Swords of Arabia: Warlord

by Anthony Litton

  “It’s Mohammed,” the older Sheikha said, cutting across Zahirah’s opening words, almost as though she knew what they would be, as indeed, she did.

  “Mohammed?” the younger woman repeated blankly, as she tried to work out which of some half dozen Mohammeds Firyal was referring to.

  “His brother, Mohammed,” interjected the Sheikha, seeing her confusion and realising its cause.

  That Mohammed! Fouad’s favourite brother. No toothless old sack of bones then! Most assuredly not. Young – only her age, but already a proven warrior. A worthy husband for any woman, even an ex-Sheikha.

  “Why Mohammed?” asked Zahirah, almost stunned by the sudden turn of events and fighting to gather her wits.

  “The Lord Mohammed has, I understand, admired you since you were the War Queen,” Firyal said carefully. Conscious that the volatile younger woman was entirely capable of rejecting Fouad’s courteously phrased order, she was being extremely circumspect.

  Ah! thought Zahirah, remembering that battle and its, for her, unfortunate outcome. That explained much. She well remembered the fiery young prince riding with her escort and protecting her. The dark, flashing eyes, the bravura horsemanship, the sheer, reckless courage of the young warrior as he raced, as he thought, to save her. The law of the harem had limited his seeing her since, but obviously he had felt something for her, from that freer, more unencumbered time.

  “He approached Fouad just after the decree, and said that if the divorce were to proceed, and you were willing, he would be honoured in taking you to wife,” said Firyal, carefully feeling the ground before her. “He also would be willing to divorce his present two wives to ensure your status as his first wife,” she added, knowing that his offer would show Zahirah both how earnest he was and allay any fears she may have at becoming a secondary wife.

  Zahirah nodded. Obviously the young warrior was keen and, though he knew no decision could be made until the end of iddat, had moved quickly to stake his claim.

  “You would have a place of high honour again,” Firyal continued, doing, as her son requested, everything to ensure his fiery ex-wife saw all the benefits being offered her.

  Neither he nor his mother need have worried. Zahirah was ahead of them. Her mind clear and her voice decisive, she said, simply and clearly, “I accept.”

  Firyal, used to Zahirah’s convoluted way of approaching issues, and her ex-daughter-in-law’s equally serpentine way of dealing with them, was taken aback, but, adept as her protégé in hiding her own feelings, she merely nodded. “A good decision, child,” she said. After a short pause she added quietly. “Yes, a good decision,” she nodded judiciously. “A fine warrior,” she added, probing delicately.

  “Indeed,” Zahirah nodded. “A very fine warrior.”

  “And not uncomely,” Firyal added.

  “Indeed,” agreed Zahirah, smiling a little.

  “And high in Lord Fouad’s confidence,” Firyal added.

  “Indeed,” Zahirah agreed again.

  “And is well regarded as a husband,” Firyal added, even more delicately, referring both to his reputation for treating his wives well and also not neglecting his night-time duties.

  “All those things led me to my decision,” Zahirah affirmed.

  Firyal nodded, “And....?” she prodded gently.

  Zahirah looked blankly back. “And what, Highness?” she asked innocently.

  “I sense another reason. Am I wrong?”

  Zahirah bowed her head, not surprised her mentor had asked the question. Zahirah knew that her skill at dissembling, hiding her true feelings, were no match for the older woman’s skill at reading much deeper into people than anyone else she knew. It was one of the reasons she admired her and willingly learnt from her.

  She smiled a more open smile than many ever saw. “Yes, Highness, there is one other reason,” she paused.

  “Yes?” Firyal pressed gently.

  “The Lord Mohammed is, as you said, a mighty warrior and a leader of men. Lord Fouad rightly respects and admires his many virtues, as a warrior and an advisor on military matters. I myself know that he is an expert horseman. It is not a wonder that he is high in the councils,” she added. “A husband any woman would feel proud was hers.”

  At this Firyal laughed, a sound surprisingly young and joyous. “Zahirah, cease this playing with me,” she admonished gently.

