by Nat Edwards
Imaum Verdi Beg laughed as he trotted back down the hill and scrambled onto his own horse, which laboured up the slope behind the donkey. Layard watched with a mixture of amusement and contempt. It seemed that not only the donkey’s load but also the Ghûlam’s belly was getting fatter at each town. At the first village they had rested, his mehmandar had sent his fine horse back to Hamadan, to spare it the arduous road ahead. Reluctantly, the headman of the village had honoured the firman and provided the Ghûlam with a donkey and a scrawny old horse, which now laboured under its rider’s weight. Imaum Verdi Beg had also insisted on the village fulfilling the complete terms of the firman, accepting sufficient chickens, rice, bread and dried fruit to provision eight men. He had loaded the surplus onto the little donkey, whose own burden grew at each village as the Ghûlam repeated his demands. At each of the larger towns they reached, the Ghûlam would sell all the provisions he had gathered so far and then promptly march off to find the town governor and demand fresh supplies.
‘I do not think that the intention of the Shah’s firman was that you should extort food from every poor wretch we meet along the way and then sell it to fill your own pockets,’ said Layard sharply, losing patience with his companion’s apparently complete lack of scruple.
‘But good sir,’ protested the Ghûlam, looking hurt, ‘I give each and every one of the village headmen an official receipt for what we take. They are welcome to claim full reimbursement from the government for everything. Besides, those wretches have all quoted exorbitantly high prices, which I have honoured on all of the promissory notes I have written. Those gourumsags, those untrustworthy scoundrels, they have been extorting us good sir – not the other way around.’
Imaum Verdi Beg sounded so convinced of his own argument that Layard let the matter drop. He rode on in silence, resolved to address the matter when they reached Isfahan.
Their road took them from the gardens of Hamadan to a great fertile plain that stretched out in the shadow of the Luristan Mountains. The plain was densely populated with Lur communities who offered little loyalty to the Shah. Some villages would make a show of recognising the firman, kissing it and pressing it to their foreheads before filling the Ghûlam’s saddlebags. Others would refuse it and Imaum Verdi Beg would resort to whip-blows and threats of reprisal before winning their reluctant compliance. More often than not, Layard would leave his irredeemable companion to his own devices and make his way among the locals as best as possible. Even without the firman, he found that the Lurs, like other people of the East, set great store in receiving strangers and he met with hospitality wherever he went.
Around the hearth at each settlement, the conversation was threaded with an ominous theme. The crops, usually so abundant on the plain, were failing with increasing regularity. Stores of grain and rice were dwindling and those that remained were under constant threat from the tax-collectors of the Shah or from marauding bands from other tribes. Rumours of a plague, spreading from the South and West had reached the ears of the nomads, who spoke in hushed whispers of distant settlements that had been devastated by pestilence. There were mutterings of war and rebellion on everyone’s lips as the governor in Isfahan tightened the screws to feed the Shah’s coffers. At each community he rested, Layard found the same pervasive sense of unease. People were agitated and listless. They showed signs of exhaustion, complaining of sleeplessness and of being tormented by nightmares. As with other nomads he had encountered, they assumed his European nationality implied medical expertise and flocked to him, complaining of headaches, poor digestion and fevers. Here, there was yet no sign of the plague but rather Layard saw in the people some sort of collective malaise of the spirit, as if all the countryside and the very earth itself were unsettled and afflicted by a deep sense of wrongness.
The anxiety and fear on men’s lips was most in evidence when they spoke quietly and urgently of some unseen terror that had crept into the mountains.
‘Whole communities are found destroyed,’ said one old man, the firelight flickering in his eyes as he leaned forward to look at Layard. ‘Not like the plague, when some people survive. This is everyone!’
He coughed and took a drink of goat’s milk before continuing.
‘I have heard from travellers who have seen it with their own eyes,’ he said, clutching Layard’s forearm with a bony hand, to emphasise the veracity of his tale.
‘They tell of whole towns where the buildings have been thrown down and the people all gone. Not a soul survives. There are no dogs, no goats, no horses – nothing. What is more, sir, is that there are no bodies to be found, either. Nothing survives.’
He shook his head sadly and leaned back, looking gloomily into the fire.
