by M. M. Kaye
“This I know. They go to pray for a loved cousin who suffers from a painful sickness that neither the hakims nor the English doctor seem able to cure.”
“Do they, indeed! A very convenient sickness. Almost as convenient as the convention that well-born women should only venture abroad after dark and muffled from head to foot in cloaks and head-veils. It was probably an equally simple matter to have the mosque closed to the public for half an hour or so.”
“I do not understand you.”
“It’s quite simple. Your relatives have not only been petitioning Allah on behalf of the sick cousin, but they have also been leaving offerings.”
“That too is usual,” said the Sultan stiffly.
“Offerings in the form of firearms? For that is what they have taken to the mosque—for the maulvie to collect and subsequently distribute to the adherents of your brother the Heir-Apparent. It must have been dead easy-what a paradise this is for plotters! Twenty or thirty women bundled up in cloaks and escorted by twice as many slaves, and every last one of them toting a firearm under that mound of material. If you search the mosque now, or your brother’s house or Beit-el-Tani, you won’t find the smell of a firearm or anyone who will admit to ever having seen such a thing. But that was the way it was done.”
“You have no evidence!”
“None,” agreed Rory equably.
The Sultan made a small baffled gesture and turned away again to stare out at the sea and the sleeping city, and Rory held his peace: aware of the uselessness of further argument and afraid of overplaying his hand and arousing that stubborn streak that was so unexpectedly a part of Majid’s amiable, vacillating and entirely unstable character. The silver sweetmeat dish had been overset, spilling its contents across the dark richness of a Persian carpet, and he knelt down and began to pick them up, stacking them into a neat, sticky pyramid, and wondering what he was doing here.
It was a familiar thought and one that was apt to occur to him at odd moments, and always unexpectedly. What am I doing here?…What is there in me, or tied to me, that should have brought me here to sit in the moonlight on a rooftop in Zanzibar? How much of it is due to my own actions and how much to blind chance? Or is it true, as the Followers of the Prophet believe, that ‘what is written, is written’ and therefore cannot be avoided?
That last, in Rory’s opinion, was neither a comforting nor an acceptable theory, since he would far rather shoulder responsibility for his own actions than ascribe them to the workings of an inscrutable providence that decreed them in advance—and by doing so denied him free will or the blame or credit for behaving ill or well. Those curiously disquieting and damnably recurrent questions “What am I doing here, and how and why did I get there?” were preferable to accepting his deeds as unavoidable steps in some pre-arranged plan. And yet his long association with Arabs and the East had left its mark on him, for there were times when he found himself tempted to drift with the tide and let events take whatever course they wished, in the comforting assurance that there was nothing that he or anyone else could do that would alter the destined end.
‘What is written is written’…
Perhaps it had been written that he should be absent from Zanzibar during the ten days that might yet prove to be crucial to Majid—and to himself. He should have been more careful. But then one could not legislate for everything, and he had had no way of knowing that the “best laid plans of mice and men’ were about to go a’gley again…though not, he trusted, in too irrevocable a fashion!
It was a nuisance, of course. A damned nuisance. But not necessarily a disaster. Not unless Majid refused to take drastic action against his brother while he had the chance. It was a thousand pities that he himself could not stay and see this thing through, but he had business elsewhere that could not wait, and the Virago must sail at dawn even though this seemed no time to leave the Island. If only Majid Rory flicked the pyramid of sweets in a sudden spasm of impatience that sent them flying, and stood up. He did not speak, but his shadow moved on the stonework and Majid saw it, and turned.
The moonlight was bright on his face, and recognizing the expression on it Rory experienced a sharp renewal of impatience and a suffocating and entirely unfamiliar feeling of helplessness. He would have been the first to admit that his desire to prevent Majid from plunging to disaster sprang primarily from self-interest, for it was largely owing to the Sultan’s friendship and protection that he had been able to evade the law and behave more or less as he pleased in these latitudes. But apart from that (and the fact he would get no such favours from Bargash), he had acquired a liking for this irresolute, easy-going man who had obtained a throne by default and now looked like losing it by treachery.
