I stepped up to stand toe-to-toe with him. “Don’t feed me that rot, Gabriel. I’m certainly not your property, and I have a suspicion that the women would be most inclined to see my point when I explain that I might well be able to save a son or two.”
He narrowed his eyes. “How do you intend to do that?”
“By doing precisely what I did earlier today—flying over the outpost. Those deserters can’t resist shooting at an aeroplane, even if it’s out of range. Every rifle aimed at the Jolly Roger is one less aimed at a Bedouin.”
He fell silent a moment, and I didn’t press the point. I simply let him think it over, and to my astonishment, he gave a grudging nod.
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Gabriel! Do you mean it?”
“I must be mad, but yes.” He gave a heavy sigh as I hurtled myself at him, throwing my arms about his neck.
“Oh, you won’t be sorry! Heavens, I don’t know why I’m thanking you because I was going to do it, anyway, but it will make it so much easier not having to sneak around—” I broke off, uncomfortably aware that my arms were still looped about his neck, his face inches from mine, his lips so very close.
I stepped down from my tiptoes, pulling my arms away and shoving my hands in my pockets.
“Good thinking, pet,” he said, his eyes mocking. “Unless you’d like to indulge in a bit of marital congress before sending me off to face possible death at the hands of the enemy?”
“Of course not. And don’t be vulgar,” I said automatically. But even as I refused, I realised I did not entirely mean it.
He gave me a quick nod and a smile and strode off then, disappearing into a tent. One of Sheikh Hamid’s men gave a signal, a cry of summoning, and within moments all of the warriors of the tribe had assembled. They carried ancient rifles and some of their bandoliers were only half-filled with bullets, but they were a magnificent sight, standing at the edge of the camp, their saddled horses nearby, draped in tasselled finery and tossing their heads as they stamped their feet impatiently. They were as ready to go as the men were, but there was some sort of ceremony that had to be observed first. Several of the men came forward in turn to speak briefly, and as they spoke I kept a watchful eye on the sun. If it sunk too far, I’d be flying blind on the way back, and I slipped away from the edge of the crowd to find Aunt Dove seated in front of her tent, Arthur’s cage hanging from a tent pole beside her. She was watching with rapt interest, and I almost regretted telling her I was going. The last thing I wanted was to worry her.
I should have known better. “Of course you are,” she said roundly when I had finished explaining. “I would expect nothing less. What can I do?”
I sketched out my request and she nodded. “Of course. I’ll get Halliday to help. He’s been having such a moan over that wretched plane of his. I’m sure he’d love nothing better than to be in the thick of things, but I’ll smooth it over. I shall explain to him how it will ease the minds of the ladies left behind to have such a strong fellow to defend them should worse come to worse. Men lap that sort of thing up.”
“Mind you don’t trowel it on too thickly or you might find yourself betrothed by morning.”
She made an airy gesture and the waning light caught the sparkle of the paste rubies on her fingers. “All in a day’s work, child. Besides, I suspect he has other fish to fry,” she added with a knowing glance.
I widened my eyes. “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you are talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. But it’s a pity he doesn’t realise it’s a futile effort. You’ll never look at another man so long as you have eyes only for Gabriel Starke.”
“Eyes only for Gabriel?” I spluttered. “Of all the ridiculous— Really, darling, are you starting on senility? Tell me now so I can take over your affairs.”
She waggled her fingers at me. “Oh, ‘methinks the lady doth protest too much.’”
I said a bad word and turned to go. She put out her hand and caught mine, turning me back to her. Her expression had turned serious. “No, darling. You can be as angry as you like, but you can’t leave without a kiss. I should have thought you’d have learned that by now. After all, you never know when you just won’t see someone again, do you?”
She kissed me soundly on both cheeks and put a hand to my face. “Now, go and fly your beautiful Jolly Roger and give them hell, is that the expression?”
“It will do,” I told her, blinking back a tear.