The next morning, as they rode across the plain, Layard spotted a thin line of black tents on the horizon. He pointed them out to his mehmandar, asking to whom they belonged.
‘They are Bakhtiari,’ muttered the Ghûlam, ‘the worst scoundrels among this country of scoundrels. They ride down from their strongholds in the mountains to carry out what they call chapaws and what everyone else just calls out and out robbery. They are lawless rebels, good sir. They prey upon the whole of this region, even up to the gates of Isfahan itself. We will do well to keep as clear of them as possible, although I don’t doubt we will meet with them soon enough’
Imaum Verdi Beg scowled darkly at the distant black tents and spurred his poor old horse into a trot, looking back over his shoulder at the little donkey, running flat out behind.
Layard trotted along, trailing a little behind the Ghûlam. He peered at the tents, trying to isolate any human figures but all he could make out were the tent flaps waving in the breeze. The tents squatted like a ragged line of black crows, ominously on the line of the horizon. More ominous still, behind them loomed the bulk of the Luristan Mountains, marking for Layard the palpable boundary of the known world. To his right, a purple, undulating haze in the summer heat revealed the Zagros Mountains. A soft, mournful cry echoed far above him. He looked up at the sky. There, a single eagle wheeled on the rising thermals.
* * *
Looking down, the eagle could make out a tiny figure, between the two great masses of the Luristan and Zagros ranges and dwarfed by the immensity of the plain, trailing along behind its gradually receding companion. Curious for a moment, the eagle inspected the figure for the promise of any prey; too big and too healthy. It flexed its wing feathers and wheeled lazily towards the east. From the far hills, the eagle could sense death on the air and the promise of fresh pickings to come. The traveller could wait.
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CHAPTER 8
LAYARD WALKED IN A TRANCE BETWEEN FOUNTAINS AND JEWELLED PAVILIONS. Long neglected gardens enjoyed unfettered license, dancing between summer houses that looked out upon a mirror-still pool of crystal water. Roses sprang in a heady and fragrant tumble, escaping from the constrictions of elegant parterres. Layard followed the length of the pool for a hundred paces, captivated by the reflections of rows of lofty poplars and spreading cedars. The scent of the roses combined with the sweet pungent smell of pines, tamarind and wild thyme to form a heady perfume for the rows of sensuously carved and painted dancing girls that adorned the walls of the buildings. He moved from one empty apartment to another, passing through intricately carved archways and patches of shadow cast by broken trellises, draped in roses and vines fat with sweet grapes.
He paused for a moment in the doorway of a building, listening to the birdsong in the gardens. His face was bathed in patches of red and blue light, painted upon him by a magnificent stained glass window. He walked slowly across the floor, hearing his footsteps echo, to a half-fallen screen at its far side. Pushing the screen gently to one side, he entered into an inner court, adorned with exquisite porcelain tiles. The tiles were glazed white, with patterns of bright blues, reds and greens as vivid as the day they had been set in place countless years before. Passing through the courtyard, he entered another; longer and more ornate. Its walls were ena
melled with a succession of princes and warriors in bright mail, riding proudly on prancing horses. In gaudy splendour, they told the story of the Persian hero, Rustem, when he went to rescue his fine and fearsome horse Rakush from the knights of Turan. In one chamber, Rakush was shown biting the head off one knight and beating down two others with his hoofs. In the next, Rustem, in his search, dined with the King of Samengam, and lay, heavy with wine on a soft silken couch. In the next panel, a beautiful veiled woman presented herself to the hero and the couple dallied in courtly romance. In the final chamber, the King’s beautiful daughter, Tahmineh, stood revealed before Rustem in her splendour. Layard gazed bewitched at the scene, marvelling at the artistry of the figures and the piercing beauty of the princess that no age of neglect and decay could dull. In his tired vision, the tableau seemed to shimmer and shift and take on a depth and life of its own. The strong perfume of the garden seemed to fill his brain and flow into his blood, thickening like honey slow poured in sunlight. He felt himself sway, pitching towards the lovers that were now more real than he, a dry grey ghost in a world of gloriously coloured mortals. He fancied that faintly, he could hear a clear, bell-like voice chanting.
