The Tower (2 page)

The legionary fell silent, reluctant to go along with what his comrade was suggesting. The idea of profaning a tomb offended him, and he feared that it might be protected by a curse that would haunt them for the rest of their days.

But the other insisted. ‘What are you afraid of? The centurion is sleeping, he won’t find out. We’ll just take a few precious stones, a golden jewel or two, stuff that’s easy to hide in the folds of our cloaks. We can sell them as soon as we get back at the market of Lepcis or Ptolemais. Come on, don’t tell me you’re scared! That’s it. You’re afraid of some sort of magic spell, aren’t you? What crap! What have we got an Etruscan wizard with us for? He knows all the antidotes, trust me. Hear him? That’s him, with his rattle. He’s keeping all the evil spirits away from the camp.’

‘You’ve convinced me,’ said the other sentry, ‘but if we’re found out and the centurion has us whipped, I’ll say it was all your idea.’

‘Say what you like, but let’s get moving now. We’ll be in and out in no time. No one will even notice.’

Both of them took a brand from the fire to use as a torch and cautiously approached the entrance to the tower. But just as they were about to cross the threshold, each holding out an arm to light up the interior, a low groan sounded in the hollow of the tower, rumbling hoarse and deep under the immense vault and then exploding into a thunderous roar.

Avile Vipinas trembled in the darkness so suddenly rent by the agonized screams of the two legionaries. Panic kept him rooted, cold and stiff, to the ground.

The soldiers sprang from their camp beds, grabbed their weapons and shot off in every direction, shadows running wild. Longus burst from his tent, sword in hand, shouting loudly to rally the men, but what he saw nailed him to the spot.

‘By all the gods . . . what is it?’ he barely had time to murmur as the screams of his soldiers rang in his ears, before the tremendous roar, which ripped the air all the way to the horizon and made the earth shake, exploded in his brain and destroyed him. His body was blown to pieces as if the jaws of a vicious beast had torn him to shreds and his blood was sprayed over a vast stretch of sand.

Avile Vipinas, frozen in horror, raised his spirit in the night against that monstrous voice. He rallied all the strength of his soul against the slaughterer, against the blind ferocity of the unknown aggressor, but he knew he had no chance. Unmoving, his eyes staring, he watched as his white tunic became spattered with blood, besmirched by scraps of flesh. The howl was getting stronger, drawing closer. He could feel the beast’s boiling breath on his face. He knew that in a moment it would suck up his life’s blood, but somehow he found the strength to start chanting his song, to shake the sacred sistrum in his numb fingers.

And the silvery jingling suddenly shattered the fury. The savage onslaught ended abruptly. Vipinas continued to shake the sistrum, his eyes wide and glassy from exertion, his ashen face dripping sweat, and the beast’s roar faded into a hoarse rasp.

The camp all around him was plunged into the silence of death.

He got to his feet then and staggered across the ground, through the mangled limbs of the soldiers of Rome. No one had escaped death. The lifeless human bodies were mixed with the cadavers of animals – the horses and camels of the unfortunate expedition.

Vipinas approached the tower’s yawning black arch. He stood at its threshold and peered in at the live, threatening presence he felt there. He continued to shake his sistrum steadily. ‘Who are you?’ he cried out. ‘Who are you?’

The only sound to be heard from the opening was the weary, aching breathing of what seemed to be the tower’s prisoner. The haruspex turned his back then to the mysterious mausoleum and began walking north. He walked all night long. At the first glimmer of dawn, he made out a motionless shape at the top of one of the dunes: one of the expedition’s camels, still laden with a skin of water and a bag of dates. Vipinas caught up with him, grasped his halter and hoisted himself onto the packsaddle. The jingling of his sistrum echoed at length in the dazed silence of the desert, fading finally into the pale light of dawn, into that endless expanse.

P
HILIP
G
ARRETT HURRIED TOWARDS
the Café Junot on Rue Tronchet, weaving his way through the late afternoon rush, when all the clerks in the city seemed to be swarming out of their offices to head for the tram stops and metro stations. He’d had a phone call the evening before in his office at the Musée de l’Homme asking him to meet with a certain Colonel Jobert, whom he’d never seen before or even heard of.

