by Nat Edwards
‘What was that?’ cried out Saleh, suddenly, a note of rising terror in his voice.
‘What?’ shouted Layard over the storm, ‘I heard nothing but the wind.’
‘I heard something,’ urged the mule-driver. ‘It’s those ruffians, they are after us!’
‘Collect yourself, man!’ commanded Layard. ‘There is nothing out here but us – and that won’t be the case for much longer if you don’t watch your step. Be careful, now.’
‘I swear I heard something,’ insisted Saleh. ‘Look – there!’
A flash of lightning illuminated the ridge. Saleh gestured wildly at the dark shadows behind them.
‘There they are!’ he screamed. ‘They are hunting us!’
‘Calm down, Sir!’ shouted Layard, casting a sideways look at Antonio, who was crouched in a paralysis of fear, staring in the direction Saleh had indicated.
‘There is nothing behind us; nothing but rocks and trees,’ he grabbed the muleteer’s shoulder with his free hand and pulled him forward. ‘Don’t cry out so,’ he said, in a softer tone. ‘You’ll startle the animals.’
The mule-driver stared at him for a long moment and then shook his head.
‘I am sorry, Effendi,’ he apologised. ‘I was mistaken. It is this awful night.’
They dragged slowly on, the muleteer pausing every now and then to throw long, suspicious glances over his shoulder. The ridge began to climb more steeply. The thickets of trees became sparser; in their place were cruel outcrops of sharp rocks, punctuated by occasional stunted olive trees. Thunder and lightning resounded around them, closer and more frequent. The mule-driver began to pray to himself, muttering and moaning. At one point, Layard fancied he heard the distant sound of shots and voices on the wind, but he could no longer trust his storm-battered senses. They toiled on.
A great crashing of thunder accompanied a blinding flash of lightning, forking to the ground just yards from them. The travellers crouched instinctively; their nostrils full of a bitter, metallic scent, as they felt a sucking rush of cold air fill the hole in the heavens punched by the lightning. They staggered back from path, stunned by the elemental fury of the night. Above the howl of the wind came another crash – the clear sound of rifle shots. The travellers froze and exchanged frightened looks, straining their ears through the storm to try and get a sense of from which direction and from how far way the sound had come.
Minutes passed as the fear-filled party stood helplessly, listening for some clue to guide their flight. There was another crash of thunder, then something else; a low, howling, unnatural roar that each man knew had little to do with the wind or the thunder. A flurry of shots rang out again, nearer this time. Then, another roar and the shots fell silent. The wind howled and the rain pelted against them. They listened.
The awful voice roared out a third time. This time, it was clearer; louder; nearer. The terrified mule-driver could contain his fear no longer. In a panic, he grabbed his mules and dragged them, half-running, half-stumbling into the storm, rushing blindly towards the steep slope to their left.
‘Come back, man!’ shouted Layard. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I am sorry, Effendi,’ called the man. ‘I have a wife, children; I cannot stay here!’
‘For God’s sake, Saleh,’ cried Layard, ‘it’s too dark. You’ll be killed!’
‘I’ll be killed if I stay!’ shouted the Arab. His voice faded as he disappeared in to the night.
‘May Allah watch over you both!’ came his faint final cry. Layard and Antonio huddled by a twisted olive tree, looking helplessly in the direction he had fled. Another crack of thunder shook the hillside. Then, a long piercing animal scream rang out above the drumming of the rain. Layard and Antonio crouched in the half shelter of a twisted old olive tree and looked for the muleteer and his animals. In vain they scoured the darkness, screwing up their eyes against the driving, icy darts. There was no sign of either the Arab or his three mules. They were alone and lost on the hillside, surrounded by enemies and exposed to the unfettered hostility of the tempest.
Soaked and shivering, the pair huddled together against the storm. The wind had shifted and the ancient stump of a tree had now relinquished what little shelter it could give – defeated by the force of the storm and the vicious and fickle winds. Layard set his jaw to the rain, feeling the stinging drops beat against his face in an angry onslaught. He muttered an oath of defiance and cast his eyes about for some indication of their path. In each direction, he could see no passage offered by the jagged, rain-greased rocks and mud-choked gullies. He pulled what was left of his tattered cloak tighter around his shoulders and hunkered down, half-resting against his much-depleted makeshift pack. It seemed that they had no option but to wait out the storm below the tree; no matter how meagre its shelter.
There was a rumble of thunder. In the darkness on the hillside below them something seemed to answer. Antonio and Layard started, fancying they heard another voice in the darkness. Above the roar of thunder, rain and screeching winds, they heard a faint low growling that seemed to have no origin in nature. To Layard’s ears it sounded a voice of something huge and elemental; a voice of ancient hatred and menace – mocking the hubris and futility of two tiny half-naked creatures clinging to the hillside in their vain attempt to defy the desert.
A great sheet of lightning illuminated the hillside. For a moment, Layard saw his own face reflected in the wide frightened eyes of Antonio. He grasped the boy’s shoulders and bent his mouth to his ear, shouting against the roar of the storm.
