The Sleeping Sands

by Nat Edwards

  ‘You followed him all day?’ asked the European, carefully folding and replacing the handkerchief.

  The Lur nodded and walked over to stand beside the window.

  ‘And did he follow his usual routine? The same as for the last two months?’

  The Lur shook his head and spoke, the words uncomfortable on his tongue.

  ‘He has finished his lessons in the Persian language,’ said the Lur, simply. ‘He makes ready to leave.’

  ‘And has he met with any problem?’ asked the European, ‘British travellers are not exactly welcome in the Shah’s domains these days.’

  ‘Your agent supplied him with letters to the Physician,’ replied the Lur. ‘He will arrange safe passage.’

  ‘We can only hope.’ The European walked away from the window and went to a crude table in a far corner of the room upon which rested a pile of maps. He spread out the largest of the maps and studied it thoughtfully. The Lur waited in silence.

  ‘Too many gaps,’ said the man at length. ‘There are too many places that are still hidden to us. We can only hope that our young friend has the character to survive what is coming.’

  He slid a stout travelling case from beneath the table and opened it, taking out a soft leather bundle. This he unrolled on the table to reveal three clay fragments, stamped with rows of ancient cuneiform characters. He spread the tablets out and sat down, peering intently at the inscriptions.

  ‘Too many gaps,’ he repeated to himself. Then, noticing the Lur was still standing at the window, he ordered, ‘resume your watch on him. I must not miss a single detail.’

  * * *

  ‘I have the letters to Mirza Aga Baba,’ stated Layard, entering the lodging and waving a wad of documents at Mitford, who was lounging on a divan. ‘He is the Shah’s personal physician. I am told that he holds great influence at court. He will help us get the passes we need to travel across Persia.’

  Mitford, who was dressed like Layard, in Persian costume, swung his legs over the side of the couch and reached for his cap.

  ‘Good. I am tired of waiting, Henry,’ he said. ‘It has taken far longer than I had hoped since we left Jerusalem. I plan to take the most direct route across Persia to India as soon as it is safe to travel. What news is there from Tehran?’

  ‘Not good, I am afraid,’ replied Layard. ‘A messenger arrived from Tehran at the Consulate this morning. He reported that our Embassy has been withdrawn. Another instance of petty-mindedness no doubt. The talk is of war. The Consul and all of his advisors counselled against venturing into Persia. Only one voice gave any encouragement,’ Layard waved the papers again. ‘One of the clerks must have taken pity on me, for he supplied us with these letters of introduction.’

  ‘That will mean more audiences, I suppose,’ sighed Mitford. ‘More meetings; more formalities; more waiting. I cannot wait until we are on the road again my friend. I don’t think I shall rest my horse until we reach India.’

  Layard looked at his companion.

  ‘I have something to tell you, Edward,’ he said softly. ‘I am not coming with you to India.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ demanded Mitford, rising to his feet.

  ‘I wish to spend a little more time in Persia,’ explained Layard, ‘I want to travel to the Lake of Furrah. There are some monuments I wish to visit and also the Society asked me to update some maps.’

  ‘For Heaven’s sake, man!’ interjected Mitford, ‘hasn’t your journey taught you anything?’

  For perhaps the first time since he had left Safed, Layard laughed.

  ‘Evidently not.’ He smiled kindly at Mitford and continued, ‘ever since we arrived in the Holy Lands, I have felt there is something out there, calling for me. I can’t escape the feeling that I have to go out and meet with my destiny.’

  ‘From what I have seen,’ observed Mitford, ‘whatever destiny is out there will probably either cheat you, rob you or eat you – and possibly all three. You are very welcome to your destiny, my friend. I have a job to go to.’

  Layard gathered up a slim leather wallet from his pack and carefully slipped the letters inside it.

  ‘As have I, Edward,’ he murmured. ‘As have I.’

