by Wilbur Smith
Ibn Yaqub’s authority still held only close to his stronghold, but as it reached out into those burning deserts and across the endless waters of the Ocean of the Indies it grew ever more dilute and insubstantial. The desert sheikhs and the dhow commanders would follow only a man they respected.
Already some had sent secret emissaries to al-Malik, for he had proved himself a mighty man and a warrior without peer. They all knew that the Caliph had banished him to the outpost of the empire at Lamu because he was fearful of his half-brother’s influence and popularity. The messengers promised that if he returned to Arabia, to the Omani, and headed a revolt against his brother then they would rise behind him. With him at the helm of the state they would once more unite against the Ottoman. ‘It is your duty and your God-given right. If you come to us then the mullahs will declare jihad, righteous war, and we will ride behind you to overthrow the tyrant,’ they promised.
These were dire matters, and fraught with terrible perils. If they should fail, none of the six men seated on the terrace could doubt what the consequences would be for them personally. They sat long, debating the chances of success, and the justice of their cause.
When the council began, the dhows on the beach below them had been stranded by the ebb, high and dry and heeled over. Long lines of slaves had wound out across the exposed sand to unload their cargoes. While the council talked, the tide began to flood, and gradually the ships righted themselves and floated free. They spread their matting sails and tacked out into the channel. Fresh arrivals from the mainland, heavily laden with cargo, came in to moor above the beach. Still the six men on the terrace talked and debated, and the tide reached high slack, then began its ebb.
All this time al-Malik listened, and spoke little, while he allowed each of the others to say what was in their hearts without check or restraint. Carefully he sifted the gems of wisdom from the dross.
They reviewed the order of battle of those forces on which they could rely, and made lists of those sheikhs who were uncommitted or doubtful. They compared these to the powers that ibn Yaqub commanded. Only when he had heard all they had to say did al-Malik make his decision. ‘It will depend upon the tribes of the deep desert, the Saar, the Dahm and the Karab. They are the greatest warriors of all the Omani. Without them our cause cannot prosper. Yet we have not heard from them. We do not know in which direction they will point the war lance.’
His councillors murmured agreement, and al-Malik said softly, ‘I must go to them.’
They were silent for a while, considering this bold course of action, and then al-Allama said, ‘Your brother the Caliph will not allow it. If you insist, he will smell danger on the wind.’
‘I will make the haj, the pilgrimage to Mecca, taking the ancient desert route to the Holy Places, the road that passes through the territory of the tribes. The Caliph cannot forbid a pilgrim, under penalty of eternal damnation.’
‘There is great risk,’ al-Allama said.
‘There is never great gain without great risk,’ al-Malik replied, ‘and God is great.’
‘Allah akbar!’ they replied. ‘Surely, God is great.’
Al-Malik made a graceful gesture of dismissal, and one by one they came to embrace him, kiss his hand and take their leave. Al-Allama was the last, and al-Malik said, ‘Stay with me. It is the hour of Maghrib, the prayers at the setting of the sun. We will pray together.’
Two slave-girls brought pitchers of pure sweet well water and the two men performed the ritual purification, washing their hands in the water that the girls poured for them from the silver pitchers, rinsing their mouths three times, snuffing water cupped in the right palm three times and blowing it out of the nostril with the fingers of the left hand, then going on to bathe their faces, arms and feet.
The slave-girls left and al-Allama stood and faced the Kabaa in Mecca, thousands of miles to the north. Cupping his hands behind his ears, he began the call to prayer in a loud voice. ‘God is great. I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of God. Come to prayer! Come to your own good!’
Below them in the courtyard and under the palm trees along the head of the beach, hundreds of robed figures assembled quietly and took up the posture of reverence, all facing in the same direction.
‘The prayer has begun!’ chanted al-Allama.
When it was ended, al-Malik gestured for the mullah to take a seat on the cushion close to his right hand. ‘I saw the boy, al-Amhara, on the beach when I arrived. Tell me how he has fared in my absence.’
