Blue Horizon

by Wilbur Smith

  The once mighty empire, the richest and most glorious that had ever flourished in the great continent, was now in decay and dissolution as lesser emperors than Babur and Akbar struggled for dominance. Despite the political upheavals, the new Persian influence at the court of Delhi made for a favourable trading climate. The Persians were traders to the marrow of their bones, and the prices for ivory exceeded those that they had received in the factories of the Carnatic.

  Dorian was now in a position to rearm the two schooners, fill their empty holds with powder and shot, and transform them from trading vessels into fighting ships. They sailed on northwards and anchored in the roads of Hyderabad, through which the Indus river ran to the Arabian Sea. Dorian and Mansur went ashore with an armed party under Batula. They hired a carriage in the main souk, and an interpreter, to take them to one of the outlying areas of the sprawling, bustling city. The iron foundry of one of the most famous gun manufacturers in all the Punjab and the Indus basin—which meant in all India—was located on this flat and featureless alluvial plain. The proprietor was a Sikh of imperial mien, one Pandit Singh.

  Over the following weeks Dorian and Mansur selected from his stores a battery of guns, twelve for each ship. These were all long-barrelled, with a four-inch bore and an eleven-foot-long barrel that fired an iron ball of nine pounds’ weight. With such a narrow bore relative to the length of barrel it was an accurate, long-ranged weapon.

  Dorian measured and bore-gauged each of the barrels so that he could be certain that the same size of round-shot would fit them all, and that there were no discrepancies in the casting. Then, much to the indignation of Pandit Singh who took it as a slur on his workmanship, he insisted on firing the selected guns, to satisfy himself that there were no flaws in the metal. Two barrels burst on the first discharge. Pandit Singh explained that this had nothing to do with his manufacture, but was indubitably caused by the malignant influence of a goppa, the most pernicious variety of shaitan.

  Dorian ordered gun carriages to be built by local carpenters to his own design. Then the guns on their own carriages were towed by bullock teams to the harbour, and at last carried out to the ships in lighters. Pandit Singh cast several hundred rounds of iron shot to fit the new guns, as well as great quantities of grape-and chain-shot. He was also able to supply any amount of gunpowder, which he personally guaranteed to be of the best quality. Dorian opened and sampled every barrel, rejecting over half before sending the remainder on board the schooners.

  Next he turned his attention to the appearance of his flotilla, which in these seas was a consideration almost as important as its armament. He sent Mansur ashore to bargain for bolts of the finest quality green and burgundy canvas in the souks of Hyderabad. The sailmakers made up resplendent suits of sails, to replace the faded and weather-stained articles. The tailors of the souk were also put to work fitting the crews of the schooners with wide-legged cotton breeches and jackets to match the new sails. The results were impressive.

  Being so close to Oman, Hyderabad was a hothouse of political and military rumour. While they bargained with the merchants, Dorian and Mansur drank their coffee and listened to the gossip. Dorian learned that the revolutionary junta still held power in Muscat, but that Caliph Zayn al-Din had consolidated his hold on Lamu and Zanzibar and all the other ports of the Omani empire. On every hand he heard that Zayn was planning an attack on Muscat to overthrow the junta and to recover his lost throne. In this endeavour he would have the assistance of the English East India Company and the Sublime Porte in Constantinople, seat of the Ottoman Turkish empire.

  Dorian was also able to learn the identity of the new rulers in Muscat. They were a council of ten, of whom Dorian recognized most by name. They were men with whom he had eaten bread and salt, and ridden into battle in years gone by. His spirits soared when at last he was ready for sea.

  Even after they sailed he did not immediately set a course for Muscat, which lay less than seven hundred miles away, west along the Tropic of Cancer in the Gulf of Oman. Instead, they sailed back and forth just out of sight of land while he drilled the crews of both ships in serving the new guns. Dorian had spared no expense on powder and shot, and kept them hard at it until they were almost as swift and expert as the gun-crews of a British Royal Navy frigate.

