by David Harris
Hussein opened his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. Austen scraped the blob of medicine against the boy’s top teeth to drag the sticky mess off the spoon.
Hussein dry-retched.
‘Eat it. Get it down.’
His mother called, ‘Water, quick!’ and held the cup to his black and slimy mouth.
‘Now that wasn’t so bad.’ Austen put his medicines away and ignored the boy’s murderous glance.
‘I must go and prepare for your journey.’ His mother kissed Hussein on both cheeks. Then she spoke to the young woman. ‘Khanumi, watch over your brother.’
So that was her name. Khanumi.
As soon as the mother had left the room, Khanumi reached one hand out to Austen. ‘Give me your dagger.’
She was nineteen or twenty, a few years younger than he was, but she spoke with an authority that was frightening. Shocked at her defiance of the rule against speaking to a man, Austen handed it over meekly.
Khanumi pulled a red silk kerchief from her belt, dragged up her left sleeve and tied the kerchief around her left forearm. Then she slipped the dagger into the folds of silk, pulled her sleeve down to hide it and raised one eyebrow at her brother. ‘Just in case it comes to a fight.’
She looked down at her hands. ‘Tell me, stranger,’ she murmured, ‘why don’t you escape now, while you have a chance? If you stay here, you’ll die.’
‘Well, for a start, I’m staying because I don’t like running away from tyrants.’
Why not tell them? We could all be dead before sunset. ‘I’ll never forget my first tyrant. When I was only seven years old, I was sent far from my home to a school in Paris, so that I could improve my French. But I was the only English boy in that school and on the first morning in class, a big boy behind me kept whispering, “English Pig”. When I answered back, the schoolmaster hit my hand ten times with a leather belt for talking in class. Every day, the teacher thrashed me for the slightest error.
‘He hurt the smaller boys as well. One day the belt buckle made a boy’s hands bleed, so during lesson break, I told the class, “When the tyrant returns, we must all rise to our feet and hurl our inkpots at his head.” The boys cheered and promised to stand with me.
‘The tyrant’s footsteps approached and I grabbed my inkpot. As soon as he was inside, I threw it, but missed and hit the wall. None of the other boys stood up or threw his.
‘After the lesson, limping from a savage beating, I faced my classmates. “Traitors, cowards! I’ll fight you – one by one or all together.” They fell upon me and I fought until l was struck down from behind and kicked in the head with wooden clogs until I was unconscious.’
He put his fingertips to the side of his head. ‘The scars are still there.’
Khanumi and Hussein stared at him.
‘You see, Hussein, there are some things we must do – or die in here.’ He touched his heart. ‘Like search for Nineveh.’ How strange that Nineveh had brought him by chance to this room. If he had known this was what it meant, would he have wanted it any other way?
Khanumi loosened the knot of her headscarf.
Austen had to avoid looking at her, had to keep talking to Hussein. ‘Oddly enough, I first encountered Nineveh by chance. Ten years ago, I was walking through a dim room in the British Museum and happened to notice a dusty, neglected display. A broken slab of rock was marked with mysterious wedge-shaped writing and the carving of a man with an eagle’s head. Under the glass lid was a note, with faded writing. Assyrian. Eighth Century BC. Supposed to be from Nineveh. Location of Nineveh unknown.
‘I can’t explain why, but the name Nineveh cast a spell on me. Day and night I dreamt of escaping to ancient Assyria. I longed to gallop away into the desert and find this place that haunted my dreams. When I sat in dreary London to study my law books, the pages dissolved into visions of fabulous palaces. I craved freedom, adventures, savagery, beauty.’
Khanumi slipped her headscarf off. ‘But Nineveh is not in our mountains. It is buried somewhere near the Tigris.’
Well, when death was so close, why not confess? ‘Actually, I don’t have much money. Almost none, in fact. I’m here only because my uncle gave me the last of his coins. I can’t afford the bribes for permission to dig, or to pay teams of workers. Because I’m nobody important, I have no papers of permission from the supreme sultan in Constantinople or from the British Embassy. If I dig into the mound of Nimrud, where I think Nineveh is buried, I’ll be thrown out of the country and never let back in. And, you see, that’d be the end of my dream. So, all I can do is wander the land once ruled by Nineveh, search for signs, and hope that –’
Footsteps pounded in the corridor and Au Kerim burst in, his damaged face enraged.
