The Sleeping Sands

by Nat Edwards

  It seemed to Layard as if the ungainly and emotionless form before him was simply an approximation of a human that had been carelessly assembled for the convenience of housing something that had no natural claim upon it. He stood, momentarily and stupidly lost for words. Nothing in his experience of ministers and officials of the Shah’s court at Hamadan had prepared him for the Matamet. They had all been men, possessed of the usual human mixtures of desire, folly, jealousy and vanity. This was something else. Layard felt as if he was a specimen, being coldly observed by some distant and alien mind. He felt as transfixed and helpless as a pond-flea, attached to a naturalist’s glass slide and as ignorant and helpless before the intelligence that peered through the microscope’s lens.

  The Matamet spoke again, his reedy high-pitched voice free of inflexion.

  ‘Mr Layard,’ he intoned, ‘you seem affected by your journey. Perhaps you should sit.’ He indicated a carpet spread on the dais beside his chair.

  Layard stepped forward gratefully, bowing and recovering himself enough to stammer, ‘thank you, Your Eminence.’ He sat down thankfully, conscious of the fevered weakness of his limbs. Reassured by the solidity of the platform, he felt less transfixed by the Matamet’s personality.

  ‘It is a great honour to meet you, Sir,’ he said, meeting the Matamet’s cold gaze.

  ‘Likewise, Mr Layard,’ said the Matamet. ‘I have a great fondness for Englishmen, although I have very little fondness for your foolish government. I find in my experience that there is a very striking contradiction between the English man and the English nation. My postulation is that the former is ruled by a noble and adventurous spirit and the latter by a coterie of old men and an excitable young woman.’

  Layard resisted the impulse to challenge the Matamet. He suspected that he was being deliberately goaded as some sort of experiment. He inclined his head slightly and allowed the eunuch to continue.

  ‘The Prime Minister’s letters tell me of your desire to visit some of our more remote territories,’ continued the Governor. ‘Tell me, how was your journey to Isfahan?’

  ‘Not without its challenges, Sir,’ replied Layard. ‘I was advised against taking the mountain road to Shuster, which had been my plan, and subsequently found my road far longer than I had hoped.’

  ‘Who advised you in this course?’ asked the Matamet, leaning forward to more closely inspect the Englishman.

  ‘I was warned by local villagers,’ answered Layard, ‘and our change of route was strongly urged upon me by my mehmandar, the Ghûlam Imaum Verdi Beg; although I now suspect it was simply to allow him to fill his saddlebags with graft from as many villages as possible.’

  ‘With graft? Tell me more of this Ghûlam,’ said the Matamet, with the faintest hint of a frown.

  Layard pulled the firman from his belt and handed it to the Matamet.

  ‘The Shah’s firman gave me claim on provisions for up to eight men,’ he explained as the Matamet read the document, ‘yet there were but the two of us. That did not stop the Ghûlam from extorting its full provision from every town and village we passed. He caused no end of arguments and ill-will towards us and even threatened to abandon me at one point, unless I paid him for the privilege of his company.’

  Exercised by the memory of his mehmandar’s duplicity, Layard began to lose his earlier sense of unease. He leaned closer to the Matamet’s chair, slapping the carpet in frustration.

  ‘The scoundrel even tried to sell the very same provisions back to me,’ Layard fumed.’ I dare say he is hawking his ill-deserved loot as we speak – if he hasn’t already filled his purse and headed back to Hamadan.’

  The Matamet beckoned to a ferrash, who came and stooped low beside him. He handed the firman to the ferrash and muttered a few words. The ferrash withdrew and the Matamet turned back to Layard.

  ‘The Ghûlam is a dog,’ he said flatly. ‘He was born of a dog. His family are dogs and any of his filthy seed that walk upon the earth will be dogs. Like a dog, he follows the Shah’s army, looking for scraps. I will have no such dog in my city. You are well rid of him, Mr Layard. If you had been assigned a competent mehmandar you would have had no trouble negotiating the mountain pass to Shuster. I will ensure that other arrangements can be made for you.’

  He gestured to a Bakhtiari tribesman who had been sitting quietly in the shadows.

