CHAPTER TWELVE
Raiding Party
I
Questions . . .
William had plenty of these, yet he dared not ask them. Instead he did as he was bidden, and rode side by side with this Bedouin chief who watched him with calm suspicion. It was clear Sheikh Fahd did not trust William, that he regarded him as dangerous. His guards rode close to the company, flanking them carefully, watching the monks’ every move. They would surely attack if given cause.
But despite this new jeopardy, William was overwhelmed with relief. Yes, they were captives, but willingly so. Outside of Rashid, this royalty of the desert was the sole surviving contact of Charles Greynell. That Greynell had chosen to leave a gift from the Ayaida with Malika had not been fortuitous. It had been providential.
William just hoped that Sheikh Fahd saw it that way.
Feeling the need for diplomacy, William urged his horse on a little quicker so he was shoulder to shoulder with the sheikh.
‘I must say . . .’ William started, the days of riding through scorched lands hoarsening his voice, ‘your English is fluent, sir. May I ask where you learnt to speak it?’
Sheikh Fahd eyed him briefly but did not reply For a moment or two William felt snubbed and awkward.
‘My father fought alongside the Mamelukes against Napoleon,’ the sheikh said finally. ‘He was not the only sheikh to do so. M any Bedouins believed the French would steal the desert, the mountains, and our women and children. So we fought and we fought hard. There were victories, but many defeats. Eventually, my father retired to the Sinai to rest.
‘And then the British came, and the Ottomans, and there was faith again. And the French were driven from the sands as they were from the seas. There were victories, and not so many defeats,’ Sheikh Fahd remembered. ‘After serving alongside the British, my father realized once the French had been driven from Egypt that our only enemies were our allies.’
The sheikh turned to William, his eyes drilling into him. ‘The British are weakened by war, but they look upon this land with a conqueror’s gaze,’ he said, and then shrugged. ‘My father was a great man. Some say he could see into the future. He sent me to Dumyat to be schooled by an Englishman. I learnt your customs, your philosophy, history and your words. And after I was done, I knew then that the British were coming. It is their nature to conquer.’
William suddenly wanted to shrink back into that Papal world, to express himself in Latin, to shed his British past. From experience he knew that the sheikh was right. He knew the machinations of the British empire, its ambition to go to the corners of the world. William had once believed that it was simple adventure and exploration that drove that machine forward. But with years outside of the empire, he saw a greater motivation: the greed of possession and the will to dominate and subjugate.
‘They might leave Egypt alone,’ he suggested sheepishly.
Sheikh Fahd studied William for a moment and then dismissed the conversation with a wave. ‘We do not fear the British,’ he said. ‘It is Ali who is our enemy now . Ali threatens to drive us from our lands. The Mamelukes are all but dead and Ali rules Egypt. We have no allies now.’
‘I too fought against Napoleon. At Waterloo,’ William said. ‘My enemy was once the French as it was your father’s. And I am no friend of the viceroy, as you know. You could consider me as an ally.’
Sheikh Fahd’s eyes widened. ‘You were a soldier?’
William nodded.
‘A British soldier? Very interesting, Mr Saxon. You almost fooled me. I had taken you at your word, a “merchant’s” word. Not a soldier’s,’ Sheikh Fahd added triumphantly and cocked his head back. ‘I was right to suspect your intentions. Your deceit is now revealed, and a flimsy deceit it was.’
William went to protest, but the sheikh flung his hand in the air and rode away, leaving William with a sense of foreboding.
II
The sheikh’s men guided them down a rock-strewn ridge and William was surprised that their surroundings changed so quickly. The landscape was still a waste of sand, but they had risen into the highlands as the sun began to fall behind them. Here the hills were rugged and the path was arduous, but as they moved down they discovered a plateau that was strewn with trees and bushes. Some patches of grasslands still existed, and nestled between them was a large camp by the side of a lake, busy with people moving about their daily work.
As they neared, William spied children playing, women carrying clothes and babes, while guards milled around, muskets over their shoulders, long blades at their hips, chatting to herders who were standing idly by.
