The heat was unbearable in that vast flatland, even this late in the season, so Desmond tried to save his strength and that of his horse by slowing his pace during the hours around midday. He proceeded on foot, leading the horse by its halter and wetting its nose now and then with a rag soaked in a little water from his flask. Only as dusk fell did he get back into the saddle and push on to reach a well so he could pitch camp for the night. He would stop at times, attracted by some small sign of man’s presence: rock carvings or tombs marked with inscriptions corroded by wind and sand. He’d sometimes find the figure of a scorpion cut into the black surface of the flint and, in the immense silence of that valley, the image seemed animated with malevolent energy, with a wild, evil vitality.
One day, just before morning had broken, he came across a wadi which descended from an imposing calcareous massif to his left. He started to make his way up the dry river bed, which soon narrowed to become a deep gully that sliced through the mountainside from top to bottom in a nearly vertical course. Its fast-flowing waters had lain bare layer upon layer of rock which had composed it over millennia. Desmond was amazed at the infinite streaks of red, green, ochre and yellow that marked both sides of the river’s passage. The wind which found its way into that narrow gully was sucked in by the play of constantly changing surfaces, and its voice altered as it moved along, like a breath whistling through the pipes of an organ one by one.
All at once, Desmond saw the City of Tombs open before him like an amphitheatre. The fabled Petra, hidden for centuries inside a hollow mountain, this narrow gully the only means of approach. It had been discovered by Johann Ludwig Burckhardt only the century before and had stirred up excitement and admiration in scholars all over the world, although very few of them had ever had the opportunity of seeing it.
Desmond unstrapped his pack and let it drop to the ground, then spurred on his horse at a gallop across the immense basin, passing in front of the monumental tombs carved into the mountainside. Their impressive façades were ornamented by sculpted columns and tympanums in the myriad colours of the rock. The soft undulations in the polychrome layers made them look as though they were immersed in ocean waves. As Desmond’s horse flew over the sand which covered the enormous crater, he tried to glimpse what might be inside each one of those empty mausoleums. He listened hard for a sign of life, a breath, coming from one of those silent, yawning stone mouths, but the only sounds to reach his ears were the panting of his steed and its rolling gallop on the sand and stone, echoes bouncing from rock to rock.
He pulled on the reins and stopped, jumping from the saddle. The wind was the only voice now in that millennia-long silence, the high flight of an eagle the only hint of life in the empty, blinding sky. He climbed up onto a rock that rose from the ground like a cliff from the sea and looked slowly all around, while his horse wandered off in search of dry grass to graze on.
‘It’s here that you last slept, man of the seven tombs, in this secret valley. You were carried off before the valley was discovered, before human voices had the chance to echo between these cliffs. But I shall find the mark you left. I’ll sniff out your trail. Enos ben Gad won’t have died for nothing.’
Desmond took the saddle from his horse and settled into one of the rock tombs. He laid his blanket on the floor and found a niche for his mess tin, with the silver cutlery that he’d never done without and the silver cup which collapsed into a little round box. He placed his leather haversack with its biscuits, dried meat, dates and water flask where it would be safe from parasites and mice. He took out his pickaxe, shovel and the trowel with its beechwood handle that he’d had crafted especially for him at the hardware shop near the British Museum. He had food, he had his weapons and he was entrenched behind a stone wall: he was ready for action.
That night his campfire blazed at the centre of the wide valley under the vault of the heavens and the white strip of the Milky Way, which crossed the mouth of the crater from side to side. The realization that the Being he was searching for had slept in that place for centuries was enough to keep his body tense and his mind vigilant, but in the end the infinite peace of that marvellous site prevailed. Desmond Garrett did not enter the mausoleum that he had chosen as a shelter, but slept wrapped in the quiet of the universe, under the mantle of the starry night.
