Swords of Arabia: Warlord

by Anthony Litton

  He hesitated again, looking down at the children, now holding tight to her robes, themselves affected by the sombre quiet. Looking at his drawn face, she suddenly knew she didn't want to hear his answer; not here in the open; not in front of the children; not ever. Beckoning to their nurses, she gently disengaged their fingers from her robes and, turning to Daoud, said simply, “Take me to him.”

  Chapter 19

  “Tell me! And quickly”

  The warrior, exhausted from his race across the desert and terrified to be the one to give the Hawk so devastating a message, stumbled over his words. He needn't have worried, Fouad knew not to waste time on the messenger. Within seconds of hearing of the attack and its aftermath, the camp was in uproar. In one breath he'd ordered half his force to remain scouting, scouring the deserts for the foe he knew was lurking out in its wilderness, and with the second, he'd ordered the rest to be mounted and to ride fast with him back to the town

  His orders, were always obeyed immediately, but, so terrible was his cold fury, that on this occasion, they were, if anything, carried out even more swiftly. Within minutes he and his warriors were mounted on their camels and horses and were riding swiftly back to the coast; back to what was their Sheikh's heartland in more senses than one.

  The mounts were mercilessly flogged as the troop rode fast through the desert. Throughout the early, pre-dawn hours, the searing heat of the next morning, even through the harsh mid-day sun, Fouad pushed his escort. His failure to protect his town, his women, his family, meant the pace that he set was relentless. It was almost as if the pain of the gruelling ride was a sort of penance for that failure

  Eight hours of hard riding and Fouad was striding through the palace, his servants and slaves scattering before the fury and grief ravaging their ruler's face. Then, suddenly, outside his brother's private apartments, he was standing face-to-face with his one-time wife.

  His features briefly softened as he looked down at her, knowing her enough to see beneath the cold calmness in her expression.

  “Lady,” he greeted her formally. “How goes it with my brother? Is he...?”

  “He still breathes, but.....” The slight shake of her head stopped any feeling of relief. Any lessening of the terrible tension which had held him in its grip since the swiftly despatched courier had brought him the news of the attack and of Mohammed's wounding.

  “Take me to him,” he ordered brusquely, his habitually harsh expression back in place.

  She nodded, herself too exhausted and riven with fear to object to the tone. As he knew her, so she knew him, at least where his feelings for his young half-brother were concerned. The twelve years between them had meant he had always seen the younger boy almost as a son and had protected and guided him from his earliest infancy through boyhood and into young manhood. Their bond, hardened by shared battle and danger, was absolute and unbreakable.

  His eyes went straight to the bed, one of the few furnishings in the large room; its windows shaded against the harsh light of the afternoon. Every bit of his long experience in hiding his thoughts and feelings was needed to hide his shock at seeing his young kinsman. He knew that had he not known it was Mohammed lying there, he'd have been hard put to recognise him. The tall, athletic, vibrant and laughing warrior was gone. In its place was a diminished, scarcely breathing travesty of all he once was.

  “How.. How did he get like this, so quickly? Tell me!” he shouted to the group of physicians cowering at the foot of Mohammed's bed. “How is he so..so.....weakened?”

  One of the doctors replied, stumblingly, his teeth literally shaking together in his quivering face, as Fouad's grief and anger found an outlet, however brief.

  “We don't know, Lord. We haver tried everything but........there's nothing... We.. we've tried everything we can, everything,” he whispered, his words as disjointed as his mind with fear.

  “I hope not, old man, for your sake. For should you fail and my brother die you will swiftly follow, rest assured.” His wrath drained away as a slight movement from the bed pulled his attention back to Mohammed and he dropped to his knees, his head near his wounded brother's as he strained to hear what his young kinsman was saying. But it was no use. The young warrior of boundless energy, whose roar could frighten his warriors, or delight his children, no longer possessed strength enough for even the softest whisper to send his message to his beloved older brother. The effort seemed to drain whatever strength his pain-racked body still had left in it and he sank back into unconsciousness.

