Divorce!
The desert falcon, flying ever higher, again soared above the square tower, then wheeled and swooped away for good, the air too dark, too used, for his desert tastes. He fled – back from where he came – into the wild, clear, wastes of sand and distance. As he went, his harsh cry seemed to echo that within the woman so far below him.
Divorce!
The word ricocheted around the old walls and soared into space; acquired a life of its own, it seemed to Zahirah, as it raced into the hot desert air.
She was free – free at last! She couldn’t, wouldn’t, believe it. Even as Fouad later said the words the obligatory three times in front of the required witnesses, she felt it was unreal. Had to be. She had yearned for it so much, for so long, that it seemed impossible to believe that it was now hers.
“For the period of iddat, you will reside in my Mother’s quarters and I, of course, will not trouble you during that time. After that, you will be provided with your own quarters and be treated in accordance with your rank. The child will, of course, remain with you until the required age.”
At Fouad’s last words she allowed herself to relax, although her outward demeanour gave no sign of this. She knew, as with the period of iddat, obligatory in case she was pregnant, that the child remaining with her until he was seven or eight years old, or perhaps more, was only in accordance with Sharia or Holy Law. She knew also that Fouad was entirely capable of ignoring that, as with anything else he saw as standing in his way.
So, it was done. Zahirah of the Mujara, slave-girl become Sheikha, become….what? She scarcely cared as she took Talal from his attendant and, holding her son tightly and her head high, left the chamber with Firyal, now no longer her mother-in-law.
Little Talal noticed almost no difference as Firyal’s large apartments were part of her son’s palace. To him, nothing changed after the momentous events concerning his parents. He ran happily in and out of every room, not just in the palace, but in all the buildings of the citadel. A happy and engaging infant, he was the favourite wherever he went. Spoilt and indulged, he was forever giving his hard-working attendants the slip as he hunted for sweets and other treats amongst the other dwellings, whether humble one-room lean-to or Sheikh’s mansion.
Nor did Zahirah notice much difference. Nor would she, she reflected cynically, until the period of iddat was over and she was found neither pregnant nor reconciled with Fouad. It would be a foolish person who rushed to sneer before things were clearer.
Then, she knew, things would be different. As an ex-wife she was vulnerable anyway. Without powerful relatives surrounding her, she was dangerously exposed. The only way women were made safe, really safe, was by re-marriage. That, however, was only if they were widowed. Rarely did divorced women re-marry in Narash, whatever the reason for their single status. But that was for later.
“I didn’t know of his plans,” said Firyal quietly, the morning after she had overseen the clearing of large rooms for her ex-daughter-in-law’s unexpected arrival.
Zahirah, shrugged, whether with fatalism or indifference, the older woman still found hard to judge. Even after closely watching the fiery pairing of her son through many months, she still found it difficult to fathom the maelstrom of feelings she sensed within them both.
“No matter. It is done. Now my life can begin,” responded Zahirah. “I know the Lord Fouad is your son, Highness,” she continued, “but you know also that the marriage was not of my seeking,” she added.
“And its ending?” probed the older woman, carefully.
“Its ending? Why, it is as it was at the beginning, the will of my Lord Fouad,” replied Zahirah, her tone neutral, her voice cold. And, in all honesty, she couldn’t have answered her kind mentor with any degree of real truth. Like all Bedouin, she wasn’t given to introspection. The only feeling she had ever acknowledged for Fouad was hatred and it didn’t occur to her now to re-examine those feelings. Any coldness around her heart she put down to the still fresh desire for revenge against him that she nurtured, feeding it with every fresh slight and hurt. Real or imagined, it didn’t matter. She felt it still as deeply within her, the same implacable force as the day he led the remnants of her people from their burning camp.
In truth, in the days after the announcement, her life was so little different than before, that she sometimes, in that half-awake state just before dawn, forgot she was no longer Fouad’s wife. This was because people still came to her with grievances, requests and complaints, much as they did when she was the Sheikha. They didn’t come, as Zahirah believed, merely because they were being cautious until they knew her future status; they came primarily because she had become, although she was, as yet, unaware of it, a formidable presence in the kingdom. This was not merely because she possessed the mystique of being their War Queen; a story which lost nothing in its telling and was to grow into legend in future years, but also because of her personal charisma. Young though she still was, she was developing a towering presence, rare enough in men, almost unheard of in a subject woman of Arabia.
Of course, having the very clear support of the other Sheikha, Firyal, did her no harm; no harm at all. But it was more, even, than either of these two factors. It was because Fouad, dictatorial, unreachable, implacable and ruthless as he undoubtedly was, had been prepared to listen to, and frequently act on, her advice; advice given on an increasingly wide range of issues. Whether it was one of the large inter-tribal gatherings, now regularly occurring, themselves mute witness to his growing power, in intimate private conversations, or the larger public Majlis or gatherings of Narashi power-brokers, whatever the occasion, when she spoke he had listened.
