by Wilbur Smith
They held him while he struggled like a fish on a hook. ‘Al-Auf will have no mercy on us if the infidel puppy injures himself. Bring the slave chains.’ A blacksmith had altered the fetters to fit his small ankle. ‘Make certain that the iron does not gall him. Al-Auf will kill the man who marks his white skin or harms one red hair on his head.’
Apart from the leg-irons, they treated him with consideration and respect. Every morning, despite his struggles, two veiled women took him down to the courtyard. They stripped him and oiled his body, then bathed him at the rainwater cistern. On board ship Dorian had gone for months at a time without bathing – there was no fresh water for such extravagance, added to which all seamen knew that too much washing reduced the natural oils of the skin and was bad for the health. The Mussulmen were strangely addicted to these excesses of personal cleanliness – Dorian had watched them wash five times a day, before they went through the ritual of their prayers – so even though it threatened his health, he had to resign himself to this daily ordeal by water. He even grew to welcome the break in the dreary routine of his captivity, and had more trouble each time in rousing his temper to register his protests.
Occasionally he made a rather half-hearted attempt to bite one of the women, especially when they handled the more intimate parts of his anatomy. Soon, though, they were ready for this, and avoided his attacks while shrieking with laughter. They exclaimed endlessly over Dorian’s hair as they fondled, combed, brushed and coiled it into thick shiny ropes. They had replaced his noisome, tattered rags with a clean white robe.
In every other way, too, they took good care of him. They had placed a soft, beautifully tanned sheepskin over the palm fronds of his mattress. They had given him a silk pillow for his head, and an oil lamp to light the long hours of the night. There was always a water-jar within his reach and the evaporation through the porous clay kept the contents cool. The women fed him three times a day, and although at first he had vowed to starve himself to death simply to spite them, the aroma of the food they offered him was too tempting for his young appetite to resist.
Although his solitary existence was hard to bear, he knew that he should be grateful that he had not been placed in the crowded cells further along the passageway. He had been warned by both his father and Tom about what could happen to a pretty little boy if he were placed at the mercy of vile, depraved older men.
His chain was just long enough for him to reach the step below the loophole, and though he could climb up and look out through the tiny window he could not repeat his previous escape attempt. When he was not busy carving his name into the wall he spent hours gazing out over the lagoon where al-Auf’s fleet was anchored. He longed for even a glimpse of the white topsails of the Seraph over that distant blue horizon. ‘Tom will come,’ he promised himself each dawn, as he searched the lightening ocean.
Each dusk he watched until the horizon receded into the wine-purple shades of night, and he bolstered himself with the same words: ‘Tom promised, and he always keeps his promises. He will come tomorrow. I know he will.’
Every few days his gaolers came to take him down to Ben Abram. The Mussulman doctor had named Dorian Lion Cub, which had stuck. His gaolers were as wary of his temper as the women, and handed him over to Ben Abram with relief. The doctor examined him carefully from the top of his shining head to his bare feet for any sign of neglect or abuse. He was especially concerned that the leg-irons had not marked his white skin, and that he had been properly fed and attended to. ‘Are they treating you well, little red Lion Cub?’
‘No, they beat me every day,’ Dorian replied defiantly. ‘And they burn me with red-hot irons.’
‘Are they feeding you well?’ Ben Abram smiled kindly at this patent lie.
‘They give me worms to eat and rat’s piss to drink.’
‘You are thriving on that diet,’ Ben Abram remarked. ‘I should try it myself.’
‘My hair is falling out,’ Dorian contradicted him. ‘Soon I will be bald and then al-Auf will send you to the execution ground.’ Dorian was aware of the peculiar value that the Mussulmen placed on his hair, but the old man had fallen for his threat of baldness only once.
Now he smiled again and ruffled the luxuriant tresses. ‘Come with me, my bald Lion Cub.’ He took Dorian’s hand, and for once the boy did not try to pull away. In his aching loneliness, which he tried so hard to conceal, Dorian was drawn irresistibly to the kindly old man. He went along with him to the audience chamber where al-Auf was waiting.
