The Sleeping Sands (8 page)

In the morning, Antonio and Layard bade farewell to the Arabs, watching the two men and their camels recede into the early morning desert haze. Layard felt such an onset of sentiment at their departure that he almost fancied himself missing the camels. The strain of conversation weighing heavy upon him, Layard set Antonio to various tasks tending to their retrieved possessions and hiring horses or mules for the next stage of their journey, while he busied himself in secret once again among the ruins. In the evening, he returned to find with irritation that Antonio had been unsuccessful in hiring a single animal. He snapped at the boy, who pleaded that no-one would risk their beasts for the journey to Jerash.

‘Effendi, they say there are constant attacks by Bedouins on the road,’ There were tears of frustration in the boy’s eyes. ‘I tried my very best.’

‘You should not blame the boy,’ muttered their host, Ibrahim. ‘The people have been given orders not to lend their animals to you.’

‘Orders?’ demanded Layard. ‘Who has given such orders?’

‘Effendi, there are but three hundred of we Christians living among twice as many Muslims,’ said Ibrahim quietly, looking sadly at the angry young Frank. ‘I have said enough on the matter. It would be best that you take up your business with the son of the Mujelli.’

In the ruined castle of Kerak, Ahmed welcomed his guests with the usual aristocratic civility and charm. He was still full of high spirits following the raid on Sheikh Mahmoud and each time that Layard attempted to discuss the business of hiring animals, he would bring the conversation back to the subject of Layard’s robbery and their recovery of his possessions.

‘That was a fine carpet they almost got away with, Mr Layard,’ Ahmed said. ‘It is very fine workmanship indeed. Did you purchase it in Jerusalem?’

‘Well, yes I did,’ replied Layard, ‘but I really need to discuss how to secure some transport.’

‘I am among the most fortunate of men in that I am getting married soon,’ continued Ahmed. ‘A carpet such as yours would make a very fine wedding gift.’

‘I am sure it would sir, however I unfortunately possess only one carpet and I need that to continue my travels,’ explained Layard. ‘Now as to the matter of those travels-‘

‘Ah, and I have not told you about my brother? He is a very fine man and a great warrior and I need to find a way to bestow upon him some sort of gift that marks this out. Now a sword such as yours, or even your well-made Frank pistols – these would certainly do the trick.’

‘Sir, I must insist that we discuss the matter of transport,’ replied Layard, his temper and tone rising. ‘I really have to insist. I have an appointment to keep in Damascus.’

‘Well, if not the pistols, perhaps your boy’s exquisite tarbush cap,’ Ahmed fixed his flashing eyes on the dragoman who had been standing at Layard’s shoulder. Antonio, who had become increasingly nervous as the exchange became angrier, snatched the red cap from his head and was about to offer it out when Layard firmly grasped his arm and pushed it down to the boy’s side.

‘Would the son of the Mujelli perhaps prefer it if I went on foot back to Hebron and explained to Colonel Yusuf Effendi how it was that I was unable to proceed on my journey?’ Layard drew himself to his full height and glowered down at the chief.

Ahmed fixed the angry European with a direct and unblinking stare and smiled politely.

‘Of course I can arrange the hire of animals for you – I was just coming around to that subject.’

For a few hundred piastres, he offered to provide Layard with a pair of the finest mules which would take them all the way on their journey without a wrong step. More reliable and tougher than any camel, he assured Layard that these were the finest and most reliable animals in the Mujelli’s territory. What is more, he would also throw in sufficient flour and butter to provide for their journey. The price was steep, but Layard felt he had little choice but to either accept the young chief’s terms or else attempt the journey back to Hebron on foot and without the escort of Awad and Musa. Begrudgingly he handed over the money.

In the morning, rather than the finest mules, two half-starved asses were brought to Layard’s lodgings, without any provisions.

As his donkey gently plodded across the hard-baked earth, laden with his pack and some small provisions that the poor Arab Ibrahim had pushed upon them, refusing any payment, Layard mused on the nature of aristocracy. He had met enough aristocrats – in the Disraelis’ salon, in his uncle’s chambers and now among the savage ruins of the Holy Land to know that his own romantic notions of breeding and human nature never quite painted the full picture. Beneath the velvet manners and chivalry there always remained something of the steel that had raised one particular family or another to its place of privilege – no matter how well the veneer of civilisation had been applied over generations.

