by Wilbur Smith
Then each took up a lamp. They all gathered around him and led him down the length of the long hall. As they approached the far end, something tall and massive glowed with a pearly lustre in the lamplight. Dorian knew what it was, for the last time he had seen it his father had been seated upon it.
They led Dorian up the steps and placed him on the piles of tigerskins and silken cushions embroidered with gold and silver thread that covered the summit platform of that tall structure. It had been carved three hundred years before from one hundred and fifty massive ivory tusks: the Elephant Throne of the Caliphate of Oman.
Over the following days and weeks, from before dawn until after midnight, Dorian sat in council with his councillors and ministers. They reported to him on every facet of the affairs of the kingdom, from the mood of the populace and the desert tribes to the coffers of the treasury, the condition of the fleet and the strength of the army. They told him of the virtual breakdown in trade, and explained the diplomatic and political dilemmas that confronted them.
Swiftly Dorian grasped the desperate straits to which their cause had been reduced. What remained of the fleet that had made Oman a great seafaring nation had sailed with Zayn al-Din to the Fever Coast. Many tribes had become disheartened by the endless procrastination of the council, and most of their squadrons had disappeared like mist into desert fastness. The treasury was almost bare, for Zayn had ransacked it before he fled.
Dorian listened, then gave his orders. They were succinct and direct. It all seemed so natural and familiar, as though he had never ceased to command. His reputation for political and military genius was multiplied tenfold as it was repeated in the streets and souks of the city. His appearance was handsome and noble. He had the air of command. His sure manner and confidence were infectious. He froze what remained of the contents of the treasury, and issued bills backed by his own authority to meet long-overdue expenses. He took charge of the granaries, rationed the food supplies and prepared the city for siege.
He sent messages by swift camel to the sheikhs of the desert tribes, and rode out into the desert to meet them when they came to him to swear their allegiance. He sent them back into the interior to summon their battle array.
Inspired by his example, his military captains plunged with fresh vigour into planning the defence of the city. He replaced those who were clearly incompetent with men he knew from experience that he could trust.
When he toured the defences and ordered immediate repairs, the populace thronged about him joyously. They held up their children for a glimpse of the legendary al-Salil, and touched his robes as he passed.
Three times Dorian sent messages to the Arcturus, begging the consul general’s indulgence, pleading the excuse that he was so recently elevated to the caliphate that he had not been able to acquaint himself with all the affairs of state. He fobbed off the inevitable meeting for as long as possible. Every day he could delay made his position that much stronger.
Finally, a boat came from the Arcturus to the palace jetty, bearing a letter from the English consul general. It was written in beautiful flowing Arabic script, and Mansur thought he recognized a feminine touch, and that he knew who had penned it. It was addressed not to the Caliph but to the President for the Time Being of the Revolutionary Council of Oman, and pointedly made no acknowledgement of Dorian’s existence or of his title, Caliph al-Salil ibn al-Malik, although by now the English consul, through his spies, must certainly have been aware of all that was taking place.
The letter was brusque, and eschewed any attempt at flowery diplomacy. His Britannic Majesty’s consul general to the Orient regretted that the council had been unable to grant him audience. Other more pressing matters made it necessary for the consul general to sail from Muscat to Zanzibar in the near future, and it was uncertain as to when he would return to Muscat.
Dorian was untroubled by the veiled threat the letter contained, but he was flabbergasted when he read the signature appended to it. Wordlessly he handed the letter back to Mansur and pointed out the name and signature that had been written in English.
“He has the same name as us.” Mansur was puzzled. “Sir Guy Courtney.”
“The same name, yes,” Dorian’s face was still pale and tight with the shock, “and the same blood too. The moment I set eyes on him, I thought there was something familiar about him. He is your uncle Tom’s twin brother, and my half-brother. That makes him another uncle of yours into the bargain.”
“I have never heard his name mentioned before this day,” Mansur protested, “and I do not understand it at all.”
“There is every good reason that you have not heard Guy Courtney’s name. Dark deeds and bad blood run deep.”