PHILIP LEFT DURA EUROPOS the next morning at dawn after preparing his horse and filling his flask with water from the Euphrates, which he’d boiled in his field pot over the campfire. He left by the western gate, called the Palmyra Gate, heading for the oasis of Tedmor, a journey of four days, he figured. The terrain he would be crossing was completely flat and barren, a hard, yellow wasteland with a few dried shrubs scattered here and there. He decided to avoid the Deir ez Zor road, which was too heavily used. He knew he couldn’t trust the bedouin tribes and he wanted his route to remain as secret as possible.
Whenever he spotted the outline of a tent in the distance, he would turn off the trail to give the camp a wide berth, circling around until it was no longer visible on the horizon behind him. He would then make his way slowly back to the trail and proceed straight ahead as long as the light of day allowed.
It was fairly late in the season and the days had become quite short, but Philip took advantage of the last glow of twilight and the first light of dawn. He even continued his journey when he could by the light of the moon, making the most of the chalky luminescence of the salty white ground.
Night was as quiet as day, and the enormous flat space that surrounded him would have seemed completely empty if it hadn’t been for the howling of jackals that rose out of nowhere and faded back into nothing when the rare autumn clouds flitted past the moon. He stayed on the right track thanks to his field compass, a gift from his father many, many years before. It was a beautiful instrument of polished brass in a dark brown leather case. Every time he checked his direction he realized that his father was guiding him even then.
All that solitude brought thoughts of his father to mind. What might he be like after so many years spent so far from human society, after all this time spent in a relentless search? What would meeting him be like, if he managed to find him? What would he tell him? What would they say to each other? Would he find the words to ask him how he could have disappeared in such a way, with no warning, without even saying goodbye?
He slept whenever tiredness overwhelmed him. He avoided lighting fires even when he would have been able to gather up a sufficient quantity of twigs and sticks, so as not to attract attention, but he knew that the desert had eyes and ears everywhere, even when it seemed empty. He reached Tedmor on the evening of the fourth day, and he congratulated himself on how well he had succeeded in his solitary navigation.
He’d never seen such a marvel. He rode along the great colonnade and then turned left towards the palm grove that surrounded the spring and the pool. A little boy dressed in a long red tunic had been watching and following him since he’d entered the oasis. Philip stopped suddenly and asked him: ‘What do you want?’
‘What about you?’ replied the boy. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m looking for Sheikh Abu el Abd, may God preserve him.’
‘Then follow me,’ said the boy, heading towards the gigantic Temple of Baal that stood at the western border of the oasis.
The sheikh was inside the temple, sitting on the bench from which he administered justice over his tribe. Philip sat down on the capital of a toppled column and waited until the session had ended. He then approached and said, ‘Salam alekhum, al sheikh, my name is Philip Garrett. Enos ben Gad told me you would be able to give me news of my father.’
The sheikh drew closer and gave him a searching look. ‘You are the son of Desmond nabil?’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ replied Philip
‘When did you speak with Enos ben Gad?’
‘Five days ago.’
‘Were you present at his last hour?’
‘I was. But how do you know that he’s dead?
’
‘I know.’
‘Enos said that you could tell me where to look for my father.’
‘Your father did not mention you to me. Why should I tell you where he is?’
Philip lowered his head. Could his father really persist in keeping his whereabouts a secret ad infinitum? He replied nonetheless, ‘Perhaps my father never mentioned me to you, but Enos ben Gad did tell me to come here, otherwise why would I have journeyed so far? It was with his last breath that he said, “Abu el Abd . . . go to Tedmor, he knows.” But if you won’t speak to me, I’ll continue to search for my father on my own. I’ll turn over every stone of this wretched desert if I must.’ He fell silent, waiting for a reply.
‘If you spoke with Enos ben Gad, tell me, what goods does he sell at his market stall at the grand bazaar?’
‘Sandalwood. You must ask him for sandalwood.’
‘And where does he keep it?’
‘Not in the shop. It’s in his house, in the patio, in a corner cupboard.’
‘Follow me,’ said the sheikh.
