A Hundred Thousand Dragons (17 page)

Craig shrugged. ‘I don't know anything about that. You'll have to manage somehow. Either that, or you'll have to stay put till the convoy arrives. They should be in Petra in a couple of days and so should I. I don't want you here, that's for sure. These people need careful handling and you're bound to put your foot in it. Besides that, they'll wreck the plane.'

‘Wreck the plane, sir?'

‘Souvenir hunting. As soon as you drop your guard they'll be all over it.' He glanced over his shoulder at the tents. ‘I've got to stay. Not to put too fine a point on it, they suspect a trap, so I'm to be the hostage. Take some food and water with you and let's hope the convoy turns up, eh?'

There really didn't seem anything else to be done. Jack drew a deep breath and accepted the inevitable. ‘Can you tell me where the fuel dump is, sir?'

‘I'll draw you a map. It's fairly well hidden but you should find it. By the way, keep your gun handy. The Bedouin often camp in the caves in the city and they have a fairly short way with visitors. Show them you mean business and you might be all right.'

This was getting less and less appealing by the second. Major Youlton certainly hadn't underestimated the dangers of the trip. Jack looked at Craig's inflexible face and swallowed. There was nothing else for it and he might as well do it with as much grace as he could muster. ‘Thank you, sir. Is there anywhere to land inside the city?'

‘Damned if I know. You'll have to see for yourself. If not, you'll have to land in the desert but you'll have to carry the fuel a hell of a way.' He laughed. ‘Rather you than me. I'd sooner have a camel than an aeroplane any day.'

With the plane low on fuel and without the weight of a passenger, the B.E.2c soared into the air. Jack climbed for height and levelled off at a thousand feet over the mountains of Edom. With ridge after ridge of white and red sandstone flinging back the heat from the sun, torturing the air he flew though, he checked his compass and headed for Petra. It was less than ten miles from Elji to Petra and he soon spotted the black lines and dots which was how the ancient, abandoned city appeared from the air. The name Petra meant rock and to anyone who didn't know what the rocks housed, it would be virtually impossible to find. No wonder the city had been lost for so long. It was the shadows that gave it away. Those regular lines had never occurred in nature.

A plateau stretched out under him and then he saw it. A thin black line split the earth beneath him. That must be the entrance to the city. He had heard of it, a thin snaking chasm through towering cliffs which extended for well over a mile. The plane twisted in the overheated air and his tired senses quivered as he searched for a landing ground.

He circled overhead before picking out the only possible landing ground, a paved street with columns. He flew down the street slowly, before turning, climbing, then putting the cumbersome plane down in a steady glide. His wing-tips whispered over the broken colonnades and then he was down, bumping to a halt. With a heartfelt prayer of thanks, he turned off the engine.

The quietness that enveloped him was so intense he thought it would crack his eardrums. The sounds of the engine cooling were like rifle shots. Quietness was the perfect word, he thought uneasily. Living things could choose to be quiet. It was as if the quietness was waiting for him: inhuman, huge and hostile. He had never been in a place that was so utterly silent.

He climbed out of the plane, and, with Major Craig's warning in his mind, grasped his revolver tightly. The chink of his shoe against a pebble echoed round the cliffs. As the noise died away, the silence rushed in once more, like a physical wave.

He couldn't believe there was another living soul for miles. Unconsciously he relaxed. He walked away from the shelter of the aircraft and gazed at the city in awestruck wonder. He seemed to have stepped outside of time. Around him stood what looked like a Roman street, with pillars, temples and palaces, but he didn't seem to have gone back in time but rather forward, forward to the end of the world, when all the works of man stood deserted. As far as he could see, nothing had been built here. Everything had been carved, carved out of the sandstone. The sun was getting low and made the colours in the rock glow as if they were lit from within. White, yellow, orange, pink, crimson, green – more hues and shades than he had ever imagined – swirled in dips and waves in a silent symphony of colour. He could easily have watched the rocks until the sun went down but he forced himself to withdraw from a contemplation of the eternal and back to practicalities.

