Swords of Arabia: Warlord

by Anthony Litton

  “It is good we are in agreement. Our fight with forces outside our house that wish our destruction is hard enough. And dangerous enough. And very costly; a heavy burden indeed. To have to commit yet more rupees to any defence from enemies inside would be grievous, very grievous,” he added casually. The quick in-drawing of breath told him that the second part of his message had also now been received and understood. Many in the room had fingers in the trade of the sheikhdom, whether it be the pearling industry, investments in one of the many caravan trains that came in and out of the town, or one of the other increasing number of outlets the periods of peace had opened up to them. Many didn’t, but what both groups did have in common was their jealous guarding of the allowances Fouad made to his family.

  Fouad, as with every other Gulf state ruler, paid large sums every year to many of his relatives. Partly it was out of a duty as head of his house, to ensure all were taken care of; it was also, quite bluntly, a bribe to keep them loyal to him and his line. Status and greed ensured that even a hint the payments may be curtailed or reduced, let alone stopped entirely, was a potent – though double-edged – weapon of control. That hint, plus his clear warning that he was both aware of and would no longer tolerate any dissent outside the Majlis, had been his reasons for calling the gathering. He had been carefully vague in his delivery of them both, partly as his actual information was a great deal less than his acute instinct of what was actually happening, but also to ensure that face was saved by all. Too direct an approach, particularly on the financial front, would have risked face being lost and that, in his world, leads swiftly to violence, either open or clandestine.

  Knowing that his twin messages had been understood, he was content to let the conversation drift onto lesser matters and he spent the next few hours dealing with the litany of family issues and squabbles that such gatherings always produced.

  Chapter 13

  1912

  “What’s happening here? It sounds like a herd of she-camels have broken loose!” thundered Mohammed. He scowled darkly as he entered the women’s quarters and stood surveying, what seemed to him, total pandemonium. To his jaundiced eye it looked as though half its furnishings were being moved towards the door.

  His entry, if not his words, caused even more noise, as numerous small figures hurled themselves at him, with cries of “Father”, “Lord Mohammed,” and “Uncle” mingling with shrieks of laughter as, now laughing himself, he scooped up one giggling bundle after another.

  “Indeed, Husband, it would seem so,” smiled Zahirah, making her way with care through the swarms of little ones as she moved to greet him. Besides her own five, she had charge of the six children of Mohammed’s other two wives and several nieces and nephews who, on hearing of her planned sailing trip, had invited themselves along. Easily bored, she was, however, delighted that Mohammed’s children were without their mothers. They were both, in her eyes, colourless nonentities who, whenever she couldn’t avoid being in their company, caused her to either yawn or itch to slap their faces. With great good fortune, one was ill, and the other too afraid of leaving land, to accompany them.

  “How strange that the little ones don’t cower from such a fearsome being,” she laughed up at her husband, lightly touching his arm, a great gesture when done in front of others.

  Mohammed smiled, his warrior reserve as always falling away as he gazed at this woman who, silently, wordlessly, he adored.

  “Enough! Go to your nurses!” he ordered the children, as much to prove that he could control them than actually wanting them gone.

  Zahirah took over and shooed them all away, and they ran, laughing, back to their nurses, to continue getting ready for their great adventure.

  All except one. A month off two years old, she clung to the tall warrior’s legs, with the scowl and determination of one much older. Laughing, he capitulated and picked her up. On seeing that she had got her way, she broke into the heart-stopping smile she had already learned to use on all around her.

  Her mother frowned and moved to take her, but Mohammed waved her away. “I always know when I’m beaten by a worthy foe,” he murmured, as he gazed down at his adored daughter. Typical of his caste and sex he had paid little attention to women as individuals before he set eyes on Zahirah. Even then, he had assumed that she would be the only one to ever be treated as anything like an equal. Until Leila had been born. Zahirah, determined that their youngest child, and her older half-sister, would get the same recognition as any of their three brothers and half-brothers, had always put them forward, along with the others, when Mohammed visited. Surprised at first, at such odd behaviour, he nevertheless good-naturedly paid attention to both Asilah, the older girl, and the somewhat featureless bundle that was Leila. Then, one day, the little bundle smiled at him and he was captivated.

