The Tower (16 page)

El Kassem seemed to notice nothing and insisted that they turn off the Roman road, as its hard paving was damaging the horses’ hooves. He pointed to a line of rolling hills to their left. ‘It will be dark soon. We’d best go up towards higher ground. It will be easier to keep watch on the territory and find shelter for the night.’

They spurred on their horses and reached a ridge on top of the low range that stretched out as far as the eye could see. El Kassem stopped then and gathered branches to build a fire, while Philip tied his horse and unstrapped the bags containing his things.

‘We still haven’t had a look at what Natalino gave us as we were leaving,’ he said, drawing close to the fire to see better and opening the case that was latched shut with a pair of leather straps.

There was everything in the world inside, a little bazaar: a wheel of sheep’s cheese, a packet of biscuits, a needle and thread, buttons, a switchblade knife, a ball of wire, a bar of jasmine-scented soap, a slingshot with steel pellets, a bag of gunpowder, some sugar and salt, petards and fireworks. He quickly moved the bundle away from the flames.

‘What’s in there?’ asked El Kassem.

‘Stuff that can explode. Fireworks, they’re called. They fly high up into the sky, leaving a long trail of light behind them, then they explode into millions of sparks of every colour. In Naples they make the best in the world.’

El Kassem seemed perplexed.

‘It’s a good idea, my friend. We might get separated or lose sight of each other in the desert. Using these, I can always signal to you where I am, even at a great distance.’

El Kassem shook his head. ‘A strange tribe, these Napo . . .’

‘Neapolitans. You’re right, El Kassem, they are a singular bunch. They’re like no one else in the world.’

Philip tried to imagine what thoughts had been going through Lino’s head as he put together that bizarre medley, but he concluded that no reasoning had gone into it. The old man had just rummaged through the drawers where he kept his small treasures and had gathered them all up into that little case to tide his young friend over on such a long journey. It was more precious than a jewel box in Philip’s eyes. He closed it and turned back towards his companion, but was surprised to see him throwing dust on the fire. El Kassem motioned for Philip to stay low and not make any noise.

Down below, just barely visible in the shadows descending on the valley, was the little caravan that they had passed before dusk on the Bab el Awa road. The silence was so deep that they could hear the grunting of the camels as they advanced with their slow gait, and the snorting of the guards’ horses. But El Kassem’s ears heard other sounds, his nostrils picked up other smells on the evening breeze. His eyes watched intensely in the semi-darkness that swallowed all shapes and colours in the hour preceding night.

He was stretched out beside Philip and suddenly gripped his arm. ‘Down there,’ he said, ‘behind that outcrop.’

A group of bedouins on horseback burst into a furious gallop from that very spot, raising a white cloud of dust which snaked through the valley in the direction of the little caravan.

The escort reacted with incredible swiftness. They pushed the camels and horses down to the ground and loosed a deathly barrage of fire. There weren’t many of them, but they obviously had powerful repeating rifles. The attackers scattered so as to offer less of a target and began to circle around the caravan in two separate groups. Despite their show of bravery, the defenders were not going to be able to hold out much longer.

Philip was keeping an eye on the camel with the canopy on its back. He saw a veiled figure slip out, certainly a woman. He could see that the men were trying to protect her at any cost, shielding her with their own bodies.

‘They’ve no hope,’ observed El Kassem, but even as he spoke he had already sprung to his feet and was heading towards his horse, prepared to lend his support.

‘Wait,’ said Philip, seized by a sudden inspiration. ‘Our help won’t make any difference. Let’s try Natalino’s artillery.’

He grabbed one of the fireworks, plunged it into the ground, trying to roughly calculate its trajectory, and lit the fuse. A whistle and a trail of fire ripped through the darkness and the colourful explosion that resulted threw the group of attackers into a panic. Philip fired nearly his whole arsenal, one piece after another, while El Kassem took shots with his rifle. The horses were crazed and disoriented by the noise and the blinding rain of sparks. They reared and kicked, then took off in every direction, pursued by the dense rifle fire of the defenders.

