The Sleeping Sands (17 page)

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Looking down, the eagle could make out a tiny figure, between the two great masses of the Luristan and Zagros ranges and dwarfed by the immensity of the plain, trailing along behind its gradually receding companion. Curious for a moment, the eagle inspected the figure for the promise of any prey; too big and too healthy. It flexed its wing feathers and wheeled lazily towards the east. From the far hills, the eagle could sense death on the air and the promise of fresh pickings to come. The traveller could wait.

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C
HAPTER 8

L
AYARD WALKED IN A TRANCE BETWEEN FOUNTAINS AND JEWELLED PAVILIONS
. Long neglected gardens enjoyed unfettered license, dancing between summer houses that looked out upon a mirror-still pool of crystal water. Roses sprang in a heady and fragrant tumble, escaping from the constrictions of elegant parterres. Layard followed the length of the pool for a hundred paces, captivated by the reflections of rows of lofty poplars and spreading cedars. The scent of the roses combined with the sweet pungent smell of pines, tamarind and wild thyme to form a heady perfume for the rows of sensuously carved and painted dancing girls that adorned the walls of the buildings. He moved from one empty apartment to another, passing through intricately carved archways and patches of shadow cast by broken trellises, draped in roses and vines fat with sweet grapes.

He paused for a moment in the doorway of a building, listening to the birdsong in the gardens. His face was bathed in patches of red and blue light, painted upon him by a magnificent stained glass window. He walked slowly across the floor, hearing his footsteps echo, to a half-fallen screen at its far side. Pushing the screen gently to one side, he entered into an inner court, adorned with exquisite porcelain tiles. The tiles were glazed white, with patterns of bright blues, reds and greens as vivid as the day they had been set in place countless years before. Passing through the courtyard, he entered another; longer and more ornate. Its walls were enamelled with a succession of princes and warriors in bright mail, riding proudly on prancing horses. In gaudy splendour, they told the story of the Persian hero, Rustem, when he went to rescue his fine and fearsome horse Rakush from the knights of Turan. In one chamber, Rakush was shown biting the head off one knight and beating down two others with his hoofs. In the next, Rustem, in his search, dined with the King of Samengam, and lay, heavy with wine on a soft silken couch. In the next panel, a beautiful veiled woman presented herself to the hero and the couple dallied in courtly romance. In the final chamber, the King’s beautiful daughter, Tahmineh, stood revealed before Rustem in her splendour. Layard gazed bewitched at the scene, marvelling at the artistry of the figures and the piercing beauty of the princess that no age of neglect and decay could dull. In his tired vision, the tableau seemed to shimmer and shift and take on a depth and life of its own. The strong perfume of the garden seemed to fill his brain and flow into his blood, thickening like honey slow poured in sunlight. He felt himself sway, pitching towards the lovers that were now more real than he, a dry grey ghost in a world of gloriously coloured mortals. He fancied that faintly, he could hear a clear, bell-like voice chanting.

I am Tahmineh, the daughter of the King of Samengan, of the race of the leopard and the lion, and none of the princes of this earth are worthy of my hand, neither hath any man seen me unveiled. But my heart is torn with anguish, and my spirit is tossed with desire, for I have heard of thy deeds of prowess, and how thou fearest neither Deev nor lion, neither leopard nor crocodile, and how thy hand is swift to strike, and how thou didst venture alone into Mazinderan, and how wild asses are devoured of thee, and how the earth groaneth under the tread of thy feet, and how men perish at thy blows, and how even the eagle dareth not swoop down upon her prey when she beholdeth thy sword. These things and more have they told unto me, and mine eyes have yearned to look upon thy face.

In his mind’s eye, Layard imagined he saw Rustem reaching for a jet-black, shining stone that he wore at his arm and unfasten it, holding it to the princess
.
Unconsciously, Layard mouthed words that he did not understand.

Cherish this jewel; if it be granted unto thee to bring forth a son, fasten it upon his arm, that he may wear it like his father. And he shall be strong.