  * * *

  The city of Hamadan was unnaturally silent. Layard rode warily into the town through fields empty of livestock and gardens stripped of every fruit. The trees themselves had been hacked down and only a few rotten and flimsy twigs remained. Just a few hours earlier, he had ridden through the same city surrounded by a tumult of men, animals and children, joining together in the exuberant chorus of the East. Now, the streets were deserted; the bazaars were empty save for the detritus of overturned and ransacked stalls and there was no noise but for the distant forlorn sound of a loose shutter banging gently in the dry breeze. Layard slowed his horse to a walk and went warily forward; his hand resting on the stock of his gun.

  From the edge of his vision, Layard sensed a movement. He started, swivelling in the saddle to see what it might be. Nothing. He thought for a moment that he may have seen the end of a black cloak or robe slipping into a patch of shadow by a doorway. When he screwed up his eyes against the afternoon sun and peered at the spot where he had seen something, he saw there was nothing to see; just shadows within deeper shadows. He murmured to the horse, which had begun to snort restively and bite at its bit.

  ‘You’re as jumpy as I am, old fellow. Let’s move on.’

  The unseen shutter tapped ominously. Layard turned the horse into a narrow street where, only the day before he and Mitford had been followed along its length by a stone-throwing, spitting mob of irregular soldiers and camp followers. Now, in the eerie silence, he almost missed the epithets of ‘Infidel!’ and ‘Dog!’ that had been shouted after them. The late afternoon heat pressed down unbearably on Layard, muffling the unearthly deserted city. As he rode deeper into the maze of Hamadan’s narrow streets, even the errant shutter seemed to fall silent. All Layard could now hear was the unsteady breathing of his restive horse and a faint sound of hoof beats following him. He turned in his saddle at each turn and junction to challenge his pursuer, but each time the hoof beats would stop and there would be no living soul in sight. It was on the fourth occasion that he reassured himself the sound was nothing more than the echo of his own horse’s hoofs, bouncing softly from the walls of the deserted houses that loomed about him.

  He was alone again. A few hours earlier he had ridden with Mitford as far as the village of Shaverin. There, they had parted. Layard had been unprepared for the sense of loss that he had felt as he watched his companion ride up the stony road towards Meshed. It had been over a year since they had set out together from England and Mitford had proved a solid and tolerant companion. He had stood by Layard when danger had threatened and when he was struck down by Malaria in Turkey. He had waited, first at Damascus and then at Aleppo, while Layard had indulged his hunger for adventure in the Syrian Desert. He had waited another two months at Baghdad while his companion learned Persian and a further month with the Shah’s camp at Hamadan while Layard lobbied a succession of court officials for the necessary permits to travel. The more adventurous traveller may have bemoaned Mitford’s lack of ambition, but his loyalty, patience and reliability were never at fault. Indeed, Layard felt that a better travelling companion could not have been found. He was deeply saddened to see such a companion leave. However, it was a deeper grief that now haunted him.

  In the five months since he had spontaneously and inexplicably lied to Mitford in Aleppo about Antonio’s fate, he had been unable to discuss the matter. He had pushed the anguish of his dragoman’s death deep into an untouched part of his consciousness and set himself single-mindedly to the business of their journey. He had been tireless and obsessive in learning the customs and language of Persia; he had hunted relentlessly through the bazaars of Baghdad for the most authentic Persian travelling costume. When faced with the impenetrable bureaucracy of the Persian court, Layard had doggedly pursued first one official
and then another, gaining audiences first with the Court Physician; then with the young Minister for Foreign Affairs; with his influential father and finally gaining an audience with the Prime Minister. Despite the hostility of the Prime Minister, who hated Layard for a Christian and suspected him as an English spy, Layard had gained the promise of separate firmans for himself and Mitford. It had been a long and tedious task yet Layard had thrown himself into it, dedicating every moment of his time and every iota of his attention to its success. Yet, beneath that single-mindedness and rigorous application, something dark was growing, quietly but equally relentless.

  Watching Mitford’s tiny receding figure finally swallowed up by the vista of the mountains, Layard felt the weight of the effort of the last five months press down upon him. Feeling suddenly weary beyond words, he closed his eyes.

