The Sleeping Sands (18 page)

Some hours later, the travellers passed a long line of white-robed pilgrims, trailing along the road and winding their way up a hillside on the outskirts of a small town. Layard questioned Imaum Verdi Beg about them.

‘Pilgrims, sir,’ explained the mehmandar, ‘going to the tomb of the son of Imaum Ali. A very holy place. Pilgrims travel to the tomb from across Luristan and beyond. I must say, though, I have not seen so many before. The town is Kala Khalifa. From here, we leave the plain and make our way through the hills.’

Night had fallen by the time the travellers reached the town of Burujird. With a population of some 20,000 the town was the largest in the region and Layard rested a day there, recovering his strength and wandering around the town’s many bazaars and mosques. In the afternoon, he worked at his maps, adding details and correcting errors he had observed, such as the location of the town of Burujird itself. In the evening he was joined by the Ghûlam who seemed to be at pains to make amends for his earlier behaviour, presenting Layard with a parade of servants bearing enough chickens, eggs, fruit, butter, tea and firewood to provision a fair sized regiment.

‘A present from the Governor,’ explained the Ghûlam.

Layard took what little he needed for the road and the rest disappeared into the sacks borne by the Ghûlam’s donkeys.

The next day, they made good progress, until they reached the village of Khosrauabad. Here, they met with a cold, almost hostile reception and the Ghûlam almost came to blows with the local Khan before securing them a meagre lodging for the night. He woke Layard in the night and spoke of his fears.

‘Good sir,’ he whispered, ‘this is not right. These people are yaghi, rebels against the Shah. From what I heard tonight among the villagers, the situation is worse in the mountains between here and Shuster. Some of the tribes are declaring war on the Shah himself. We could not be sure of passing the mountains without at least fifty armed men.

‘We need to take another route. Our best road will be through the district of Freydan. It is held by the great chief of the Bakhtiari, Mehemet Taki Khan. He is the fiercest of all these gourumsags but as far as I know he is not in rebellion against the Shah. There is an uneasy peace between him and the Governor of Isfahan. If we are lucky, we can cross through Freydan and make our way to Isfahan from there.’

‘What of the tittle-tattle of ignorant peasants?’ whispered Layard. ‘I thought all this talk of rebellion was just gossip?’

‘Sir, these are changed days,’ urged the Ghûlam. ‘Throughout the mountains, people are restless. Men are afraid and fearful men are dangerous men. ‘

‘Very well,’ said Layard. ‘I am feeling too ill from this wretched fever to attempt the high mountain passes anyway. We will go by way of Freydan. Now, get some sleep.’

The travellers left Khosrauabad the next morning and skirted the Mountains, heading for Freydan through a sprawling range of dry, barren hills. For days, they made slow progress on the narrow, rocky trails. Layard’s illness forced him to stop often to rest or take on water and the Ghûlam’s heavily laden donkeys toiled on the loose stones of the road. They found shelter among small, suspicious Bakhtiari settlements, the khans of which paid scant attention to the Shah’s firman but at least showed the minimum of the hospitality their custom demanded. On their fourth night in the hills, they came upon a Bakhtiari village that showed signs of recent ruin. Its mud walls had been torn down and many of its buildings seemed to have been smashed down as if by some giant fist. Fresh rubble, littered with the signs of recent occupation, was strewn about the houses. Layard and Imaum Verdi Beg walked among the houses but could not find a soul. There were no people or animals in evidence; nor were there bodies or any signs of violence, save the terrible injury done to the buildings themselves.

They climbed to the highest point in the village, where a castle still stood, despite half of its walls having been torn asunder. Making use of the little shelter it still afforded, they set out their carpets and made a camp for the night. They had not long settled before a commotion of harness and hoof-beats announced the arrival of a group of men. A Bakhtiari khan and about twenty armed followers strode in and stood staring at the travellers. The men were particularly fearsome looking, with curved scimitars and long striped twists of cloth wound flamboyantly about their embroidered felt caps. On first sight, they appeared to be weighed down with oddly fashioned jewellery that on closer examination proved to be a barbaric array of picks, tampers, bullet-moulds, powder horns and rods. These outlandish accoutrements gave them in Layard’s mind the look of an itinerant band of tinkers, albeit one specializing entirely in the business of killing.

‘Who are you?’ demanded the khan, in Persian.

‘Just simple wayfarers,’ answered Layard, ‘headed for Isfahan. I hope we have not trespassed in your castle. We just sought shelter from the night.’

The khan considered them for a moment.

‘You are welcome, traveller,’ he said, a little more kindly. He turned and barked some orders to his men, which Layard could not understand and turned back to the Englishman.