It was just such a Majlis that was called only days after her divorce. Summoned with Firyal to attend, she obeyed, realising it was a key moment in her new life. Heavily veiled and seated behind a half screen as a sop to her husband’s conservative advisors, who looked askance at any female presence outside the harem, she and Firyal had had unprecedented access to male deliberations. At first her presence had been at Firyal’s suggestion, but her acute analysis and insights had soon earned her a place in her own right.
That was before the divorce. Today would see if her influence remained. She didn’t know. As she also didn’t know the reason for her husband’s decision to divorce her. She didn’t know, and wouldn’t ask.
As she listened to the flowery, interminable conversations from the other side of the screens, she was unsure why she had been summoned. The talk was of small matters, the date harvest, water rights, docking issues, all-important to the one who raised them, but not of any major significance beyond. Her interest quickened when talk turned to the question of future alliances. Whether Fouad should re-vitalise his alliance with the Rashid, and thus with the Ottomans, or try and establish a clear neutrality was, she was aware, becoming a dominant issue. Her own – and Firyal’s – views were, she knew, at variance with Fouad’s. She tensed. This was not the ground she wished her future influence to be judged upon. She relaxed, though, as Fouad kept the talk carefully general and ensured no decisions were needed.
Then, the reason for her presence became clear, as Fouad’s voice called for the offenders against Umm Talal to be brought before him. Umm Talal! She straightened as she heard the name. The name that officially she was now known as. As with all Arabian women, she was often known not with the feminine version of her husband’s title or status, but as the mother of a son. Thus, Umm Talal was the name she was known as in official or conservative circles.
Two frightened men were dragged before Fouad and pushed down to kneel in front of him. To be sure, little effort was needed to force them to their knees. So frightened were they that they were upright only because each was supported by a guard on each arm. Once these stepped back, the prisoners collapsed in front of the inscrutable Sheikh. Fouad gazed down at the two frightened men. Seeking to gain favour, they had been heard to laugh at Zahirah’s reduced status, one referring to her as the “foreign
woman”. They had been shocked when, their words reported to Fouad, he had had them thrown into gaol. That had been six days ago, and already the hard, hot and totally inhuman incarceration in the citadel’s small cells had caused them to re-assess the wisdom of too quickly anticipating their ruler’s wishes.
“So, Abdul bin Naif and Mohammed bin Hammoud. You are here because you offended against the name of the Lady Zahirah, Umm Talal; am I correct?” Fouad’s use of the term “Lady Zahirah”, alongside the more traditional and effacing “Umm Talal”, itself, told the two cowering wretches that they had grievously misjudged the political wind. Whatever the reasons for their ruler’s decision to divorce her, it didn’t include any reduction in his regard for her, at least publicly.
Fouad, with typical savagery, announced his sentence. “You, Abdul bin Naif, spoke the offending words, thus your tongue will be cut out and you will receive two hundred lashes. You, Mohammed bin Hammoud, dared to join in the laughter and will receive one hundred lashes. Should either of you fall unconscious during the flogging, you will be revived and the lash will start again – at the beginning of the number stated.”
The announcement of the scale of the punishment brought a sharp intake of the room’s collective breath. Even thirty or forty lashes with the sheikhdom’s multi-thonged leather and steel-tipped whips could risk crippling a man; a hundred often kill. The only solace for a victim was that the punishment was so extreme that, most times, consciousness quickly left them. They no longer heard the sibilant hissing sound as the lethal instrument snaked through the air. Didn’t live that brief moment when its vicious sound was cut short only by the different, sickening, increasingly liquid sound as it bit into their ever more pulped and broken muscle and flesh. Unconsciousness meant a blessed, though temporary, sparing from unbelievable pain as hard leather ripped into soft flesh. To be made to be conscious throughout was a rarely used refinement saved for only the severest transgressions. Once consciousness did return, of course, their tormented body screamed aloud for many days, after which they had to live with the consequences of the flogging every minute of every day, trying to survive in their all but destroyed body.
Zahirah heard the punishment ordered with few qualms for the victims, but many for their families. She had little problem with the savage philosophy of an ‘eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth’ – but only for those directly guilty. She herself had suffered too much as an indirect victim of such a philosophy to want it for any other woman or child.
Knowing the risk she took, she quickly scribbled a note and had it passed through the curtain to an aide of Fouad’s. She heard later that, as he read it, a curious look came over his grim features; came and went. All she knew was the pause while he read the note and pondered its contents. She was conscious of an increase in tension throughout the room. The audience were well aware who’d passed the note and that it carried a request for some variation in the punishment just announced. Everyone waited with bated breath to hear Fouad’s response. More than any words, it would signal to all the future importance – or otherwise – of the young ex-Sheikha.
“The Lady Zahirah requests that I be lenient,” Fouad said, after a pause which, to everyone present, seemed almost endless. He looked with a cold gaze, at the two cowering men. His gaze signalled anything but leniency and their hopes, briefly raised, were crushed. A loss even more cruelly felt for their brief revival.
“As a mark of the regard I hold her, I accede to her wishes,” he said at last. “You will both receive only twenty lashes; and you, Abdul Qassim, will keep your miserable tongue – this time. Use the reprieve well, both of you.” He gestured for their removal, and, as the business of the day’s Majlis was finished, rose to leave. As he did so, his eyes rested briefly on the curtain shielding his wife and mother. Only Mohammed, with him, saw, as he turned away, his brief smile as they left the room.