‘What is it?’ Hussein was alarmed.
‘The eunuch refuses to negotiate with our chief. He has demanded we send you, the son.’
Austen knew the eunuch. It was a trap.
Hussein Kuli tried to sit up. ‘If I don’t go?’
There was no need for Au Kerim to answer.
A desperate plan began to form in Austen’s mind.
Chapter 5
Austen scooped up a handful of dirt and patted it over his head, which had been shaved bald. He rubbed more dirt and twigs into his beard, now dyed black.
Gathering the filthy cloak around him, he was a shadow among shadows as he crept through the forest. Two soldiers patrolled the barricade of empty baggage carts at the back of the army camp. A burst of gunfire erupted on the far side and the guards stopped, then peered nervously in the direction of the sound.
Silent and swift as a wolf, Austen slipped from the trees and was among the carts. He crawled between wheels and shafts. When it was safe to move, he climbed from under the carts and began to beat his bare head with his hands and chant a prayer. Soldiers glanced at him, then quickly turned away in fear from one of the eunuch’s dervishes. To see into the eye of a dervish in trance was to receive the curse.
He staggered and sang his way towards the big tent in the centre of the camp. When he was near the eunuch’s tent, he slapped his head and face to cover his searching eyes. Russian officers in red and gold uniforms stood near the twenty cannons aimed out at the chief’s army. Near each cannon was a stack of bags holding grapeshot of musket balls and sharp metal. One blast would reduce men and horses to a bloody mess.
In front of the cannons, the chief’s horsemen made mock-charges, firing muskets into the air. They galloped close to the cannons and at the last moment dragged their horses back on their haunches. Dust swirled high, then they galloped away, shouting war cries.
Austen knelt in prayer near the corner of the eunuch’s tent.
Over on the right flank, chain mail glinted. The chief was leading his elite cavalry into position.
A single rider emerged from the tumult of dust and horsemen. His cloak was a rainbow of colours and a shining mace hung from one side of his saddle. The royal sword glittered with rubies and onyx. Hussein was a splendid chief, but his body swayed and he leant so far forward that he almost fell from the saddle. He passed between the cannons, into the eunuch’s camp and stopped only a few yards from Austen.
Five officials in flowing robes and absurdly high turbans strutted out to greet him. One stepped forward and said, ‘I am the lord of the bath towels. This is the lord of the coffee grinders, the lord of inkpot cleaners, the lord of the pipes, and the lord of the spurs.’
From the door of the eunuch’s tent ran the farrashes – the whippers – who slashed invisible people in the eunuch’s path. Dervishes in rags fell to their knees and beat their backs with thorny branches. Clowns dressed as hunchbacks, apes and skeletons tumbled over the ground. An orchestra of flutes, drummers and bell-ringers marched out and danced around them.
And here he was, with that bloated face and those smooth, hairless cheeks. The eunuch’s enormous thighs rubbed, so that he waddled rather than walked. His turban danced with the lights of sapphires and rubies, and his pudgy
fingers sparkled with rings. Austen tried to imagine what he’d looked like as a young Russian boy the day his parents had sold him to slave traders. At the age of just twelve, he was taken away and castrated.
‘Welcome, Prince Hussein!’ He stretched out his arms. ‘Climb down and kiss me.’
‘You are outnumbered. Your cannon will not stop all of us.’ Hussein’s head wobbled from the effort of speaking. He slid one finger into his mouth, drew it out and held it up in the tribal challenge: Any of your men who survive will return to you as naked and weak as this finger.
The eunuch laughed. ‘Insect! Your father hides gold that is owed to me as lawful taxes.’
‘I am ten years old. What do I know of taxes?’
The eunuch gestured angrily and a cart, loaded with red-hot pincers, spikes and chains, rattled towards Hussein. He examined them and smiled. ‘I know nothing about hidden gold.’ He paused to gain his breath. His forehead ran with sweat. ‘Even if I did know, I would die before telling you.’
Performers carrying long silk flags ran to Hussein. They flung the flags high in the air, caught them again and danced around him.