  The younger woman threw up her hands and, joined in the laughter.

  Firyal, gazing at her, suddenly guessed, or thought she had. Intrigued, she waited for the other woman to continue.

  “I feel the Lord Mohammed will be…” Zahirah paused, not for effect, but careful of offending the older woman. Though not Mohammed’s mother, she was known to be very fond of him.

  “You think you can manage him!” Firyal broke in, startling Zahirah by her frankness.

  “Well Highness, I wouldn’t…” Zahirah broke off as she saw the older woman smiling back at her.

  “You’re right, child. With careful stroking of his pride he is much more manageable than his brother.” Satisfied, she sat back, knowing she had got to the real reason for Zahirah’s surprisingly easy acceptance.

  Admiringly she looked at the younger woman, now in the full blaze of her beauty. Her son had made a foolish choice when he parted from this one, she mused, not for the first time. Zahirah had immediately seen beyond the more obvious benefits of the marriage and zoned in on the one thing of paramount importance to her – the comparative freedom and control of her own destiny she would have with someone like Mohammed. Though far from weak, he was more relaxed than Fouad, and, in truth, admitted his step-mother, more a follower than a leader. That his current wives hadn’t used his easy-going nature to their advantage, said more for their lack of initiative than Mohammed’s strength of character. To Firyal, it was a foregone conclusion that the very straightforwardness of that character, his lack of any guile, would mean that he stood no chance against someone of Zahirah’s mettle.

  “I beg two favours of you, Lady,” said Zahirah, smiling her agreement at Firyal’s assessment.

  The older woman nodded.

  “First, I would delay announcing my decision, beyond saying I am considering it, and that you seem hopeful, but not entirely sure as yet. I should not like the Lord Mohammed to win too easy a victory,” she murmured, delighting Firyal immensely.

  “And the second?” the older woman prompted after a moment.

  “That when the time comes, you support my request that Mohammed divorces neither of his two wives.”

  Startled, Firyal said nothing, merely looked surprised.

  “I know them both. They have done me no harm and I would not wish another woman to be discarded like an old saddle or camel rug,” she added. The flash of steel in her voice showing, just a little, the anger at the ease with which she herself had been dispensed with.

  Firyal agreed, after a pause. Although accepting women’s subjection to men, she too, was not an unquestioning participant in that subservience. She also shrewdly realised that Zahirah would, at a stroke, win two allies within her new household. Nor would their presence prevent her becoming the dominant figure in that same household. Of that, Firyal was admiringly sure.

  Satisfied that her pupil was developing most excellently, she sipped her coffee, pondering her next move. In some ways, more difficult and prone to risk than the first issue, so satisfyingly and expeditiously dealt with – though some considerable time would elapse before the Lords Fouad and Mohammed would know it.

  “At the beginning of our conversation I believe you mentioned two issues, Lady, am I correct?” Zahirah’s voice broke into Firyal’s reverie, as she sensed some hesitation on the other woman’s part.

  “Your son is developing well, Umm Talal,” replied the older woman, apparently irrelevantly.

  Zahirah knew better.

  The Sheikha never did anything without a purpose, another reason Zahirah admired her. Also, attuned as she was to the senior princess, s
he realised that the reference to her son and, equally, her own designation as Umm Talal, Mother of Talal, provided the context in which the next few minutes’ conversation was to be viewed.

  “Indeed, Lady, he does exceedingly well.” Despite herself, Zahirah couldn’t keep her pride from her voice.

  “The Lord Fouad is also fond of him,” remarked Firyal, casually.

  “Yes, he is,” nodded Zahirah, fully aware of the deep bond between the towering warrior and his small son.

  “Indeed, he asks that he may visit Talal and his new children at a moment convenient to yourself, but hopefully soon,” added Firyal.

  Zahirah nodded again, She well knew that Fouad had no need of her permission to do anything, least of all visit his new children, but his courtesy pleased, nonetheless.

  “Before he left this last time, Fouad was discussing who would succeed him when the time comes,” Firyal said suddenly and, again, with apparent irrelevance.

