The Sleeping Sands (7 page)

‘Mm –‘ he said, through a mouthful of roast poultry, ‘this is very good indeed. Did you bag these with that fine Frank gun of yours, Effendi?’

Layard nodded in assent, his own mouth too full to be able to respond with any more decorum.

‘Ah you have many marvellous European things, Effendi,’ he said, appraising Layard’s packs, ‘and a fine carpet too. I imagine you must be very rich and powerful in your country.’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ replied Layard. ‘I am just an English gentleman, about his business.’

‘Aha – but all you Franks are extraordinary!’ The sheikh chuckled and tore off another partridge leg.

After breakfast, the party packed and continued on its way, now accompanied by the little sheikh who seemed to have adopted them as new friends. He chattered away to them, pointing out landmarks, recounting them with hunting stories and tales of tribal skirmishes – tales in which he inevitably had played some sort of critical and heroic role – and generally sang the praises of the marvellous lands through which they were travelling.

Despite the sheikh’s encomium, Layard felt that he had never yet encountered such a dry, featureless and barren landscape. He looked forward to seeing the hills that surrounded the stronghold of Kerak in order to have some feature to break the monotony of the surrounding countryside. A feature, that was, other than the occasional large rock, of which the sheikh would unfailingly make a point of indicating, explaining its lineage, history and place in his own exploits.

At length, after innumerable tales about the sheikh’s adventures in the shadow of the Rock of the Eagle; his victory at the Wadi of the Lion and his fine accomplishment in the noble art of falconry, the hills around Kerak came into view as a faint purple undulation in the shimmering desert horizon. Layard was learning rapidly that distances in the mischievous desert sun were far harder to judge than he was used to. Sometimes distant landmarks loomed suddenly into proximity with little warning. Other times, landmarks that appeared to be near took days to approach, as their approach wound through mazes of wadis and gorges. Worse still, in the more open country they would often prove not to be physical features at all but rather mirages inflicted on gullible western eyes. He had no idea how long it would be until they reached Kerak and his newfound companion showed no inclination other than to accompany the party to the very door of the Mujelli. It was with no little relief, then, that Layard noted their approach to a small encampment – which the sheikh indicated belonged to his band of followers.

The sheikh called out warmly to his men, who gathered around the party in a mixture of rags more tattered and dishevelled than the sheikh’s own. Layard looked at the motley band and felt that he not yet encountered such a shiftless looking band of rogues but the Sheikh convivially urged Layard to dismount and water his animals among them, promising more tales of the marvellous country they were now in.

With the goodwill of the sheikh and in the shadow of the friendly Mujelli, Layard felt that it would do no harm to rest the animals for a spell before resuming the road to the distant hills. The party dismounted and the sheikh invited them to sit in the shade and join him in a cup of coffee. The pleasing bitter smell of freshly brewing coffee and cardamon wafted from a pot balanced over a campfire and Layard settled onto a rug, pleased to rest his own travel-sore limbs. He stretched out his legs and sighed contentedly.

Suddenly, an angry, high-pitched voice screamed out, ‘Infidels! Seize them!’ It was Sheikh Mahmoud.

‘Seize them!’ The sheikh’s repeated cry was met with a general hubbub of unfriendly voices.

Layard looked up, startled to find the sheikh, still mounted on his donkey, his little face twisted into a grotesque contortion of rage, leading a general charge of his men upon them. The mob was armed with few weapons save stones and a few rusty swords of similar vintage to Mahmoud’s but they had managed to secure themselves of Awad and Musa’s guns and were now waving these in a hazardous manner at the party.

Layard’s group sprang to their feet, but found themselves surrounded and cut off from their own animals. A shot rang out and a ball from Awad’s gun flew wildly over their heads. One of the sheikh’s men had fired at them, clearly something that the sheikh had not expected as he tumbled from his donkey in surprise, landing in a ball of rags at Layard’s feet.

Layard was the only member of the party to have kept his own gun near at hand. While the sheikh was still struggling to extricate himself from the tangle, he took up his gun with his right hand and scooped up the little man with his left. He jammed his gun under the sheikh’s chin and called out.

‘Cease this attack at once, or I will shoot!’

The mob paused, eyeing the travellers angrily.

