The Holy Sail

by Abdulaziz Al-Mahmoud

  ‘It is a tricky decision indeed, Your Grace. Let us take a few days to gather information to make an informed decision. We can make queries with the help of our merchants who travel frequently to Hormuz. We can also gather some information about the situation in Persia, since it is possible the Persians would intervene if they are not as preoccupied with their battles in the north as we think.’

  The sultan stared at a school of small fish swimming in the stream. Bin Rahhal sensed that the sultan had already made up his mind and was just waiting for the right time to declare it.

  ‘Do that, Bin Rahhal. As you heard me tell the messenger, I will give him my reply in the coming days. He is waiting for my decision before he returns to Attar.’

  A servant approached and informed the sultan that another messenger, this time from the Bahmani kingdom in India, was requesting permission to see him.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Outside, Your Grace.’

  ‘Let him in.’

  As the two men returned to the majlis, the sultan turned to his vizier and said, ‘Stay with us, Bin Rahhal.’

  The messenger entered the hall and presented himself to the sultan. He greeted him in impeccable Arabic, and the sultan asked him to sit.

  The messenger started speaking as soon as he sat down. ‘I have come representing my master, Imad al-Din Mahmoud, vizier of the Bahmani kingdom in India. He sends you his greetings and sincere wishes for good luck and constant victory.’

  The messenger reached for something in his pocket and then pulled out a gilded cylinder inscribed with magnificent calligraphies of Quranic verses, and handed it to the sultan.

  The sultan opened the cylinder and took out a sealed parchment. He read it carefully and then gave it to Bin Rahhal, his eyes still on the messenger. ‘Send back my greetings to Vizier Imad al-Din Mahmoud. Tell him we would be pleased to cooperate with him in any way he wishes. Now you shall be a guest at my palace, where you can rest after your tiring journey. We will speak over dinner.’

  The messenger stood up and signalled to one of his companions to come forward. The servant brought a small chest decorated with inscriptions and verses from the Quran and placed it in front of the messenger. The Bahmani man opened the chest slowly and took out a dagger, which he then handed to the sultan. ‘My master asks that you deliver this gift to the caliph of the Muslims. He considers this to be in your safekeeping until the caliph receives it.’

  Sultan Muqrin took the dagger and brought it closer to his eyes, admiring its intricacies. It was a marvellously crafted piece, the likes of which he had never seen before. Its sheath was made of silver engraved with pure gold, adorned with seven large ruby stones. Its handle was of equally astounding craftsmanship and beauty, and was decorated with agates and diamonds; a golden chain in the shape of small miniature arms connected to one another linked the two sides of the sheath.

  The sultan turned the dagger over between his hands for some time, before he passed it to Bin Rahhal to examine. The vizier unsheathed the dagger, revealing a blade fantastically decorated with interlacing engravings and gemstones, as astonishing and unique as the rest of the masterpiece. Bin Rahhal returned the dagger to the sultan, who took one more look before he replaced it in its casing. ‘We shall deliver it to the caliph, God willing, though it is a heavy onus, messenger.’

  The messenger smiled and said, ‘Great Sultan, my master ordered this dagger to be made from jewels belonging to his mother and his wife and others he had obtained during his conquests. We do not have the naval experience you have to sail to Egypt, and the vizier believes you are the best person to deliver the gift on our behalf. He will remember this solemn favour for as long as he lives and he will pray for you.’

  ‘We will see that it is delivered, messenger, God willing.’

  The sultan turned again to Bin Rahhal and asked him to look after his guest.

  The messenger left the hall, saying loud prayers for the sultan.

  The sultan paused, preoccupied by his thoughts. He then resumed the conversation with Bin Rahhal that had been interrupted by the messenger’s arrival. ‘Send a message to my uncle Zamel in Salwa. Ask him to prepare as many ships and men as he can, and do the same with the emir of Julfar. Let us see how well prepared we are for something like this.’

