As the slavers’ party approaches the emir’s encampment, the scattered tents are coming to life. When there is shelter, it is the custom to rest in the middle of the day though that time is now passing and shortly the whole camp will emerge to drink coffee, play games, talk and, of course, inspect the visitors more thoroughly. Emerging from the tent flaps new faces eagerly search the caravan for points of interest and land on the inevitable – Wellsted’s blue eyes, the famous slavers and Zena’s dark skin evidenced only by what is visible around her eyes, hands and feet. A child points.
Zena turns inwards, towards the camel. ‘They can hardly see any of me,’ she murmurs, expecting that the creature will understand better than anyone. For a moment she thinks of her nakedness on the roof the night before. ‘Perhaps,’ she mouths, ‘we will have to fly.’
There is certainly a sense among the men that this is the most dangerous part of the mission. Kasim came up to her that morning and, out of the blue, assigned her a
khandjar.
He has scarcely spoken to her the whole journey and all the way she has masked her loathing successfully.
‘We may need you to use this,’ he says.
She nods silently and stows the knife in the sleeve of her
burquah.
It is completely plain, unlike the heavily adorned weapons that Kasim and Ibn Mohammed holster at their waists, or even Wellsted’s middle-of-the-road specimen. Zena does not care about the fripperies of her knife’s decoration, for, she tells herself, if necessary it will do the job just as well as if it was encrusted in emeralds. Now her fingers find it and she holds the horned handle for comfort. Though she has never before been armed, she has watched Wellsted sparring with Kasim for practice all the way from the south, and she is sure she has some idea of what to do with the blade, should the need arise. It is a good feeling.
Yesterday,
she thinks,
was an amazing day and full of surprises.
She chooses the word for how she feels carefully: she is transformed. She cannot stop thinking about what happened on the roof
. It is madness,
she thinks.
A wonderful madness.
Since they rode out that morning, Wellsted has caught her eye several times. On such occasions she smiles spontaneously and he grins back. Nothing has changed, of course. The white man owns her – he can do as he pleases and if it pleases Zena too, so much the better. She is pragmatic. She feels strangely whole though and also powerful. Yes,
powerful
– that’s the word. She is glad that she waited so long to do that midnight dance. She is glad her first master did not demand it of her in Muscat and now she thinks on it, she is even glad that the slavers came to her village when they did. Any longer and her father almost certainly would have married her off. A girl of fourteen or fifteen is considered a spinster, never mind one who has seen a full seventeen summers. But to wait for Wellsted was right. She likes him. Like seems too small a word for it. Enjoy is perhaps better. Love. Love is best of all. It is the first time in a long while that her daydreams have not included the fantasy of managing to get away. She is simply too busy thinking of what they did the night before and letting it take her over completely. She feels that she is on the cusp of something truly liberating. Under the circumstances, it is an odd sensation.
Zena holds the camel’s bridle and waits for orders. The agreement is that they must not unload. Ibn Mohammed and Kasim are unsure of the welcome the party will receive and it was decided at daybreak in Riyadh that the beasts will only be unburdened on a signal from Ibn Mohammed once he is sure they will not need to flee. The whole train has been primed to this fact and there is palpable tension among them as a result, though in truth the settlement looks like any other encampment they have come across.
Ibn Mohammed dismounts. He does not make any gesture. He and Kasim are greeted and disappear inside the emir’s tent to tend at last to the business they have travelled so far to pursue. Still, Zena does not see why she cannot at least tend her camel – she has become very fond of the animal. It is a good deal more reliable and genuine than any of the male servants or slaves of the party. She continues to talk to it – quietly, for they will treat her like a halfwit if she is caught confiding in a camel. And there is little in the whole of Arabia that receives poorer treatment than a halfwitted woman.
As the caravan dismounts, she moves off to tend to the animal’s needs. Some of the slaves clearly feel likewise and the men of the emir’s entourage motion them towards the well and bow, mouthing words of welcome while they eye the Turk carefully. The slaves draw water for the animals. Zena cannot keep her fingers from returning to the bone handle of the
khandjar
. The weapon emboldens her and she indulges a fantasy of revenge. As she waters the camel, she imagines drawing the knife and stabbing Kasim. Of all the hostile men around her (and over the weeks she has certainly felt hostility), he is the one upon whom she would most like to wreak some vengeance. As it rises, her anger surprises her though, in truth, she has no real intention of committing a murder. Still, she cannot help envision the look on Kasim’s face. She has yet to see either of the slavers look taken aback by anything.
‘Imagine if I were to raise their eyebrows,’ she whispers in the camel’s ear, and turns to rejoin the others. It would be nice to surprise them.
With the dignitaries out of the way, the camp sets to brewing the coffee and swapping news. Two of the party start playing a game of what looks like draughts, making a board from marks on the sand, and counters from small sticks and dry, hard camel dung. The men gather. Apart from the fact that the camels are ready to bolt if need be, they could be in any settlement they have come to since they crossed the
jabel
.
Wellsted smiles openly at the girl as she takes a cup of coffee and settles close to the others. ‘Nearly there,’ he whispers, though he sounds strained and his eyes are, she knows, taking in every movement around them.
‘Your friends are here?’ she keeps her voice very low.
The lieutenant shrugs. ‘I hope so. We’ll see. Very soon.’
He feels relieved that Zena shows no sign of awkwardness at what happened the night before. He wants to talk to her about it, but now they are here his attention is focussed on what will happen to Jessop and Jones, and besides, they are in company. Still, he lets his arm touch hers and he is glad that she does not pull away. Zena puts the master’s disquiet down to the proximity of the completion of his mission. She does not imagine that he is troubled in any way by what has passed between them. Sitting by the campfire, she simply wonders what they will eat when the sun sets, for she already has an appetite, and assumes that perhaps that night, once it is dark, they might find a way to do it again. Or at least she hopes so.