  ‘This man will take you tomorrow to meet with Ali Naghi Khan,’ explained the Matamet. ‘He is the brother of Mehemet Taki Khan, first among the Bakhtiari chieftains. Ali Naghi Khan is in Isfahan. He will be able to arrange an introduction to his brother and a guide to take you to the Khan’s stronghold at Kala Tul. There, you will enjoy the protection of the Khan and you will be able to inspect your monuments in safety.

  ‘The routes to the East are less safe for you. There has been,’ he paused momentarily, ‘a certain unrest in Kabul. Your countrymen; well, suffice it to say that the road to Kandahar and beyond is perilous. Kala Tul is the wisest destination for you and I believe the most convenient for the purpose of your various observations.’

  The Matamet ordered tea to be brought forward and offered it to Layard. When the Englishman had drunk, the Governor continued.

  ‘You must tell me more of your inspections, Mr Layard,’ he said, his mouth twitching slightly in what Layard imagined for a fleeting moment to be an attempt at a smile. ‘I believe that we share a passion for the history of this region – particularly its most ancient history. One can learn so much from the past, is it not so? You must tell me exactly what you hope to learn.’

  Layard shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘Well,’ he replied, ‘so much is unknown about the monuments and ancient sites of this area that any small fresh insight is of value. All around us are the tombs and cities of ancient princes, whom we only know from old tales and scriptures,’

  ‘Scriptures?’ interrupted the Matamet. ‘Is there any particular scripture that refers to this region?’

  ‘Well,’ said Layard, evasively, ‘they are just old tales.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Layard,’ said the Matamet, ‘your Christian scriptures are just that – but there are often truths hidden in old tales. Sometimes they can be powerful truths. Do you not think that is so? Look at my own story, Mr Layard. I was a slave, taken in bondage from my home to rise to greatness in the court of a magnificent empire. Do you not think that it has some echo among your scriptures?’

  Layard opened his mouth to reply but the Governor interrupted immediately, leaning forward to peer down at the Englishman.

  ‘Now, what scriptural antiquities might you expect to find in this region?’ the Matamet asked, fixing Layard with an unblinking stare.

  At that moment a ferrash walked into the room and handed a large, cloth-wrapped bundle to the Matamet. Momentarily distracted, the Matamet lifted a corner of the bundle to inspect it and then nodded to the ferrash, who took back the bundle. The Matamet gestured to the ferrash, who presented his package to Layard, bowing low as he handed it to the Englishman.

  ‘What is this?’ asked Layard.

  ‘It is simply a small gift,’ said the Matamet, ‘that I hope will bring you some peace of mind upon your journey. Please, unwrap it.’

  Layard looked down at the bundle. It comprised a heavy brown and red cloth scented with a fragrant heavy perfume. Layard could feel something heavy inside. He began, carefully, to unwrap the folds of cloth, wondering what sort of gift the Matamet might have prepared for him. The inner folds of cloth felt oddly warm and moist. He pulled them back and then suddenly gasped, springing to his feet and away from the platform, dropping the bundle as he went. The package fell to the floor and its contents came free of its wrapping, rolling across the edge of the platform and towards Layard’s feet. He looked down in wordless horror as the object seemed to pursue him across the floor, coming at last to a rest a few inches from him. There, staring sightlessly up at him was the head of Ghûlam Imaum Verdi Beg. Stuffed into the Ghûlam’s grimacing mouth, the bloodstain
ed firman had provided one last meal for his mehmandar.

  Unable to drag his eyes from the grisly object at his feet that had so recently been his travelling companion, Layard was barely conscious of the Matamet’s droning and emotionless voice.

  ‘As I said, Mr Layard, I will have no such dog in Isfahan. Now, tell me more about these monuments you wish to visit?’