  Then, in a move which surprised, Fouad, Zahirah dismissed the doctors. Seeing their fear, she shook head. “No, leave with my thanks. You have done your part, done all you can. Now he needs rest and peace to wait and see if Allah will spare him. Leave us, but say nothing, nothing at all, to anyone until either I or the Lord Fouad give you permission. Is that understood?” They nodded and left hurriedly, very surprised and deeply relieved.

  For the next, long hours that Mohammed remained deeply unconscious, both his brother and his wife sat quietly by his bedside. Zahirah herself, continued to use cooling cloths to try and take at least some of the over-burdening heat from her rapidly weakening husband's tormented body.

  Then Mohammed moved, very slightly. “He's....he's...he moved,” Fouad whispered and himself rose, as if to give up the bedside to Zahirah.

  She shook her head, “I have had my time alone with him, Lord. He would want you here now, so stay with him also for what time he has left.”

  And she had had her time alone with him. She'd been with him constantly; had not left his side from the moment she'd been taken to where his almost lifeless body was lying in a spreading pool of blood just inside the gateway he'd defended with that same blood. The crowd of men around him shuffled aside as she approached, the silence so total, she knew the answer to her question before she asked it. She knelt in the dust. Oblivious to those who were watching and might dare disapprove, she took his hand in hers, as she ordered him to be put on wooden planking and carried into the palace. Then she ordered swift messengers to ride to Fouad and bring him back.

  Afterwards, in their inner rooms, whilst she waited for the hurriedly summoned physicians to arrive, she herself took a knife and cut away his blood-soaked robes and gently sponged away the blood, still pumping out of his body, though weakly now. She saw where the sword had cut deep into his side and across his stomach, saw other wounds, lesser, but still grievous, some got today, others older, from the many battles he'd fought by his brother's side. But none like this, none ever like this.

  The doctors arrived, and did what doctors do, plied their knowledge such as it was, to the best of whatever ability they had.

  Mohammed stirred uneasily, in obvious pain from their ministrations. Then his eyes opened, suddenly restless until he saw her and then he quietened. She stopped the doctors and had them move away from the bed into the far corner of the large room. What was left to do, she herself would do. And she did, quietly, calmly and with infinite love. They talked quietly in the brief spells of clear-mindedness that he had and she sat, equally quietly, equally calmly, whenever he drifted into unconsciousness again. Holding his hand, mopping his brow. Whatever he needed to lessen his pain, give him comfort, she did. So, with quiet talk and quieter silences, the hours past.

  Then she heard the thunder of approaching hooves and knew that one of her messengers to Fouad had got through and he had come. She rose and went to greet him.

  Now, standing by her husband's bed, she was able to say quite honestly, as she took her seat on the opposite side of Mohammed's bed, “Yes, Lord, I have had time enough with him. He would wish you here now.”

  So they sat, as they had once before, at a bedside, awaiting a death that was coming too soon, causing too much grief. She moved once only in the following hours, when Mohammed regained consciousness briefly and clearly wanted to talk to his brother. She rose and left the room silently and returned on Fouad's call. Mohammed had, again, slipped into unconsciousness,
so their vigil continued.

  The end came, as it had done for Ahmad, in the hours of deepest night when the spirit's zest for life is at its lowest. The hand Zahirah was holding tightened its grip on hers, and she looked up, startled as his eyes opened and met hers. His eyes were filled with.... what? Sadness, love, anger at dying, at leaving her? Zahirah didn't know then, nor later. Neither did she care. All she ever knew was that in that moment, she saw into the very soul of a man she'd come to love when he was alive, and, what she now saw, made her love him even more, as his eyes closed and he breathed for the last time.

  Her own eyes closed briefly as she saw this, then they opened as she looked across at the stricken face of Fouad. “You have much to do, Lord; best you do it. I will see that all is done that needs to be done for my husband.” With that, she rose and went to summon her attendants, leaving him alone; only then did he let his tears fall, as he embraced his brother for the final time.