  The flotilla made an impressive show when at last it sailed into the harbour of Muscat with the pristine sails set to the royals and the crew manning the yards in their new uniforms. The schooners flew the gold and royal-blue colours of Oman at their masthead. Dorian ordered the top sails struck and the new guns fired as a salute to the palace and the fortress. The gun-crew had grown fond of the sound of their own fire. Once begun, the honours continued enthusiastically until, in the end, they were persuaded to stop wasting further powder and shot only by the strenuous application of the rope’s end.

  All this created a great stir on the shore. Through his telescope Dorian watched the scurrying of messengers along the waterfront, and the gunners running to man the batteries on the parapets of the fortress. He knew that there would be a long delay while the junta decided how to react to the arrival of this strange flotilla of warships, so he settled down to wait.

  Mansur launched the cutter and had himself rowed across to join his father. The two stood by the rail and turned their attention to the other shipping anchored in the inner harbour. In particular they studied a handsome, well-appointed three-masted ship that flew the Union flag, together with the pennant of his Britannic Majesty’s consul general at her maintop. At first he presumed that such a fine ship must belong to the English East India Company, but her defaced blue ensign showed she was a privately owned vessel, like his own.

  “A wealthy owner. That plaything must have cost five thousand pounds at the very least.” He read her name on her stern: “Arcturus. Of course, we would not find a ship belonging to John Company here in Muscat, because the Company has openly allied itself with Zayn al-Din in Zanzibar,” he pointed out to his son.

  The blue-jacketed officers on the deck of the Arcturus turned their telescopes on them with equal interest. For the most part they seemed to be Indian or Arab for they were dark-skinned and most were bearded. Dorian picked out the captain by his cocked hat and the gold frogging on his sleeves. He was the exception, a ruddy-faced, clean-shaven European. Mansur swept his glass from the quarter-deck towards the bows and stopped with surprise. “They have white women on board.”

  Two ladies were strolling along the deck, accompanied by a fashionably dressed gentleman in a frock coat and high white stock. He wore a tall black hat and carried a cane with a gold head with which he illustrated some point he was making to his female companions.

  “That’s your rich owner for you,” Mansur observed, “dressed like a dandy and very much satisfied with himself.”

  “You can tell so much from so far?” Dorian asked, with a smile, but he studied the man carefully. Of course, it was highly unlikely that he had ever seen him before, but there seemed something hauntingly familiar about him.

  Mansur laughed lightly. “Cannot you see how he struts along like a penguin with a lighted candle stuck up its arse? I can tell that the plum pudding waddling along beside him in all the frippery and furbelows is his wife. They make a splendid couple—” Mansur broke off abruptly. Dorian lowered his glass and glanced at him. Mansur’s eyes had narrowed and his suntanned cheek was suddenly stained a darker bronze. Dorian had seldom seen his son blush, but that was what was happening to him now. He lifted his telescope and studied the second woman, who was clearly the cause of his son’s change of mood. More a girl than a woman, he thought, though tall enough. Waist like an hourglass but, then, she can probably afford an expensive French corset. Graceful deportment and lithe walk. Then he spoke aloud: “What do you make of the other one?”

  “Which one is that?” Mansur feigned indifference.

  “The skinny one in the cabbage-coloured dress.”

  “She is not skinny, and it’s emerald,” said Ma
nsur furiously, and was cast into confusion as he realized he had been caught out. “Well, not that I am in the least concerned.”

  The man in the tall hat seemed to take offence at their bold appraisal for he glared across the water at them, then took the arm of his plump companion and led her across to the starboard rail of the Arcturus. The girl in the green dress hesitated and looked back towards them.

  Mansur watched her avidly. The wide-brimmed straw hat must have protected her complexion from the tropical sun. Even so, it was tanned to a soft peach colour. Though he was too far away to make out detail, he could see that her features were regular and finely proportioned. Her light brown hair was gathered up in a net on her shoulders. It was thick and lustrous. Her brow was wide and deep and her expression serene and intelligent. He felt strangely breathless, and wished he could tell the colour of her eyes. But then she tossed her head impatiently and gathered up her green skirts. She followed the older couple across the deck and out of Mansur’s sight.

  Mansur lowered the telescope, feeling oddly deprived.

