by Nat Edwards
At length they came to the mound upon which was erected a low mud-brick building of markedly more modern origins than the rest of the city. It contained two rooms, one of which held a stone carved with crude Arabic characters. There was no sign of any earlier building nor any evidence to show that the tomb was anything other than that of a minor local saint. Layard emerged from the tomb, shaking his head in disappointment. The prophet had eluded him once more.
‘What infidel dares to desecrate the tomb of the prophet Nebbi Daniel?’ demanded a fierce voice.
Layard looked up to see a wild looking fakir, brandishing an ancient arquebus.
‘You have five seconds to recite the profession of faith,’ he threatened, ‘before I blow you from the Earth as an infidel!’
He levelled the antique gun in Layard’s face.
‘He’s no infidel,’ cried one of Layard’s companions, firmly pushing down the wide barrel of the gun, ‘he’s come with books telling him where to find gold among the ruins.’
‘No, he’s an agent sent by the Shah,’ said another, ‘who is preparing the way for an assault on the mountains.’
‘You know nothing,’ said a third. ‘He is the brother of the King of England who, just this minute has arrived at Baghdad and is making ready to march into the Bakhtiari country.’
‘Will the King fight against the Shah?’ cried a fourth, sparking a general clamour.
‘When will the English arrive here?’
‘Will you find the four secret treasures of Sûsan and use them against the Shah?’
‘Where’s the gold?’
‘Are you certain he’s not a Georgian?’
Layard moved in a cloud of human chaos back across the ruins to the tent of Mullah Feraj, where he found, if not a friendly welcome, a more restrained one. The Mullah chased away his more excitable followers and, having read Au Khan Baba’s letter, entertained Layard with a rudimentary meal. He gave the Englishman shelter for the night and supplied him with a guide to take him as far as Mullah Mohammed’s camp. They set out the next day and reached the tents, without incident, by late afternoon.
Layard was unsurprised to find that his spare pack had been stripped of belongings. He demanded a fresh horse of Mullah Mohammed, threatening the vengeance of Mehemet Taki Khan on his house, and spurred it on into the evening, arriving at length at the castle of Hassan Khan. There he spent a night in the tents of the former Khanum’s followers. Early next morning, he rode out into the plain of Tul, tired and bitterly disappointed. Only one more possible location remained for the tomb and that would take him away from the Bakhtiari country; and away from Khanumi. He had found a sense of belonging at Kala Tul that he had never before experienced. He could not imagine how he could leave.
Layard rode on, cloaked in a morbid cloud of despondency, his horse’s hoofs pounding heavily on the hard dry mud of the trail. As he neared Kala Tul, a growing sense of dread began to take hold of him. He imagined it was anxiety at having to leave the castle and companions he had grown to respect and even love. His horse seemed to catch his mood, snorting and twitching nervously, its ears pricked forward. Something about the air of the plain seemed wrong to Layard, as if there was an imperceptible smell that did not fit. He imagined a faint murmur; alien to the balmy tranquillity of the Khan’s pastures.
They moved on. The sensations of unease became stronger. It became palpable; no longer something that could be dismissed as a manifestation of ill humour. There was a strange smell in the air. There was a strange, soft murmur that Layard could not place. Layard felt his heart begin to beat faster. He noticed that his hand had moved unconsciously to the hilt of the Khan’s long knife. Ahead of him, on the horizon, the mound of Kala Tul came into view. There seemed to be a haze all around it. Layard spurred his horse forward and began to gallop towards the castle. As the settlement neared, Layard began to make out vague shapes and, slowly, he began to understand what had caused the haze. He slowed his horse to a walk and then to a complete halt, gazing at the spectacle before him.
The haze had been caused by dust, thrown up by thousands of men and horses, arranged in companies around the settlement. Tents and artillery batteries dotted the plain, the long ornate barrels of the cannons turned on the walls of Mehemet Taki Khan’s stronghold. Sun flashed from ranks of lances and ostrich-plumed spears. The smell of dozens of cooking fires cloyed in the air and the shouts and cries of soldiers filled the air with a droning cacophony.
