Swords of Arabia: Warlord Read online

  Zahirah herself leaned far out of the vessel and, quickly but carefully, reached out and took her baby daughter from the gently snuffling sea-creatures. She was never sure afterwards if she imagined the kindness and understanding in the eyes of the smaller of the two dolphin, as both, seeing their recent charge now safe, flicked their tails and, bounding joyously through the water, rejoined their own family, part of an adventure few would later believe, but one seen by too many to deny.

  Fiercely rebutting all attempts to help, Zahirah clutched the unconscious child tightly. Panic-stricken, she held her ear to the small figure’s chest, desperate to hear if she was still breathing.

  She wasn’t.

  Zahirah’s distraught wail was cut off as, firmly but gently, her grip was loosened from the little figure. Savage words became stillborn, as did words of command to her guard to punish the violation, as she looked into the face of the elderly captain of the vessel.

  “Lady, forgive me – but there is still hope. Give me the child.” Gently but firmly, he repeated his request.

  Hope! For that she would try anything and forgive more. She let the old man carefully take Leila, and watched as he laid her gently down on the wooden deck; watched, as he placed the tiny bundle face-down and carefully pressed down between her shoulders, once, twice, three times; watched as, pausing and seeing no sign of life, he turned the sodden bundle carefully over and, opening her mouth, carefully breathed into it, in the smallest of small breaths.

  Watching him, Zahirah knew, at last, what ‘time standing still’ actually meant. Ever afterwards, when she thought back to those awful moments, when she felt – knew – that her child was lost to her, the only thing she clearly remembered was that nothing, and no one, seemed to move at any speed at all. Her own hand seemed to take forever to reach her face, to stop a cry that, itself seemed to take an age to reach from her chest, to her throat, to her mouth; the onlookers all seemed to move and cry in the slowest of slow motions; even the waters themselves seemed to slow.

  The curious, disorientating feeling was broken only by the sputtering cough of the little girl, followed by a gush of water from her mouth. Leila opened her eyes and burst into tears as, seeing her mother, she opened her small arms to her.

  Scooping her up, Zahirah, turned to the boat’s captain. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you with all my heart!”

  “It is nothing, Lady. I am glad to have been of some service.”

  “Seek me out on our return. The Lord Mohammed will wish to reward you for saving his daughter’s life.”

  “I wish no reward, Lady. I have children, and grandchildren, of my own. They have all given me much practice over the years, dealing with the results of their foolishness!” he continued, shaking his head. “I know what it would be to lose one. It is enough to have helped,” he added with a smile.

  Zahirah nodded, touched by the man’s simple dignity. “Indeed, our children are a sore trial to us. Are they not?” she responded, smiling. “But please, attend on my husband on our return. He will at least want to give his own thanks,” she added. She knew the gratitude of Leila’s father would be almost boundless, the reward to the elderly seafarer equally great. That she, herself, would quietly add to it, meant that the sailor’s family would never suffer hardship again.

  Still cradling her daughter, she turned away, and all gentleness left her voice as she spat out a command that brought Leila’s terrified attendant hurrying to her side. The Sheikha’s black eyes stared at the cowering girl, the cold fury in them entirely visible to the petrified slave-girl.

  “This should not have happened. You are the child’s attendant and responsible – and had she died, so would have you,” she said coldly. “But,” she went on, “by the grace of Allah, she did not, so both she, and you, have a second chance. Do not waste yours,” she added, handing her now shivering daughter to the young girl, who was herself shaking as much as the chilled infant. The attendant was to wonder much later, just what had stopped the other woman from ordering her a severe whipping at the very least.

  It had, indeed, been a close run thing, but the years had tempered Zahirah’s ruthlessness with a clear-sightedness which often, though not always, tempered her fury with some pragmatism. In truth though, she knew that, young as her charge still was, her nurse had a major problem with curbing the infant’s already colossal will. And, in a situation where her elder sister and, more to the point, her brother, couldn’t constrain her, no slave girl could rightly be held to blame. Zahirah had already resolved that her wilful daughter would have a second full-time attendant, not so much to protect her from the world, but from the results of her own wilful stubbornness. Zahirah didn’t envy the nurses their role, which could only get more onerous as the child grew.

