The Tower (19 page)

As Philip tried to puzzle out what the words meant he thought he heard a cry, distant at first and confused, but then much clearer and distinct: ‘
Allah-u-akbar!
’ It was a call to prayer! But how could he possibly be hearing it? According to his calculations, he was at least twenty metres down, in the core of the hill. Yet this must be the prayer his father had been referring to. As he was considering what to do next, he felt a strong gust of air which put out his candle, and then again heard the call of the muezzin: ‘
Allah-u-akbar!
’

He relit the candle and began to make his way up the ramp, shielding the flame with his hand so the draught wouldn’t put it out again. When he was about halfway up, he realized that the air was being sucked towards the left wall of the tunnel, which led towards the Byzantine crypt. He turned in that direction and saw an open loophole, through which the muezzin’s voice rang out loudly.

Philip felt reborn. He crawled swiftly towards the aperture that had so fortuitously appeared and found himself in another tunnel. It was very narrow and just high enough to allow him to creep through on his elbows.

He moved as quickly as he could, terrified of being caught like a rat in a trap. He was sure the claustrophobia would drive him mad.

He tried to recall the verses of the
sura
that the muezzin was reciting, in order to calculate how much time he had left before the loophole would close. His father’s message made it clear that the passageway was somehow strictly connected with the length of the prayer. He finally emerged into a sort of cistern inside a thick, rounded wall. There he found another loophole, which led to a spiral staircase that rose inside a tall minaret. Philip realized that there was a counterweight system connected to the entry door which activated the shutters and exploited the flue effect of the minaret to convey the air up from the tunnels that ran through the hill, transforming the building into a gigantic organ pipe. In that way the muezzin’s voice was amplified and strengthened, raining over the city with its magical vibrations. Ingenious.

Philip descended the stair in a rush, trying not to make a sound. He had decided that he would hide under the staircase until the muezzin left. As he waited he noticed the figure of a scorpion over the doorway, surrounded by some letters in what seemed to be Kufic script. He took a notebook from his pocket and began to copy them, but just then the muezzin’s chanting came to an abrupt stop and Philip stared in surprise as the mechanism clicked into motion and began to close the iron door at the bottom of the stairs. The muezzin must have left by another exit.

He jumped up just in time to slip between the door and the jamb and he found himself outside without any idea of where he was exactly. He heard a voice call out in French: a Legion patrol led by a non-commissioned officer had spotted him and was challenging him to identify himself. Philip estimated the distance that separated him from the first houses of the medina and he decided to take a chance. He took off at a sprint, immediately followed by shouted warnings ordering him to stop.

Selznick was walking alongside the parapet of the entry tower and he leaned over to see where the shouts were coming from. He glimpsed a man running at the bottom of the hill and ordered the big searchlight at the guardhouse to be switched on. Philip turned just at that moment and Selznick, recognizing him, shouted, ‘Capture him!’

Selznick ran down to the courtyard, jumped onto a horse and raced down the ramp, closely followed by a squad of his men. The soldiers from the patrol had set off after him as well and Philip was racing through the streets, trying desperately to find a place to hide, knowing that his strength would not hold out much longer.

He turned down a narrow alleyway in the quarter of the Great Mosque and he realized that he was not far from Enos’s house. Opposite him was a slightly wider street topped by wooden balconies enclosed in grillework, in the Turkish style. He darted in that direction, but just a few steps later he found the guards running straight at him. They must have cut through the maze of streets somehow. He spun around to turn back but could hear more men arriving from behind and he heard Selznick’s voice cry out, ‘This way! He’s got to be here!’

He pulled back and flattened himself against the wall under a dark archway, but he could see the guards coming from one direction and Selznick’s squad from the other. They would spot him in a matter of seconds. He looked around for a way out but found none. He was trapped and El Kassem wasn’t there to save him. There was a pomegranate tree opposite him whose branches stretched almost all the way up to a balcony. He was preparing to make the leap so he could attempt to climb up and escape over the rooftops, but at just that moment a door opened behind him and two enormous black hands grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him inside, shutting the door after him.