Nearby were homes like cloth buildings, made of striped blankets. The camp seemed spun, like a spider’s web, with guy ropes crisscrossing the paths between each tent. Fowl strutted between the ropes and pegs, and goats stood tethered to posts, blinking in the setting sun.
‘Is this your tribe?’
Sheikh Fahd turned about in his saddle and nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Saxon. Welcome to the Ayaida. There are some of us who are nomadic, but most live here under my protection.’
At the centre of the camp was a giant marquee surrounded by several other large and elaborate tents, dwarfing the clusters of tents nearby. The camp seemed to have its own sets of core communities, with tents facing inwards in circles, or clustered together.
At the perimeter of the camp were small enclosures: makeshift fences hemming in horses, sheep and chickens that scattered whenever someone walked near. These were tended to by elderly men, their faces dark and weatherbeaten, staring indifferently at the foreigners as they rode into the heart of the tribe.
It was difficult to see whether these simple nomads regarded the monks of the company as trophies or objects of curiosity. Plainly, most had never seen Europeans before, and there were expressions of instinctive suspicion from some, downright hostility from others.
Fearing for his captain, Peruzo tried to move his horse closer to William, but several Bedouin riders closed in front of him, casting looks of warning. Peruzo relented, hoping they were trying to protect their sheikh, rather than remove contact with his captain.
‘Out of the pot, into the fire,’ Thomas murmured to himself.
They came to a halt by a paddock and Sheikh Fahd shouted to the riders, who dismounted and became quickly garrulous, joking with each other, while some glanced warily at William and the monks.
The sheikh pulled his horse around to William’s. ‘You are now the guests of the Ayaida, Mr Saxon.’
‘I am honoured,’ William replied uncomfortably.
‘As a condition of my hospitality, I request you surrender your weapons,’ Sheikh Fahd told him.
William frowned. ‘I am not sure I can allow that.’
‘It is not a choice,’ Sheikh Fahd replied. ‘I could have made this request when we first met, but in the desert every man has the right to defend himself. Here there are families and there are children. I would feel content if the only armed men here were my bodyguards.’
William studied Sheikh Fahd’s expression. He appeared sincere, but William still didn’t trust him. Far too much had gone wrong of late for him to trust anyone.
‘Your weapons will be returned to you, Mr Saxon, once you leave this camp. If they are needed in a hurry, I will give them back,’ Sheikh Fahd offered. ‘For urgent use only.’
William considered the options and realized there were none. ‘Very well.’
Sheikh Fahd barked orders. The Bedouins moved towards the monks. William turned his horse to address the rest of the company.
‘They want us to disarm,’ he shouted.
The brothers gave a stir of unrest.
‘Captain?’ Vittore said, quite worried.
‘We have little choice, Lieutenant,’ William told him. ‘Hand the weapons over to the Bedouins. Let them store the munitions. The sheikh assures me they will be safe.’
After the weapons began to fall to the floor, Peruzo dismounted and marched over to William.
&n
bsp; ‘This is not a good idea, Captain,’ he protested. ‘How do we escape now?’
‘For the moment, we don’t,’ William replied. ‘We are not in good shape, and we need rest. We have too many enemies out there to make the Ayaida one of them. And . . .’
‘And, Captain?’
‘This sheikh knew Charles Greynell. He has been suspicious of us so far, but with persuasion he could be helpful. Remember what is said in the letter about the “wanderer”?’
‘Greynell could have meant this man . . . Or our hosts could sell us out to the militia,’ Peruzo warned.
William felt his chin, touching the stubble again. ‘I could do with a wash and a shave, not to mention something to eat and drink,’ he said, dismissing Peruzo’s concerns. ‘Privileges of captivity, wouldn’t you say?’
‘If we’re lucky Peruzo said grudgingly as he watched the natives gather their weapons. ‘Even if this sheikh is friendly, we could be wasting precious time.
‘At this moment, Peruzo, the Hoard is out of our reach,’ William pointed out. ‘The brothers are starved and weak. What we need now more than time, is luck. And we’re fast running out of both.’
