The Tower

  ‘I’ve been investigating the passageways beneath the old Franciscan monastery,’ he replied.

  The old man regarded him with an expression of surprise. ‘Just like your father,’ he murmured.

  ‘My father, did you say? Lino, what was my father looking for in the catacombs?’ Philip asked.

  The old man took another sip of his coffee, then set the little cup on its saucer and breathed a deep sigh.

  ‘You’ll think it strange, but he was looking for a sound.’

  ‘A sound?’

  ‘Yes. A soft metallic sound, like the notes of a music box. The Franciscans claimed they could hear it when an earthquake was coming. The people believed them and would seek shelter between the monastery walls, because they said that the sound would protect them from any cataclysm. And in fact the walls have never been damaged. Didn’t the guardian tell you?’

  Philip passed a hand over his forehead. Everything fitted together perfectly, even though, for the time being, nothing made sense. ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘Your father asked for permission to explore the catacombs. He heard that sound and was deeply affected by it. I don’t know, maybe he only thought he’d heard it, but afterwards he had no peace. He would hum that little tune continually, obsessively. He asked me to find a craftsman who could make a music box that would reproduce those notes. I had it made and he gave it to you as a gift, remember?

  ‘Then one day he gave it back to me, telling me to take good care of it. Look, I’m not making this up,’ he added, getting up from his chair and opening the door of a little cupboard. ‘See?’ And he took out a little wooden box topped by a lead soldier. ‘Remember it? He gave it to you the day of your fourteenth birthday, but when he had to leave for the war, he brought it to me and made me promise not to say a word to anyone about it.’ He opened the cover and turned the key and a brief, plaintive melody filled the little room.

  Philip blanched. ‘My God . . .’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I know . . . where this music comes from. Look.’ He got up, went over to his haversack and took out the sistrum under the mystified gaze of the old manservant and the Arab warrior. He hung it on the doorjamb and gave it a little push with the tip of his index finger. It swung and the bronze beads slid on their rods, tapping the metal frame one after another and producing a silvery sequence of notes.

  The old man reached out a hand with tears in his eyes. ‘You’re right! This is the true source of the music, my son.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Philip. ‘This has sounded for centuries in the underground labyrinth every time the earth shook. This is what my father was looking for. But why?’

  The old man shook his head. ‘I don’t know, and neither did your father. It was something he couldn’t explain. There are forces that guide us at times without our realizing why. Don’t you believe that?’

  ‘What about you, El Kassem? Don’t you know either?’

  ‘No. But it must be very important. There was someone else looking for it tonight. Remember?’

  ‘Yes. I saw his face.’

  El Kassem jumped. ‘You saw his face? Why didn’t you tell me right away? It was so dark that I thought . . .’

  ‘No, not there on the street. When he was underground. He’s tall, blond, with a square jaw and icy blue eyes.’

  El Kassem paled. ‘O merciful Allah! It was Selznick.’

  5

  COLONEL JOBERT HAD REMAINED at the El Aziri fort for a month in the hope of receiving news from Philip Garrett which could help him in his search. Seeing that no message was forthcoming, he decided to leave the fort at the end of October with two companies of legionnaires. Although the heat should have been tolerable so late in the season, the summer was unusually prolonged that year and their advance to the south-eastern quadrant became more strenuous and punishing with each passing day.

  He managed to get information from the bedouins at the oases. They spoke of two foreigners: one – a tall infidel with light eyes, suffering from a pain in his right side – sounded like Selznick; he had been seen in April heading north towards Fezzan. The other had left the well at Bir Akkar, directed east, at the beginning of September. This second nabil had dark eyes and silver hair at his temples; he was certainly Desmond Garrett. Although he felt sure of their identities, Jobert could not understand why Selznick was going north. Where could he be headed, and for what reason? Perhaps Garrett had confided in Selznick years earlier, when he still thought he could trust him, and the trail he was following might be based on the very information he’d received from Garrett.