Rory might be scornful of Majid’s un-Arab-like refusal to deal with his once loved and now actively disloyal sisters as they deserved, but he could recognize and even envy the strength of the family tie that was responsible for it, though family affection in any form was something he himself had never known. There was another factor, too, that bound him to Majid: his respect for the dead Seyyid Saïd, who had nominated this son to succeed him.
Once, during his early years in the Island, Rory had unwittingly done Majid’s father a service when a philandering friend of the Sultan’s, visiting Zanzibar, incurred the wrath of a local chieftain who clamoured for his head (the offence having involved the virtue, or loss of it? of a flighty daughter, both parties were understandably reticent as to details). The Sultan had been unable to produce the offender because Rory—who had been handsomely paid for it—had already smuggled the man on board the Virago and returned him safely to his native land, without anyone being the wiser. The incident had been a trivial one, but the Sultan, learning later how the escape had been effected and grateful for having been spared the embarrassment of handing a personal friend to the headsman, had been gracious to Emory Frost and presented him, in token of gratitude, with the lease of a house, to be held by him and his heirs for the term of one hundred and fifty years.
No one who had ever met the Lion of Oman had failed to be impressed by him, and Emory Frost had proved no exception. For Saïd’s sake, if for nothing else, he would do what he could to save Saïd’s son from the death that must inevitably follow on the heels of a successful rebellion. But looking at that son’s face in the moonlight, he knew that it was going to be difficult to help a man who would not help himself.
Majid said: “With regard to Bargash, I will do as you suggest. He becomes too brazen and must be shown his place. As to my sisters, it will be punishment enough for them to see that my displeasure has fallen upon the brother they have supported, and whom their plotting has helped to bring to this pass. Summon my servants and I will do what I must do. You are right—deeds of this sort should be done by night. The day is too glad a time. Good night, my friend. May you sleep better than I shall!”
It was a dismissal, and Rory bowed; touching his forehead and breast, Arab fashion, in a gesture of submission that held no mockery. Turning he went away softly down the steep flight of stone stairs that led down from the roof, to send the drowsy attendants up to their Sultan and let himself out into the street.
A shadow detached itself from among the shadows beyond the Palace gates and fell into step beside him, and another and taller one followed a few paces behind.
“Well?” said Batty Potter.
Rory shrugged his shoulders by way of answer and did not speak.
“Like that, is it?” said Batty sympathetically. “Ah well, if ‘e won’t act rough it’s ‘is own funeral.”
“And ours,” said Rory briefly.
“More’n likely. What’s ‘is fat-‘eaded ‘Ighness going to do? Nothing, as per usual?”
“He’s sending a guard to arrest his brother tonight.”
“You don’t say!” Batty’s tone was startled. “That’s better ‘earing.”
Rory shrugged again and said morosely: “I might agree with you if I could be sure he wouldn’t think bette
r of it in a week or so and let him go free again. If he’d any sense he’d Ah, what’s the use!” He glanced over his shoulder and added irritably: “What are you two doing around here, anyway?”
Batty’s cough held a shade of embarrassment. “Oh—er—me and Ralub we just thought we’d better ‘ang around and see that you got ‘ome safe. Too many of Mister-perishin’-Bargash’s pals in town for comfort. You didn’t ought to go roamin’ around on your own so much. It ain’t ‘ealthy, what with all diese narsty tempers risin’, and speakin’ for meself I’m ‘appy to think that we’ll all be sailing out of ‘ere tomorrow.”
“It’s more than I am. I’m not at all sure that it’s safe to leave just now.”
“Lot safer than gettin’ a knife between your ribs,” commented Batty sagely.
“Don’t be such an old Job’s comforter, Uncle. Seriously, though, it might be a good idea to postpone sailing for a day or two.”
