The Sleeping Sands by Nat Edwards Page A

these days. It’s as if the locals don’t like being ruled by the Pasha. I can’t, for the life of me see why.’ He spat into the fire and belched.
    ‘Pardon me. I of course have no complaints, it’s not as if my wife’s cooking is any good anyway – nor do I enjoy the comforts of my fine house and garden. I exist merely to serve the Pasha, may his testicles…’
    ‘And you think you know a way through the quarantine?’ interrupted Layard, to spare Antonio more blushes.
    The Bashi Bozuk leaned back and grinned, his face illuminated by the flames to give the impression of a somewhat travel-stained old Bacchus. His satin sash and bandolier glinted in the firelight. In the orange glow, the soldier reminded Layard of no-one more than his uncle William. The Bashi Bozuk took up a dirty goatskin bag and took a great gulp of wine from it, before handing it to Layard.
    ‘Oh, it can be done – by someone with a little spirit of adventure, and I see in you plenty of that.’
    Layard, who had been thinking twice about the wineskin decided he should reinforce his companion’s good impression by taking a draught. The wine was reassuringly potent – strong enough, he thought, to counter any unwholesome agent from the skin’s doubtful hygiene. It tasted good after weeks of stale water and sour milk among Bedouin encampments. Perhaps there was just the faintest flavour of old goat – but its warmth spread quickly along his tired limbs and he began to relax. He stretched back and looked at the soldier.
    The Bashi Bozuks were irregular cavalry used by Ibrahim Pasha to police the Syrian population. They had a reputation around the region for cruelty and dishonesty, but Layard could see no evidence of this in the good-natured tax-collector. He was a great bear of a man, hung about with pistols, knives and other seemingly barbaric accoutrements, but his eyes sparkled with a kindly, if not off-colour humour. From the moment they had met him in their rough lodging at Jerash, the Bashi Bozuk had seemed to take it as a personal duty to adopt them and help them on their journey. He had negotiated an almost ridiculously small price for their bed and meal and had given short shrift to all manner of hucksters and would-be guides who had swarmed about Layard, hoping to extort his remaining funds.
    ‘Don’t you worry about the plague?’ asked Layard, handing back the wineskin.
    ‘Bah! I have a surefire remedy for any plagues,’ chuckled the soldier and took another giant swallow of wine, for the purpose of illustration.
    ‘But surely the poor wretches who live among the ruins can’t offer up much in the way of taxes to the Pashalic,’ observed Layard, ‘I spent all day among the monuments and all I saw of its modern inhabitants were huddled in tents or rough shelters scavenged from fallen masonry.’
    ‘Poor? Ha!’ scoffed the Bashi Bozuk. ‘These wretches live in the finest palaces ever built. Just today I was in the home of one man who begged poverty, while he and his family sat upon a broken statue that might have been carved for the great Pompey himself.’
    He noted Layard’s raised brow.
    ‘Ah, you are surprised I know something of the history of this place?’ asked the solider. ‘Don’t think that all the Pasha’s soldiers are illiterate brutes. I know plenty about Jerash. It is one of the most wonderful cities ever built.’
    He leaned forward so that the flames lit more of his great wine-stained face and his eyes sparkled wickedly. He swallowed from the dirty skin once more and smacked his lips volubly before continuing.
    ‘Older than time, it is – this place.’ He wiped some sweat from his brow with the back of an enormous hand and continued.
    ‘Over there, the Temple of the Sun. Over, there’ he pointed into the dark, ‘the Temple of the Moon. Here, here and here, roads, squares, crescents – all laid out with perfect symmetry. Out there,’ he rolled his eyes dramatically, ‘out there, beyond the