He took a look around the café, trying to work out which of the people here was the officer who wanted to talk to him. He was struck by a man of about forty-five sitting at a table all alone, with a well-trimmed moustache and an unmistakably military haircut. The man gave him a polite nod.

He approached and placed his briefcase on a chair. ‘Colonel Jobert, I presume?’

‘Yes, and you must be Dr Garrett of the Musée de l’Homme. It’s a great pleasure,’ he said, shaking his hand.

‘Well, Colonel,’ said Philip, ‘to what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting? I must confess that I’m rather curious. I’ve never had dealings with the Armée before.’

The colonel opened a leather bag and extracted a book, which he placed on the table. ‘First of all, allow me to give you a little gift.’

Philip reached out his hand to take the book. ‘Good heavens, it’s—’

‘Explorations in the South-eastern Quadrant of the Sahara
by Desmond Garrett, published by Bernard Grasset, first edition, practically unobtainable. It is, I believe, the most important work your father ever wrote.’

Philip nodded. ‘That’s true, but . . . I don’t know how to thank you. How can I repay such kindness?’

Jobert smiled and ordered two coffees from the waiter, while Philip continued to leaf through the book that his father had written when Philip was little more than a boy. Jobert passed over one of the cups and took a sip of his own.

‘Dr Garrett,’ he began, ‘we have learned from our sources in the Foreign Legion that your father . . .’ Philip suddenly looked up, an intent, anxious expression on his face. ‘It may be nothing more than a rumour, you understand, but . . . well, it seems that your father is still alive and has been seen at the oasis of El Khuf, near the border with Chad.’

Philip dropped his gaze and pretended to look at the book again, then he spoke. ‘Colonel, I am truly grateful to you for this gift, but, you see, it’s not the first time that someone has claimed to have seen my father alive. I’ve left my work at least three times to go off searching for him in the most unlikely places, but I’ve always returned home empty-handed. You will forgive me, then, if I do not jump for joy at your news.’

‘I can understand your disappointment,’ replied Jobert, ‘but, believe me, this time is different. It is highly probable that, this time, the rumour is true. The high command of the Legion is convinced of it, and it is precisely for this reason that I have asked to meet you and that I myself am about to depart for the Sahara.’

‘To look for my father?’

Jobert ordered another coffee and lit up a cigar. ‘Not only that. You see, Garrett, there are details that you are certainly . . . unfamiliar with, events regarding your father that you are unaware of. I can tell you about what happened ten years ago, when your father suddenly disappeared in such a remote and solitary corner of the desert. But I’ve also come to tell you that I need your help.’

‘I don’t see what I can do. It seems that you know so much more than I do.’

Jobert took a sip of coffee and inhaled a mouthful of smoke. ‘One month ago you published a very interesting study in which you demonstrated that a number of expeditions attempting to enter the south-eastern quadrant of the Sahara vanished abruptly, without leaving any trace. Entire armies of tens of thousands of men even—’

‘I’ve done nothing more than develop a thesis outlined by my father many years ago but never published.’

‘Yes, so you say in the preface to your work, which I haven’t had the pleasure of finishing unfortunately.’

‘Well, five centuries before the birth of Christ, a huge army led by the Persian emperor Cambyses that was heading for Ethiopia disappeared. The emperor survived, along with very few others, but what had happened to the rest was never revealed. It was said that the survivors devoured one another, that many went insane and that the sovereign himself died some time later in the throes of madness. Another army, led by the pharaoh Soshenk, had been wiped out in the same area five hundred years earlier. Not a single survivor. But, as I’m sure you realize, Colonel, we are dealing with a very hostile environment. The area is completely devoid of water, swept by scorching winds, sandstorms. It’s not entirely surprising that—’

Jobert interrupted. ‘Dr Garrett, the same phenomenon has repeated itself quite recently, in the absence of adverse weather conditions. The units were modern, well organized and equipped. One of them was a British contingent which had received French authorization to cross the area. The entire unit vanished without trace, swallowed up into the desert. A caravan of slave traders travelling from Sudan with expert Ashanti guides suffered the same fate. And no sandstorms were reported at the time. What we are asking you to do is to incorporate certain facts that we will provide you with into your research and, even more importantly, to pick up your father’s trail from when he was last known to be in Europe. Specifically, Italy.’