  Fouad, on one occasion, seeing the little figure following Mohammed around and being held whenever it suited her, raised an amused eyebrow.

  “Well, brother, I see you are becoming a good mother!”

  From anyone else that would have brought out Mohammed’s sword, but instead he laughed, somewhat ruefully, as he replied, “Indeed, brother. It would seem so, but, in my own defence, the little one is very like her mother!”

  “Ah,” said Fouad, “all is explained!” and both men laughed, in shared acknowledgement of the fiery Zahirah’s strong will.

  “Bot... wat...” Leila was now saying over and over. “Bot... Wat –” she repeated excitedly, when he looked puzzled.

  “She’s trying to tell you we’re going out with part of the fleet,” Zahirah said, taking her self-willed daughter firmly in her own arms and passing her to her nurse. Leila, after one quick look at her mother’s face, decided that she would gain nothing except a smack by a tantrum and went quietly.

  “I know,” said Mohammed losing some of his good humour, and biting back a hot response. He knew from previous experience that if he forbade her, she would meekly accept his decision. He also knew from that same previous experience that, somehow, for some considerable time afterwards, his life would be distinctly less comfortable.

  “Could you not come with us, Husband?” she asked to lighten his scowl.

  “I have no time for women’s jaunts,” he replied grandly. Seeing Zahirah smother a laugh, he relented and smiled. “Seriously, Zahirah, take care. Out on the waters you are vulnerable in a way you’re not here in the palace.”

  “But surely all is quiet, both in the desert and the town,” she responded.

  “Even the waters,” she added. “Otherwise we’d not go to the divers.”

  “Yes, it seems so, but Fouad is uneasy and so am I,” he replied.

  She nodded, well aware of their unease. If she were honest, she felt it too. None could pin down what caused it, though. Ibn Saud, busy fighting on his Western front had, for the moment, ceased harrying them. The growing power of the Ikhwan, continuing to settle in large numbers dangerously near their borders, seemed, at present, no immediate threat. Narash itself was peaceful, the tribes and merchants benefiting from three years of comparative peace to extend their trading both inland well into the deserts and, even more so, onto the waters of the Gulf. Their dhows and caravans were going ever further north, east, west and south in their search for outlets for goods ranging from elephant tusks, to spices to human beings. Goods, from Narashi and other sources, were flowing through the port on an ever-growing scale. Many goods of many types, but none more precious, more valued than the fabulous pearls, brought up from the shallow waters off the coast. Their colour varied from the particularly-prized rich creamy-white to almost ebony. Whichever shade they were, they were amongst the most beautiful, the most valuable and the most in demand in many countries, particularly fabled India far to the south.

  It was to watch the divers as they dived for these legendary jewels that Zahirah had ordered the trip.

  Sensing the very real unease of her husband, Zahirah suddenly said, “If it worries you, Mohammed, we will, of
course, not go.”

  “No, Wife, go. We can’t live like caged rats. And we must not be seen to be cowering behind our walls. But I’ve arranged extra guards, which you must take. I’ll ride with you to the dhows and see you aboard,” he added. She nodded, aware of the concern behind his order.

  With her children and attendants, plus porters to carry food and furnishings for the boats, along with the now substantial body of guards, they made a large party as they rode from the citadel, through the town and under the fortified gates down to the busy quayside. The crowds pulled back respectfully with many murmurs of “It’s the Lord Mohammed,” with almost as many saying, “See, it’s the Lady Zahirah!”

  Hearing this, Zahirah wondered how they could be so sure that it was her, heavily veiled as she was. In truth, though, it was choice made her wear it out of the palace. Neither Mohammed, nor tradition, cared enough, but she felt more secure and so, in this one respect, appeared suitably meek and conservative. It pleased the Wahhabi element of the population and caused wry amusement to Mohammed and Fouad.

