by Saul David
‘I was rather hoping you’d suggest somewhere. We need a safe place to sleep that’s away from Kabul.’
‘We?’
‘My Afghan guide and I. His name is Ilderim Khan. He’s waiting with the horses outside.’
‘How many horses?’
‘Two, but you can ride behind us.’
‘In that case we should go to my brother’s pleasure garden at Beni Hissar. In it, well-hidden by a screen of trees, there is a small pavilion he had built for me. Only I have the key.’
‘We’ll stay there tonight and decide tomorrow what to do with you both.’
‘First I must change into suitable clothes. Can you wait here? I’ll be a couple of minutes.’
‘Princess, we don’t have time.’
‘Please!’
‘Two minutes, then, and not a moment longer,’ said George.
‘One more thing, Angrez.’
‘Yes?’ said George.
The princess came up to him, kissed both his cheeks and embraced him. He was anxious to be out of the palace, but the smell of her perfume and the feel of her supple body made him forget the danger. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘with all my heart.’
Two hours later, George and Ilderim were enjoying a much-needed brandy in the sitting room of the princess’s pavilion at Beni Hissar as the lady herself, in a curious case of role reversal, put her maid to bed. With most of the rebels already asleep, the ride to Beni Hissar had been straightforward enough, and required only one minor detour to avoid a noisy picket of soldiers. Of more concern was the princess’s inability to find the key to the pavilion, but a lengthy search had finally located it under a small statue, enabling the exhausted quartet to enter the pretty wooden chalet without having to break a window.
George took a sip from his glass of brandy, the fiery liquid searing his throat and warming his chilled bones. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said to Ilderim, ‘I want you to find a covered carriage and a driver to transport the princess and her maid to Baker’s camp at Kushi. We’ll escort them as far as Zahidabad and the road to Ghazni.’
‘As you wish, huzoor,’ said the big Afghan, with a knowing grin, ‘though it seems a shame to part from two beautiful women after such a brief acquaintance.’
George snorted in disgust. ‘Did I not tell you what both women have been through? The maid, in particular, could be forgiven for never wishing a man near her again. So keep your lascivious thoughts to yourself.’
‘What lascivious thoughts?’
They turned to see the princess framed in the doorway, hands on hips. She looked particularly fetching in her riding habit of sleeveless sheepskin coat, or poshteen, jodhpurs and soft felt boots, her raven hair tied back from her face. But her stony expression was far from friendly, and George knew better than to elaborate. ‘Just male banter, Princess. My guide can’t take his drink.’
‘Then he should forgo alcohol, like a good Muslim. I have no such problem,’ she said as she poured herself a brandy, ‘and like to drink to forget. What else were you discussing?’
‘Our plan for tomorrow.’
‘Which is?’
George explained.
‘And after you leave us at Zahidabad, where will you go?’
George glanced at Ilderim for guidance. But the Afghan sat there expressionless, forcing George to make the decision. That he chose to tell her the truth was testament to the spell the princess, however inadvertently, had cast on him. ‘To Ghazni. You remember our conversation about the Prophet’s Cloak?’
‘Yes.’
‘We have good reason to believe it has been taken from its shrine in Kandahar and is either in Ghazni or on its way there, and will be used to rouse the faithful in a holy war.’
‘By whom?’
‘Mullah Mushk-i-Alam. Do you know him?’
‘Of course. Who in Afghanistan does not? He’s a firebrand, a religious fanatic, who opposed my brother’s rule from the start. Now it begins to make sense,’ said the princess, slowly. ‘The cloak will confer legitimacy on the mullah. Once he has it he will declare himself Amir al-Mu’minin, or “Leader of the Faithful”, and the Ghazis and tribesmen will flock to him. With such a force he will hope to defeat your troops and turn our kingdom into a theocracy. It will be the end of my dynasty. I cannot let that happen.’
‘Neither can I,’ said George. ‘And not just because I was sent here to prevent such a war. I also want what is best for Afghanistan.’
‘And that is?’
‘A country ruled not by a religious fanatic but by a strong, forward-thinking ruler who is prepared to stand up to us and the Russians.’
