by Wilbur Smith
"Have you heard his terms? Do you know what message he brings?" "We have not yet met him. We have promised that we will do so on the first day of Ramadan. But we are afraid. We know that we will have the worst of any treaty we make with him." He came back to kneel before Dorian. "Perhaps in our hearts we were waiting for you to come to us, and to lead us into battle as you did so many times before. Give me your permission to go back to the council and tell them who you are, and why you have come."
"Go, old friend. Tell them that al-Salil wishes to address the council." Bin-Shibam returned after nightfall. As soon as he entered the cabin he prostrated himself before Dorian. "I would have come sooner but the council does not wish the English consul to see you come ashore. They bade me convey to you their deepest respect and, for your father's sake, they profess their loyalty to your family. They are waiting now in the throne room of the palace. I beg you, come with me and I will take you to them. From them you will learn more to your great profit and to ours."
Dorian left Mansur in command of the flotilla. He threw a cloak of camel-hair over his head and shoulders and followed bin-Shibam down into the felucca. On the way to the palace jetty they passed close to the anchored Arcturus. The captain was on deck. Dorian saw his face m the light from the compass binnacle. He was giving orders to the orhcer of the watch. His was a fruity West Country accent, but it sounded strangely alien in Dorian's ears. I am already returning to the
ties and loyalties of my childhood, he thought, and then his mind took another turning. If only Yasmini were with me now to share this homecoming.
Guards were waiting for them when they landed at the stone jetty, and they led Dorian through a heavy iron-grid door, and up a circular staircase into a maze of narrow passages. The walls were of stone blocks and lit by torches guttering in wall brackets. It smelt of mould and rodents. At last they reached a heavily barred door. His escort beat upon it with the hilts of their lances, and when it swung open they went on down corridors that were wider and under high-domed ceilings. Now there were rushes on the floors and tapestries of silk and fine wool on the walls. They reached another doorway, with armoured sentries standing before it, who crossed their lance blades to deny them entrance.
"Who seeks admittance to the war council of Oman?"
"Prince al-Salil ibn al-Malik."
The guards drew aside and made deep obeisance. "Pass through, Your Highness. The council attends your arrival."
The doors swung open slowly, creaking on their hinges, and Dorian stepped into the hall beyond. It was lit by hundreds of small ceramic lamps, the wicks floating in perfumed oil. But the light they shed was not sufficient to disperse the shadows that cloaked the far recesses, and left the high ceiling in darkness.
A circle of robed men was seated on cushions at a low table. The tabletop was cast from pure silver in the geometric patterns of Islamic religious art. The men rose as Dorian stood before them. One, who was clearly the elder and most senior of the council, came forward. His beard was shining white and he walked with the deliberate and venerable gait of age. He stared into Dorian's face.
"God's blessings on you, Mustapha Zindara," Dorian greeted him, 'my father's trusted councillor."
"It is him. In God's name, it is verily him," cried the old man. He fell upon his face and kissed the hem of Dorian's robe. Dorian lifted him to his feet and embraced him.
One at a time the others came forward, and Dorian greeted most by name, asked after their families, and reminded them of desert crossings they had made together, battles they had fought as brothers in arms.
Then each took up a lamp. They all gathered around him and led him down the length of the long hall. As they approached the far end, something tall and massive glowed with a pearly lustre in the lamplight. Dorian knew what it was, for the last time he had seen it his father had been seated upon it.
They led Dorian up the steps and placed him on the piles of tiger skins
and silken cushions embroidered with gold and stiver thread that covered the summit platform of that tall structure. It had been carved three hundred years before from one hundred and fifty massive ivory tusks: the Elephant Throne of the Caliphate of Oman.
Over the following days and weeks, from before dawn until after midnight, Dorian sat in council with his councillors and ministers. They reported to him on every facet of the affairs of the kingdom, from the mood of the populace and the desert tribes to the coffers of the treasury, the condition of the fleet and the strength of the army. They told him of the virtual breakdown in trade, and explained the diplomatic and political dilemmas that confronted them.
Swiftly Dorian grasped the desperate straits to which their cause had been reduced. What remained of the fleet that had made Oman a great seafaring nation had sailed with Zayn al-Din to the Fever Coast. Many tribes had become disheartened by the endless procrastination of the council, and most of their squadrons had disappeared like mist into desert fastness. The treasury was almost bare, for Zayn had ransacked it before he fled.
Dorian listened, then gave his orders. They were succinct and direct. It all seemed so natural and familiar, as though he had never ceased to command. His reputation for political and military genius was multiplied tenfold as it was repeated in the streets and souks of the city. His appearance was handsome and noble. He had the air of command. His sure manner and confidence were infectious. He froze what remained of the contents of the treasury, and issued bills backed by his own authority to meet long-overdue expenses. He took charge of the granaries, rationed the food supplies and prepared the city for siege.