  “Well, the show is over for now,” Dorian said. “I am going below. Call me if there is any change.”

  An hour passed, then another, before Mansur hailed through the skylight of the stern cabin: “Boat putting out from the palace jetty.”

  It was a small lateen-rigged felucca with a crew of six, but there was a passenger in the stern sheets. He was dressed in snowy robes and turban, and at his waist was a scimitar in a gold scabbard. As they drew closer Dorian could make out the sparkle of a large ruby in his turban. This was a man of importance.

  The felucca came in alongside and one of the crew hooked on to Revenge’s chains. After a short interval the visitor came up through the entry-port. He was probably a little older than Dorian. He had the sharp, hard features of one of the desert tribes, and the open, direct gaze of one who looked to far horizons. He crossed the deck towards Dorian with a long, supple stride.

  “Peace unto you, bin-Shibam.” Dorian addressed him in the familiar form, as one comrade in arms might greet another. “It is many years since you stood at my shoulder in the pass of the Bright Gazelle and let no enemy through.”

  The tall warrior stopped in mid-stride and stared at Dorian in utter astonishment.

  “I see that God has favoured you. You are as strong as you were when we were young. Do you still bear the lance against the tyrant and the patricide?” Dorian went on.

  The warrior cried out and rushed forward to throw himself at Dorian’s feet. “Al-Salil! True prince of the royal house of Caliph Abd Muhammad al-Malik. God has heard our fervent prayers. The prophecy of Mullah al-Allama is fulfilled. You have come back to your people in the time of their great sorrow, when most they need you.”

  Dorian lifted bin-Shibam to his feet and embraced him. “What are you, an old desert hawk, doing in the fleshpots of the city?” He held him at arm’s length. “You are dressed like a pasha. You who were once a fighting sheikh of the Saar, the fiercest of all the tribes of Oman.”

  “My heart longs for the open desert, al-Salil, and to feel a racing camel under me,” bin-Shibam confessed, “but instead I spend my time here in endless debate, when I should be riding free and wielding the long lance.”

  “Come, old friend.” Dorian led him towards his cabin. “Let us go where we can speak freely.”

  In the cabin they reclined on the piled rugs and a servant brought them tiny brass cups of treacly coffee.

  “To my sorrow and discomfort, I am now one of the war council of the junta. There are ten of us, one elected by each of the ten tribes of Oman. Ever since we toppled that murderous monster Zayn al-Din from the Elephant Throne, I have been sitting here in Muscat talking until my jaw aches and my gut grows slack.”

  “Tell me the subject of these talks,” Dorian said, and over the next hours bin-Shibam confirmed almost everything that Dorian already knew.

  He told of how Zayn al-Din had murdered all the heirs and descendants of Dorian’s adoptive father Caliph al-Malik. He related many of his other unconscionable atrocities and the sufferings he had inflicted upon his people. “In God’s Name, the tribes rose up against his tyranny. We met his minions in battle and triumphed over them. Zayn al-Din fled the city and took refuge on the Fever Coast. We should have prosecuted our campaign against him to the end, but we were split by controversy over who should lead us. There were no heirs of the true Caliph left alive.” Here bin-Shibam bowed to Dorian. “God forgive us, al-Salil, but we did not know your whereabouts. It is only in the past few years that we heard whispers you were still alive. We have sent out messengers to every port in the Ocean of the Indies to seek you.”

  “I have heard your pleas, though they were faint and far-off, and I have come to join your cause.”

  “God’s benevolence upon you, for we have been in grievous circumstances. Each of the ten tribes wants their own sheikh to take the caliphate. Zayn escaped with most of the fleet so we could not follow him to Zanzibar. While we talked endlessly we grew weaker, and Zayn al-Din grew stronger. Seeing that we delayed, his minions, whom we had scattered, rallied and flocked back to him. He conquered the ports of the African mainland, and massacred those who supported us there.”

  “It is the first principle of warfare that you should never give an enemy grace to gather his strength,” Dorian reminded him.

