by Nat Edwards
‘No, that is because I come from far, far away.’ Layard lifted Lady Moon out of the saddle with both arms outstretched and faced her towards the West.
‘Can you see it, little princess?’ he asked. ‘It’s so far away that nobody there knows how to speak Bakhtiari.’
Lady Moon giggled as she shaded her eyes to peer into the horizon.
‘And nobody learns how to ride or shoot?’ she demanded.
‘Well, they don’t really get to learn that at school,’ explained Layard, ‘and little girls certainly don’t get to learn how to do those things.’
‘Then it sounds an awful place, Henry,’ frowned Lady Moon. ‘Is that why you came to live with us?’
His only worry came whenever there was a brief skirmish with hostile tribesmen. With the girl sitting before him in the saddle, he could not ride to join the caravan’s defenders without risking her safety. On one occasion, when a pair of musket-men was firing at the party from a rocky stronghold high above the path, Layard cast about, looking for a safe place to place the child so that he could draw his own gun and return fire. Seeing his anxiety, Lady Moon frowned a serious frown and placed her small hand on Layard’s chest.
‘Don’t worry, Henry,’ she said, ‘I will protect you from these scoundrels. I am a princess of Kala Tul and you have nothing to fear.’
With shots screaming and ricocheting around them, Layard gazed down at the little girl with fire in her eyes and wondered how many skirmishes she had already seen in her short life to sit so calmly. He smiled at her and, placing an arm around her shoulders, guided his horse into the shelter of an overhanging rock.
‘You are right, My Lady,’ replied Layard gently, ‘I have nothing to fear when I ride with warriors such as you.’
* * *
There was unrest in the country. At each town the caravan stopped, its ranks increased as traders and other travellers joined with the khan’s household for safety. Within a few days, the caravan could boast its own fair sized little army, with forty or so musket-men on foot and a cavalry of around two dozen Bakhtiari warriors.
The caravan was now large enough and sufficiently well-armed to move through unfriendly territories almost unopposed. For little more than, Layard suspected, form’s sake, distant groups of gunmen would fire occasional volleys at the party but these were rarely within any kind of effective range. In time, the echoing sounds of distant gunfire became another part of the journey’s routine – absorbed into the rhythm of travel in the mountains.
The caravan may have been protected from direct attack but Layard was to discover that it was still not entirely free of interference from the tribes whose lands they were crossing. The nights in the mountains were cold and Layard had taken to sleeping under the heavy, finely embroidered quilt that he had been given as a parting gift by Boré. On one, particularly chilly morning, he awoke shivering. Reaching down to pull up his quilt, his hand clutched at nothing but the cold mountain air. He looked around. There was no sign of the quilt. He heard a series of shouts and curses from elsewhere in the camp as people woke to find similarly valued possessions missing. Thieves had crept into the camp, evaded its guards and escaped with a fine haul. Even Shefi’a Khan’s kaleon pipe had been stolen. Layard was dismayed at losing the quilt but could not help but marvel at the daring of the robbers who had plundered such a heavily armed caravan.
Shefi’a Khan led a party of horsemen in pursuit of the thieves. That evening, they rejoined the caravan, thirsty and in foul tempers. They had searched the mountains for miles around the camp, without success.
‘The people of these hills are the greatest thieves in Persia,’ he said to Layard as he washed his face and hands in rose water. ‘They are like shadows. Not one of them has planted a crop or done a day’s work in their lives but prey on the fruits of their neighbour’s hard work.’
The next morning, the party came upon a herd of cattle being watered at a river crossing. The small group of cowherds tending them took flight on the caravan’s approach and Shefi’a Khan sent out horsemen to round up the cattle.
‘Are we stealing those cows?’ Layard asked the vizier.
‘They were in the care of the thieves from two nights past,’ explained Shefi’a Khan. ‘They were no doubt stolen from somebody. It is my belief that they will make adequate payment from the items we lost.’
That night, the party feasted on beef. It was the first meat Layard had tasted since leaving Isfahan. Sitting by the fire, savouring the aromatic stew, he was joined by Lady Moon.
