The Sleeper in the Sands

by Tom Holland

  Haroun shook his head. ‘As Allah wills it,’ he replied, ‘you will live for many years yet.’

  ‘But if He does not will it . . .’ The Caliph tottered back to his feet. ‘You must swear you will always look after my son. He is wild, Haroun, wild and very rash. He will need good friends, to keep him upon the way of Allah’s path.’

  ‘You know, O Caliph, that I will always be the loyal servant of your house.’

  ‘You will always be true to him?’ The Caliph grasped his friend’s hands and pressed them very eagerly. ‘You swear you will never raise your hand against him?’

  ‘I swear it,’ he answered, ‘in Allah’s name.’

  The Caliph smiled, then kissed both the cheeks of his friend. ‘At last,’ he whispered, ‘I can die in peace. Three of my servants and friends have I appointed here in Cairo to serve as guardians to my son -- my brother, my Vizier and my Master of Horse. But of all my servants, you, O Haroun, are the most precious to me, and of all my many friends, you are the one whom I most trust to keep his word. Allah bless you, then, O Haroun. Praise be to Allah.’

  So it was, in obedience to the wishes of the Commander of the Faithful but in conflict with his own, that Haroun al-Vakhel left Cairo, journeying as though he were the breath of the wind, and with his bright sword unsheathed to be the terror of the infidel. For even as he rode, there had come a messenger with the news of the Caliph’s death, and then the next day a second reporting how the faithless had risen in revolt, from the mountains of Khurasan to the deserts of Shem, and from the islands of Kamar to the bright sea of Rum. But Haroun al-Vakhel was nothing daunted, for he had the courage and the strength of a hundred lions, and there was no one living who could match his sword in battle. Many were the captives, and much the gold which he won for the greater glory of his Faith, and which he sent in mighty trains to the Caliph al-Hakim. But the Caliph, all the while, sent him back no reply.

  Seven long summers and seven winters passed, until at last such were the victories of Haroun al-Vakhel that all the Caliph’s lands seemed at peace once again. ‘Now Allah be praised,’ said Haroun to himself, ‘for the time has arrived for me to journey back to Cairo, the unrivalled city, the Mother of the World! Too long I have been a stranger to her streets, and all her arts of peace.’ And he thought with pleasure of how he would sit amidst his gardens and take a wife to himself, since although no longer young, he was still without a child, that most perfect blessing which Allah can afford.

  First, though, before his sword could be sheathed, he knew that he would have to gain the blessing of the Caliph. Arriving in Cairo, he journeyed at once to the Palace. Above the gates, he saw a man upon a stake. ‘Is that not the brother of the former Caliph?’ he asked in astonishment. The guard nodded very faintly, but seemed reluctant to speak. Instead he led Haroun in silence through a second gate. Above that one too, Haroun saw, there was a man upon a stake, and when he inspected the poor wretch’s face he gasped and cried out aloud, ‘Is that not the Vizier of the former Caliph?’ Again the guard nodded, but again he did not speak, and he led Haroun instead through a further gate. Above this gate there was a third man on a stake, and his groans and cries for mercy were pitiful to hear. Haroun cried out a blessing upon him. ‘Is that not the Master of Horse of the former Caliph?’ he asked the silent guard. Still, though, the guard would say nothing, but when they passed through a fourth gate he pointed to a stake which had no one yet upon it. Haroun gazed at this in silence. ‘Walk on,’ he said at last.

  The guard led Haroun into the throne room. Straight away, all who were gathered there fell silent, as Haroun approached the throne and prostrated himself.

  ‘Rise,’ the Caliph ordered him.

  Haroun rose back to his feet.

  ‘Draw near,’ the Caliph ordered.

  Haroun did as he was commanded. He could see now that al-Hakim had grown into a tall and shapely youth, and that his beard was trimmed and fine like silk. Upon his knees sat his sister, the Princess Sitt al-Mulq, and she too was no longer a child but arrived upon the bloom and loveliness of womanhood. Curved and supple were her limbs, sweetly swelling her breasts, and upon one of them the Caliph had laid his slim-fingered hands.

  For a long while he gazed at Haroun in silence. ‘Tell me,’ he said at last, ‘why you have returned to us here when your work is not yet done.’