  “Even as you say, al-Salil. Zayn has gathered powerful allies to his cause.” Bin-Shibam stood up and crossed to the porthole of the cabin. He drew aside the curtain. “There is one of them who has come to us in all arrogance, purporting to act as a peace-maker, but in truth bringing an ultimatum and a deadly threat.” He pointed at the Arcturus anchored in the inner harbour.

  “Tell me, who is aboard that ship? I see he flies the flag of a consul general.”

  “He is the representative of the English monarch, his consul general to the Orient, one of the most powerful men in these seas. He comes purporting to mediate between us and Zayn al-Din, but we know this man well by reputation. As some merchants trade in rugs, he trades in nations, armies and all the weapons of war. He moves secretly from the conclaves of the English East India Company in Bombay to the court of the Great Mogul in Delhi, from the bosom of the Sublime Porte to the Emperor’s cabinet in Peking. His wealth equals any of theirs. He has amassed it by dealing in power and war, and the lives of men.” Bin-Shibam spread his hands expressively. “How can we children of the sands deal with such a one as this?”

  “Have you heard his terms? Do you know what message he brings?”

  “We have not yet met him. We have promised that we will do so on the first day of Ramadan. But we are afraid. We know that we will have the worst of any treaty we make with him.” He came back to kneel before Dorian. “Perhaps in our hearts we were waiting for you to come to us, and to lead us into battle as you did so many times before. Give me your permission to go back to the council and tell them who you are, and why you have come.”

  “Go, old friend. Tell them that al-Salil wishes to address the council.”

  Bin-Shibam returned after nightfall. As soon as he entered the cabin he prostrated himself before Dorian. “I would have come sooner but the council does not wish the English consul to see you come ashore. They bade me convey to you their deepest respect and, for your father’s sake, they profess their loyalty to your family. They are waiting now in the throne room of the palace. I beg you, come with me and I will take you to them. From them you will learn more to your great profit and to ours.”

  Dorian left Mansur in command of the flotilla. He threw a cloak of camel-hair over his head and shoulders and followed bin-Shibam down into the felucca. On the way to the palace jetty they passed close to the anchored Arcturus. The captain was on deck. Dorian saw his face in the light from the compass binnacle. He was giving orders to the officer of the watch. His was a fruity West Country accent, but it sounded strangely alien in Dorian’s ears. I am already returning to the ties and loyalties of my childhood, he
thought, and then his mind took another turning. If only Yasmini were with me now to share this homecoming.

  Guards were waiting for them when they landed at the stone jetty, and they led Dorian through a heavy iron-grid door, and up a circular staircase into a maze of narrow passages. The walls were of stone blocks and lit by torches guttering in wall brackets. It smelt of mould and rodents. At last they reached a heavily barred door. His escort beat upon it with the hilts of their lances, and when it swung open they went on down corridors that were wider and under high-domed ceilings. Now there were rushes on the floors and tapestries of silk and fine wool on the walls. They reached another doorway, with armoured sentries standing before it, who crossed their lance blades to deny them entrance.

  “Who seeks admittance to the war council of Oman?”

  “Prince al-Salil ibn al-Malik.”

  The guards drew aside and made deep obeisance. “Pass through, Your Highness. The council attends your arrival.”

  The doors swung open slowly, creaking on their hinges, and Dorian stepped into the hall beyond. It was lit by hundreds of small ceramic lamps, the wicks floating in perfumed oil. But the light they shed was not sufficient to disperse the shadows that cloaked the far recesses, and left the high ceiling in darkness.

  A circle of robed men was seated on cushions at a low table. The tabletop was cast from pure silver in the geometric patterns of Islamic religious art. The men rose as Dorian stood before them. One, who was clearly the elder and most senior of the council, came forward. His beard was shining white and he walked with the deliberate and venerable gait of age. He stared into Dorian’s face.

  “God’s blessings on you, Mustapha Zindara,” Dorian greeted him, “my father’s trusted councillor.”

  “It is him. In God’s name, it is verily him,” cried the old man. He fell upon his face and kissed the hem of Dorian’s robe. Dorian lifted him to his feet and embraced him.

  One at a time the others came forward, and Dorian greeted most by name, asked after their families, and reminded them of desert crossings they had made together, battles they had fought as brothers in arms.