Yasmin looked grave. ‘You have a wise head on young shoulders, Angrez. Only such a ruler as you describe can hope to unite the different peoples of this country. And that ruler is not my brother. He calls himself a man but his actions are those of a coward, leaving women and children to fend for themselves while he flees to the British. He’s a disgrace to his dynasty and to Afghanistan. But I will atone for his shame.’
‘How?’
‘By accompanying you to Ghazni.’
‘What?’ George was so shocked he had forgotten to whom he was speaking. He recovered himself. ‘Forgive me, Princess,’ he said, frowning, ‘but that won’t be possible.’
‘Let me finish. My cousin Hamid Shah is governor of Ghazni. He will provide us with shelter and, with luck, information about the cloak. He has spies all over the city. If anyone can find the cloak, he can.’
‘And his assistance will be very welcome, but there is no need for you to come with us if you would write us a letter of introduction.’
‘That will not do. He will only help if I’m there to ask in person.’
George turned to Ilderim. ‘What do you think? Should we take her?’
‘No, huzoor. Ghazni is no place for a woman. If she comes we’ll have to look after her as well as ourselves.’
‘You insolent dog!’ said the princess, narrowing her eyes. ‘Did I need a man to save me from Walidad Khan? No, I took care of myself, and will do so again. As a child I was never content with a girl’s lot and used to sneak off with my brothers to train as a warrior. I was the best rider, fencer and shot among them, and I’m a match for any man.’
George was loath to let a woman accompany them on such a dangerous mission – particularly a princess of royal blood – yet he accepted that her presence might be extremely useful and had seen at first hand her ability to look after herself. He knew he was falling for her, and tried not to let it influence him unduly. He pondered for a moment, then made his decision. ‘You may come with us. Tomorrow Ilderim will find you a horse and arrange a carriage to take your maid to her family. But no more royal airs and graces. We’re all equals now.’
Yasmin nodded, a smile playing on her rosebud lips as the old saying came back to her: We are equals, but one must always come first.
Chapter 14
Near Ghazni, eastern Afghanistan, mid-autumn 1879
George buttoned his poshteen against the late-afternoon chill. Most of the two-day ride from Kabul had been in warm sunshine across a flat, dusty terrain, bounded by yet more barren mountains, with only the occasional patch of green produced by irrigation from a village stream. But as the track climbed towards the city of Ghazni, set on a high plateau at seven thousand feet, the temperature plummeted and the scenery brightened. The greys and browns gave way to lush pastures and the brilliant green foliage of fruit trees; and from the banks of streams wafted the beguiling perfume of the sunjyt tree, which grew among the willows.
With the stone marker by the side of the road showing just four miles to the city of Ghazni, Ilderim had volunteered to scout ahead for armed rebels, leaving George and Yasmin to enjoy the view. ‘Not far now, Angrez,’ said the princess, smiling, as she turned in her saddle, ‘but first a reminder of the rapacity of your people. You see that village ahead, to the right of the track?’
George’s eyes settled on a typical mud-built settlement,
protected by a rude fort. ‘What of it?’
‘At its heart stands the tomb of Sultan Mahmud. Have you heard of him?’
The name sounded familiar to George from his background reading, but he couldn’t place him. ‘Remind me.’
Yasmin raised her eyebrows, seemingly in amusement, though it was hard for George to be sure because her mouth and nose were covered with a silk scarf. ‘Mahmud,’ she explained, ‘was the founder of the Turkish Ghaznavid dynasty. He brought Islam to this country and, from the tenth to the twelfth centuries, ruled a huge empire from Ghazni that stretched from Persia to northern India. He was a fierce warrior who led many raids into India to destroy Hindu temples and bring back booty, and his most infamous items of loot were said to be the carved sandalwood doors from the temple of Somnath in Gujarat. For eight centuries these doors guarded the entrance to his tomb. Until your governor-general ordered them to be torn from their hinges and taken back to India.’
George smiled. ‘Now I understand your reference to British rapacity, Princess. But were we any worse than this Mahmud fellow? After all, it sounds as though we were trying to return the gates to their rightful owners.’
