Swords of Arabia: Warlord

by Anthony Litton

  Fouad nodded sombrely, “Indeed, brother, it would; and, even more, would actually be so, unless the circumstances were such as to make it honourable, indeed, inevitable.”

  “And would the British accept our offer of alliance in any event?” interposed Isaac. The elderly official was not a fan of the high-handed British, as his family had suffered much at their hands over the years. He had little wish to find himself again under the heel, however benevolent it seemed, of the greatest, and perhaps the most ruthless, of the great imperial powers. He was, however, beginning to see little option, if his adopted country was to survive the even more ruthless onslaught of the al Saud.

  “It seems to me, Lord, that events may well give us that which we seek, as far as deciding our future links with the Turk, at least.” They all looked at Zahirah, all but Firyal, who already knew where her thoughts had led her. Receiving a nod to continue from Fouad, she went on. “As long as the Ottoman hold al Hasa we are, in large part, both secure and committed. We have a long history of riding at the side of the Ottoman, both against the al Saud and other tribes.” She paused, and seeing she had the group’s complete attention, she continued. “But what if they ever leave al Hasa?”

  “Why would they?” asked Fouad, as ever, intrigued to observe his ex-wife in action. “Almost a hundred years ago, they fought a long war and spilt much blood when Ibrahim Pasha invaded and took it – and Narash – back from the al Saud. Scarcely forty years ago, under Midhat Pasha they fought and drove out the al Saud yet again,” he added, quietly.

  “They may not wish to leave, but from what all our sources tell us, they are facing increasing and successful challenges in other lands. With so many of their dominions breaking away, there will come a time when they must decide between staying here in Arabia, or sending their armies to keep, or re-take, their other lands.”

  “Ah,” Isaac shifted his plump buttocks as he made to speak. “That may already be happening,” he said, happy to have information that neither Zahirah nor Firyal apparently had. “I understand troops have been shipped out of Basra in Iraq and, even some from the Hijaz on the west coast. With no replacements apparently planned,” he added portentously.

  Not by a flicker of an eyebrow did either of the ladies let on that they already knew of the troop movements – down to the very last number of men and the name of each regiment. To have wiped the happy smile from the little chamberlain’s face, whilst tempting to Zahirah, would not keep their alliance as close as it needed to be in the increasingly turbulent times they were facing, so both she and Firyal remained silent.

  “But we cannot wait on events alone,” Firyal said suddenly. “I think Zahirah is correct. While they hold lands neighbouring ours, we cannot, indeed, should not, act. That doesn’t mean, however, that we cannot plan for the day they do leave – however remote such an act seems at present.”

  “And seek a British alliance?” queried her son.

  “Who else is there?” she responded.

  “It cannot be in British interests to have a too powerful ibn Saud. I can’t see anything but their willingness to allow us into their embrace,” said Isaac, his face showing how little he relished the thought of such amorousness.

  Fouad, knowing the history of Kuwaiti attempts before they got such protection, was considerably less sure, but said nothing.

  The talk continued for some hours, yet, in reality, they all knew their decision had been taken; they would stay with their Ottoman allies, but prepare against the day they may have to stand without them. The only questions now left on the table were how, when and with what terms they approached the British.

  These discussed and decided upon, an initial letter was drafted and sent, not to Captain Shakespear but to Sir Percy Cox, his superior and the most powerful Briton in the Gulf. It first stated simply that the Narashi were content with their current relationship with the Ottoman authorities. The letter then went on to ask whether, if circumstances so arose that the Ottoman and Narashi treaties were deemed void, by whatever events this arose from, would the British Government be willing to enter into a similar relationship with Narash as they had with Kuwait and other Gulf states? It went on to underline the Narashi belief that this could do much to maintain the balance of power between the various competing powers within Arabia, thus providing a stability surely desired by everyone.

