by Wilbur Smith
He was almost too far gone to articulate coherently. “Get the horse,” he gasped. “Rope on saddle. Pull me back with the horse.”
She glanced around and saw the stallion a quarter of a mile away, trotting back up the valley. “Your horse is gone.”
Mansur reached backwards and tried to find a fingerhold on the rock, but it was smooth. There was a tiny rasping sound as the toe of one boot moved in the rock crack. He slid forward an inch towards the edge of the cliff. Then his foot caught again. She was frozen with horror. His toehold was all that held him from the drop. She seized his ankle with both hands, but she knew it was hopeless. She could never hope to hold the weight of such a big man. She tried to brace herself as she watched his foot slip again and then his hold in the cleft broke. He slid forward irresistibly, and his ankle was plucked from her hands.
He shouted as he went over the edge, and she flung herself forward across the rock sill to peer down, expecting to see him falling away with his robes ballooning around him. Then she stared in disbelief. The hem of his white robe had snagged on a shard of granite on the lip of the cliff. It had broken his fall, and now he was swinging like a pendulum just below her, dangling over that dizzying void. She stretched down with one hand to try to reach him.
“Give me your hand!” she called. She was weak with her own efforts to escape, and her hand shook wildly.
“You will never hold me.” He looked up at her, and there was no fear in his eyes.
That touched her deeply. “Let me try,” she pleaded.
“No,” he said. “One of us will go, not both.”
“Please!” she whispered, and the hem of his robe tore with a sharp, ripping sound. “I could not bear it if you died for me.”
“Worth it,” he said softly, and she felt her heart break. She sobbed and looked behind her. Then hope bloomed again. She slid back from the edge and wedged herself firmly into the rock cleft. She reached back over her shoulders and seized a double handful of her dense brown hair, pulled it forward and twisted it into a loose rope that hung below her waist. Then she threw herself flat on to the rock sill. She was just able to see over the edge. The rope of her hair tumbled forward.
“Take my hair,” she shouted. He swivelled his head and stared up at her as it brushed lightly against his face.
“Do you have purchase? Can you hold me?”
“Yes, I am wedged into the rock cleft.” She tried to sound confident, but she thought, Even if I can’t we will go together. He twisted her hair round his wrist, and with a final crack of tearing cloth the hem of his robe gave way. She had just time to brace herself before the shock of his full weight dropping on to her hair half stunned her. Her head was jerked forward and her cheek slammed into the rock with a force that jarred her teeth. She was pinned down. She felt the vertebrae in her neck popping, as though she were hanged on the gallows.
Mansur hung on the rope of her hair only for the seconds it took him to orient. Then he climbed up, hand over hand, swiftly as a topyard sailor going up the main shrouds. She screamed involuntarily for it seemed that her scalp was being torn from her skull. But then he reached past her, found a handhold in the rock cleft and heaved himself over the rim of the cliff.
He turned instantly, seized her in his arms and dragged her back to safety. He held her to his chest and pressed his face against the top of her head, knowing how intense must be the agony of her scalp. She lay in his arms, weeping as though in bitter mourning. He rocked her gently as though she were an infant, mumbling incoherent words of comfort and gratitude. After a while she stirred against him and he thought she was trying to escape his embrace. He opened his arms to free her, but she reached up and slipped her arms around the back of his neck. She pressed herself to his chest, and their bodies seemed to melt together like hot wax through their sweat-soaked clothing. Her sobbing stilled and then, without pulling away from him, she lifted her face and looked into his eyes. “You saved my life,” she whispered.
“And you saved mine,” he replied. The tears still cascaded down her face and her lips were trembling. He kissed her, and her lips opened without resistance. Her tears tasted of salt, and her mouth of fragrant herbs. Her hair fell in a tent over them. It was a lingering kiss, and ended only when they were forced to breathe.
“You are not an Arab,” she whispered. “You are an Englishman.”
“You have found me out,” he said, and kissed her again.