They went to the tent by the pool and the sheikh had him enter. ‘I can trust no one,’ he said, inviting his guest to join him. ‘Our enemies are everywhere. Is it you who are looking for your father, or did he send for you?’
‘I think he has sent for me. But I sometimes have my doubts. I haven’t seen him for ten years. I’m simply following a trail he’s left for me. But it hasn’t helped much. The journey is difficult and the obstacles in my way seem enormous.’
‘Do you know what your father is searching for?’
‘I do.’
‘And you’re not afraid?’
‘I am afraid.’
‘Then why don’t you turn back?’
‘Because I’m not afraid enough.’
‘Your father was here as Enos ben Gad was dying. We heard his soul passing in the wind.’
‘But where is my father now?’
‘If nothing has stopped him, he is somewhere between here and the City of Tombs.’
‘Petra,’ said Philip. ‘I’ll find him.’
COLONEL JOBERT ADVANCED with his men through the scorching desert, hoping to reach a well before nightfall. The landscape had become very different and unfamiliar. Here and there the bones of gigantic animals poked out of the sand, and the ground was covered with an endless expanse of flint, black and shiny, incandescent in the heat.
Captain Bonnier stopped in his tracks. ‘Colonel.’
‘What is it?’
‘Look. On that stone.’
Jobert glanced at the incision. A faceless man, with a Gorgon on his chest.
‘The Blemmyae again, Commander.’
Jobert did not reply and spurred his horse on to the head of the column, followed by the captain.
‘How much further do you intend to proceed in this direction, Colonel? The well at Bir Akkar is the last we’ll be able to draw water from. If we go on for any more than thirty kilometres beyond that point, the men’s lives will be at constant risk.’
‘Have you ever heard of Kalaat Hallaki, Captain Bonnier?’
Bonnier seemed disconcerted. ‘Yes, I have, of course, but I’ve been led to believe that it is merely a legend.’
‘It’s no legend, Bonnier, and I will prove it. All that’s needed is the courage to venture fifty kilometres beyond the well of Bir Akkar.’
‘That’s one hundred, of course, if we shouldn’t find anything there, and if we haven’t found water along the way. You risk the unit’s destruction.’
‘We have no choice if we want to reach the area we’ve been asked to explore. We must discover what has happened to the expeditions who have ventured into these lands and have vanished.’
‘We’ll have to see if we can find enough water at Bir Akkar. Everything depends on that,’ said Bonnier.
‘Yes. In that case, we will collect sufficient supplies to attempt to reach Kalaat Hallaki.’
‘And if Kalaat Hallaki does not exist?’
‘It does exist, Bonnier. I’m sure it exists. It’s merely well hidden in one of the Wadi Addir gullies.’
It was late afternoon by the time they reached Bir Akkar and Jobert had the water level measured immediately. It was not abundant, but might suffice. He had his men light the sulphur carbide stoves and boil all the water they were able to extract. The next morning he calculated twenty litres of water for each man, a quantity that would be barely enough for four days. It would last if they found Kalaat Hallaki. If not, their fates would be in the hands of God.
They set off. Nothing particular happened for the first two days of their journey. Jobert had ordered his soldiers to economize on water as much as possible, and to save the urine of both the men and animals – they would recycle it if necessary.
On the evening of the third day they came within sight of a wadi that cut across their line of march. The vegetation on the stony bottom was sparse and stunted, but larger trees could be seen further up in the direction of the mountain.
‘Do you see that, Bonnier?’ said Colonel Jobert. ‘Do you know what that means? We’ll find water in more than sufficient quantity if we head in that direction.’
They resumed their journey, but before long the vegetation thinned out again and then disappeared completely. Jobert lowered his head; he could feel his men staring at his back, and he began to fear for their lives.
‘It’s useless for all of us to proceed together,’ he said then. ‘It would be a waste of water and energy that we can ill afford. Three of us will go on to scout out the terrain. The rest of you will remain here, doing nothing that would increase your drinking and eating needs beyond what is strictly necessary. Don’t lose hope, men. I’m sure that we’ll find Kalaat Hallaki before dusk. But if you don’t see us return by tomorrow, turn back and may God protect you.’
