“And Zahirah?”
“Will support only Talal,” Firyal replied with unusual bluntness.
He nodded, unsurprised, “But with you and Isaac behind my choice, whoever that would be, he would be strong enough to rule and to rule well, when his time came,” he countered.
“Indeed, but do not underestimate how powerful Zahirah has become. Her wealth almost equals mine, as do her networks of informants. As do the numbers of those who are in her debt, either money-wise or for favours granted. Her trading links, again, almost equal mine; her grasp of men and events, her ability to not only benefit from whatever is happening but often able to create the very conditions she needs to flourish, are almost equal any man's and so on and so on.. But – I tell you nothing you don't know,” she ended shrewdly.
“Yes, you tell me nothing new, but it helps to hear that my thoughts are not merely the empty whispering of the wind,” he replied. “It seems then, that without Zahirah, my heir might well survive and rule well, but with her support it becomes a near certainty,” he continued.
Firyal merely nodded, saying nothing.
“There is support, there is neutrality – and there is enmity,” he continued breaking into the short silence.
“Indeed,” was all Firyal replied.
“Zahirah is fierce in both her friendships and in her hatreds,” her ex-husband continued. “I cannot but see her as one of the two.” he mused. “But, a mere bystander, indifferent to who rules? No, never that,” he finished, shaking his head.
“You are right. Anyone but Talal will risk her disfavour.”
“He is yet young, still untried. The tribes would never accept his rule,” countered Fouad.
“The Rashid accepted their Emirship being bestowed on a boy,” Firyal noted quietly.
“But in title only!” Fouad protested. “He has two strong regents who rule in his name.”
“But between them they are strong enough to maintain the family's safety and – even more difficult – its unity,” the Sheikha remarked, observing her son closely. “But you know this as well as I, my son, do you not?”
He nodded, silently.
“Talal's age only becomes important, should you die before he reaches manhood. The important question is, would you wish to see him succeed you?”
“Any man would want his son to follow him,” he answered, after a moment. “But I would wish it for reasons other than fatherly pride.” He paused, gathering his thoughts, glad of the opportunity to talk openly about what he'd long pondered. “The problem with men having numerous wives and concubines is that many children arrive in every family. Many argue that this is excellent; that it makes a family, a clan, a tribe strong. Yes, it may do so at times, but it also gives us the problem of too many who have a claim to the family's wealth, or, in our case, some valid claim to be ruler. We either must find a way of dealing with these many conflicting claims, other than the rebellion or murder that bedevils families such as ours, or we must change the way our rulers are chosen. It is one reason I have always limited the number of wives I take and children I have,” he finished.
Firyal, nodded, aware of that. She was also as aware as her son of the casual, almost routine, deposing by coup or murder of many of both the gulf and inland sheikhs over the centuries. Though often by a full-brother, it was just as frequently uncles or half-brothers who were responsible. “You would wish to stop this? By what means? Establishing a strong, central line that all heirs spring from? One where each ruler’s power is transferred directly down to a son and no other? A brave idea, very brave. But would it not risk losing the support of all those family members who see no future for themselves in such an arrangement?”
“Perhaps, but I see the alternative, the endless circle of killing and deposing, as something worse. Anyway,” he added, shrugging his shoulders, “we can change little quickly. In Arabia, as you well know, life moves slowly and change, if it arrives at all, is even slower! But I do believe it is something our house should strive for before too many generations have passed.”
“Given that you would like Talal to come after you. Given also that with Isaac, myself and his mother behind him, he would, with such support – needed only by your untimely death, remember – have an excellent chance of surviving and succeeding, what is your concern?” she asked. She was acutely aware, even as she spoke, of the strangeness of calmly discussing the death of a beloved son, with that very same son.
“You think I should name him my heir, before I leave to join the Rashid?” he asked, as detached as Firyal was.
“I do,” she responded simply. “At least there would be some certainty, for a period at least, should you not return. Despite his youth he is popular, and would be a figure that the tribe and town could rally round,” she added.
“I shall summon a Majlis and name him,” he said, suddenly back to his decisive self.”
“As well as Isaac, Zahirah and Nasir, you’ll talk to Badr and Mamduh beforehand?” Firyal asked. She knew he would need the support of those two powerful family members, who could then be relied on to ensure that the rest of the family, would, if not actually agree, at least fall into line.
He nodded and then hesitated. “There is one other matter I need some council on. It concerns the Lady Zahirah,” he said.
“Zahirah?” echoed Firyal, who'd been expecting the discussion, though with all the preparations for war, not quite yet.
“Yes,” her son paused and then continued. “It is more than two years since Mohammed was killed.” Both their faces clouded as they recalled the appalling loss they'd suffered. Even after so much time had elapsed, they still felt the loss as savagely as they had done the moment he died. “It is perhaps time – more than time – that the Lady Zahirah considered another marriage,” Fouad continued, his voice carefully neutral.
“Would you give her that freedom?” his mother asked, unusually bluntly. They both well knew that if Fouad decided something would be so, Zahirah would have little say in the matter.
“I would,” he answered, equally frankly.
“She is honoured indeed,” Firyal replied slowly.