There was a ritual to these gatherings in which Dorian was displayed to the latest prospective buyer. While they argued and haggled, inspected his hair and his naked body, Dorian stood rigid, staring at them with a scowl of theatrical fury and hatred, silently composing the most foul insult his increasing command of Arabic afforded him.
Always there came the moment during the negotiations when the buyer asked, ‘But does he speak the language of the Prophet?’
Then al-Auf would turn back to Dorian and order, ‘Say something, child.’
Dorian would draw himself up and let fly with his latest composition. ‘May Allah blacken thy face, and rot the teeth in thy cursed jaws.’ Or ‘May he fill thy bowels with worms, and dry the milk in the udders of all the goats whom thou hast ever taken to wife.’ There was always consternation among the prospective buyers at these sallies. Afterwards when Ben Abram walked him back to his cell he would reprimand Dorian primly. ‘Where did such a beautiful child learn such evil words?’ But his eyes would twinkle merrily in their webs of wrinkles.
But on the final occasion when he entered the audience chamber, Dorian was aware of a different atmosphere. The man to whom he was being shown was not some rough dhow captain or fat oleaginous merchant: he was a prince.
He sat in the centre of the floor on a pile of silk cushions and rugs, yet his back was straight and his mien was regal. Although a dozen attendants sat behind him in attitudes of fawning subservience, there was no arrogance in the man. His dignity was imperious and his presence monumental. In the family Bible at High Weald there was a picture of St Peter, the Rock. The resemblance of this man to him was so striking that Dorian thought that they must be the same person. He was overcome with religious awe.
‘Greet the mighty Prince al-Malik,’ al-Auf insisted, when Dorian stood speechless before this reincarnation of Christ’s apostle. Evidently al-Auf was nervous of Dorian’s reaction to this command for he tugged anxiously at his beard. ‘Show the Prince respect or I will have you thrashed,’ he urged.
Dorian knew that the threat was baseless: al-Auf would never mark him and spoil his value. He continued to stare at the man before him in awe.
‘Make your salaams to the Prince!’ al-Auf urged him.
Dorian felt his rebellious instincts shrivel in the presence of this man. Without conscious thought he made an obeisance of deep respect.
Al-Auf looked startled, and decided to press this unexpected advantage. He hoped that the boy would eschew any reference to female goats or rotting teeth. ‘Speak to the exalted Prince! Greet him in the language of the Prophet,’ he commanded.
Without having to think about it, Dorian recalled an exercise Alf Wilson had set them during a long afternoon on the after-deck when the Seraph had lain becalmed in the doldrums. He had been trying to explain the similarities between Islamic and Christian beliefs. Now, in his sweet, unbroken voice, Dorian recited from the Koran: ‘I am but a man like yourselves, but the inspiration has come to me that your God is one God. Whoever expects to meet his Lord, let him work righteousness.’
There was a sharp intake of breath from every man in the chamber. Even the Prince leaned forward quickly, and stared raptly into Dorian’s clear green eyes.
Dorian was delighted with the sensation he had created. He had always enjoyed the theatrical performances Master Walsh had arranged at High Weald and on board ship, when Dorian had usually been cast as a woman. However, this was undoubtedly his most acclaimed performance.
In the long silence the Prince straightened slowly and turned to the man who sat immediately behind him. Dorian saw by his dress that he was a mullah, a religious leader, the Islamic equivalent of a priest. ‘Expound on the child’s words,’ the Prince ordered.
‘It is verse one hundred and ten of Sura eighteen,’ the mullah admitted reluctantly. His face was round and glossy with good living, and a pot belly bulged on to his lap. His straggly goatee beard had been dyed a faded orange with henna. ‘The child has quoted it accurately, but even a parrot can be trained to mouth words he does not understand.’
The Prince turned back to Dorian. ‘What do you understand by righteousness, child?’
Alf Wilson had prepared him for that, and Dorian did not hesitate. ‘It is the true respect for God, which shuns the worship of idols, or deified men, or the forces of nature, or especially of one’s own self.’
