Blue Horizon

by Wilbur Smith

  Zayn turned his attention from the prisoner to the three men who sat on silk cushions below his throne. He studied their faces, and a knowing smile twitched at his lips. They were like a circle of hungry hyena watching a great blackmaned lion feed, waiting to rush in and gobble the scraps after he had eaten his fill.

  “It may be that I have neglected to ask this wretch questions, the answers to which are important to our deliberations?” He turned the statement into a question, and looked at Sir Guy.

  Peters translated, and Sir Guy made a small bow before he replied, “Your Majesty’s questions have shown his deep perception and understanding. There are a few small items of intelligence, personal matters, of which this loathsome creature might have knowledge. With your gracious permission?” He bowed again.

  Zayn waved at him to continue. Peters turned to Omar and put the first question to him. It was a laborious business, but slowly Sir Guy drew from him every detail of the treasure and the strongroom where it was stored. At last he was satisfied that all his lost gold was in Fort Auspice and that none had been hidden in some other secret location. His only remaining concern was how to regain possession of it without having to relinquish inordinate amounts to his allies, who sat with him before the throne of Zayn al-Din. He would find the solution to this problem later. For the moment he put it aside, and instead questioned Omar minutely on the identity of every ferengi who was within the walls of Fort Auspice. Omar’s pronunciation of the names was barely recognizable, but he understood enough to be certain that Tom and Sarah Courtney were with Dorian and Mansur.

  The years had done little to dim the bitter hatred he harboured for his twin brother. He remembered vividly the adolescent adoration he had felt towards Caroline, and his devastation when he spied upon Tom and Caroline’s midnight coupling in the powder magazine of the old Seraph. Of course he had married Caroline in the end, but she came to him as Tom’s reject, carrying Tom’s bastard in her belly. He had tried to expunge his hatred of Tom with the subtle torments he had inflicted upon Caroline over the years of their marriage. Although time had taken the heat out of it, the hatred persisted, hard and cold as obsidian from an extinct volcano.

  Then his questions moved on to Mansur Courtney and Verity. Verity was the other great love of his life, but it was a dark, twisted love. He longed to possess her in every way, even those beyond law and nature. Her voice and beauty assuaged some deep hunger in his soul. However, he had never known such transports as when he sent the whip cracking over her sweet, pale flesh and watched the crimson welts rise on her perfect skin. Then his love for her had been fierce and all-consuming. Mansur Courtney had stolen the paragon of his desire away from him.

  “What of the ferengi woman who was captured by al-Salil during the battle with my ship?” Sir Guy’s voice trembled with the pain the question caused him.

  “Does the effendi refer to his own daughter?” Omar asked, with childlike naïvety. Sir Guy could not bring himself to answer, but he nodded abruptly.

  “She has become the woman of al-Salil’s son, Mansur,” Omar replied. “They share the same sleeping quarters and spend much time laughing and speaking privately together.” He hesitated before he could bring himself to recount a matter so indelicate, but then he went on, “He treats her as an equal, even though she is a woman. He allows her to walk ahead of him and to interrupt him when he is speaking, and he embraces and caresses her in the sight of others. Although he is of Islam, he behaves towards her like an infidel.”

  Sir Guy’s stomach churned with the acid of outrage and anger. He thought of Verity’s body, so pale and perfect. His imagination ran out of his control. He was unable to close his mind to the vivid images that assailed him, of the filthy and obscene acts Verity and Mansur performed together. He shuddered with disgust and with the perverse arousal that seized his loins in an agonizing vice. When I capture her I will flog her until the white skin hangs from her body in tatters, he promised himself. And as for the swine who has perverted her, I shall make him scream for the mercy of death.

  His imaginings were so vivid that he was afraid the men around him must sense them as powerfully as he did. He could stomach no more.

  “I have finished with this piece of excrement, Your Majesty.” He scrubbed his hands in the bowl of warm water scented with flower petals that stood beside him, as if cleansing himself from the repulsive contact.

  Zayn al-Din looked at Pasha Koots. “Is there aught you wish to know from the prisoner?”

