Some were measured. The largest are 7 feet in diameter by 8 feet 4 inches high; the smallest 5 feet in diameter by 4 feet high. Though the sizes vary, they are all of one shape: giant jars tapering to a wide-mouthed neck at the top. They are constructed out of white chalky clay, knit with fibrous hairs of vegetation. Steps are moulded in the sides of all the larger jars, so that anyone may mount to gain entry at the top.
We had entered the final stronghold of Fachi; the last place of refuge in a city conceived, from end to end, with one great purpose—its strength of defence. And whoever may have been the wizard—for it is no haphazard work—he had the genius of a great man-at-arms. These giant urns, ready to be filled with dates and grain in time of siege, the deep well of water that is hidden in the centre of them, are eloquent of their purpose; like all else in the war-prepared fastness.
Reluctantly I left this strange open-air hall to climb to one of the watch-towers. The way was perpendicular; up notched palm-poles, and niches cut in the hard salt walls; then, through loopholes, into each of the three turret rooms that made up its height. On reaching any lofty outlook with country around it one usually looks outward on the vast panorama of landscape that presents itself. My first impulse here, on stepping out on the tower roof, was different. I turned at once in toward the town to peer down into the haunting pit I had just left, where glistened whitely in the sun, the urns of “The Forty Thieves,” like a picture of another age.
And from that strange scene I slowly lifted my eyes in vain endeavour to learn where one single street in Fachi began and ended. Then I was lost in unstinted wonder at it all.
Native history—imparted to me by the Malam, or learned man, of Fachi—has it that in bygone times the people of the town had no cunning in war, and were terribly harassed by raids. Arab caravans, with rich merchandise from Algeria and Tripoli to Bornu and Wadai, in those days passed through Fachi, and the uncertain safety of the place was not to their liking or benefit. Wherefore, the story goes, there came a time when Arabs arrived on the heels of an attack, when the town had been hard hit, and much reduced in strength. It happened that a great Arab from Tripoli was this caravan’s leader. He called the people of Fachi about him and said, in effect, according to the story, “Why is this? Enemy destroy you. You fear! You fly like the jackal into the desert to die!
“Bah! You have not sense! But Allah has sent us to your aid. We will show you how to build so that henceforth you shall fear no one.”