Al-Malik turned back to his mullah. ‘Are those the words of a parrot?’ he asked.
The holy man looked discomfited. ‘They are not, lord. They are wise words indeed.’
‘How old are you, child.’ Al-Malik fixed Dorian with his dark, piercing gaze.
‘I am eleven, almost twelve,’ Dorian told him proudly.
‘Are you of Islam?’
‘I would rather my nose were eaten away with leprosy,’ Dorian replied. ‘I am a Christian.’
Neither the Prince nor the mullah showed shock or anger at such a vehement denial. They, too, would have rejected any suggestion of apostasy as strongly.
‘Come here, boy,’ al-Malik ordered, not unkindly, and Dorian stepped closer to him. He reached out and took a handful of Dorian’s freshly washed, glistening hair. Dorian submitted patiently as he ran it through his fingers. ‘Thus must have been the very hair of the Prophet,’ he said softly.
Every man in the room echoed, ‘Praise be to God.’
‘You may send him away now,’ al-Malik told al-Auf. ‘I have seen enough and we must talk.’
Ben Abram took Dorian’s hand and they went to the door.
‘Guard him well,’ al-Malik called after them, ‘but treat him gently.’ Ben Abram made the gesture of respect and obedience, touching his lips and his heart, and led Dorian back to his cell.
Al-Auf’s servants brought fresh pots of coffee. While one recharged the Prince’s tiny cup of pure gold with the tarry thick brew, another relit his hookah.
The bargaining for such a momentous purchase could not be hurried. Gradually with long, pregnant pauses and elaborate exchanges, expressed in poetic, flowery phrases, the two men moved closer to an agreement. Al-Auf had doubled his asking price to two lakhs in order to give himself latitude within which to manoeuvre, and gradually allowed himself to be beaten down.
It was long after dark when, by the light of the oil-lamps and in the fragrant smoke of the pipe, they reached agreement on the slave price for the child.
‘I do not travel with so much gold in my ship,’ al-Malik said. ‘I will take the child with me when I sail on the morrow, and I will send a fast dhow back to you as soon as I reach Lamu. You will have your lakh before the rise of the new moon. My sacred oath on it.’
Al-Auf barely hesitated. ‘As the great Prince decrees.’
‘Leave me now, for the hour grows late and I wish to pray.’
Al-Auf rose immediately. He had relinquished his own quarters to al-Malik for he was honoured to play host to such an exalted guest, and as he backed towards the door he made a series of deep genuflections. ‘May the houris of paradise attend your dreams, great Prince.
‘May your awakening be perfumed with the scent of violets, mighty one.
‘May your prayers fly like gold-tipped arrows straight to the ears of Allah, O Beloved of the Prophet.’
Dorian could not sleep. The sense of elation he had experienced after his meeting with the Prince had long since evaporated and left him frightened and lonely once more. He knew that, yet again, his circumstances had changed and that he was about to be thrown on dark, uncertain waters. Much as he hated his present dreary captivity, it was something to which he had grown accustomed. And there were small consolations in his present position: he had grown to like and depend upon the old Arab doctor. Ben Abram was a friendly face and Dorian sensed he had his interests at heart. Also, while he was on this island there was always a chance that his father and Tom would be able to follow the trail that led to him. If he were to be taken off to some other place by this fearsome prince, what chance then that they would still be able to track him down?
He was too afraid to blow out the flame of the oil-lamp, although it attracted the mosquitoes to his tiny cell, and preferred to scratch rather than lie awake in the dark. Below the walls of the fort, the palm fronds clattered softly in the unrelenting winds of the monsoon. He hugged himself and listened to the mournful sound of the wind, fighting back the temptation to give in to his tears.
Then he heard a different sound on the wind, so light that at first it did not quite penetrate the dark mists of his misery. It died away, then came back stronger and more clearly. He sat up and reached for the lamp. His fingers were trembling so that he almost dropped it.