  “If Your Majesty graciously permits.” He bowed. At first the questions he had for Omar were those that would concern a soldier. He wanted to know how many sailors had been on board the three ships, and how many men were in the fort, how loyal they were, and how prepared to fight. He asked about the armaments, the placement of the cannon and the field guns that had been captured from the holds of the Arcturus. How much powder did al-Salil have in his magazine, how many muskets?

  Then his questions changed. “The one you call Klebe, the Hawk, and whose ferengi name is Tom, you say you know him?”

  “Yes, I know him well,” Omar agreed.

  “He has a son.”

  “Him I know also. We call him Somoya, for he is like the storm wind,” Omar told him.

  “Where is he?” Koots asked, with a stony face, although behind the mask his anger burned brightly.

  “I have heard it said within the fort that he has gone on a journey into the interior of the country.”

  “Has he gone to hunt ivory?” Koots asked.

  “They say that Somoya is a mighty hunter. He has a great store of ivory in the fort.”

  “Have you seen this store with your own eyes?”

  “I have seen the five capacious storerooms of the fort packed to the rafters with its abundance.”

  Koots nodded with satisfaction. “That is all I wish to know at present, but there will be many more questions later.”

  Kadem bowed to his uncle. “Your Majesty, I request that this prisoner be given into my personal charge and custody.”

  “Take him away. Make sure he does not die, not yet at least. Not until he has served his purpose.” The guards hauled Omar to his feet and dragged him out through the great bronze doors. Zayn al-Din looked at Laleh, who had crept away, trying to efface himself among the shadows at the rear of the throne room. “You have done good work. Now go and prepare your ship for sea. I will need your services as a scout when you lead the fleet to this Nativity Bay.”

  Laleh retreated backwards, bowing and making obeisance with each few steps towards the doors.

  When the guards and all lesser men had gone, a silence fell on the council. All three waited for Zayn’s next pronouncement. He seemed sunk in a deep reverie, like that of the bhang smoker. But at last he roused himself, and looked to Kadem ibn Abubaker.

  “You are bound by a blood oath to avenge the death of your father at the hands of al-Salil.”

  Kadem bowed deeply. “That oath is more dear to me than my life.”

  “Your soul has been desecrated by al-Salil’s brother, Tom Courtney. He wrapped you in the skin of a pig, and threatened to bury you alive in the same grave as the obscene animal.”

  Kadem ground his teeth at the memory. He could not bring himself to admit how he had been defiled and humiliated, but he sank to his knees. “I beg you, my Caliph and brother of my father, to allow me to seek satisfaction for these terrible wrongs that have been perpetrated against me by these two diabolical brothers.”

  Zayn nodded thoughtfully, and turned to Sir Guy. “Consul General, your daughter has been abducted by the son of al-Salil. Your magnificent ship has been pirated and your great store of wealth stolen from you.”

  “All this is true, Majesty.”

  Zayn turned at last to Pasha Herminius Koots. “You have suffered humiliation and your honour has been besmirched at the hands of this same family.”

  “I have suffered all these afflictions.”

  “As for me, the list of my own grievanc
es against al-Salil goes back to my childhood,” Zayn al-Din said. “It is too long and painful for me to recite here. We have a common purpose, and that is the eradication of this nest of venomous reptiles and pork-eaters. We know that they have accumulated a considerable store of gold and ivory. Let that be only the pepper sauce that piques our appetite for retribution.” He paused again, and looked from one to the other of his generals.

  “How long will you need to draw up a battle plan?” he asked them.

  “Mighty Caliph, before whom all your enemies are turned into dust and ashes, Pasha Koots and I will not sleep or eat until we are able to lay the battle order before you for your approval,” Kadem promised.

  Zayn smiled. “I would have accepted nothing less from you. We will meet here again after tomorrow’s evening prayers to hear your plan.”

  “We will be ready for you at that hour,” Kadem assured him.

  The war council continued by the light of five hundred lamps, whose wicks floated in perfumed oils to drive away the clouds of mosquitoes that, as soon as the sun touched the horizon, swarmed from the swamps and cesspools outside the city walls.