  CHAPTER 10

  THE HALL SEEMED IMPOSSIBLY IMMENSE; at least a mile long. Yet it was dwarfed by three towering monuments, looming above it in the dark, cloudy sky. The central of these, the Temple of Zeus Belus, descended to the hall in a great arcade, dominated by the golden statue of the god, which itself towered over the countless ant-like figures of the hall’s inhabitants. At the nearest end of the hall on a high platform, men and women in richly coloured robes cowered and clung together in terror. Only one figure stood tall and brave among them; a black-robed, wild-haired prophet gesturing towards the sky. His raised hand and his stern, handsome face were illuminated by a brilliant light, streaming from a line of titanic letters written in white flames upon the wall above him. The brilliance of the flames outshone everything else, diminishing even the mighty tower and the beautiful hanging gardens that flanked the temple.

  ‘It’s not really that well painted,’ observed William Layard to his companion, ‘but there is something about it that captures the eye.’

  ‘Belshazzar’s Feast,’ recited the other, reading from a small gilt panel on the frame.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said William, ‘the moving finger; Mene, Mene, Tekel and all that. No, my brother was the one for paintings. Filled his apartments up with dusty old Italian daubs of virgins, saints and Old Testament scenes. It’s little wonder that my nephew has such a morbid unhealthy interest in old ruins, surrounded by all that nonsense.’

  ‘Still,’ said his companion, ‘you have to admit it is a striking composition. And, of course it’s not really about the past. The artist is clearly drawing a parallel between ancient Babylon and today’s society.’

  ‘Hmph,’ said William, looking at the orgiastic feast and exotically clad revellers, ‘chance would be a fine thing. I wish artists would just say what they meant. All these layers of meaning and riddles to cloak their great artistic truth; their only purpose is to hide the fact that their great artistic truth is a flimsy half-baked bit of doggerel. I don’t see why the Society insists on buying these things.’

  ‘It fills a space, I suppose,’ observed his companion. ‘You know how the Society abhors gaps.’

  He pulled a small leather-bound notebook from his pocket and opened it, leafing through its pages as he peered over the rim of a pair of wire-framed glasses.

  ‘I thought you might be interested in hearing the latest news of your nephew,’ he said, running his finger down lines of densely written shorthand. ‘Ah, here we are.’

  ‘Well,’ asked William, his voice dropping to a whisper, ‘what of him? Is he well?’

  ‘He appears so,’ said the other, deciphering the notes, ‘although the same cannot be said of his travelling companions.’

  ‘Mitford? Has something befallen him?’ asked William, curiously.

  ‘No, Mitford has made good progress. Rather it has been Mr Layard’s native companions who seem somewhat prone to misfortune. Notwithstanding this, however, he seems to have secured a reliable guide to take him into the Bakhtiari country, although by this last report he appears to have been delayed for some weeks at Isfahan.’

  The man closed his notebook and turned to William Layard.

  ‘There is one thing you should know,’ he said in a hushed voice. ‘Another seems to have entered the game. Mr Layard may not be the only one searching for our target.’

  ‘Then let us pray he is the first to find it,’ said William. He turned back to the painting.

  ‘My word, look at what that young woman is wearing.’

  * * *

  Ali Naghi Khan was camped, with a group of his followers in a suite of rooms in a ramshackle apartment building. He had travelled to Isfahan en route to Tehran, where he was to live as a hostage to guarantee his brother’ continued good will and loyalty. He had received Layard kindly and promised to supply him with a guide to Kala Tul from among his party. It was agreed that the guide would leave, with Layard, just as soon as the rest of the band set out for Tehran. However, as Layard was discovering with an increasing sense of frustration, no-one seemed in any hurry to leave Isfahan.

  Each morning, Layard would call on the khan to see if he was due to depart. Each morning he would be met with reassurances that the khan was planning to leave in a matter of days but in the meantime he was more than welcome to enjoy the khan’s hospitality. Inevitably, this involved the khan and his followers drinking large amounts of arak and chilled Shiraz wine, while listening to poetry being recited by beautiful young Persian boys. Throughout their debauchery, the khan’s mullah would sit in one corner of the chamber, rocking back and forward as he read from the Koran, courageously ignoring the disregard for its tenets being demonstrated by his companions. Layard would stay each morning for as long as politeness demanded and as his constitution allowed, before excusing himself. Each day the khan would ensure him that they would soon leave. This pattern had repeated itself for over a month.

