He sat on the banks of the great river, surrounded by the towering ruins of the Roman fort. When he closed his eyes, he could still see Selznick writhing on the floor. But just beyond was the image of the woman he had met at Bab el Awa and glimpsed once again in that magical, fragrant place . . . Philip could not get her out of his mind, and the thought of her wounded him, filled him with an acute sense of longing and deep regret. But her image vanished as she had, like an apparition. Flocks of nocturnal birds took to the air from the towers behind him, while thousands of bats shot out of the hidden recesses of the ruins and scattered over the river and the desert.
Philip gathered some twigs and wood and lit a fire so he could have a little light and warmth in the midst of all that desolation. He toasted a bit of the dry bread that he still had in his haversack and melted a little goat’s cheese on it. In that deserted, melancholy place, his scant repast gave him sustenance and the courage to go on. He added more wood and lay down alongside the bivouac in the shelter of a low wall. He rested easily, for he knew no one could see him from the desert, but someone did, from the other side of the river, and waited until morning so that he could make out the youth’s features. That same day Selznick was informed about a young foreigner travelling on horseback, hiding among the ruins of Dura Europos.
FATHER HOGAN CROSSED the Vatican gardens in the dark, listening to the sound of his own footsteps on the gravelled pathways. He stared at the light in the observatory, its eye wide-open onto the night sky, scrutinizing its immensity. He knew that the old priest was waiting for him up there, waiting to relate the epilogue of a blasphemous story, the last act of a rash, arrogant challenge. He went up the stairs and, as he drew closer to the top, he could hear the signal, as persistent as a winter rain.
Father Boni was sitting at his desk. As always, with his back turned to him.
‘I know what’s going to happen,’ he said. ‘I know what that signal means.’
Father Hogan did not reply, but sat down.
‘The civilization of Delfud succeeded in launching their mind into the furthest reaches of space before their elevated level of knowledge was destroyed for ever.’
‘What do you mean by “launching their mind”?’
‘I don’t know. I’m quoting directly from Father Antonelli’s translation. Maybe . . . a machine.’
‘Capable of thinking?’
‘What else?’
Father Hogan shook his head. ‘A machine capable of thinking cannot exist.’
‘The fact is that we are receiving an intelligent signal. This . . . thing was launched into outermost space for a precise purpose, for a mission that . . .’ The old priest stopped, as though he couldn’t find the words for what he had to say.
‘Yes, Father Boni?’ urged Father Hogan.
‘The purpose was to probe the mind of God in the very moment of creation.’ The old man fell still and lowered his eyes as if ashamed of what he had said.
‘You cannot believe such a thing.’
‘Oh no? Then come here, Hogan. I have something to show you. Look at this . . . The signals we are receiving give us the celestial coordinates of all twenty stars of the Scorpio constellation, plus one . . . a dark, remote star of unimaginable power, millions of times greater than our own sun . . . It is represented in the Stone of the Constellations and is described in “The Book of Amon”. It is called “the black heart of the scorpion”. Hogan, its position corresponds to the astral coordinates transmitted by our radio source. I believe that . . . that it is a black body. The civilization of Delfud somehow harnessed its monstrous gravity to use as an accelerator, a kind of cyclopean catapult that hurled their device at an unimaginable speed into the most remote reaches of the universe.
‘Tens of thousands of years have passed and now . . . now that thing is returning. Hogan, in thirty-five days, seventeen hours and seven minutes, it will project onto the earth everything that it has learned in those lost regions of the cosmos. Do you understand how little time we have left to us? You’ll have to leave as soon as possible.’
Father Hogan shook his head. ‘Marconi said that the radio source coincides with a point suspended in a geostationary orbit at 500,000 kilometres from earth.’
‘That’s only a relay station; the device that guides the signal to its target.’
‘And where is the target?’
