Monsters in the Sand (9 page)

At the end of the gorge, Austen and Hormuzd rode into another village that had been burnt three years earlier and was still in ruins. The church had been demolished, houses smashed and even the fruit trees had been cut down. The soldiers had not left enough people alive to bury the dead or rebuild homes for the living.

But an old couple shuffled out of a ruined hut. The man’s head was shaved, except for a topknot of grey hair, with a plait hanging down behind. It reminded Austen of the queue that the Chinese had been forced to wear as a sign of submission to the Manchu conquerors.

‘Joseph, take heart.’ Hormuzd dismounted and embraced the old man.

Joseph clung to him. ‘God’s blessings on you, Hormuzd Rassam.’ He turned to Austen. ‘And blessings on the Lion, who is our friend.’

The old woman began to croon,
‘Makam Azerat Esau
’ – the song of Jesus the Lord.

Austen was deeply moved by the tears and embraces that greeted Hormuzd in each village. The young man, with his moist eyes and the thin line of beard was a beloved son wherever he went.

From his days as a spy, Austen knew that Hormuzd’s family in Mosul had traced stolen children and paid to have them released from slavery. He also learnt that Sir Stratford Canning had secretly spent two thousand pounds of his own money to free kidnapped girls from harems.

‘Joseph,’ Hormuzd said gently, ‘I bring news that the new ruler, Tahyar, is a man of peace and justice. He has given his word that he will not harm any who greet him courteously. And as a sign of his goodwill, he has taken personal command of all soldiers and today he left Mosul to inspect our lands. Right now, he is at Mirkan to arrange a ceasefire.’

The old woman looked towards a cave high in the cliff. Last time, the soldiers had lit fires of damp wood at the mouth of the cave and everyone hiding inside
was suffocated. They wheeled cannon to a low cave and fired grapeshot into it.

As in other villages that day, Austen dismounted and untied the bag of flour hanging from his saddle. It was almost empty, so he gave it to Joseph, who kissed his cheeks.

Hands patted Hormuzd and Austen when they mounted their horses to ride on.

Outside the village, they came to a bridge across deep water. ‘We call this the
Bridge of Tears,’
Hormuzd said. ‘The soldiers were taking six girls away to sell into slavery and forced conversion. But the girls broke free on the bridge and, holding hands, leapt into the river and sank from sight.’

They heard the horseman before they saw him. He raced through Joseph’s village and headed towards them at full speed. With a scattering of stones and dust, he reined his horse to a juddering halt. ‘There is shooting at Mirkan.’

Austen’s horse picked its way among soldiers lying on their stomach and firing at the houses of Mirkan. Puffs of smoke came from windows and bullets spattered just short of Austen as he dismounted.

He walked over to a man who was sitting on a carpet and drinking coffee, while he watched the battle. His vest was ablaze with medals and his turban glittered with gold thread.

‘Tahyar, Your Excellency.’

‘Layard.’ The old man’s face lit up and he patted the carpet for Austen to sit down beside him. His eyes were sharp with intelligence and the ends of his white moustache were brushed into curls. ‘Coffee for my friend,’ he called to a servant, who hurried forward and poured Austen a cup.

Dust spurted beside the carpet and one shot sprayed dirt over Austen’s left boot. The servant backed away to safety.

‘I’m too old for this nonsense.’ The old man pointed to dishes of yoghurt, strawberries, and peach sherbet with thin ice melting on top. ‘Help yourself, European style. It’s hard to keep the servants in their place.’

Austen’s mouth watered and he heaped strawberries into a bowl and buried them in yoghurt.

‘Look.’ Tahyar pointed to villagers running from house to house with more guns. ‘What a futile waste of time and ammunition. But here we are, and it’s part of my new duties to make a show of courage, or my troops will become disobedient and my enemies impudent.’

‘So the people of Mirkan refused your offer of a ceasefire?’

‘The elders quoted their scriptures at me about forgiving their enemies, then went away to load their guns and die defending their hovels.’

Tahyar dabbed a handkerchief at the drops of perspiration on his cheeks. ‘I’d much rather be with you in my cool library, drinking sherbets and arguing about Nineveh. By the way, I still say you are digging in the wrong place. Nineveh is under the mound of Kuyunjik, across the river from Mosul. I’ll be happy
to give you the
firman
to dig there, just to prove you are wrong about excavating Nimrud.’