III
As promised by their hosts, they were treated to a place to wash and shave and then to change their clothes. The monks of the Order applied themselves with zeal simply glad to be out of the blistering heat of the sun and the saddle. But William tempered his graciousness with caution.
He shared a simple tent with Thomas and Marco within the inner circle of the camp, not so far away from the sheikh, something that Thomas took as a privilege. He changed into courtier’s clothes, making sure his appearance was impeccable.
Apart from his oversized monk’s shirt and breeches, Marco had no other clothes that were fit to wear. Thomas lent him a spare shirt and trousers that were again too long, much to the Englishman’s amusement. Eventually, with the cuffs turned up, they fitted well enough.
One of the sheikh’s bodyguards appeared at their tent and Thomas translated. ‘A summoning from our hosts, Captain Saxon,’ he said as his fingers caressed his long pointed beard.
‘All of us?’ William asked.
‘Just you,’ Thomas said and gave a long sigh.
‘A private audience,’ William murmured, and regarded the severe expression of the Bedouin, his chest crossed with long knives. ‘Or interrogation.’ He buttoned his grey jacket, still grubby from the sand and sweat. There were splotches of blackened blood on the cuffs from the battle at Babel’s, but at least his shirt was clean and fresh.
While Thomas glowered, William beckoned Marco to him. ‘And you . . . Keep out of trouble, understood? No wandering about. This place is dangerous.’
Marco nodded.
William followed the bodyguard outside. The evening was warm even though the sun had fallen behind the hills an hour or so ago. The day was beginning to darken, coloured now only by the sand and the orange rocks that walled in the valley. There were plenty of places to hide out there, William observed, but hoped the vampyres were not foolish or ambitious enough to attack them while they stayed with Ayaida.
William and the bodyguard ducked under ropes tethering the large and impressive tents to the ground, passing by Bedouins who would not look at the infidel in their midst. Only a few children playing in the dust outside the inner ring of tents dared to look at him, and then it was with a mixture of curiosity and fear, some laughing and pointing with infantile glee.
The bodyguard led him around another tent and over to the largest, which was striped, and trimmed with gold thread. He stopped at the entrance and then stepped back, silently gesturing William inside.
William ducked underneath the flap, parting another curtain into the central chamber. Beyond was a room that was large and cool; extravagant yet not dazzling. There was a smell of spice in the air. It went to William’s head and made his mouth water.
Apart from himself, the chamber was empty.
He stood for a while and then frowned. ‘Hello?’ he called, somewhat impatiently.
At first there was no reply;then at the other end of the chamber, a curtain parted and the sheikh appeared, wearing his spotless robes.
‘Mr Saxon,’ he greeted.
‘Sir,’ William said, and bowed.
Sheikh Fahd studied William intently before reaching down to a gold jug on a table to his right. ‘Would you care for some coffee?’ he said.
William nodded courteously, though secretly his throat was screaming for something cooler. He had not drunk for many hours, and his insides felt as arid as the desert about them. The sheikh clapped his hands and instantly a woman appeared with two gold jugs, steam dancing from both. They gave off a rich smell, spicy and inviting. William began salivating and watched all too eagerly as the serving girl lowered the jugs to Sheikh Fahd’s side.
‘I’m afraid we do not have tea here,’ Sheikh Fahd said, but William could tell he was teasing.
‘Coffee will be fine,’ he replied.
The sheikh poured some into an ornate cup and lifted it. William walked over, bowing to take it from the sheikh’s hands. The cup was hot, and William had no doubt that its contents would scald his mouth if he drank too soon.
‘Is something wrong, Mr Saxon?’
William shook his head graciously. ‘Not at all, sir.’
‘Would you like some water first?’ Sheikh Fahd said and smiled.
William looked up. He was testing him. ‘I am fine, thank you.’ He sat down opposite the sheikh, hoping that his coffee would cool down soon enough.
‘Who is the boy who travels with you?’ Sheikh Fahd asked.
William pulled an uncomfortable face as he blew on the coffee. ‘No one of consequence.’