Philip turned and saw a giant Nubian, who signalled for him to keep quiet. The street outside rang with Selznick’s rebukes and the soldiers’ voices. They couldn’t understand how the prey they had thought so close at hand could have disappeared without a trace.

The Nubian gestured for Philip to follow him. They crossed a hallway dimly lit by a couple of oil lamps, went down a short corridor and entered an elegant covered patio, luxuriously furnished in the Oriental style, the floor completely covered by splendid Anatolian and Caucasian carpets. Moroccan cushions in blue velvet with gold trim skirted the side walls and an enormous tray of embossed copper at the centre of the patio was spilling over with fruit: pomegranates and figs, grapes and dates, Bursa peaches and Nusaybin apples. On the ground were an exquisitely crafted silver jug and cup with Trebisond-style engraving.

Philip was incredibly exhausted, hungry and thirsty, and he stretched out his hand to take a piece of fruit, but he saw the Nubian nod his head towards a staircase that went up to the second floor and Philip turned his head as well. It was her.

She was coming down the staircase with a light step. She wore a very simple, gauzy gown with a deep neckline that gave a glimpse of the skin between her breasts. The Pegasus pendant glittered on her brown skin, the only ornament of her beauty. Her long legs descended the stair as if dancing to unheard music.

Philip was stunned. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘destiny has joined us again, so shortly after you abandoned me.’

The woman lowered her gaze. ‘I couldn’t let them capture you. You would have fallen into the hands of an evil man.’

‘Is that the only reason you let me into your house?’

The woman did not answer.

‘What do you know about Selznick?’

‘I’m a woman of the desert and the desert knows no confines. He is a man who comes from the desert as well. What does he want from you?’

‘My father disappeared ten years ago and was given up as dead, but he has recently sent me some . . . messages and I’ve set out to find him. Selznick thinks that by following me he will find my father. He wants to kill him.’

‘What is your father searching for?’

‘The truth. Like all of us.’

‘What truth?’

Her voice had become inquisitive and was touched with alarm. Philip kept trying to meet her eyes. He feared that this encounter would be as fleeting as the last and he could not resign himself to it. But he saw that her mind was far away at that moment and he dropped his gaze.

‘His truth is a tomb in the desert.’

The woman started slightly and appeared to reflect on his words. Then her mood changed. Her voice became gentler and more harmonious; her eyes seemed to be searching far-off horizons, endless spaces. ‘Ah, it is a tomb he searches for . . . My tribe has journeyed from the peaks of the Atlas Mountains to the stony Higiaz flatlands, from Chaldea to Persia. We have seen the solitary tomb of Cyrus the Great on the high plains, and the tomb of the great pharaoh Djoser in Saqqara . . . Perhaps it is one of their tombs that your father is searching for. Or for the tomb of the Christian queen. It’s as big as a fortress, standing majestic on the seashore, surrounded by a grandiose colonnade . . . Or the tomb of the Fileni brothers who immolated themselves for their city, allowing themselves to be buried alive in the sands of Syrtis . . . The desert is full of tombs. Most of them don’t even have a name.’

‘No. My father is searching for the tomb of a terrible, mysterious creature, dead for millennia yet still alive. It is the dark face of human knowledge that he seeks in that nameless mausoleum . . . and perhaps he is under the illusion that he can destroy it . . .’

The woman lowered her eyes to hide a flash of recognition that Philip did not miss.

‘Have you ever heard of this being? Can you help me to find my father before he loses a battle he has no hope of winning?’ Philip gazed at the Pegasus that was shining upon her breast. ‘I know that the tomb is shaped like a cylinder topped by a winged horse . . . like that one,’ he said, pointing at the jewel she wore.

‘I’ve studied the remains of all the ancient civilizations for years and years,’ Philip continued, ‘but there’s nothing that I’ve learned that can help me now. I know of no monument that looks like that. But perhaps . . . if it stands in some remote place, in the deepest desert, perhaps no one has ever seen it except for those who live there, in that solitude.’

