by Wilbur Smith
They scrambled out of the ruins and then, with exaggerated caution, crept down through the palm groves to the head of the beach. Dorian knew this stretch of the coast intimately. He had chosen a spot where low sandstone cliffs screened a tidal pool.
In the face of the cliff there was a shallow cave, which was filled with shadows that hid them as they sat side by side on the hard-packed damp sand. They looked out on the silvery moon-bathed cove. The tide was out, and the coral sand was exposed. It was purest white and the moon shadows of the sculpted sandstone pillars were cast stark and blue on its flat, unmarked sands. The low surf on the outer reef glowed with phosphorescence, which lit up their faces intermittently.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Yasmini whispered. ‘I would never have believed how beautiful.’
‘I am going to swim,’ Dorian said, and stood up. He pulled off his kanzu and kicked away his sandals. ‘Are you coming?’
Without waiting for an answer he walked out on the beach. At the edge of the pool he turned and looked back.
Yasmini emerged from the cave, moving like a fawn from the covert on legs that seemed too long for her childlike body. She had shed the tattered robe and was as naked as he. Dorian had seen slave-girls on the blocks in the market, but none had possessed this fairy grace. Her hair hung down her back to her small rounded buttocks, the streak through the sable hair was silver in the moonlight.
When she reached him she put out her hand in an innocent gesture and took his. Her creamy breast buds were barely defined, delicate swellings, but the little nipples stood proud, teased by the cool airs of the monsoon. He stared at them, and they made him feel strange, an unaccustomed tightness in the pit of his stomach.
Hand in hand they stepped into the pool. The water was warmer than the night air, warm as their own blood. Yasmini sank down into it, until her long hair floated out around her like the leaves of the water lotus, and she laughed with joy.
The moon was halfway to its zenith when at last he told her, ‘We must not stay here longer. It grows late, we must go back.’
‘I have never been so happy,’ she said. ‘Never in my life. I wish we could stay like this for ever.’ But she stood up obediently and the silvery water gilded her long slim limbs. They walked back up the beach and left their footprints like a double string of beads on the pale sand.
At the mouth of the cave she turned to him, ‘Thank you, Dowie.’ Then suddenly she threw both her arms around him, and hugged him. ‘I love you so much, my brother.’ Dorian stood awkwardly in her embrace. The feeling of her small body against him, the warmth of her skin through the cool drops of sea-water, gave him that strange feeling again in the pit of his stomach.
She stepped back and giggled. ‘I am all wet.’ She took a hank of her thick dark hair and twisted it. The water dripped from it on to the sand.
Dorian picked up his kanzu from where he had dropped it. ‘Turn around!’ he said, and obediently she offered him the slim curve of her back. He dried it roughly, scrubbing it with the folds of his robe.
‘The other side now.’
She turned to face him and he wiped the cloth over those small warm swellings on her chest, then down over her belly. ‘That tickles!’
Her stomach was smooth and concave, the only blemish upon it the puckering of her navel, and at its base, the little vertical cleft of hairless skin between her thighs.
‘Now put on your kanzu,’ he ordered, and she turned and picked up the garment off the sand. He saw that her buttocks were small and perfectly rounded. He felt his chest constrict, and he drew the next breath with difficulty.
She straightened up, and dropped the dirty kanzu over her head, and as she pushed her head out through the opening he was still standing staring at her. She gave him a pixie smile. Then, while she wound her hair into a thick rope and pushed it under the keffiya, she studied his body openly, and without any sense of guilt or sin. ‘You are so white, where the sun has not touched you – and look! You have hair down there also.’ She pointed with surprise. ‘It’s the same colour as on your head. It sparkles like silk in the moonlight. It’s pretty,’ she marvelled.
He had forgotten the soft fuzz that had sprouted over the past months. For the first time he felt shy, almost guilty, in front of her, and swiftly he covered himself with his own damp robe. ‘We must go!’ he said, and she had to run to catch up with him as he headed back towards the zenana. In the safety of the tunnel she shed the grubby kanzu and changed back into her own clothing.
‘Are you ready?’ Dorian asked.