Yasmin snorted. ‘A noble sentiment, Angrez, but do you know what actually became of them? In India they were quickly identified as the wrong ones – not from Somnath at all – and they lie to this day in Agra Fort, while Mahmud’s tomb remains open to the elements. Would you like to see your countrymen’s handiwork?’
‘Another time, princess. For now we have more important business to attend to, which I hope, if we’re successful, will help to heal the rifts of the past.’
They could hear a rider approaching and, moments later, Ilderim appeared over the brow of the hill ahead and cantered down to them. ‘It seems quiet enough, huzoor. I rode as far as the second minaret from where I could see the Kabul Gate into the city. Traders and villagers are coming and going, and nowhere could I see armed bands. The royal standard is flying from the citadel so it seems the princess’s cousin still has authority.’
‘That’s a relief,’ said George. ‘We’d better make contact while the going’s good. Does he live in the citadel, Princess?’
‘As far as I know.’
They rode on, and from the second minaret that Ilderim had mentioned – a beautiful brick-built tower, 150 feet high, in the shape of an eight-pointed star – they could see the walled city laid out before them. It had been built on a plateau in the shadow of a ridge of hills, and consisted of a formidable outer fortification in the shape of an irregular pentagon, with sides varying from two hundred to four hundred yards in length, and an inner citadel sited on a rocky mound in the centre of the city. George noted approvingly that the outer walls were built on a scarped mound, at least thirty-five feet high, and were protected by a wide ditch and numerous towers giving an all-round field of fire. All in all it looked a hard nut to crack and he marvelled anew at General Keane’s success in capturing the town in two hours during the first Afghan war.
At the Kabul Gate – its masonry still scarred by the British gunpowder that had blown the gates in 1839 – Ilderim explained to one of the guards, a slovenly fellow in a filthy uniform, that they had business with the governor at the citadel. ‘You had better hurry then,’ said the guard, ominously. ‘Rumour has it that Hamid Shah will soon be leaving the city to seek refuge with his cousin the amir and the Feringhees.’
‘Will it not be dangerous for you if he goes?’ asked Ilderim.
‘No, sir, safer. At present the people jeer at us in the streets. There are many Ghazis in the city, drawn from the country around to hear the mullah preach, and it won’t be long before they turn on us. I hope Hamid Shah leaves soon, and I can replace my uniform with the clothes I wear in my home village.’
Ilderim gave George a pointed look – this was going to be harder than they had thought – and they rode on through the gate, heading south towards the citadel. The narrow streets were crowded with people out for an evening stroll, and at first they failed to notice that one of the three riders threading their way between them was a woman. But as they passed a fruit stall, the wizened trader called, ‘Look, brothers, a woman sitting a horse like a man. It is not right.’
Others joined in the chorus and one burly ruffian, wearing a sword and a black turban, tried to grab Yasmin’s bridle. George and Ilderim were about to draw their weapons, but Yasmin sent her assailant reeling with a smartly placed riding boot to his chest. ‘This way!’ she shouted, jabbing spurs into her horse’s flanks and scattering pedestrians as she veered down a side-street, closely followed by her two companions.
Forced to avoid the main thoroughfares, it took them twenty minutes to find the paved road that led up to the citadel, a fort every bit as commanding as the Bala Hissar in Kabul. At the entrance gate the half-dressed guards hardly bothered to hear Ilderim’s explanation before waving the trio through with bored complacency. After action in the Zulu war, George could recognise the signs of military indiscipline, and as they dismounted in the inner courtyard, he knew that time was of the essence.
They were met on the steps to the living quarters by a slim, elegant man wearing red robes and a multi-coloured cummerbund. ‘I’m Hamid Shah. Who are you?’ he asked, his eyes flitting nervously from one new arrival to another. ‘Do you have news from Kabul?’
‘We do, cousin,’ said the princess, unwrapping the scarf from her face.
His eyes widened in amazement. ‘Yasmin! Can it really be you? What are you doing here? You must know it’s not safe.’
‘Safer than Kabul, cousin. For the moment, anyway. Let us go inside and I will explain.’
