The Tower (25 page)

He forced the lid with the tip of his dagger and lifted his lantern to look inside. The coffin was empty, but the bottom was crawling with scorpions.

They were mostly females, with clusters of young, their bodies still transparent, clinging to their backs. They’d found an undisturbed, well-sheltered place for reproducing. But how had they got in?

Desmond spilled a little of the petroleum from his lamp onto the bottom of the sarcophagus, then lit a match and dropped it in. The decaying wood caught fire all at once, in a huge blaze that lit up the funeral chamber as bright as day. Amid the hiss of the flames, he could hear the crackling of the scorpions’ bodies as they burst, and he recalled being told that a scorpion hemmed in by a ring of fire will kill itself by injecting its body with its own poison.

He watched the fire as if hypnotized by that explosion of light. He had destroyed the sixth tomb! Only the seventh was left: the last, the most remote, the most hidden, the most difficult. An impregnable fortress, watched over and defended by formidable forces.

The Fortress of Solitude!

Desmond turned to retrace his steps and what he saw changed his elation into the deepest despair.

Sand.

The access tunnel was full of sand, which was pouring slowly into the underground chamber, spreading out in the shape of a fan across the floor. He rushed forward to search for a way to get out, but he sank in all the way up to his waist. He floundered through the river of sand, trying desperately to make his way back up the ramp, but the sand was sucking him down, making every movement incredibly difficult. This time he really was in a trap.

He looked at the rope, the pickaxe, the steel crowbar – objects that his experience in the Aleppo tomb had suggested. All completely useless. What an idiot! He’d been tricked into thinking that what had got him out of trouble the first time would work a second. The components of this new trap were totally incongruous: solid rock and sand. Two elements which were the exact opposite of each other, yet equally unyielding. Whoever had designed the sixth tomb had factored in the presumptions of the hunter who would succeed in destroying the fifth. But . . . where had the sand come from, if the ceiling and the walls of the tunnel were carved into solid rock?

The slab with the crucifix! Moving the slab must have activated some sort of delayed mechanism that poured sand into the tunnel from a reservoir up above. And he, Desmond Garrett, the last hunter, was a prisoner in the bottom of an hourglass. When the lower compartment was filled with sand, the monstrous machine would mark the hour of his death.

He looked at the tunnel. The top of it was still open and a fair amount of air was flowing through it, but there was nothing along the passage that he could grasp on to, nothing that would help him get out. He tried tapping the walls again with his pickaxe, to see if he could find some hidden compartment or crumbling stone, but all his efforts were in vain.

He would stop every now and then, sitting in the corner furthest from the opening to regain his strength and catch his breath, hoping for some last-minute solution: a stone, a chunk of clay, anything that he might use to block the passage and stop the flow of sand. Might it even stop on its own? How could any rock basin designed to hold and feed in the sand still be as smooth and clean as a glass jar after all these centuries? Might there not have been some landslide, or an infiltration of some sort? After all, Petra was built of carboniferous rock, which dissolved in water. And plenty of water had fallen over twenty centuries in a land so vulnerable to erosion. It was raining at that very moment . . .

He thought of Philip.

H
E SAW A FLICKERING LIGHT
for a moment in that total darkness, like a fire blazing at the end of the valley. But how could a fire be burning there after an hour of rain? He urged his horse in that direction at a trot, careful not to let him stumble on the jutting rocks, and watched as the light flared up again, coming from some kind of hollow in the ground, and then died out.

The storm had subsided a little but was not over, and Philip took shelter under a rocky outcrop near to where he had seen the flashing light. He began to dry off his horse with the sponge that he always kept in the saddlebag.

He suddenly heard a muffled but distinct sound, a kind of dull pounding that seemed to be coming from the hollow. He lit his lantern to inspect the bottom. There was a hole there all right and that’s where the pounding was coming from. He took a rope from his saddle, tied one end to a dry acacia trunk standing at the edge of the hollow and cautiously lowered himself down towards the hole. The sound was even louder now, but Philip could still not tell what it was. It would sometimes stop for a few minutes and then start up again.

He felt that he needed to know who or what was making that noise. He leaned over the edge of the hole and shouted in Arabic, ‘Who’s down there?’ He waited, then shouted again even louder, ‘Is someone down there?’