‘In return, let me speak to the people of Mirkan.’

Tahyar chewed the end of his moustache. ‘That could be helpful. These unbelievers hold you in high regard and something must be done before I or my men lose our temper. I tell you, Layard, we Turks are the most generous and civilised of God’s people. But when provoked, we fight.’

He gave orders to an officer and he ran back to gather horsemen who would guard Austen. While they readied their horses and checked their guns, Tahyar asked him, ‘But why risk yourself for a few infidel?’

‘Well, Excellency, as a scholar, you are aware that the history of Europe is soaked in the blood of religious wars. My ancestors, the Huguenots, were persecuted for being heretics. On the 25th of August, 1572 in the year of our calendar, our enemies butchered us. Some of our survivors fled to England, where Queen Elizabeth gave us a secret room in Westminster Abbey for our sabbath meetings – a room we use to this day. As you can guess, I am sensitive about justice for religious minorities.’

His guards moved into a straight line, as if preparing to charge. Austen’s horse, with its empty saddle, was in the centre of the formation.

Tahyar touched Austen’s arm. ‘May Tanri protect you, my friend.’ It was the old northern Turkish word for Allah. Austen wondered whether Tahyar had used it when he was a child.

‘Cease fire!’ the officer called, and the soldiers lowered their weapons.

Austen rode with his guards towards Mirkan, where the guns also stopped firing. An ominous silence settled over the valley.

Nobody from Mirkan came forward to talk with Austen.

‘Stay together,’ Austen told the men.

Fifty or so yards from the first houses, he stopped and called out, ‘You know who I am. You can trust me. I tell the truth when I say that the new ruler, Tahyar, will keep his promises of safety.’

No answer.

‘Devil-worshippers,’ muttered the officer.

‘Give them time,’ Austen said.

The officer stood in his stirrups and yelled, ‘Give us your answer!’

Perhaps it was an accident when he stood and his horse had been scraped with spurs, but the horse stepped forward a few paces, as if it were about to charge. There was a volley of shots, two red patches spread across the officer’s back and he fell stone dead.
The man beside Austen grunted and slid sideways in his saddle.

The three surviving guards fired back, turned their horses and galloped for safety. One by one they were hit and fell from their mounts.

Soldiers screaming for blood charged past Austen in overwhelming numbers and rushed into the first houses they could see. House after house was ransacked and put to the torch. From the smoke and flames, seven heads appeared on spears. Soldiers yelling in triumph waved their trophies – the heads of three old women and four old men, probably too weak, lame or stubborn to leave their houses.

Beyond the houses, shooting broke out in a narrow gorge. A few men hidden on the cliffs would easily defend that gorge against Tahyar’s army. Fighting would go on until dark and it was unlikely either side could win. Maybe tomorrow, after a few skirmishes, both sides would retreat and claim victory.

Austen could do nothing more here. But he could still save Nineveh if he rode day and night.

‘The Lion is here!’ Two children ran from the sheik’s hut and raced each other across the sand to Austen.

The sheik’s little daughter Hadla ran like a leaf blown by a gust. Her black hair flew around her head and she kept a few paces in front of her brother Masoud, whose balance was thrown by a large wicker cage strapped to his back.

On the top of Nimrud, smoke rose in front of three mud huts. Austen wondered what they were doing there. Worse, why were two oxen dragging a plough between the palaces?

Hadla heard Masoud close behind her and, with a desperate effort, she sprinted the last few yards and slapped Austen’s boot. Masoud scowled as he touched second. The fat partridge in his cage was no longer a
chick. It had grown up in the months when Austen was away and it rolled about in the cage, ruffling its feathers.

Austen opened a bag at his belt and took out two wobbly red cubes of Turkish delight coated with sticky icing sugar. The children took them in their grubby hands and stared in awe. Then Masoud shoved the whole cube in his mouth. One cheek bulged, and strawberry juice oozed between his lips. Hadla sniffed hers, turned it over and over, held it up to see the glowing sun through it, touched one side with the tip of her tongue, then nibbled the edge like a mouse. Her eyes narrowed at the man riding close beside Austen, like a bodyguard.