‘Yes, Dowie.’ But before he could start down the tunnel she grabbed his hand. ‘Thank you, my brother,’ she whispered. ‘I will never forget what we did tonight, never, never!’
He tried to untangle her grip on his hand. His emotions confused him, and he felt almost angry with her for causing him to feel this way.
‘Can we come again, Dowie?’ she pleaded.
‘I don’t know.’ He pulled his hand free. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Please, Dowie. It was so much fun.’
‘Well, then, we will have to see.’
‘I will be so good. I will do anything you say. I won’t tease you or cheek you ever again. Just say yes. Please, Dowie.’
‘All right, Yassie. We will come again.’
A few days after their foray down the Angel’s Road, and before Dorian could make good his promise to take her again, Kush came to his living quarters. He appeared in the early morning, before the sun had risen, and with him were two of his eunuch slaves. Tahi met them at the door and tried to prevent them entering. ‘What do you want with al-Amhara?’ she demanded.
‘Stand aside, you old cow,’ Kush ordered. ‘The boy is no longer your charge.’
‘You have come to take him from me.’ Her voice quivered, and she snatched at his embroidered waistcoat as he tried to push past her.
‘Stand back, I warned you!’ He drove the butt of his staff into her belly, and she doubled over with pain.
‘Bring out the infidel,’ Kush ordered his two slaves and they rushed into Dorian’s small chamber. He was sitting up on his mat, rudely wakened by Kush’s penetratingly high tones from the room next door, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The eunuchs grabbed his arms and dragged him through to where Kush waited.
‘Take that off.’ Kush pointed with his staff at the kikoi cloth knotted around Dorian’s hips. They pulled it off, and Kush grinned lasciviously. ‘I thought so! A nice little garden you’re growing there.’ With the tip of his staff, he prodded the nest of fluffy red-gold curls that now covered Dorian’s mons pubis. Dorian tried to cover himself, but they forced him upright.
‘It is time for this to come off.’ He prodded Dorian with one fat beringed finger. ‘We will rid you of this smelly piece of skin.’
‘Don’t touch me!’ Dorian shouted furiously, his voice cracking, his cheeks flushing bright scarlet with anger and humiliation. ‘Take your fat white hands off me, you thing with no balls.’
The smirk dropped from Kush’s lips and he jerked his hand away. ‘Say your salaams to this old cow.’ He glared at Tahi. ‘You will see her no more. My fellows will wait with you while you pack your possessions. You are leaving the zenana. The knife awaits you, and a new life thereafter.’
At the door Tahi clung to him. ‘You are the son I could never have,’ she whispered. ‘I will love you all my life.’
‘And I will love you also, Tahi. I cannot remember my own mother, but she must have been like you.’
‘Be a man and a warrior, al-Amhara. Make me proud.’
‘Tell Yasmini—’ He broke off. What message could he send the little one? While he pondered it, the slaves pulled him out through the door. Desperately he called back to Tahi, ‘Tell Yasmini I will never forget her. Tell her she will always be my little sister.’
The slaves took him out to where the bullock cart waited in the front courtyard of the zenana. A small crowd of children and women servants had gathered to watch him go, but Yasmini was n
ot among them, although he looked for her as they rolled out through the gates.
‘It is always more difficult and dangerous when the boy is older,’ Ben Abram observed. ‘This should have been done much earlier, not at thirteen, when he is on the threshold of manhood.’
‘The boy comes from the world of the infidel and he is in a state of abomination until the ritual is performed. It must be done before the return of the Prince from Muscat,’ al-Allama replied. ‘If he is verily of the prophecy then Allah will protect the boy.’
Dorian stood naked before them. They were on the terrace of the palace, overlooking the harbour. Apart from the doctor and the holy mullah, there was a young black slave-girl with them, a pagan who could not be defiled by assisting Ben Abram.
Ben Abram laid out his instruments on the low table, then looked straight into Dorian’s eyes. ‘Pain is nothing to a man. Honour is everything. Remember that all your life, my son.’
‘I will not fail, old father,’ Dorian replied. They had discussed this many times before.
