The Sleeping Sands Read online

  Fresh from the saddle, the Khan was dressed in his travelling clothes. He wore a tight-fitting cloth tunic over long silk robes that were tucked into baggy trousers, wound about with embroidered bands and themselves tucked into riding boots. He wore the characteristic Lur skull cap of white felt, around which was twisted a brightly coloured Bakhtiari lung of striped cloth. His weapons were of the finest quality. He carried a long gun, its barrel finely damascened and its stock inlaid with ivory and gold. At his side hung a scimitar of the finest steel, with a hilt traced in patterns of silver and gold and into his belt were tucked a jewel-encrusted dagger and a similarly decorated pistol. In characteristic Bakhtiari fashion, his person has hung about with powder flasks, shot pouches, tampers, primers and all manner of devices for the operation of his guns, all of the finest quality. The Khan’s arms matched the Matamet’s in their quality and richness, yet upon him they had no appearance of ostentation. Rather, on his powerful frame they looked to be the fitting accoutrements of an unrivalled warrior; a man who had raised himself up by force of arms to become the leader of the most powerful tribal nation in the Persian Empire. His horse stood to one side of the platform; a tall, powerful Arab mare as richly caparisoned as her master. From her inlaid saddle hung a second sword and a heavy iron mace. The awe that Layard had felt at experiencing the majesty of the Khan’s brothers in the great hall was now magnified tenfold by the spectacle of the Khan himself. Although of average height and well into his middle age, the Khan commanded the attention of every man in the room with an easy and open manner and force of personality that simply eclipsed every other point of interest in its sphere. His rich laughter and broad smile were those of a man who had no need for subterfuge or deceit. His will was won by the honesty of the sword blade and the mace rather than by courtly wiles.

  Layard moved forward into his presence. The Khan turned his attention to the foreigner, his face becoming stern. He waited in silence for the Englishman to present himself.

  ‘Great Khan,’ said Layard, bowing deeply, ‘I am Austen Henry Layard, a traveller. I am travelling under the protection of the Governor of Isfahan, who bids me present his firman to you.’

  He stepped forward and, bowing once more, handed the Matamet’s firman to the Khan. The Khan glanced at the firman briefly. Then, with a snarl of displeasure, he crumpled the paper in his powerful fist and tossed it to one side. The Matamet’s official, standing nearby opened his mouth to protest but, before a sound could emerge, a flashing look from the Khan shut him up.

  Layard looked at the angry face of the Khan, his heart sinking. For a moment, he felt Mehemet Taki Khan’s angry eyes transfix him. Then the cloud passed and the Khan’s handsome face brightened. He smiled, motioning Layard forward.

  ‘The Shah’s firman has no authority among the free people of the mountains,’ he said warmly. ‘You are welcome here as my guest, Mr Layard. As long as you choose to stay here, you must consider Kala Tul to be your home. My vizier has already told me about you and of the service that you have done to my brother. I consider your arrival among us to be good fortune indeed. Now, you must explain to me what it is that has led you to experience the dangers of a journey all the way from England to Kala Tul.’

  In the presence of the Khan and surrounded by the splendour and ancient power of the Bakhtiari court, Layard felt a compulsion to tell the truth. No matter the Society’s instructions or the presence of the Matamet’s official, he knew he could no more hide the truth from the Khan than a rabbit could escape a mountain lion. Almost involuntarily, he opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘I am seeking the-‘

  Suddenly, there was a commotion outside the hall and the sound of shrill wailing and a woman’s voice urgently calling the Khan’s name.

  Mehemet Taki Khan leapt to his feet without a word and rushed from the hall towards the enderun, his family chambers.

  Within a short time, Layard was summoned into the enderun, to the chamber of the sick boy. The boy’s mother was weeping and cradling her son’s pale, gaunt body, while rocking back and forth. The physicians stood abjectly to one side and the Khan’s mullah knelt in the corner of the room, praying furiously. The boy’s eyes were closed in a faint and it was clear from the manner of all in the room that they believed he was close to death. The Khan greeted Layard as he entered.