“Might I not know now?” Mansur asked.
Dorian was silent for a while before he sighed. “It is a sad and sorry tale of treachery and deceit, jealousy and bitter hatred.”
“Tell me, Father,” Mansur insisted quietly.
Dorian nodded. “Yes, I must, though it gives me no pleasure to relive these dire affairs. It is only fair that you should know.” He reached for the comfort of his hookah and did not speak again until the fire glowed in the bowl, and the blue smoke bubbled through the scented water of the glass reservoir.
“It’s over thirty years ago now that Tom, Guy and I, all brothers together, sailed from Plymouth bound for Good Hope. We were with your grandfather Hal in the old Seraph. I was the baby, scarcely ten years of age, but Tom and Guy were almost grown men. There was another family on board. We were giving them passage to Bombay where Mr. Beatty was to take up a high appointment with John Company. He had with him his daughters. The eldest girl was Caroline, sixteen and a beautiful vixen.”
“Surely you do not speak of the plum pudding we saw on the deck of the Arcturus in the harbour?” Mansur exclaimed.
“It seems so.” Dorian nodded. “I assure you she was once lovely. Time changes all things.”
“Forgive me, Father, I should not have interrupted you. You were about to tell me of the other daughters.”
“The youngest was Sarah, and she was sweet and lovable.”
“Sarah?” Mansur looked askance.
“I know what you are thinking and you are correct in your assumption. Yes, she is now your aunt Sarah, but wait, I shall come to it—if you give me half a chance to get in a word edgewise.” Mansur looked repentant, and Dorian went on: “Hardly had the Seraph cleared Plymouth harbour when Guy fell hopelessly in love with Caroline. She, on the other hand, had sheep’s eyes for Tom. Your uncle Tom being Tom obliged her. He double-shotted her dainty cannon, stoked her fireplace, rattled her timbers and finally placed a large fruit cake to bake in her hot little oven.”
Mansur smiled, despite the seriousness of the subject. “I am aghast that my own father should be familiar with such vulgar terms.”
“Forgive me for offending your sensitive feelings—but to continue. Guy was infuriated that his brother had so treated the object of his love and devotion and challenged Tom to a duel. Even in those early days Tom was a fine swordsman. Guy was not. Tom did not want to kill his brother, but on the other hand he wanted nothing further to do with the fruit cake Caroline was baking. For Tom it had been nothing more than a bit of fun. I was only a child at the time, and not certain as to what was happening, but I can still remember the storm that rocked and split the family. Our father forbade the duel, luckily for Guy.”
Mansur could see how Dorian was suffering at the memory, although he tried to cover his distress with a flippant air. He remained silent, respecting his father’s feelings.
At last Dorian continued: “In the end Guy broke away from us. When we reached Good Hope, he married Caroline and took on board Tom’s bastard as his own. Then he left us and went on with the Beatty family to India. I never saw him again until now when we spied him and Caroline on the deck of the Arcturus.” He was silent again, brooding in the blue clouds of tobacco smoke.
“That was not the end of it. In Bombay, with his
father-in-law’s patronage, Guy rose swiftly to consular rank. When I was abducted at the age of twelve and fell into the hands of the slavers, Tom went to Guy and asked for his help to find me and rescue me. Guy refused, and tried to have Tom arrested for murder and other crimes he had not committed. Tom made a run for it, but not before he had swept up Sarah and eloped with her. This only fanned the flames of Guy’s hatred. Sir Guy Courtney, his Britannic Majesty’s consul general to the Orient, is a fine hater. My brother he may be, but in name alone. In fact, he is a bitter enemy and the ally of Zayn al-Din. But now I need your help in composing a letter to him.”
They took great pains with it. It was in Arabic style, filled with flowery compliments and protestations of goodwill. It went on to offer profuse apologies for any unintended offence that had been given. It expressed the greatest respect for the power and dignity of the consul general’s office. Finally it went on to beg the consul general to attend an audience with the Caliph at a date and time of his own choice, but preferably at the first convenient opportunity.