I went back to the crowd, which was still seething with excitement. I heard a single word repeated over and again, an invitation. Saqr. I caught their fervour as they waited outside his tent for Sheikh Hamid. They raised their voices higher still, chanting his name—“Saqr!”—and at the fever pitch of it, when the people had grown hoarse, Rashid came to find me.
His eyes were bright. “Sitt, the Saqr wishes to see you.”
He gestured for me to follow him to Sheikh Hamid’s tent and I did, uncertain of what to expect.
I entered the tent to see the Saqr standing before me. Garbed in the robes of a Bedouin prince, he was warrior and king, a creature striding straight from myth. He wore blinding white from head to foot. Only the black of his boots and the bright polish of the bandoliers spanning the breadth of his chest broke the purity. A narrow gold cord bound the white headdress to his brow, and under it, the bluest eyes I had ever seen held mine with a calm and level forget-me-not gaze.
“Surprised?”
I gaped at Gabriel. “But I don’t understand. You said Sheikh Hamid—”
“You said Hamid. I didn’t correct you.”
I shook my head to clear it. “I don’t understand,” I repeated. “How are you the Saqr?”
“It’s a long story, pet, and one I don’t have time for now. The short of it is that what your Colonel Lawrence was doing in front of movie cameras in the south, I was doing up here in secret. I built a legend for them to use to rally their own people, but it’s over now.”
“How is it over when you look like...like that?” I demanded, still unsettled at seeing him looking so shatteringly heroic.
His expression was resigned. “It has to be.” He buckled on a wide belt with a glittering gold sword. “Ready, pet?”
The crowd was chanting the name of the Saqr, and I wondered fleetingly if he had summoned me for moral support. I followed him out of the tent, and as he emerged, the cheers were deafening. The crowd parted, calling blessings upon him as he moved through them.
He strode to his horse, a mount they had put aside for him—an unblemished animal of solemn white, whiter even than the beautiful Hadibah. It was caparisoned in white and gold and as he held the headstall, he drew out the sword, a magnificent thing with a long curved blade, the golden hilt gleaming in the setting sun. He held it high overhead and waved it three times, each time pointing it directly to the east. And every time, the people chanted, louder and louder, and then Gabriel turned and led the horse to where Sheikh Hamid stood.
Gabriel bowed his head until the people were silent. A breeze had sprung up, rustling veils and robes as it passed over the land, the only sound amid the throng. When they were still, Gabriel lifted his head.
“Sheikh Hamid, brother and friend, it is no longer—and never was—my place to lead you. For too long my people have meddled with yours.” He turned to the crowd and lifted his voice. “I am no longer the Saqr. But I will follow he who is. I will fight for him and for you—but as your friend, Djibril, if you will have me.” He bowed his head again and lifted the sword to Hamid.
For a long moment, no sound, no movement came from the crowd. But then a voice, a single voice—was it Rashid’s?—called Hamid’s name. He looked from the sword to the crowd, and they erupted in cheers, chanting his name and calling him Saqr. Slowly, he reached out and took the sword from Gabriel. He waved it three
times overhead, and the cheers multiplied.
He turned back to Gabriel. “You will always have a place among us, my brother.”
A thousand questions tumbled in my head, but it was not the time for answers. For now, the mantle of power had been shifted, and Gabriel, who had looked hunted a moment before, now relaxed as he passed the rein for his milk-white mount to Hamid. The others hurried to their waiting mounts as the women lifted their voices in farewell.
Sheikh Hamid signalled for his own lovely Hadibah to be brought forward and Gabriel swung himself into the saddle, touching Hadibah’s flanks lightly, springing her to join the warriors just behind the Saqr.
“My God!” I hadn’t heard Halliday approach, but he was staring openmouthed, as I was at the spectacle of the warriors preparing to ride out.
I said nothing as the men moved out. There was nothing to say. I could not think of it now, how utterly, unspeakably wrong I had been. I burned with shame at the thought of the things I had said to him, the way I had mocked his pride, his courage, and all the while—no, I could not think of it or I would go mad. I put it aside as Ryder had taught me, forcing myself to think only of the job ahead.