He lit a cigarette and the scrape of the match was so loud it made him wince. He had to find the fuel dump but from Craig's hastily drawn map it looked as if the cache was some considerable distance away. He glanced at the sun. He reckoned he had an hour of light left at the most. He would find the fuel first thing tomorrow. He didn't want to risk being lost in the ancient city after dark. Besides that, he was bone-weary. Perhaps it was just as well, for it would be easy to let his imagination run riot, faced by the black entrances of caves and temples. Tired as he was, he wanted to explore. A great staircase ran up the side of the rocks and he climbed part of the way up, hoping to get a better view of the city. Here, between two obelisks flanked by altars, he found a large pool of rainwater. He could hardly believe his luck. He drank his fill, then, stripping off his clothes, had the most enjoyable bathe of his life.

He retreated back to the plane. The sun was rapidly setting and the shadows were getting long. Some camel-thorn trees had grown out of the rocks and he gathered up a few armfuls of tinder from under them. With a tiny amount of petrol from what remained in the plane, he soon had a cheerful, crackling fire. A jackal screamed when he was by the open petrol tank and he whirled round, pistol in hand, forgetting that a single spark would send him to glory. When he worked out what it was, he laughed in relief. The sound was caught and echoed by the cliffs.

He didn't like the sound of his laugh. It sounded like an intrusion on the city's brooding presence. He shivered. The place was silent and
aware,
as Browning said somewhere or other. He tore the flight plan into strips and put it on the fire, then opened a can of bully beef and, together with a few flaps of Arab bread and a mug of milkless tea, made as good a supper as he could.

He thought about spending the night in one of the caves, but he preferred the open, next to the comfortingly familiar bulk of the aeroplane. He told himself it was a perfectly rational fear of scorpions and snakes, but he knew it was a more primeval fear that kept him out of those dark places.

The camel thorn on the fire crumbled and perished in a shower of red sparks and Jack, utterly exhausted, wrapped himself up in a blanket and, with the Arab headdress for a pillow, went to sleep.

NINE

S
omeone was shaking his shoulder. Jack grunted and tried to turn over and go back to sleep, but the shaking increased. He opened bleary eyes and stared down the barrel of a pistol. He tried to sit up but a harsh command and a painful grip on his shoulder stopped him.

The moon had risen. In its hard brilliance he could see a seamed, moustached face inches from his own. The man was a Turkish captain. About twenty Arabs, mounted on horseback, their white robes gleaming in the moonlight, surrounded him. Two more Turkish officers were with them. A horse whinnied and pawed the ground.

‘Oh, God,' said Jack very quietly. His mouth was dry, his stomach churned and the raw taste of fear welled up in his throat.

The Arabs started to laugh. The dead city caught the sound and chopped it into staccato, separated bursts, a mocking, inhuman jeer of triumph. The man holding the revolver stepped back and gestured for him to get up. Jack slowly scrambled to his feet, his hands raised in surrender. The officer smiled humourlessly and, with another gesture from the pistol, barked out a command.

Jack, unable to understand, shrugged helplessly. The Turkish officer stepped forward, drew back his hand and slapped him hard across the face.

Jack staggered back and fell to his knees. The blow had hurt, but more than that, he was completely shocked. He knew how prisoners should be treated and this wasn't in the rules. ‘You can't do that!' he said indignantly. ‘I'm a British officer.'

The Turkish officer stepped forward and picked up Jack's revolver from where it had been lying in its holster beside him on the ground. That was evidently what he wanted. He tossed the blanket to one of the Arabs, who caught it and stowed it in his saddlebag. Another welter of Turkish followed, to which Jack could only shrug in reply.

The two other Turks swung themselves into the cockpits of the B.E.2c. They stripped out the Vickers and the Lewis guns and the belts of ammunition, then rifled through the contents of the plane, tossing them over the side in a careless heap. The Arabs picked them up and packed them away in their saddlebags. Another flood of commands followed. Three Arabs dismounted and, pulling back the bolts, brought their rifles up to bear.

Catching his breath, Jack squared his shoulders, waiting for the shot. It didn't come. They prodded the rifle barrels painfully into his ribs, forcing him to walk towards the horses.

