by Wilbur Smith
“If your honoured father would receive me and my father I would be pleased to respond to any question of his personally, rather than send my answers through one of his children.”
Mansur bowed to concede that she had taken the bout. He did not smile but his eyes sparkled as he took the letter from his sleeve and handed it to her.
“Read it to me,” Sir Guy ordered, and Verity translated it into English, listened to her father’s reply, then turned back to Mansur. She made no further pretence at feminine modesty but looked him directly in the eye.
“The consul general wishes to have all the members of the council present at the meeting,” Verity told him.
“The Caliph would be delighted and honoured to accede to that request. He values the advice of his councillors.”
“How long will it take to arrange this meeting?” Verity demanded.
Mansur thought for a moment. “Three days. The Caliph would be further honoured if you would join him in an expedition into the desert to fly his falcons against the bustard.”
Verity turned to Sir Guy. “The rebel leader wants you to go out hawking in the wilderness. I am not certain that you would be safe.”
“This new fellow would be insane to offer me any violence.” Sir Guy shook his head. “What he is after is a chance to speak in privacy to try to win my support. You can be certain that the palace is a hive of intrigue and a nest of spies. Out in the desert I might learn something from him to my great advantage. Tell him that we will go.”
Mansur listened to her polite rendition as though he had not understood a single word that Sir Guy had said. Then he touched his lips. “I will personally arrange everything in a manner befitting the importance of the occasion. I will send a barge to collect your luggage tomorrow morning. It will be taken out to the hunting encampment to await your arrival.”
“That would be acceptable.” Verity gave Sir Guy’s consent.
“We are honoured. I thirst for the day when I shall set eyes upon your face once again,” he murmured, “as the hard-run stag thirsts after cool waters.” He backed away with a graceful gesture of farewell.
“You are flushed.” Sir Guy showed a touch of concern for his daughter. “It is the heat. Your mother is also quite prostrated.”
“I am perfectly well. I thank you for your concern, Father,” Verity Courtney replied smoothly. She, who took great pride in her cool nerves even in the most difficult circumstances, found her emotions most confused.
As the prince went down into the royal barge, she did not want to stare after him. However, she could not leave her father standing alone by the ship’s rail.
Mansur looked up at her so suddenly that she could not look away without appearing guilty. She held his gaze defiantly, but as the sail of the felucca caught the breeze and swelled out, it came between them like a screen and cut them off from each other.
Verity found herself breathlessly angry but strangely elated. I am not some brainless simpering Oriental houri, not some plaything for him to dally with. I am an Englishwoman and I will be treated as such, she determined silently, then turned to her father, and took a breath to steady herself before she spoke. “Perhaps I should stay with Mother while you go to parley with the rebels. She really is feeling poorly. Captain Cornish can translate for you,” she said. She did not want to be mocked again by those dancing green eyes and that enigmatic smile.
“Don’t be daft, child. Cornish doesn’t know how to ask the time of day. I need you. You are coming with me, and no arguments.”
Verity was both annoyed and relieved by his insistence. At least I will have an opportunity for another passage of arms with the pretty princeling. This time we will see who is quicker with the tongue, she thought.
Before dawn on the third morning the Caliph’s barge conveyed the guests to the palace wharf, where Mansur was waiting with a large bodyguard of armed horsemen and grooms to greet them. After another lengthy exchange of compliments, he led Sir Guy to an Arab stallion with a glistening sable coat. Then the grooms led forward a chestnut mare for Verity. She seemed a tractable animal, although she had the legs and deep chest that bespoke both speed and stamina. Verity mounted astride with the ease and grace of an accomplished horsewoman. When they moved out through the city gates it was still dark, and outriders went ahead with torches to light the road. Mansur rode in close attendance on Sir Guy, elegant in his English hunting dress, Verity at her father’s left hand.
She wore an intriguing mixture of English and Oriental hunting dress. Her high silk hat was held in place by a long blue scarf, the loose ends thrown back over one shoulder. Her blue coat reached below her knees but the tails were pleated to allow her freedom of movement while preserving her modesty. Beneath it she had on loose cotton trousers and soft knee-boots. Mansur had chosen for her a jewelled saddle with high pommel and cantle. At the jetty she had greeted him frostily and barely glanced at him while she chatted easily with her father. Excluded from her conversation, Mansur was able to study her quite openly. She was one of those unusual Englishwomen who flourish in the tropics. Rather than wilting and sweating and succumbing to the prickly heat, she was cool and poised. Even her costume, which might have been dowdy or outrageous on another, she wore with élan.
At first they rode through the date-palm groves and cultivated fields outside the city walls where, in the first light of dawn, veiled women drew water from deep wells and carried it away in pots balanced on their heads. Herds of camels and beautiful horses drank together from the irrigation canals. On the fringe of the desert they came upon encampments of tribesmen who had come in from the wilderness in response to the Caliph’s summons to arms. They came out of their tents and shouted loyal greetings to the prince and fired joy shots in the air as he passed.