  ‘But all your lands, O Prince, now stand at peace, from the western ocean to the borders of Hind.’

  ‘You lie.’

  So startled was Haroun, and so angered as well, that his hand reached at once for the hilt of his sword. But then he thought upon his oath to the father of al-Hakim, and so he swallowed back his fury and humbly bowed his head. ‘Tell me, O Commander of the Faithful, what enemy yet remains unconquered by your slave.’

  The Caliph smiled very thinly. ‘Did you not,’ he inquired, ‘recently despoil the city of Iram?’

  ‘Indeed, your Highness, Iram of the Many Columns, far beyond the furthest reaches of the desert.’

  ‘From which you sent me many captives and slaves?’

  ‘For your greater honour and contentment, O Prince.’

  The Caliph nodded very faintly, then clapped his hands together. ‘Here is one of them.’ At once from the shadows there stepped a blackamoor of a hideous ugliness and massive size, so that he seemed more like a demon than a mortal man, for his eyes were ablaze with a hell-like fire and his white teeth grinned with a terrible menace.

  ‘Make known to him, O Masoud,’ the Caliph ordered, ‘what you have lately made known to me.’

  The blackamoor stepped forward, so that he was gazing directly down at Haroun. ‘Learn, O General, that beyond Iram there lies a yet further city, by the name of Lilatt-ah, and it is rich in treasure and all wondrous things, for no man has ever lived to breach its high-towered walls. For this city is known as the City of the Damned.’

  ‘Why’ asked Haroun, half-caught between dread and a sudden curious wonder, ‘what is the nature of this city, that it has been given such a name?’

  ‘It is claimed,’ replied the blackamoor, still grinning vilely, ‘that the dwellers of that city have surrendered their souls.’

  ‘But to whom?’ The Caliph twitched. ‘Tell him! To whom?’

  The blackamoor folded his two massive arms. ‘In their temples,’ he answered, ‘they worship not Allah but Lilat, whom they call the Great Goddess, the authoress of all. They claim - may Allah preserve me! - that even man was the creation of this goddess, moulded and granted life through the discharge of her blood.’ The blackamoor paused, then glanced back at the Caliph. ‘And all this I affirm and swear to be true.’

  ‘Well?’ the Caliph asked, his voice very thin. He gripped his sister’s breasts as though clinging to them, and a shudder of rapture passed across his face. ‘I would know,’ he whispered, ‘what prize could ever have induced this City of the Damned to sell its soul.’ He glanced down at his sister and again he cupped her breasts, the same look of ravishment as before upon his face. ‘It would needs have been something wonderful.’ He bowed his head slowly. ‘Wonderful indeed.’

  Then all at once he shuddered, and even as he gazed at his sister once again, he narrowed his eyes, as though it were the first time he had ever truly seen her, and his face seemed to darken with a violent disgust. ‘Well?’ he screamed, rising to his feet, so that the Princess was flung from his lap and dashed down on the floor. ‘Am I not the Commander of the Faithful?’ he shrieked. ‘Should not the treasures of this city be my own? Should not its walls be levelled with the sands? And should not its idols be shattered into dust?’ He jabbed with his finger. ‘How can you rest here, O Haroun al-Vakhel, when you know that such a city still stands, proclaiming that man was fashioned by a harlot, created not from dust but from unclean blood, from the foul, oozing blood of a woman’s secret parts? It is not to be endured!’ His eyes began to roll, and foam to fleck his lips, as he pointed to the gates. ‘Go,’ he screamed, ‘go! It is not to be endured!’
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br />   Haroun bowed his head and did as he was ordered, for still he felt bound by the oath he had sworn, that he would obey the son of his late master in all things. Yet he wondered, even as he saddled up his horse once again, and rode from Cairo, his bright sword hanging by his side, at the memory of how the Caliph had caressed his sister’s breasts, and at how a man so fervent in the cause and name of Allah should at the same time appear so vicious and depraved. ‘But there is much in this world which must be a mystery,’ Haroun thought, ‘for only Allah has the knowledge of all things.’ And so he sought to banish such confusion from his mind, and to think instead upon the City of the Damned.