‘Why Italy? My father travelled everywhere: Aleppo, Tangiers, Istanbul.’

‘True. But there is a reason. Ten years ago, your father had been carrying out research at the oasis of Siwa when he left suddenly for Italy. He apparently spent some time there before returning to Africa. He was in Rome for two weeks and then went to Naples, from where he left Europe, heading for Oran. From this point on, we actually know a great deal about what happened to him before his disappearance and are willing to share these details with you. What we don’t know is what he was doing in Rome and Naples: what he was looking for, whom he contacted. We believe that his time in Italy holds the key to what happened to him later.’

Philip shook his head doubtfully. ‘I find it very hard to believe, Colonel, that my father has been alive all this time and has never tried to contact me.’

‘Perhaps he hasn’t been able to do so. Perhaps he’s been prevented from contacting anyone. You know that anything can happen in such desolate places, Dr Garrett. You see, I’m firmly convinced that, after this little talk of ours, you will wind up any unfinished business you have here and leave as soon as you can for Italy, but before you do, there are some things you still need to know about your father’s last journey.’

Philip frowned. ‘Colonel, I imagine you must know how many times I’ve tried to obtain reliable information regarding my father’s last days in Africa, from the Foreign Legion, from the War Office and from the Colonial Office. You must also know that all my efforts have come to nothing. My own search for him failed, thanks to a total lack of cooperation from the military authorities, and now all of a sudden here you are, asking to meet me, telling me you have all sorts of information to give me and expecting me to set to work as if nothing had ever happened, as if we’d always enjoyed the most cordial of relations—’

‘Please allow me to interrupt,’ said Jobert, ‘and to be frank with you. I completely understand how you feel, but, my dear Dr Garrett, you are anything but naïve. If we were unable to give you information in the past, there was most certainly a good reason. And if you had got the information you wanted, what might your reaction have been? What would you have done next? We were in no position to control that.’

‘I understand,’ Philip said, nodding. ‘And now you’re in trouble because you just can’t explain what’s going on in that cursed south-eastern quadrant. That must mean that the government, or one of her foreign allies, has plans for that area and needs to clear the field of any sort of obstacle. At this point you feel I might be useful and you want to exchange information for collaboration. I’m sorry, Jobert. It’s too late. If my father is truly alive – and I’m sincerely grateful to you for this information – I’m certain he’ll contact me sooner or later. If he does not, it means that he has very serious reasons for not doing so and I have no choice but to respect his wishes.’

Philip picked up his bag and turned to go. Jobert’s features twitched in frustration and he raised a hand.

‘Please, Dr Garrett, sit down and listen to what I have to tell you. Afterwards, you can make your decision, and I promise to respect it, whatever it might be. But first listen to me, for God’s sake. It is your father we’re talking about, isn’t it?’

Philip sat down again. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll listen, but I’m not promising anything.’

Jobert began his story. ‘I was a captain in the Foreign Legion, stationed at the fort of Suk el Gharb, when I first met your father. My commander had spoken to me about this American anthropologist who was carrying out research in the south-eastern quadrant and had asked for our help. He also told me that Garrett had neglected to inform him of the true purpose of his expedition, or rather that the explanations he had provided were not very convincing.

‘I was asked to organize things so that we could keep an eye on Garrett, unobtrusively but attentively. The Legion has always been responsible for the Saharan territories, and, given his renown, your father’s explorations were certainly of interest to us. I was in charge of the entire Suk el Gharb fort then and could not see to the matter personally, so I assigned one of my men, a Lieutenant Selznick, to discreetly learn what your father was doing and to keep me informed. He volunteered for the job himself, saying that he’d already worked with Garrett in the past and was familiar with his research.

‘Now, as you know, the Legion has a tradition of accepting anyone among its ranks, without asking questions about their past. Many of our men have chosen this way to escape the rule of law in their countries of origin. They see the harsh, dangerous life of the Legion as a good alternative to rotting away in a prison cell somewhere. They find new dignity under our banner, they rediscover endurance and discipline, solidarity with their comrades . . .’