Layard felt his fist closing on a round, smooth stone; icy cold yet burning with a raging fire. It seemed to vibrate with energy as if it wanted to explode from his grip; singing with power and the promise of bloody strife. He clutched it to his breast, trying to contain its wild destructive force, his head spinning and his legs giving way. He lurched forward suddenly and felt the cold shock of the tiled wall hit him hard on the forehead. Catching himself, he gasped and righted himself, leaning against the wall. He looked around, bewildered. There was nothing but an empty dusty chamber and ancient tiles. He looked down at his tightly clenched fist, pressed bruisingly to his chest. Cautiously, he opened it. There was nothing but the purple marks of fingernails, pressed into his palm. He noticed once again the sound of birds from the garden. Shivering slightly, he moved from the tiled rooms through another courtyard and into a brighter and more modern suite of chambers, painted with hunting scenes.

Row after row of ornate arabesques surrounded tablets on which were painted horsemen in pursuit of stags and hares or locked in deadly combat with lions and leopards. Others, with hawks at their wrists, pursued partridges and francolins. In the last of the chambers was a wooden perch, upon which sat two majestic falcons. Their only acknowledgement of Layard’s entry was to turn briefly and fix him with an unblinking stare, before shuffling a step or two along their perch to return to a silent contemplation of a distant snow-capped peak visible through the room’s single window.

Layard stared at the two birds but they paid no more attention to him. He backed away from them, turned and ran from the room, passing down another narrow courtyard surrounded by high, richly carved walls. Along its length was a long thin pool of green lilies, fed by a series of fountains. Passing through an archway at the end of the courtyard, he emerged onto an open lawn, surrounded by flower beds. A distant mewling cry caused him to look up, to see a tiny black speck circling above him. He felt suddenly exposed, as if some predatory thing was about to fall upon him from the heavens. With a sudden urgency, he looked about for shelter, spying a small, low doorway in a building to his right. He ran to it and flung himself into a richly decorated room, patterned with geometric arrangements of mirrors and coloured glass. On the floor of the room, he was surprised to find his carpet, spread out beside his pack and his gun. Beside it, on a wide wooden dish were piled pyramids of apricots, dried figs and dates, surrounded by bunches of grapes. He sank to his knees on the carpet and snatched at the fruit, eating greedily and delighting in their sweetness. It was intoxicating. The room began to pitch and turn and Layard fell back onto his carpet, a heavy weight pressing down on his eyes. In the fragmented mosaic of reflections, he saw a thousand wretched Layards, hollow-faced and contorted, staring back at him. The room swam and his vision dimmed. His head dropped and he slumped in a dead faint to the floor.

‘Come sir, it’s time to leave.’

Layard’s shoulder was being shaken firmly by a rough hand.

‘Come on sir, we’ve a long road ahead of us.’

Layard blinked, straining his eyes in the grey dawn light to make out the silhouette of his mehmandar stooped over him.

‘What? Where are we?’ slurred Layard, shivering and pulling his cloak tight around his shoulders.

‘In Douletabad, sir’ said the Ghûlam, ‘at the house of Sheikh Ali Mirza. We arrived last night. Do you not remember?’

‘The black stone?’ murmured Layard.

‘Black stone? I don’t know what you are talking about, good sir,’ said the Ghûlam. ‘I fear your fever is getting worse. I have the perfect cure for that; I will go out and requisition us a pair of fat partridges for our breakfast! Come now sir, you will be able to rest in Isfahan, but we still have many days to go. We need to move on.’

Imaum Verdi Beg gently helped the Englishman to his feet, marvelling at how light the tall man seemed. He handed him his sheepskin cap and helped him to his horse. The cool rose-scented morning breeze appeared to revive Layard. He straightened himself and swung nimbly into the saddle, turning to accept his pack, rolled carpet and gun from the Ghûlam.

‘You are right,’ he said, briskly. ‘There is no time to lose. Breakfast can wait a few hours. We have a long road to Isfahan.’

Above in the grey sky, the last star blinked out and a faint pink glow began to peer from behind the jagged hills that lay before them.