I am Tahmineh, the daughter of the King of Samengan, of the race of the leopard and the lion, and none of the princes of this earth are worthy of my hand, neither hath any man seen me unveiled. But my heart is torn with anguish, and my spirit is tossed with desire, for I have heard of thy deeds of prowess, and how thou fearest neither Deev nor lion, neither leopard nor crocodile, and how thy hand is swift to strike, and how thou didst venture alone into Mazinderan, and how wild asses are devoured of thee, and how the earth groaneth under the tread of thy feet, and how men perish at thy blows, and how even the eagle dareth not swoop down upon her prey when she beholdeth thy sword. These things and more have they told unto me, and mine eyes have yearned to look upon thy face.
In his mind’s eye, Layard imagined he saw Rustem reaching for a jet-black, shining stone that he wore at his arm and unfasten it, holding it to the princess. Unconsciously, Layard mouthed words that he did not understand.
Cherish this jewel; if it be granted unto thee to bring forth a son, fasten it upon his arm, that he may wear it like his father. And he shall be strong.
Layard felt his fist closing on a round, smooth stone; icy cold yet burning with a raging fire. It seemed to vibrate with energy as if it wanted to explode from his grip; singing with power and the promise of bloody strife. He clutched it to his breast, trying to contain its wild destructive force, his head spinning and his legs giving way. He lurched forward suddenly and felt the cold shock of the tiled wall hit him hard on the forehead. Catching himself, he gasped and righted himself, leaning against the wall. He looked around, bewildered. There was nothing but an empty dusty chamber and ancient tiles. He looked down at his tightly clenched fist, pressed bruisingly to his chest. Cautiously, he opened it. There was nothing but the purple marks of fingernails, pressed into his palm. He noticed once again the sound of birds from the garden. Shivering slightly, he moved from the tiled rooms through another courtyard and into a brighter and more modern suite of chambers, painted with hunting scenes.
Row after row of ornate arabesques surrounded tablets on which were painted horsemen in pursuit of stags and hares or locked in deadly combat with lions and leopards. Others, with hawks at their wrists, pursued partridges and francolins. In the last of the chambers was a wooden perch, upon which sat two majestic falcons. Their only acknowledgement of Layard’s entry was to turn briefly and fix him with an unblinking stare, before shuffling a step or two along their perch to return to a silent contemplation of a distant snow-capped peak visible through the room’s single window.
Layard stared at the two birds but they paid no more attention to him. He backed away from them, turned and ran from the room, passing down another narrow courtyard surrounded by high, richly carved walls. Along its length was a long thin pool of green lilies, fed by a series of fountains. Passing through an archway at the end of the courtyard, he emerged onto an open lawn, surrounded by flower beds. A distant mewling cry caused him to look up, to see a tiny black speck circling above him. He felt suddenly exposed, as if some predatory thing was about to fall upon him from the heavens. With a sudden urgency, he looked about for shelter, spying a small, low doorway in a building to his right. He ran to it and flung himself into a richly decorated room, patterned with geometric arrangements of mirrors and coloured glass. On the floor of the room, he was surprised to find his carpet, spread out beside his pack and his gun. Beside it, on a wide wooden dish were piled pyramids of apricots, dried figs and dates, surrounded by bunches of grapes. He sank to his knees on the carpet and snatched at the fruit, eating greedily and delighting in their sweetness. It was intoxicating. The room began to pitch and turn and Layard fell back onto his carpet, a heavy weight pressing down on his eyes. In the fragmented mosaic of reflections, he saw a thousand wretched Layards, hollow-faced and contorted, staring back at him. The room swam and his vision dimmed. His head dropped and he slumped in a dead faint to the floor.
‘Come sir, it’s time to leave.’
Layard’s shoulder was being shaken firmly by a rough hand.
‘Come on sir, we’ve a long road ahead of us.’
Layard blinked, straining his eyes in the grey dawn light to make out the silhouette of his mehmandar stooped over him.
‘What? Where are we?’ slurred Layard, shivering and pulling his cloak tight around his shoulders.
‘In Douletabad, sir’ said the Ghûlam, ‘at the house of Sheikh Ali Mirza. We arrived last night. Do you not remember?’
‘The black stone?’ murmured Layard.