C
HAPTER 4

M
RS
S
ARA
A
USTEN POURED SOME TEA FOR HER GUEST.
She ran her fingertips over the surface of the manuscript on the small round walnut table by her side and smiled a smile of such exceptional charm and delight that her companion lost the sense of anxiety that he had felt as she had turned each of its pages.

‘It is without doubt a most accomplished work, my dear,’ she said in tones of such bell-like beauty that her guest fancied she could have heaped the most damning odium without losing one iota of the joy he felt at hearing her voice.

‘Do you really think so? Could I entertain the hope that it might find an audience, if published?’ He leant forward eagerly, absently rubbing the green silk of his waistcoat between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Ah, dear Ben,’ she said softly, ‘
Vivian Grey
could find such an audience that it may be the one reason why it should
not
be published.

‘You are at a crossroads in your future,’ she explained gently. ‘If you are to achieve the fortunes that we all see you capable of, it may be that you must avoid the opprobrium of those for whom you currently bear a youthful disdain. This novel may win you many admirers, but, I fear, few friends.’

She smiled.

‘As I say, it is a remarkable story but one that I would encourage you to reflect upon, prior to any publication. A work of this quality can stand the test of time. There is no rush to publish – a period of fallow will do nothing to diminish its artistic values but may do a little to draw the string from those who may, rightly or wrongly, see some foible or shortcoming of their own characterised among its pages.’

She tapped the manuscript, reassuringly, as if petting a favoured lap-dog.

‘Why do you not leave the manuscript with me, while considering the best avenue?’ she bent her head slightly in deference to the author. ‘I am so enamoured of this book, with which I have had so little chance to become familiar, that I would be honoured to have the opportunity to spend more happy hours in its company.’

Benjamin Disraeli nodded in assent – softly defeated by Mrs Austen’s charm.

‘It would be the greatest honour, Madam, if you were to hold the manuscript and peruse it at your convenience. I give myself up completely to your guidance in this matter.’

Disraeli had not thought it possible for a smile to be sweeter and more enchanting than that he had already received from Mrs Austen, yet his deference to her advice brought forward a smile of such angelic charm that he knew himself completely vanquished. She poured more tea and continued their conversation, steering it away from the subject of his novel.

‘Tell me, Ben,’ she asked, ‘have you heard at all from my nephew?’

‘I had a short letter from him when he arrived at Jerusalem – but since then nothing.’ He noted her look of concern, ‘I am sure that is of no consequence, madam. I know from experience that the post in the East is erratic to say the least. Mr Layard is an accomplished young man, who will do very well for himself in any situation.’

‘I hope so, Ben.’ She sighed, ‘I fear that my brother William may have talked Henry into undertaking some commission for his silly little Society. William has always tended towards such outlandish and, well,
unfeasible
schemes. I do hope he hasn’t turned Henry’s head with them.’ She turned to gaze at the dull green gaslight that flickered in the rainy Kensington night beyond the window.

‘Mrs Austen,’ insisted Disraeli, ‘I can assure you that Mr Layard is a fine, sensible, young-‘

‘Romantic?’ interrupted Mrs Austen, the barest note of tension in her melodious voice. ‘He is a Romantic, like you, dear Ben – and like all the young gentlemen of the Age. We are breeding a generation of fools and sending them like lambs into the bosom of a barbaric and ancient land. We are fortunate indeed that any return unscarred.’ She looked, pointedly at Disraeli and he felt colour rush to his cheeks.

For once at a loss for words, he could do nothing but repeat, ‘I am sure Mr Layard will be fine.’