The woman’s gaze was intense. ‘There is no evil in this world that does not contain a little good, nor is there any good that cannot provoke the worst of suffering. I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

‘At least tell me who you are. I’ve never met a desert people whose women dress so proudly, without veiling the passion in their eyes, the allure of their bodies. Tell me your name, at least . . . and if I can see you again. I couldn’t stand not seeing you again after finding you here. After fearing that I had lost for ever the vision of your face, the light in your eyes. I would spend the rest of my life grieving.’

His eyes were moist as he spoke and the woman was moved. She lifted her hand and lightly brushed his cheek, but the look in her eyes only reminded Philip of the impossible obstacles that loomed between them.

‘Eat now, and drink,’ she said, ‘if you want to make me happy. You must regain your strength. You’ll need it.’

She left him and returned up the stairs. Philip tried to follow her but the Nubian planted himself in front of the staircase. Philip backed off and sat at the table, hoping that she would come back down again, perhaps with an even more beautiful gown, resplendent as a Theban queen, but a maid soon came down the stairs instead with a satchel in her arms.

‘My lady wants you to know that you are dear to her because of all you have done for her. You saved her from terrible danger and she wishes to show you her thanks,’ she said, handing him the satchel.

‘Where is she?’ shouted Philip. ‘I have to see her!’

His voice trembled with desperation. He lunged up the stairs but the Nubian servant rushed up behind him, grabbed him by the shoulders and stopped him with no seeming effort. Philip writhed and twisted, shouting, certain that she could hear him.

Two eyes brimming with tears watched him from behind a grating as he shouted, ‘Tell me your name! Please!’

The Nubian turned Philip to face him. ‘It’s useless,’ he said. ‘She’s gone.’

‘Where has she gone?’ shouted Philip. ‘Tell me. Tell me where she is! I have to find her!’

‘That is not possible,’ said the Nubian. ‘But if you truly care for her, respect her wishes.’

The maid handed him a bundle of Oriental-style clothing.

‘You can’t leave here in that uniform. Put these on,’ said the Nubian. ‘You’ll have a better chance of slipping by unobserved.’

He walked away and the maid disappeared as well. Philip remained alone in the centre of the patio, his heart heavy and his mind confused. He had no choice but to do as they had suggested. He left the uniform behind, covered his head and face with a keffiyeh and went outside.

He found the doors of the bazaar bolted and it took him quite some time to find another way in to Enos’s house from a side street. He finally recognized the double-arched windows of the patio and thought he could see a faint light within, but both the front and side doors were closed. There was no one on the streets except for a couple of beggars lying on the pavement, their skeletal bodies wrapped in filthy rags, fast asleep or perhaps already in the arms of death. But from under the portico where he stood Philip could hear a group of horses pawing the ground. Then he saw them; they were tied to iron rings that hung on the inside wall. A man in uniform was guarding them. Philip hung back so as not to be seen, then began to climb up one of the columns. He reached the gutter pipe and hoisted himself up onto the roof. He crawled across, careful not to make a sound, until he could see the double-arched windows. He peered in but immediately pulled back in shock and fright. What he saw unfortunately confirmed the premonition he’d had on spotting the horses: Selznick was inside. He was just leaving by the door that opened onto the street, followed by his men. Philip couldn’t see anything else because part of the patio was outside his angle of vision. He flattened himself onto the roof as he listened to the pounding of the men’s boots on the cobblestones. He waited until he heard the horses stamping, then voices, curt orders and a galloping which faded off in the direction of the citadel.

Philip moved towards the centre of the house, prised open a skylight with the tip of his dagger and dropped inside. He raced down the stair and reached the corridor that led from the bazaar to Enos’s house. It was in darkness and all he could hear was the distant gurgling of the fountain in the patio.

Philip plucked up his courage and softly called out, ‘Enos! Enos!’ advancing towards the patio, where a flickering light seemed on the verge of going out. He thought he heard a groan and he ran inside. Enos was lying on the ground: his face was swollen, his limbs still, his eyes closed. Philip rushed over and took him in his arms, wetting his lips with a handkerchief dipped in the fountain. ‘What have they done to you? It was Selznick, that bastard. It was him, wasn’t it?’