Desmond stopped the pickaxe in mid-stroke and strained to hear. The voice repeated, ‘Is anyone down there?’

‘Philip!’ he said, thinking he’d gone mad. Then, as loudly as he could, he shouted back, ‘Philip! Philip!’

‘Father!’ replied his son’s voice. It was muffled and distorted, but he was sure it was Philip’s voice.

Desmond started shouting again, pronouncing one word at a time so he was sure he’d be understood. ‘Philip, it’s your father! I’m trapped in an underground room that’s filling up with sand. From where you are, can you see what s beneath you?

‘Wait!’ replied Philip.

He dropped slowly down into the hole. When his foothold felt secure, he let go with his hands and lit the lantern. Below him was a big funnel-shaped bowl, a seemingly natural structure that had been artificially modified in order to create a smooth surface down which a large quantity of sand was pouring. The hole at its bottom was partially clear, for a space of about fifty centimetres. So that was where the reflection of the fire that had caught his attention had been coming from, and from where he could hear his father’s voice.

He shouted, ‘The sand is coming from here! There’s a big reservoir but I can’t tell how deep it is. The sand is pouring down towards an opening. I could try to descend with a rope.’

‘How long is the rope?’ asked his father.

‘About fifteen metres.’

‘That’s not enough. You wouldn’t even get within sight of me. The corridor leading to the room I’m in is at least eight metres long on its own.’

‘I’m going to try to get down to you anyway,’ said Philip.

‘No! Don’t do it, for the love of God! You would only sink into the sand.’

‘How did you get down there?’

‘From the valley of Petra. From the big stone tomb with the Corinthian portico.’

‘Can I try to get in that way?’

‘No, it wouldn’t work. You’d have to get past the sand and that’s impossible from there. The tunnel is two-thirds full!’

‘Damn!’ cursed Philip. ‘There’s got to be a way. Don’t you have anything with you?’

‘A pickaxe, a steel crowbar and a rope. All useless in this situation.’

‘No, wait,’ said Philip. ‘I’ve just had an idea. How long is your rope?’

‘About ten metres.’

‘Tie it to something heavy. The crowbar. Maybe I’ve found the way to get down.’

‘Be careful!’ shouted his father. ‘If you fall into the sand we’re both lost!’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Philip. ‘We’ll make it.’

The idea of rescuing his father from a trap like this made Philip euphoric. He would show him now! After all those years of trying to solve impossible conundrums, all those years of trying to earn his father’s esteem.

He climbed up out of the hole and went to examine the acacia tree at the rim, where he had tied his rope. As he had thought, the trunk was much longer than the opening at the bottom of the hole was wide. He took an axe from the gear he’d packed onto his horse and began to hack at the tree’s roots. He had heard that acacia wood was hard, but he would never have imagined how hard. It was like trying to cut stone.

He put everything he had into the task, realizing that his father’s life might be hanging by a thread; even a few minutes could make all the difference. Finally, the last root was cut and the trunk, about twenty centimetres in diameter, fell to the ground. Philip tied one end of the rope to the centre of the trunk with a double slipknot and secured the other end to his waist. He dragged the trunk down and fitted it across the hole at the bottom. He tied a handkerchief over his mouth and stopped up his ears and then began to lower himself down. When he touched sand, he let his arms and legs slide over it so he wouldn’t sink in. He slipped through the bottom opening and into the access tunnel, closing his eyes and holding his breath as though he were diving.

He was buried under cascading sand, and an atrocious sensation of suffocation and panic threatened to overwhelm him, but he didn’t lose hold of the rope and managed to pull himself back up to the surface with immense effort. His eyelids and ears were full of sand and his heart felt as if it would burst, but as soon as he had his head out and drew a breath, he knew he would make it. He let himself slip forward, holding the rope tightly. After the first stretch he found he could control his movements much better because the speed of the sand had greatly diminished. He was almost at the point where the tunnel opened onto the underground chamber when he felt a sharp tug: the rope was stretched taut and he could go no further. He tried to wipe his eyelids as best he could before opening his eyes and he finally saw his father. He was just four or five metres in front of him. The sand had already flooded the entire room and was at his waist.