“It is my brother I honour,” he replied, his voice suddenly harsh.
“Mohammed?”
He nodded. “When we spoke just before he died, he asked for my promise that she be allowed not to remarry if she so chose. Also,” his voice grew even harsher, “ that should she herself wish to remarry, she be allowed to marry whosoever she wished.”
“And you agreed to this?” Firyal asked, for once startled by something she'd not foreseen.
“Out of love and respect for Mohammed I did.”
“And was that your only reason?”
“What other would there be?” he countered
“Only you can know that, Fouad, not I,” she replied blandly, as her mind swiftly worked through the consequences of what she was hearing. To allow a widow as powerfully connected and as wealthy as Zahirah not to remarry was one thing, and not without precedent. To give her the freedom of being able to choose where she would remarry, was entirely another. That Fouad had given his promise told the worldly-wise Sheikha far more than her son realised.
“Allowing her that freedom now is one thing; once Talal is your named heir, does that not pose some risk?” she asked mildly.
He nodded “Indeed, should she marry, ally herself, with one of Mishari's disaffected kin, that would risk de-stabilising the whole of Narash.”
“Then why allow it?”
“Because I gave my word to Mohammed,” he replied flatly “And I care too much for his memory to easily betray that promise.”
She was absolutely certain that he believed exactly what he said; she was equally certain that it wasn't the whole truth.
“I need to know – has she spoken to yourself about her wishes for her future?” Fouad asked. “If she has in confidence, I would, of course, expect you to respect that,” he added quickly.
Firyal shook her head. “No. In all honesty, she has spo
ken to me only of her grief at losing a man she had come to admire, and to love,” she added, watching her son closely. But she had taught him well, and she could glean nothing from his closed features as he looked back at her.
“What would you wish to happen?” she asked eventually.
“Whatever the lady herself wishes,” Fouad shrugged as he answered. “I can wish no other and still honour my brother's wishes.”
“Zahirah will always place the well-being of her children before her own,” Firyal said quietly after a moment. “Whatever her own wishes, she would marry wherever she deemed was of benefit to her children.”
“What are you saying, Mother?” he asked.
“Only that were she to see this tribal leader or that strong warrior as being of use to her children she would gladly remarry to aid that. So, if I, or you, had such a one in mind, I doubt she would object, should that match be proposed to her.”
“And you have such a one in mind?” he asked, his voice again suddenly harsh.
“Indeed, there are several, “ she responded calmly. She then went on to name them, ignoring an obviously growing fury that he was finding it strangely difficult to disguise. “Then there is Nasir, of course,” she said, concluding her list. “Although he's a little younger than her, he is becoming such a warrior as she could only think would benefit her and protect her children.” She smiled as she saw his struggle to remain impassive.
“Perhaps, in view of the times we live in, it might be wise for someone to speak to her,” he said at last. “A friend, someone she trusts and will be open with,” he added.
“Or it might be that, as the ruling Sheikh, you may decide she is too strong a plant to leave unattended, and marry – remarry – her yourself,” Firyal responded quietly. “That way you make very sure she is tied to Narash and Narash's interests.”
“That way forward had occurred to me, “ he said, casually; “but I have my promise to my brother to keep.”
“The promise would not be broken, if she willingly consented. After all, you both dealt well enough with the other when you were married,” she continued.
He shook his head in denial. “It was a marriage she was forced into against her wishes. Once married, her choice was to either accept what had happened, or fight a fight she would never win.”
His mother said nothing; there was nothing she could say. What he'd said was the stark and brutal truth of life for a woman in Arabia.
“Were it to be explained that her remarriage to you would gain Talal being named as your heir, she would not hesitate. But,” she continued, cutting off his reply. “You would not wish it that way, would you my Son?” This last was said as a statement of simple truth and not a question.
“No, I would not,” he agreed. “I would not have the two events linked in her mind.”
“But they will be. Even if they are not openly linked, she will see any remarriage to you as a way of strengthening Talal's position. Anyone would, and Zahirah is far more aware of power and how it's used, than almost anyone else I know.”
“Even so, should we remarry, it will be by her own choice – whatever the motives are behind her decision.
“So, you do wish the remarriage? I had wondered....” She trailed off, leaving unsaid what couldn't be said. Even she, his mother, couldn't ask outright the question she'd never had answered to her satisfaction – why he'd divorced her previously. “You wish me to approach her?” she asked, instead.
“I do, “ he replied.” But, no mention of my decision to make our son my heir.”
“As you wish. Should she decline, what then?” she asked, after a pause.
“Then she will be free to stay unwed or remarry where she would choose. You are right, despite my promise to Mohammed, I would not, could not, allow it to be to anyone who would endanger our family or Narash, but within that restriction she could wed where she will; if she could find a man strong enough – or fool enough – to wish to become her husband!”
After a few more minutes exchanging pleasantries, he rose and left.
The next morning, the Sheikha rose early and went to Zahirah. A woman, she reflected, walking the short distance through perfumed corridors to her rooms, who came to her as a slave, who became her friend, who became her daughter-in-law, who gave her grandchildren – and whose story, if her own instincts were correct, may yet have much to be told.