  Zahirah, her antennae now at full scope, merely nodded. With life always uncertain in desert or town, it made sense to be aware of one’s mortality and make appropriate provision. This, in Fouad’s case, in the middle of a fierce war for supremacy, even survival, with one of the greatest warriors the deserts had ever produced, meant ensuring an orderly succession. Necessary, whether that succession was years ahead, or destined to happen within hours.

  Far-sighted as she was, she hadn’t failed to have already given the matter some thought. From the very moment she knew the sex of her second-born, her mind was working on ways to advance him; by whatever means lay in her power.

  But it was too soon, she thought. Too soon to act now. Her son was not yet four. No tribe would accept a child so young, particularly if the fallen chief’s choice had already gone elsewhere.

  “I hope the Lord Fouad has many years before such a decision needs acting upon,” she said out loud. Her wish for him to survive long enough to see Talal in manhood, gave her voice a sincerity not lost on Firyal. “Such a decision is many stranded and calls for much thought,” Zahirah added, obliquely inviting the older woman to expand more.

  “Indeed,” Firyal acknowledged. “Indeed. He has considered Talal,” she added, “amongst others.”

  “He has not said as much, Lady,” Zahirah answered, concealing both her surprise and, more importantly, her fierce joy. But it is only right that he should, she thought. The boy is his firstborn. She knew well, however, that, whilst being the eldest son gave Talal an edge in the succession stakes, it gave him nothing like a certainty. Although leadership of the settled sheikhdoms was frequently passed on from father to eldest son, more so than the roaming tribes of the deserts, it was far, far from a certainty. Thus, any advantage a son could gather before his father died was eagerly sought by the ambitious.

  And Zahirah was ambitious.

  Very ambitious.

  How ambitious for her adored elder son, she herself only now fully realised as she silently absorbed Firyal’s words. Why was the older woman telling her this? And now, so many years in advance of it likely to be an issue? Had Fouad anything to do with her message? If so, why? And who else was he considering. Had he made any decision yet? These and many other thoughts jostled for her attention. Swiftly she was sifting them all, weighing each and assessing its importance. All the while her face betrayed nothing beyond a polite interest in whatever the other woman wished to say.

  “The Lord Fouad is fortunate in having many good men to choose from,” she added neutrally.

  “Indeed, but he considers only a few, some five or six, including Talal,” Firyal responded.

  And who may they be? Zahirah’s thoughts flamed as she tried to see who was a potential rival to her son’s greatness. Knowing it would be discourteous to ask directly, she merely looked at her with interest and hoped the older woman would continue.

  Firyal did so. “Two are of no moment,” and she mentioned two of Fouad’s uncles, worthy men, both of whom had some clan-backing, but neither of whom were likely to set the deserts on fire if they were chosen, or even their own hearth, if family rumour were true, Zahirah thought with grim amusement, as she nodded her agreement. She knew the two and agreed with Firyal’s assessment.

  “The others are Mahmoud, Badr and Mohammed,” Firyal added simply.

  Mahmoud, Badr and Mohammed! The three most warlike and powerful of Fouad’s brothers! Competition indeed, thought Zahirah. And one soon to be her own husband – such was fate’s casual mockery, she thought briefly. Firyal obviously wishing to discuss the issue, Zahirah felt emboldened to ask.

  “And when do you think Lord Fouad will reach his decision?” she asked quietly.

  “His decision will depend on many factors,” the older woman responded obliquely.

  Yes, thought Zahirah, and not the least of those factors will be the views of the woman sitting opposite her.

  “Fouad does not know I tell you this,” Firyal said quietly, sensing the direction of Zahirah’s thoughts. “Indeed, he expressly forbade me to say anything of this to you,” she added, quietly.

  “Why then, Lady?” asked Zahirah simply, raising her eyes to look Firyal fully in the face.

  One question requiring four answers and Firyal gave them all. “Why consider Talal? It’s simple – he sees good bloodlines in the boy. Why now? Well, I’ll come to that in a moment. As for why he wished you not to know, I know not,” she replied honestly, shrugging her shoulders. “Why would I break his trust and tell you? Well, that needs a longer answer. Before I give it, I have a question,” she paused and then asked. “Would you wish such a destiny for your son?”