*                      *                      *

A world away, the object of Mrs Austen’s concern, along with Antonio and the donkeys, was picking his way laboriously across the countryside. The burning desert heat was punctuated by nights of intense cold and, with increasing frequency, by sudden torrents of rain that would turn their road into a cloying river of mud. Progress was slow, uncomfortable and miserable. At each camp, as Layard’s spirits dwindled, so too did his funds; more worryingly still, the rumours of some dark force abroad in the countryside were more often on men’s lips. On the road to the ancient city of Jerash, he encountered his first evidence that they were more than rumours. In a camp in what turned out to be a tribal cemetery, he saw a small group gathered around a mound of rushes. The funeral was strangely quiet and lacked the characteristic melee of wailing mourners that Layard had seen at other such ceremonies in the region. Wordlessly the men began to remove the rushes and Layard watched as the body of an old man was brought forth from the mound. He came closer, drawn by an awful fascination as the body was carefully wrapped in a white sheet and laid in a shallow stony grave by the small mournful party. A little way off, a woman that Layard guessed was the man’s widow sat, moaning quietly. All these details were minor, however, against the horrible spectacle of the corpse itself. Layard was struck by the livid appearance of the body and the look of horror that twisted the man’s features – as if he had met some violent end at the hands of something truly terrible. Yet, there was not a mark of violence upon him. Layard asked the burial party what had been the cause of death.

‘The plague,’ one replied tersely. ‘He is the third among these tents in as many days.’

Layard pressed the man for more information. It transpired that, while the road to Jerash was clear, the Syrian authorities had set up a quarantine around Damascus that Layard would be hard-pressed to negotiate. Without sufficient money for a bribe, the man informed him, he would need to make his way across the quarantine in secret and risking arrest.

Layard and Antonio stood and watched as the corpse was interred and the small cortege walked sadly from the cemetery, comforting the softly sobbing widow. Layard scratched his poor, half-dead donkey between its ears and turned to the dragoman, attempting a smile.

‘Well, Antonio,’ he said gently, ‘we’ve broken the back of this journey now. It will be easy from here on.’

Antonio looked back at the little pile of stones that marked the fresh grave of the most recent plague victim and turned back to Layard with wide, frightened eyes.

‘If you are sure, Effendi.’

The following morning, the sun had just begun to rise as the two riders entered the narrow valley of Jerash. In the days since Awad and Musa’s departure, Layard had sunk gradually into silence. Antonio had tried to raise his humour, but with little success. The young dragoman had questioned Layard about life in England and had been rewarded by curt, albeit polite responses. His natural shyness and general awe of Layard had prevented him from pursuing the questions further. Instead, he tried a different tack, regaling the Englishman with stories of his life among the friars who had raised him. Despite his servant’s very best efforts, Layard failed to respond to the merry tales of mundane to-ings and fro-ings of monastic life with little more than occasional monosyllabic grunts. Undeterred in his efforts, Antonio had decided that the most effective way to cheer up his employer was by singing. He sang out the songs he had heard at morning and evening prayers in the friary, in a clear, musical voice, accompanied by the slow steady rhythms of the two donkeys’ hoof beats.

The pale pink fingers of early morning sun stretching through the narrow valley and the tops of its myriad monuments and ruins burned with a fresh golden fire. With the sweet and beautiful singing of the boy at his side and the faint melody of a fresh, fast-running narrow stream that ran along the valley, Layard’s melancholy began to fade. The fragrance of Aleppo pines tantalised him and even the tired old donkeys seemed cheered; a slight spring in their faltering step and their ears drooping just a little less than usual. Layard’s sense of loneliness and memories of corruption, banditry and pestilence began to fade as he found himself surrounded by a landscape of striking Arcadian beauty.

‘
Agnus dei, qui tollis peccata mundi,’
the boy’s unspoilt young voice echoed along graceful avenues of marble columns, painted a honey pink by antiquity and the dawn. The two rode along an ancient broad street, paved with marble slabs. At one end was a great triumphal arch, faced at its other by a magnificently ornamented gateway. A double row of columns lined each side of the street, from which radiated further rows of dozens, if not hundreds of columns marking out the ancient footprints of streets, squares and circles. The remains of majestic buildings loomed from among lush oleanders, wild olives and pine trees that together with a tumble of fallen columns and capitals populated the ancient city. No matter of time, ruin or neglect could diminish its regal symmetry. There were theatres, public buildings, palaces and temples, the greatest of which stood in a great peristyled court that must once have held tens of thousands of worshippers, gathered, like Layard and Antonio, to bear witness to the rising sun.