  Her voice softened as she turned to her son and his older cousin, both now dried and changed into some odd but dry clothing.

  She knelt beside them. “My two warriors. The Lords Fouad and Mohammed will feel as blessed as I already do, when they hear of your courage today.

  “We… we did nothing Lady. The dolphins saved her, not us,” stammered Fahad.

  “Yes, but we did dive in!” exclaimed Talal, determined to get credit for that at least.

  “Indeed you did. Both of you; without hesitation. You showed courage and love. Yes, the dolphins helped, but neither of you knew that when you risked all and went into the water. I’m proud of you both and I thank you.”

  She hid a smile, as the chests of both boys swelled a little at this. But, in truth, she was proud of them. She, more than most, knew that a person’s innate ‘self’ was often shown when the unexpected arose and they had to respond, without thought, from something deep within themselves; something so intrinsic, that no external force, no amount of training, discipline, or example, could bestow on them.

  “Mother, we’re still going to the Pearl beds, aren’t we?” Talal asked anxiously.

  She debated briefly, but as the three main participants in the recent drama were recovering with the swiftness of youth, she decided to continue to his, and the other children’s, delight.

  Leila, now dried, changed and once more in her arms, Zahirah again took her seat on the dais, as the boat once more surged forward towards the fabled pearl beds. Ancient and near-legendary though they indeed were, to Zahirah’s ever pragmatic mind they were only one further source of her income. A rich and growing one, to be sure, but in the three years since she had first invested in the trade, she had never once felt the allure of the rich, creamy jewel of the seas.

  Indeed, as ever with Zahirah, there was more than one reason behind the excursion. Besides giving the children and herself a break from the heat and dust of the town, she had other reasons for the expedition. One was her wish to observe the methods, unchanged for many centuries, by which the pearls were brought to the surface. Although this was the fourth season for her investment in the hugely profitable trade, it was the first where she expected to make any significant profits.

  When she’d first considered getting involved in the industry, she hadn’t needed the extensive network she’d built up since her arrival in the country eight years before, to discover what she needed to know about the ancient trade. Many people, from all levels of the town’s society, indeed, almost half the population, were either directly or indirectly involved in, or dependent on, the lucrative business; so gathering the information she needed was easily done. She had taken a while to decide, however, as although the profits were huge, the activity carried some risk.

  Her thoughts were interrupted as she saw Talal and Fahad, now back to their normal high spirits, laughing, as their gaze focused on something on the deck. Zahirah’s heart almost stopped for the second time that morning, as she saw that their ‘toy’ was a very real and lethal-looking gun. Seeing the chief officer of her guard moving quickly towards the boys, she relaxed a little as she stood and walked towards them, both absorbed in their new plaything.

  Not wanting either of the youngs
ters to lose face by her interfering, she left it to the young officer to deal with.

  “It’s not loaded!” she heard Fahad’s aggrieved exclamation, as he pointed to the revolver’s bullets lying on the wooden deck.

  Zahirah, relaxed slightly, relieved that her son wasn’t in imminent danger of being shot by his excitable cousin or, indeed, himself.

  “I've not seen such as this before. Show me how it works, Nephew,” she said, as she reached the little group, partly with genuine interest and partly to soothe Fahad’s youthful indignation.

  For any other woman to show such interest, all three males would have been stunned into speechless outrage. That it was the Lady Zahirah, of course, meant that little surprised them, so Fahad was proud to show off his prowess. His usual shyness in the presence of the charismatic wife of his uncle was forgotten, as he happily explained the mechanics of the old-fashioned revolver. He went into great detail about the loading and firing, rather more so than Zahirah, really, wanted to hear, but seeing her son’s rapt interest, she let the older boy enjoy his moment. That he had such knowledge didn’t surprise her. At thirteen, he was considered almost a man and not many seasons would pass before he accompanied Fouad and Mohammed into battle. She also took it for granted that her sons would also be so ‘blooded’ as they came of age. The society she lived in was too violent for it to be otherwise. Nor, if the truth were told, herself, the offspring of countless generations of fighters, did she really wish it otherwise.