Too late, Austen realised it was a trick. Screened by the flags, two soldiers pulled Hussein to the ground. One of the eunuch’s men, holding the flag of messenger, galloped out of camp and towards the chief. Austen guessed the lie the messenger would tell. ‘Prince Hussein is safe. As a sign of good faith, he has willingly joined the governor for a meal.’
The chief mustn’t panic and attack. He had to stick to the plan and wait until Austen knew exactly what was happening to Hussein. If the eunuch took Hussein as a hostage, he needed him alive and unharmed, in case he was forced to bargain. One valuable hostage was more reliable than a battle – which could go badly, even if the eunuch won. And if he suffered too many casualties, then all southern Persia might rise against him. The chief had agreed to the plan, but Austen was afraid he’d lead a suicidal attack.
‘Bring him here!’ Voices moved to the back corner of the eunuch’s tent. Austen followed the sound, singing the prayer that was his signal to Hussein.
‘No, don’t tie me.’ Hussein yelled so that Austen would hear.
One of the eunuch’s dervishes, more a skeleton than a man, stopped and stared at Austen. Puzzled, he came closer to him, and Austen quickly turned his back and danced away as if in a trance. The instant he was out of the dervish’s sight, he hurried to the forest behind the camp.
Chapter 6
The shape of a guard passed in front of a watch fire and shadows moved in the lamplit tents of the camp.
Austen let go of the reins and touched each pistol in his belt, just to make sure he knew exactly where they were.
‘One blow from my axe will split the eunuch’s skull like a melon,’ the chief growled.
‘Take positions,’ Au Kerim commanded. The horsemen divided into three groups that moved slowly and quietly forward. Harnesses jingled and hooves rattled on stones, but nobody in the camp had heard them yet.
Austen kept his eyes on the peaked roof of the central tent. His anger simmered as he imagined Hussein tied in ropes, but he knew where the prince was and how to get him out.
When they were within a hundred yards of the watch fires, a guard suddenly stopped and peered into the darkness. Au Kerim fired a musket and the guard fell backwards. Spurring their horses, they charged. One or two soldiers fired blindly before the horsemen were among them, shooting and hacking with swords.
Austen, the chief and Au Kerim galloped straight for the eunuch’s tent. To Austen’s left, shots and screams came from the corrals, where the chief’s men fought to set the horses loose. To his right, horsemen slashed guy ropes, guns fired and sparks from watch fires arced through the air.
Galloping past, Austen noticed soldiers with bayonets raised, closing in behind to trap them. Ahead, matchlocks glowed. A cannon. Two cannons, aimed directly at them. Surely they wouldn’t fire! They’d wipe out their own infantry forming behind them.
Matchlocks moved down to touch the gunpowder. At point-blank range, the grapeshot would smash them to a pulp. Austen wrenched his horse to one side and it bucked away from the cannons. Au Kerim and the chief dragged their horses aside just before the cannons fired their lethal blast. Austen glimpsed Au Kerim springing to his feet and the point of his sword stabbing at a gunner’s throat. The chief raised his axe and charged.
Austen drew his sword, thrust it into the wall of the eunuch’s tent and slashed downwards, cutting a long slit. He tore the wall apart, but the room was empty. Ropes hung loosely from the tent pole and soldiers suddenly crowded through the doorway. He fired one pistol, then the second, and two men slumped back against the others.
Austen ran back to the chief, who stood panting among bodies around the cannons. Au Kerim was bent double.
‘Hussein is not here!’ Austen shouted. ‘The eunuch must’ve taken him away.’
The chief roared.
‘It’s no use trying to find him.’ Austen spoke directly into the chief’s face. ‘The eunuch and Hussein are long gone. But you must live.’
Au Kerim, clutching one hand to his belly, stumbled towards his horse and held onto the saddle with the other hand.
‘Can you ride?’ Austen supported him and soon his own arms and sleeves were saturated with blood.
‘Just lift me into the saddle.’
Survivors of the chief’s horsemen formed a quick protective circle around them. They fired rapidly at the hole cut into the tent wall, blocking it with bodies.
‘Get the chief to safety!’ Austen reloaded his pistols. ‘I’ll look after Au Kerim.’
The men looked at Au Kerim and he nodded weakly. One of them raised a trumpet to sound the retreat.
