The Tower

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  He had assuaged his hunger pangs slightly by eating a few crumbled biscuits from the bottom of his haversack, but his thirst was becoming unbearable. He looked through his bag to see if there was anything that could help him out of his plight. He noticed that he still had some of the fireworks that Lino Santini had given him as he was leaving Naples. He thought of using the powder to blow up the hatch, but it was made of solid iron and looked too heavy and out of reach. But he reasoned that Arad’s column could not have covered more than fifteen or twenty kilometres in a day’s journey and that they would surely see the light of a rocket if he could manage to shoot it directly up the flue through the grating. Arad had already seen that kind of explosion on the Bab el Awa road and would immediately connect it with him. It was his only option besides revealing his presence to whoever had occupied the tower. He tried to build a support for the gunpowder-filled cardboard cylinder that would keep it in a perfectly vertical position, attempting to aim it at one of the central openings of the grille. If it exploded against one of the bars, the din of the explosion would attract someone to the chimney. Even that would probably mean a way out, although he’d have to deal with the consequences.

  He waited until the sky was completely dark, then lit a match and held it to the touchpaper. The rocket flared and took off with a sharp whistle. It shot through the grille and soared into the sky, exploding into a cascade of light and colour. The bedouins on guard, startled by the piercing whistle, watched the fabulous spill of lights in wonder and fear. They ran to knock at the door of the room that Selznick had occupied, but their description was so excited and confused that Selznick, who had heard the sound of the explosion himself, could not figure out what they had actually seen. He ordered another inspection of the monument, inside and out. He was worried about a superstitious reaction on the part of his men and didn’t want them running off on him.

  He walked around the structure with a torch in hand, examining every recess of the ancient building. The phenomenon that his men had described as a supernatural event had left him sceptical. He passed alongside the tortured body of the old custodian, who had died without revealing a thing: neither whether there were treasures hidden underground, nor who the warriors he had seen leaving were.

  The old man lay on the pavement with his arms splayed and eyes wide open. Nothing would wake him again. Of all the dead men that Selznick had seen in his life, what struck him most was the fixity of their stares. He had always tried to search for an epiphany, a preview of infinity, in their petrified expressions, and sometimes he had even succeeded. Their cold pupils had allowed him, he felt, to face the abyss. Strangely, he had experienced no terror. He realized that it was no deeper, blacker or icier than what he had inside him.

  The turmoil of shouts and agitated footsteps in the underground chambers and along the stairs in the tower reached Philip and he decided that he would wait until the next morning before making himself heard.

  ARAD’S COLUMN HAD long passed the Jebel Gafar ridge and neither she nor anyone accompanying her could see the small luminous trail streaking through the sky, but someone else did. A horseman who was following Philip’s tracks through the desert: El Kassem. He had ventured this far alone, leading another horse laden with water and food. He had taken the road to Jebel Gafar in the hopes of getting there before Selznick, but the signs left on the ground by the passage of numerous horsemen left him with little hope.

  The fireworks at Bab el Awa instantly came to mind and El Kassem spurred his horse in the direction of the fountain of coloured lights which had blossomed in the middle of the sky. He almost drew up short against the white stone tower before he had realized it was there. He tethered the horses in a sheltered position and approached the imposing bastions, creeping through the darkness. It didn’t take him long to sense the presence of guards on the upper walkways. He recognized them immediately, from their style of dress and the weapons they carried, as Selznick’s men.

  El Kassem continued to make his way all around the tower with his back up against the wall, looking for an access other than the gate guarded by more sentries. He eventually found a rope hanging from the rim of the walls and he thought that Philip must have got in that way. He began to pull himself up with his feet propped against the wall, hidden from sight by the shadows covering that side of the structure. As he climbed up, his gaze spread over an ever vaster territory and his head spun wildly, making him feel completely disoriented. El Kassem had grown up with the endless horizontal dimension of the desert, but rising in the direction of the sky while hovering over the void gave him a nauseous, suffocating feeling that he hadn’t experienced even when locked in with the cadaver in the tomb in Petra.