He stumbled across the cell to the step below the loophole, and came up at the full stretch of his chain. He placed the lamp on the sill and listened again. There was no mistake: somebody was whistling softly down there at the edge of the forest, and as he recognized the tune his heart leaped and soared.
It’s Tom. He wanted to scream it aloud, and he strained against his chain to reach the opening. He tried to sing the next line of the song, but his voice broke and his lips were numb with excitement. He gathered himself and tried again, pitching his voice so softly that it would not carry to the guards at the end of the passage or to the watchmen on the ramparts of the fort above him:
We’ll rant and we’ll roar, all o’er the wild ocean,
We’ll rant and we’ll roar, all o’er the wild seas.
The whistling out there in the night broke off abruptly. He strained his ears but heard no more. He wanted to call out but knew it might alert someone so held his tongue, though it burned in his mouth like a live coal.
Suddenly there was a scrabbling sound close outside the loophole, and Tom’s voice. ‘Dorry!’
‘Tom! Oh, I knew you would come. I knew you would keep your promise.’
‘Shh, Dorry! Not so loud. Can you climb out through the window?’
‘No, Tom. I’m chained to the wall.’
‘Don’t cry, Dorry. They’ll hear you.’
‘I’m not crying.’ Dorian stuffed his fingers into his mouth to muffle the sounds of his weeping.
Tom’s head appeared in the opening of the window.
‘Here!’ Dorian gulped back the last sob and reached with both hands through the loophole. ‘Give me your hand.’ Tom struggled to force his way through the tiny opening but at last fell back. ‘Its no good, Dorry.’ Their faces were only a foot apart. ‘We’ll have to come back for you.’
‘Please don’t leave me here, Tom,’ Dorian begged.
‘The Seraph is waiting just off-shore. Father, Aboli and I, we are all here. We will be back for you soon.’
‘Tom!’
‘No, Dorry. Don’t make so much noise. I swear to you we’ll come back for you.’
‘Tom, don’t leave me alone! Tom!’ His brother was going, he could not bear it. Dorian pulled desperately at his arm, trying to force him to stay.
‘Let go, Dorry! You’ll make me fall.’
Then there was a shout from the battlements above them, and a voice cried out in Arabic: ‘Who is it? Who is down there?’
‘The guards, Dorry. Let me go.’
Suddenly Dorian felt his brother’s arm torn from his grip and at the same time there came the roar of a musket shot from close above their heads. He knew his brother had been hit, and he heard his body slide down the wall, then, with a terrible thump, hit the ground far below.
‘Oh, no! Please, God, no!’ Dorian cried.
He tried to put his head through the loophole far enough to see if his brother was truly killed, but the chain held him back.
There was a chorus of shouts and a wild fusillade of musket fire from the top of the walls. Quickly, confusion spread through the garrison. Within minutes he heard Arab voices at the foot of the wall below his window.
‘There is nobody here,’ someone shouted up at the guards on the ramparts above Dorian’s head.
‘I know I hit him!’ the guard shouted down. ‘He must be there.’
‘No, there is no one here – but I see the marks where he fell.’
‘He must have escaped into the forest.’
‘Who was it?’
‘A Frank. His face was very white in the moonlight.’
Their voices receded into the forest. Then Dorian heard more shouting and musket fire, and the sound of men blundering about among the trees. Gradually the noises receded into the distance.
Dorian stood by the loophole for the rest of that night, waiting and listening. But slowly the last sparks of hope flickered out, and when the grey dawn at last lit the bay and the ocean beyond, there was no sight of the Seraph. Only then did he creep back to his sheepskin, and bury his face in the silk pillow to stifle his sobs and to soak up his tears.
They came to fetch him at noon. The two women who had taken care of him were weeping and wailing at the prospect of losing their charge, and when the gaoler unlocked his leg-iron he said gruffly, ‘Go with God, little monkey. There will be nobody to make us laugh when you are gone.’
Ben Abram took him down to where al-Auf waited for him, hands clasped angrily on his hips, beard bristling with rage. ‘What Frankish dogs were those that came sniffing around your kennel last night, puppy?’ he demanded.