Abraham Agha, fom Mirkan, seemed to be wearing an invisible cloak of violence. His predatory eyes stared with the blank malevolence of a snake. Though he was barely twenty years old, he’d stood at the mouth of a cave and killed seven irregulars in hand-to-hand combat, then fallen dazed as a musket ball clipped his forehead. His wife, who was just sixteen, had taken his sword and was guarding him as he struggled back to his feet. She’d killed four men before being cut down. Crazed with rage, Abraham had charged the surviving irregulars and they had turned and fled. Fires of that rage were still simmering.

On this triumphant return to Nimrud, Austen was not armed with guns, but with letters from Constantinople, Mosul and London. He had money from the British Museum and a small bag of gold coins from Aunt Sara. His mad ride from Mirkan to Constantinople and his refusal to surrender had won him another chance at Nimrud.

Hormuzd, the newly appointed paymaster at Nimrud, led a string of horses ridden by tall mountain men. Following them came more horses loaded with the men’s families, tents, cooking pots, and bundles of clothes.

Little Hadla’s eyes opened wide when she saw unveiled women riding by.

Around the corner of the mound, four greyhounds tore into sight. Flowing like water over rapids, they raced towards Austen and leapt up to lick his hands.

Shouts of joy came from the camp at the base of the mound. ‘The Lion has returned!’

‘Ya bey,
you have come back to us!’ Mohammed Emin ran out to take Austen’s reins. ‘We were afraid you would never return. Now the people of Selamiya village will be prosperous again.’ He turned his cloak inside out so he would look his best as the procession entered the camp.

Two of the Selamiya workers growled in anger and half-drew their swords when they saw the women without veils.

Abraham Aghar slid a long-barrelled musket from its holster.

‘Peace, my brothers,’ Austen called to his men. ‘The Christians will camp out of sight on the top of the mound, and no offence will be given.’

Hormuzd led the infidel around the edge of the camp and towards the south end of Nimrud, where there was an easy way to the top.

‘Where is the sheik?’ Austen asked Mohammed Emin.

‘He stays on the mound. He has not come down since you left, but wanders among the palaces with his guns. All I can do is take him food and water. While you were away, he built those huts with his own hands of pain and prayed each day for Allah to bring you back.’

‘Who is ploughing on Nimrud?’

‘Five men of the sheik’s tribe. Now that Tahyar has brought peace and justice to the land, the people are returning. The sheik’s men and their wives and children came from the mountains to find him. He commanded them to live there with him, plough the surface to look for alabaster walls and plant barley.’

‘Mohammed Emin, see that third horse behind
me? Unload the sacks and share the raisins and figs with all the people.’

Austen climbed the narrow path up Nimrud. Part way up, he looked back over the desert. A carpet of red poppies had been flung over it and the black tents of nomads and white tents of their wives had sprouted since the first rains. Flocks of sheep and camels roamed near the river. Green gardens grew around villages and ploughs broke the ground for new crops.

At the top of the path, the sheik peered down. His huge turban was as tattered as an eagle’s nest, with two red silk handkerchiefs hanging from its folds.

Austen ran the last few steps to the top. ‘Sheik Awad, my old friend.’

‘My Lord.’ The sheik’s eyes shone.

‘Well met, my kinsman in spirit.’

‘You must see.’ The sheik led him over to three mud-brick huts. ‘I have made these houses to protect you and the treasures.’

The doors were strongly framed with poles that had been cut from the raft and the walls of the central hut were pierced with loopholes for muskets. The roofs were neatly thatched with reeds lashed to poles. Austen looked inside the central hut. The walls sprouted grass, so it must’ve rained while the bricks had been drying in the sun.

‘See, I have made a table for your books.’ The sheik ran his hands over the smooth top and Austen noticed that the old man’s fingernails had grown back.

‘I thank you.’ Austen stepped outside again and took a parcel from under his cloak. ‘Here, this is yours.’

The sheik wiped his hands on his cloak and took the parcel wrapped in peacock-blue silk. When he saw what was inside, at first he could not understand. He ran his rough hands over covers made from the skin of a python. Then he opened the book and cried out. Red and gold Arabic letters sprouted leaves and blossoms in fantastic curls as ornate as the songs of prayer or the decorations in a mosque. He wept aloud and touched the Koran to his lips. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t read. An imam would give young Masoud his first lessons from these pages and this holy book would be protected with blood and handed down through generations.