  The sultan noticed the ring that was still in Bin Rahhal’s hand. He gave him the chest containing the dagger and said, ‘Pay the Banyan for the ring. It is magnificent. Put it with the dagger in the chest and keep them somewhere safe. We shall send them to the caliph in Cairo, after we have completed our mission. Now, you must start preparing yourself for the campaign that you shall lead to Hormuz.’

  – 7 –

  The Arabian Gulf

  The ship carrying Covilhã sailed from Aden to Muscat, a city overlooking a clear blue sea, which he had heard much about. A flotilla of anchored ships floated flamboyantly opposite the coast, and together with the whitish homes along the shore, they gave the place a unique sense of beauty. The homes were in fact reminiscent of the Moorish buildings in the mountain villages of Portugal. A large mosque in the centre was set like a gemstone in the middle of the necklace formed by the rocky black mountains surrounding the city. Muscat’s skyline was dominated by its palm trees, which intermingled with wind-catchers and mosque minarets, creating a colourful assortment that contrasted with the dark complexion of the mountains. The city looked not unlike a Persian carpet rolled out over a rocky ground.

  Covilhã contemplated the scene in front of him for a few minutes. It was his first visit to Muscat, which, like the other ports along the coast, paid taxes to the king of Hormuz; Muscat’s ruler was the brother-in-law of the deceased king. Covilhã decided he should visit Hormuz; he was carrying a message to its vizier from the rabbi in Alexandria, which he thought should make his mission there easier.

  The Alexandrian rabbi had not met the Hormuzi vizier before, but the rabbi did business with the Karimi merchants who had strong and intricate relations in most of the region’s ports; it was the Karimis who recommended Khawaja Attar to the rabbi. Politicians and clerics seemed to have a knack for trade, and though they disagreed on most matters, Covilhã thought smilingly, money won their unanimous approval.

  The distance between Muscat and Hormuz was not great. Ships traversed the sea between the two cities very frequently, which explained the large number of ships sailing in both directions; it was a maritime thoroughfare that was active throughout the year.

  When Covilhã reached Hormuz, his ship dropped anchor to the west of the island. Hormuz’s topography resembled a water drop tapering at the top. To the east of the island lay the large port that received ships from India and China. In the west, there was a smaller port for ships travelling from other ports in the Gulf. The city stretched from port to port, while the south of the island was covered by palm groves, water reservoirs and some rocky, barren hills.

  In the port, he saw many oared military vessels, the smallest of which had eight oars and the largest of which had twenty. From that port, ships sailed to the rest of the ports on the west coast of the Gulf, or monitored the movement of ships entering and leaving, especially those trying to avoid paying their duties.

  Covilhã immediately noticed how clean and well organised the city was. Its alleys were covered by large tarps hanging between opposing balconies to protect pedestrians from the sun. The merchants, residents and shops of Hormuz looked affluent. They obviously liked to show off their luxurious possessions, whether at the entrances of their businesses and homes, or on their balconies. As he walked around, he felt he was in an oriental bazaar, and could not conceal how impressed he was with what he saw.

  In some wealthy districts of the city, Covilhã saw that locals had laid large carpets outside their homes for people to walk on, in a gesture meant to highlight their own affluence. Servants carrying refreshments stood on street corners serving people date juice or soaked aromatic herbs.

  The city had special inns paid for
by merchants to feed and shelter poor people and travellers. Covilhã noticed that most of the food sold in the markets had been imported from Persia, India or Oman. The island, as he was told, had little water, which actually had to be brought in from the nearby island of Qeshm. Hormuz’s land was not suitable for cultivation either, save for some palm trees, sidra trees and tamarisks in the south. Water was a very precious commodity and people were skilled at conserving it, storing it and even flavouring it with rose water.

  The city was divided into neighbourhoods straddled by broad streets, which all merged into one main street overlooking the sea and linking the two ports. This was where all celebrations, festivals and royal occasions took place, as the king’s palace overlooked the street directly.