  He drew a sigh of relief as he gripped the rim of the parapet. He found himself just a few steps away from a sentry who was rounding the corner. El Kassem’s knife flew through the air and put a sudden end to the warning cry that was about to rise from the guard’s throat. He donned the fallen man’s black cloak, picked up his rifle and continued on the inspection round so he could get a feel of the situation. He saw more of Selznick’s men in the courtyard and another guard on the bastions opposite him. He realized that in completing his own round, the other man would soon stumble upon his comrade’s dead body, so he deliberately rushed up to him as if he had something to say. When the other realized who was facing him, it was too late. He fell without a whimper, his throat slashed from side to side.

  El Kassem was alone now and could calmly continue to inspect the entire upper terrace. He noticed the iron grate that closed the chimney flue. It seemed to be the only way to get into the building, which, as he had seen, was completely surrounded by Selznick’s men.

  He hauled in the rope from the parapet, but before dropping down the chimney, he decided to check the bottom of the flue to make sure that there were no traps or other dangers lurking there. He tore off a strip of his cloak, set it on fire with a lighter and let it fall to the bottom. He watched the flickering flame until it settled on a stone floor where no danger was apparent. As he began to tie the rope onto the grille so he could lower himself down, he saw a man appear below, looking up with a bewildered gaze. Philip!

  ‘Who’s up there?’ asked the young man.

  ‘Philip, it’s me, El Kassem. I’m going to throw down a rope. Climb it as fast as you can, before they find out that I’ve killed the guards up here.’

  Philip seized the rope dangling before him and started to pull himself up with enormous effort, exhausted by over two days of complete fasting. When he was about halfway up, he realized that he wouldn’t be able to make it. He was about to fall; his hands were aching and racked with cramps every time he tried to raise one above the other.

  ‘I can’t do it, El Kassem!’ he said in a faint voice. ‘I’m not strong enough. I can’t make it up.’

  El Kassem could not see him but heard the immense strain in his voice.

  ‘No!’ he shouted loudly. ‘Don’t let go! I’ll pull you up. Tie the rope around your body so you won’t fall. Are you there? Are you there? I can’t see a cursed thing in this darkness!’

  ‘I’m here,’ said Philip. ‘I’ve tied myself to the rope.’

  El Kassem looped the rope up over his shoulder and stood firm on the grille. He started to pull with all his might, stepping down on the rope with every yank so that it couldn’t slip back. He took a deep breath and readied himself for the next heave. Philip remembered the lighter he had in his pocket and he flicked it once, then twice, and a little flame lit up. ‘Can you see me?’ he asked.

  ‘I can see you,’ said El Kassem. ‘You’re nearly up.’

  At that moment, a voice rang out in the courtyard. ‘Ahmed!’ Again, a little louder and with a note of alarm: ‘Ahmed!’ El Kassem realized that someone was calling one of the guards who had been out of sight for some time now.

  ‘Fast!’ he urged Philip. ‘Pull yourself up or we’ll both be dead in a matter of minutes.’

  Philip started to hoist
himself up again, as his friend continued to pull on the rope. As soon as Philip grabbed the grille, El Kassem tied one end of the rope to the parapet and then turned back to help him out. Just then, the man who had been calling his comrade appeared on the upper walkway and saw the two intruders and the corpses of the guards. His surprise caused him to hesitate a moment, long enough for El Kassem to pull out his revolver and fire.

  ‘Come on! Fast!’ he exhorted. ‘They’ll all be up here in a minute.’ He tossed the rope over the other side of the parapet, but when he turned to lower himself down he saw Philip still standing at the base of the winged horse. ‘Are you mad?’ he shouted. ‘Can’t you hear them?’

  Philip shook himself and both of them began to slip down the rope as Selznick’s men burst onto the bastions. They soon spotted the rope and leaned over the parapet. The two men were running towards their horses. They aimed their rifles and were about to fire when Selznick stopped them.

  ‘Let them go,’ he said. ‘They know where the treasure we’re looking for is. There’s nothing here.’

  EL KASSEM AND PHILIP rode long hours in the light of the moon along the Jebel Gafar ridge until they found a cave where they could pass the rest of the night.