  The reply to that first letter, whatever it was going to be, never came. A second letter was dispatched some months later. When the British reply did arrive, despite all the flowery language, it boiled down to a simple refusal. As the writer couldn’t even envisage a situation where the Ottoman would cease to be an important presence in Arabia; and His Majesty’s government must at all times be neutral in internal Arab affairs, etc, etc, etc, no such undertaking, or even understanding, could be entered into with Narash.

  Chapter 12

  1911

  Fouad’s face was grim as he read the British reply to his letter. Although it was a heavy blow, he was unsurprised and had prepared his next move should his request be turned down. But, that would have to wait; first he had family business to attend to. It would be unpleasant, even dangerous perhaps, but no longer avoidable. Handing the letter to his chamberlain, he strode into the airy council chamber, packed with a large gathering that fell silent as he entered. A glance assured him that Zahirah and Firyal were in their usual places behind the screen immediately behind him. Mohammed, one of the few already aware of what Fouad planned to say, was already seated amongst the rest of their extended family. Fouad commenced to greet everyone individually in order of their seniority with the handshake and kiss on each cheek, the Shawaq tradition in greeting family members. As there were over fifty men gathered, this took some time but couldn’t be speeded up without causing great offence; and what he had to say would soon cause enough of that.

  The greetings over, he sat down, cross-legged, amongst them. He talked casually of family matters until the slaves had finished re-filling coffee cups and, after ensuring sufficient dates and other delicacies were available, had silently left the room.

  “Uncles, brothers, nephews, cousins, welcome to my house. The time has come to talk openly of our problems. But first I must tell you that I have just heard that two more senior Rashidi princes have been murdered – again by members of their own family. This, little more than a year or two after yet another of their Emirs was killed, also struck down by family members.”

  The room reacted with only muted shock and surprise. Some, as Fouad suspected, already knew, but their lack of reaction was primarily due to it not being unusual. “As you know, he was far from the first Rashidi Emir to die by the hand of those related by blood or marriage to their line; and there will almost certainly be more in their future, should they have one,” he added chillingly. “As though that weren’t enough, now yet more of their important princes are killed, again, over some family feud.”

  “The Rashid behave as you say, nephew, but why tell us what we all know?” muttered an elderly, heavyset man. Seated near Fouad, his thickly bearded face emanated its usual unconscious bitterness as he looked round the circle of seated men.

  “But, do we know it, Uncle?” Fouad responded quietly.

  “You think us all stupid, cousin?” growled a younger version of the old man, sitting further around and away from Fouad.

  “What is the family business of the Al Rashid to us, Nephew?” This from a lean, aesthetic man; though older than Fouad only by a year or two, another uncle.

  “Yes, whoever their Emir is, whatever they do to their princes, our alliance with them is unchanged; it stays as it always has been,” shrugged an elderly man. He had seen too much Rashidi blood split over the decades to be too much surprised that it had happened again.

  “In truth, it has to be; for only together can we hold back the Al Saud,” added a fourth speaker, a fierce looking man and the one closest in age and outlook to his cousin, Fouad.

  “We don’t need them! We are strong enoug
h to fight ibn Saud on our own!” shouted a grey beard with more pride than sense, thought his nephew privately.

  “Once, perhaps,” agreed Fouad diplomatically, “but no longer. Ibn Saud is getting stronger and the Rashid, grow weaker each time they turn and fight each other, and again spill the very family blood that should be their defence against the al Saud.”

  His words caused the family council to erupt; some agreeing with him, others not. He was content to let the talk, indeed, the shouting, continue. He knew that the more thoughtful of his kin agreed with him and saw real, perhaps mortal, danger, in the continual infighting of the powerful tribe that was their own chief ally. Even more important was the fact that, for decades, the Rashid had been the most powerful of the tribes ranged against the al Saud.

  Twenty years previously the Al Saud, themselves riven by internal family blood-letting, had been driven from their city of Riyadh in the Nejd, deep in the heart of Arabia. They’d been driven out by the victorious Rashid, powerful emirs from Hail to their north. From that very moment, the defeated al Saud had brooded on their defeat and plotted bloody revenge; a revenge they were now in the midst of taking.