The men moved out, the women trailing after a little distance. But the men spurred their mounts, their swords waving high, and within moments they were out of sight of the little valley, only a cloud of dust hanging in the pink light of dusk to show they had been there at all.
I hurried towards the Jolly Roger, Halliday trotting along in my wake. I clapped on my leather helmet as Halliday hefted the ballast bag into the second cockpit. He hesitated and I turned to him. “Do you want to come along?”
His smile was wry. “Is that all I’m fit for? Ballast?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know. Don’t trouble yourself, really. I do think it’s best I stay here. The women are quite undefended if those rotten deserters carry the day. I’d hate to think—well. Best not to, then.” He paused. “Did you have any idea?”
I paused, my fingers tightening painfully. “About Gabriel? No. I’m afraid I’ve been very stupid indeed.”
He gave me a wry smile and touched my hand. “Haven’t we all?” He stepped back and saluted smartly. “Godspeed, Evangeline Starke!”
* * *
I found them in less than ten minutes, a tightly bunched group of men riding fast and hard to the east. I flew high enough not to choke them with dust and waggled my wings as I passed over. I looked back to see them raising their rifles in salute, and Sheikh Hamid at the front, pointing them in the direction of the outpost.
I eased back on the stick, pointing her nose upwards as I approached the outpost. The noise of her engine carried far on the desert air, and I heard the crack of gunfire as I came into sight. They were waiting for us, and I pulled a barrel roll just to give them a show. I trotted out every trick Ryder ever taught me, every bit of showmanship and razzle-dazzle I could muster. The deserters poured out of the outpost, each of them trying for the chance to take down the Jolly Roger. I kept her far out of range, but the sight of her taunted them, and they were staring up and to the east when the Bedouin rode into their outpost out of the westering sun.
I watched them scramble for weapons, but there was no time. One or two tried to rally, but faced with the discipline of the Bedouin, the rest turned and fled. Determined to see justice done, the Bedouin pursued the deserters while a few remained behind to finish off the handful who stayed to fight. The harshness of it was more than I could have imagined, even circling high overhead, and as soon as the shooting stopped, I brought the Jolly Roger down and sat for a long moment, my hands still wrapped tightly about the stick.
After a long while, the shouts and shots faded and I could smell smoke from one of the outbuildings as it burned up. The Bedouin were making their way back, calling jubilantly to one another as they picked their way through the litter of destruction.
Still wielding the sword of the Saqr, now sticky with blood, Sheikh Hamid appeared at my shoulder, his face set in an expression of deep satisfaction.
“You’re pleased, then?” I asked him.
He nodded. “Justice has been satisfied. Those who survived run like frightened hares into the desert where most will die for lack of water.” He smiled grimly. “You will observe they did not take provisions and they are fleeing to the south when the roads to the north lead to cities. In their panic, they have chosen poorly.”
“I don’t imagine you gave them much time to think it all out,” I replied.
The smile deepened, and his manner was so calm we might have been discussing a Sunday cricket match on the village green. “Little sister, a woman will never truly understand the burden a man carries.”
“Burden?”
“The burden of responsibility for the lives and the happiness of all his people. We did not seek this bloodshed. They brought this upon themselves by their attack upon our allies, the Mezrab. And we have made our point—that so long as there are Bedouin in the Badiyat ash-Sham, we will never surrender. The men who survive this will wander into the desert, and as I said, most will die. But some will live. They will see their cities again and they will tell this story. They will talk of the day when the Bedouin rained fire upon them and sought vengeance. And these deserters will know they have made enemies of us and that we stand with our king and the legend of the Saqr lives on.”