El Kassem leapt onto his horse and set off after the fugitives, taking out a good number of them with his pistol first and then with his sword, a heavy scimitar in damascened steel. Philip hesitated an instant. The situation he found himself in was so different from his tranquil nights of study at the Sorbonne that it seemed like a dream to him. And as in a dream, where anything is possible and the sleeper always wakes up safe and sound, he too mounted his horse and headed off across the plains behind El Kassem.

He risked death immediately. One of the bedouins, noticing a certain lack of expertise in his riding ability, drew up alongside him and swiped at his side, slashing through his jacket and cutting his arm. Philip knew that all was lost as he felt the warm, sticky blood pouring down his side. He tried desperately to get away, shouting, ‘El Kassem!’

The warrior heard him, swerved abruptly and charged Philip’s pursuer. He crashed into the side of the bedouin’s horse and knocked it to the ground, then swooped down upon the horseman, who was trying to get back up on his knees, decapitating him with a clean blow of his scimitar. Philip’s stomach heaved as he saw the man’s head rolling between the horse’s legs, but he managed to control himself and took off towards the barricaded caravan, where a group of bedouins had broken through and were engaging the defenders in hand-to-hand combat. El Kassem bounded past him and threw himself into the fray, bringing down two adversaries with his scimitar and another with his dagger. Philip downed a fourth with a pistol shot and watched, stunned, as the man gasped for breath. He had killed a man, for the first time in his life.

Suddenly the assault was over. El Kassem and his wounded companion stood before the group of defenders, who finally put down their rifles. The woman who had been riding in the canopy got to her feet and walked towards Philip. Her face was covered and her right hand held a sabre but as she drew close she sheathed the weapon and removed her veil, tying it around his arm to stop the bleeding. Her unveiled face was incredibly beautiful, her skin dark and smooth as bronze.

Philip instinctively drew back, dazzled by that vision.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘It’s better that you do not know my name,’ replied the woman in Arabic, ‘but tell me how I can reward you. Your flaming weapons and your courage have saved us.’

Philip struggled to control his emotions. The chase, the pain in his arm and the vision of her face had induced a kind of rapturous shock. Meanwhile, El Kassem had convinced the group that it was best to take shelter at the spot where he and Philip had built their fire, and he led them there. He got off his horse and blew at the nearly extinguished embers until the flame was rekindled. The woman took care of Philip: she washed out his wound with vinegar, stitched it with silk thread and bandaged it.

Philip couldn’t take his eyes off her. ‘The only reward I ask for,’ he managed to say, ‘is to be able to see you again.’

‘That is not possible,’ replied the woman in a calm but firm voice. His eye caught hers for an instant and he thought he saw a trace of sadness there. ‘Ask me for something else.’ Her manner of speaking made it clear that she was accustomed to the privilege of granting favours.

The fire was crackling now and the men were sitting in a circle all around it, putting together what food they had: bread, dates and goat’s cheese. Philip remembered the cheese and biscuits in Lino’s case and added those to the supper. As he stole a glance at the woman, who was sitting to the side with her back against a stone, her head still uncovered, his gaze was attracted to the pendant hanging between her breasts. It was a gold charm, a little winged horse on a kind of cylindrical pedestal. The words of Avile Vipinas immediately sprang to mind: ‘His tomb is shaped like a cylinder and is topped by a Pegasus.’ No, it was absolutely impossible that a chance meeting in the Middle Eastern desert could provide the key to a clue left so long ago and so far away.

‘You can’t continue your journey in the dark,’ said Philip. ‘You’ve seen how dangerous it is here.’

The woman spoke softly to her men and Philip was struck by the sound of their language. An intonation he’d never heard before. It sounded very vaguely like Coptic, but he couldn’t be sure.

‘What language were you just speaking in?’ he asked her.

The woman smiled. ‘I can’t tell you that either!’ But her gaze lingered on Philip’s face and her eyes shone with amber light in the reflection of the flames.

The men found a place to stretch out, removing blankets from the horses’ saddles. One of them took a place further up the hill behind a rocky outcrop to guard the others as they slept. El Kassem moved to a solitary spot and lay down, but Philip knew that his slumber was as light as the air and his senses were always alert. He would wake instantly at the slightest sound, at the merest odour carried on the wind.

