by Wilbur Smith
A they talked on through the heat of the afternoon, Dorian listened, nodded and gave the appearance of being moved by Sir Guy's logic. In reality he was listening for the hidden truths and meanings behind the flowery phrases that Verity translated to them. Gradually he was starting to understand how his half-brother had achieved such power and circumstance.
He is like a serpent, he twists and turns, and always you are aware of the venom in him, Dorian thought. In the end he nodded wisely and made reply: "All of what you say is true. I can only pray to God that your wisdom and benign interest in these dire affairs of Oman will lead us to a just and lasting solution. Before we go further I would like to assure Your Excellency of the deep gratitude I feel towards you personally and on behalf of my people. I hope that I will be able to demonstrate these warm feelings in a more substantial manner than by mere words." He saw the avaricious gleam in his brother's eye.
"I am not here for material rewards," Sir Guy replied, 'but we have a saying in my country that the workman is worthy of his wage."
"It is an expression that we in this country understand well," Dorian said. "But now the heat passes. There will be time for us to speak again on the morrow. We can ride out to fly my falcons."
The hawking party, a hundred horsemen strong, left Isakanderbad and rode along the edge of the cliff that looked down upon the dry river-course hundreds of feet below. The lowering sun cast mysterious blue shadows over the splendid chaos of tumbled walls and cliffs, and serpentine wadis.
"Why would Alexander choose such a wild and desolate place to build a city?" Verity wondered aloud.
Three thousand years ago there was a mighty river and the valley floor would have been a garden of green," Mansur replied.
"It is sad to think that so little is left of such a mighty enterprise. He built so much and it was destroyed in a single lifetime by the lesser men who inherited it from him."
"Even Isakander's tomb is lost." Gradually Mansur lured her into conversation, and slowly she lowered her guard and responded to him more readily. He was delighted to find in her a companion who shared his love of history, but as their discussion deepened he found that she was a scholar and her knowledge exceeded his own. He was content to listen to her rather than express his own opinions. He enjoyed the sound of her voice, and her use of the Arabic language.
The huntsmen had scouted the desert for days before and they were able to lead the Caliph to the most likely area in which they might find game. This was a wide, level plain, studded with clumps of low saltbush. It stretched away to the limit of the eye. Now, as it cooled, the air was sweet and clear as a mountain stream, and Verity felt alive and vital. Yet there was a restlessness in her, as though something extraordinary was about to happen, something that might change her life for ever.
Suddenly al-Salil called for a gallop and the horns rang out. They spurred forward together like a squadron of cavalry. Hoofs drummed on the hard-baked sand, and the wind sang past Verity's ears. The mare ran lightly under her, seeming to skim the ground like a swallow in flight, and she laughed. She looked over at Mansur, who rode beside her, and they laughed together for no other reason than that they were young and full of the joy of life.
Suddenly there was a shriller horn blast. A shout of excitement went
conversation was polite. The royal cooks served the midday meal. Dorian helped Sir Guy to tit bits from huge salvers, which overflowed with saffron rice, tender lamb and baked fish, then waved away what remained to be taken to his retinue seated in ranks outside the pavilion.
Now the talk became more earnest. Sir Guy nodded at Verity to come to sit between him and al-Salil. Then, while the sun rose to its zenith and outside all the world drowsed in the heat, they conversed in low tones. Sir Guy warned al-Salil of how fragile was the alliance of desert tribes that he was building. "Zayn al-Din has enlisted the support of the Sublime Porte in Constantinople. Already there are twenty thousand Turkish troops in Zanzibar, and the ships to convey them to these shores as soon as the monsoon turns."
"What of the English Company? Will they side with Zayn?" al-Salil asked.
They have not yet committed themselves," Sir Guy replied. "As you are probably aware, the governor in Bombay awaits my recommendation before he decides." He might just as well have used the word 'order' rather than 'recommendation'. Al-Salil and every one of his council could be in no doubt as to where the power lay.
Verity was so absorbed with her work of translating that again Mansur could study her intimately. For the first time he became aware of strange depths and undercurrents between her and her father. Could it be that she was afraid of him? he wondered. He could not be certain, but he sensed something dark and chilling to the spirit.
A they talked on through the heat of the afternoon, Dorian listened, nodded and gave the appearance of being moved by Sir Guy's logic. In reality he was listening for the hidden truths and meanings behind the flowery phrases that Verity translated to them. Gradually he was starting to understand how his half-brother had achieved such power and circumstance.
He is like a serpent, he twists and turns, and always you are aware of the venom in him, Dorian thought. In the end he nodded wisely and made reply: "All of what you say is true. I can only pray to God that your wisdom and benign interest in these dire affairs of Oman will lead us to a just and lasting solution. Before we go further I would like to assure Your Excellency of the deep gratitude I feel towards you personally and on behalf of my people. I hope that I will be able to demonstrate these warm feelings in a more substantial manner than by mere words. He saw the avaricious gleam in his brother's eye.