But soon they were out in the true desert. When the day broke over the dunes, they were all awed by its majesty. The fine dustclouds suspended in the air reflected the sun’s rays and set the eastern sky on fire. Although Verity rode with her head thrown back to gaze upon this celestial splendour, she was acutely aware that the prince was watching her. His importunity no longer annoyed her so intensely. Despite herself, she was beginning to find his attention amusing, although she was determined not to give him the slightest encouragement.
Ahead of them a large group of riders came over the dunes to meet them. The huntsmen led them. Their horses were gaily caparisoned in the gold and blue colours of the caliphate, and they carried hooded falcons on their wrists. Behind them came the musicians, with lutes, horns and the big bass drums suspended on each side of their saddles, then a rabble of grooms leading spare horses, water-carriers and other retainers. They welcomed the consul general with shouting and musket shots, fanfares and the booming beat of the drums, then fell in behind the prince’s party.
After several hours’ riding, Mansur led them across a wide, arid plain to where a steep valley fell away to a dry riverbed far below. On the top of these cliffs stood a weird cluster of massive rock monoliths. As they drew closer Verity realized that they were the remains of an ancient city that was perched above the valley, guarding a long-forgotten trade route.
“What ruins are these?” Verity asked Mansur, the first words she had spoken directly to him all that morning.
“We call it Isakanderbad, the City of Alexander. The Macedonian passed this way three thousand years ago. His army built this fortress.”
They rode in among the tumbled walls and monuments where once mighty armies had celebrated their triumphs. Now they were inhabited only by the lizard and the scorpion.
However, a flock of servants had arrived during the preceding days, and in the courtyard where, perhaps, the conqueror had once held sway, they had set up the hunting camp, a hundred coloured pavilions furnished with all the luxuries and amenities of a royal palace. There were servants to meet the guests too. Perfumed water was poured for them from golden ewers so that they might wash away the dust of the ride and refresh themselves.
Then M
ansur led them to the largest of the grand tents. When they entered Verity saw it was hung with draperies of gold and blue silk, and that the floors were covered with precious rugs and cushions.
The Caliph and his councillors rose to greet them. Verity’s skills as an interpreter were tested by the exchanges of compliments and good wishes. Nevertheless she took the opportunity to study the Caliph, al-Salil.
Like his son he was red-bearded and handsome, yet there were the marks of care and sorrow etched deeply into his features, and silver threads in his beard, which he had not covered with henna dye. There was something else she found impossible to fathom. She felt a sense of déjàvu when she looked into his eyes. Was it simply that Prince Mansur so closely resembled him? She thought not. It was more than that. Added to this disconcerting impression, something strange was taking place between her father and al-Salil also. They stared at each other as though they were not strangers meeting for the first time. There was a brittle tension between them. It was as though the summer thunderstorms were brewing and the air was heavy with humidity and the sense that the lightning would flash out at any moment.
Al-Salil led her father to the centre of the tent and seated him on a pile of cushions. He took the place beside him. Servants brought them aniseed-flavoured sherbet in golden goblets, and they nibbled at sugared dates and pomegranates.
The silk draperies kept out the worst of the desert heat, and the conversation was polite. The royal cooks served the midday meal. Dorian helped Sir Guy to titbits from huge salvers, which overflowed with saffron rice, tender lamb and baked fish, then waved away what remained to be taken to his retinue seated in ranks outside the pavilion.
Now the talk became more earnest. Sir Guy nodded at Verity to come to sit between him and al-Salil. Then, while the sun rose to its zenith and outside all the world drowsed in the heat, they conversed in low tones. Sir Guy warned al-Salil of how fragile was the alliance of desert tribes that he was building. “Zayn al-Din has enlisted the support of the Sublime Porte in Constantinople. Already there are twenty thousand Turkish troops in Zanzibar, and the ships to convey them to these shores as soon as the monsoon turns.”
“What of the English Company? Will they side with Zayn?” al-Salil asked.
“They have not yet committed themselves,” Sir Guy replied. “As you are probably aware, the governor in Bombay awaits my recommendation before he decides.” He might just as well have used the word “order” rather than “recommendation.” Al-Salil and every one of his council could be in no doubt as to where the power lay.
Verity was so absorbed with her work of translating that again Mansur could study her intimately. For the first time he became aware of strange depths and undercurrents between her and her father. Could it be that she was afraid of him? he wondered. He could not be certain, but he sensed something dark and chilling to the spirit.
As they talked on through the heat of the afternoon, Dorian listened, nodded and gave the appearance of being moved by Sir Guy’s logic. In reality he was listening for the hidden truths and meanings behind the flowery phrases that Verity translated to them. Gradually he was starting to understand how his half-brother had achieved such power and circumstance.
He is like a serpent, he twists and turns, and always you are aware of the venom in him, Dorian thought. In the end he nodded wisely and made reply: “All of what you say is true. I can only pray to God that your wisdom and benign interest in these dire affairs of Oman will lead us to a just and lasting solution. Before we go further I would like to assure Your Excellency of the deep gratitude I feel towards you personally and on behalf of my people. I hope that I will be able to demonstrate these warm feelings in a more substantial manner than by mere words.” He saw the avaricious gleam in his brother’s eye.
“I am not here for material rewards,” Sir Guy replied, “but we have a saying in my country that the workman is worthy of his wage.”