“What? And leave young Danny-me-lad ‘anging round ‘ere to put a spoke in Suliman’s wheel? You must be losin’ your mind, Captain Rory! Didn’t you promise Suliman faithful that you’d draw the Daffodil off so that ‘e could get ‘is little bit of business safe over? ‘E’ll be caught for sure if you don’t, and you know ‘e can’t wait. If you let’s ‘im down, no one round these parts is ever going to trust you again. And if ‘e’s caught we’re finished—the ‘ole lot of us. ‘Sides, we ‘ave to meet Sheik Hamed and ‘is friends next week, and if we don’t show up ‘e’ll be that insulted that your name’ll be mud with ‘im from now till kingdom-come.”
“I know, I know!” said Rory angrily. “But—”
“And what about them ‘orses?” persisted Batty. “Ave you forgot we was shippin’ ‘arf-a-dozen of ‘em back for Sheik Hussein, and for a nice price too?”
“No, I have not. But you know ruddy well that the horses are only a cover, in case…”
“A solid gold one, at that price,” snarled Batty. “And if we don’t fetch ‘em on time we’ll only ‘ave that slippery scoundrel Yacoub sellin’ them to someone else, for it’s my belief they’re all stole an’ that’s why ‘e’s so blamed anxious to get ‘em off ‘is ‘ands quick.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” agreed Rory. “Oh well—to hell with it! I suppose we’ll have to go. Besides, it’s time we got Danny out of here for his own good. He’s beginning to look all peaked and wan and I don’t think his love affair can be prospering. A nice healthy week or so at sea may help him forget the wench and put the roses back into his cheeks.”
Batty threw him a frowning side-long glance and said dourly: “If I were you. Captain Rory, I wouldn’t be too light-‘earted about that there young squirt. “‘E’s a sight smarter than ‘e looks, and if you gets to thinking otherwise you’ll find you’re mistook—and you won’t like it. You’re gettin’ too careless, that’s what. All this gallivanting about alone at night, too! Tch!”
Rory’s bad temper left him, and he laughed and said: “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Uncle; playing nursemaid at your age.”
“There’s times,” retorted Batty austerely, “when I’m danged if I don’t think you need one! You ought to ‘ave told us where you was going tonight. ‘Owever, if you’ve talked that soft-‘earted ijjut into locking up ‘is barsted of a brother, I’ll forgive you this once. Not that I’ll believe it till I sees it.”
He ruminated gloomily, and presently voiced a pessimistic opinion that was to prove all too prophetic:
“Bound to make a muck of it some’ow,” said Batty. “Go off at ‘arf cock, like as not, and do the job by ‘arves. ‘E didn’t ought to be Sultan and that’s the truth. No more gumption than a chicken, poor lad. Tch! Tch!”
The night wind blew the words away, while back in the Sultan’s palace the Sultan prepared to prove the truth of them by following Batty’s prediction and ‘doing the job by halves.’
17
The dawn was yellow over Zanzibar and the crows were already cawing above the rooftops when a frightened waiting-woman burst in upon the ladies of Beit-el-Tani, bringing the news that the Sultan had placed the Seyyid Bargash under house arrest, and that “All was betrayed!” A dramatic announcement that had the effect of reducing Salmé to tears and sending her niece Farschu, who had been spending the night there, into strong hysterics.
The majority of the household instantly followed this example and began to rend the air with lamentations and shrill keening, until brought abruptly to order by Cholé, who drove them out of the sleeping apartments and bade them hold their tongues if they did not wish to be soundly flogged:
“Where are your wits?” demanded Cholé angrily. “Is this a time for screams and wailing? Must we shout from the house-tops so that every one of Majid’s lackeys may know what this means to us? Be quiet, Farschu! They can have nothing against us as yet, but if they hear you screeching and those silly women howling like apes they will need no further proof to carry to Majid!”
Farschu however continued to shriek and drum her heels on the carpet, and it was Salmé who said through her tears: “But if Bargash has been betrayed, then we must have been betrayed with him. How can you say that they have nothing against us?”