‘Henry, my mother says that if you do not eat up all your food, then bears will come looking for it and eat you up instead,’ she said, seriously.
‘Why, I believe that may be the case,’ said Layard. ‘Little girls should certainly eat up all their food if they want to be strong enough to fight off any bears.’
‘When I am bigger, I’ll hunt bears with my father,’ said the girl. ‘He is the best hunter in the mountains.’
She looked up at Layard, her eyes wide and shining in the firelight.
‘I miss my father, Henry,’ she said. ‘Do you think he will be gone for very long?’
‘Oh, I don’t think it will be too long,’ answered Layard in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. ‘He has just gone to see the Persians to help make sure there isn’t any war.’
The little girl turned to stare at the Matamet’s official, who, as was his custom, was seated a little distance from the rest of the party. He was dining on mutton stew, prepared by his servants from supplies procured on their route. Unlike the rest of the caravan, the official had not been forced to beg for his food along the way. He was amply served by the firman from the Matamet ensuring plentiful supplies at each village. Overstocked as he was, he had disdained from sharing any of these supplies with the Bakhtiari but he had condescended to offer a share to Layard. The Englishman declined, his mind still full of the grisly picture of Imaum Verdi Beg’s last meal at the feet of the Matamet. Mindful too of Boré’s warning, he kept his money well hidden and opted instead to trust to charity alongside the Bakhtiari.
‘I don’t like the Persians,’ said Lady Moon in a stage whisper. ‘I think they might be happy if there was a war.’
* * *
In Julfa, Eugene Boré was entertaining guests. A cold-eyed Englishman sat across a rosewood table from him, sipping occasionally from a glass of arak. At his shoulder, two silent Lurs, looking for all the world to Boré like attendant demons from some ancient pagan carving.
‘I have told you all I know,’ he said to the Englishman. ‘Monsieur Layard left in the company of a group of Bakhtiari, bound for the stronghold of Mehemet Taki Khan. He is beyond our influence now.’
‘Indeed,’ said the Englishman, sipping at his glass, ‘we must trust to our young friend’s diplomatic talents with the Khan. It galls us, however, that we cannot provide a closer oversight of his mission.’
‘The situation in the Bakhtiari country is delicate,’ said Boré. ‘Relations between the Khan and the Matamet are balanced on the edge of a knife. If either suspected the interference of the Society in the affairs of the region, it may provoke a response less than conducive to Monsieur Layard’s mission.’
‘I am more than aware of the delicacy of the situation,’ replied the Englishman, betraying a faint tone of frustration at Boré’s caution.
‘It is a risk that you are here at all,’ replied the Frenchman. ‘The Matamet is different from other governors. He is unpredictable – dangerous. I wish that you had left me to report by the usual means. The correspondence with Murray-’
‘Is too slow,’ interrupted the Englishman sharply. ‘I told you of the body we found at Petra; of the one we found in the hills above Kuneitirah – and the others of Mr Layard’s party who seem to have simply vanished. It appears that some new and subtle interest has joined the hunt. You must understand, Monsieur, it is imperative that I find out who it is and adjust our plans accordingly.’
The Englishman stood up
and drained the glass of arak. He held it to the light and turned it thoughtfully, watching the viscous residue run slowly down its sides. He stood, silent for a long moment and then set the glass carefully on the table.
‘You mentioned that the Matamet has a bent for the imaginative use of violence,’ he asked, ‘I wonder if he might be our unknown player?’
‘If you want evidence of the Matamet’s creativity, take the time to visit Persepolis,’ said the Frenchman. ‘There is a tower he raised near there that he considers his finest achievement. But I doubt he is responsible for your hidden assassin. When the Matamet acts, he likes people both to know about it and to remember. It is not his way to creep in the shadows.’
‘Another then? The game is starting to show some promise.’