‘Throw me your rope!’ Philip shouted.

Desmond tossed the crowbar from which his own rope dangled. After missing it a couple of times, Philip managed to grab it and tie it onto his.

‘We’ll go up now!’ he said. ‘Cover your mouth with a handkerchief and try to protect your eyes and ears. This is the hard part. We have to make our way up the stream of falling sand. There’s no alternative!’

‘I’ll follow you,’ replied Desmond. ‘Go on.’

Philip began to haul himself back up on the rope. It wasn’t too difficult, until he reached the cascade. He took a deep breath and let himself go into the onrushing sand. He thought his chest would explode. It was impossible to breathe and the exertion required to go on was tremendous. He forced himself to think of all the obstacles he’d overcome to get where he was, and to think of the man dragging himself so laboriously behind him. He tightened his grip, knowing that his father’s life was in his hands. The sand grated his bare hands and got under his clothes, weighing him down and creating an incredible amount of friction. But he had calculated the height of the sandfall on his way down and he knew that each time he managed to put one hand over another he was twenty centimetres closer to the top.

When his head finally burst from the sand inside the reservoir he was close to passing out. He ripped the handkerchief from his mouth and took two or three rapid, deep breaths. The oxygen restored life and lucidity. He turned around, as he continued to hoist himself upwards, and shouted, ‘Stop before the sandfall, father! Did you hear me? Don’t try to get through the sandfall!’

‘I heard you,’ answered his father.

‘Good! Wait there until I’m out completely. Don’t start to pull yourself up until you feel me tugging the rope. That way I can help you from here.’

‘All right, I’ll wait.’

As Philip made his way up, he saw that the top part of the reservoir was already free of sand. He pushed off the nearly clear surface and hoisted himself up to the acacia trunk, which had performed its task as an anchor perfectly. He was outside, finally, and the last drops of rain from the storm were an immense relief. The sight of the stars glittering here and there among the clouds reminded him of the sublime verses with which Dante concluded his
Inferno
: ‘Thence we came forth to see again the stars.’ He turned back towards the hole, pulled the rope taut and gave a sharp tug.

‘I’m coming up!’ shouted his father.

Philip began to pull with all his might, bracing his legs against the acacia trunk. He could soon feel that his father had come past the critical point, but he continued to pull nonetheless to help him up. When he saw his head emerging from the hole, he couldn’t believe it was true. He stretched out his hand and helped him up and into the night air. They were on their feet, facing each other.

‘Hello, father,’ said Philip with a calm voice.

Desmond wiped the sand from his eyes and face, then said, ‘I’m happy to see you, Philip.’

Philip had tried so many times to imagine this meeting with his father and what he would say to him. He had thought of reproaching him for all his absurd behaviour, or of calling him a bastard for forcing Philip to follow him in a stupid game of hide-and-seek. Or else, he had thought, he would punch him first and then hold him in a long embrace, like Ulysses and Telemachus.

Instead, all he had managed to say was, ‘Hello, father.’

‘Let’s go down to the valley,’ said Desmond. ‘I’ve got bread in my bag, some salt and olive oil. And maybe even a drop of whisky.’

‘But, father,’ said Philip, ‘it’s three in the morning, not time for dinner.’

‘Yes, it is,’ said Desmond. ‘I’ve destroyed the sixth tomb and you’re here with me. You do know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’

‘I do,’ said Philip.

The rain had stopped. The smell of fragrant herbs and wet dust rose from the ground, and the stars twinkled even more brightly among the scattering clouds.

‘Find some wood,’ said Desmond, when they got to the bottom of the valley. ‘It won’t have rained hard enough to soak it through. Light a fire if you can and we’ll toast a little bread.’

‘I have some things too,’ said Philip.

He went to get the bag that the woman in Aleppo had given him and then lit a fire under a rocky outcrop. The damp wood smoked at first but then burst into flame, crackling and giving off a slightly bitter aroma. Philip opened the satchel and placed his remaining delicacies on a little cloth: honey, dates, sweets, fruit jellies and walnuts. But as he was rummaging through the satchel his fingers stopped as he touched an object that he would never have expected to find there.