  Zahirah's orders had been obeyed and no word of Mohammed’s imminent death had seeped out into the palace or town. This in itself was astounding in such a small and gossip-ridden society; but then, few ever did disobey Zahirah.

  When she had herself done much of what was needed to prepare Mohammed for his burial the next day, as custom demanded, leaving her attendants little to do, she rose and went to the children.

  It was a difficult task. As she herself said to Firyal later, how do you tell a child of not yet eight that he is now the man of the family, children of four that they will never again see the man who had become their second father, never go riding with him as he'd promised; a child of three that the father he adored would never hold him again, never laugh with him? Hardest and most impossible of all of course, was to explain to an almost two year-old that the man whose warm smile she would do anything for would never smile again. In many ways it was Leila's forlorn searching for her father, every day for many weeks that was the hardest thing for Zahirah to bear.

  Much later, when the task was done and the children comforted as best they could, she, at last, took time for herself. Dismissing all her anxious attendants, she went and stood alone on the large balcony over-looking the waters of the Gulf, glittering a bright, brilliant blue in the hot glare of the morning sun. There she let her tears fall, but didn't allow a voice to her silent screams of grief. They would never be given a voice. She had no intention of indulging in the much public wailing and keening that custom demanded. Her grief, terrible as it was, would have only private outlet. Should others think her cold, so be it; those who mattered would know how her young husband's death came close to killing her too. No outsider would ever know how a marriage arranged at the behest of others, had become a wonderful harbour, one where she felt loved and protected as never before. So she wept until she had no more tears left, then she left the room and returned to her children.

  Chapter 20

  1912-1913

  Mohammed's funeral was a simple affair, again following custom. Its very simplicity seemed to emphasise the grief of those participating, leaving them empty and grief-stricken. Despite this, immediately afterwards Fouad summoned a Majlis of all the town's notables. His closed, cold features showed nothing either of his shock and grief at Mohammed's death, or the cost of needing such a meeting so soon after the funeral.

  “Have we yet discovered who was behind this attack?” he asked, his grief distilling into pure anger as he spoke. He turned to Daoud, now the de facto commander of the loyal troops and responsible for all aspects of security.

  The older man, himself pushing away his own grief for his young commander, shook his head. “No, Lord. Most we have questioned are simple tribesmen, merely following where they were told to go. There is one, however,” he added quickly seeing Fouad's anger growing, “who by his conduct during the attack, seems to be a leader of sorts and we are still questioning him. So far, however, he has told us nothing.”

  “Indeed?” Fouad showed his surprise. “He must be a brave man, indeed,” he commented, knowing full well the methods that the guardians of his dungeons would use on any man reluctant to give the information that they believed he had and that their Sheikh wanted.

  He nodded as the guard commander assured him that they'd soon know what the prisoner knew. Daoud's assurance wasn't needed; Fouad knew they'd know; no one withstood his questioners, no one.

  The gathering grew quiet as a man entered the chamber. Looking round nervously, he saw Daoud and hurried toward him and whispered into his ear.

  “Lord,” Daoud stopped, fearful of saying anything the Sheikh wished not spoken. Then, taking a particularly deep breath he continued. “Some more prisoners have just been taken. They...they are known to us. They're men of the town.”

  “Sent in as spies, you mean?” asked Fouad, though he suspected he knew the answer. “Speak openly and tell us all you have found, or suspect,” he added, seeing the warrior's hesitation.

  “No, Lord. I mean men of the town, men we know, who have lived here all their lives, men who have families here – men of our tribe,” he ended.

  Most in the room, expressed shock and horror; some of it genuine. Fouad didn't. He'd suspected just this from the moment he'd heard of the attack. The town was too strongly defended, even when stripped of many of its warriors, for any outside attack to succeed without help from within its walls. He knew something was seriously wrong, and neither time nor events allowed too much delicacy in finding out what; didn't allow for the usual indirect ways of dealing with such matters to be employed.