The army of the Matamet had come to Kala Tul.
END OF BOOK II
BOOK III
THE MARSHES
CHAPTER 16
TO HIS EXCELLENCY COUNT ALEXANDER KHRISTOFORICH BENKENDORF,
Chief of Gendarmes.
Field Report prepared by Baron de Bode, special operative at large; Isfahan Province.
Decrypted by Y. K.
Ekspeditsiya III
Tretiye Otdeleniye
His Imperial Majesty’s Chancellry.
Your Excellency,
As instructed, I have joined with the forces of the Governor of Isfahan. This proved a fairly straightforward task since the Governor, or Matamet as he is referred to in the common parlance, is a man not lacking in ambition. Posing as an experienced former officer in the Imperial Army I was quickly able to secure a position as a cavalry instructor.
However, my hopes that this position would allow me either to monitor the activities of alien interests within Isfahan itself or to help influence Persian policy regarding our Ottoman problem have been temporarily and unfortunately thwarted by the immediate priorities of the Governor. I must confess that I am finding it difficult to fathom the motive behind the Governor’s current course of action.
So it is that, for reasons temporarily obscured from my understanding, I find myself, ‘with fainting soul athirst for Grace’ wandering in a desert place. I am currently camped, along with the Matamet’s army, upon a high plain in the Bakhtiari country, surrounding the shabby castle of one of the local warlords. The Matamet seems momentarily diverted from affairs of state and appears instead to be entirely focused on a feud with a group of godless mountain nomads. What is more, while the Matamet far outnumbers and outguns these tribesmen, they on the other hand occupy all of the defensible ground around the plain. This strategic advantage is further enhanced by the fact that the warlord’s allies control much of the supply routes to our rear, making any prolonged siege untenable. Your servant can only suppose that the Governor intends to expedite his aims either by some subtle means as yet unknown, or else to rely on his authority and reputation to intimidate these nomads into surrender. From both the stories I have heard tell of the Matamet and evidence of his handiwork I have observed personally, I suspect that the latter course of action would in most cases prevail. However, I have also observed among these Bakhtiari a peculiar stubbornness and strength of character bordering on fanaticism. I fear that I may be lost among these savages and madmen for some time before any resolution is found.
My only relief from the tedium of camp life has been the discovery of a British agent among the Bakhtiari. We have become excellent friends. He is Mr Layard, a lawyer and antiquarian who has come to live among the tribesmen to study local ruins before resuming an overland journey to Ceylon. At least, that is the story he related to me. I have no doubt that he is here as an informant for Her Majesty’s Government – for what other reason would a man elect to take an arduous and uncomfortable overland journey through Asia or else choose to live among unpredictable and dangerous people for whom the slaughter of Christian men is a religious obligation?
My first encounter with Mr Layard was something of a surprise. I was seeing to my horse after drilling some of the Matamet’s cavalry, when I noticed one of the Bakhtiari approaching. There is something of a fragile truce during the siege, while messages and embassies are exchanged between the parties and it is not unusual to see a few tribesmen skulking around the camp, begging from the officers or looking for things to steal. The Bakht
iari have a reputation across the region as the most bloodthirsty thieves and cutthroats and the Matamet’s ferrashes give them fairly short shrift if they catch them in the camp without good reason. This fellow was particularly savage in aspect. He was tall and tanned and his wild unruly hair and beard were dyed a bright red. His Bakhtiari robes were tattered and stained and along with the long knives worn by every tribesman he carried a powerful-looking double-barrelled gun. He looked every inch a bandit and I had no doubt that he was loitering with the intention of stealing one of our horses. I shouted at him in Persian, telling him to clear off or else I would call the ferrashes. Rather than leave, he looked me insolently in the eye and strode over towards me. Fearing the worst, I drew my pistol and repeated my imprecation. Your Excellency might imagine my surprise when the savage addressed me in flawless French, demanding of me who I was and what I was doing at Kala Tul (the name of the Castle we now besiege).