‘Bismilla-hi Allahu akbar!’ Ben Abram said quietly. ‘I begin in the name of Almighty God. Allah is great!’
At the same time the mullah began to recite a sura from the Koran in a slow sonorous tone. ‘“We begin with the name of Allah, who is most kind and merciful. O Allah, grant him full faith, everlasting security, abundance of provisions, maturity of mind, beneficial knowledge, guidance to perform righteous deeds, noble character, honour and sound health.”’
Ben Abram nodded to the slave-girl, who knelt in front of Dorian and took hold of his penis. She began to manipulate it with a milking motion. Swiftly it swelled and stiffened, and the girl modestly averted her eyes but she continued to fondle him until he was fully erect. Then Ben Abram selected a small, razor-sharp knife from the tray, and came to them. He said softly to the girl, ‘Enough!’ and she moved away.
‘In the Name of Allah,’ Ben Abram said, and made the first swift practised stroke of the blade.
Dorian stiffened at the sting, but he bit down and stopped the cry of pain before it reached his lips. Then came the next cut and the next, but still he fought back any outcry, and felt the blood run warm down his thighs.
At last Ben Abram laid aside the knife. ‘In the Name of God, it is done!’ And he bandaged the wound.
Dorian felt his legs quaking under him, but he kept all expression from his face, and his eyes open. Even al-Allama gave voice to his approval. ‘Now you are a man.’ He touched Dorian’s forehead in blessing. ‘And you have conducted yourself as a man indeed.’
Ben Abram took his arm and led him to a back room in the palace where a sleeping mat was laid ready for him. ‘I will come in the morning to bandage the wound again,’ he promised.
In the morning Dorian was flushed and hot, and the wound was ugly and inflamed. Ben Abram changed the dressing and laid on it a soothing ointment. Then he administered a bitter-tasting potion. Within days the fever had abated and the healing had begun. Before long, the scabs had come away and Ben Abram allowed Dorian to go alone to the ocean side of the island to swim in the warm clear waters, and to go down to the royal stables and help the grooms exercise the Prince’s horses, galloping along the white fluffy sand of the beaches and joining in the wild rowdy games of pulu.
Soon after, a sail was sighted coming up the channel, and the lookouts on the palace walls picked out the royal pennant at the masthead. The entire population of the island flocked down to the beaches to welcome the return of Prince Abd Muhammad al-Malik from the Omani capital of Muscat.
The Prince stepped ashore to the boom of cannon from the battlements of the fort, the ululations of the women and shouts of adoration from the men. They fired their long-barrelled jezails into the air, while the drums beat and the fifes wailed.
Dorian was with the grooms, who were holding the horses at the head of the beach. He had helped to burnish the tack, and polish the turquoise gemstones that adorned the Prince’s saddle and the cheekpieces of the bridle. As an adopted royal son, the head groom had accorded to Dorian the honour of leading al-Malik’s stallion forward and holding him for the Prince to mount.
Dorian watched the Prince coming up the beach, the crowds opening before him and his subjects prostrating themselves, trying to kiss the hem of his robes as he passed by. It was over a year since he had last seen him, and Dorian had forgotten how tall and regal he was in his snowy robes with the great jewelled dagger at his waist, its hilt of polished rhinoceros horn glowing with the soft lustre of amber. The headband that held his keffiya in place was of twisted gold wire. He strode towards where Dorian waited for him, smiling and returning the greetings of his subjects with the elegant gesture of blessing, touching his heart and his lips.
‘Salaam aliekum, great lord!’ Dorian bowed. Even though his voice was lost in the tumult of the crowd, the Prince looked into his face and Dorian saw, from the pleased expression in his dark eyes, that he recognized him. The Prince inclined his head slightly, then swung up into the saddle with the grace of an expert horseman and rode away towards the fort.
The Prince sat with his closest courtiers on the terrace of the palace, sipping coffee and listening to the reports of the men who had administered the islands and colonies in his absence. ‘There have been many Frankish ships calling at Zanzibar,’ his vizier told him. ‘More each month now that the kusi wind brings them in from the south. They all seek to trade for ivory and slaves.’