When they drew apart, she said, “I am so confused. Who are you?”
“I will tell you,” he promised, “but later.” He sought her lips again, and she gave them willingly.
After a while she placed both her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back gently. “Please, Mansur, we must stop this. If we don’t something will happen that will spoil everything before it has begun.”
“It has begun already, Verity.”
“Yes, I know it has,” she said.
“It began when first I laid eyes on you on the deck of the Arcturus.”
“I know,” she said again, and stood up quickly. With both hands she flung the glorious profusion of her hair back from her face and over her shoulders.
“They are coming.” She pointed back up the valley at the band of horsemen who were galloping towards them.
As they rode back to Isakanderbad, al-Salil and Sir Guy listened to Verity’s account of the near tragedy. When al-Salil asked Mansur for his version of events, Mansur replied quite naturally in Arabic, and Verity was obliged to go along with the deception that he spoke no English. She translated for her father his praises of her courage and resourcefulness, and could omit none of his hyperbole now that she knew Mansur understood every word.
At the end Sir Guy smiled tightly and nodded to Mansur. “Please tell him that we are in his debt.” Then his expression turned bleak. “You were at fault. You should not have been alone in his company, child. Your behaviour was scandalous. It will not happen again.” Once again Mansur saw fear in her eyes.
The sun had set and it was almost dark when they reached the encampment. Verity found her tent lit with lamps whose wicks floated in perfumed oil and her clothing from the ship had been unpacked. Three handmaidens were waiting to attend her. When she was ready for her bath they poured warm, perfumed pitchers of water over her, and giggled as they marvelled at the whiteness and beauty of her naked body.
The evening meal was laid out under a dazzle of stars, and the desert air had cooled. They sat cross-legged on cushions while the musicians played softly. After they had eaten, servants offered hookahs to the Caliph and Sir Guy. Only al-Salil indulged. Sir Guy lit a long black cheroot from the gold case that Verity carried for him. Politely she offered one to Mansur. “Thank you, my lady, but I have never found tobacco to my taste.”
“I agree with you. I also find the odour of the smoke unpleasant in the extreme.” Instinctively she had lowered her voice, even though her father spoke no Arabic.
Now Mansur was certain she was terrified of him. There was more to her feelings than simply that Sir Guy was a daunting figure, hard and unyielding, and Mansur knew he would have to be circumspect in what he now had in mind. He kept his voice on the same even level when he spoke again. “At the end of this street there lies an ancient temple to Aphrodite. The moon rises a little before midnight. Although dedicated to a pagan deity, in the moonlight the temple is very lovely.”
Verity had not heard him, or so it seemed from her lack of reaction. She turned back to translate a remark that Sir Guy had made to al-Salil, and the two men continued their earnest conversation. They were discussing the extent of the Caliph’s gratitude to Sir Guy for his intervention with the Company and the British government. In what manner could the Caliph best demonstrate it? al-Salil asked. Sir Guy suggested delicately that five lakhs of gold rupees might be appropriate, which should be followed by an annual payment of another lakh.
The Caliph began to understand how his brother had amassed such vast wealth. It would take two oxcarts to
carry that amount of gold. The treasury in Muscat no longer held a tenth of that amount, but he did not inform Sir Guy of this. Instead he brought the subject to a close. “These are matters we can discuss again, for I hope to enjoy many more days of your company. But now, if we are to rise again before the sun tomorrow, we should repair to our sleeping mats. May pleasant dreams attend your slumbers.”
Verity took her father’s arm as he escorted her to her tent with torch-bearers leading them through the encampment. In turmoil, Mansur watched her go: he had no indication that she would honour their assignation.
Later, dressed in a dark cloak, he waited in the temple of Aphrodite. Through a hole in the dilapidated roof the moonlight played full on the statue of the goddess. The pearly marble glowed as though with internal life. Both her arms were missing, for the ages had taken their toll, but the figure was graceful and the battered head smiled in eternal ecstasy.