‘It is not my castle,’ he explained, ‘but it does belong to my brother. I rode here tonight because we have not heard from my brother for many days and I was concerned for him.’

‘What happened here?’ asked Layard.

‘I do not know, stranger,’ replied the khan. ‘My brother is a proud man and a strong fighter. He would not have abandoned this village readily. Whatever has driven him away must be very terrible indeed.

‘But I am forgetting my manners,’ the khan sat down at Layard’s side. ‘I have sent some of my men to keep watch and some to tend to your animals. The others are fetching food. If a khan cannot show some simple hospitality to travellers, then the world has come to a sorry pass indeed.’

For the rest of the night, the khan’s conversation was kindly and light-hearted, with tales of hunting exploits and occasional encouragement to one of his men or another to entertain the strangers with a song or a recitation of an epic poem; of which the khan, like many Bakhtiari, was immensely fond. Layard did not fail to notice, however, that whenever the khan thought attention was on someone else, he would look darkly at the black night beyond the ruined castle door, his hand playing on the hilt of his sword.

The travellers took their leave of the khan and his men the next morning and by afternoon found themselves leaving the hills and entering onto the great plain of Freydan. The plain was criss-crossed with irrigation ditches, feeding melon beds and fields of fragrant clover where the buzzing of bees was a constant accompaniment to their journey. Although the road was now flat, progress was still slow. Layard was now so sick that each rise and fall of his horse proved the utmost discomfort. To slow matters more, the Ghûlam’s over-laden little caravan of donkeys was becoming increasingly rebellious and its members would wander off periodically to graze in barley fields or nibble on the tempting clover. It took two more nights to cross the plain. The first night, they spent with a colony of Georgian Christians, where the women of the community were so attentive to the ailing Layard that he found he had to chase them away with a stout stick in order to get any rest .The second was spent in the jolly company of a band of travelling shoemakers who would have spent all night telling Layard tall tales of the road but that he was too exhausted and ill to do anything other than fall into a deep and troubled sleep.

So it was that, when Layard reached the city of Isfahan on the following day, he could do nothing but rest for two days. He arrived in the Armenian suburb of Julfa, where all foreigners resident in the city were lodged. The Society had supplied Layard with various letters of introduction to Europeans living in the region and it was to one of these, a Frenchman named Eugene Boré that Layard now went to find lodging. Boré took the exhausted Englishman in and arranged for his care. The Ghûlam had disappeared as soon as the party reached Isfahan, Layard presumed to find a market for his ill-won provisions.

After two days, Layard decided that he should present himself to the Governor. He was keen to present letters he had been given by the Prime Minister and also wanted to have a chance to denounce the behaviour of his mehmandar before the scoundrel sloped away from the city. Despite the energetic protestations of Boré and all the servants who had been charged with his nursing, Layard insisted on dressing and riding out to seek an audience with the governor.

‘Monsieur,’ exclaimed Boré, ‘you are still far too weak and fatigued to meet with the Governor.’

‘I am well enough, Monsieur Boré,’ replied Layard. ‘I admit that I am still a little worse for wear, but I can stand straight long enough for an audience. I have met enough court officials and dignitaries on this journey to last a lifetime. I am sure that one more shall be no great travail.’

‘Ah, but Monsieur,’ said Boré, ‘you have not yet met with Manuchar Ali Khan. You will need a strong stomach and all your wits about you when you meet him. The Matamet is not like other governors.’

‘I will ride today to meet him,’ insisted Layard. ‘I have lost too much time already. Anyway, my friend, I am becoming an old hand at Oriental diplomacy. I will visit this Matamet of yours and treat him to some English conversation.’

Boré watched the young Englishman ride out of his courtyard towards the gates of Isfahan. He sighed and shook his head.

Leaving the pleasant suburb of Julfa, Layard entered the city proper. Its narrow streets were choked with filth and litter. Layard navigated the mud-walled labyrinth of the city until he came to a dark passageway, flanked by soldiers, which marked the entrance to the Governor’s palace. Handing his horse to an attendant, Layard walked along the passageway and entered an inner court. The court must at some time have had something of the splendour of the palace in Douletabad, but now its fountains and friezes had fallen into a sorry state of stained disrepair. It was mobbed with people; soldiers and the governor’s ferrashes, or strong-arm men; retainers and slaves; tribal chiefs and emissaries; petitioners, toadies and hangers on; all of the people that Layard might have expected to see in the orbit of an important Persian figure. Layard pushed his way through the press of people and made his way steadily towards the governor’s chambers, trying unsuccessfully in his weakened state to shut his senses to the smell and clamour of the courtyard.