  Aware of the fact that dividing one’s forces in the desert was invariably a mistake, Jobert sent a telegraph from the last outpost to the garrisons along the coast, ordering them to watch the caravan routes and the ports and to stop Selznick should he try to take ship, although he didn’t have too many illusions about the success of such an operation. If Selznick had managed to get to Libya and gone to Gadames and Tripoli, he would be able to reach Italy or Greece or Turkey without problems. Jobert was nonetheless sure that their paths would one day cross again.

  He had saved the most difficult task for himself: the exploration of the south-eastern quadrant, a desolate and practically inaccessible area, cursed by extremely high temperatures and very few wells. A report dating back to the early 1800s, cited in Desmond Garrett’s study, spoke of an oasis beyond the inferno: a little Eden, with luxuriant palms, fig and pomegranate trees, where clear water flowed abundantly. The oasis was completely hidden in a gully of Wadi Addir and was protected by its banks from incessant sandstorms. This small but completely independent realm was ruled over by an ancient family who claimed to be descended from an Egyptian son of Joseph the Hebrew. They reigned over their land from an impregnable fortress: the castle of Kalaat Hallaki.

  No one knew what there was beyond this oasis. The bedouins claimed the territory was haunted by spirits and called it the sands of the djinn. The Sand of Ghosts. It was there that Colonel Jobert hoped to find Desmond Garrett, sooner or later, and it was there that he was convinced he would discover the reason behind the disturbing phenomena that he had been sent to investigate.

  For days and days they advanced over a land scorched by a merciless sun, losing horses and camels along the way, without ever meeting a single human being.

  They camped one night near a well half-buried in the sand. After they had laboured long and hard to clear away the sand, just a little bitter water gurgled out, barely enough to slake the thirst of the men and animals. As the soldiers were setting up camp, Jobert sent one of the captains to reconnoitre the surrounding area with a patrol before darkness fell. The officer returned some time later, alone, at a gallop.

  ‘Colonel!’ he cried out, without dismounting. ‘You must come and see this!’

  Jobert jumped onto his horse and followed the man. They rode for a couple of kilometres until they reached the spot where the patrol had stopped, in front of a low, jagged ridge that rose from the sand like the crest of a dragon.

  ‘You’ll never believe what we’ve found!’

  Jobert dismounted and followed him to a point at which the rocky ridge was interrupted by a smooth surface a couple of metres long. It was completely covered with carvings depicting strange creatures: headless men wearing grotesque masks on what appeared to be their chests.

  ‘The Blemmyae, Commander! Look! The race of headless men with their faces on their chests spoken of by the ancients!’

  Jobert immediately noticed the agitation that his words were producing in the soldiers nearby and he shot his subordinate a withering look. ‘They’re just pictures on a stone, Captain Bonnier,’ he said. ‘Control yourself. We’ve seen much worse over the years!’

  They returned to their camp to eat some biscuits and dates. Before retiring for the night, Colonel Jobert summoned the captain to his tent.

  ‘Bonnier, you must be mad! How could you spout such foolishness in front of the men? They are soldiers, but they’re vulnera
ble under these conditions. Good God, man, you should know them by now! Make them face a pack of marauders on horseback in the middle of the desert and they won’t bat an eye. But if you fill their heads with strange imaginings you’ll have them trembling with fear in this cursed land. Do I really need to explain it to you?’

  Bonnier lowered his head in confusion.

  ‘I apologize, Commander. But you see, in those rock carvings, I saw the truth behind an ancient legend reported by Pliny the Elder. He speaks of a fierce race of beings who live on the edges of the southern desert. The Blemmyae: men with no heads, who wear their faces on their chests.’

  ‘I am astounded at you, Bonnier! Do you think you’re the only one to have read the classics? I’m sure you’ll have noticed, in your reading, that any area, any area at all, that is out of reach, inaccessible or unexplored, on land or at sea, is populated by monsters of every description by the ancients! Your Pliny describes a race of men in India who have but one foot, which they lift above their supine bodies to shade themselves in the heat of noon!’

  ‘You’re right, Commander. But this is proof ! While we have no evidence of those other stories.’

  ‘Well, then, I can tell you that whoever carved those figures had heard of Pliny! Do you know how many fakes have been cunningly fabricated by well-read travellers over the last couple of centuries?’