Mansur had stationed Istaph, his trusted coxswain from the Sprite, on the roof to keep guard. Now Istaph whistled softly. Mansur caught his breath and his pulse beat faster. He stood up from his seat on one of the tumbled stone blocks and moved to the centre of the temple so that she would see him at once and not be startled by his sudden appearance from out of the shadows. He saw the dim light of the lamp she carried as she came down the narrow alley, stepping over the rubble and debris of three thousand years.
At the entrance she paused and looked across at him, then set her lamp in a niche in the doorway and threw back her hood. She had braided her hair in a single rope that hung down over one shoulder, and in the moonlight her face was as pale as that of the goddess. He let his own cloak fall open to hang from his shoulders, and went to meet her. He saw that her expression was serious and remote.
When he was within arm’s length she put out a hand to stop him coming closer. “If you touch me I shall have to leave at once,” she said. “You heard my father’s rebuke. I was never again to be alone with you.”
“Yes, I heard. I understand your predicament,” he assured her. “I am grateful you have come.”
“What happened today was wrong.”
“I am to blame,” he said.
“There is no blame on either of us. We had been close to death. Our expressions of relief and gratitude towards each other were only natural in the circumstances. However, I said foolish things. You must forget my words. This is the last time we shall meet like this.”
“I shall fall in with your wishes.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
Mansur switched to English. “Will you not at least treat me as a friend and call me Mansur, and not by the title that sits so uncomfortably on your lips?”
She smiled, and answered in the same language. “If that is indeed your true name. It seems to me that you are a great deal more than you seem, Mansur.”
“I have promised to explain it to you, Verity.”
“Yes, indeed you have. That is why I have come.” Then she added, as though she was trying to convince herself, “And for no other reason.”
She turned away and took a seat on a fallen stone block just large enough to accommodate her alone, and she gestured to another at a discreet distance. “Will you not be seated and make yourself at ease? It seems to me that your tale will take some telling.” He sat, facing her. She leaned forward with one elbow on her knee and her chin in the palm of her hand. “You have all of my attention.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Where to begin? How will I ever make you believe me?” He paused to gather his thoughts. “Let me start with the most preposterous. If I can convince you of those parts of it, then the rest of the medicine will not be so difficult for you to swallow.”
She inclined her head in invitation, and he drew breath. “Like yours my English surname is Courtney. I am your cousin.”
She burst out laughing. “In all fairness, you did warn me. None the less ’tis bitter medicine that you are trying to dole out to me.” She made as if to rise. “I see that this is but a prank, and you take me for the fool.”
“Wait!” he entreated. “Give me a fair hearing.” She sank back on the stone. “Have you heard the names Thomas and Dorian Courtney?” The smile vanished from her lips and she nodded wordlessly. “What have you heard?”
She thought for a moment, her expression troubled. “Tom Courtney was a terrible rogue. He was my father’s twin brother. He murdered his other brother, William, and had to fly from England. He died somewhere in the African wilderness. His grave is unmarked and his passing unmourned.”
“Is that all you know of him?”
“No, there is more,” Verity admitted. “He is guilty of something even more heinous.”
“What is worse than the murder of your own brother?”
Verity shook her head. “I know none of the details, only that it was so foul a deed that his name and his memory are blackened for ever. I do not know the full extent of his wickedness, but since we were children we have been forbidden to mention his name.”
“When you say we, Verity, who is the other person?”
“My older brother, Christopher.”
“It pains me to be the one to tell you, but what you have been told about Tom Courtney is but a sad travesty of the truth,” Mansur said, “but before we discuss it further, please tell me what you know of Dorian Courtney.”
Verity shrugged. “Very little, for there is little to know. He was my father’s youngest brother. No, that is not correct, he was my father’s half-brother. In a tragic turn of events he fell into the hands of Arab pirates when he was but a child of ten or twelve years. Tom Courtney, that craven rogue, was to blame for his abduction and did nothing to prevent it, or to save him. Dorian died of fever, neglect and a broken heart while he was a captive in the lair of the pirates.”