At the far end of the courtyard, he handed a burly ferrash his letter of introduction from the Prime Minister. The ferrash reappeared after a few minutes’ wait with an instruction that Layard should enter. Layard followed the man along another passageway and into a large chamber. The chamber contained a similar number of people to the smaller courtyard, but these stood or sat in a respectful silence, under the watchful gaze of ranks of ferrashes and soldiers. It was dark, dimly lit by glass and copper lanterns and a few stray rays of sunlight that managed to fight their way through a grimy red and blue glass window. In the centre of the room was a narrow pool, in which soaked dozens of long switches made from pomegranate branches. Near the pool were two poles, each terminated by a noose. Layard recognised at once the familiar apparatus of the bastinado. He looked at the people scattered around the room. Some of them were huddled together in whispered conversation; others stood silently in small groups or alone. There were men whose dress marked them out as merchants; wild-looking Lur and Bakhtiari tribesmen; Arab chieftains from the marsh regions of the province; messengers and government officials. The men in the room were rich and poor and drawn from every corner of the vast region ruled from Isfahan. They could not have been a more diverse group, yet, thought Layard, as he looked around the room, each shared with his neighbour the same look of anxious fear.

Layard’s observation was interrupted by a secretary.

‘The Governor will see you now, Mr Layard,’ said the official, in a hushed voice. ‘Tie up your sleeves thus, so they are tight around your wrists. Hold your hands together before your chest, thus, and walk towards the Governor slowly, bowing at every third step. When you are ten paces from the Governor’s platform, stop and bow deeply. Keep your eyes on the floor until the Governor addresses you, do you understand?’

Layard nodded his assent and allowed the secretary to assist him in wrapping his sleeves tight around his forearms. He placed his palms together before his chest, as if in prayer and stepped forward, walking slowly towards the darker end of the room, stopping to bow deeply at every third step, as instructed. When he was thirty feet from a dimly lit raised platform at the far side of the chamber, he stopped and held his bow. The room fell silent. For what seemed an age, Layard continued to stare at the floor, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. He felt a prickling of his skin and a creeping cold sensation. He felt his heart begin to beat faster as his body involuntarily tensed, preparing to run. Still exhausted from his illness and barely rested from his journey, Layard felt himself begin to sway and his head started to swim a little.

‘Step forward, Mr Layard,’ droned a high-pitched, feminine voice. ‘I would hear your news.’

Layard straightened and looked up from the floor towards the source of the voice, seated on a richly ornamented chair upon the platform. He was rewarded by his first sight of the Matamet.

Manuchar Ali Khan had been born, far away from Isfahan, in a tiny Georgian settlement. He could no more have told where his birthplace was than recall the name he had been given there. He could no longer remember the day that a tribal raiding party had descended on the village and dragged him away, along with the few other meagre possessions the villagers owned. If, sometimes in the darkest hours of the night, he might be visited by images of fierce, yelling faces and prancing snorting horses; by the stench of burning and fear or by the sounds of crackling flames and of his parents’ voices crying out to their Christian god; then he told no-one. It had been many long years since that life had been cut away from him. It had been long years too since he had been sold as a slave, re-named and re-made with a sharp knife-stroke as the eunuch Manuchar Ali. With that one cut, he was destined for a life of service. In this service, he found no equal. No-one was as single-minded or rigorous as he. No-one worked as hard nor did anyone so effectively ensure that his work came to notice. Neither did anyone pursue the enemies of the State with such rigour nor reward them with such imaginative cruelty. His reputation grew over the years and he won both the respect and confidence of the Shah. His reward had been the governorship of the province of Isfahan, stretching from the Euphrates to the Straits of Hormuz, and the title of
Mu’temedi-Dowla
, ‘the One upon Whom the State relies’. Across the province, that title was rendered, in tones of fear or anxious respect, as ‘Matamet’. Years of ambition and cruelty, combined with a relentless pursuit of those who would oppose or abuse the Shah’s authority had forged the Matamet into something that was at once both far more and far less than a man. He had become a manifestation of the State itself; an implacable instrument of authority that executed its will without compassion or mercy. Yet, if there were none of the human graces that tempered the pursuit of his duties, neither were there any of the petty failings that might otherwise corrupt it. He was devoid of personal greed and desire for aggrandisement. For the Matamet, personal advancement and advancement of the State’s will was one inseparable thing. He was both the expression of that will and its deadliest tool. Stand in the presence of the Matamet and you would stand, not in the presence of a man but rather in the presence of the Persian state itself; in all its immensity, power and cruelty.