Hamid led them into the solid three-storey building and up two flights of stone steps to a large, airy room with beautiful views across the city to the mountains beyond. ‘This is my private audience chamber. No one will disturb us. Rest yourselves,’ said Hamid, indicating the bolsters and cushions on the floor. ‘You must be tired after your long journey.’
Once everyone was sitting cross-legged, he turned to Yasmin. ‘First tell me about your brother. Is it true he’s joined the Angrez?’
‘Yes,’ she said bitterly. ‘He skulked away from Kabul at dead of night with that snake Shah Mohammed and his other senior advisers, leaving me and the rest of his family to fend for ourselves.’
‘Was his life in danger?’
‘He thought so. A day earlier, on hearing that British troops were advancing from the Kurram valley, Nek Mahomed and the other rebel sirdars threatened him with death if he didn’t join them. He said he would, but instead he fled.’
Hamid sighed. ‘Has our dynasty fallen so far that a grandson of the great Dost Mahomed would behave in this way? Yakub should never have become amir. He was proud and wilful as a boy, but without the judgement and courage that a ruler requires. You have those qualities, Yasmin. It’s a shame you were born a woman.’
‘I don’t think Walidad Khan would agree.’
‘Walidad Khan? The commander of Yakub’s Guard?’
‘He was.’ Yasmin related her killing of Walidad Khan and the timely arrival of her companions, who had finished off her maid’s attacker.
‘What an ordeal, cousin,’ said Hamid, his eyes moist with tears. ‘That faithless swine deserved to die.’ He turned to George and Ilderim. ‘And I thank you for helping my cousin. But who are you and why have you come to Ghazni? It’s quiet now but it won’t be for long.’
‘That is why we’re here,’ said George, and explained his secret mission to stop the Mullah Mushk-i-Alam from using the Prophet’s Cloak to launch a holy war against Yakub and the British.
‘So you’re an Angrez spy,’ concluded Hamid.
‘Yes, he is,’ interrupted Yasmin. ‘But his objective and ours are the same: to prevent Afghanistan from falling into the clutches of the extremist clerics and their Ghazi foot-soldiers who would impose a theocracy over us.’
‘But won’t that give the Angrez reason to invade and never leave?’
&
nbsp; ‘Not all the Angrez,’ said George. ‘Only those members of the Indian government, including the viceroy, who would like to absorb Afghanistan as a bulwark against Russian encroachment. But their political masters in London – the people I work for – don’t want that to happen because they fear a long, drawn-out war.’
‘And they’re right to fear it. Look what happened in Kabul when the Angrez tried to install a resident to control the amir. Ghazni will be next, mark my words, and the other provinces will follow.’
‘Which is why we must find the cloak before the rebellion gets out of hand and the Indian government has its way.’
‘So what have you heard, cousin?’ asked Yasmin. ‘Are we too late?’
‘I fear so,’ said Hamid. ‘Earlier today one of my spies told me that the cloak is already in the mullah’s possession. Now he waits only for a national rising to occur before he dons it in a formal ceremony outside the town.’
‘Do you have any idea when that will be?’ asked George.
‘No. But I do know that the mullah is biding his time, sounding out the chiefs and sirdars, and identifying those who have the stomach for the fight. But soon he will act. Of that I’m certain.’
‘And yet you are the ultimate authority in the city?’
‘I am.’
‘Then why do you not simply arrest him and search for the cloak?’
Hamid laughed. ‘I am still governor, Angrez, but in name only. If I ordered my soldiers or police to arrest the mullah they would refuse, and some would turn on me. Even now I am planning to leave Ghazni. If I stay my enemies will kill me.’
‘I understand your quandary, cousin,’ said Yasmin. ‘But before you go is there anything you can do to help us find the cloak?’
Hamid hesitated, as if weighing up the risk. ‘There is one thing,’ he said at last. ‘I have an empty house in the old town that overlooks the mullah’s compound. You can hide there and, if fortune smiles on you, you may discover where they keep the cloak. But you must be careful. That part of the city is swarming with the mullah’s men.’