Father Boni opened a large map of the Sahara and pointed to a spot in the south-eastern quadrant. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘in a place searing hot by day and bitterly cold at night, swept by torrid winds and by storms of sand and dust. A corner of hell called the Sand of Ghosts.’
9
DESMOND GARRETT RODE ALONE over the barren land in the midday sun. His long years in the saddle had given him a particular bearing, as if his own body were an extension of his horse’s. The desert wind and sand had carved out his features and weathered his skin. He dressed like the bedouins of Sirte, with a keffiyeh around his head and in front of his mouth, but wore shiny brown leather boots over Turkish-style trousers. A repeating rifle of American make was hanging from the saddle and a damascene-hilted scimitar hung from his belt.
Desmond would stop now and then to check his compass and mark a spot on his map. The waning sun was nearing the horizon to his right when he spurred on his Arab charger. His plan was to reach the oasis just when the sky would be flaring violet over the colonnades of ancient Palmyra.
The Pearl of the Desert appeared all at once, like a vision, as he cleared a low hill. The oasis of Tedmor shone a deep, dark green in the harsh landscape that surrounded it, as thousands of palms waved their fronds in the evening breeze like a field of wheat in the month of May. The huge glittering pool at their centre flashed with the fiery evening light and the slow-moving sun loomed like a divinity over the great limestone portal, lighting up the columns of the majestic Roman portico one after another, as if they were colossal torches.
It was at that moment that the miracle took place. Just as the sun had sunk below the horizon and the ruins of Palmyra were about to be plunged into darkness, a violet flash illuminated the hills and the desert behind the city and spread nearly all the way to the centre of the heavenly vault, like an illusory dawn.
Desmond climbed off his horse and stood stock still, taking in the magic. He had seen it for the first time twenty years ago and then never again, but many a time, during long nights spent in the desert, he had dreamed of the rapturous violet sky of Palmyra as a refuge of the soul.
The purple reflection was shot through with the rosy streaks of the last tremulous light of dusk, and then began instantly to darken, invaded by the deep blue of night.
Desmond walked slowly to the edge of the pool, leading his horse by the reins. Just a short distance away, under a group of towering palms, he could see an imposing tent guarded by a pair of warriors. He tied his horse to one of the stakes and waited for someone to notice his presence. The guards did not even glance in his direction but a servant peered out from behind the flap opening and then ducked back inside. Sheikh Abu el Abd in person soon appeared at the entrance to the tent.
He strode towards Desmond and embraced him warmly, then brought him into the tent and had him sit on velvet pillows from Fez as his servants brought hot tea in little Turkish cups of silver and glass.
‘Enos told me you would be coming and my heart filled with joy. I am pleased that you are my guest here, as he once was.’
‘It makes me very happy to see you as well, Abu el Abd. So many years have gone by . . .’
‘Why hasn’t Enos come? Aleppo is not so far from Tedmor.’
‘I don’t know. Messages are slow to arrive in the desert. But Enos has grown very old, you know. That must be the reason. I’m sure he would have come otherwise. It was here at Tedmor that I first met him, so long ago.’
‘That’s true. Right here in my tent.’
‘What did he ask of you then, Abu el Abd?’
‘He wanted to speak with the Fateh of Kalaat al Amm. A ve
ry difficult endeavour indeed . . . only a few people may speak with the Fateh in her whole lifetime.’
‘And the Fateh agreed to see him?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did she tell him?’
‘I don’t know. But when Enos left, there was a shadow in his eyes . . . the shadow of death.’
‘I am here to see the Fateh as well.’
The sheikh stared into Desmond’s eyes. ‘It’s very difficult. Impossible, really. But if she agreed to see you, do you know what that means, Desmond sahib? Do you know? The Fateh can make you look your own death in the eye.’
‘I am pursuing a mystery even greater than death . . . I’m looking for the man of the seven tombs.’
The tribal chief paled and his lean face turned to stone. He continued to stare into Desmond’s eyes, as if he sought to explore forces in him which his words could not communicate, which his expression could not reveal. Then he said calmly, ‘I have a premonition. I pray to Allah that I may be mistaken, but I fear for our friend Enos ben Gad.’