He took a sergeant and a legionnaire with him, and enough water and food for twenty-four hours. They departed in a south-easterly direction, abandoning the wadi bed that seemed to be leading them astray. As he observed the surrounding terrain, Jobert realized that the arid course of the Addir meandered around a vast limestone plateau that emerged here and there from the sand; he estimated that it was many kilometres wide. From the same plateau rose an arcing range of hills that stood out against the south-western horizon. Jobert decided to cross the plateau from one side to another in the hope of finding the wadi again on the other side. The calcareous bedrock would help the groundwater to drain from the hills and to concentrate at the point in which the plateau was immersed once again in the sand. That’s where Kalaat Hallaki was to be found.
Jobert and his two companions rode under the blazing sun for hours and hours, but when they were about halfway across the vast limestone plateau, a fiery western wind barred their way with a cloud of dust and sand which formed an impenetrable barrier.
Jobert turned to his men. ‘This very phenomenon was described in the reports I’ve read. Trust me, we can’t give up now. Our compass will guide us through the sandstorm. Cover your faces and eyes and we’ll go on,’ he said.
The men dampened their handkerchiefs and knotted them in front of their noses and mouths and followed their commander, who was urging his reluctant mount into that dense wall of dust raised by the incessant wind, which obscured the sky. They advanced slowly for nearly three hours without any change in the situation. The dust was as fine as talc. It dried their nostrils and throats and penetrated into their lungs, provoking a continuous, hacking cough.
Jobert looked back and realized that the horse of one of his men was about to collapse, overcome by strain and thirst. ‘Onward!’ he shouted. ‘We mustn’t lose heart! Onward!’ But the hissing wind carried his voice off, far away. He felt doomed. He thought of his men, waiting in vain. They would surely all die in a futile attempt to get back to Bir Akkar.
He turned forwards again, to forge on in the only direction which left him any hope, and couldn’t believe his eyes. As if by some miracle, the cloud of sand was disp
ersing. Step after step, the driving wind was becoming a gentle breeze and a vision appeared before his eyes. A green, sheltered valley, an expanse of fertile fields and lush palm groves. Pomegranates, figs, grapes. Canals intertwined around a pool as blue as the sky and as clear as crystal, and atop a granite cliff stood a colossal fortress: Kalaat Hallaki!
‘My God!’ he said, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘We’ve made it.’
They descended into the valley at a slow pace as the fresh, damp air seemed to quench their thirst and to reward them for braving that hell. They crossed green fields where animals were browsing: herds of sheep and long-maned mares with their colts. They stopped at a rocky outcrop from which a jet of water spilled into a basalt basin. An old man sitting on a dry palm trunk did not even seem to notice their presence.
‘We have crossed the desert and we are tormented by thirst,’ said Colonel Jobert. ‘We come in peace and ask if we may draw water.’
The old man replied in Arabic with a strange accent, as if he were used to speaking a completely different language.
‘You may take water if you come in peace,’ he said.
‘We come in peace,’ repeated the officer. ‘Thank you, from the depths of my heart, thank you.’
The men dismounted and caught the water in their hands, bringing it avidly to their mouths. They washed the dust from their faces and hair and watered their exhausted horses. It was like living in a dream.
‘I have other companions, tormented by thirst as well, and by hunger. They are beyond the barrier of wind,’ he said to the old man. ‘May I bring them here as well? Their lives are in danger.’
‘You may bring them here,’ said the old man, ‘if they come in peace.’
The two legionnaires let their horses graze, watered them again and then filled their flasks with fresh water before they departed.
‘We will be here tomorrow by dusk,’ they promised.
‘Good luck,’ said Colonel Jobert. ‘I’ll wait for you here.’
‘Who are you?’ asked the old man.