the time of the Crusades. I had no idea they were still in the region, but apparently they are.’
‘You are quite serious?’
Spiridion looked surprised. ‘Why would I not be?’
‘And still – practising, as it were?’
‘I really have no idea. I doubt it, but then, Arabs are very big on tradition. I think I mentioned to you that the art of silent murder was very much a speciality in these parts.’
‘And these are the people to whom we have entrusted our lives and our mission?’
‘Nathan, just because they are of the same race does not mean they are of the same inclination – or occupation. The English are noted for their dedication to the hunt, but you would not say that all Englishmen were fox hunters, would you?’
‘Only because they do not possess the means or the mount. But given the opportunity of killing an animal for sport they will happily oblige you – be it bull, bear, or badger. I have no doubt that when you were in Billingsgate, for instance, most of your associates kept a terrier and devoted a large part of their leisure time to the killing of rats.’
Spiridion had spent a part of his youth in this part of London, about his father’s business. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if they were going to kill us, why have they not done so already? They have had plenty of opportunities, from the moment we left Aleppo.’
‘Perhaps there is some ritual involved,’ suggested Nathan. ‘Perhaps they are waiting for the right time and place. Or they have made a rendezvous with others of their kind.’
They mounted their horses and took their places behind the sheik for the next stage of their journey. And a little before midnight, with a small wind whipping up dust devils, they came to an ancient walled city with a gatehouse and a great tower rising up out of the plain. It was entirely in darkness and as they came closer, it became apparent that it had long been abandoned and was mostly in ruins.
They rode in through the gatehouse and the sheik’s standard was planted in the centre of a compound surrounded by the ruined facades, their vacant windows like empty eye sockets in a skull. It had an eerie, haunted quality: like a city of lost souls.
‘What is this place?’ Nathan asked Spiridion in a hushed voice as they began to unload the camels.
‘I have no idea,’ replied the Greek. ‘It looks like one of the ancient cities of Byzantium.’ His voice was almost as hushed as Nathan’s, for the Byzantium Empire had been largely run by Greeks and was part of his own heritage. He enquired among their escort and returned with the news that he had been right – it was the city of Taiba, once part of the Byzantium Empire but destroyed in one of its many wars against Arabs and Turks. Apparently, there had been such slaughter here that the belief had formed that the place was cursed or haunted, or both, and no one had ever cared to return.
Nathan nodded, looking around the hollow skulls as if he had known this already.
‘There used to be a well here, with fresh spring water, but it dried up years ago,’ Spiridion informed him. ‘But it is still the place where the Silk Road divides, one branch going east to Baghdad and the other south through Bassara.’ He might not have been able to read Nathan’s expression in the darkness but he guessed what he was thinking and told him to think again. ‘The southern branch crosses the Great Desert and we could never make it on horseback,’ he said. ‘But we have enough water for the night and we will reach the Euphrates Valley by mid-morning. It will be plain sailing from then on,’ he declared confidently.
Nathan frowned. In Nathan’s opinion there was no such thing as plain sailing. To even speak the words was an invitation to disaster.
They settled down for the night in the open space between the buildings – for there were scorpions and other creatures among the ruins, Spiridion reported. Nathan slept fitfully, waking frequently and lying in the darkness staring at those empty eye sockets staring back. The walls should have made him feel more secure, but there was something ominous about the place, something threatening, and he wished they had camped as usual in the open.
But perversely, at dawn, instead of leaving as fast as they could, he and Tully were sufficiently curious to explore the tall, square tower beside the gatehouse, which rose seventy or eighty feet above the city walls. It had once been the tower of a Byzantine church, Spiridion reckoned, and had then been turned into a mosque. There were few signs of either religion now, but the building clearly had value as a watchtower – there was a stone staircase which had withstood the ravages of time, and they decided to climb to the top, or at least as far as it would allow, for it would give them as good a view as any mainmast over the surrounding area, and they thought they might be able to see the Euphrates, even, far to the east.
They did not see the Euphrates or any other river. What they did see was a large dust cloud advancing on them from the north at a distance of about two or three miles. At first they thought it was a sandstorm, like the khamsin, but it was too small, too confined for that. As it came closer, among the swirling cloud, they saw the shapes of men and camels. A large number of them, riding hard, and carrying guns.
Chapter Eight
The Ci
tadel of Ghosts
‘They are brigands,’ Spiridion confirmed, after his brief conference with the sheik, ‘but apparently they do not want our money.’
Before his audience could take any satisfaction from this astonishing claim, he added tersely: ‘They want us.’
This was the message they had apparently conveyed to him by the sheik’s son, who had been sent out to treat with their adversaries at the camp they had made in the desert, at a distance of about half a mile.
‘Us alone?’ Nathan enquired, ‘or the whole caboodle?’
‘Us alone,’ Spiridion informed him. ‘The ferengee. The foreigners.’
‘Alive or dead?’ enquired Tully.
‘This was not specified. Either way it would not be to our advantage.’
‘And do we know why?’ Nathan asked him.
‘To be foreign, I suspect, is sufficient reason, but as they normally prefer to exact tribute, we must assume the French have a hand in it.’
‘And tribute would not help?’
‘No. The sheik suspects they have been paid a sub stantial sum already and will be paid more when they provide evidence that their mission has been accomplished.’
‘So what are we to do?’
‘We will have to fight them, of course,’ Spiridion replied, ‘unless you propose to surrender.’
‘How many of them are there?’
‘About two hundred, according to the estimate of the sheik’s son. Armed mainly with muskets.’
‘Well, there are near forty of us, counting the servants,’ Nathan pointed out, ‘and I would rather be defending the citadel than attacking it, even in its present condition. You seem doubtful,’ he added, for Spiridion’s expression was not encouraging.
‘The sheik points out that we have very little water,’ he explained, ‘while the brigands appear to have plenty. They would only have to wait a day or two and we would have to give ourselves up, or cut our own throats and save them the trouble.’
