‘Near Riyadh,’ Jones says nonchalantly. ‘I heard one of them say the other day, that the camp was moving to somewhere beyond Riyadh. Some oasis. Middle of nowhere, I expect.’
The men begin to move forward and fall in with the caravan that is forming. At moments like this it always puzzles the doctor how, without any overt leadership, the tribe decides to move out all together. You’d never wrangle sailors this way. It is late afternoon, he calculates by the sun, and they are heading east. He heaves a sigh for he is exhausted already. It is going to be a long night.
Chapter Thirty-One
Four days off Riyadh and the last day of October 1833, Kasim captures a hawk. They hit a patch of rocky, arid land in the run-up to the settlement. It is still desert but there are no dunes. The going is easier and there is sparse grazing for the camels – sticks of grass, thorny acacia and a scattering of rigid bushes with tiny, grey leaves. Kasim checks under the bird’s wings but the feathers are not fully developed and it is too young to fly, though its talons are sharp enough.
‘The chick must have got separated from its parents too early,’ Kasim explains as he covers the bird with a light rug so it stops flapping. He feeds it a little meat and tethers the creature to his saddle. At night he fashions a hood and begins to train it. Over the next three days the bird becomes as devoted to him as a wild creature can be. It sits majestically to the rear of his camel, perched on the saddle like a mascot. When he sets it free it wheels high above the burning oven that radiates from ground level and soars to the cooler air so that it is visible only as a tiny dot. Still, it returns to Kasim’s arm immediately at the whistle. As they finally come into Riyadh a group of Bedu ask to buy it and offer a price that is more than fair, but Kasim shakes his head. He is, Wellsted thinks, a strange fellow. Cold to a habshi and kind to a hawk. A slaver who turns his back on coins of profit, freely offered, when the bird cost him nothing but his occupation in training it.
After the desolation of the desert, the sight of Riyadh on a Friday afternoon is a shock. The slash of green that rises out of the sands is startling and complex. The orchards waft fresh scent through the thin streets and the straggle of white houses on the outskirts dazzle like gemstones on a green, velvet throw. The town is a place of tremendous fecundity. As they move towards the centre of the settlement, the whole party is diverted by the sudden sight of so much life. The jumaah, Friday prayers, are over and the dusty alleyways echo with music and laughter – there are people everywhere outside their houses and shops. It has been a long time since the caravan has been anywhere even remotely urban. Baskets overflow with food, the wells give clear water and the air feels succulent as if it has been freshened ready for their arrival with bergamot, mint and coriander. There is so much to do that everyone forgets the heat and simply surrenders to the spectacle of what is going on around them.
In the marketplace, the party dismounts, the slaves queue to refill the water skins and refresh the animals. The free men resupply with dates and ask for news of the emir. Wellsted finds himself distracted by the constant movement of the crowd. The children’s outfits shock him with their exotic flashes of colour as they tarry looking at the collection of dusty strangers hanging around the fringes of the bazaar. Two men sit in the shade of a lush tree with boughs of trailing leaves that Wellsted cannot identify. He notices one of them, lazy-eyed, cannot rip his gaze from Zena, who is holding her camel’s bridle as she leads the animal back from its long, thirsty drink. Wellsted buys mint tea from a street hawker. He hands a cup to Zena and stations himself, like a guard, beside her in the shade of a huge palm.
‘Thank you,’ she smiles.
She tethers the beast so she can sip silently. Prettily, if it comes to that. Wellsted wishes he could get her out of sight off the street, but he cannot see how.
Kasim, a poke of honeyed nuts in his hand, strolls over. ‘We will stay here tonight and tomorrow we will make for the emir’s settlement. It is not so far – a few hours. The move we heard of has taken the camp further south but no further from Riyadh. We will be there before sunset tomorrow.’
Wellsted grins openly at this stroke of luck. ‘We have made it!’ he says. ‘Is there any news of the men?’
Kasim shakes his head. ‘Not yet,’ he says. ‘But tomorrow we will know.’
‘And we are safe here overnight?’ Since the Wahabi attack, Wellsted is suspicious of all strangers, even the open-faced Bedu. ‘They are watching Zena.’