  Reluctant to set foot once again in the Matamet’s palace, even if it would expedite his departure, Layard would spend what was left of each day in the company of Boré and a Persian of his acquaintance who had proved a most enlightening host. This Persian was a self-declared free-thinking Sufi who made a point of entertaining Layard and his other guests in the women’s apartments of his large and comfortable house. There, the company would indulge liberally in wine and far-reaching conversation, while watching the Persian’s beautiful dancing girls perform. The Persian’s reputation for liberal thought and hospitality was such that, each evening, Layard would be guaranteed of meeting a mixture of travellers, eccentrics and other seekers of experience among whom he could at least offset the tedium of his long delay in Isfahan.

  One evening, Layard was stretched out in the Persian’s house, sipping a cup of iced arak, spellbound by the undulations of two dancers. The girls wore nothing on their shoulders other than short silk jackets, unfastened, so that every writhing move of their supple bodies was revealed to the watcher. Their long, athletic legs were sheathed in loose trousers of sheer, translucent silk. They seemed to Layard to be of a completely different species to the pale, soft and frilled creatures that passed for women in London society. He wondered what his Aunt Sara might say if she could see her nephew, intoxicated and supine among the silks and cushions, entertained by two visions from the pages of the Arabian Nights. Would she approve? Or would she rather he was sitting on some hard chair in a cold drawing room, listening to some twittering debutante singing at the pianoforte?

  Just at that moment, Layard was disturbed by the entry into the chambers of a group of three of the most outlandish people that he had ever seen.

  Save for the coconut shell each wore around his neck, each of the three men was different from his fellows in all regards, whether dress, physiology or appearance. Yet there was about them such a strong sense of commonality and relatedness that it would be possible to imagine them as brothers, despite their physical differences. One man was a giant, with a shock of tightly curled black hair. His black skin and gold jewellery suggested African origins, but his costume was that of a high-class Persian. He smiled at Layard when he entered, revealing a row of gold-capped teeth. As he moved closer, Layard noticed that he wore a belt of monkey skulls around his waist. The next man was tiny, stooped and wrinkled. His skin was as brown as a walnut and he was clad only in a great array of long thin strips of torn cloth – each a different colour. He had a tall goatskin cap on his head and carried a long staff, capped with a heavy brass ball. It seemed a wonder to Layard that the weight of it didn’t snap the man’s frail, wizened arm. The third man was round and fat, with a small felt skull cap perched atop his pal
e, bald head. He seemed to have no colour at all to his skin and his small, squinting eyes had a pinkish tinge in the lamplight. He wore a long, shapeless gown that Layard at first thought was dark grey, until the man came nearer and he saw that it was in fact a white robe upon which had been minutely stitched thousands of geometric representations of Arabic calligraphy. In his pudgy hands, the man carried a truncheon upon which was a razor-sharp blade in the form of the Hand of Fatima.

  ‘Ah, my friends,’ cried out the Persian, clapping his hands together in delight, ‘you are returned from your wanderings. You must share your adventures and wisdom with us.’

  ‘Drink first,’ said the oldest of the three, simply and scuttled over to sit by Layard. The other two came to join him. The oldest traveller peered at Layard with rheumy eyes.

  ‘Foreigner,’ he concluded. ‘Good. Has he any money?’

  ‘I am just a poor traveller, like yourselves,’ protested Layard.

  ‘Like ourselves are you?’ laughed the giant in a deep, good-humoured voice. ‘That is a fairly lofty claim for anyone to make – let alone someone who has only just met us.’

  ‘Why,’ trilled the fat man, musically, ‘I have known us for years and I still have no idea what we are like and far less idea of whether I am anything like that.’

  The African almost collapsed when he saw the look of confusion on Layard’s face. Doubled over, he pounded the couch with a huge fist, spluttering through tears of laughter.

  ‘I hadn’t noticed how like us he was,’ he guffawed. ‘Why, when I look at him, it is as if I were looking in a mirror.’

  ‘I should have known as soon as I set eyes upon him,’ giggled the fat man. ‘In fact I noticed that he was reciting the 9,999 secret names of Allah that are stitched upon my coat.’

  ‘You are too coy, my friend,’ called out the giant to his Persian host. ‘You did not confess to entertaining another dervish among your guests!’