The Englishman gestured to the Lurs, bowed slightly to Boré and left, walking quickly from the house to three powerful-looking horses tethered in its courtyard. The three men mounted and rode at a gallop out of the courtyard and along the road heading west from Julfa. As the dust cleared in the street outside the house, a ragged beggar who had been sitting quietly in the shadow of a lemon tree stood up and walked with quick, purposeful strides towards the gates of Isfahan.
* * *
A child’s piercing scream echoed among the cliffs. Layard reached out desperately for Lady Moon’s outstretched hand with arms that seemed to be weighted down by great invisible leaden chains. He almost managed to grab hold of her but her tiny cold hands slipped through his numb, rain-soaked fingers and he could do nothing but watch in horror as her frightened face receded into the dark depths of the chasm below, her scream echoing endlessly as she plummeted. Layard backed away from the cliff edge, covering his ears in a futile attempt to block out the scream and the thunder of the storm. His clothes caught on a tangle of thorns and he found himself trapped. He leaned down to tug his cumbersome Persian robes free, only to become yet more tangled as the cruel thorns entwined in his cloak and belt. In the driving, freezing rain and dark he began to panic, tugging and ripping at long evil barbs which only clutched at him more, shredding his clothes and tearing his exposed flesh. The drenched earth and rocks below his feet began to crumble and crack under the force of the torrent. In terror, Layard felt the ground beneath him begin to give as great chunks of it crumbled and slipped into the void and the swirling storm below. His head swam and, with a sickening feeling deep in his stomach, he found himself pitching forward, a naked, bleeding, fear-mad figure teetering on the very edge of the abyss. He felt a lurching inevitability as he tumbled forward into the darkness.
‘Henry, what’s wrong?’
Layard jerked awake with a start to see the wide concerned eyes of Lady Moon.
‘I came to tell you that the caravan was getting ready to leave,’ she said, ‘but you wouldn’t wake up. You just kept rolling about and shouting.’
She leaned forward and patted his broad shoulder with a tiny hand.
‘It was probably just a bad dream. Don’t worry. I won’t let anything hurt you Henry.’
Lady Moon turned and skipped away, issuing instructions and guidance to the muleteers and guards as they prepared the caravan for the day’s journey. Watching her dart about between the packs and the legs of the men and animals, Layard felt a sudden fierce affection for the child and her wild Bakhtiari brethren. He was surprised by his strength of feeling but realised that, whatever was to happen on the rest of his mission, he would fight to protect Lady Moon and her people.
* * *
Their road wound ever higher into the mountains. For days, they tracked across a high treeless wilderness of icy black rocks and treacherous snowdrifts. At length, they fought their way through a howling gale that guarded a narrow mountain pass, to emerge high above a steep-sided, narrow valley. An impossibly steep trail led down the valley from the pass, winding and looping back upon itself like a skein of tangled wool. The caravan began to descend the trail, carefully and in single file, so that as Layard began his own descent, he could look down on what looked like a great heap of people and animals piled one atop the other against the cliff-wall.
The nervous animals protested and stumbled on the steep path. Every now and then a small rock-fall generated by those of the party following him would tumble down on Layard. Progress was slow and fearful and few spoke. As ever, the exception was Lady Moon, who skipped up and down the length of the caravan with ibex-footed insouciance.
Finally, after hours of scrabbling and slipping down the path, the party reached the foot of the hill. The valley was divided by a wide, fast flowing mountain stream that bubbled and boiled around outcrops of vicious looking rocks. Four of the khan’s finest horsemen took up coils of rope and rode their mounts into the stream. Struggling against the powerful current and with many stumbles and close calls in the relentlessly pounding waters, all four safely made the far bank and strung their lines across the width of the stream, bracing them against pine trees. On the near side of the stream, other tribesmen had gone to work inflating goatskins. When sixteen skins had been inflated, they lashed them together into four groups each of four floats. Each float was carefully lowered into the stream beside each of the rope-lines accompanied by two of the tallest and strongest Bakhtiari warriors. Layard watched, fascinated, as the Bakhtiari began to ferry their livestock across the river. He marvelled at the dexterity and confidence of the tribesmen as, in turn, two cattle or horses were tethered to each of the floats, onto each of which a herdsman sprang. The herdsman would guide and comfort the frightened animals as the warriors pulled the floats across the stream. On the near bank, other herdsmen would gently prod the beasts with butt ends of spears to push them out into the stream. Once they had reached the mid-point of the stream, the animals would kick out for the far shore, where more tribesmen were waiting to pull them to safety.