  For forty days and nights, then, he led his soldiers through the desert, until at length he arrived before the city of Iram. But his view of it this second time was very different from his first, for the city’s walls and columns were nothing now but ash, and its people beggars camped amidst the ruins. And seeing them, Haroun felt a terrible shame to think that it was he who had reduced them to such a state. And he ordered that food and alms be given to them.

  But when he offered even greater gifts to anyone who would guide him to Lilatt-ah, all who heard him grew pale and shrank away. ‘Turn back,’ they cried, ‘turn back, for not even your matchless sword, O General, will be proof against the curse of the City of the Damned!’

  Haroun demanded to know what this terrible curse might be; but the people if anything grew even paler still, and they cried that no one had ever returned to say. But when they saw that Haroun remained undaunted, and his resolve as firm as before, they agreed to tell him a certain means by which the city could be found. ‘Drop a shower of blood upon the sands,’ they advised, ‘and mark the direction in which it flows, for it will always be drawn towards the idol of Lilat. And in that way -- may Allah guard your head! -- you may discover the secret of the curse for yourself.’

  So Haroun continued with his men far into the desert, travelling across the sands for a further forty days, until at last one evening he saw a column of black stone. Drawing nearer to it, he observed how there were letters in Arabic carved upon its side, and what appeared to be a demon bound by burnished chains upon its base. This demon was buried in sand up to the chest, and it was withered and dry like an afrit or a ghool. Suddenly, though, with a scream which seemed to chill the very air, the monster cried out the holy name of Allah and a single tear began to trickle down its cheek. But it could say nothing more, for its tongue was shrivelled, and it could only wave its arms despairingly as though to break the chains which bound them, until at last the tear dropped and fell upon its tongue. Then the demon met Haroun’s eye and spoke the single word, ‘water’; and Haroun, feeling pity, poured water down its throat.

  ‘Tell me,’ he then demanded, rising back to his feet, ‘in the name of He who rules the seen and the unseen, what nature of thing you are.’

  ‘I will not answer you,’ said the demon, ‘until you have sworn that you will drive your sword through my heart.’

  ‘That is a strange request indeed.’

  ‘Swear it!’

  ‘I will slay no living thing,’ Haroun answered, ‘not without just cause.’

  The wretched creature moaned in anguish. ‘I shall give you cause enough.’

  And so ghastly was his tone, and so pitiable to hear, that Haroun again felt a sudden rush of pity for the creature. ‘Give me the cause, then,’ he vowed, ‘and I shall do as you request.’

  ‘I was once a man,’ the demon answered, ‘and a Muslim like yourself, the leader of an army of glittering swords. It was my hope to discover the city of Lilatt-ah, and to proclaim within its temples the One and Only Faith. But there is a curse upon that place far too great to overcome, and it was I who was vanquished and overcome myself. In mockery of the Prophet, I was chained and buried here, and a verse in monstrous letters was carved above my head.’

  Haroun stepped back. ‘ “Have you thought upon Lilat”,’ he read out aloud, ‘ “the great one, the other? She is much to be feared. Truly, Lilat is great amongst the gods”.’ As he pronounced this, Haroun shook his head in disbelief. ‘There is no god but Allah!’ he cried. ‘And yet this Lilat, I fear, must be a jinni of monstrous powers indeed!’ He knelt again by the side of the buried demon. ‘Tell me,’ he asked him, ‘what is the secret of her greatness? What is the curse which has brought you to this state?’

  ‘Why’ the creature answered, ‘a prize which some have called the philosopher’s stone, and for which they have ransacked every corner of the world.’ He laughed bitterly, so that all who heard it were chilled to their bones. ‘For although I was once a mortal like you, yet I have been chained to this column now for three hundred years.’

  Haroun gazed at him in astonishment. ‘And are the people of Lilatt-ah all as long-lived as yourself?’

  ‘Indeed,’ the wretch grimaced, ‘for though their heads be lopped from their necks, and their stomachs slit open and their guts spilled in the dust, yet still they will rise and fight another day’

  ‘And in what does the secret of this miracle lie?’

  At once, the wretched creature began to shudder and moan. ‘In an elixir,’ he answered, ‘very bitter to the taste, which I and all my captured men were forced to drink, so that we would suffer torture through the centuries and never gain release.’

  ‘And how is this elixir prepared?’