‘He grows like a tamarind tree, strong and tall. Already he is a fine horseman. He has a quick mind and a ready tongue, sometimes too ready. He is often prone to lack respect for his elders and betters. He does not take readily to criticism or restraint. And when he is angry or thwarted, his choice of invective would make a sea captain pale,’ al-Allama said primly.
Al-Malik hid his smile behind the rim of his coffee-cup. What he heard only made him like his infidel son the more. He would make a leader of men.
Al-Allama went on, ‘He has come to manhood, and been properly circumcised by Ben Abram. When the time comes for him to accept Islam, he will be ready.’
‘That is good,’ the Prince said. ‘And tell me, holy father, have your teachings borne fruit in that direction?’
‘He now speaks our language as though born to it, and he can recite long sections of the Holy Koran from memory.’ Al-Allama looked uneasy and evasive.
‘Has he made any progress towards submitting himself to God?’ al-Malik insisted. ‘Without that the prophecy can have no effect.’
‘The Prophet Himself has said that no man can be forced to convert to Islam. He must come to it in his own way and in his own time.’
‘So your answer is no?’
‘He glories in argument. Sometimes I think the only reason he memorizes the Koran is the better to argue with me. He glories in the religion of his own people and boasts that one day he will be inducted into some Christian religious order, which he calls the Knights of the Order of St George and the Holy Grail, like his grandfather and his father before him.’
‘It is not for us to question the ways of Allah,’ al-Malik said.
‘God is great!’ Al-Allama endorsed his assertion. ‘But there is more to tell concerning the boy. We have had an enquiry from the English consul in Zanzibar concerning him.’
Al-Malik leaned forward earnestly. ‘I thought that the consul in Zanzibar had been murdered over a year ago?’
‘That was the man named Grey. Since his death the English have sent another to take his place.’
‘I see. What form did this enquiry from the new man take?’
‘He describes the boy accurately, his age and colouring. He knows that al-Amhara was captured by al-Auf, and that he was sold into slavery. He knows that he was bought by Your Excellency. He knows the name that we have given him – al-Amhara.’
‘How has he learned all this?’ Worry lines creased al-Malik’s brow.
‘I do not know, except that Ben Abram has told me much about the boy’s lineage. He met and spoke to al-Amhara’s elder brother when the Franks captured him at al-Auf’s base.’
The Prince nodded. ‘What does the doctor know concerning the boy?’
‘His family is noble, close to the English King. Despite his youth, al-Amhara’s brother is a formidable fighting mariner, and he has sworn a mighty oath to find and rescue his younger brother. Perhaps it is this family who is behind these enquiries from Zanzibar. We do not know this for certain, but it would be wise not to ignore these questions.’
Al-Malik pondered this, then asked, ‘The English are buyers and owners of slaves. How can they object to the same practice in others? What can they do to force us to their will? Their land is far away, at the end of the earth. They cannot send an army against us.’
‘Ben Abram says that the Franks have perfidious ways of making war. They issue firman to the captains of their armed merchant ships against their enemies. These men are like sharks
, or barracudas. They come for plunder.’
‘Would the English King declare war on us over one child?’
‘Ben Abram fears that he might. Not only for the sake of the child but also for the excuse to send their ships into our waters, to seize the territory and the riches of the Omani.’
‘I will think on all that you have told me.’ Al-Malik dismissed him. ‘Bring Ben Abram and the boy to me here tomorrow after the Zuhr prayers.’
Dorian came to his audience with the Prince consumed by both trepidation and excitement at the prospect. When he had first met the Prince, Dorian had been possessed of no such qualms: al-Malik had been only another Mussulman, an enemy and a pagan chief. However, he had learned much since he had been under the instruction of al-Allama and Ben Abram. Henow knew that the Prince’s claim to royalty stretched back as far as that of the English King, he knew of his exploits as a sailor and a warrior, of the reverence his subjects felt towards him. In addition to this, the spiritual umbilical cord that bound Dorian to England and Christianity was unravelling and eroding with time and great distance.