“Because if they had they would have arrested us also. But there is no guard on our gates and we are free to come and go. You can see for yourself. Farschu, if you don’t stop that noise I shall slap you. Salmé, give me that water jar!”
Cholé snatched the heavy blue and white pottery jar, and with an effortless movement of her slender arms splashed the entire contents over the screaming girl and handed it back to her sister. The ear-splitting shrieks stopped abruptly, and Farschu spluttered and gasped and lay still among the strewn cushions, breathing hard and exhaustedly, while Cholé clapped her hands to recall the slaves.
“We must behave as though nothing of great importance had occurred,” decreed Cholé. “We are distressed at the news; that is only natural. But we know nothing of any plots, and if they wish they may search the house, where they will find nothing. Get up, Farschu; and do not let us have any more tears: they will not help Bargash, but thinking and planning may, so we will think and plan—and be calm.”
Her own calmness and good sense had overawed them, and there had been no more outbreaks of noisy despair. Outwardly at least the routine of the morning had continued as though this day was no different to any other. Baths had been filled with fresh spring water, and garments that had been strewn with jasmine and orange blossom during the night were fumigated with amber and musk and laid ready for their owners to put on.
Salmé had never thought the long ritual of the toilet to be irksome or boring, but today for the first time it seemed endless, and she found that she had to force herself to sit still and submit to the ministrations of her serving-women as they dressed and scented her, combed, oiled and braided her hair, and proffered a selection of jewels for her to choose which she would wear that day. Her mind was a turmoil of panic and apprehension, and it would have been a relief to be able to throw herself face downwards on the floor as Farschu had done, and give way to hysterics. But Cholé would only deal with her as she had dealt with Farschu, and of course Cholé was right. Cholé was always right. They must show a calm face to their enemies, and plan what they could do to save Bargash from the wrath of his brother.
Her toilet finished at last, she dismissed her women and ran to the windows overlooking the narrow lane that divided Beit-el-Tani from the house where Bargash lived with his sister Méjé and his little brother, Abd-il-Aziz. The lane itself was empty, but at either end it was blocked by a crowd of armed men whose muskets showed like an impassable hedge of thorns, and Salmé, leaning out a little way in order to get a clearer view, was suddenly aware that in the adjoining room her half-sister too was standing at her window; her veil drawn across her face so that only her eyes showed wide and black-lashed and intent.
Cholé was not looking down at the empty lane or the armed men, but staring straight ahead of her at the cane-screene
d windows of her brother’s house. There was courage and alertness and a certain steely quality in the tilt of her head and every line of her slender body, and following the direction of that intent gaze, Salmé saw a flicker of movement from behind the split-cane screen. In the next instant a comer of it lifted cautiously and she found herself looking across the narrow gulf of the lane at her brother’s face.
It was immediately evident that Bargash had already been discussing something with Cholé, for he shook his head as though in reply to some question she had asked, and Salmé saw her sister smile. The jutting window-sills and half-closed shutters concealed them from anyone standing below, and they spoke softly but clearly, using the Court Persian that would have been unintelligible to the chattering soldiers had any been able to hear it at that range:
“—no, of course I’m not going. He must be mad if he imagined for one moment that I would. When his messengers arrived with an order that I was to sail for Oman at once, before first light, I pretended to agree: I said I’d be willing to leave immediately, only the trouble was that I just couldn’t afford to live there because I hadn’t enough money. And do you know what that fool did? He sent me ten thousand crowns to help ‘ease my exile’!” Salmé heard her brother brother splutter with laughter and Cholé say, “Did you take it?”
“What do you think? I’m not a fool! It was a bribe, of course—to persuade me to go quietly. I gave it to Nasur to lock away, and then I told them that I’d changed my mind and decided not to go after all, and we rushed at them and pushed them all out and barricaded ourselves inside, and wouldn’t let anyone in again. That’s why Majid has posted guards all round the house. He thinks he can starve us out. Well, let him try I I’m not afraid of that boneless puppy! And nor is anyone else—except Méjé, who thinks we should run to beg his pardon and ask him to forgive us.”