  ‘My son, Hussein Kuli, is dying,’ he said, simply and earnestly. ‘He is burning up. I sent for the best doctors I could find, but they have been unable to cure him. I am told by my wife that you have some knowledge of medicine. This boy is the light of my life, Frank. You must do all in your power to save him. I entreat you, if there is anything you hold holy, to cure him. If you save his life, then you may have anything of me that it is my power to give.’

  Layard looked at the Khan. The eyes that only minutes before had been those of an implacable mountain lion were now filling with tears; the eyes of a fearful and vulnerable father watching his son slip from his grasp.

  ‘Excellency, we must protest,’ the Seyyid complained. ‘Your own mullah augured against the use of the infidel’s medicine-’

  ‘My mullah will consult the Koran again,’ interrupted the Khan, turning to fix his mullah with an angry glare. ‘What are the omens now for administering the remedy?’

  With shaking hands, the mullah thumbed through the Koran and muttered a few words of prayer under his breath.

  ‘The augury is good,’ he said, in a nervous voice. ‘This would be a propitious time to give the boy the Frank’s medicine.’

  ‘Preposterous!’ interjected the Seyyid.

  The Khan whirled to face him, his hand moving towards the hilt of his jewelled dagger.

  ‘At least let me bless the powders before they are administered,’ entreated the Seyyid, backing away from the angry Khan.

  The Khan looked questioningly at Layard, who shrugged and nodded.

  ‘Very well,’ growled the Khan. ‘There is no time to waste.’

  Layard ran to the guest quarters and returned with his medical kit. He took measures of Dover’s powder and quinine from the kit and handed them to the seyyid, who dropped each dosage into a cup inscribed with verses from the Koran.

  ‘You understand,’ he hissed, ‘if the boy recovers, it won’t be your barbaric alchemy that has cured him, but the blessed waters of these cups.’

  ‘And if he dies?’ whispered Layard.

  ‘Whoever heard of water harming anyone?’ hissed the seyyid back. ‘If he dies it can only be as the result of your unclean remedy.’

  Layard took the dose of Dover’s powder and poured it into the boy’s mouth, massaging his throat and chest. The child’s body was hot and his unconscious form twitched and trembled with fever. Layard took a damp cloth and began to mop at the child’s body, silently reciting his own prayer.

  Minutes, then hours passed. Layard stayed by the boy’s side, desperately trying to cool his burning body, while the Khan and Khanum stood anxiously over him. The doctors looked on in sullen triumph as the boy’s fever intensified and his convulsions became more pronounced.

  ‘It is as we said, Excellency,’ squeaked the Isfahan physician. ‘The Frank has simply poisoned your son. If you had allowed us more time-‘

  ‘Silence, Persian’ snarled the Khan, ‘or I’ll cure your yapping tongue with some Bakhtiari medicine.’

  He placed his hand pointedly on the hilt of his dagger.

  Nothing more was said. The silence was only broken by the unsteady, irregular breathing of the boy and the steady faint ticking of Layard’s pocket watch, which he was periodically using to check his patient’s pulse.

  The hours passed. At midnight the boy gasped and broke into a violent sweat. Layard sighed in relief. The fever had broken. Over the course of the next hours his temperature returned to normal and at cock-crow, Layard began to administer the quinine.

  The physician from Isfahan examined Hussein Kuli.

  ‘The boy is out of danger,’ he pronounced.

  The Khan
and his wife embraced their son, both weeping openly.

  Mehemet Taki Khan embraced Layard.

  ‘I am forever in your debt, Mr Layard,’ he said hoarsely, struggling with his tears. ‘You have restored my son to me. From this day forward I shall consider you a part of my family. You shall be moved to a room in the enderun and you may have use of any of the horses in my stable.’

  He patted the Englishman on the shoulder, noticing his travel-stained robes.

  ‘My wife shall ensure you are dressed as befits a member of my clan. You shall have all the help you need in your work,’ he turned back to his son, distracted by his desire to take up the boy in his arms.

  ‘What is it again that you are doing in the mountains?’ he asked, his attention focused on Hussein Kuli.