  “Fouad is right. Ever since their defeat by ibn Saud at Rawdat Muhanna, five summers ago, and losing ibn Rashid himself, the Rashidi have been weaker than the Al Saud and every time they kill one of their own, they get weaker still. The time is fast approaching when it will be too late to save themselves – or us.” This was said flatly by Badr, a half-brother of Fouad and a respected warrior even amongst Fouad’s war-like family. Unlike others of his garrulous kin, he rarely spoke at gatherings such as this, so his intervention brought some pause to the babel of dissenting voices.

  “It may be so,” someone said into the sudden silence, though in tones, clearly showing that he very much doubted it, “but why are we spending time talking about affairs that we cannot change and, I would argue, do not concern us?” The bored tone in which this was said, plainly inferred they were also of no interest to the speaker, a languid-looking youth seated at the far side of the circle. One of the youngest present, he had, as custom demanded, remained silent whilst his elders debated a topic he clearly found tedious.

  “Because, Nephew, it does greatly concern us,” Fouad interjected quickly now that the question he’d wanted raised had been done so, apparently naturally. “Ibn Saud has made no secret that he wants what he sees as his family lands back in his control; this includes Narash itself, as you all know. The Rashid stand in his way and have done so for many years. I ask this: if they are beaten, who then stands between his ambitions – and us?” he asked bluntly.

  “The Ottoman do. They won’t let us fall; we’re too near Al Hasa. They need us as their neighbour, not the Al Saud,” interjected Tamir, another half-brother of Fouad’s. He was unaware, as were all the men in the room except Mohammed, about Fouad’s approaches to the British. Fouad didn’t respond to Tamir, silently cursing his brother for raising the issue. Alliances with one or the other of the imperial powers was too dangerous a subject for discussion at such a large gathering. It was an issue only to be discussed with his trusted advisors. Fortunately the conversation went back to the Hail Emirs.

  “We managed well enough without the Rashidi, seven years ago,” responded Abdulla, yet another bellicose brother. “And will do so again,” he added proudly.

  “Do not forget, brother, how close we were to being alone and without allies,” Faisal, his older half-brother contradicted.

  Others nodded in vigorous agreement, many still scarred by how near they came to defeat, particularly in the battle with ibn Saud just after re-taking the town from Mishari. That the Rashidi had kept aloof for internal dynastic reasons had meant the alliance that Fouad had had to hurriedly create lacked some of the legitimacy, if not the fighting power, that a Rashidi presence would have provided.

  “Even so, how can we influence what the al Rashid do?” asked Abdulla, shrugging his shoulders in the age-old gesture of resignation to the inevitable.

  “Little,” agreed Fouad, “beyond what I have already done, sent our good wishes to the new Emir, adding our hope that his reign is a long and prosperous one.”

  Heads nodded, pleased at the subtlety of the message. More direct comment could cause offence to a notoriously touchy tribe, but the wording made clear their concern. As a major ally of the al Rashid, it would be noted, though it being acted on was, as everyone was aware, much less likely. The dynasty had been too steeped in blood for much too long for it to be otherwise.

  “You ask why we are discussing the al Rashid. I will tell you,” he continued.

  The room grew quiet as all sensed the real reason for their being summoned to a full family council. Contact between them all was constant, but, more usually, in informal gatherings and smaller groups, so their interest was piqued when they received the invitation – summons – to a more formal gathering.

  Turning to Mansour, his languid nephew, Fouad continued calmly, “You asked earlier, Nephew, if I thought you were all stupid in not knowing what the Rashidi do. I do not. The opposite is true. I revere my uncles and welcome and heed their advice. I love my brothers as myself and I admire my nephews and my cousins. I am proud to be a member of such a family.” His flowery words acted as the soothing oil he’d intended, “No, I don't think you lack either knowledge or wisdom,” he continued. “Many of you feel, as I do, that we need strong allies to be sure we triumph against an ever stronger ibn Saud. But,” he added, quietly, a new note in his voice alerting everyone, “I also tell you nothing you don’t know when I say that, even more, our very survival as the ruling house in Narash, maybe as a tribe, rests on us talking with one mouth, fighting as one arm!” Seeing their nods of agreement, he smiled grimly.