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Desmond. ‘Have you received a message you haven’t told me about?’
‘No. I’ve received no message. I feel it. I feel that what you are seeking was the cause of it. I didn’t realize what you were looking for.’
Desmond lowered his head without answering, but he was clearly distressed as an ominous certainty crept into his mind. He couldn’t say another word, because he suddenly felt unbearably alone in an unequal struggle. A struggle to the death.
They walked out of the tent and looked towards Kalaat al Amm. The gloomy bulwark with its crumbling walls loomed before them, still touched with the last light of the vanished day.
‘I wasn’t told the true reason for your coming . . . I could not have imagined. But if what you say is true, if you are truly pursuing the man of the seven tombs, then go ahead,’ said the sheikh. ‘She surely knows that you are here. She is certainly speaking with your thoughts at this very moment.’
Desmond left him, mounted his horse and urged it in the direction of the mountain. He crossed the ruins at a gallop, riding swiftly along the grandiose colonnade that still shone in the darkness as if it had absorbed the last energy of the sunset and could radiate light of its own.
He rode between the tombs of the necropolis, half-sunken into the sand, and started up towards the castle. He soon had to leave his horse and continue on foot up to the ruins of the gate. He crossed the threshold and advanced among the rubble, looking around cautiously. He felt followed by a fierce, predatory gaze, intent on his every movement.
He heard the sound of gravel scattering and a bristly black dog appeared at a breach in the wall, growling and baring his teeth. He paid the dog no heed and walked right past him as the animal continued to bark furiously, barely centimetres from his knee. Could he be the Fateh?
Just beyond, Desmond heard the hissing of a horned viper but did not turn, letting the reptile slither away between the stones and undergrowth to find its prey before the chill of the night numbed its belly. Then he saw a ruddy glow behind a wall and approached. There was a old woman sitting next to a fire, her face wrinkled and her hair long and white. Her eyes were closed and ringed with dark circles. Thus he imagined the sorceress that had called Samuel’s shade up from the underworld for Saul.
The woman opened cataract-misted eyes. ‘I’ve been expecting you, Garrett. Enos told me you would come.’
‘Isn’t Enos dead? Isn’t that true, then?’
‘Not for me,’ she said, impassively. ‘I can still hear his voice. What do you want from me?’
Desmond felt a weight crushing his heart but he answered in the same tone, ‘For you to guide me to the sixth tomb. So that I may destroy it and embark on the last leg of my journey.’
‘No one has ever succeeded. Who are you to dare so much?’
‘I found the key for reading “The Book of Amon” and the Stone of the Constellations. I will find the seventh tomb as well and I will destroy Him.’
‘But do you know who sleeps in that tomb?’ At these words, the fire flared up with a sudden roar, flames rising stronger, higher, lighter.
Desmond shook his head. ‘No. Enos never told me. Perhaps he didn’t know.’
‘Enos didn’t know. Now he does.’
‘Then you tell me.’
‘No. You’ll have to understand for yourself, because only when you have understood can you decide. I can guide you to the sixth tomb and no further.’
‘What must I do?’
‘You must journey along the dead waters and descend to the valley of Sodom and Gomorrah. Leave the pillars of salt behind you, then cross the Arava Valley and the Paran Desert, until you reach Wadi Musa. Go up the wadi, following the sign of the Scorpion. It will take you to the City of Tombs. There you will do what you must do.’
‘The City of Tombs? But how will I be able to recognize the tomb of “He-who-must not-die” amid all the others?’
The Fateh widened her white eyes and held out her wrinkled palms towards the crackling flames, trying to absorb its warmth into her decrepit body. ‘You will be guided by the most terrible secret hidden in the bottom of your soul. The beast in you will sniff him out. Farewell. I must sleep now . . . sleep.’