  As always when leaving the restrictions of the town, her spirits lifted as Mohammed saw her safely into the ghanjah, the large dhow she and her party would travel in. Then, a little further down the coast, they would reach the shallow waters of the pearl beds and transfer into one of the pearl divers’ smaller, lighter boats.

  She said nothing as she saw the large number of guards already on board; Mohammed clearly meant it when he said he scented danger. To have put such a guard around her, he’d had to have drawn heavily on the comparatively few garrison troops left behind by Fouad when he’d taken a large force away into the interior several days earlier.

  Escorting her to the raised deck at one end of the boat, he gave her a last word of caution. “When you join one of the diving boats, don’t stray too far from this one,” he said. “And make sure the other boats immediately around you are full of guards too,” he added to impress caution as a curb to her recklessness. “Of course,” he continued, in a voice even more serious, “should the worst happen and our fears be realised, you will be entirely safe, with the Lord Fahad to guard you. He insisted on accompanying you, when he heard of your plans,” he added, even more gravely, though with an undercurrent of humour.

  Startled, she looked her query and then followed her husband’s smiling glance toward the far end of the boat. She stifled her own amusement and nodded, equally gravely. “Indeed, we need fear nothing,” she replied with matching seriousness, though her eyes were dancing as she looked across to where Mohammed’s and Fouad’s nephew, a boy in his early teens, had reverted to his own childhood, as he happily splashed and played with the younger children. “We feel honoured to be protected by so fierce a warrior!”

  “And one so devoted! I have a rival for my wife’s affections and may well have to curb his ardour!” Mohammed growled, with a suitably heavy scowl.

  “Have no fear, husband, he is much too young to be the rival of so fierce a warrior. At the moment,” she added, after a short pause.

  It was perhaps just as well that her husband’s reply was cut short, as the youth, seeing their eyes upon him, suddenly remembered his dignity and, scrambling to his feet, picked up the old rifle lying beside him and hurried towards them.

  “I understand you have undertaken to guard us on our trip,” she said lightly, as her admirer stopped before her.

  “Ye…Yes, Lady,” the unfortunate youth stuttered, cursing his awkwardness, even as he blushed.

  “My children and I are grateful and honoured. We will enjoy our trip the more, knowing we have your protection,” she said softly, nodding her thanks as, taking her leave of Mohammed, she took her seat.

  She sat smilingly watching the children, some of whom were running about exploring the boat, others leaning perilously far out, trying to catch handfuls of the salty water. Her spirits lifted even more as the boat pointed its large, curved prow towards the open sea, urged along through the crowded harbour by the banks of rowers on either side. Soon, she knew, when they reached open water they would raise the lateen, the large triangular sails, and then she would feel really free, as the boat raced through the blue waters and down the coast to the pearl beds.

  Ever restless, she rose and moved to the bows of the large boat, wanting to see and feel the spray, as the waters gave way to the powerful thrust of the large vessel; wanted to watch the sparkling, silver crests spraying out on either side, as the vessel moved with increasing swiftness through the clear blue waters toward the harbour mouth.

  She wished Firyal was with them, as they’d originally planned. Unfortunately the older woman had, some days earlier, been struck down with the same fever that had laid low one of Mohammed's other wives, and was still too weak for the trip. Thinking of her friend, as the boat neared the harbour mouth, Zahirah smiled as she reflected on how close she and the older woman had become, particularly in the years since her divorce from Fouad. That she’d become even closer to her mentor since that separation from her ruthless son was an irony both were well aware of.

  Soon, however, all conscious thoughts disappeared from her mind, as she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the fresh, salt-laden breeze and the hypnotic swishing of the waves, as the large vessel ploughed easily through the shallow waters. She loved the surge that ran throughout the length of its wooden frame as its speed increased even further, as its three triangular sails were hoisted to take full advantage of the wind. This was now noticeably stronger, as they started to leave the sheltered waters of the ancient harbour.