  ‘I seek the Tomb of Daniel,’ said Henry Layard, softly.

  CHAPTER 14

  LAYARD’S NEXT FEW WEEKS AMONG THE BAKHTIARI were among the most memorable and enjoyable of his life. He had his own room in the enderun, away from the cramped guest-quarters and out of the sight of the Matamet’s official, who left for Isfahan a fortnight after Hussein Kuli’s recovery, accompanied by the little physician. Fitted out with a wardrobe of the finest clothes and with the pick of the Khan’s horses, Layard spent his days engaged in the carefree pleasures of tribal life. He was now considered a bosom companion by Hussein Kuli and his comrades, who would beg Layard to join them in games or fishing expeditions; accompanied, whenever she could slip away from the watchful gaze of her mother, by Lady Moon. At other times he would accompany the Khan’s brother Au Kerim hunting, with hawks and greyhounds or climbing the high peaks to shoot ibex. Whenever he ventured into the countryside, he would take his instruments and make observations and notes, to update and correct the Society’s maps. For less strenuous entertainment, he would sit and watch the Khan’s horsemen practicing, as they performed breathtaking feats of horsemanship and marksmanship alike, picking up silk handkerchiefs from the ground at full gallop or shooting targets to their rear as they charged away from imaginary enemies. On other days, he would sit with Seyyid Kerim, reading verses from the Shah-Nameh and practicing Persian calligraphy.

  Khatun-Jan Khanum had become Layard’s greatest friend and ally. She not only took care of arranging Layard’s wardrobe but also became his advisor on all matters of life among the Bakhtiari. She was as intelligent and astute as her husband in understanding the complexities of tribal politics and kept Layard informed of the many comings and goings at Kala Tul. She was a tall, handsome woman, who habitually wore her long, curling hair loose, flowing down her back from under a purple silk headscarf. She had three sons by Mehemet Taki Khan, Hussein being the oldest, but her figure and looks had in no way diminished. She was lithe, supple and, as it proved when she persuaded Layard to allow her a turn with his double-barrelled gun, a crack shot. When Layard’s own bouts of fever returned, she insisted on personally nursing him and she also acted as his banker whenever he rode from Kala Tul, holding his money to keep it safe from thieves.

  Layard thought the mother of Hussein Kuli the most beautiful woman he had ever encountered, until one day she introduced him to her younger sister, Khanumi, recently arrived at Kala Tul. Like Khatun-Jan, Khanumi forewent the formality of a veil when meeting Layard. When Layard first met her, she had been called away from playing with some of the children to be introduced by her older sister. Layard watched her as she skipped lightly away from the little group, laughing and pushing her thick, curling hair from her face. She fixed him with a pair of large, black almond eyes that sparkled with intelligence and humour.

  ‘You are the foreigner that my sister told me about?’ she smiled broadly, revealing two rows of perfectly white teeth. ‘I hear you are something of a scholar.’

  She cocked her head to one side and looked expectantly at Layard. He noticed, for a moment, the barest pink tip of her tongue unconsciously run across her lips. He opened his mouth to speak, suddenly conscious that he was a clumsy, untutored infidel. He struggled to remember the simplest of Bakhtiari phrases and she laughed, lightly and without malice as he stumbled with the formalities of greeting.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said, ‘I thought you were Mr Layard; perhaps I was mistaken.’

  Layard stammered that he was indeed the same.

  ‘Oh, but of course you are,’ she said, smoothing out her robes in a casual and un-selfconscious manner. ‘I am looking forward to hearing all about your adventures and the strange customs of your foreign lands. You are from England, no?’

  Layard opened his mouth to speak, managing only, ‘I-‘

  Khanumi raised her eyebrows and placed her hands on her hips.

  ‘You are not sure?’ she asked, feigning surprise, ‘or perhaps your adventures have been so distressing that you have forgotten?

  ‘Sister,’ she said, turning to Khatun-Jan, ‘Mr Layard is indeed a most marvellous scholar. I have never before met a scholar who could neither speak nor remember where he came from. It is indeed a marvel!’