She let out a deep sigh, almost a rattle, closed her eyes and pulled up the dark veil covering her shoulders so that her head was completely hidden. She looked like a grotesque idol animated only by the dancing flames. The fire seemed to die down as well, creeping low amid the glowing embers like a snake.
Desmond turned and walked off. As he descended the hillside, the whining of the dog, which had never stopped while he was consulting the Fateh, turned into a long howl that rose towards the star-filled sky that covered Palmyra like a gem-encrusted cloak gracing the shoulders of a queen.
He reached Abu el Abd’s tent. The sheikh awaited him sitting cross-legged, with the palms of his hands resting on his knees. His limbs, under his light-blue linen djellaba, were as taut as a drawn bow in which all the forces of his spirit were concentrated.
‘I will leave immediately,’ said Desmond. ‘I may be the only hunter left . . . if your presentiment is true.’
‘No,’ said Abu el Abd. ‘Victory will not depend on a few hours more or a few hours less. The temperature is not high enough to force you to travel by night. Eat, drink and rest. I will have a bed prepared for you and a meal. You will leave tomorrow in the light of the sun. It will be a good omen for you and your spirit will be refreshed.’
Desmond thanked him. He bathed in the clear waters of the pool and then sat down to dinner, wearing a clean djellaba over his naked, purified body. Abu el Abd broke bread, dipped it into salt and handed it to his guest, then called to his servants, who entered with roasted mutton and couscous. Desmond ate and drank and in his heart continued to hope that Enos was still alive. Perhaps what the sheikh and the Fateh had perceived was some earthly suffering and not the agony of one who is leaving his life. But as they were finishing their meal the sound of galloping could be heard outside the tent, followed by a neighing and the stamping of hooves. A man was announced and soon entered. He bowed, greeting them with ‘Salam alekhum’, then drew close to the sheikh, whispered something in his ear and left.
Abu el Abd raised his eyes to Desmond’s face and the tragic solemnity of his look foretold the sadness of his announcement. ‘You are the last hunter,’ he said. ‘Enos ben Gad is dead. Murdered. By Selznick.’
Desmond left the tent and bellowed out all his fury and impotent rage. ‘Damned wolf!’ he shouted. ‘Rabid dog! May you die unburied, Selznick, and be devoured by vultures. May you die screaming in pain!’ He dropped to his knees, his forehead in the dust, and remained thus at length, trembling in the silence and chill of the night.
Abu el Abd’s hand shook him. ‘Enos ben Gad has fallen like a warrior on the battlefield, overwhelmed by enemy forces. He fought like a lion surrounded by packs of dogs, goaded on by their masters in the hunt.
Let us pay our last respects to him with foreheads high. God is great!’
Desmond got to his feet and raised his eyes to the immense starry vault that seemed to be held up, from one end of the horizon to the other, by the columns of Palmyra.
‘God is great,’ he said, and when he turned towards Sheikh Abu el Abd, his eyes were dry and unblinking and shone with an agonized pain that had neither words, nor laments, nor tears.
DESMOND GARRETT RODE FOR days and days. He reached Bosra, and from there, Gerash and Mount Nebo. He crossed the immense valley where Moses was said to be buried and he thought of the unclaimed bones of the great leader of men buried in the sand of some unknown cave, waiting for the trumpet of God to announce the last day.
He continued from there to the valley of the Dead Sea. He looked out over that dark expanse of still water which filled the deepest wound of the planet: the wasteland where five legendary cities had once stood before they were destroyed by the hand of God and their peoples slaughtered. Which among these many pinnacles of salt – mute ghosts standing guard over nothing – imprisoned Lot’s wife, with her restless spirit and her cursed nostalgia for her lost homeland?
He advanced at the foot of the mountains of salt until he reached the inlet to the Arava Valley, which stretched out before him as black as flint and completely desolate as far as the eye could see. It looked as if a hurricane of fire had ravaged it, leaving a sea of dead coals behind.