Philip remained alone near the fire, poking at the embers. The woman sat down next to him. ‘Does it hurt?’ she asked, brushing his arm with a light touch.

‘It burns, a little.’

‘You’re lucky it’s a flesh wound. It will be better in a few days. Keep it uncovered in the desert and bandaged in the city, then you’ll heal more quickly.’

Philip turned to look at her. Her face and the curves that he sensed under her long linen tunic seemed the purest and most perfect expression of beauty that he had ever contemplated. Her straight, shining hair framed the face of an Egyptian goddess, barely touching her smooth shoulders; her long, slender fingers moved lithely to accompany her words.

‘Today was the first time you ever found yourself in combat, wasn’t it?’ she asked after a little while.

‘Yes.’

‘How did it feel?’

‘It’s hard to say. As if I’d taken a drug. Killing is as easy as being killed. Your heart beats like mad, your thoughts come as quickly as your breath. Please, tell me that I can see you again . . . I can’t imagine never seeing you again. I would have died for you today, if I had to.’

The woman’s gaze changed suddenly, lighting up like the sky at sunset. She stared into his eyes with sorrowful intensity, as if a moment’s look could make up for abandoning him. ‘Don’t torment me,’ she said softly. ‘I must follow my road. I have no choice. I must face my destiny, as difficult as it is.’

She fell still, lowering her head, and Philip did not have the courage to disturb her silence, or dare to touch the hands she held in her lap. She looked up again and her eyes were shining. ‘But if I were one day given the gift of freedom, then, yes . . . I would like to see you again.’

‘Freedom? Who is holding you prisoner? Tell me, please. I’ll fight to free you!’

The woman shook her head and smiled. ‘Nothing is holding me prisoner except my fate. But let us forget these sad thoughts now and drink together.’ She took from her sack two cups of silver, masterpieces of ancient art, and poured some palm wine, fragrant with spices, into the cups from a flask. Philip drank with her from that marvellous cup, from her deep, dark gaze, from the starry, silent sky, and it seemed as if he had never lived before that moment. She brushed his face for an instant with a light caress and he felt heat rising to his face and tears to his eyes. He stood and watched her walk away, as lightly as if she were not touching the ground, and vanish into the darkness.

P
HILIP WOKE
the next day with his head confused and aching, saw that the sun was already high and that his horse was indifferently nibbling at the grass sprouting between the rocks. El Kassem was standing in front of him.

‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ he cried. ‘Why didn’t you stop her from leaving?’

‘If she wants you, you will find her again,’ said El Kassem. ‘If she doesn’t want you, you could search the world over and never find her.’

‘But I have to find her,’ snapped Philip, and there was desperate determination in his voice. He gathered up his things quickly and packed them onto his horse under the puzzled but impassive gaze of El Kassem. As he was about to jump onto the saddle, Philip realized that his companion was watching him without moving.

‘Aren’t you coming with me?’ he asked.

‘I didn’t come here to run after a woman. If you want to find your father, I’ve told you who you must contact. I’ll see you again when you have recovered your reason.’

Philip wanted to answer but El Kassem’s words rang with harsh condemnation and gave him no way out. He simply said, ‘I haven’t given up our search, El Kassem, make no mistake. But I have to find her.’

He spurred on his horse and flew away across the valley at a gallop. Traces of the little caravan were still visible and he thought that his speed would lead him to her, but his hopes were soon dashed. Before long, the trail he was following was lost in the close, confused web of tracks left by the caravans and herds heading into the city. When he found himself within sight of Aleppo he cursed his naïvety. He had been preceded by a tide of camels, sheep and goats, of people pushing overladen donkeys or dragging carts loaded with all sorts of merchandise.

He stopped and got off his horse, certain that El Kassem would not be long catching up, but he waited in vain. He stood for hours near the city gate, attracting the curiosity of all those who passed, until he finally gave up and entered the city alone, on foot, leading his horse by its halter. He had no idea of how to find a place to stay. He decided to follow a group of camel drivers and ended up shortly thereafter at a caravanserai where they accepted his French francs in exchange for a stall for his horse and a room for himself.