He sent messages by swift camel to the sheikhs of the desert tribes, and rode out into the desert to meet them when they came to him to swear their allegiance. He sent them back into the interior to summon their battle array.
Inspired by his example, his military captains plunged with fresh vigour into planning the defence of the city. He replaced those who were clearly incompetent with men he knew from experience that he could trust.
When he toured the defences and ordered immediate repairs, the Populace thronged about him joyously. They held up their children for a glimpse of the legendary al-Salil, and touched his robes as he passed.
I hree times Dorian sent messages to the Arcturus, begging the consul
general's indulgence, pleading the excuse that he was so recently elevated to the caliphate that he had not been able to acquaint himself with all the affairs of state. He fobbed off the inevitable meeting for as long as possible. Every day he could delay made his position that much stronger.
Finally, a boat came from the Arcturus to the palace jetty, bearing a letter from the English consul general. It was written in beautiful flowing Arabic script, and Mansur thought he recognized a feminine touch, and that he knew who had penned it. It was addressed not to the Caliph but to the President for the Time Being of the Revolutionary Council of Oman, and pointedly made no acknowledgement of Dorian's existence or of his title, Caliph al-Salil ibn al-Malik, although by now the English consul, through his spies, must certainly have been aware of all that was taking place.
The letter was brusque, and eschewed any attempt at flowery diplomacy. His Britannic Majesty's consul general to the Orient regretted that the council had been unable to grant him audience. Other more pressing matters made it necessary for the consul general to sail from Muscat to Zanzibar in the near future, and it was uncertain as to when he would return to Muscat.
Dorian was untroubled by the veiled threat the letter contained, but he was flabbergasted when he read the signature appended to it. Wordlessly he handed the letter back to Mansur and pointed out the name and signature that had been written in English.
"He has the same name as us." Mansur was puzzled. "Sir Guy Courtney."
"The same name, yes," Dorian's face was still pale and tight with the shock, 'and the same blood too. The moment I set eyes on him, I thought there was something familiar about him. He is your uncle Tom's twin brother, and my half-brother.
That makes him another uncle of yours into the bargain."
"I have never heard his name mentioned before this day," Mansur protested, 'and I do not understand it at all."
"There is every good reason that you have not heard Guy Courtney's name. Dark deeds and bad blood run deep."
"Might I not know now?" Mansur asked.
Dorian was silent for a while before he sighed. "It is a sad and sorry tale of treachery and deceit, jealousy and bitter hatred."
"Tell me, Father," Mansur insisted quietly.
Dorian nodded. "Yes, I must, though it gives me no pleasure to relive these dire affairs. It is only fair that you should know." He reached for the comfort of his hookah and did not speak again until the fire glowed
in the bowl, and the blue smoke bubbled through the scented water of the glass reservoir.
"It's over thirty years ago now that Tom, Guy and I, all brothers together, sailed from Plymouth bound for Good Hope. We were with your grandfather Hal in the old Seraph. I was the baby, scarcely ten years of age, but Tom and Guy were almost grown men. There was another family on board. We were giving them passage to Bombay where Mr. Beatty was to take up a high appointment with John Company. He had with him his daughters. The eldest girl was Caroline, sixteen and a beautiful vixen."
"Surely you do not speak of the plum pudding we saw on the deck of the Arcturus in the harbour?" Mansur exclaimed.
"It seems so." Dorian nodded. "I assure you she was once lovely. Time changes all things."
"Forgive me, Father, I should not have interrupted you. You were about to tell me of the other daughters."
"The youngest was Sarah, and she was sweet and lovable."
"Sarah?" Mansur looked askance.
"I know what you are thinking and you are correct in your assumption. Yes, she is now your aunt Sarah, but wait, I shall come to it- if you give me half a chance to get in a word edgewise." Mansur looked repentant, and Dorian went on: "Hardly had the Seraph cleared Plymouth harbour when Guy fell hopelessly in love with Caroline. She, on the other hand, had sheep's eyes for Tom. Your uncle Tom being Tom obliged her. He double-shot ted her dainty cannon, stoked her fireplace, rattled her timbers and finally placed a large fruit cake to bake in her hot little oven."
Mansur smiled, despite the seriousness of the subject. "I am aghast that my own father should be familiar with such vulgar terms."
"Forgive me for offending your sensitive feelings- but to continue. Guy was infuriated that his brother had so treated the object of his love and devotion and challenged Tom to a duel. Even in those early days Tom was a fine swordsman. Guy was not. Tom did not want to kill his brother, but on the other hand he wanted nothing further to do with the fruit cake Caroline was baking. For Tom it had been nothing more than a bit of fun. I was only a child at the time, and not certain as to what was happening, but I can still remember the storm that rocked and split the family. Our father forbade the duel, luckily for Guy."