Even without his words, the message was clear – and well taken by all. Whatever the future formal status of Umm Talal, the Lady Zahirah, she was still a force within the kingdom. Not only was she to be treated with the utmost respect, it had been made very clear that her views were still listened to by Fouad. A double reinforcement, the subtlety of which was appreciated by the enthralled audience.
So her days were still as busy as they had always been. Busier in some respects as she now, under the tutelage of Firyal, who found her an apt pupil, was able to spend more time on her business dealings. The income from which, whatever her future status – single, married, high-born, or cast back into lowborn status – would ensure the safety, indeed, luxury, of her and hers.
No, it was the nights that were different. How she had longed before, for a complete night’s sleep, unpolluted by Fouad’s presence and demands. How keenly she had anticipated the joy of a sleep lasting until dawn. How different the reality! She now found that she couldn’t easily get to sleep, nor, when she actually did so, did she have the deep untroubled slumber she had anticipated. Her body, weaker, or perhaps more honest, than her mind, wouldn’t easily let her forget. But soon though, under the iron-force of that mind, even these disturbances stopped and she settled into her new life, content to wait out the period before she was finally free. After all, three months was no time. No time at all.
But almost a year was.
After the second month, Zahirah found she was pregnant – a finding she viewed with distinctly mixed feelings. Now, no divorce could be finalised until the birth had taken place. But the joy of further children kept her content.
Fouad, when he heard, seemed indifferent. “So be it,” was all he was heard to say. “So be it.” He was away, on yet another journey aimed at keeping his fragile alliance together, when Zahirah went into labour. Though long, it wasn’t unduly difficult and by the time Fouad returned it was to the news that he was the father of not one but two children. Twins were often viewed with superstition in the more backward hinterland of the sheikhdom, but on the more enlightened coast no such reservations existed. The news that Zahirah had given their Sheikh another healthy son was welcomed by all. That the other child was a daughter… Well, there was always a next time.
Chapter 9
1908
The braying of camels and the galloping of horses alerted the depleted household to the return of the Sheikh. Beyond a brief raising of her eyes, Zahirah, nursing her two younger children, whilst Talal played around her feet, showed no outward sign of what his return may, or may not, mean to her.
Indeed, she had no inkling that the return would mean anything more to her than a finalising of her divorce and the start of the new life she craved.
But it did. Much more. In two ways.
The first was immediate in its impact; the second, though equally great, would take several years before its importance was felt. Both were ushered in with the arrival of Firyal, some hours after her son’s return.
“Zahirah, we have much to discuss,” she said, as she entered the large, airy room overlooking the waters of the Gulf. A room kept cool, even in the blistering heat, by the palm leaf fans waved by slaves and the cooling breeze flowing in from the large windows overlooking the harbour. Firyal indicated with her eyes her wish that the room be cleared of Zahirah’s attendants.
Zahirah, hiding her surprise, passed her children to their nurses and dismissed all gathered around her, bar two. The two she kept were mute, illiterate, and always stood at points where they could catch any eavesdroppers. Zahirah had learnt well from her mother-in-law the ways of keeping secrets actually secret.
“Lady, you look perplexed,” she said, as she offered coffee and dates, seeing the older woman’s rare uncertainty.
“Indeed, child, I am,” confessed Firyal, as she seated herself amongst the scattering of large multi-coloured cushions. A woman of immense dignity and reticence, she had always inspired respect and affection in the younger woman, who, frightened, forlorn, bur fiercely fighting to hide both, had been taken under her wing.
“Does it concern the Lord
Fouad?” asked Zahirah, her voice neutral.
“Yes, child. Both issues do.”
“Both issues?” echoed Zahirah, startled out of her usual inscrutability.
“Yes, child, both. As for the first, my son has asked me to discuss with you an issue of some importance to you. Seek your views.”
Zahirah was even more perplexed. For any Arab man to openly seek a woman’s view was unusual. In Fouad, it was unprecedented.
“Yes.” Firyal hesitated then went on. “Your divorce from Fouad can now be finalised. He wishes to see you settled and well in your new life.” She paused again. Zahirah, partly to help her and partly to hide her own confusion, nodded.
“He has asked that you consider re-marrying,” Firyal said, into the small silence that had developed.
Re-marry! The words hit Zahirah like a thunderbolt.
Re-marry!
She had been planning her life around the freedom, albeit heavily circumscribed, that she might enjoy as a divorced woman. To re-marry meant placing herself – again – at the whim and mercy of a husband. She had few illusions. Fouad’s ‘request’ that she consider the question was mere wordplay. If he had made a decision, the assumption would be that she had to obey. Her mind quickly moved from shock to calculation. She had little confidence that her ex-husband would be benign in choosing her next one. The life as the fourth wife of some toothless old sheikh swam before her eyes. It was a life, she knew with absolute certainty, that she would never undertake; never endure the feeble groping of an impotent old tyrant trying to pluck the juices of youth from her own body. She started to say as much to Firyal.
Swords of Arabia: Warlord Page 7