‘You are right,’ Kasim acknowledges. ‘She is worth a fortune this far north. This is where Al Mudar said you would sell her, is it not?’ He nods towards the group of men loitering around the stalls.
‘I won’t sell her. Not for any price,’ Wellsted maintains steadily. The thought makes him angry. ‘She is to be free.’
Kasim shrugs his shoulders. ‘She is very beautiful,’ he says. ‘We will have to be watchful. Stay close.’
When, after a few minutes, one of the Wahabi approaches and asks tentatively if Zena is for sale, Wellsted almost spits his reply. The man backs off as if the Turk is a dangerous fool – Riyadh’s newest, crazy majnoon. He only asked a question.
The party settles in the shade, a couple of the servants head into the bazaar to barter for indulgences. Wellsted brings out his notebook.
‘I like that picture,’ Zena says, shyly, peering at the paper. ‘That is my camel, isn’t it?’
He has drawn the caravan across the top of the page, and it is true, you can pick out her camel. Wellsted turns over, where he has jotted some maps.
‘The scale is wrong, I expect,’ he says. ‘But it is as close as I could get it.’
‘We have come all this way?’ Zena asks.
‘Yes. Over 800 miles as I reckon it.’
Zena takes in the information. Wellsted has been mapping their journey with impressive accuracy. ‘And on this map, where is Africa?’ she asks.
Wellsted turns a fresh leaf. He draws the relative positions of the continents and shows the route of their journey north from Muscat. Zena thinks a moment. She measures with her fingers the distance of the journey from her home. It is twice as far as they have just travelled.
‘Do you miss it?’ he asks gently.
Zena hesitates. ‘I am glad I met you,’ she says.
One of the other slaves turns, listening idly to their conversation. Wellsted wants to say that he is glad he has met her too. He wants to suggest that she comes back to London with him, but then he catches himself, for that will never be possible. When you are in Arabia and the colour of a person’s skin is of little consequence to their social status, it is easy to forget that in England Wellsted’s feelings for Zena would be a scandal. In England, the girl has almost no value at all.
‘England,’ he continues unsteadily, making a mark to the north, ‘is up here.’
‘And the friends you hope to free – they are from England too?’
‘Yes.’
‘You will see them tomorrow.’
‘I hope so.’
It occurs to the lieutenant that few English women would have managed the journeys that Zena has endured, both in the desert and before. He is struck by her calmness and admires her grace. A duchess could do no better. Still, he senses in her a steely edge and he likes it. He has seen her make up her own mind in small things when others would simply do as they are told. He’s seen her looking at Ibn Mohammed as if she’d like to stab him in the heart.
‘Come on,’ he says, ‘that’s tomorrow. Let us enjoy Riyadh this afternoon.’
As the heat fades and the sun sinks, the town comes to life. The sound of the doumbek drums wafts from the marketplace nearby and someone is pounding a tambourine in time. Occasionally, there is singing and even if a man cannot sing or play an instrument, he still claps enthusiastically to the beat. One or two dance, fired up by the smoking of shisha pipes and the excitement of new company. A fellow with a basket of snakes joins the party and is welcomed enthusiastically. He soon has the servants and slaves cap
tivated with stories of the reptiles.
‘I have one that can dance,’ he says, winding his arm high in the air to show what the snake can do.
But he will not charm it without a silver coin and the free men are not interested. No amount of coffee or dates (the only material goods the others have to hand) will convince him to bring the snake from its basket.
As the sky moves from evening to night, the streets of the little town are positively balmy. The men have eaten and drunk their fill and spirits are high. One entertainer, an acrobat, tumbles like a waterfall. Then, down an alleyway, three Wahabi approach with torches and Ibn Mohammed jumps to his feet in readiness with Kasim and Wellsted close behind, but in the event there is no trouble. The men are smiling and one in particular is finely dressed. Riyadh it seems, is in an unrelentingly good humour.
‘Salaam aleikhum.’ The Wahabi greet the slavers and one offers them the use of an empty house in a nearby street overlooking the bazaar. It belongs to his brother who has gone to trade salt in the north. ‘It is a humble dwelling, but it will accommodate you. My family will be honoured. I am sure your home in Muscat is far finer.’