“I would go out to the Arcturus myself but, of course, that would not be diplomatically correct. You must deliver the message. Whatever you do, do not let him suspect that we are blood relatives, nor that you speak English. I want you to assess his mood and intentions. Ask him if we can supply his ship with water, meat or fresh produce. Offer him and his crew the freedom and hospitality of the city. If they come ashore our spies will be able to milk news and intelligence from them. We must try to delay him here as long as possible, until we are ready to confront Zayn al-Din.”
Mansur dressed carefully for the visit, in the style befitting the eldest son of the Caliph of Oman. He wore the green turban of the believer with an emerald pin, one of the few notable gems that remained in the palace treasury after Zayn al-Din’s depredations. Over his white robes, his waistcoat was of tanned camelskin embroidered with gold thread. His sandals, sword-belt and scabbard were all worked with filigree by the skilled goldsmiths of the city.
When Mansur mounted the ladder to the deck of the Arcturus with his red beard glowing in the sunlight, he cut such a magnificent figure that the captain and his officers gaped at him, and took a minute to recover.
“My compliments, sir, I am William Cornish, captain of this vessel.” The English captain’s Arabic was poor and heavily accented. “May I enquire who I have the honour of addressing?” His large red face, which had earned him the name “Ruby” Cornish in the fleet of the English East India Company, glowed in the sunlight.
“I am Prince Mansur ibn al-Salil al-Malik,” Mansur replied, in flowing Arabic, touching his heart and lips in greeting. “I come as an emissary of my father, Caliph al-Salil ibn al-Malik. I have the honour to bear a message for His Excellency the Consul General of His Britannic Majesty.”
Ruby Cornish looked uncomfortable. He followed what Mansur had said only with difficulty, and he had been severely enjoined not to acknowledge any titles of royalty to which these Omani rebels might lay claim.
“Please ask your retainers to remain in the barge,” he said. Mansur dismissed them with a gesture, and Cornish went on, “If you will come this way, sir.” He led Mansur to where a sail had been rigged over the midships section of the upper-deck as a sun shade.
Sir Guy Courtney sat in a comfortable armchair covered with a leopardskin. His cocked hat was laid on the table beside him, and his sword was between his knees. He made no effort to rise from his chair as Mansur approached. He wore a burgundy-coloured jacket of fine broadcloth with solid gold buttons, and a high stock. His shoes were square-toed with silver buckles, and his white silk hose reached to his knees, and were held by garters that exactly matched the colour of his jacket. His tight-fitting trousers were also white, with a codpiece that flattered his masculinity. He wore the ribbons and stars of the Order of the Garter and some Oriental decorations.
Mansur made the polite gesture of greeting: “I am honoured by your condescension, Your Excellency.”
Guy Courtney shook his head irritably. Mansur knew now that he was Tom’s twin and must therefore be in his late forties, but he looked younger. Although his hair was thinning and receding, his figure was slim and his belly flat. But there were liver-coloured bags under his eyes, and one of his front teeth was discoloured. His expression was sour and unfriendly. “My daughter will translate,” he said in English, and indicated the girl who stood behind his chair. Mansur pretended not to understand. He had been acutely aware of her presence since the moment he had stepped aboard the yacht, but now he looked directly at her for the first time.
He had the greatest difficulty in keeping his face expressionless. The first thing he noticed was that her eyes were large and green, lively and searching. The whites were clear, and the lashes long and densely curled.
Mansur tore away his gaze and addressed Sir Guy again. “Forgive my ignorance but I speak no English,” he apologized. “I do not understand what it was Your Excellency said.”
The girl spoke in beautiful classical Arabic, making music of the words: “My father speaks no Arabic. With your forbearance I will translate for him.”
Mansur bowed again. “I compliment you, my lady. Your command of our tongue is perfection. I am Prince Mansur ibn al-Salil al-Malik, and I come as the messenger of my father, the Caliph.”
“I am Verity Courtney, the consul general’s daughter. My father bids you welcome aboard the Arcturus.”