The sheikh continued to kick and struggle in Layard’s grasp, calling out, ‘Infidels! Infidels!’ but Layard kept a strong hold and silenced him by firmly pressing the twin barrels of his gun hard against his Adam’s apple. The mob backed away a pace or two and then, almost as one turned on the travellers’ animals and belongings, grabbing everything they could and taking it back into their tents. A small group kept guard over the travellers, waving their swords and new guns menacingly.

‘Stop that this minute! I shall have you all hung as thieves,’ cried out Layard as he watched the last of his precious belongings disappear into the encampment.

His words had a marked effect on the mob – although not the one that Layard had hoped for. They began to pelt the party with stones, a number of which hit their chief who squeaked in outrage, struggling in Layard’s grip. Layard swung the wriggling bundle over his shoulder and levelled his gun at the nomads, who backed a way a few paces, but continued to throw stones.

‘This way, Effendi!’ cried Awad, who had spotted an opening in the retreating crowd.

Layard and the others scrambled for safety, the captive sheikh all the while screaming out ‘Infidels! Infidels!’. They had managed to run some twenty or thirty yards before the mob collected itself and began pursuit. There was a bang and a rifle ball whizzed over their heads – leading to a shrill squawk of alarm from the sheikh, who in his unaccustomedly lofty position across Layard’s shoulder was the nearest to its trajectory. Layard turned and fired a single barrel over the heads of the crowd, which scattered in fear.

‘Now, before they have time to regroup!’ shouted Awad and the travellers hurried towards the beckoning refuge of the hills.

A small group of nomads followed them at a cautious distance for some half a mile or so but decided that the Frank’s gun was not worth the effort of rescuing their sheikh and their pursuit petered out in the heat. With their pursuers gone, Layard roughly dumped his burden on the sand and marched him at gunpoint before them. With the harsh persuasion of his freshly reloaded gun, the now cursing and spitting sheikh guided them back to the road.

‘Infidel dog!’ spat the sheikh. ‘You will pay dearly for this indignity to my person.’

‘If I do not recover my animals and belongings, Sheikh, it will be you who pays,’ said Layard, punctuating his statement with a hefty prod of his gun in the small of the sheikh’s back.

‘We will see what the Mujelli makes of your treatment of his guests, when we reach Kerak.’

‘Ha, you will never reach Kerak,’ growled Mahmoud. ‘My men will fall upon you as soon as night comes and cut your throats to avenge my suffering.’

‘Why then,’ smiled Layard grimly and cocking his gun, ‘we shall make a good account of ourselves. You will see our throats will cost you a greater price than my few possessions.’

Mahmoud’s eyes widened momentarily and then he spat and lapsed into a sullen silence, tottering along on his spindly legs with occasional rude encouragement from Layard’s gun-barrel. Out of earshot of their captive, Awad spoke softly to Antonio, who came up to Layard’s side and spoke in Italian.

‘Effendi, Awad says that the sheikh may be right. His men are not brave, but they know the desert and if we are still in the open at night they will have the advantage.’

‘If that’s the case Antonio, we will just have to prepare ourselves for another fight.’ Layard scanned the horizon. Something dark shimmered in the distance.

‘Awad,’ he called, ‘you have good eyes. Are those tents?’

The tents belonged to a group of the Mujelli’s men. After an hour’s more march, Layard and his weary band arrived in their welcoming shade. Yusuf Effendi’s papers and the presence of Abu Dhaouk’s men were enough to quickly secure water, bread and the use of four camels to take them swiftly to Kerak. Under the grim gaze of the Mujelli’s men, Mahmoud underwent yet another metamorphosis of humour.

‘Effendi,’ he addressed Layard in a wheedling, placatory voice. ‘I have guided you across the desert as you required. Perhaps now you might be able to pay me a small price for my services?’

‘Pay you?’ Layard snorted, ‘I am going to drag you before the Mujelli for judgement.’ He turned momentarily to adjust the harness of his camel.

‘Ah, of course’ smiled Mahmoud, ‘I trust the Mujelli will be able to clear up our little misunderstanding. Whatever you deem to be the wisest course of action.’ He bowed deeply, backing away from Layard a couple of steps, then, with an unlikely burst of speed, he turned and sprinted as hard as his bony legs could carry him into the desert.

‘Infidels!’ came a final, defiant cry.

Layard snarled and instinctively levelled his gun at the rapidly retreating figure. He sighted along its barrel and held Mahmoud in his sights for a moment. Then he sighed deeply and lowered his gun.