The man is in awe of the slavers – their reputation has reached even this far. Ibn Mohammed with his cold politeness says there is no need. ‘We have been sleeping in the open for weeks now,’ he says. ‘Though it is very kind.’
Kasim bows. When you are offered hospitality the custom is always to take it and both he and Ibn Mohammed demur only very slightly before, with Wellsted in their wake, they are shown the door of the vacant property – a square, pale box that runs over two storeys. It is not locked, for in a small town like this there is no need for such precautions. Friends and brothers are everywhere and while the com munity might steal from a stranger or hike prices for those coming off the sands and eager to procure the luxuries Riyadh can afford them, it protects its own.
Inside, the man lights a naft lamp and reveals that the place is all but unadorned – a few rugs on the floor and some cushions for sitting or sleeping. There are clay water jars, dry as bone now, and a few utensils for cooking, clearly deemed too luxurious to be taken onto the sands. To be inside, within four walls, feels strange beyond measure though the house is pleasantly cooler by several degrees than the air outside.
‘Go!’ the man ushers one of his slaves. ‘Fetch water!’ Barefoot, the man disappears, carrying the pitcher on his shoulder into the night.
‘And brothers, will you tell me of your travels?’ the Wahabi asks. He is young and has not ventured far. ‘Did you come from Muscat? Truly?’
The slavers nod. ‘Come.’
Kasim and Ibn Mohammed lead the man back to the group outside and drink coffee with him. The slaves are sent to buy whatever pastries are left on the market stalls. He may be a Wahabi but he is more relaxed than most of his tribe and soon they are talking animatedly about something – a story told so fast that Wellsted cannot follow it. Besides, Kasim waves him off quickly, for as a mere servant the lieutenant should not linger with the free men without an invitation, and they see no reason to proffer one.
Later, the Wahabi takes his leave, the last of the market stalls closes and the streets of the little town are all but empty. Ibn Mohammed and Kasim call Wellsted to walk with them into the safety of the darkness, a little way off from where the servants and slaves have congregated around the fire and are, in dribs and drabs now surrounding Zena and settling to sleep.
‘Tomorrow, when we reach the emir’s camp, you must stay with the girl and watch her. Between her value and the hatred of the Turks, it is best you stay out of the way. I know you want to see your friends, but you must let us undertake the negotiations.’
Wellsted hesitates. There is a lot at stake here. Over the months he has come, more or less, to trust these men, but a knot tightens in his stomach, for in truth, how can he not take responsibility? This will be the most important day of the whole trip and he cares about the captured men far more than the slavers care for anyone. They are so close now.
Kasim sees Wellsted’s dilemma immediately. ‘We are at the soultan’s service,’ he says. ‘I could have stuck you like a goat if I’d wanted to, long since. Any day on the sands I could have. And truly, my friend, this is for the best. All the men here ask about you – there have been very few Turks through Riyadh since the Circassians were routed. Your very presence renders them uneasy. The emir is best dealt with by his fellow Arabs. It is best for all of us – the men we have come for most of all.’
‘Jessop and Jones are my friends and brother officers,’ Wellsted whispers. ‘Whatever offence they have given they are my fellows. Will you promise me to do your best for them?’
Kasim and Ibn Mohammed are surprised by the white man’s dignity. Infidels are not famed for their humility.
‘I give my word,’ Ibn Mohammed finds himself saying and he does not even say it with his hand on his heart, the usual position he adopts when he has to lie.
Kasim shakes Wellsted’s hand. ‘This is how you do it, is it not?’ he says. ‘You have my word also.’ Then he takes a breath for he is about to say something that is out of character but the lieutenant has acquitted himself admirably. ‘We have travelled together. I have fought alongside you. I swear my loyalty. Have no fear.’
The lieutenant is not sure what to reply and he pauses a moment. Kasim has taken him by surprise. ‘Thank you,’ he says finally.