“We are honoured by the emissary of such a powerful monarch, and such an illustrious nation.” For a while longer they exchanged compliments and expressions of esteem and respect, but Verity Courtney managed not to acknowledge any royal titles or honours. She was weighing him as carefully as he was her. She was much more handsome than when he had seen her through the lens of a telescope. Her complexion was lightly sun-gilded but otherwise of English perfection, and her features were strong and determined, without being heavy or coarse. Her neck was long and graceful, her head perfectly balanced upon it. When she smiled politely her mouth was large and her lips full. Her two upper front teeth were slightly misaligned, but the imperfection was arresting and attractive.
Mansur asked if there was anything that they needed that he might be able to supply. Sir Guy told Verity, “We are short of water, but don’t let him know it.”
She relayed the request: “A ship always needs water, effendi. It is not a pressing need, but my father would be grateful for your generosity.” Then she gave Mansur’s answer to her father.
“The Prince says he will send out the water tender immediately.”
“Don’t call him a prince. He is a dirty little rebel, and Zayn will feed him to the sharks. The water he sends out to us will probably be half camel piss.”
Verity did not even blink at her father’s choice of words. Obviously she was accustomed to his phraseology. She turned back to Mansur. “Of course, effendi, the water will be sweet and potable? You would not send us camel’s piss?” she asked not in Arabic but in English. It was so artlessly done, her tone so level and her green eyes so candid that Mansur might have been taken in, had he not been ready for it. Yet he was so taken aback by those words on her ladylike lips that he only just managed to keep his own expression polite but neutral. He cocked his head slightly in blank enquiry. “My father is grateful for your generosity.” She switched back to Arabic, having carried out this test of his linguistic skills.
“You are honoured guests,” Mansur replied.
“He speaks no English,” Verity said to her father.
“See what the blighter is after. They’re a slippery bunch of eels, these wogs.” It was only recently that a secretary at Government House had penned this acronym for Worthy Oriental Gentleman, and as a mildly derogatory term it had been adopted throughout the Company.
“My father asks after the health of your father.” Verity avoided saying the forbidden word “Caliph.”
“The Caliph is blessed with the strength and vigour of ten ordinary men.” Mansur emphasized his
father’s title. He was enjoying the battle of wits. “It is a virtue embodied in the royal blood of Oman.”
“What does he say?” Sir Guy demanded.
“He is trying to make me acknowledge that his father is the new ruler.” Verity smiled and nodded.
“Make the correct response.”
“My father hopes that your father will enjoy a hundred more summers in such robust health and in the sunshine of God’s favour, and that his conscience will always lead him in the loyal and honourable path.”
“The Caliph, my father, wishes that your father shall have one hundred strong and noble sons, and that all his daughters grow to be as beautiful and clever as the one who stands before me now.” It was unsubtle and bordering on insolence, except of course that he was a prince and might take such liberties. He saw the quick shadow of annoyance in the depths of her green eyes.
Aha! he thought, without a smile of triumph. First blood to me.
But her riposte was quick and pointed. “May all your father’s sons be blessed with good manners and show respect and courtesy towards all women,” she replied, “even if it is not in their true nature.”
“What’s all that about?” Sir Guy demanded.
“He is being solicitous of your health.”
“Find out when his rascally father will see me. Warn him that I will brook no more nonsense from them.”
“My father enquires when he may present his compliments and duty in person to your illustrious father.”
“The Caliph would welcome such an occasion. It would also be an opportunity for him to enquire how it is that the consul general’s daughter speaks the language of the Prophet with such a mellifluous tongue.”
Verity almost smiled. He was such a beautiful man. Even his insults were titillating, and his manner was so engaging that, despite herself, she could not take real offence. The simple answer to his implied question was that since her childhood on Zanzibar island, where her father had at one time been stationed, she had been fascinated by all things Oriental. She had learned to love the Arabic language with its poetic, expressive vocabulary. This was, however, the first time she had ever been even vaguely attracted to an Oriental man.