On reflection, I do not recall whether I was more shocked by his command of French or by his arrogant impudence. I must confess that I found something about his manner intimidating and could do little more than reply in French to the effect that I could not see how my affairs were any of his business – rather than call upon him the whipping he deserved. I was further nonplussed when he addressed me again, repeating his questions but this time in Russian. While I stood somewhat amazed, he informed me that he had detected the faintest Russian accent in my French and had hazarded that this would be my preferred language; adding with a smile that he was quite happy to continue our discourse in Persian if I wished to have a little more practice.
From his speech and manner and from a closer inspection, I now concluded that beneath the patina painted upon him by these barbarous regions was a European and furthermore a Gentleman. I replaced my pistol and apologised for my earlier discourtesy. He laughed warmly and introduced himself as an Englishman, Mr Henry Layard. He politely stated that the joy of meeting a fellow European made up for any misunderstanding. I now laughed and told him that he too had been mistaken; informing him that, while I had spent much time in Russia since losing our family estates in Alsace, I was in fact as much a Briton as he, my mother being of that race. We became friends on the spot.
Since our meeting, Mr Layard has been visiting me on a daily basis and we have enjoyed many happy hours in conversation, sharing my dwindling stocks of wine and tobacco. It transpired that he had been away from Kala Tul when the army arrived, investigating some monument or other and found himself cut off from the sanctuary of the castle by the Matamet’s camp. In attempting to pass through the camp, he was seized as a spy by the ferrashes, who dragged him before the Matamet. Fortunately for Mr Layard, he was recognized both by the Governor and by Sheikh Ali Naghi Khan, the local Khan’s brother, who travels with the Matamet as a negotiator. The Governor received him politely and, after some polite discussion of his recent antiquarian investigations, granted him passage to the castle; requesting only that he impress upon the Khan the good sense of coming to an accommodation with the Matamet’s wishes.
Mr Layard seems to possess an astute understanding of the local politics among the Bakhtiari – indeed more so than one might expect from a junior solicitor or gentleman antiquary. He admits to an anxiety for the Khan and his people. He enquired recently about the humour and behaviour of Ali Naghi Khan on the road to Kala Tul. When I informed him that the Sheikh had appeared to be generally in good spirits and on civil terms with the Matamet, he frowned and suggested that the Governor was concocting some sort of deception. When, at another time, I told him of the meetings that the Matamet had arranged en route with various tribal leaders from the surrounding territory, Mr Layard nodded and told me somewhat cryptically that the Matamet was unravelling the Khan’s carpets. He seemed genuinely concerned for the fate of the Bakhtiari and, when he left me that evening, he was in a most melancholic state.
Some strange bond seems to have formed between Mr Layard and the Khan, though they share nothing in manners, philosophy or morals. Mr Layard is a most remarkable man. He appears to have a supernally heightened sympathy to the people and country around him – as evinced by his ability to rapidly understand and speak foreign languages and his capacity to find something to love in these savage and godless thieves. On those occasions when I have arrived late to my tent, to find Mr Layard has come before me; I have often found him in animated conversation with Saleh, my Lur servant. Saleh is generally a surly, ill-tempered fellow, yet he seems to have taken most enthusiastically to Mr Layard and often asks me when next ‘the Effendi’, as he calls him, will be visiting. Mr Layard certainly has a way with these people that I have never before observed in European or Persian.
I have no doubt that Mr Layard is gathering information for the British and that they must hold these mountains to be of a strategic importance that is as yet unknown to me. Nor have I discovered how Mr Layard is passing any intelligence out of this remote region. I shall continue to observe him and report to Your Excellency. Mr Layard told me that he spent some time in Russia during 1838. No doubt Department 3 will have a record of him. In the meantime, while both the siege and my stocks of tobacco endure, I shall continue to enjoy the company of a most civilized and entertaining gentleman.
I am as ever,
Your faithful and obedient servant,
Clement Joseph Philippe Pen De Bode.