C
HAPTER 9

T
HE SUN ROSE ON THE TRAVELLERS AS THEY HEADED OUT FROM
D
OULETABAD
across a great plain of vineyards and downy white fields of cotton. Despite its heat, Layard still felt a chill. He had been suffering from a growing fever for the past few days and was finding it hard to keep food down. Hunger and dehydration were beginning to tell upon him. As each pace of his horse brought him closer to a region that was nothing but a blank on his maps, so too did Layard feel himself drifting slowly from reality. He tried to concentrate on the world around him, searching about for landmarks that could anchor him firmly in the physical sphere and keep him from being consumed by the nightmare world of fantasies that was haunting him.

In every direction, the plain was dotted with fortified villages, each dominated by a cylindrical, mud-walled fort. To the right were the distant Elwend Mountains, which separated the plain from the Luristan and Zagros ranges. Towering over the town of Douletabad behind them was the great peak of Kuh Arsenou. Layard paused and looked at its fine, conical snow-capped peak. The view looked familiar. For a moment, Layard had a clear picture in his mind, of a room with two great falcons, staring from a window at that very view. He shivered again and drew his cloak more tightly around his shoulders.

Their road took them through a small village, dominated by a great, half-ruined castle perched on a crag. They stopped in its shade to eat breakfast, Layard managing just a few dried apricots, despite the Ghûlam’s encouragement to sample some of the rich pickings that his firman had secured in the town of Douletabad.

‘You should make the most of the people’s generosity,’ said the Ghûlam, speaking through a mouth full of roast partridge. ‘We are getting closer to Bakhtiari territory. Those ruffians won’t be so disposed to honour the Shah’s firman. Their hides are a little tougher too,’ he added, fingering the butt end of his whip. He looked thoughtfully at the hunched figure of the Englishman, pale and shivering as he chewed listlessly on an apricot.

‘In fact, good sir,’ said the Ghûlam, ‘I am not at all sure if it is wise to continue. If the terms of the firman are not to be honoured, then I must assume that my official capacity as mehmandar must also be compromised. From this point on, I feel that it would be prudent for you to hire me as your guide.’

‘Hire you?’ said Layard, spitting an apricot stone to the ground and turning to stare at Imaum Verdi Beg.

‘Why yes,’ said the Ghûlam, a little less confidently as he felt the force of Layard’s flashing glare. ‘I could offer a very reasonable rate; perhaps just two tomans a day and of course I would be able to sell you any provisions that you required at a cut price.’

The barefaced cheek of the Ghûlam appeared to have a tonic effect on Layard. He rose to his feet, straightening his posture, and strode towards his companion. To Ghûlam Imaum Verdi Beg, it seemed as if the Englishman grew an inch with each stride. Layard, stood towering over the seated Ghûlam, who now looked up at him; the partridge leg that he held, mid-bite, forgotten in the face of the Englishman’s wrath.

‘You rogue,’ fumed Layard. ‘You have fattened your belly and your purse with my firman at every town and village we have passed. Now you have the affront to demand money from me and even to sell me the supplies you have extorted in my name? You still owe me a toman for the spare donkey you bought because the supplies were getting too heavy. I ought to take that whip of yours to you right now. Or perhaps I shall just ride back and report you to the Governor of Douletabad. I seem to remember the story of a French traveller’s mehmandar, whom the Shah relieved of his head for trying to screw money out of his charge. What’s it to be, Ghûlam, a whipping or your head? ’

Layard leant forward and the Ghûlam squeaked involuntarily and fell backwards, making a vague attempt to ward off the Englishman with his half-eaten partridge leg.

‘Hand over the firman, now.’ Layard held out a steady hand.

The Ghûlam fumbled in the folds of his sash and offered out the firman. He looked up in wide-eyed terror at the Englishman. To Imaum Verdi Beg’s eyes, it seemed as if something else stood beside Layard; something dark and frightful.

‘Now,’ continued Layard, ‘pack up your things and get on your horse. My road is to Isfahan and, whether I like it or not, you are my mehmandar, which means that it is your road too. No payments. No complaints. No more extortion. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the Ghûlam, picking himself up and rolling up his carpet.

He mounted his horse and gathered his donkeys, keeping a watchful eye on Layard. The mehmandar was a worldly man, with little time for superstition or fancy, yet he felt the strangest sense when he looked at the transformed Englishman. He had never before experienced a sensation like it but he could not escape the impression when he looked at Layard, riding down the road ahead, that a shadow other than his own rode alongside him.