  Peter Peters fell into his accustomed place behind Sir Guy Courtney as they made their way through the labyrinth of passages towards the royal harem at the rear of the vast sprawling palace. The walls smelt of rot, fungus and two hundred years of neglect. Rats scurried away ahead of the torch-bearers as they escorted the Caliph to his bedchamber, and the tramp of the bodyguard echoed hollowly from the domes and cavernous recesses of the walls.

  The Caliph kept up a high-pitched monologue, and Peters translated the words almost as they fell from his lips. When the Caliph paused, Peters translated Sir Guy’s response just as swiftly. At last they reached the doors to the harem where a party of armed eunuchs waited to take over the escort duty, for no natural man other than the Caliph was permitted beyond this point.

  The aroma of incense floated from behind the ivory screens and mingled with the scent of lusty young womanhood. Listening intently, Peters fancied he heard the whisper of small bare feet on the flags and the sound of girlish laughter tinkling like tiny golden bells. His fatigue fell away as the cat’s claws of lust pricked at his manhood. The Caliph could go to his delights and Peters did not envy him: tonight the palace vizier had promised him something special. “She is a daughter of the Saar, the fiercest of all the tribes of Oman. Although she has seen only fifteen summers she is peculiarly gifted. She is a creature of the desert, a gazelle with pubescent breasts and long slim legs. She has the face of a child and the instincts of a harlot. She delights in the wiles and wonders of love. She will open to you all three of her passageways to bliss.” The vizier sniggered. It was part of his duty to learn every personal detail of every inhabitant of the palace. He knew full well in which direction lay Peter Peters’s tastes. “Even through the forbidden nether passage she will welcome you. She will treat you like the great lord you truly are, effendi.” He knew how much this worthless little clerk enjoyed being given that title.

  When at last Sir Guy dismissed him, Peters hurried to his own quarters. In Bombay he lived in three tiny cockroach-infested rooms at the back of the Company compound. The only female companions he could afford on his miserly salary were the women of the night in their cheap, gaudy saris and brass bangles, their lips and gums stained bloody crimson as sword wounds from betel nut, smelling of cardamom, garlic, curry and the musk of their unwashed genitals.

  Here in the palace of Muscat he was treated with honour. Men called him effendi. He had two house slaves to wait upon his every whim. His quarters were sumptuous, and the girls the vizier sent to keep him company were young, sweet and compliant. There was always a new one available as soon as he tired of the old.

  When he reached his bedchamber Peters felt the chill of disappointment slide down his spine, for the room was empty. Then he caught the smell of her, like the perfume of a citrus orchard in blossom. He stood in the centre of the room and searched it with his eyes, waiting for her to show herself. For a while nothing moved, and there was no sound except the rustle of the leaves of the tamarind tree that stood on the terrace below the balcony.

  Softly Peters quoted a stanza of the Persian poet: “‘Her bosom shines like the snowfields of Mount Tabora, her buttocks are bright and round as rising moons. The dark eye that nestles between them gazes implacably into the depth of my soul.’”

  The curtains that screened the balcony stirred and the girl giggled. It was a childlike sound, and he knew even before he set eyes on her that the vizier had not overstated her age. When she stepped out from behind the curtains, the moonlight struck through the flimsy stuff of her robe and the outline of her body was waiflike. She came to him and rubbed herself against him like a cat. When he stroked her small rounded backside through the thin cloth she purred.

  “What is your name, my pretty child?”

  “I am called Nazeen, effendi.” The vizier had instructed her carefully as to Peters’s special tastes, and her skills far surpassed her tender years. Many times during the remainder of that long night she made him bawl and bleat like a weaning calf.

  In the dawn Nazeen curled into his lap as he sat in the centre of the mattress of goose down. She selected one of the ripe loquats from the silver dish that stood beside the bed, and bit it in half with her small white teeth. She spat out the glossy brown pip and placed the rest of the sweet fruit between Peters’s lips. “You made me wait so long last night before you came to me. I thought my heart would break,” she pouted.