The operation was efficient and well-rehearsed. Within half an hour, all of the horses and cattle had been ferried across the stream. Next had come the mules, with the caravan’s packs strapped to their backs, riding so low in the water that just the tips of their noses and ears could be seen over the swirling waves. With much shouting, cursing and gentle encouragement, the last of the bad-tempered mules was dragged, complaining onto the far bank. Now, it was the turn of the women and children. In the river, the tireless warriors steadied the floats, while Layard and the remaining men helped the women and children to scramble down onto the goatskin rafts, to be pulled over in groups of five or six at a time. A little way off, the Matamet’s official watched the proceedings with an air of supercilious disdain, fanning himself and eating figs from a wicker bowl. At Layard’s side Lady Moon shouted out encouragement to the ferrymen and their passengers, her high clear voice ringing out over the roar of the stream.
‘Don’t be afraid auntie!’ she called out to one terrified woman who stood at the bank, clutching an infant to her breast and crying out in fear; recoiling from any attempt to gently guide her to a raft.
‘It’s easy, look!’
Lady Moon skipped out lightly onto the nearest raft and, giggling, performed a dainty little pirouette to illustrate her advice.
The goatskin was wet and slippery with mud and silt from the travellers who had already crossed. As the girl capered, lifting one leg to spin around, her other foot slipped on the skin and she fell with a startled shriek into the torrent. The water dragged her under and she was dragged rapidly downstream by the surging current.
Layard stood, paralysed for a moment; sickened by the sensation that he was reliving his nightmare. In the space between two heartbeats he heard a soft, voice whisper that he was doomed to condemn all his companions to violent death. Then, in an instant, the moment passed and Layard found himself running along the stream beside the flailing child and leaping into the icy waters to clutch her battered body to his breast.
Bracing himself against an outcrop of rock, Layard managed to keep his footing and turn his back into the current, sheltering the pale limp form of Lady Moon. A few fee
t behind him, an anxious group of Bakhtiari, accompanied by the girl’s mother, had come up beside him and were reaching out with poles, ropes and eagerly grasping hands. Fighting against the bombardment of the water, Layard inched closer to the shore and managed to grasp hold of an outstretched lance. He heaved himself to the bank, where a dozen hands took Lady Moon from him and a dozen more helped pull him gasping onto the bank. He got to his feet and gulped at the mountain air, coughing and spluttering.
Lady Moon’s mother and another five Bakhtiari were clustered around the girl, shouting and wailing. Layard strode to the group and gently pulled one of the men away so that he could get a closer look. Lady Moon was lying, pale and motionless on the ground. Not a blade of grass stirred by her nose or mouth and her lips had turned blue. Once more, Layard felt a sickening paralysis creep upon him.
The Bakhtiari clustered around the girl’s body fell silent, save for her softly weeping mother. On the far bank, the rest of the party stood watching, grim-faced and still. Then, there was a noise from the child. She made a small, gurgling noise, followed by another and then with a choking retch she coughed up a great spurt of stream-water. The colour returned to her face as she sat up, lapsing into an angry fit of choking and coughing, while her delighted mother clung to her and wiped the child’s plastered hair from her eyes.
Layard crouched down beside the child and laid his hand on her shivering shoulder. Exhausted and chilled by the stream, he could barely manage more than a few gentle words of comfort. The girl’s mother turned to him.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said with a breaking voice. ‘You have returned my Lady Moon to me. If there was ever a doubt that you would find a welcome at Kala Tul, let it now rest. The clan of Ali Naghi Khan are in your debt.’
‘When you dived into the river, you looked more like a Bakhtiari than a Frank,’ said a tall warrior, who had been kneeling beside Lady Moon. He rose to his feet and fumbled in his belt.