  She watched as he quickly reloaded the heavy gun, Talal demanding to hold the weapon.

  “It is safe, Lady, unless the hammer is pulled back,” Fahad explained and, seeing her nod agreement, passed the gun to his young cousin.

  Later, the gun safely returned to its holster, and seated again on the dais, now shaded by a large awning of palm leaves, she pondered on the industry she was journeying to visit. She was well aware that she was one of its more generous investors. As ever with her, it wasn’t altruism that made her be so. She didn’t have the emotional depth for empathy. What she did have was the knowledge, burned deep inside her from her own experiences, that effort done under duress not only needed more pressure to extract, but was less effective, and needed constant surveillance for that effort to be continued. So she made sure that her teams of divers, sailors and captains were free of the usual crippling debts which frequently lead to a life of servitude – and that often through more than one generation – normal in the exploitative trade.

  So, she had instituted, against the advice of her diverse band of advisers, and the vested interests of other merchants, a system where everyone involved got a small but honest share of any profit, on top of their usual minimal daily wage. She also undertook that, should a year be unusually bad, she would ensure that the families of her divers and sailors didn’t starve, and this at her expense, rather than by means of the usual loans, given only with heavy interest. Had she wished to do more – and she didn’t – those same vested interests and their powerful backers ensured that she couldn’t. Even so, her men were amongst the better paid in an appallingly badly paid and dangerous industry.

  Her comparatively generous terms were, however, seen by some, as an example of her weakness; her being a woman – though usually dealing through male intermediaries – also marked her down as being easy to rob. It was a double delusion that she would soon brutally disabuse at least two of its holders of in the very near future, yet another reason behind the apparently innocent day’s excursion.

  *

  Mohammed, having watched as the boats pulled away from the quayside and head towards the harbour mouth and open water, turned decisively and, with his guards surrounding him, moved quickly back into the town. He relaxed only a little, as the heavy wooden gates closed behind them. His fears about the trip weren't groundless, he knew, but he also knew the crucial importance of showing neither fear nor weakness. Too many knew of the planned trip to cancel; that would send the wrong signal to their enemies, hidden or otherwise, hence his reluctant agreement for it to go ahead.

  He'd miss Zahirah, miss being without her company, he always did, whenever they had to be apart, which was often. In Fouad's absence, however, he had much to do. The town was seething with undercurrents and the deserts continually on the edge of turmoil. If it wasn't ibn Saud on one of his endless, questing, raids inside Narashi territory, it would be one of the clans or tribes, whether restless under Fouad's rule, or just seizing an opportunity to raid a weaker neighbour. It all added up to an unstable brew and one which was taking an increasing amount of Fouad's time to keep under control.

  Even more to be feared was the increasing power of the Ikhwan or Brotherhood. Although coming into settled existence only very recently, they were already the fiercest and most feared of all the warring elements in northern and eastern Arabia. Driven by an unwavering belief in the most fundamentalist and literal interpretation of Islam, and a complete intolerance of any deviation from those tenets, they waged total and unrelenting war on any opposed to them. They were absolutely fearless in battle; indeed, far from fearing death, they welcomed it as the gateway to paradise and life everlasting. Once they attacked, and were victorious, they slaughtered everyone, even the women and children. This was unusual in desert warfare, but then, they were themselves unusual – and much feared.

  Fouad had heard worrying rumours that they and ibn Saud had joined forces, whispers he'd heard with the chill of absolute dread. Both the al Saud and the Ikhwan were powerful, ruthless and resourceful opponents of him and his house. If the rumours turned out to be true, then, he knew, he and his kin were facing the greatest threat ever to the continued existence of both their own line and of any independence for Narash; the greatest and perhaps the last. Neither Fouad nor Mohammed had any delusions as to the threat. Both could be – had been – contained separately, but, together, they might just prove unbeatable.