“It is an expression that we in this country understand well,” Dorian said. “But now the heat passes. There will be time for us to speak again on the morrow. We can ride out to fly my falcons.”
The hawking party, a hundred horsemen strong, left Isakanderbad and rode along the edge of the cliff that looked down upon the dry river-course hundreds of feet below. The lowering sun cast mysterious blue shadows over the splendid chaos of tumbled walls and cliffs, and serpentine wadis.
“Why would Alexander choose such a wild and desolate place to build a city?” Verity wondered aloud.
“Three thousand years ago there was a mighty river and the valley floor would have been a garden of green,” Mansur replied.
“It is sad to think that so little is left of such a mighty enterprise. He built so much and it was destroyed in a single lifetime by the lesser men who inherited it from him.”
“Even Isakander’s tomb is lost.” Gradually Mansur lured her into conversation, and slowly she lowered her guard and responded to him more readily. He was delighted to find in her a companion who shared his love of history, but as their discussion deepened he found that she was a scholar and her knowledge exceeded his own. He was content to listen to her rather than express his own opinions. He enjoyed the sound of her voice, and her use of the Arabic language.
The huntsmen had scouted the desert for days before and they were able to lead the Caliph to the most likely area in which they might find game. This was a wide, level plain, studded with clumps of low saltbush. It stretched away to the limit of the eye. Now, as it cooled, the air was sweet and clear as a mountain stream, and Verity felt alive and vital. Yet there was a restlessness in her, as though something extraordinary was about to happen, something that might change her life for ever.
Suddenly al-Salil called for a gallop and the horns rang out. They spurred forward together like a squadron of cavalry. Hoofs drummed on the hard-baked sand, and the wind sang past Verity’s ears. The mare ran lightly under her, seeming to skim the ground like a swallow in flight, and she laughed. She looked over at Mansur, who rode beside her, and they laughed together for no other reason than that they were young and full of the joy of life.
Suddenly there was a shriller horn blast. A shout of excitement went up from the huntsmen. Ahead of the line a pair of bustards had been started from the cover of the saltbushes by the thunder of hoofs. They ran with their necks out-thrust, their heads held low to the ground. They were huge birds, larger than a wild goose. Although their plumage was cinnamon brown, blue and dark red it was so cunningly blended to match the desert terrain that they seemed ethereal and as insubstantial as wraiths.
At the sound of the horn the line of riders reined in. The horses milled, circled and chewed their bits, eager to run again, but they held their places in the line while al-Salil rode forward with a falcon on his wrist. It was a desert saker, the loveliest and fiercest of all falcons.
In the short time since they had been in Oman, Dorian had made this particular bird his favourite. It was a tercel, and therefore the more beautiful gender of the species. At three years of age, it was at the peak of its strength and swiftness. He had named it Khamseen, after the furious desert wind.
With the line of horsemen halted, the bustards had not been driven into flight. They had gone back into cover in the saltbush. They must have been lying flat against the earth with their long necks thrust out. They remained still as the desert rocks that surrounded them, concealed from the eyes of the hunters by their colouring.
Al-Salil walked his mount slowly towards the patch of scrub where they had last been seen. Excitement built in the line of watchers. Although Verity did not share the passion of the true falconer, she found her breath coming short and the hand that held the reins was trembling slightly. She glanced sideways at Mansur and his features were rapt. For the first time she felt herself completely in tune with him.
Suddenly there was a harsh, croaking cry, and from under the front hoofs of al-Salil’s stallion a huge body launched itself into flight. Verity was astonished at how swi
ftly and strongly the bustard rose into the air. The whistling beat of the wings carried clearly in the silence. Their span was as wide as the full stretch of a man’s arms, blunt at the tips and deep as they hurled the bird aloft.
The watchers began a soft chant as the Caliph slipped the hood off the tercel’s marvellously savage head. It blinked its yellow eyes and looked to the sky. The bass drummer began a slow beat that boomed out across the plain, exciting both watchers and falcon.
“Khamseen! Khamseen!” they chanted. The tercel saw the bustard outlined against the hard blue and bated against the jesses that restrained him. He hung for a moment upside down, beating his wings as he struggled to be free. The Caliph lifted him high, slipped the jesses and launched him into the air.
On swift blade-sharp wings the tercel rose, higher and higher, circling. His head moved from side to side as he watched the huge flapping bird that sped across the plain below him. The drummer increased the beat and the watchers raised their voices: “Khamseen! Khamseen!”
The tercel reached the heights, a tiny black shape on sickle wings against the steely blue, towering over his massive prey. Then, abruptly, he cocked his wings back and dropped like a javelin, plummeting towards the earth. The drummer beat a frenetic crescendo, then abruptly cut it short.
In the silence they heard the wind fluting over the wings, and the tercel’s stoop was so swift as to cheat the eye. He hit the bustard with a sound like the clash of fighting stags’ antlers. The bustard seemed to burst into a cloud of feathers that streamed away on the breeze.
A triumphant cry went up from a hundred throats. Verity found that she was gasping as though she had surfaced from a deep dive below the sea.