As promised to her son, she made no mention of his decision to name Talal as his heir. She didn't need to, she reflected later. As she'd foreseen, Zahirah had swiftly seen the strength her new position would give her when it came to pushing her son to the forefront of those who could succeed. She listened quietly to what the older woman had to say; nodded her head and agreed.
Chapter 30
“Just like that?” queried Firyal, as ever, intrigued to observe how her one time protégé’s mind worked. “You have no conditions?”
“None. It would be unwomanly of me to suggest any such thing in the light of the great honour Lord Fouad is bestowing upon me, again,” she added blandly.
Firyal nodded, but wisely said nothing. Zahirah requested that she herself tell Fouad of her decision, which the older woman agreed to. They both went to Fouad's private rooms and, after the usual greetings, Firyal stood to one side as Zahirah thanked Fouad for his offer and confirmed her acceptance. Firyal was intrigued to see that, despite his cold, aloof bearing, Fouad was a little less than his usual assured self, until he heard Zahirah's acceptance. Then his mother saw just the slightest easing of what she'd realised was tension. She quietly left the room, leaving them to make up at least some of the time that, in her view, they'd squandered between them.
Five days later saw Fouad riding at the head of his army. It had been an incredibly busy few days, even by his usual punishing schedule. Besides the final preparations for the march; he'd spoken to all who had influence and would support him before holding the grand Majlis to announce Talal as his heir. His re-marriage to Zahirah occurring the day before, inevitably had many seeing the one leading to the other. That a link was seen where none existed was a matter of supreme indifference to the two main protagonists. Fouad was appreciative she had not set any pre-condition to their remarriage, though, knowing Zahirah, he was wryly certain there would be some price to pay in the days and years to come. She was equally appreciative that he'd not tried either force or the lure of Talal's elevation as a means to get her back into his bedchamber.
It took all of the Narashi ruler's ferocious self-discipline to force recent events from his mind as he rode through the great gateway, but he did so. Having acknowledged his mother, wife and new-chosen heir, with a fierce warmth and a joy, both foreign to him, he turned his mind to what lay ahead. He was relieved that the Rashid were again strong enough to take some of the strain of battling the al Saud from the shoulders of him and others of their allies. Fight ibn Saud as ferociously and as bravely as he might, he had no illusions that, increasingly, ibn Saud could raise six or more men for every one Narashi. Even counting Narashi allies, their forces would still be outnumbered almost four to one. Each year, as the al Saud grew ever stronger, that difference would get larger and larger. With the Rashid again strong, the forces opposing the Saudi push to recreate their briefly held empires of years gone by, became more equal, offering at least a chance of continued independence – and of survival.
All this was why his greeting to the Rashidi chiefs rang with genuine warmth as he arrived at Jarrab on the plains of Artawiya later that day. He could see with a single glance that morale was high. Although it wasn't yet dusk, camp-fires were burning and the tribesmen in the huge encampment, all their thousands of them, were already dancing and singing to the heady throb of the war drums. Even as Fouad and his chief warriors were being greeted by the Rashidi and other chiefs, even more men were riding in. And so it continued, hour after hour after hour. Amongst the smells of horses, camels, humanity, goats and everything else in the huge gathering, was one that was unique and elusive
. It was the smell of something else, something that Fouad, an experienced war leader, was very familiar with. – the smell of victory.
There were many reasons that this time it didn't feel an illusion. Crucially, the campaign had the backing of the Ottoman authorities and, although Fouad could see no sign of any Turkish soldiery, he did see some of the modern weaponry they'd provided. The numbers of men flooding into the camp itself spoke of the gold their wealthy ally had spent to persuade any wavering tribal leader to back the Rashid resurgence.
“Our men are impatient for the fight,” Nasir observed, after he and Fouad had rejoined their men where the Narashi forces, one of the biggest of the alliance, had made camp.
“For once I share their eagerness,” smiled Fouad. “Though if I did not, I would still be here,” he continued, more seriously. “This is a battle that we must fight and we must win. I would wish though, that the Rashid were not flaunting their continued closeness to the Ottoman so noisily,” he added.
“But surely, that their Ottoman friends still support them is part of their strength, is it not; part of ours, also?” Nasir asked, surprised.
“Yesterday, certainly; today, perhaps; tomorrow, I doubt,” Fouad replied briefly, at last voicing the judgement that he, Zahirah, Firyal and Isaac had reached some while previously. “Why the surprise, Brother?” he asked seeing Nasir's confusion. “You saw them at al Hofuf! Their gallant defence lasted, what, little more than minutes? “I believe that they are at the end of their time in Arabia,” he ended flatly.
“But what of the Rashid? Of us? Do we not need a strong ally?”
“We do, yes,” Fouad answered simply.” Seeing the look of puzzlement on the younger man's face, at his apparent calmness in the face of an Ottoman withdrawal, he smiled. “Do not worry, as you know, we are looking towards the British, though with only a faint hope of success. We will talk of it more tomorrow – at our victory feast!” he said, clapping Nasir on the shoulder, his good humour returned.
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