* * *
‘Sir John, I am very glad that you have been able to find the time to see me.’
‘Madam, an invitation to visit Mrs Sara Austen is always a delightful pleasure.’
Sir John Barrow accepted a cup of tea and leant back in his chair.
‘As I said, madam, it is always a pleasure.’ He sipped his tea and carefully replaced the china cup.
‘I will always find time to call upon you, with the slightest excuse. However, I sense from your manner that something concerns you. Is there any matter in which I can be of assistance?’
Sara Austen smiled at her guest.
‘I apologise, Sir John for my rather inappropriate inability to conceal my emotions, but, since you ask, I must confess that I do have something on my mind. It concerns my nephew, Mr Layard.’
‘Ah, how is young Henry?’ a slight frown played across Barrow’s forehead, ‘I trust all is well with our adventurer?’
‘That is precisely the source of my concern,’ replied Mrs Austen, leaning forward slightly and clasping her hands in her lap, ‘I have heard nothing of Henry for weeks, and then it was simply some very partial and rather old news from my brother in law. When last I heard, Henry had left Isfahan in the Autumn for some remote part of the mountains; an area that virtually no European has visited before. By all accounts it is a savage and lawless country and I fear greatly for the welfare of my nephew.’
‘My dear lady,’ smiled Barrow, in what he hoped was as reassuring a manner as possible, ‘I know your nephew and, if any man is able to cope with whatever privations the wilderness might throw at him, it is he. Henry is as fine a specimen of English manhood as any I have met – and you know well that I have met some of the finest.
‘It is only to be expected that news from such a remote place may be slow in arriving and sparse in its distribution. I counsel you, Madam, to worry less about your nephew. Unfounded anxiety could only have a deleterious effect on your own wellbeing and will do little for Mr Layard.
‘Your duty, Mrs Layard, is to ensure your own spirits and health are in the highest of order, so that when Mr Layard next communicates with you, he finds his Aunt to be the wise and gentle guide he has always known.’
‘Sir John,’ said Mrs Austen, a little curtly, ‘you both flatter me and do me a disservice at the same time. I am not such a feeble creature to sit back in happy ignorance of the world around me while waiting for reassurances from my nephew. I am more aware than perhaps you think of the situation in Persia and of the nature of the country in which my nephew abides. I have read reports of some of the less fortunate travellers in the regio
n and I have no intention of some day reading a similar report of Henry’s fate.’
‘Mrs Austen, I fear you overstate-‘
Sara Austen cut in, two points of colour forming in her pale cheeks.
‘I overstate nothing, Sir John. I have a very clear understanding of the situation. The world is changing about us and we are finally waking from our own petty squabbles in the West to begin to see it. But I fear that too few are opening their eyes and too late. Night after night, I entertain foolish men who spend hours debating the minutiae of character and moral sentiment, while out there in the dark a vast machine is moving about us. There are wheels turning in the East, Sir John that may be beyond both our comprehension and our control.’
She stifled a small, involuntary gasp, surprised by her own passion.
‘Sir John,’ she said, softly, ‘I fear Henry will be crushed by those wheels.’
John Barrow looked thoughtfully at Sara Austen, as if seeing the woman anew. After a moment of silence, he sighed and reached for his teacup.
‘My dear Mrs Austen,’ he said, the cup hovering midway to his lips, ‘I would do anything to spare you this anxiety. The truth is, however, that you are right.’
He drank from the cup and placed it carefully on the table between them.
‘I meant what I said,’ he continued, ‘when I told you that I had every confidence in Mr Layard to survive whatever dangers he might encounter but I must acknowledge that the region he is now in is far from stable.
‘The thing is,’ he paused, ‘there is nothing we can do save wait for more news and trust both to God and to your nephew’s character that no ill might come to him.’
‘You might trust to God,’ said Sara hotly, ‘and of Henry’s character I have no doubt, but I am certainly not prepared to wait meekly for news. I cannot rest in the knowledge that I have done nothing to help my nephew. What is our Navy for if not to protect our People when they are in danger?
