by Wilbur Smith
"It is as you say, effendi," Batula, the senior captain, replied. "We are your men and there was never any disrespect."
The servants brought coffee from the fire in brass kettles, and Dorian and the Arabs lit their hookahs. The water in the bowls bubbled with each breath of the perfumed Turkish tobacco smoke they drew.
First they discussed the trade and the goods that the captains had gathered during their last voyage along this coast. As Arabs they were able to travel where no Christian ship was allowed to pass. They had even sailed on past the Horn of Hormuz into the Red Sea as far as holy Medina, the luminous city of the Prophet.
On their return journey they had parted company, Kumrah in the Maid turning eastwards to call in at the ports of the empire of the Moguls, there to deal with the diamond merchants from the Kollur mines, and to buy bales of silken rugs from the souks of Bombay and Delhi. Meanwhile, Batula sailed along the Coromandel coast and loaded his ship with tea and spices. The two ships met again in the harbour of
Trincomalee in Ceylon. There, they took on board cloves, saffron, coffee beans and choice packets of blue star sapphires. Then, in company, they had returned to Good Hope, to the anchorage off the beach of High Weald.
Batula was able to recite from memory the quantities of each commodity they had purchased, the prices they had paid, and the state of the various markets they had visited.
Tom and Dorian questioned them carefully and exhaustively, while Mansur wrote everything in the CBTC journal. This information was vital to their prosperity: any change in the state and condition of the markets and the supply of goods could spell great profit or, perhaps, even greater disaster to their enterprise.
"The largest profits still lie in the commerce of slaves," Kumrah summed up delicately, and neither captain could meet Tom's eye as he said it. They knew his views on their trade, which he called 'an abomination in the face of God and man'.
Predictably Tom rounded on Kumrah. "The only piece of human flesh I will ever sell is your hairy buttocks to the first man who will pay the five rupees I ask for them."
"Effendi!" cried Kumrah, his expression a Thespian masterpiece: an unlikely mixture of contrition and pained sensibility. "I would rather shave off my beard and feast on pig flesh than buy a single human soul from the slave block."
Tom was about to remind him that slaving had been his chief enterprise before he entered the service of the Courtney brothers, when Dorian, playing the peace-maker, intervened smoothly: "I hunger for news of my old home. Tell me what you have learned of Omani and Muscat, of Lamu and Zanzibar."
"We knew that you would ask us this, so we have saved this news for the last. Those lands have been overtaken by momentous events, al Salil." They turned to Dorian eagerly, grateful to him for having diverted Tom's wrath.
"Good captains, tell us all you have learned," Yasmini demanded. Until now she had sat behind her husband and held her peace as a dutiful Muslim wife should. Now, however, she could restrain herself no longer, for they were speaking of her homeland and her family. Although she and Dorian had fled the Zanzibar coast almost twenty years ago, her thoughts often returned there and her heart hankered for the lost years of her childhood.
It was true indeed that not all of her memories were happy ones. There had been times of loneliness in the isolation of the women's zenana, although she had been born a princess, daughter of Sultan Abd
Muhammad al-Malik, the Caliph of Muscat. Her father had possessed more than fifty wives. He showed interest only in his sons, and could never bother himself to keep track of his daughters. She knew that he was barely aware of her existence, and could not remember any word he had spoken to her, or even a touch of his hand or a kindly glance. In all truth, she had laid eyes on him only on state occasions or when he visited his women in the zenana. Then it had been only at a distance, and she had trembled and covered her face in terror of his magnificence and his godlike presence. Even so she mourned and fasted the full forty days and nights stipulated by the Prophet when news of his death reached her in the African wilderness whence she had fled with Dorian.
Her mother had died in Yasmini's infancy, and she could not remember a single detail about her. As she grew older she learned that she had inherited from her the startling streak of silver hair that divided her own thick midnight black tresses. Yasmini had spent all her childhood in the zenana on Lamu island. The only maternal love she had known was given to her unstintingly by Tahi, the old slave woman who had nursed her and Dorian.
In the beginning Dorian, the adopted son of her own father, was with her in the zenana. This was before he reached his puberty and underwent the ordeal of the circumcision knife. As her adopted elder brother, he protected her, often with his fists and feet from the malice of her blood brothers. Her particular tormentor was Zayn al-Din. When Dorian defended her, he had made a mortal enemy of him; the rancour would persist througout their lives. To this day Yasmini remembered that dire confrontation between the two boys in every detail.
Dorian and Zayn had been only a few months short of puberty, and their departure from the zenana and entry into manhood and military service was looming large. That day Yasmini was playing alone on the terrace of the old saint's tomb, at the end of the zenana gardens. This was one of her secret places where she could escape from the bullying of their peers, and find solace in daydreams and childish games of fantasy. With Yasmini was her pet vervet monkey, Jinni. Zayn al-Din and Abubaker, both her half-brothers, had discovered her there.