  To any non-Arab the question might seem superfluous. Why not reach for the highest honour? Simply, in the brutal world of hereditary dynasties, if you did, you became the object of danger and envy. Danger both from the known enemy outside, and, more insidiously, a danger from within; from the envious, those who would also aspire to be supreme. Yet, there were dangers also from not aiming high. Many an innocent brother had been murdered by a suspicious sibling, who believed, with or without cause, that they were aspiring to take their power.

  To Zahirah there was no contest. Any danger her son faced would be as leader of the pack, not as some secondary brother, powerless and maybe in equal danger.

  “I would indeed wish that as my son’s destiny, Lady,” she replied quietly. “If such is the Lord Fouad’s wish,” she added with the conventional submission.

  Firyal smiled to herself, knowing full well that if Fouad wished it or not, it was only a matter of time before the strong-minded girl before her started to manoeuvre for just such power for her child. It was inevitable in any mother, even more so in one as able, unscrupulous and ferocious as Zahirah. It was precisely these qualities Firyal wished to harness, but she knew she must tread carefully. Very carefully.

  “You do me great honour in being so open, Highness. May I ask why you would break with your son’s request for silence?” the younger woman asked, despite the risk of offence. She asked, because she sensed that the answer was part of the mosaic she needed to finish before she could decide her actions from here on. That she would take action she knew with chilling certainty; as did the woman watching her, because, if the situation required it, Firyal herself would do exactly that.

  Chapter 10

  The sudden silence, almost as though time itself had stood still, told Zahirah that they had reached the very heart of the matter. She would soon know why she had been honoured with such inner secrets. Honoured in spite of Fouad’s request, which, as she well knew, was usually binding on the Sheikha. For that it was leading somewhere, and that somewhere out of the ordinarily important, she now had no doubts at all. Firyal would not have ignored her son’s wishes otherwise.

  Firyal, choosing her words with great care now that she had arrived at the core of her mission, began. “It little matters who Lord Fouad chooses to follow him, if the one coming after him has nothing to rule over.”

  Rising, Firyal gestured for Zahirah
to follow out onto the broad, shaded balcony overlooking the courtyard of the citadel on one side and the busy harbour on the other.

  The two women, veiled now, stood for a moment gazing down at the courtyard full of laughing shouting people. Returning Bedu warriors mingled with an admiring population, and all intermixed with livestock, camels, horses, even goats and hens; all in a swirling kaleidoscope of noisy colour.

  “See them – they celebrate Lord Fouad’s latest victory,” said Firyal. Something in her voice made Zahirah pause and seek something deeper in her words.

  Saying nothing more, Firyal moved to the seaward side of the terrace and stood looking down at the thriving harbour spread out below them. The mixed scents of cinnamon, myrrh, peppers, jasmine, rose and other exotic substances, all drifted in the warm air. Intermingling and rising upwards, the exotic blend of aromas was almost sensuous as it reached and enveloped the two women standing silently high above the teeming waterfront.

  “See how busy, how vibrant, our waters are. You know from our own transactions, what worth flows across them daily. How rich they make our lands; or would, if only the dogs of war weren’t always devouring our treasure,” she added bitterly. “And there you have it, child,” she sighed, gesturing to the opposite sides of the terrace. “The two strengths of our kingdom – and our two weaknesses.”

  “Strength I see, Highness, but weakness?”

  Firyal turned suddenly, her voice incisive, as though she had reached a decision, as indeed she had. “Zahirah, how much do you wish to see Talal in Fouad’s place?”

  The abrupt change of subject and the direct question, so unusual in a culture that admired the oblique in everything, told Zahirah the question was deadly serious and required a serious answer.

  “Any mother would wish her son to achieve such an honour – at the proper time,” she replied carefully, assembling her thoughts for what she now knew was the heart of the reason for the Sheikha’s visit.