‘Quick!’ Austen dragged Au Kerim’s horse through the confusion and slowly out into darkness. But horses were galloping after them and closing in. He led Au Kerim down into a riverbed, where they were invisible against the dark earth and water. Au Kerim groaned with each lurch of his horse. The guns fired again and musket balls splattered into water and sparked against stones. Austen didn’t return fire, because the flash would have made them an easy target. The next volley smacked into Au Kerim’s horse, which fell sideways, then thrashed about in the shallows.
He found Au Kerim, back arched over a boulder. ‘My horse fell on me. Ribs broken. Leg,’ he gasped. ‘Leave me.’ He took Austen’s hand and placed it on his belly and Austen felt the slippery, gaping wound.
Further shots howled over their heads, while hooves and voices advanced on them steadily. Austen crouched over Au Kerim, took out both pistols and faced their attackers.
Au Kerim grasped his wrist and tried to wrestle the pistol away from him. ‘Give me your gun.’
The outline of men and horses appeared against the stars.
‘Go, Lion. There is no dishonour, I am dying.’ Au Kerim held his hand for a moment longer. ‘My hand is my soul. Take my spirit with you.’
Austen pushed his pistol into Au Kerim’s limp hand. ‘Allah the all-powerful is your homecoming, Au Kerim. I’ll bring help for your people.’ He leapt into the saddle and spurred his horse.
A single pistol shot fired. Then four more.
Chapter 7
A leopard’s lips curled back from long teeth and the rough tongue rasped Austen’s cheek. Drops of moisture shivered on the long whiskers and each drop glittered like a rainbow in the sun. The desert sun, a hundred miles from Baghdad.
The black nose of the creature was pitted like orange peel and its breath stank. The smell of death drifted out as the town gates opened. The guard’s face was a skull with skin like candle wax and his neck was red. Red lumps had split open like pomegranates around his throat. He shut the gate and slid the long steel bolt across. Dogs fought over a corpse on the street. ‘Nobody leaves here alive.’
Sharp prickles of leopard claws unsheathed. Tiny stabs tested the skin. The gates of Baghdad were open. English ladies and gentlemen rode past – grand in
their finery and gold braid. He called out, but his voice was as dry and cracked as his lips. ‘Doctor Ross, Colonel Taylor.’ They glanced at him and rode on. Next came Felix Jones, of the Royal Navy’s gunship Euphrates. He was late, as usual, but his uniform was neat. Call out to him. ‘Felix! Felix is Latin for happy!’ That made him look. Servants beat away lepers and beggars to make a path for him.
Jaws closed gently around Austen’s throat and a pulse beat under the point of one tooth.
‘Put it down, Nelson. Down, I say.’ Felix’s voice was loud and clear. ‘It’s not a mangy goat, you idiot. It’s a mangy Layard. You remember Austen! He’s your friend – not your breakfast.’
The leopard’s eyes were manic.
‘Put him down, Nelson, or no sugar.’ A jar rattled and sugar cubes were scattered nearby.
Claws sheathed, jaws opened, and Austen’s head cracked back on the floor.
‘Good boy. There’s a good Nelson.’
The tongue slurped up the sugar and then the leopard slunk away to stand on his hind legs, with his front paws on the window ledge. Nelson gazed down into the street markets along the riverside and his tail curled at the end with a happy tickle of bloodlust.
A familiar creaking came from the river. Water splashed as the high water wheel tipped its buckets over the roof of Felix’s house. It was like living inside a waterfall that cascaded down the outside. Under the floor, the river gurgled around stilts supporting the house. Cool breezes wafted up through gaps between floorboards and the wood was hard on Austen’s back.
‘Morning, Austen. Awake at last?’ Felix was immaculate in polished black boots, long white trousers and starched shirt. He grinned at Austen.
‘Morning? What day is it?’ Austen snapped back to reality. ‘Hussein. Au Kerim. Khanumi.’ He tried to sit up, every muscle hurt and his feet were swaddled in stained bandages. ‘How long have I been asleep?’
Felix squatted on the floor. His face was cleanshaven, with a mouth that couldn’t help smiling and bright eyes that danced with amusement. ‘Asleep? Oh, about three days – maybe four.’