His eyes gleamed in the dim light. Darkness was fast falling, and here and there his men were lighting torches and paraffin lamps. They had moved into the outpost itself and were searching for any survivors who might have taken cover inside. There were storerooms for supplies, various offices and a sort of dormitory for the men with a few small private rooms for the officers. In addition, there was a large open space that functioned as a mess hall. Yellowing notices in Turkish were still pinned to the walls, and the leaves of the calendar had been torn off until October 1918. It was here I found Gabriel, his white robes filthy but unbloodied. Sheikh Hamid’s men had broken open a barricaded door and brought out a woman. She moved slowly, as if underwater, and her clothes and face were caked with grime. They brought her to where Gabriel stood. He flicked his eyes to the door and they left us, but he did not look at me. I moved to the sideboard, where a pitcher of water stood. I poured her a glass and looked around for a napkin of some sort. There was nothing of the sort, so I took out my handkerchief and gave it to her with the water.
“Would you like to wash a little, Countess?”
She looked at me with tired eyes. “Yes, thank you. They fed me, but there was little in the way of polite conveniences in this god-forsaken place.” She gave a little wry smile.
She drank neatly and tidily from the glass then dipped a corner of the handkerchief in the rest of the water to wipe her brow and wrists. “That is better. One can face anything now.” She gave Gabriel a level look. “I had a good reason for wandering the desert, as I suspect you know.”
Delivered in another tone, the words might have been an accusation. But from the countess, they were stated calmly.
“Countess, you should sit down.”
Her smile was pitying. “I am Magyar and I will stand for the truth, thank you.”
“Very well,” Gabriel returned. “You need look no more. You will not find him.”
“Was he at least buried?” she asked, as evenly as if they had been discussing the weather.
“Under a fall of rock. On a ridge not far from the well where we found the Cross.”
She nodded slowly. “Thank you for that. I should hate to think the animals—” She faltered a little then, but recovered herself quickly, folding her shaking hands together firmly. “You must not think I blame you. I warned him, so many times did I warn him. I told him this was a dangerous game to play. But he was insistent, and the fault is mine.”
Gabriel remained silent,
letting her talk.
“What András was, he was because of me. He was younger, half a dozen years, although I do not think it showed,” she said. In another woman it might have been an invitation to flattery, but in the countess it was a simple recognition of fact. They looked so close in age they might have been twins. “Our mother died when András was born. Our father married again and our stepmother had many children. They were very happy together, but always András and I were different, the only children of our mother. And so we clung to one another, and I looked after him. I taught him his letters and his sums. I schooled him in languages and showed him how to button his shoes. I became his mother in a sense. I could not bear to see him hurt, you understand. I could not bear to say no to him, to disappoint him.”
She took a deep breath and carried on. “As we grew older, our interests grew apart, but always we found a way to mingle them so we would always have the pleasure of one another’s company. When he studied archaeology, I learned to apply my skills as an artist to assist him. In this way we carried on together, happy. And then the war came. When the empire fell, we lost everything—home, money. We had only each other and our titles. We were determined to build a new life for ourselves, or rather, I was determined to build a life for us. You see, that was András’ fatal weakness. He could not take initiative. That was left to me, always. If it were not for me during the war, he would have starved. I arranged he should be kept from the army on the grounds of a medical condition. I scrounged for food and I secured our posts here. I thought in time he would meet a lovely girl and marry her. I could keep house for him, care for their children.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a life for you,” I blurted out. She turned as if seeing me for the first time.
“It was as much of a life as I wanted,” she told me. “So many young men of our class were killed during the war or ruined after the fall of the empire. I gave up on the idea of a life of my own,” she added with the first touch of bitterness I had seen in her. “But I think it would have been enough if András could have been happy. If only he could have contented himself with a nice girl and a family of his own, with work as an archaeologist. But he brooded after the war. Always he thought of what we had lost—the little castle in the woods, the hunting lodge, the city house. He wanted it all back. He believed it was owed to him,” she explained. “It became an obsession with him, and when Daoud approached him with the story of treasure, I overheard them talking. I realised that this is the dream that had been driving him all along. He hoped to find something beyond belief, a treasure so profound it would make up to him all that he had lost.”
City of Jasmine Page 28