‘An English gentleman does not shoot his enemy in the back,’ he explained to the camel chewing indifferently beside him.

*                      *                      *

Ahmed’s warriors made an impressive spectacle as they rode down to the tents of Mahmoud, given additional ferocity by their sense of a shared and ignoble wrong. The Mujelli was the tribal chieftain of the local region – to whom Mahmoud owed loyalty. His behaviour was an outrage not simply as a blatant act of disloyalty – which might threaten to bring reprisals from the Colonel’s forces or the powerful Abu Dhaouk – but also as an unforgivable contravention of the ancient code that held together the disparate and warlike groups of nomads who survived in this most inhospitable of lands. There was no doubt among Ahmed and his men. The tribe of Sheikh Mahmoud must make full reparation to Layard – immediately and by force if necessary.

The warriors’ long ostrich-plumed spears flashed in the sun and their horses were adorned with bright scarlet tassels. Ahmed stood proud and tall, looking every bit the young nobleman as he addressed Mahmoud’s men with what sounded to Layard a well-rehearsed oratory. Layard mused that, for all his barbaric appearance, Ahmed might very well hold his own in the Palace of Westminster. Here, in the wilds of Syria, he was indefeasible.

Against the young prince’s rhetoric, the guns and spears of his well-equipped warriors and the public humiliation of having been seen to break a sacred code, the nomads had no defence. They turned angrily on their own sheikh, protesting that they had no idea Mahmoud had shared the Frank’s bread or else they would never have made any attempt on his belongings or person. Under the watchful eyes of Ahmed’s men, they retrieved Layard’s animals and the property that had been stolen and which now appeared to have been carefully distributed among every family in the camp. Despite the protestations of some of the women, each item was brought forward, carefully inspected and shown to Layard and neatly re-packed.

There was one exception only. Layard’s spare trousers had not survived the attack. A nomad had already ingeniously converted them into a jacket, which he was now proudly wearing. When Layard saw the irreparable state of the trousers and the disappointment on the face of the man who now wore them at having to give up his new jacket, he decided to let them remain.

On their return to Kerak, the chief and his warriors were in high spirits, laughing and joking about their successful raid. Ahmed arranged lodging for Layard and provided advice and guidance for crossing the desert to the Syrian border. He showed Layard around the ruins of the stronghold and in particular to one ancient chapel set deep into the stone, where Layard asked to be left for the rest of the day, to make a careful record of the remains of some wall paintings. He stubbornly refused any company and when Antonio had attempted on several occasions to bring him food or water, had chased the boy away, demanding to be left in peace to complete his work. On his return to the lodgings that Ahmed had arranged with one of Kerak’s Christian Arabs, Layard was in an inexplicably bad temper.

Antonio, sensitive to his master’s moods, enquired attentively, ‘was your investigation fruitful, Effendi?’

‘A complete waste of time,’ growled Layard, ‘I had expected to find some evidence of-‘ he cut himself short, ‘oh it doesn’t matter. Where are Awad and Musa?’

Layard’s ill temper was only worsened when he was met with unwelcome, if not entirely unexpected news.

The Arabs were waiting for him. Now that their duty to escort Layard to Kerak had been discharged, it was time for them and their camels to return to the tents of Abu Dhaouk. The Arabs looked sadly at Layard, torn between a mutual affection that had grown between the three of them during the past days and a longing to return to their homes and away from these strange and ill-rumoured lands. Layard was no less sorry to see them leave. They had proved brave and honest companions, whose courage and quick-thinking had helped to bring them through some perilous scrapes. Moreover, they had over the past weeks helped him vastly improve his command of the Arab tongue. He called Antonio to prepare a last meal for the four of them and for Ibrahim, their Christian host. Ahmed had provided a sheep’s carcass, which Antonio boiled and served them. They sat together and ate in the characteristic silence of those about to part and who cannot find the words to describe the mixture of feelings such final partings engender. With no sound but five quietly munching mouths and the occasional snort of a camel from outside, Layard once more felt a wave of absolute loneliness begin the overwhelm him. His mind strayed time and again to his last conversation with Mitford. Had that brash adventurer truly been him? He felt guilty for the frustration, bordering on contempt, that he had felt at Mitford’s caution and a nostalgic ache to be in the comfort of their Jerusalem lodging with a fine bottle of wine.