Mansur could see how Dorian was suffering at the memory, although he tried to cover his distress with a flippant air. He remained silent, respecting his father's feelings.
At last Dorian continued: "In the end Guy broke away from us. When we reached Good Hope, he married Caroline and took on board Tom's bastard as his own. Then he left us and went on with the Beatty family to India. I never saw him again until now when we spied him and Caroline on the deck of the Arcturws." He was silent again, brooding in the blue clouds of tobacco smoke.
That was not the end of it. In Bombay, with his father-in-law's patronage, Guy rose swiftly to consular rank. When I was abducted at the age of twelve and fell into the hands of the slavers, Tom went to Guy and asked for his help to find me and rescue me. Guy refused, and tried to have Tom arrested for murder and other crimes he had not committed. Tom made a run for it, but not before he had swept up Sarah and eloped with her. This only fanned the flames of Guy's hatred. Sir Guy Courtney, his Britannic Majesty's consul general to the Orient, is a fine hater. My brother he may be, but in name alone. In fact, he is a bitter enemy and the ally of Zayn al-Din. But now I need your help in composing a letter to him."
They took great pains with it. It was in Arabic style, filled with flowery compliments and protestations of goodwill. It went on to offer profuse apologies for any unintended offence that had been given. It expressed the greatest respect for the power and dignity of the consul general's office. Finally it went on to beg the consul general to attend an audience with the Caliph at a date and time of his own choice, but preferably at the first convenient opportunity.
"I would go out to the Arcturus myself but, of course, that would not be diplomatically correct. You must deliver the message. Whatever you do, do not let him suspect that we are blood relatives, nor that you speak English. I want you to assess his mood and intentions. Ask him if we can supply his ship with water, meat or fresh produce. Offer him and his crew the freedom and hospitality of the city. If they come ashore our spies will be able to milk news and intelligence from them. We must try to delay him here as long as possible, until we are ready to confront Zayn al-Din."
Mansur dressed carefully for the visit, in the style befitting the eldest son of the Caliph of Oman. He wore the green turban of the believer with an emerald pin, one of the few notable gems that remained in the palace treasury after Zayn al-Din's depredations. Over his white robes, his waistcoat was of tanned camels king embroidered with gold thread. His sandals, sword-belt and scabbard were all worked with filigree by the skilled goldsmiths of the city.
When Mansur mounted the ladder to the deck of the Arcturus with his red beard glowing in the sunlight, he cut such a magnificent figure
that the captain and his officers gaped at him, and took a minute to recover.
"My compliments, sir, I am William Cornish, captain of this vessel." The English captain's Arabic was poor and heavily accented. "May I enquire who I have the honour of addressing?" His large red face, which had earned him the name "Ruby' Cornish in the fleet of the English East India Company, glowed in the sunlight.
"I am Prince Mansur ibn al-Salil al-Malik," Mansur replied, in flowing Arabic, touching his heart and lips in greeting. "I come as an emissary of my father, Caliph al-Salil ibn al-Malik. I have the honour to bear a message for His Excellency the Consul General of His Britannic Majesty."
Ruby Cornish looked uncomfortable. He followed what Mansur had said only with difficulty, and he had been severely enjoined not to acknowledge any titles of royalty to which these Omani rebels might lay claim.
"Please ask your retainers to remain in the barge," he said. Mansur dismissed them with a gesture, and Cornish went on, "If you will come this way, sir." He led Mansur to where a sail had been rigged over the midships section of the upper-deck as a sun shade.
Sir Guy Courtney sat in a comfortable armchair covered with a leopards king His cocked hat was laid on the table beside him, and his sword was between his knees. He made no effort to rise from his chair as Mansur approached. He wore a burgundy-coloured jacket of fine broadcloth with solid gold buttons, and a high stock. His shoes were square-toed with silver buckles, and his white silk hose reached to his knees, and were held by garters that exactly matched the colour of his jacket. His tight-fitting trousers were also white, with a codpiece that flattered his masculinity. He wore the ribbons and stars of the Order of the Garter and some Oriental decorations.
Mansur made the polite gesture of greeting: "I am honoured by your condescension, Your Excellency."
Guy Courtney shook his head irritably. Mansur knew now that he was Tom's twin and must therefore be in his late forties, but he looked younger. Although his hair was thinning and receding, his figure was slim and his belly flat. But there were liver-coloured bags under his eyes, and one of his front teeth was discoloured. His expression was sour and unfriendly. "My daughter will translate," he said in English, and indicated the girl who stood behind his chair. Mansur pretended not to understand. He had been acutely aware of her presence since the moment h
e had stepped aboard the yacht, but now he looked directly at her for the first time.
He had the greatest difficulty in keeping his face expressionless. The first thing he noticed was that her eyes were large and green, lively and searching. The whites were clear, and the lashes long and densely curled.