‘Black stone? I don’t know what you are talking about, good sir,’ said the Ghûlam. ‘I fear your fever is getting worse. I have the perfect cure for that; I will go out and requisition us a pair of fat partridges for our breakfast! Come now sir, you will be able to rest in Isfahan, but we still have many days to go. We need to move on.’
Imaum Verdi Beg gently helped the Englishman to his feet, marvelling at how light the tall man seemed. He handed him his sheepskin cap and helped him to his horse. The cool rose-scented morning breeze appeared to revive Layard. He straightened himself and swung nimbly into the saddle, turning to accept his pack, rolled carpet and gun from the Ghûlam.
‘You are right,’ he said, briskly. ‘There is no time to lose. Breakfast can wait a few hours. We have a long road to Isfahan.’
Above in the grey sky, the last star blinked out and a faint pink glow began to peer from behind the jagged hills that lay before them.
CHAPTER 9
THE SUN ROSE ON THE TRAVELLERS AS THEY HEADED OUT FROM DOULETABAD across a great plain of vineyards and downy white fields of cotton. Despite its heat, Layard still felt a chill. He had been suffering from a growing fever for the past few days and was finding it hard to keep food down. Hunger and dehydration were beginning to tell upon him. As each pace of his horse brought him closer to a region that was nothing but a blank on his maps, so too did Layard feel himself drifting slowly from reality. He tried to concentrate on the world around him, searching about for landmarks that could anchor him firmly in the physical sphere and keep him from being consumed by the nightmare world of fantasies that was haunting him.
In every direction, the plain was dotted with fortified villages, each dominated by a cylindrical, mud-walled fort. To the right were the distant Elwend Mountains, which separated the plain from the Luristan and Zagros ranges. Towering over the town of Douletabad behind them was the great peak of Kuh Arsenou. Layard paused and looked at its fine, conical snow-capped peak. The view looked familiar. For a moment, Layard had a clear picture in his mind, of a room with two great falcons, staring from a window at that very view. He shivered again and drew his cloak more tightly around his shoulders.
Their road took them through a small village, dominated by a great, half-ruined castle perched on a crag. They stopped in its shade to eat
breakfast, Layard managing just a few dried apricots, despite the Ghûlam’s encouragement to sample some of the rich pickings that his firman had secured in the town of Douletabad.
‘You should make the most of the people’s generosity,’ said the Ghûlam, speaking through a mouth full of roast partridge. ‘We are getting closer to Bakhtiari territory. Those ruffians won’t be so disposed to honour the Shah’s firman. Their hides are a little tougher too,’ he added, fingering the butt end of his whip. He looked thoughtfully at the hunched figure of the Englishman, pale and shivering as he chewed listlessly on an apricot.
‘In fact, good sir,’ said the Ghûlam, ‘I am not at all sure if it is wise to continue. If the terms of the firman are not to be honoured, then I must assume that my official capacity as mehmandar must also be compromised. From this point on, I feel that it would be prudent for you to hire me as your guide.’
‘Hire you?’ said Layard, spitting an apricot stone to the ground and turning to stare at Imaum Verdi Beg.
‘Why yes,’ said the Ghûlam, a little less confidently as he felt the force of Layard’s flashing glare. ‘I could offer a very reasonable rate; perhaps just two tomans a day and of course I would be able to sell you any provisions that you required at a cut price.’
The barefaced cheek of the Ghûlam appeared to have a tonic effect on Layard. He rose to his feet, straightening his posture, and strode towards his companion. To Ghûlam Imaum Verdi Beg, it seemed as if the Englishman grew an inch with each stride. Layard, stood towering over the seated Ghûlam, who now looked up at him; the partridge leg that he held, mid-bite, forgotten in the face of the Englishman’s wrath.
‘You rogue,’ fumed Layard. ‘You have fattened your belly and your purse with my firman at every town and village we have passed. Now you have the affront to demand money from me and even to sell me the supplies you have extorted in my name? You still owe me a toman for the spare donkey you bought because the supplies were getting too heavy. I ought to take that whip of yours to you right now. Or perhaps I shall just ride back and report you to the Governor of Douletabad. I seem to remember the story of a French traveller’s mehmandar, whom the Shah relieved of his head for trying to screw money out of his charge. What’s it to be, Ghûlam, a whipping or your head? ’