These days he never had opportunity to speak his own language, he thought in Arabic, and had difficulty recalling the English words for even the simplest ideas. Even his memories of his family were fading. Hethought ofhis brother Tom only on occasion, and all ideas of escape from Lamu had been abandoned. He no longer thought of his state here on the island as one of captivity. Slowly he was being absorbed into the Arab world and the Arab way of thought. Now, confronted with the Prince again, he was overcome with awe and reverence.
When he knelt before al-Malik on the coral stones of the terrace and asked for his blessing, his heart ran faster with surprise and pleasure at the form in which the Prince returned his greeting. ‘Come and sit beside me, my son. We have much to discuss.’ This regal and impressive man had reaffirmed him as his son in front of these witnesses. Dorian felt proud, then experienced a sharp pang of guilt. He had a fleeting image of his true father, but the picture in his mind of Hal’s face was blurring.
I will always be true to my real father, he promised himself staunchly, but he obeyed al-Malik’s invitation promptly and gladly.
‘In my absence you have become a man.’ Al-Malik studied him keenly.
‘Yes, my lord,’ Dorian replied, and had to stop himself adding automatically, ‘By the grace of Allah.’
‘I can see that this is so.’ Al-Malik picked out the outline of firm young muscle and breadth of shoulders beneath the kanzu that Dorian wore so naturally. ‘And it is therefore fitting that you should relinquish the name of the child and take in its stead the name of the man. From henceforth you shall be called al-Salil.’
‘It is the will of Allah,’ al-Allama and Ben Abram said together. They both looked proud and pleased with this honour that the Prince had accorded their protégé. It redounded to their credit, for the name the Prince had chosen was a propitious one: it meant the Drawn Sword.
‘Your beneficence is like the rising of the sun after the dark night,’ Dorian replied, and al-Allama nodded his approval at the choice of words and their inflection.
‘It is also fitting that you should have your own lance-bearer.’ Al-Malik clapped his hands andayoung man stepped out onto the terrace with a long, raking stride, like that of a racing camel. He was probably fifteen years older than Dorian, in his late twenties, and a warrior by his dress and mien. He wore a curved scimitar at his waist and carried a round bronze shield on his shoulder.
‘This is Batula,’ the Prince told him. ‘He will make his oath to you.’
Batula came to Dorian and knelt in front of him. ‘From this day forward you are my liege lord,’ he said in a strong, clear voice. ‘Your enemies are my enemies. Wherever you may ride, I shall carry your lance and your shield at your right hand.’
Dorian put his hand upon Batula’s shoulder in acceptance of the pledge, and Batula rose to his feet. The two young men looked each other in the face, and instinctively Dorian liked what he saw there. Batula was not handsome of features, but his face was broad and honest, his nose large and hawkish. When he smiled his teeth were even and white. He wore his thick dark hair oiled with ghee and twisted into a braid over one wide shoulder.
‘Batula is an exponent of the lance,’ al-Malik said, ‘and a warrior tried in battle. There is much he has to teach you, al-Salil.’ The lance was the weapon of the true Arab horseman. Dorian had watched the novices at practice on the field of arms, and had thrilled to the charge of pounding hoofs, the steely flash of the lance-points as they picked a suspended brass finger ring out of the air at full charge.
‘I shall be a willing pupil,’ Dorian promised.
Al-Malik dismissed Batula. When he had left the terrace the Prince resumed, ‘Very soon I shall undertake another long journey to the north, the pilgrimage to Mecca through the sands and the wilderness of the deserts. You will accompany me, my son.’
‘My heart rejoices that you choose me, great lord.’