  ‘I beg to differ with you, sir. The chances that a traveller arrived at this very point during the last century or two with the intention of creating an archaeological forgery are close to nil. What’s more, allow me to remind you that I am something of an expert on primitive art, and I can assure you that those carvings are very ancient indeed. I cannot hazard a precise date, but I would say they go back to the early Bronze Age, at the very least. We’re speaking of over five thousand years ago. I hope you understand, sir. It’s obvious that no one believes in the existence of such a being, but it would be interesting to decipher the symbolism hidden behind this type of representation.’

  His subordinate’s insistence irritated Jobert, who was already tense because of the difficulties inherent in their advance. He cut him off sharply. ‘The subject is closed, Captain Bonnier. In the future you are to keep any such considerations to yourself. That is an order. Goodnight.’

  Bonnier clicked his heels and withdrew.

  KALAAT HALLAKI STOOD OUT at the top of the hill that dominated the oasis of Wadi Addir, the sky behind it darkening as the sun sank into the expanse of sand. Sparrows took to the air from the trees dotting the orchards and gardens, soaring to the castle bastions that were bleached white by the sun of infinite summers, while on high a hawk spread its wings in solemn flight. All at once, in the silence that precedes the deep peace of the evening, a woman’s song rang out from the tallest tower, soft at first and then more intense, high and warbling, a hymn sweet and agonizing, which rose like a silver stream towards the evening star. The swallows’ chirping stopped and the bleating of the sheep died down as if nature were intent on listening to the elegy flowing from the veiled figure that had appeared on the ramparts of the immense fortress. Then, in an instant, the melody was distorted into a shrill, delirious scream that dissolved into heartbroken weeping.

  The oasis below was immersed in the light of dusk. The tops of the palms swayed in the evening breeze and the walls of the castle all around were enveloped in twilight as in the glow of a fire. The dying sun was mirrored in the canals that divided the terrain into verdant squares of emerald green nestled between the silvery waters and the golden sands.

  Against the disc of the sun sinking at the horizon there appeared a swarm of warriors wrapped in a cloud of golden dust. They were returning from battle, bearing their wounded and the memory, perhaps, of their dead left unburied on the Sand of Ghosts.

  The woman had disappeared. In her place stood the black-cloaked figure of her husband, the lord of that place, Rasaf el Kebir. He trained his eyes on the throng of warriors, trying to count them as a shepherd does his sheep as they return to the fold in the evening. He could make out at their head a man wrapped in a light blue barrakan, gripping a purple standard: their commander, Amir. He recognized the silvery shields of the mailed lancers on horseback and the riflemen on their fast mehari. Their losses did not seem to be too great; but as the army approached and he could distinguish between one man and another and even make out their spears, he was overwhelmed with astonishment as his gaze fell upon something that no one had ever seen under the walls of Kalaat Hallaki. A prisoner! Bound to a saddle, his hands in chains behind his back. For the first time in living memory, a prisoner had been taken!

  He hurried down the stairs and ran into the courtyard as the gate was swinging open to allow the warriors to enter. Amir was the first to dismount, handing the standard to a footman as Rasaf rushed forward to embrace him. As the wounded were being seen to, the woman’s sobbing could suddenly be heard again from above.

  ‘Where is she?’ Amir asked.

  Rasaf raised his head towards a stair that led up to the women’s quarters.

  ‘They caught us by surprise again, damn them. They spring out of the sand, all at once, hundreds of them, from every direction. Their energy seems to have no limits. Even after they’re down, and you think they’re dead, that’s when they suddenly pounce. Many of our men were wounded that way.’

  Rasaf’s expression was full of anguish. ‘We must find a passage! The time is coming. I can no longer sleep at night, nor find peace by day.’

  Amir gestured behind him. ‘We have a prisoner!’

  ‘I saw him,’ replied Rasaf, ‘although I couldn’t believe my eyes.’