  It was to try and discover the true extent of the threat and attempt to separate fact from fiction, never easy in Arabia, that Fouad had ridden at the head of a large force into the interior. As well as scouting the restless border lands, he also wanted the very size of his force to send a powerful message to any waverers in those lands.

  Mohammed, expecting to ride out with him, as always, was dismayed at staying behind, but understood that Fouad, having lost the town once, had to be sure it was held by one whose loyalty was beyond question and was strong enough to hold it should a threat arise.

  Mohammed, though welcoming the extra time he could spend with Zahirah, was as restless as her when caged up in the town. Unlike Fouad who, though of ancient desert stock himself, had been born in the town itself, he'd been born in the wilds of the interior, and always felt hemmed in when not in the sandy heartland of the sheikhdom.

  No administrator, he left much in the charge of Isaac ben Ismail. A man to trust, Mohammed reflected, even more so, as he worked closely with both Firyal and Zahirah. Indeed, Mohammed cynically suspected that, on some occasions, he was their mouthpiece rather than collaborator. Whatever the relationship, it was one, he knew, that his half-brother valued highly and was increasingly reliant on. Mohammed himself, therefore, was content to leave things unchanged in his absence. Fighting was his forte, and he was feeling edgy as he stepped into the cool of the shaded courtyard. Both instinct and spies told him something was stirring in the old walled town.

  Though disliking the work, he had, however, much to do in concert with ben Ismail, and it was many hours before he climbed the steps to the battlements, their dusty covering of sand rasping under his sandalled feet. With the garrison having been severely reduced, he needed to be doubly sure that those warriors remaining were as alert as he himself, to the possibility of trouble, only vaguely seen, but keenly felt.

  Chapter 15

  Though dramatic, the morning's events were swiftly over, and with the captain expertly ensuring the ghanjah captured every breath of the salt-laden winds, they arrived at the pearl beds scarcely later than pla
nned.

  The unannounced arrival of her heavily armed flotilla caused some alarm as it descended on the working boats. The pearlers' fears that they were being attacked were scarcely allayed, however, on hearing that the boats carried the Lady Zahirah. Respected and honoured as one of the industry's fairer employers, she was also increasingly feared for her ruthless approach to any shortcomings or dishonesty in those who served her.

  Mindful of her husband's concerns, Zahirah decided against transferring to one of the smaller boats and had the ghanjah anchor at the edge of the pearling fleet. Although within yards of the divers, the children clamoured to be allowed onto one of the pearling dhows. After a hurried conversation with the officer in charge of her escort she agreed, and, protected by some of her guards, all but a still subdued Leila and Fahad were ferried the few yards across the water. Fahad, torn between wanting to go with the other youngsters and what he saw as his duty to Zahirah, decided to stay on the ghanjah and watched a little enviously as the other youngsters excitedly clambered aboard the nearest dhow. They all somehow managed to squeeze onto a deck already crammed with many divers, each waiting their turn to dive.

  Other men were being helped back aboard after being relieved of the baskets they'd carried down to the seabed, then empty, now full with the greyish, heavily calloused shells all hoped would conceal a treasure. As they surfaced, yet others were plunging into waters whipped to a foam by the unrelenting, ceaseless activity.

  Giving orders to have the captains of two of the dhows brought over to the ghanjah, Zahirah turned and continued to watch with interest as yet more divers plunged overboard, long ropes tied round their waists. After one or two minutes they were pulled back to the surface by their Saib, or hauler, handed up their baskets, helped back aboard and were immediately replaced by another diver. Then the first diver dived again, and so on and so on, a never-ending chain of human endeavour. Every second of every dive aimed only at securing the luminous, almost magical, jewel; the irony that it started life as a mere irritant to its host, occurring to no one.