‘Really?’ Sheikh Fahd said. ‘I find that hard to believe. Is he your . . . Now how would you say it? Your serf?’
William laughed, almost spilling the coffee in his hands. ‘Definitely not, sir.’
‘Then who?’
‘He is a stowaway. He hid on a boat from Naples to Rashid. He has been in my care ever since.’
‘A stowaway . . .’ Sheikh Fahd pondered.
‘Seeking excitement and adventure,’ William added irritably .
‘I know that feeling, Mr Saxon,’ the sheikh replied. ‘My younger sister, Jamillah, is the same. She teaches herself to fight with the sword and rides when she should not. She’s like a wild animal. Not a sheikh’s sister.’
‘She sounds trying, sir,’ William mused.
‘I have told her she must marry soon, yet all she wants is adventure.’ Sheikh Fahd shook his head. ‘The waywardness of youth, Mr Saxon.’
‘I understand it well, sir. The boy suffers from a similar affliction,’ William smiled.
Sheikh Fahd snorted with amusement, and began a deep chuckling as he considered the common problem between them. But as he relaxed on an elaborate mat surrounded by large, embroidered cushions, the laughter faded and the sheikh’s manner grew graver.
‘You should let my people wash your clothes while you are here,’ he said. ‘Appearances matter, especially when you’re in a position of power.’
‘Your offer is gracious, sir. But we will not be here long enough to accept it.’
Sheikh Fahd looked surprised. ‘You are leaving us so soon, Mr Saxon?’
‘I have another engagement.’
‘Still on the run from the militia?’
William didn’t reply.
‘You haven’t asked me why I chose to save you and your friends, Mr Saxon. I could have easily sold you to the militia, or left you to die in the desert. You looked quite lost,’ The sheikh remarked.
‘Then why didn’t you?’ William asked.
‘Because I don’t believe you are a merchant.’
William smiled. ‘Who do you think we are?’
‘Dangerous men, Mr Saxon,’ The sheikh said, and grinned.
‘Dangerous to the Ayaida?’ William said, more nervous now.
‘That remains to be see
n,’ The sheikh replied casually. ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’
William shrugged. ‘During my career I’ve seen many things most men would scarce believe, sir. But ghosts? I have never seen one.’
‘My brother was killed by ghosts, Mr Saxon,’ The sheikh said and paused, watching William closely. Not a flicker of doubt crossed William’s face, even though his first reaction was to think of such a claim as superstition. The sheikh smiled and continued his story .
‘Months ago now, my brother sought an alliance amongst the southern tribes against the Viceroy Ali. Some of us believe that Ali means to drive all Bedouins from the Sinai into the sea. Those who see the danger have agreed to the alliance in case his armies come here. But there are other great families who are blinded by greed and ignorance. One of these tribes is the Myabela.
‘The Myabela have been paid to spy for Ali. They knew my brother would eventually approach them, so they lured him to their camp and tried to kill him and his men. He escaped with only half of his personal guard. The rest were murdered.
‘But the Myabela scented their quarry. They chased him north, through the gorges and darkest valleys. And one by one, his bodyguard perished. Finally, my brother headed east, towards a region of ill fortune where not even the Myabela are so foolish as to follow. They know what lies in that terrible place.’
The sheikh drew breath sharply and looked at William with sorrow. ‘My brother was not killed by the Myabela. He was ambushed by ghosts who for three days attacked him and his remaining bodyguards in the mountain passes. One by one they were killed until only a few survived.
‘And then on the fourth day, my brother’s guards sacrificed themselves so that he and his servant, Dawud, could make their escape. In the end, their sacrifice was in vain. My brother was struck twice in the back by arrows. Dawud fled, cowardice taking hold of him. When he found his courage again, he returned to my brother, but only to see these ghosts cutting him apart.’
William sipped the coffee, forgetting that it might still be hot. The heat burned his tongue, and he winced. ‘That is . . . is terrible, sir,’ William said. ‘And ghosts did this?’
The Hoard of Mhorrer Page 22