"I am not here for material rewards," Sir Guy replied, 'but we have a saying in my country that the workman is worthy of his wage."
"It is an expression that we in this country understand well," Dorian said. "But now the heat passes. There will be time for us to speak again on the morrow. We can ride out to fly my falcons."
The hawking party, a hundred horsemen strong, left Isakanderbad and rode along the edge of the cliff that looked down upon the dry river-course hundreds of feet below. The lowering sun cast mysterious blue shadows over the splendid chaos of tumbled walls and cliffs, and serpentine wadis.
"Why would Alexander choose such a wild and desolate place to build a city?" Verity wondered aloud.
"Three thousand years ago there was a mighty river and the valley floor would have been a garden of green," Mansur replied.
"It is sad to think that so little is left of such a mighty enterprise. He built so much and it was destroyed in a single lifetime by the lesser men who inherited it from him."
"Even Isakander's tomb is lost." Gradually Mansur lured her into conversation, and slowly she lowered her guard and responded to him more readily. He was delighted to find in her a companion who shared his love of history, but as their discussion deepened he found that she was a scholar and her knowledge exceeded his own. He was content to listen to her rather than express his own opinions. He enjoyed the sound of her voice, and her use of the Arabic language.
The huntsmen had scouted the desert for days before and they were able to lead the Caliph to the most likely area in which they might find game. This was a wide, level plain, studded with clumps of low saltbush. It stretched away to the limit of the eye. Now, as it cooled, the air was sweet and clear as a mountain stream, and Verity felt alive and vital. Yet there was a restlessness in her, as though something extraordinary was about to happen, something that might change her life for ever.
Suddenly al-Salil called for a gallop and the horns rang out. They spurred forward together like a squadron of cavalry. Hoofs drummed on the hard-baked sand, and the wind sang past Verity's ears. The mare ran lightly under her, seeming to skim the ground like a swallow in flight, and she laughed. She looked over at Mansur, who rode beside her, and they laughed together for no other reason than that they were young and full of the joy of life.
Suddenly there was a shriller horn blast. A shout of e
xcitement went
up from the huntsmen. Ahead of the line a pair of bustards had been started from the cover of the saltbushes by the thunder of hoofs. They ran with their necks out-thrust, their heads held low to the ground. They were huge birds, larger than a wild goose. Although their plumage was cinnamon brown, blue and dark red it was so cunningly blended to match the desert terrain that they seemed ethereal and as insubstantial as wraiths.
At the sound of the horn the line of riders reined in. The horses milled, circled and chewed their bits, eager to run again, but they held their places in the line while al-Salil rode forward with a falcon on his wrist. It was a desert saker, the loveliest and fiercest of all falcons.
In the short time since they had been in Oman, Dorian had made this particular bird his favourite. It was a tercel, and therefore the more beautiful gender of the species. At three years of age, it was at the peak of its strength and swiftness. He had named it Khamseen, after the furious desert wind.
With the line of horsemen halted, the bustards had not been driven into flight. They had gone back into cover in the saltbush. They must have been lying flat against the earth with their long necks thrust out. They remained still as the desert rocks that surrounded them, concealed from the eyes of the hunters by their colouring.
Al-Salil walked his mount slowly towards the patch of scrub where they had last been seen. Excitement built in the line of watchers. Although Verity did not share the passion of the true falconer, she found her breath coming short and the hand that held the reins was trembling slightly. She glanced sideways at Mansur and his features were rapt. For the first time she felt herself completely in tune with him.
Suddenly there was a harsh, croaking cry, and from under the front hoofs of al-Salil's stallion a huge body launched itself into flight. Verity was astonished at how swiftly and strongly the bustard rose into the air. The whistling beat of the wings carried clearly in the silence. Their span was as wide as the full stretch of a man's arms, blunt at the tips and deep as they hurled the bird aloft.
The watchers began a soft chant as the Caliph slipped the hood off the tercel's marvellously savage head. It blinked its yellow eyes and looked to the sky. The bass drummer began a slow beat that boomed out across the plain, exciting both watchers and falcon.
"Khamseen! Khamseen!" they chanted. The tercel saw the bustard outlined against the hard blue and hated against the jesses that restrained him. He hung for a moment upside down, beating his wings as he struggled to be free. The Caliph lifted him high, slipped the jesses and launched him into the air.
On swift blade-sharp wings the tercel rose, higher and higher, circling. His head moved from side to side as he watched the huge flapping bird that sped across the plain below him. The drummer increased the beat and the watchers raised their voices: "Khamseen! Khamseen!"