  The messenger whispered something else and Daoud looked shocked. He turned to Fouad as though to ask permission to speak. On receiving an impatient nod, he did so.

  “And, just now,” he continued, “one of them has given us two names.”

  Names! The words hung in the air; air that was suddenly so still, so quiet, as someone said later, that you could have heard the flutter and whisper of the smallest wing of the smallest bird.

  “Whoever they are must be seized and questioned,” Fouad ordered quickly into the silence.

  “One has already been taken, Lord. I'd ordered that anyone named be seized immediately, even before we were told; lest any delay alert them, and allow them to flee,” he added, still somewhat fearful of the independence of thought he'd shown.

  Fouad's approving nod allayed those fears. In his relief, Daoud failed to notice the anger, quickly suppressed, by more than one of his audience.

  “Tell me – who are these traitors? Are they men that I would know?” Fouad asked quietly

  “Yes, Lord.” He paused briefly, then went on hurriedly, anxious to get the name out. “They named Naif bin Sattam, a tradesman, already taken by my men.”

  “And the other?” Fouad prompted, as the guard commander fell silent, obviously reluctant to speak.

  “They named the Turkish merchant Suleiman Ilahi,” Daoud said at last, not looking over to where that merchant sat as though turned to stone.

  Suleiman Ilahi! One of the two richest and most powerful of the sheikhdom's merchants. Though of Turkish origin, his family had lived in Narash for five generations; was, to all intents and purposes, Narashi. A man in high favour with Fouad's own father and the man who, only the day previously, had sent out the boats when he'd heard of Zahirah's need. Not a name Fouad had expected; though his closed features, as ever, gave nothing away of his thoughts.

  He deliberately said nothing for a few moments, and waved into silence the now panicking merchant's attempts to speak, as he struggled to his feet. The middle-aged man's colour, always high through rich living, was now many shades deeper. The rest of the gathering were too stunned to even attempt to open their mouths, so the silence was absolute as Fouad, now focused entirely on the frightened man, spoke at last.

  “Suleiman Ilahi, these are strange tidings our prisoner has given us,” he said with quiet menace.

  “ Lo.....Lor....,” the tall thin, merchant, now flanked on either side by two of Daoud's guards, struggled to speak throu
gh his increasing breathlessness. “I... I.... was..... misled, I...I...” His hands suddenly clasped his chest and his breathing became even more laboured. His mouth opened and closed rapidly, but no words came out, just a strangled cry as he collapsed onto the floor. The rich cushions broke his fall, though by the time he hit them, it didn't matter – he was dead.

  The shock of the elderly merchant's sudden death left few in the Majlis in a mood to continue the discussions. This, however, was not the reason Fouad adjourned the gathering. Within seconds of Daoud's bombshell, and even before the merchant had collapsed, he'd had passed to him a quickly scrawled note from Zahirah. It simply said 'The bell doesn't ring true;' their private code for when what they saw or heard didn't feel right. As ever, he respected her instincts enough to want to hear more, before he took any further action.

  Suleiman's body removed for despatch to his family and the room empty of all advisors other than Isaac and Daoud, Zahirah moved from behind the screens. She had originally not planned to attend the gathering; her grief and her children's need too overpowering for her to willingly leave them. But attend, she did. A secondary reason was a loyalty she felt to Fouad as Mohammed's brother; the overpowering one, was her need for revenge. She would let no opportunity pass her by, then, or in the years to come, to gather every tiny piece of information, every morsel of knowledge, anything, anything which would lead her to those hidden in the shadows; those who were ultimately responsible for her husband's death.

  And then?

  Then, she would kill them.

  One thing she did know with absolute certainty. She would not use Mehmet or any in Fouad's dungeons for that revenge. She would take it by her own hand, in her own way; and the pain of the guilty would be not one fraction the less.

  “Lady?” queried Fouad quietly, as she took her seat on the embroidered cushions, her face a careful mask.