Under the ever-present guns, he mounted the horse. His feet were lashed to the stirrups and his hands were tied at the wrist. He could hold on to the saddle, but that was about all. A rope harness secured his horse to an Arab's. The three Arabs who had threatened him were evidently ordered to stay with the plane. He didn't know what would happen to them and was too miserable to care. His only comfort, and it was a small one, was the thought that if the convoy or Major Craig should turn up, they should be more than a match for three Arabs.

Then, with shouts from the Arabs, a jingle of harness and a muffled thud of hooves on the sand-covered stones, they set off down the valley of Petra. Jack felt as wretched as he had ever done in his life.

Opposite a vast carved building, the column swung and seemed to go into the heart of the mountain. They plunged into a deep, narrow fissure in the cliff that seemed to stretch for miles. Jack, concentrating on staying on the horse, took in little of this part of the journey. He guessed this was the dark line he had flown over but all he was really aware of was that the man leading his horse never seemed to stumble, for which small blessing he was grateful.

The fissure abruptly opened out into desert and the column set off at a gallop across the sands. Jack, flung sideways by the sudden motion, bounced miserably on the saddle. A wayward memory of his interview for the Royal Flying Corps made him grin mirthlessly. ‘Do you ride?' the Colonel had asked. He must have known what was in store.

They travelled for over two hours across the desert, the moon laying great silver sheets across the sand, the occasional clump of oleander, tall camel thorn and scrub silhouetted in deepest black. Despite himself, Jack's eyes kept closing and he awoke time after time to find himself slipping. Then, as the moon was riding down towards the western horizon, making all the shadows huge, they came to a high-walled fort. They were challenged from the walls. The Turkish captain shouted back, the gates creaked open, and Jack rode into the garrison of Q'asr Dh'an.

He flinched away as an Arab approached, long knife in hand, but the man only cut the ropes that bound his feet. Muscles stiff, he was unable to move right away and the man pulled him off the horse, where, with hands still tied, he sprawled on the ground. The Arab laughed and kicked him in the ribs. Angry and sore, Jack staggered to his feet and lowered his head, about to charge the man who'd kicked him, but as he did so a lantern shone in his face, blinding him.

From behind the light, a voice, cultivated and accentless, spoke in English. ‘A British officer. And a pilot. This is a prize, indeed.'

Jack blinked in the light. ‘Who are you?' His voice was cracked by thirst.

‘Oberstleutant Von Erlangen.' Oberstleutant. The rank was equivalent to a lieutenant-colonel, and even in his misery, Jack wondered what on earth a German colonel was doing stuck out in this godforsaken spot. The Colonel raised his voice and spoke in Turkish. Jack was seized by the arms and marched forward into the building, where a door was opened and he was flung, face down, into a room. The two men who had frogmarched him in stood to either side.

Absolutely furious, Jack raised his head. ‘What the blazes . . .' he began, and then speech failed him. He was in a richly furnished room. Thick Turkish carpets covered the floor and oil lamps shone a warm glow on a fine collection of watercolour paintings. Books lined one wall, the gold print of their leather bindings catching the light. A small fire burnt comfortably on the hearth behind him and at an oak desk sat a girl. She was young, hardly older than himself, with pale skin and fair hair gathered into a long plait. She cried out and leapt to her feet, standing with a hand clasped to her breast in alarm at his sudden entrance. The combination of the room and the girl was so surprising that Jack couldn't speak. He levered himself to his knees and stared at her.

She stared back, then raised her head sharply as Oberstleutant Von Erlangen entered the room. ‘Lothar, what's happening?' she asked in German. ‘Who's this?'

Although she spoke quickly, Jack was able to catch her meaning. He had studied German at school and, after war was declared, had worked hard at the language. He carefully betrayed nothing of his understanding. He wasn't giving away any more than he had to.

Von Erlangen didn't answer her at first. Instead he turned to the two Turks by the door and barked out a command. They withdrew, closing the door behind them. Then, still without speaking, he strolled across to the desk and selected a thin black cigar from a silver box, lighting it without haste. He leaned against the desk, his gaze resting on Jack for a moment, then he turned to the girl.