Plump, sly and vicious, Zayn was bravest when he had one of his toadies with him. He wrested the little monkey from Yasmini and threw him into the open rainwater cistern. Though Yasmini screamed at the top of her lungs and jumped on his back, pummelling his head and trying to scratch lumps out of his skin, he ignored her and began systematically to drown Jinni, ducking the monkey's head each time he surfaced.
oummoned by Yasmini's screams Dorian came racing up the staircase
from the garden. He took in the scene at a glance, then launched himself at the two bigger boys. Before his capture by the Arabs, his brother Tom had coached Dorian in the art of boxing, but Zayn and Abubaker had never before come into contact with bunched, flying fists. Abubaker fled from this terrible attack, but Zayn's nose burst in a spray of scarlet at the first punch, while the second sent him somersaulting down the steep staircase. When he struck the bottom, one of the bones in his right foot snapped. The bone set ill, and he would limp for the rest of his life.
In the years after he had left behind his childhood and the zenana, Dorian had become a prince in his own right and a famous warrior. Yasmini, however, was forced to remain behind, at the mercy of Kush, the head eunuch. Even after all these years, his monstrous cruelty lived vividly in her memory. Yasmini grew to lovely womanhood while Dorian fought his adopted father's enemies in the Arabian deserts far to the north. Covered in glory he had returned at last to Lamu, but he had almost forgotten his adopted sister and childhood sweetheart. Then Tahi, his ancient slave nurse, had come to him in the palace and reminded him that Yasmini was still languishing in the zenana.
With Tahi as a go-between they had arranged a dangerous tryst. When they became lovers they were committing a double sin from the consequences of which not even Dorian's exalted position could protect them. They were adopted brother and sister and, in the eyes of God, the Caliph and the council of mullahs, their union was both fornication and incest.
Kush had discovered their secret, and planned a punishment for Yasmini so unspeakably cruel that she still shuddered when she thought about it, but Dorian had intervened to save her. He killed Kush and buried him in the grave the eunuch had dug for Yasmini. Then Dorian disguised her as a boy and smuggled her out of the harem. Together they escaped from Lamu.
Many years later, after his father Abd Muhammad al-Malik had died of poisoning, Zayn still limping from the injury Dorian had inflicted ascended the Elephant Throne of Oman. One of his first acts as caliph was to send Abubaker to find and
capture Dorian and Yasmini. When Abubaker caught up with the lovers there had been a terrible battle in which Dorian had killed him. Yasmini and Dorian had escaped once again from Zayn's vengeance and been reunited with Tom. However, Zayn al-Din sat on the mighty Elephant Throne to this day, and was still Caliph of Oman. They knew they were never entirely safe from his hatred.
Now, sitting by the campfire on this wild and savage shore, she
reached out to touch Dorian. It was almost as though he had read her thoughts, for he took her hand and held it firmly. She felt strength and courage flowing from him into her like the balmy influence of the kusi, the trade wind of the Indian Ocean.
"Recount!" Dorian ordered his captains. "Tell me these momentous tidings you bring from Muscat. Did you hear aught of the Caliph, Zayn al-Din?"
"Our tidings are all of Zayn al-Din. As Allah bears witness, he is Caliph in Muscat no longer."
"What is this you say?" Dorian started up. "Is Zayn dead at last?"
"Nay, my Prince. A shaitan is hard to kill. Zayn al-Din lives on."
"Where is he, then? We must know all of this affair."
"Forgive me, effendi." Batula made a gesture of deep respect, touching his lips and his heart. "There is one in our present company who knows all this far better than I do. He comes from the bosom of Zayn al-Din, and was once one of his trusted ministers and confidants."
Then he is no friend of mine. His master has tried on many occasions to kill me and my wife. It was Zayn who drove us into exile. He is my mortal enemy, and he has sworn a blood feud against us."
"All this I know well, lord," Batula replied, 'for I have been with you since that happy day when the man who then was Caliph, your sainted adoptive father al-Malik, made me your lance-bearer. Do you forget that I was at your side when you captured Zayn al-Din at the battle of Muscat and you roped him behind your camel and dragged him as a traitor to face the wrath and justice of al-Malik?"
"That I will never forget, as I will not forget your loyalty and service to me over all these years." Dorian's expression became sad. "Pity it is that my father's wrath was so short-lived, and his justice too heavily tempered with mercy. For he pardoned Zayn al-Din and clasped him once again to his bosom."
"By God's Holy Name!" Batula's anger matched that of his master. "Your father died from that show of mercy. It was Zayn's effeminate hand that held the poisoned cup to his lips."
"And Zayn's fat buttocks that sat on the Elephant Throne when my father was gone." Dorian's handsome features were marred by an expression of ferocity. "Now you ask me to accept into my camp the minion and minister of this monster?"