  As he spoke he looked beyond Amir’s shoulders to behold the Enemy: the scorpion of the desert, the denizen of the Sand of Ghosts. The prisoner’s head was wrapped in a turban, knotted at the neck, which completely covered his face. The fabric had small holes slashed at the eyes and mouth. His bare chest was tattooed with a horrifying mask. Two curved blades hung from his belt, like the claws of a scorpion. The lower part of his body was covered by long, black camel-hair trousers. His skin was dry and very thick, as wrinkled as an old man’s, but his physical vigour was incredible. Every yank he made at his chains threatened to topple the four gigantic lancers who held him down on all sides.

  ‘How did you do it?’ Rasaf asked. ‘None of us has ever managed to capture one of them.’

  ‘They are not invulnerable,’ said Amir. ‘Your ancestor Prince Abu Sarg once wrote that they were terrified of fire. When we saw that this one had separated from the rest to finish off one of our men who was trying to drag himself off the battlefield, my mounted guards encircled him with a ring of naphtha and set fire to it with a gunshot. His terror was so great that he lost consciousness. And so we captured him. He’s yours, my lord. Do with him as you wish.’

  ‘Fire,’ murmured Rasaf. ‘Fire will get us through! But how can we light enough flames to open a passage? It’s just not possible. Even if we felled all the trees in the oasis, even if we took down all the cedar beams in the castle, it wouldn’t be enough.’

  A flash lit Amir’s eyes. ‘Perhaps there is a way. If you allow me to draw upon the treasure of the ancestors in the Horse’s Crypt.’

  Rasaf’s head dropped as the suffocated wailing of his woman continued to rain down from above. As if she sensed the presence of the enemy.

  ‘The treasure of the ancestors,’ repeated Rasaf. ‘Even if I gave you permission, you know that it’s almost impossible to open the crypt . . .’

  He turned towards the prisoner, who had finally been bound, in the centre of the courtyard. Rasaf approached him, overcoming the disgust the creature aroused in him, and stretched out his hand towards the edge of the turban that covered his face.

  ‘No!’ shouted Amir. ‘Don’t do it! No one can see a Blemmyae in the face! Your bride, Rasaf ! Think of your bride . . . how her mind has been ravaged, destroyed for ever!’

  Rasaf retracted his hand. ‘Not for ever, Amir. We shall succeed in ope
ning a passage to the Place of Knowledge and we shall take her there on the appointed day. But now this scorpion must be destroyed. Take him out of the oasis and burn him. Then grind his bones in a mortar and sprinkle the dust in the desert.’

  Amir gestured to a group of warriors, who approached the prisoner. He writhed and struggled, letting out strange sounds like a terror-stricken animal as they dragged him away from the castle.

  Rasaf turned and went up the stair slowly, his head low. He walked down a long corridor punctuated by wide Moorish windows that looked out on the western desert until he found himself before a door. He opened it and entered with a quiet step. Lying on the bed was an incredibly beautiful dark-skinned woman whose gaze wandered absently to the arabesqued beams on the ceiling. He caressed her forehead lightly, then brought a bench near the bed and sat watching her silently. When she closed her eyes as if she were dozing off, he rose and went up to the castle bastions. The moon appeared in the east while the flames that were devouring the prisoner’s limbs rose to the west.

  WHEN HE SAW AMIR turn from the blaze and mount his horse to ride back to the castle, Rasaf went down to his apartments. He awaited him there by lamplight, sitting near the great window that gave onto the desert.

  ‘Do you truly believe that we can open a passage to the Tower of Solitude?’ he asked as soon as he heard Amir enter.

  ‘I do,’ replied Amir. ‘And today I had the proof that we will succeed. The Blemmyae are terrified of fire.’

  ‘How can you be certain?’

  ‘The reason they fear it is because they’ve never seen it. No one knows what they live on in that inferno of sand and wind, but there is nothing in their territory that can catch fire. Give me the chance to draw from the treasure in the Horse’s Crypt. I will go to Hit in Mesopotamia, where a spring of naphtha flows, and I will bargain with the tribes that live there. I will buy an enormous quantity of it and bring it all the way back here by camel, inside thousands of skins. And when the day arrives, our warriors will advance all the way to the Tower of Solitude protected by two walls of fire. I have heard that there are rifles which are immensely more powerful and precise than those we have: I will buy them as well, if you allow me to take from the treasure.’