  “I was with the Caliph and his generals until after midnight.” Peters could not resist the urge to impress her.

  “The Caliph himself?” She stared at him with awe. Her eyes were huge and dark. “Did he speak to you?”

  “Of course.”

  “You must be a great lord in your own country. What did the Caliph want of you?”

  “He wanted my opinion and advice on matters of the utmost secrecy and importance.” She wriggled excitedly in his naked lap, and giggled as she felt him swell and stiffen under her. She rose on to her knees and reached down behind herself with both hands. She spread her tight brown buttocks, then sank back into his lap.

  “I do so love secrets,” she whispered, and thrust her pink tongue deep into his ear.

  Nazeen spent five more nights with Peters, and when they were not otherwise engaged they talked a great deal—or, more accurately, Peters talked and the girl listened.

  On the fifth morning when he came to fetch her, while it was still dark, the vizier promised Peters, “She will return to you again tonight,” and led her away by the hand to a side gate of the palace, where an old man of the Saar waited, kneeling patiently beside an equally ancient camel. The vizier swathed Nazeen in a dark camel-hair shawl and lifted her on to the dilapidated saddle.

  The city gates opened with the sunrise, and there followed the usual exodus and influx of desert folk who had come in to sell their wares, or who were returning into the vast wilderness: pilgrims and petty officials, traders and travellers. Among those leaving were the two riders on the old camel. There was nothing about them to excite interest or envy. Nazeen looked like the old man’s grandchild. It was not easy to tell her gender under the shabby robe that covered her head and body. They rode away through the palm groves and none of the guards at the gate bothered to watch them go.

  A little before noon the travellers spied a goatherd squatting on a crag of the barren hills. His herd of a dozen motley beasts was spread out among the rocks below him, nibbling at the desiccated twigs of the saltbush. The goatherd was playing a mournful little tune on his reed pipes. The old rider halted his camel and prodded its neck with his goad until it hissed, bellowed a protest and knelt in the sand. Nazeen slipped off its back and ran lightly up the rocky crag, throwing back the hood of her robe as she went towards the goatherd.

  She prostrated herself before him and kissed the hem of his robe. “Mighty Sheikh bin-Shibam, father of all my tribe, ma
y Allah sweeten every day of your life with the perfume of jasmine blossom.”

  “Nazeen! Sit up, child. Even here in the wilderness there may be eyes watching us.”

  “My lord, I have much to relate,” Nazeen babbled. Her dark eyes sparkled with excitement. “Zayn is sending no less than fifteen war-dhows!”

  “Nazeen, draw a deep breath, then speak slowly but miss nothing, not a word of what the ferengi Peters has told you.”

  As she prattled away bin-Shibam’s face darkened with concern. Little Nazeen had an extraordinary memory, and she had been able to milk the most minute details from Peters. Now she effortlessly recited the numbers of men and the names of the dhow captains whose ships would carry them southwards. She gave him the exact date and state of the tide on which the fleet would sail, and the date on which they expected to arrive at Nativity Bay. When she finished, the sun was half-way down the sky. However bin-Shibam had one last question for her: “Tell me, Nazeen, has Zayn al-Din announced who is to command the expedition? Is it to be Kadem ibn Abubaker or the ferengi Koots?”

  “Great Sheikh, Kadem ibn Abubaker is to command the ships, and the ferengi Koots the warriors who go ashore. But Zayn al-Din in person will sail with the fleet and take the supreme command.”

  “Are you sure, child?” he demanded. It seemed too great a stroke of good fortune.

  “I am certain. He told his war council, and these are the exact words that Peters repeated to me, ‘My throne will never be secure as long as al-Salil still lives. I want to be there at the day of his death, and to wash my hands in his heart blood. Only then will I believe that he is dead.’”

  “As your mother has said to me, Nazeen, you are worth a dozen warriors in the battle against the tyrant.”

  Nazeen hung her head shyly. “How is my mother, great Sheikh?”

  “She is well cared-for, as I promised. She asked me to tell you how much she loves you and how proud she is of what you are doing.”