"Not so, Highness. I said that this man was once all those things to Zayn al-Din. But no longer. Like all who know him well, he became sickened to the heart by the monstrous cruelty of Zayn al-Din. He watched while Zayn tore the sinews and the heart of the nation to shreds. He watched helplessly while Zayn fed his pet sharks with the
flesh of good and noble men, until they were almost too bloated to swim. He tried to protest when Zayn sold his birthright to the Sublime Porte, to the Turkish tyrants in Constantinople. In the end he was one of the chief conspirators in the plot against Zayn that overturned his throne and drove him out through the gates of Muscat."
"Zayn is overthrown?" Dorian stared at Batula in astonishment. "He was Caliph for twenty years. I thought he would stay in power until he died of old age."
"Some men of great evil possess not only the savagery of the wolf but also that beast's instincts of survival. This man, Kadem al-Juri, will tell you the rest of the story if you will allow it."
Dorian glanced at Tom, who had been following every word with intense interest. "What do you think, brother?"
"Let us hear the man's story," Tom said.
Kadem al-Juri must have been awaiting their summons for he came within minutes from the crew's encampment at the edge of the forest. They all realized that they had seen him often during the stormy voyage up from Good Hope. Although they had not known his name, they had understood that he was Batula's newly hired writer and purser.
"Kadem al-Juri?" Dorian greeted him. "You are a guest in my camp. You are under my protection."
"Your beneficence lights my life like the sunrise, Prince al-Salil ibn al-Malik." Kadem prostrated himself before Dorian. "May the peace of God and the love of his last true Prophet follow you all the days of your long and illustrious life."
"It is many years since any man has called me by that title." Dorian nodded, gratified. "Rise up, Kadem, and take a place in our council." Kadem sat beside Batula, his sponsor. The servants brought him coffee in a silver cup and Batula passed him the ivory mouthpiece of his pipe. Both Dorian and Tom studied the new man carefully while he enjoyed these expressions of hospitality and favour.
Kadem al-Juri was young, no more than a few years older than Mansur. He had a noble face. His features reminded Dorian of his own adoptive father. Of course, it was not impossible that he was a royal bastard. The Caliph had been a man indeed, and prolific with his seed. He had ploughed and sowed wherever the ground pleased him.
Dorian smiled faintly, then put aside the thought, and once more regarded Kadem with his full attention. His skin was the colour of fine polished teak. His brow was deep and wide, his eyes clear, dark and penetrating. He returned Dorian's scrutiny calmly and, despite his protestations of loyalty and respect, Dorian thought he recognized in his gaze the disconcerting gleam of the zealot. This is a man who lives by
the Word of Allah alone, he thought. Here is one who places scant value in the law and opinions of men. He knew well how dangerous such men could be. While he composed his next question he looked at Kadem's hands. There were telltale calluses on his fingers and his right calm. He recognized these as the stigmata of the warrior, the gall of bowstring and sword hilt. He looked again at his shoulders and arms and saw the development of muscle and sinew that could only have been built up during long hours of practice with bow and blade. Dorian let none of these thoughts show in his own eyes as he asked gravely, "You were in the service of Caliph Zayn al-Dini"
"Since childhood, Lord. I was an orphan and he took me under his protection."
"You swore a blood oath of loyalty to him," Dorian insisted. For the first time Kadem's steady gaze shifted slightly. He did not reply. "Yet you have reneged on this oath," Dorian persisted. "Batula tells me you are no longer the Caliph's man. Is that true?"
"Your Highness, I swore that oath nearly twelve years ago, on the day of my circumcision. In those days I was a man in name only, but in reality I was a mere child and a stranger to the truth."
"And now I can see that you have become a man." Dorian went on appraising him. Kadem was supposedly a writer, a man of papers and ink, but he did not have that look. There was a latent fierceness about him, like a falcon at roost. Dorian was intrigued. He went on, "But, Kadem al-Juri, does this release you from a blood oath of fealty?"
"My lord, I believe that fealty is a dagger with two edges. He who accepts it has a responsibility towards he who offers it. If he neglects that duty and responsibility, then the debt is cancelled."
"These are devious semantics, Kadem. I find them too convoluted to fathom. To me an oath is an oath."
"My lord condemns me?" Kadem's voice was silky, but his eyes were cold as obsidian.
"Nay, Kadem al-Juri. I leave judgement and condemnation to God."
"Bismallahl' Kadem intoned, and Batula and Kumrah stirred.
There is no God, but God," said Batula.
"God's wisdom surpasses all understanding," said Kumrah.
Kadem whispered, "Yet I know that Zayn al-Din is your blood enemy. That is why I come to you, al-Salil."
Yes, Zayn is my adopted brother and my enemy. Many years ago he swore to kill me. Many times since then I have felt his baleful influence touch my life," Dorian agreed.
I nave heard him relate to his courtiers how he owes his crippled foot to you," Kadem went on.
"He owes me much else b
esides." Dorian smiled. "I had the great pleasure of placing a rope around his neck and dragging him before our father to face the Caliph's wrath."