  Instantly, he was back on the storm-wracked hillside above Damascus, watching in helplessness and horror as Antonio plunged wordlessly over the cliff. He was alone in the dark with the voice of some vast and terrible unseen thing roaring in his ears. Unmanned by terror he dragged his battered body to its feet and ran stumbling from the place. In blind panic, he crashed through bushes and rotten trees, tumbling over piles of boulders and slipping on the wet rocks, a tiny naked thing in the immense and elemental presence of the storm. His chest pounded and his exhausted limbs ached as he blundered through the night. The savage growling in his ears drowned out the noise of the rain and the thunder and even the frantic beating of his own heart. He lurched on, his knees buckling, driven by the awful noise until he felt that he could stumble no further. Before him in the blackness, a mouth of deeper black – whether a cave or the Pit of Hell, Layard neither knew nor cared. He threw himself forwards, tripping and crashing to the ground in exhaustion. The awful growling roared louder. As the last shred of his consciousness slipped away, he knew that he would not survive to see the morning.

  He was right. When the dawn came, the young arrogant romantic who had set out from England had been utterly destroyed. Peeking into that cavemouth, the morning sun had discovered a different man, huddling in the shadows. Neither his Aunt Sara nor his friend Disraeli would have easily recognised the man who dragged himself from the hillside and presented himself at the house of Charles Wherry in Damascus. Nor would they easily recognise the man who now shook himself from the grip of remembered terror and turned his horse towards Hamadan. He was a quieter man whose hardened features could not completely disguise the occasional nervous flick of his eyes towards some dark shadow. This new Layard was no less driven; if anything he was more doggedly so than ever. In the tone of his voice and the set of his jaw, determination had replaced passion. Eyes that had once gazed at distant horizons ahead were now glazed with haunting memories of horrors too close behind. Since Damascus, he had thrown himself into the monotony of his daily tasks to escape the horror and grief of that night. For months, the rigour of his discipline and the distractions of travel and preparation had held the grief at bay. Now, riding back to Hamadan to collect his firman, the grief rode at his shoulder, whispering wordlessly into his ear and clutching at his chest.

  ‘You are alone,’ it beat out in his horse’s footsteps as he returned down the rocky road from Shaverin.

  ‘You are alone,’ it called tinnily in the cries of a startled francolin as he neared the city.

  ‘You are alone,’ it whispered in the dry breeze blowing through the ravaged gardens.

  ‘You are alone,’ it tapped on an old wooden shutter as he rode through the dusty desolate streets.

  ‘You are alone,’ it taunted silently from the heart of the shadows, making his horse twitch and snort with anxiety.

  The city looked as if it had been sacked. There was no-one on the street. Not a thing of value remained to be seen. Layard wrestled with his nervous, bucking horse through deserted streets and alleys. At last, he emerged from one of the streets into a broad open square, surrounded by high walled dwellings and a riot of broken, empty shops and kiosks. Unlike the streets, the square was not deserted.

  A tall, finely decorated horse stood in the centre of the square, its long tail twitching. Next to it stood a man no less extravagantly dressed. His rich robe was tucked into a pair of baggy brown riding trousers, themselves tucked into a pair of gleaming black cavalry boots. His a tall cap sat on a head that sported a bushy black moustache and a pair of magnificently proportioned black eyebrows, matched in fierceness only by the array of weapons and ammunition with which his body was hung about. He carried a long rifle, finely traced with swirling gilt patterns along the length of its barrel. Into his silk sash was tucked an enormous pistol that looked as if it had been intended for the pursuit of wild bear (or for that matter had been designed only to be operated by a wild bear in the first place). Next to this hung a long curved sword. Elsewhere, tucked into his sash and bandolier or else hung from any convenient part of his person were curved daggers, powder horns, bags of shot and all manner of contrivances for the operation of violence.

  ‘You are Layard?’ he boomed across the square. Without waiting for an answer, he produced a document from within the folds of his sash and waved it.

  ‘I have your firman,’ he said, smiling as Layard rode nearer. ‘I am the Ghûlam Imaum Verdi Beg. I have been appointed your mehmandar by the Shah.’