  ‘That is the darkest of all dark mysteries. For it is guarded by the priests, who are the rulers and founders of Lilatt-ah and who came, it is said, in very ancient times, from the land of Egypt when the pagan Pharaohs reigned.’

  ‘From Egypt?’ Haroun frowned with puzzlement and gazed about him at the endless waste of sands. ‘But why would sages of such power ever have left that rich and happy land?’

  The chained creature grinned horribly. ‘Why do you think, O General? So that they might not be disturbed by the likes of you and me.’ And even as he said this, so he started to writhe in his chains, screaming and foaming like a lunatic. ‘Turn back,’ he shrieked, ‘turn back, turn back! For why else was I left here, if not to serve as a warning and a monstrous wonder? Turn back, I beg you, turn back from here at once!’

  Haroun stood bowed in silence, thinking of his vows to the Caliph al-Aziz. ‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘I cannot turn back.’

  At once the chained demon slumped and was still. ‘Then it may be,’ he said at last, ‘when you and all your power have been overthrown, that you will be brought here to hang and suffer in my place.’

  But Haroun shook his head and slowly drew out his sword from its sheath. He placed its sharp point upon the creature’s withered chest. ‘You have said it yourself,’ he smiled, ‘that even the cursed of Lilat may be brought to Allah’s grace. La Ilaha Illallah! There is no God but Allah!’ And so saying he drove the point of his sword into the wretch’s chest, and the demon shrieked and writhed in his glittering chains as he clutched at the blade with his naked hands.

  ‘Are you dying?’ Haroun cried. ‘Do you feel your immortality begin to fade and slip away?’

  The demon froze for a moment, then plunged the blade deeper and yet deeper still, until a spume of black liquid spurted out on to the sands. ‘Yes,’ he whispered suddenly, ‘yes, I remember . . .’

  ‘But how?’ Haroun pressed him. ‘How can this be happening, when you said you could not die?’

  ‘Upon the walls. . . the same thing ... I remember -- the last man I fought with before they captured me ... I pierced his heart, and watched him seem to die.’ He began to cough, and more black liquid spattered on the sands. ‘All these many years . . .’ Suddenly he smiled. ‘These many long centuries ... I have wondered ... I have dared to hope . . . whether I had slain that enemy indeed. And now, it seems ... it seems ... I know’ And even as he said this, so his eyes began to roll and their light to dim, and then the very sockets which framed them to crumble. Soon the man’s body was nothing but a cloud of fine dust, and it was borne away upon the breath of a breeze, and the chains hun
g empty from the column of rock.

  Haroun knelt before them, his head bowed in prayer, and then he lifted the fetters and turned to his men. ‘Truly Allah is great!’ he cried. ‘For what have we been given, if not a portent and a sign that even the damned in the city of Lilatt-ah may be slain? Praise be to Allah! For to Him and to His power there is nothing impossible!’

  Nor was the faith of Haroun to prove misplaced. A great horror, it was true, had settled upon the hearts of his followers, and the next evening, when they first saw the distant towers of the city, lit a blazing red by the setting of the sun, it was all Haroun could do to keep his men from flight. Monstrous it spread before them, as though formed from living fire, the tips of each flame a vaunting, jagged tower, while around it stretched a wall of colossal, burnished stone which gleamed, and then was lost, as the sun was swallowed by the west. Of the form of Lilatt-ah, now that nightfall had come, only a looming weight of blackness could be glimpsed against the stars, at one with the barren and featureless plain; and Haroun drew out his sword and commanded his men to stand prepared.

  It was well that he had done so, for the first assault soon came. Again there was panic and cries of despair, for the enemy seemed wraiths with eyes of burning silver, and with skin which glimmered palely even in the blackest dead of night. Yet by the grace of Allah the Muslim line stood firm. Gradually, with the approach of dawn, the attacks began to fade until at last, as the sun’s first rays rose golden above the east, the enemy retreated to behind the city walls. Some few of them lay still where they had been felled, none of them dead despite their hideous wounds, and a murmur of terror and despair arose amongst the Muslims that their foes could not be slain. But Haroun walked amongst the injured things, stabbing them through their hearts with the point of his sword, and as he did so they shrieked and melted into dust.