The tercel reached the heights, a tiny black shape on sickle wings against the steely blue, towering over his massive prey. Then, abruptly, he cocked his wings back and dropped like a javelin, plummeting towards the earth. The drummer beat a frenetic crescendo, then abruptly cut it short.
In the silence they heard the wind fluting over the wings, and the tercel's stoop was so swift as to cheat the eye. He hit the bustard with a sound like the clash of fighting stags' antlers. The bustard seemed to burst into a cloud of feathers that streamed away on the breeze.
A triumphant cry went up from a hundred throats. Verity found that she was gasping as though she had surfaced from a deep dive below the sea.
Al-Salil recovered his falcon, fed him the bustard's liver and stroked him while he gulped it down. Then he called for another bird. With it on his wrist, he rode ahead with Sir Guy and most of his councillors. In the passion of the hunt that gripped them all, there was no discussion. Verity was no longer needed to translate for them, and she lingered with Mansur. Subtly he slowed his horse and she kept pace with him, so rapt in their talk that she seemed not to realize they were falling further and further behind the Caliph's party.
The antagonism between them evaporated as they talked, and both were animated by the other's proximity. When Verity laughed it was a fetching sound that delighted Mansur, and her handsome, rather austere features were enlivened almost to the point of beauty.
Slowly they forgot the large, colourful entourage in which they rode, and became isolated in the midst of the multitude. A distant shout and the beat of the war drum jerked them back to reality. Mansur rose in his stirrups and shouted with astonishment, "Look! Do you not see them?" The men around them were shouting and the horns blared out; the drummers beat a frenzy.
"What is it? What has happened?" His change of mood was infectious and Verity pressed up close beside him. Then she saw what had caused the pandemonium. On the far slope of the valley the small party of huntsmen led by al-Salil was at full gallop. While casting for bustard they had put up much more dangerous game.
Lions!" Mansur cried. "Ten at least, maybe more! Come, follow me. We must not miss this sport." Verity pushed her mare to keep pace with him as they raced down their side of the valley.
The pride that al-Salil and his hunters were driving before them, were swift, tawny shapes darting through the patches of saltbush, flitting in and out of the steep-sided wadis that rent the tortured desert ground.
The Caliph had passed his falcon to one of the hunters, and they had all snatched their long weapons from the lance-bearers. They were in full chase after the pride, their cries thin and faint with distance. Then there was a sudden terrible roar of pain and fury as al-Salil leaned from the saddle and speared one of the swift shapes. Verity saw the lion bowled over by the lance thrust, rolling and bellowing in a cloud of pale dust. Al-Salil cleared his weapon with an expert backward sweep and rode on after his next victim, leaving the downed lion grunting its last with the lung blood pumping from its jaws. The riders coming up behind him lanced the dying beast again and again.
Then another of the huntsmen scored with the lance, and another, and all became a wild confusion of racing horses and fleeing yellow cats. The hunters shouted each time they hit. The horses whinnied and shrilled under them, driven mad by the smell of lion blood mingled with the roaring of the wounded cats. The horns blew, the drums pounded and the dust shrouded it all.
Mansur snatched a lance from the bearer who rode behind him and galloped after his father. Verity kept pace with him but the hunt swept away over the crest of the hill before they could join in with the sport.
They passed two dead lions stretched out among the saltbush. Their carcasses were riddled with wounds, and the horses shied at the terrifying scent. By the time they reached the ridge and looked over, the hunt was scattered across the plain. Almost a mile away, they could make out al SaliPs distinctive figure in his flowing white robes leading the hunt, but there was no longer any sign of the lion pride. They had disappeared like brown smoke into the vastness of the desert.
"Too late," Mansur lamented, and reined in his mount. "They have run away from us. We will simply use up the horses to no profit if we try to chase after them."
"Your Highness!" In her agitation Verity did not seem aware that she had used his title. "I had a glimpse of one of the lions breaking away along the ridge." She pointed off towards the left. "It seemed to be heading back towards the river."
"Come, then, my lady." Mansur turned his stallion back. "Show me where you saw it."
She led him along the high ground, and then at an angle off the skyline. Within a quarter of a mile they were out of sight of the rest of the entourage, cantering alone through the wilderness. The excitement was still high in both of them, and they laughed together without
reason. Verity's hat blew from her head and when Mansur would have turned back to retrieve it, she called, "Leave it! We shall find it later." She tossed her blue silk scarf into the air. "This will mark the spot for us when we return."
As she cantered on she shook out her hair. Until now she had covered it with a wide-meshed silk net. Mansur was ast
onished by its length as it floated over her shoulders in a dense honey-brown cloud, thick and lustrous in the soft evening sunlight. With her hair down her appearance was completely altered. She seemed to have become a wild thing, free and unfettered by the restraints of society and convention.