  Her thoughts were brought back to the present by the noise and shrill cries of the children jumping about as they waved and shouted to the tribesmen manning the two small, fortified outcrops guarding the narrow entrance to the port. Glancing at the small but strong emplacements, Zahirah recalled stories told her by Firyal and other older inhabitants of the now thriving town. Stories of when the existence of those clusters of fortified rock, along with the town’s fort itself, had meant the difference, not just between their family’s losing or retaining the valuable access to the hinterland and foreign markets the sheltered waters provided, but in their own very survival as ruling princes.

  “Mother! Look!” She turned – her attention caught by the excited cries of Talal, her eldest son, now almost eight years old. She joined in his laughter as her gaze followed his pointing finger to where a small school of dolphin ducked and dived in and under the waves. To the entranced joy of the whole party, two broke away from the others and swam right up to the boat, their long noses and smiling faces seeming to be joining in the joy and laughter of the children who leaned far out of the craft trying to touch the shiny surface of the visitors’ noses. The sinuous, laughing sea creatures, completely at home in their environment, seemed as curious and interested in the boat’s excited occupants, as the travellers were in them.

  “Leila! Be careful!” Zahirah shouted, as she saw her youngest daughter leaning perilously far out, held only by her older sister’s precarious hold on her squirming midriff, her young nurse hovering anxiously nearby. Then, seeing her wriggling daughter now being doubly restrained by Talal who’d run to help his younger sister, Zahirah turned, her attention suddenly caught by…

  What?

  She didn’t know, only that something had caused her to pause; to pause and listen to that strange inner voice which, increasingly, had been the giver of advice and warnings; a voice she’d learned never to ignore. She stopped and quietly tried to access what her silent messenger was trying to tell her.

  Her inner focus was suddenly shattered by a high-pitched scream. She whirled quickly, recognising her youngest daughter’s panicked cry, as the child disappeared overboard into the churning waters surrounding the boat.

  Merciful Allah, no! she prayed silently, as she hurried to the side of the boat. Leaning over, she saw Leila disappear beneath the water as the craft sped away from her, driven by the wind in its billowing sails. So focused on her plight was she that Zahirah
was only dimly aware of the shouted orders to stop the boat; scarcely heard the frightened cries of the other children and their attendants. Even Talal and Fahad, both jumping in to try and reach the little figure, scarcely impinged on her consciousness. All she could see was her daughter, now struggling as her head broke the surface of the foaming water; her tiny, flailing arms not nearly enough to keep her afloat. Even in the few seconds it took both the boys to jump in and try and reach her, the little figure was several dozen yards behind the boat. Neither of the boys were strong swimmers and Zahirah knew that her daughter, her beautiful, wayward child, would go under for the final time before either the boat or the other two youngsters could reach her.

  Chapter 14

  But…

  The children were not the only swimmers in the sea. Suddenly, the two dolphins nearest the boat seemed to halt, appeared suspended for a micro-second in the water, and then, in perfect unison, turned swiftly and streaked across the short distance to where the struggling infant was going under, yet again; her frightened wails now no more than water-logged gurgles of fear.

  Zahirah, painfully gripping the rough wooden sides of the boat, felt it, at last, start to turn, but still felt the rawest of raw fear as she looked first at her struggling infant and then at her son and young nephew trying manfully to reach the drowning child. Then it changed; first into wild hope, and then, astonished joy, as she watched the beautiful sea-creatures dive under the water at the point Leila had gone under. They then, amazingly, both surfaced, nuzzling the now unconscious child. Between them, they kept her aloft, allowing her to breathe, if she still could.

  Fahad had reached the dolphin, but turned and saw Talal struggling in the water. Seeing the sea creatures gently supporting his baby cousin, he turned back to the younger boy and held his head above the water. Fortunately, as his own strength was nearly gone, it was only a few seconds before the boat reached them and willing hands pulled them both back onto the safety of its wooden decks.