  “The weakness of the Rashidi is their constant internal feuding and spilling of family blood. The strength of ibn Saud is that his grip is strong enough to make sure the al Saud talk with one voice. As we should. Yet, uncles, brothers, cousins, men of my family, I’m told there are times when this isn’t so.”

  The sudden absolute silence in the room told him how totally he now had their attention. He did nothing to break it, letting it instead stretch out, do its part in playing on the nerves of those at whom his words were aimed.

  “What are you telling us, brother?” eventually asked Abdul, Mansour’s father, a small man, sitting near Fouad, who until now had not spoken.

  “Or rather not telling us!” sneered Mansour.

  “Hush, Nephew, and then you may hear words of some substance,” Mohammed said suddenly, taking a double swipe at his talkative relative.

  Mansour flushed and half stood as though to challenge the other man. Then, as though recalling Mohammed’s many martial skills, he suddenly sat back down and contented himself with only glowering heavily across the room at him; a look returned with just the slightest mockery by Mohammed.

  Behind the screen Zahirah smiled; her second husband may well be relaxed and easy going, but it was unwise to challenge him beyond a certain point, particularly when he felt Fouad was under attack.

  “I say that the unity of our house may be threatened from within, brother,” replied Fouad, calmly addressing himself to the older man and ignoring the sneering tones of his son. “Again,” he added, his reference to his half-brother’s usurpation being deliberate. The room again exploded into excited chatter, as it seemed that everyone in the Majlis started speaking at once.

  Fouad raised his hand imperiously. “We are hearing stories of men of our house stealing away in the night to have meetings with friends of the al Saud; even of the Ikhwan, a growing menace and nearer to us than ibn Saud,” he went on. The mention of the Ikhwan, disciples of the extreme Wahhabist creed caused a ripple of unease in the room. They were beginning to establish strong settlements dangerously near the Narashi borders and, as Fouad knew, would one day pose a direct threat to Narash itself.

  “A serious charge, brother. You can give us proof of this?” Abdul asked,
seemingly both unsurprised and unconcerned at Fouad’s words.

  “The meetings are fact,” stated Fouad flatly. “Of that we have proof; proof I will supply privately to any who doubt my word. As to the names of those of our kin who are present at those meetings…” Fouad paused and let his bleak gaze rake the room. So cold and stark was its threat that even those innocent felt a deep chill settle over the gathering.

  “These are, as yet, rumour only, and I would not despoil my lips, offend our house, by giving you those names,” he said finally. In fact what he had just told the gathering was a judicious mix of inspired guesswork, half-truth and outright lie. He believed such meetings had – and were – occurring, but had no proof. Nor did he have any names, even as ‘rumour’. What he did have, along with actual names, was evidence of the still deep discontent with his rule from some of those family members who had quietly supported Mishari’s rebellion, others who were angered by the brutal aftermath of Fouad’s re-capture of the town and yet others who were driven by a savage jealousy that he held the leadership and not they. Fouad was too effective a ruler not to have quickly realised where their discontent would take them – and been careful to watch their behaviour for a number of years.

  “I wish only unity and friendship within our family. It grieves me when I find that either may be at risk from the actions of… a few. Gatherings such as this should – must – be where disputes are raised, and resolved; particularly where any other way risks weakening, perhaps even destroying, our house. Is that not so?” he asked, looking slowly round the circle, making sure his gaze met and held that of each man as it reached him, as they nodded their agreement. Most met his gaze with equal calm, the few that didn’t were no surprise to Fouad. It didn’t matter. His message had been given to his assembled family; part of that message, at least. It was time to deliver the rest.