  Philip was completely worn out by his exertions, the excitement and lack of food, and he fell rather than descended from his horse. El Kassem handed him his water skin and Philip drank slowly, in little sips, as he had learned to do in the desert, then collapsed to the ground, drained of all strength.

  ‘In a few moments we would have both been dead,’ said El Kassem. ‘Why did you stop on the walkway instead of coming down the rope with me?’

  ‘There’s an inscription under the statue of the horse. The entire construction is the trophy of an ancient Roman emperor called Trajan. He had it built to celebrate his victory over the Nabataeans, an Arab tribe from this region. It can’t be what we’re looking for.’

  ‘If we’d had time, I could have told you that myself. You’re father has discovered where the seventh tomb is and what it looks like. It’s a cylinder topped by a cap – that is, like a hat, not like a horse . . . That’s what he said . . . He said that you had read the word wrong, that mould had altered part of a letter . . . He drew something that looked like this,’ and he used the tip of his dagger to sketch out the drawing that Desmond had made at Petra.

  ‘A hat . . . my God, you mean a petasus. Is that what he said? A petasus?’

  ‘Yes, I think that was the word. But if an hour of rest is enough for you and we can set off again, perhaps he can tell you himself. There will be a felucca waiting for him in four days’ time at Al Muwailih on the Red Sea to ferry him to the Egyptian shore. If Allah assists us, we can be there as well.’

  The next day Philip and El Kassem found traces of Arad’s horsemen, but soon realized that their path had turned south, while the two men had to go west. Philip looked over at El Kassem but he had such a determined glint in his eye that he didn’t even dare mention what was passing through his mind. Philip followed him without saying a word under the flaming sun, along the trail that led to the sea.

  ‘Did you find her?’ asked El Kassem after a while.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Philip. ‘And I’ve lost her again. For ever this time.’

  13

  COLONEL JOBERT WOKE before dawn to make sure that everything was ready for the departure of their expedition. He wanted to see to his own horse personally, checking trappings and gear. In reality, ever since he had joined the Legion, he’d always been on his feet to watch the sun rise, the light sweeping from the horizon and whitening the black desert sky, the shadows dissolving – evaporating, really – under its dazzling rays. The dunes coming to life like the waves of a fossil sea shaken from a long slumber, as the nightmares of the darkness dissipated.

  For a few minutes, the temperature was marvellous, neither cold nor hot, and the light was perfect. The deafening drone of the flies had not started up yet and all the animals rested peacefully. The entire world silently witnessed the miracle of the daylight which returned to visit the earth.

  That morning he was not the only one up, nor the first. Father Hogan was a couple of dozen metres away, standing on a dune, seemingly absorbed in prayer. Jobert watched him for a while, then approached.

  ‘Say one for me as well,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been able to pray for many years.’

  ‘What are you truly looking for down there, Colonel Jobert?’ he asked without turning.

  ‘A passage.’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘I don’t know. The desert is a prelude to infinity: a territory without borders and without limits that lies between the civilized world and the chaos of primordial nature. What am I seeking in that desolate place, guarded by creatures which are no longer human? Perhaps . . . I’m thinking I may find the Pillars of Hercules of this sluggish ocean, this expanse that changes as you’re watching it, conjuring up spectres and mirages. Reality is always elusive here, fleeting . . . What about you, Father Hogan? What do you ask for when you pray?’

  ‘Nothing. I raise my voice, calling Abba, Father!’

  ‘What answer do you get?’

  Father Hogan hesitated a moment, then turned and said: ‘The voice of God is like . . .’ but Jobert had already walked off, as silently as he had come.

  JOBERT ENTERED HIS QUARTERS and gathered his personal things, but as he was about to mount his horse, a staff officer ran up to him with a dispatch. ‘This just arrived, Colonel. It was sent from an Egyptian port on the Red Sea.’

  Jobert nodded and took the paper. It was signed Philip Garrett, and read: ‘I’ve found my father. We are travelling towards Kalaat Hallaki. Selznick is free and probably on our tail.’

  Finally! Everything would be concluded where it had begun. The old hunter had emerged out of nowhere again and was on his way to Wadi Addir and the Sand of Ghosts. And where Garrett was, Selznick was sure to follow.