Kasim puts his arms around the lieutenant and hugs him, clapping him on the back. Ibn Mohammed follows suit. Wellsted realises there is something about the desert, about fighting off the Wahabi raid, about the shared intrigue of cloak-and-dagger disguise that has instigated this loyalty by stealth. He laughs. He is unsure what they would make of this sentimentality in London. I will have to edit it out of my account, he thinks.
‘We are like old women,’ Ibn Mohammed spits with a note of disgust in his voice.
‘We must sleep,’ says Kasim. ‘In the house. Bring the girl. It is safer. And tomorrow we will fulfil the soultan’s orders.’
Wellsted returns to the campfire and lingers for a minute or two before he silently motions Zena to follow him. ‘It’s best not to leave you here,’ he whispers, and they sneak through the front door of the dwelling.
Inside, Zena shivers. She has become used to the balmy, open-air nights and is sensitive now to anything colder. Kasim lies downstairs, already breathing deeply with the only lamp doused beside him. Wellsted motions the girl towards the stairs and they climb upwards into the darkness of the upper floor. A tiny window, a mere slit in the thick, cool wall, casts a sliver of shady, night-time light and Wellsted can see a further run of thin, wooden stairs against the whitewash. He motions to Zena and they climb upwards again, towards a door so small he has to stoop very low to get through. Outside, there is a flat roof and the usual startling canopy of stars. The huge, bright slice of the moon is a little way off tonight rather than suspended above the highest nearby dune. Zena walks to the edge of the rooftop, which is delineated only by a line of single bricks. She peers cautiously across it and then crouches, watching the other servants and slaves by the fire. Most are asleep but two men sit, still talking quietly about the dancing snake.
Then there is a movement. Up the street, his black jubbah and kaffiya making his very person seem like a black hole in the landscape of the little town, Ibn Mohammed walks silently towards the house. Ready to sleep, he disappears through the front door and they hear him climb the stairway. There is a snort or two and then he settles in the room beneath their feet.
‘Shhhh,’ Wellsted hisses.
They wait. Zena turns away from the view over the simple parapet. She smiles and then raises her arms to stretch like a lazy cat. There are no strangers to stare at her here – she is alone with Wellsted for the first time. She thinks back carefully. Yes, she has never been alone with her master before in all the weeks on the sands. Caravans simply don’t travel that way. Wellsted grins back. He has realised it too.
&nb
sp; ‘Remove your veil,’ he whispers, ‘I want to see your hair.’
Zena unwinds the fabric carefully and puts up her hand to feel the plaits. She thinks that she must look ridiculous, but the master peers from side to side, inspecting her carefully. He gives an approving nod.
Riyadh turns in its sleep. The swaying of the palms, the click of doors and the occasional sound of laughter cut through the darkness. The camels grunt and the goats bleat. The town feels like a metropolis after living with the same people for weeks – the noises in the night are usually so familiar that you can tell which camel will not settle. It seems impossible that the mass of people here will do anything at the same time, let alone sleep. There are one or two solitary lights dotted from house to house. An old man who is restless stays up reading. A slave cleans a pan in the kitchen. From the vantage point they peer down onto the maze.
‘Let’s not disturb them downstairs,’ Wellsted whispers. ‘Let’s stay here. It will take some getting used to – walls and stairs and ceilings. It feels like a box, doesn’t it?’
Zena curls up obediently. She puts her hands behind her head and stares at the stars. Wellsted crouches next to her. It occurs to him that all his life people have wanted things of him. Old Thomas wanted his name in perpetuity and his father wanted the same. The friendship between officers is tarnished by the need for one or another to be promoted. The kindness of a captain is predicated on the obedience and efficiency of his underlings. Everyone has always judged him on whether he might or might not produce any significant action on behalf of a ship, a family or a country. Yet Zena, it strikes Wellsted, seems perfectly content simply to be with him. She is happy to belong to him and appears to enjoy his company only for himself. He need not speak. No proof is required of his worthiness to hold the rank of lieutenant or his undying devotion to the Wellsted name. All he offers is normal, human kindness and she likes him for it. This out-and-out acceptance is an intoxication that makes the lieutenant happy.
Secret of the Sands Page 21