  ‘I must apologise for my sister,’ said the Khanum, frowning. ‘She forgets her manners. She spends far too much time in the company of children and acts like a spoilt child as a result.’

  ‘Not at all!’ laughed Khanumi, musically. ‘I was paying our guest a compliment. My father says that a wise man values his words and is slow to share them. Mr Layard may be the wisest man I have ever met.’

  She bowed to Layard, inclining a long, graceful neck, with a faint jingle of silver jewellery. Her face became serious for a moment.

  ‘Mr Layard, I know of the service you have done to my family. It is truly an honour to meet you.’

  Then, as if her face could no longer hold such an unnatural aspect, a fresh smile flashed across her face.

  ‘I am looking forward to having many more learned discussions with you.’

  ‘As am, er, I, My Lady,’ stuttered Layard, as the Khanum’s sister span lightly around on the ball of her right foot and ran back to the group of children, covering the twenty feet between with a hop, skip and jump. His last words were to her receding back.

  Khatun-Jan watched his awkwardness approvingly.

  Later that evening, the Khan spoke to Layard about Khanumi.

  ‘My wife’s sister is beautiful, no?’ he asked.

  Layard enthusiastically agreed.

  ‘She is also the daughter of a powerful Lur chieftain,’ continued the Khan, ‘and a princess in her own right. My wife tells me that she speaks highly of you.’

  Layard confessed that he could not understand how he could have made anything but a bad impression on Khanumi.

  ‘My wife’s sister is an intelligent and astute young woman,’ responded the Khan. She can shoot a partridge when it’s hidden in the reeds and she can see a man’s true character when it is hidden by a rebellious tongue.

  ‘You know that I consider you to be more or less a part of my family,’ he continued. ‘If you would just convert to the Faith, then I would give you a house at Kala Tul and Khanumi as your bride.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ stammered Layard. ‘your generosity is quite overwhelming. I couldn’t accept. Besides, I cannot stay too long in the mountains. I have a journey to make.’

  ‘And your mission calls you?’ asked the Khan, raising an eyebrow. ‘You know I really don’t understand how a man might subject himself to the dangers and privations you have experienced; not to mention turn down the chance to settle down with the most beautiful woman in Khuzistan and the riches of a Khan at his disposal; all for the sake of finding some ancient, mythical tomb. Do you believe it holds some weapon that your government can use against the Persians?’

  ‘No weapon,’ said Layard, ‘simply knowledge.’

  ‘I don’t see how any knowledge about old ruins is worth all your troubles,’ persisted the Khan. ‘Knowledge about the mountains and the countryside might be more worthwhile; especially if your country could use it to mount an assault against the Persians. Are you sure th
at you’re not a spy, Frank, sent in advance of a British invasion of Persia?’

  ‘Great Khan, I must assure you that I am not part of any invasion,’ exclaimed Layard, his eyes wide in concern.

  The Khan grinned and laughed long and loud.

  ‘No matter, Brother Spy!’ he chuckled good-naturedly. ‘It wouldn’t concern me if you were here to fight the Persians. I don’t owe any allegiance to the Shah.’

  ‘What did he say to the match?’ asked Khatun-Jan later in the enderun.

  ‘He seems unwilling to abandon his mission,’ replied the Khan. ‘I am still not yet convinced that he is not working on some sort of invasion plan for the British.’

  ‘All the more reason for a union,’ observed the Khanum. ‘My sister brought more news of the British. Their ships have been seen gathering at the mouth of the Shat el Arab waterway. There’s wild talk too, of a plague spreading east from the desert. Our friends in the marshes report that the armies of both the Shah and Ibrahim Pasha are in disarray in the region, with whole companies deserting or simply disappearing. In all the confusion, the British are well placed to attack both Persia and Baghdad. If they do invade Persia, then we would be well served by having a British branch of the family.

  ‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘I like Henry and so does Khanumi. There is something about him – a restless sadness – it would be good for him to live among us. We must work harder to persuade him. Tell me, Husband, what is the greatest pleasure about living in the mountains?’

  ‘You are, O Lady of My Soul,’ smiled the Khan, reaching over to his wife.