  They left soon after sunrise, heading south-east. Jobert rode at the front of the column and Father Hogan was at his side. He had never ridden a horse before and the commander had chosen a placid animal for him, a mare who’d always served as a packhorse. Behind them were two camels, one behind the other, carrying between them a sort of litter on which Father Hogan’s gear was being transported, carefully sealed inside a double layer of oilcloth.

  Jobert turned to make sure that everything was in order. ‘You say that there’s a radio in there?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How will you power its batteries?’

  ‘Using a charging system connected to the blades of a small rotor that can be turned by the wind or by manpower. Energy won’t be a problem.’

  Jobert rode in silence for a while, then said, ‘It may be that a fierce battle awaits us when we reach our destination. Will you fight if necessary or will you simply let the rest of us kill for you?’

  ‘I haven’t come to kill, Jobert, but to listen to a message. I’m aware that this may involve considerable risks, and I’m neither a coward nor a hypocrite, if that’s what you’re wondering. Look, I realize that a man who has made a choice like yours must have had a tough, tormented past, but remember that a man who makes a choice like mine must follow a road that is not easy or without obstacles either. Don’t put me to the test, Colonel. You might be surprised.’

  They journeyed all that day and all the next along the same route that Jobert had taken on his return. The temperature was barely tolerable, although the winter season had begun. On the evening of the third day, as the men set up camp, Jobert approached Father Hogan holding a topographic map.

  ‘Your radio might be able to help us if you are willing to lend us a hand. Before leaving I sent dispatches to our informers and our outposts along the different routes travellers would be bound to take. Philip and Desmond Garrett are heading towards Kalaat Hallaki and Selznick is surely after them. If we can manage to learn which of the three routes that depart from the Red Sea they have taken, we might be a
ble to lay a trap.’

  ‘The radio is at your disposal,’ said Father Hogan. ‘Just give me time to open the case. I packed it personally and must open it with my own hands.’

  In a short time, the radio had been freed of its wrappings and was ready to use once a long antenna had been attached. Colonel Jobert couldn’t help but notice that Hogan hadn’t touched the much larger package that sat alongside it. It was sealed with great care and protected by steel padlocks.

  ‘And what’s in there, Reverend?’ he asked with a hint of sarcasm. ‘A secret weapon of the Holy Roman Church?’

  ‘There’s a powerful magnetic recording system in there, Colonel. I wouldn’t hesitate to define it as a sort of mass memory.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  ‘Now that we’ve set off on our mission I can tell you. At the Vatican, we’ve been picking up a signal from a mysterious transmitter that, in exactly twenty-five days, seventeen hours and seven minutes, will concentrate a gigantic flow of data at a precise point of the south-eastern desert. Since we haven’t been able to calculate its speed or the rate of flow, we’ve prepared an instrument that will, in theory, store this information and allow us to decipher it at a later date.’

  ‘In theory?’

  ‘That’s right. It’s an experiment that’s never been attempted before.’

  ‘But how do you know that the capacity of this . . . box will be sufficient? If you’re trying to collect all the water in a waterfall, what difference does it make if you’re using a glass or a cistern? Most of the flow will be lost anyway.’

  Father Hogan could feel the evening breeze stirring as he attached the rotor and turned on the radio. ‘Give me the frequency of your station,’ he said. When he had tuned the instrument in, he continued, ‘Do you imagine that we hadn’t considered that possibility? Let me tell you about something that once happened to me. I was at a mission in central Africa, in a village that had been isolated for days and days by civil war. The old people and children had already started to succumb to starvation. Finally, one day we got news that a lorry full of flour had managed to make its way through and would be arriving the next morning. Before dawn, anyone who was still capable of standing was waiting at the side of the road with every imaginable sort of container. As soon as the lorry came into sight, they all started running towards it, but before they got close the vehicle hit a landmine. There was a terrifying explosion and a white cloud rose to the sky. After a moment of shock, the people kept running, holding out the containers they’d brought, their skirts, their scarves, their aprons. That flour seemed so precious that saving any amount, no matter how small, was better than seeing it go completely to waste.’