  He grinned more broadly, revealing an uneven array of stained yellow teeth.

  ‘That means I am coming with you, good sir. I am your guide to Isfahan.’

  ‘The Prime Minister thought I should have an escort, then?’ asked Layard. ‘Does he still suspect me as a spy?’

  ‘Ah, that could not be further than the truth, sir,’ replied the Ghûlam, ‘the Prime Minister is simply concerned for your safety. Your road takes you close to the Zagros Mountains and among some wild and dangerous people.’

  ‘From what I have been told, the people of that region have no love for the officers of the Shah,’ replied Layard. ‘Some even suggested that I might be safer travelling alone than with an official of the court.’

  The Ghûlam laughed.

  ‘You shouldn’t listen to the tittle-tattle of village gossips and simple tribesmen, sir,’ he said. ‘They will tell you all sorts of nonsense and half-baked tales about this and that. It is as well that I am coming with you, otherwise who knows how they would lead you astray?’

  Layard dismounted and stroked his still troubled horse. He looked around the square. The city remained deserted but for the two men and their animals and one small face peering from a dark doorway at the far side of the square. At the distance Layard was, he could make out neither the age nor sex of the face; only a pair of wide, frightened eyes. He turned suspiciously to the Ghûlam.

  ‘What happened here?’ he demanded.

  Imaum Verdi Beg shrugged.

  ‘The Shah and his court left,’ he explained. Layard stared at him, prompting further explanation.

  ‘The Shah’s court is attended by 13,000 men,’ he elaborated and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘Whenever the Shah honours a town with his presence, it is ever thus.’

  ‘The people are delighted and honoured to make a sacrifice to His Majesty’s war effort,’ said the Ghûlam, as they rode out the next morning.

  The city was gradually coming back to life. People had emerged from the safety of their houses and refuges in the hills and were going about the melancholy task of clearing the detritus left by the departing royal court. The fanatics and rowdies who had pursued the Europeans previously had left with the army and Layard rode unmolested through streets of subdued and wary citizens, scrabbling among the rubbish for scraps of food and firewood.

  ‘They are not exceptionally vocal in expressing their delight,’ observed Layard. ‘The army has left them nothing.’

  ‘Oh, these people will have plenty squirreled away somewhere, good sir,’ said the Ghûlam cheerfully.

  ‘Still,’ he frowned a little, ‘it may be better if we use your firman to gather provisions at th
e next village rather than here.’

  In addition to assigning the Ghûlam to be his official government escort, or mehmandar, the firman gave Layard the right to demand from every settlement along his route fresh horses and enough food and drink for eight men. Layard had protested its extravagance but his mehmandar had assured him that it could be no other way.

  ‘The people will be honoured to feed a guest of the Shah and his escort,’ he smiled. ‘They will be only disappointed that there are not more travelling with us so that they can demonstrate their love of the Shah through greater generosity.’

  Layard looked sceptically at his escort and lapsed into silence. He resolved wherever possible to pay his way along the road. This was partly through a sense of fairness and partly because he had not been completely reassured by the Ghûlam that local resentment to the Shah had been over-stated. He had spent enough weeks in the company of Persian courtiers to have experienced the complex tangle of suspicion, deception and sophistry that entwined their every interaction. It was not their way to readily share the whole truth. He had no cause to doubt that his mehmandar was any different. Still, Layard mused as they trotted on, it seemed somehow fitting that the firman had been issued for a party of eight, while only two made the journey. He fantasised that Imaum Verdi Beg and he were accompanied by a party of six attentive ghosts as they wound their way steeper into the hills and closer to the wild regions of Luristan.

  ‘That donkey’s load gets fatter at every village,’ commented Layard, as he watched his mehmandar drag an overloaded little beast up a steep incline in the road.

  ‘No worry, good sir,’ panted the Ghûlam cheerfully as he heaved the donkey over the crest of the hill. ‘I will be able to sell these supplies at the next town; to make room for more.’