‘Let’s move on – I think we have outstayed our welcome here!’
They staggered on, climbing ever higher on the narrow ridge. Their pounding hearts; the screeching wind; the tattoo of the incessant rain; crashes of thunder and the low menacing growl on the storm around them – all these noises combined to drive them onwards. No longer were they master and servant nor European and Arab. For that matter, there was little left of their very identity as men. Rather, they were two driven, tortured souls, stripped of any physical form and lost in the orgy of savage creation that raged about them.
On and on they slipped and scrambled, their numbed fingers scratched and raw from clawing at the jagged rocks. Their clothes caught and tore on evil projections and treacherous branches. Their vision blurred with rain and exhaustion. Their chests ached to bursting and their limbs burned with cramp. Still they climbed, driven by the formless cacophony roaring in their ears. Blind luck alone kept them to their path and blind terror drove them forward.
Then, inevitably and suddenly, their luck changed. Layard’s foot turned on a loose stone and he pitched forward, throwing his pack to one side; throwing an arm to the other to steady himself and finding only a sickening empty void. For a moment he was falling and then he was winded by a sudden impact. Losing his balance, he had stepped over the edge of the cliff and fallen to a narrow rocky shelf, some seven feet below its lip. A flash of lightning lit the hillside up, to reveal Layard lying just inches from a precipitous 200-foot drop. Above him, Antonio’s worried face appeared over the edge of the cliff.
‘Effendi, I can see you!’ called down the boy. ‘Are you alright?’
Gingerly, Layard felt his arms and legs. He was bruised and scratched and his chest and ribs felt as if he had been trampled by a team of oxen, but he could find no breaks.
‘I’ll live,’ he called back bravely and struggled to his feet. He reached up to the edge of the cliff and began to try and haul himself up, but his hands slipped on the wet rocks and his feet scrabbled feebly against the cliff-face. With a gasp, he began to pitch backwards, exhaustion and vertigo gripping his guts and mind as he felt the void assert its claim upon him. Just as he tipped backwards, he felt a small strong grip on his wrist. Antonio had thrown himself forward, lying prone on his belly on the edge of the cliff and grasping Layard’s left wrist. With an effort that belied his slight frame, the boy pulled Layard back to the cliff-face and began to heave him up, bracing his fee
t against an outcrop of boulders and doubling his body over the edge of the rocks. He inched out further, to get better leverage and hauled desperately. Inspired by the dragoman’s effort, Layard gathered his wits and grabbed the cliff edge with his free hand scrabbling and thrusting with his feet for a new foothold. He found a narrow crack in the rock and shoved his foot into it. Shifting his weight forward he put every bit of his remaining strength into heaving himself up, until he found his trunk folding over the edge of the cliff and he rolled, gasping and coughing onto the safety of its summit.
He lay on his back, the rain battering down on his face.
‘Thank you, Antonio,’ he panted. ‘You saved my life. Are you alright?’
‘Yes Effendi,’ replied the exhausted boy. ‘I just need to pull myself up.’
Antonio reached out to steady himself on the branch of a stunted tree, growing out of the rock-face. He pulled himself up, smiling in triumph.
‘Effendi, I-‘
There was a soft, crumbling snap and the branch gave way. Still holding the remains of the rotten branch, Antonio teetered for a moment on the fulcrum of the cliff edge with a look of incomprehension on his young face. Then the void took hold and, without a word, the dragoman plunged over the precipice.
Layard crawled to the edge and peered into the darkness, calling out his servant’s name. In the swirling maelstrom below, no answer came save the howling of the storm.
CHAPTER 6
Oh, oh Anton-ee-oh; ‘Es gawn away,
And left me alone-ee-oh
All orn me own-ee-oh
THE WAILING VOICE OF THE MUSIC HALL SINGER FADED, to the desultory applause of a sparse Wednesday night crowd. In the upper floor, William Layard pushed a dishevelled and inebriated young woman away from him and turned to the only other occupant of the box.
‘You say my sister is worried for the boy?’ He excavated a handful of grubby silver coins from his waistcoat pocket and handed them to the woman. She took them, looked at them blearily and secreted them into a fold of her petticoats before attempting clumsily to fasten the buttons of her dress.
‘Mrs Austen is concerned that no correspondence has been received from your nephew for some weeks,’ Disraeli explained. ‘She, like I, has a very high opinion of Mr Layard’s capabilities but there is disturbing news of the region reaching us. She has a natural concern.
‘We have heard nothing since he reached Jerusalem,’ added Disraeli, faintly distracted by the continued fumbling of the woman as she tried unsuccessfully to rearrange her dress, ‘his route to Ceylon should have carried him further by now. What is more, a friend of mine wrote to me to say that he had met with Mr Mitford in Damascus and that Layard was no longer in his company.’
‘My nephew is resourceful,’ purred William Layard. ‘Here, my dear, let me help you with that. Oh, my!’
The woman giggled at the results of the big man’s playful attempt at assistance. Disraeli sighed with impatience.