  Hormuz’s streets were beautifully paved and tidy. There were special areas for street vendors selling barbecued meats and fish, and foods of all kinds and flavours. The delicious smell of their spices filled the streets. As he explored the city further, Covilhã did not spot any beggars or destitute poor people. When they left their shops, the merchants took no other measures than covering their merchandise with sheets, unconcerned about securing them; there was hardly any theft on the island.

  Khawaja Attar’s palace stood not far from the inn where Covilhã was staying. If Covilhã had looked out his window, he would have seen Attar sitting on the veranda of his seaside estate, enjoying the spring-like weather while the curtains, which barely blocked sunlight, danced with the northerly breeze. The balcony was Attar’s favourite spot in the house. He liked to sit there facing the sea, contemplating its deep blue infinity. He also liked to sit alone, and his daughter, Halima, knew not to disturb him in his solitude.

  Today, however, she decided to do just that. She took her shoes off quietly near the door, and tiptoed her way to where he was sitting. She kissed his hand and sat on the floor near his feet.

  Attar gave her a look of paternal affection. She was his only daughter. Halima had grown and, at seventeen, she was already a young woman of exceptional beauty. Tall and svelte, she had a light brown complexion and charming, lustrous eyes that almost sparkled. She had long black hair, which was plaited so well that it pulled her scalp back a few inches. This made her eyes look wider and slightly elongated, adding an exotic tinge to her beauty. She liked to push her long black plait in front of her right shoulder and twiddle it with her fingers.

  Attar looked straight into his daughter’s eyes when he spoke to her. Her eyes reminded him of his wife, who had passed away several years ago; Halima was now everything to him, the centre of his world and his happiness. He placed his hand on her head unconsciously, praying to God to bless her and protect her, before he returned his gaze to the sea.

  Halima’s eyes followed her father’s. ‘What’s on your mind, Father?’

  Attar did not take his eyes off the horizon. After a while, he looked at her and said, ‘I don’t want to upset you, my love. But you know things in our kingdom are not well.’

  Her expression changed. ‘Yes, I know. You have been like this since Vays dethroned Salghur. I know how fond of Salghur you are because you raised him, but he is no longer king; Vays is. So let’s accept that because there’s nothing else we can do.’

  Attar stood up and walked to the edge of the balcony. He leaned over with half of his body sticking out, his posture suggesting he felt deeply troubled by the fait accompli his daughter just described. He remained motionless for a few minutes. Halima came and stood by his side, leaning over in the same manner. He felt he had to share his thoughts with his daughter.

  ‘I have sent a messenger to the Jabrid sultan in Al-Ahsa, to ask him to intervene with his army on Salghur’s side. I’m expecting the messenger to return any time now.’

  Halima looked shocked. ‘I think you know what that means, Father! Those people could take over our kingdom or ask a lot of money in return. Have you thought about that? They are Bedouin brutes and—’

  Her father interrupted her with his quiet voice. ‘I have thought about all of this. But there is no other way. If Vays stays on the throne, this means that Hormuz could lose control over its trade in the Gulf because of his foolishness. People already hate him. Hormuz would lose its possessions across the sea. With the Jabrids, we might find a compromise that satisfies both sides.’

  Attar returned to his chair. Halima followed him and sat across from her father. She took one of his legs and put it on her lap and started kneading it as she often did. She knew it helped soothe him.

  Attar gave her a smile. Her questions were now more difficult and intelligent than ever before, and he had to find convincing answers. He said, ‘I have sought the Jabrid sultan because I could not find anyone else, Halima. Everyone wants our money but none of our problems, which I believe we have to deal with on our own.’

  He paused, looked at the sky, and then continued. ‘We live in obvious affluence. Our trade is prosperous, at least so far, and we have been able to avoid our enemies by paying them off.’ Then he struck the armrest with his fist, as though a scorpion had bitten him. ‘Our foolish kings will ruin everything with their senseless quarrels!’

  Attar returned his gaze to his daughter. ‘True, the Jabrids are brutish Bedouins. But we have so far not been at war with them. We have a good relationship with them, and they pay their taxes to Hormuz. But I know this could all change as soon as they realise the state we’re in.’