“How do you know all this?”
“My father told us about it, and with my own eyes I have seen Dorian’s grave in the old cemetery on Lamu island. I placed flowers upon it and said a prayer for his poor little soul. I take comfort in the words of Christ, ‘Suffer little children to come to me.’ I know he rests in the bosom of Jesus.”
In the moonlight Mansur saw a tear tremble on her bottom eyelid. “Please don’t weep for little Dorian,” he said quietly. “Today you rode out hawking in his company and you dined this very evening at his board.”
She recoiled so violently that the tear fell from her eyelid and slid down her cheek. She stared at him. “I do not understand.”
“Dorian is the Caliph.”
“If this be true, which it cannot be, we are cousins.”
“Bravo, coz! You have arrived at where we started our conversation.”
She shook her head. “It cannot be…yet there is something about you—” She broke off, then began again: “At our very first meeting I felt something, an affinity, a bond that I could not explain to myself.” She looked distraught. “If all this is a jest, then it is a cruel one.”
“No jest, I swear it to you.”
“I need more than that to convince me.”
“There is more, a great deal more. You shall have as much of it as you can possibly desire. Shall I tell you first how Dorian was sold by the pirates to the Caliph al-Malik, and how the Caliph came to love him so that he adopted him as his own son? Shall I tell you how Dorian fell in love with his adoptive half-sister Princess Yasmini and they eloped together? How she bore him a son, whom they named Mansur? How Yasmini’s half-brother Zayn al-Din became caliph after the death of al-Malik? How, not a year past, Zayn al-Din sent an assassin to murder my mother Yasmini?”
“Mansur!” Verity’s face was as white as the marble Aphrodite’s. “Your mother? Zayn al-Din murdered her?”
“This is the main reason we have returned to Oman, my father and I. To avenge my mother’s death, and to deliver our people from tyranny. But now I must tell you the truth about my uncle Tom. He is not the monster you paint him.”
“My father told us—”
“I l
ast saw Uncle Tom scarcely a year ago, hale and flourishing in Africa. He is a kind person, brave and true. He is married to your aunt Sarah, your mother Caroline’s younger sister.”
“Sarah is dead!” Verity exclaimed.
“She is very much alive. If you knew her you would love her as I do. She is so much like you, strong and proud. She even looks a great deal like you. She is tall and very beautiful.” He smiled and added softly, “She has your nose.” Verity touched her own and smiled faintly.
“With such a nose as mine she cannot be so beautiful.” The little smile faded. “They told me—my mother and father told me they were all dead, Dorian, Tom and Sarah…” Verity covered her eyes with one hand as she tried to assimilate what he had told her.
“Tom Courtney made two mistakes in his life. He killed his brother William in a fair fight, defending himself when Black Billy tried to murder him.”
“I heard that Tom stabbed William while he slept.” She dropped her hand and stared at him.
“Tom’s other mistake was to father your brother Christopher. That is the reason your mother and father hated him so.”
“No.” She leaped to her feet. “My brother is no bastard! My mother is no whore!”
“Your mother conceived in love. That is not harlotry,” Mansur said, and she sank down again. She reached across the gap between them and laid her hand on his arm. “Oh, Mansur! This is too much for me to endure. Your words tear my world apart.”
“I do not tell you this to torment you, Verity, but for both our sakes.”
“I do not understand.”
“I have fallen in love with you,” Mansur said. “You asked who I am, and because I love you I must tell you.”
“You delude yourself and me,” she whispered. “Love is not something that falls like manna from the sky, full formed and complete. It grows between two persons—”
“Tell me you feel nothing, Verity.”
She would not reply. Instead she sprang to her feet and looked to the night sky as if seeking escape. “The dawn is breaking. My father must not learn I have been with you. I must go back to my tent at once.”