‘Surely you must have some more news you can give us. Mrs Austen-‘
‘Ah, dear Sara,’ interrupted William Layard, ‘she was ever a noble soul. She worries far too much for her own health. Still, I can see that she will give me no rest until she is satisfied as to the welfare of our errant young gentleman.’
He reached forward and enclosed the upper arm of the young woman in one of his huge paw-like hands and elevated her gently but firmly to her unsteady feet. With the other, he planted a massive, affectionate pat on her behind, which propelled her, tottering, to the door of the box.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ he chirped musically, ‘you may leave us to the tedium of business now. Do remember me to your mother.’
The woman giggled and flounced out, affecting a comically exaggerated imitation of hauteur, marred only by a single collision with the doorpost.
‘Ah,’ said William Layard when they were alone. ‘Delightful creature. Gives up virtually all her time bringing succour to the poor souls of the East End. Now, let me see if I can bring some ease to your own soul, Mr Disraeli.’
He leant forward conspiratorially and continued.
‘My nephew lives. I have just this morning received word from a reliable source that he approaches Damascus. I believe that he has enjoyed some small adventures on the road, but these have been of the usual sort; that simply add a little spice to the otherwise monotonous business of travel. I believe that they have been nothing to trouble an enterprising gentleman of my nephew’s mettle.’
‘If they have been nothing to trouble him,’ interjected Disraeli, ‘why is he so delayed and separated from Mitford?’
‘Simple youthful curiosity, Mr Disraeli,’ trilled Layard, ‘nothing more. Something that I have no doubt you can sympathise with. Young Henry had a desire to visit one or two notable landmarks of the region and by happy coincidence, was able to gather together some tidbits of antiquarian trivia for certain learned gentleman of our acquaintance. Where would we be without that healthy and inevitable itch to satisfy such curiosity, hmm? Our journey would be inevitably shorter and more predictable – and our aunts would be less anxious – but we would live in a far blander world.
‘Had the aunts of the world had their way, would Balboa have ever locked his eyes upon the cerulean beauty of the Pacific? Would Magellan ever-‘
‘Mr Layard,’ cut in Disraeli curtly. Uncle William snapped his mouth shut with a look of hurt innocence.
‘I am a great admirer of Henry’s love of enquiry and exploration,’ continued Disraeli, ‘I simply need to be able to carry some reassurance to his Aunt. I am most desirous of Mrs Austen’s favour.’
‘As am I, dear boy; as am I,’ beamed William Layard. ‘You must by all means reassure my sister. There are many eyes watching out for young Henry and besides,’ his expression became more serious and he grasped Disraeli’s forearm, ‘fortune would not have picked my nephew out for this if he was not of an appropriate calibre.
‘A long game is being played in the East, Mr Disraeli,’ Layard’s face had become earnest and hard. ‘Each move that is made today can tomorrow have consequences beyond any of our imaginings. We must go forward in the confidence that young Henry plays his part well.
‘Your part for now, Mr Disraeli, is to settle Mrs Austen’s anxieties. My sister is not without her own resources. It would not do for one of her admirers in the Admiralty Office to offer his misguided assistance and go blundering in with gunships and squadrons of marines. No - this game requires delicacy. That is why it is better to trust to the learned gentlemen, whom I find myself representing,’ Layard’s expression softened, as if the effort of maintaining a serious countenance for any length of time was beyond him. A smile spread impossibly widely across his moon-like face. ‘They have just the right acquaintances among the local population to provide an appropriate level of pastoral oversight without disturbing some very delicate balances.’
‘So that is to be my part in this great game?’ demanded Disraeli. ‘That of messenger boy for some obscure group of bookworms?’
‘The Society, for whom I temporarily find it my pleasure to do some small favours,’ said Layard, sweetly, waving his fingers as if to congratulate himself on his own convoluted grammar, ‘is far from being composed of bookworms.’
He suddenly grasped Disraeli firmly by both shoulders. Despite William Layard’s comical appearance and effeminate manner, in his grip the younger man felt an enormous power. Behind the twinkling eyes and playful syntactical vandalism of his speech, Disraeli sensed something made of steel, shadows and looming menace.
‘Rest assured, my dear young friend,’ whispered Uncle William softly, ‘there will be a part for you. It may be a greater one than you dare to think.’
* * *
Charles Wherry, Her Majesty’s Consul in Damascus lived in a fine house, typical of the city. It was built of hard-baked red clay, its exterior walls solid and featureless. It presented not a single window to the narrow, filthy street that heaved with a great mass of people and anim
als. Its crumbling, austere walls expressionlessly watched the constant eddies and currents that flowed by. Here were Egyptian soldiers, Muslims, Christians, Maronites, Druses, Bedouins, silk traders, missionaries, thieves, adventurers, caravans and the colourful Damascenes themselves, sporting a riot of coloured silk robes and turbans. The hot narrow street created a unique melange of smells. Sandalwood and mutton fat; Saffron and cinnamon; camel dung and sewage; the sweat of travel, fanaticism and greed and the odours of countless goods and opportunities that made their way to this great crossroads of the world to be sold. All this, the walls watched inscrutably and impassively.