The sultanate of Zanzibar was part of the Prince’s domains, and a share of the profits from its markets found its way into his treasury. He could be sure that his subservient sultan would mulch the infidel for every rupee that the trade could stand.
‘Ali Muhammad must warn the infidel captains that I will not tolerate their presence north of Zanzibar. I most strictly forbid it.’ The gold and goods that the infidels brought with them were welcome, but al-Malik knew full well the avarice and ruthlessness of the Franks. They had already established factories and bases in the empire of the Great Mogul. Once they had a foothold they were impossible to budge. They must not be allowed to come as far north as Lamu.
‘Ali Muhammad is fully aware of your commands. If any infidel ship ventures into these waters he will send report to Your Excellency by swift dhow.’
The Prince nodded. ‘If the call for ivory is so great, how plentiful are our sources on the mainland?’
‘Ivory is every year more scarce, and the call of the infidel for more always greater.’
In a great part, the markets on Zanzibar and Lamu relied on the pagan black tribes of the interior to supply their needs. The tribes did not have muskets with which to hunt the giant pachyderms. Their method was to set primitive pitfalls, lined with sharpened stakes, into which they tried to stampede the herds. There were a few intrepid hunters among them who were capable of bringing down the elephant with bow and arrow, but their harvest was meagre.
‘Perhaps we should sell muskets to the chiefs to help them to gather greater quantities?’ a courtier suggested cautiously, but the Prince shook his head vehemently.
‘That is too dangerous,’ he said. ‘It may encourage them to revolt against our authority. We would be opening the door of the lion’s cage.’
They discussed the question at length, and then the Prince turned his attention to the slave trade. ‘As we harvest the slaves from coastal areas, they are driven further into the interior. Like the elephants, they become wilder and more wary. Each season the numbers we are able to obtain fall off.’
As with the ivory, the Arabs relied on the more warlike chiefs of the interior to fall upon their neighbours and to capture slaves from their traditional tribal enemies, then to bring them to the gathering points on the shores of the great lakes.
‘We might consider sending our own warriors into the forests to capture slaves,’ someone proposed.
The Prince stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘We would have to send good men and bold. We cannot know what they will encounter out there in the
wilderness. We can only be sure that it will be dangerous and hard.’ He paused to consider the suggestion further. ‘I will give you my decision on this later, but in the meantime draw up a list of the names of fifty men who might be relied upon to lead such an expedition.’
He dealt with each of these matters concerning trade, but before he went on to other more serious topics, he dismissed the least important members of his council, and kept only five of his most senior and trusted men with him to hear the outcome of his visit to Muscat. This was perilous ground, which reeked of conspiracy and treachery. The Caliph, al-Uzar ibn Yaqub, was older than the Prince by forty years, born of one of their father’s wives when he was a young man. Al-Malik was the child of his father’s dotage and his father’s last favourite, but as every horseman knew, ‘An old stallion and a young mare breed the finest foals.’
The tiny Omani empire was under grave threat from the conquering Ottomans, that mighty empire that had its capitals in Istanbul and Baghdad, and which sprawled across most of the Arab world. The only states that had so far resisted them were a few small principalities beneath the notice of the Turkish caliphs in the north, or those who had succeeded in defending themselves from the depredations of the Ottomans.
Oman was protected by its strong fleet against attack from the sea. Any aggressor who tried to come at it overland from the north would be confronted by the ferocious sands of the Rub Al Khali, the Empty Quarter, and by the desert warriors who made up the small Omani army, and for whom the desert was home.
Oman had defied the Ottoman conquerors for a hundred years, and could do so for another hundred, if only it were led by a strong and resourceful man. Ibn Yaqub was not that man. He was past seventy years of age, and given to convoluted political intrigue and conspiracy, rather than the rigours and hardships of war. His chief concern was always to safeguard his own position of power, rather than hold together and protect his small nation. In the process he had lost the respect of his tribes, for the Omani were made up of many, each under its own sheikh. Without firm direction these hard desert men were losing their sense of purpose and resolve, they were beginning to squabble among themselves, resuscitating ancient tribal blood feuds, and spurning the rule of the vacillating, cruel and scheming old man in Muscat.