Al-Malik made the gesture of dismissal, and when Dorian had gone he turned back to al-Allama and Ben Abram. ‘You will send a message to the Sultan in Zanzibar for him to pass on to the English consul there.’ He paused to collect the words, then went on, ‘Tell him that Prince al-Malik indeed purchased al-Amhara from al-Auf. He did this to take the boy under his protection and to shield him from harm. Tell him that, despite all al-Malik could do to protect him, al-Amhara fell sick of a pestilence and that he died a year ago. He is buried here on the island of Lamu. Tell him that al-Malik has spoken thus.’
Al-Allama bowed. ‘It shall be as you command, Your Excellency.’ He was impressed by this ingenious solution.
‘Al-Amhara is dead,’ al-Malik went on. ‘You will erect a headstone in the cemetery with that name on it. Al-Amhara is dead. Al-Salil lives on.’
‘By God’s grace.’ Al-Allama acknowledged the order.
‘I shall take the boy with me into the desert and leave him with the Saar to hide him. There in the sands he will learn the warrior’s way. In time the Franks will forget that he once existed.’
‘This is a wise decision.’
‘Al-Salil is more than a son to me, he is my living talisman. I shall never yield him to the demands of the Franks,’ he said, softly but firmly.
The Swallow came up the channel, then tacked into the roads of Zanzibar. Ahead there were ten sail of square-rigged ships lying in the anchorage, besides a mass of Arab dhows. Tom Courtney looked them over carefully. They flew the flags of some of the great trading nations of the northern hemisphere, with a preponderance of Portuguese and Spaniards.
‘Not a Frenchie in sight, Mr Tyler,’ Tom announced, with relief. He did not relish the complications of sharing a neutral port with ships of the enemy.
‘No,’ agreed Ned. ‘But there is at least one East India-man.’ He pointed out the tall ship, a princess of the ocean, displaying the majesty of the Company. ‘They will offer us an even frostier welcome than the Frenchies would have done.’
Tom grinned recklessly. ‘I give not a fig for them,’ he said. ‘They can do nothing to us outside the courts of England, and we will not be back there for a while.’ And added, under his breath, ‘Not until they drag me there in chains.’ He glanced up at his own masthead, devoid of any flag. He had not wanted to announce his nationality. ‘As soon as we anchor, I will go ashore to pay a visit to the new consul,’ he told Ned.
He had spoken to the captain of another English ship in Table Bay when they broke their long voyage at Good Hope. The captain had told him that Grey had a successor in the consular office in Zanzibar. ‘He is some young fellow sent from Bombay, after Grey was murdered, to take over the consular duties for the Fever Coast, and, of course, more importantly, to see to the interest of John Company in those seas.’
‘What is his name?’ Tom had wanted to know.
‘I don’t recall. I’ve never met him, but by all accounts he is surly and difficult, enchanted by his own importance.’
> Tom watched as Ned took the Swallow into the bay, and they dropped the anchor in water so clear they could see the multicoloured fish swarming over the coral heads four fathoms under the keel.
‘I will take Aboli ashore with me,’ Tom said, as soon as the longboat was launched.
The two landed on the stone jetty beneath the walls of the old Portuguese fort and made their way into the narrow streets.
The heat and the stinking bustle were all so familiar that Tom could hardly credit that it was almost two years since last he had come ashore here. They asked for directions from the Arab harbour master. ‘No, no,’ he told them. ‘The new consulate is no longer in effendi Grey’s old house in the town. I will send a boy to show you the way.’ And he picked out one of the ragged urchins from the swarm who were pestering the ferenghi for alms. ‘This son of Shaitan will guide you. Do not give him baksheesh of more than one anna.’
The boy danced ahead, leading them out of the jumble of narrow alleys and ramshackle buildings into the palm groves. Along a sandy road, a mile or more beyond the last hovel, they came to a large villa behind high walls. Although the house seemed old, the outer wall had been repaired recently and painted with burnt limewash. The roof of the main house that showed above the top of the wall was freshly thatched with palm fronds. There were two brass plaques on the gate. One was engraved: ‘His Majesty’s Consulate.’Below that was the Company’s emblem of rampant lions and the legend: ‘Office of the United Company of Merchants of England Trading to the East Indies.’