  He gave his daughter an affectionate look. ‘Halima, half of the blood in your veins is Arab, not much different from the blood running in Sultan Muqrin’s veins. In our city different races have mixed, Arabs, Persians, Indians and Balochi. We intermarried and became a unified people whose allegiance is to the king. But I don’t know to which king this allegiance should be now!’

  He said his last sentence in a tone that suggested he wanted to put an end to the conversation. Halima moved her father’s foot away from her lap and lifted the other one up, trying her best to help him relax. ‘But you didn’t answer my question, Father. What do you expect the Jabrids to ask in return?’

  He reacted as though hearing the question for the first time. He shook his head and bit his lip. ‘I don’t know, Halima, I sent a messenger to Sultan Muqrin asking him to intervene. The messenger will soon return with his answer. I don’t know what he will ask in return, but I hope it won’t be something we cannot provide.’

  They were interrupted by the procession of the king on his way to the palace. Halima put down her father’s feet and ran towards the balcony.

  Attar was taken aback by his daughter’s inquisitiveness. ‘Haven’t you tired of seeing the procession yet?’

  Halima continued to watch the procession. ‘Yes, I’m sick of seeing it. It no longer arouses my curiosity like it did when I was little. But it tells me so much. For instance, it tells me who the new vizier is, who the dignitaries visiting the kingdom are, and who the king’s new favourites are. There are so many things you can learn by just watching the procession.’

  Halima knew what the procession looked like by heart. It had not changed since the new king had taken the throne several months earlier.

  Usually, a camel-mounted escort in a dark red uniform led the procession, beating on two large marching drums. Another drummer followed with four smaller instruments, in front of two bearers each carrying the flag of the kingdom of Hormuz. Two cavaliers rode behind them on stout horses that had been plumped up deliberately. The riders each held a staff bearing the ornate silver standard of the monarchy. Trailing them closely were two cymbalists and four trumpeters.

  Servants in expensive robes marched next, directly ahead of the king. The king rode on a grey Arabian horse with a gilded saddle and reins. Long, colourful feathers stuck out from its head.

  The king wore a dark red robe, interspersed with green and gold threads. Underneath he wore an embroidered shirt with matching trousers. A fabric girdle around his waist held a jewelled dagger; his turban was made from Persian silk and decorated with golden trim
.

  The procession and its blare passed in front of the homes by the seaside, reminding the public who the new king was. Halima shook her head as she watched the rear of the procession, then turned to her father.

  ‘I don’t know what fate has in store for us, my dear girl,’ he said absentmindedly. ‘I don’t feel reassured.’

  She sat in front of him and put her hands on his knees. ‘I have always known you as an optimist, Father. Are you also afraid of the Jabrids?’

  ‘If the Sultan of Jabrid agrees to help us, then there will be a price that we would have to pay. I don’t know what he will ask from us, but if we remain under this king it will end in disaster for everyone anyway!’

  A servant entered the room abruptly and interrupted the vizier. ‘Your Excellency, there is someone here to meet you.’

  ‘Who is it? Has the messenger returned from Al-Ahsa?’

  The servant answered quietly, ‘No, sir. It seems from his appearance that he is an Arab merchant travelling from faraway lands. I’m not familiar with his accent or the way he is dressed. He says he has an important message for you.’

  Halima asked to remain with her father in his majlis to see this strange visitor, and her father obliged.

  Covilhã entered dressed in Moroccan robes. He greeted the vizier courteously, bowing in a slightly exaggerated manner. Covilhã could not help but glance at Halima, whose beauty immediately captivated him. He bowed to her before quickly turning his gaze back to the vizier.

  The vizier noticed Covilhã’s odd style of greeting. He had not seen it with the Arabs from the Peninsula before. He enquired about his country of origin.

  ‘Your Excellency, I am a merchant from Morocco. I passed through Alexandria on my way to India, where I was given a letter addressed to you.’ Covilhã gave the vizier the letter with both of his hands in a theatrical gesture of veneration, while resisting the urge to peek again at Halima.