Wellsted cannot take his eyes from the tent. He is willing the negotiations to go well. Zena pours her master another coffee. There is nothing for it but to wait and hope the slavers manage what the entire party have travelled all this way to achieve.
The emir receives Ibn Mohammed and Kasim warmly. He has known for over a week that the party is on its way, but still he feels a rush of awe and also honour when they arrive. He meets very few on his travels whom he considers men of his own quality and then, of course, they have been sent by the
soultan
too. The emir imagines that his status has risen and does not even acknowledge to himself that the slavers are here only because of the white men. A few animals have been slaughtered in readiness, the strongest of his henchmen are arrayed as well as possible and the interior of the tent is modified slightly with the use of every rug in the settlement. The emir is arrayed in his newest, finest
jubbah
and sits resplendent on a large cushion when the visitors enter. Of course, these things scarcely matter – men arriving off the desert are generally grateful for shade and a few mouthfuls of water. The Empty Quarter is not a place of material goods and a man is judged on his grit far more than his possessions. Still, there is no harm in presenting his camp at its most luxurious.
As they enter the confines out of the searing heat, the emir is not disappointed when the slavers make their
salaams
. The cloth from which they are cut is clear from the start. They have survived, after all, several weeks in the hottest part of the year and they look immaculate as they shake scented water over their hands and greet him. Their manners are perfect and the air around them is strung with a sense of purpose. They are the very epitome of what an Arab aspires to be. The servants loiter with refreshments but the emir does not motion them forwards. He is aware that something important is missing.
‘You had a white man with you, I understand,’ the emir points out. ‘Dressed as a Turk.’
The wily old fox of course misses nothing. Ibn Mohammed does not move an inch. He stands square. ‘He is tending the camels,’ he says.
‘He is your slave then?’
Ibn Mohammed, with the merest jerk of his jaw, makes it clear this is not the case. He does not elaborate.
Kasim leans forward with a confidential air. ‘He is not so much white now, in any case. More pink. We are browning him.’
The emir laughs. The journey from Muscat is a long one and now they have got here their spirits are clearly high. He gestures and the men sit down.
‘These white men are all over our land,’ he says. ‘Like vermin. The infidel. The Turks. They are a pestilence. And your
soultan
welcomes them,’ the emir spits. ‘For trade! I would not think of it. Such creatures are not even worthy of my notice.
Nazarene
.’
‘You know why we have been sent?’ Ibn Mohammed cuts to the nub, as ever.
The emir nods. ‘And he will pay?’
‘Many camels, my friend,’ Ibn Mohammed assures him. ‘You are kind enough to let us buy their freedom, sir?’ he checks.
The emir’s expression hardens and Ibn Mohammed knows he has spoken too directly.
‘No, I will not let the
Nazarene
go so easily,’ the emir says with finality. Then he has an idea. ‘I have been waiting to kill them. I will kill them now because you are here. I will execute them in celebration. And you may execute yours as well, if you wish.’
The slavers do not flinch. They have no intention of killing Wellsted. Quite apart from the fact they have sworn allegiance to him, if the
soultan
comes to hear of such a bargain (which of course he will, for it is noteworthy), he will be furious. To lose a travelling companion in a battle with
Wahabi
raiders is hardly the fault of his fellows. However, to disembowel him for the amusement of the emir is entirely unacceptable. Intention is everything and Lord knows which of their body parts the
soultan
will order removed if they disobey him by falling in with such a plan. They have not come all this way to instigate a
Nazarene
bloodbath.
‘Please,’ Ibn Mohammed offers, all generosity, ‘let me give you some slaves to execute instead. The
soultan
has taken an interest in the white men and he wishes to offer them protection. He humbly entreats you to send them safely back to Muscat.’
‘Your slaves have done nothing wrong to be deprived of their blood,’ the emir points out.
This is uncharacteristic liberalism on the ruler’s behalf and has not in the past prevented him from beheading and disembowelling those unfortunate enough to get in his way. After all, this is a man who only a few weeks before lopped out the tongue of one of his servants because the fool spoke harshly to the emir’s favourite and only black camel from which he has been trying unsuccessfully to breed a herd.
Ibn Mohammed shrugs. The rights and the wrongs of it are nothing to him, as long as he gets what he wants. ‘If you prefer, you may simply keep the slaves. Do with them what you will. How many would you like?’
The emir smiles. ‘But where are my manners?’ he says. ‘I have not even offered you coffee.’
The servants hover nearby, carrying carved, cedarwood trays that are ready with cups and a brass brewing pot, an enticing aroma emanating from its spout. He motions them forward.
‘
Shukran,’
the slavers intone.
The emir seems happy to do business. So far, it is going quite well.
Outside, sheltered in the shade of a palm tree, Wellsted keeps his face covered and sits silently beside Zena at the very edge of the group. A few of the emir’s men have peeled off and are engaging in lively conversation. The slaves fetch a bough of dates from the litter of provisions, sharing the caravan’s bounty. However, the people of the settlement are suspicious of anything unusual and they will not speak to the Turk or the black girl, though they are not shy of staring at them. This, the lieutenant thinks, is fine by him. It allows him plenty of time to look around, get his bearings and observe. For a start, the camp is smaller than he imagined and, for the most part, the place is about its daily business despite the visitors. Some women are altering tent ropes, some are herding the goats, the camels and horses are brought to the well to drink in turn. In all there can be only a dozen tents here – fifteen at most, he counts. The children play near one in particular – it must contain the family quarters, Wellsted reckons. Between times, the
Bedu
eye the visitors, taking in the details of their clothes, the elegance of the long-legged camels and the skin of the female, which is dark as treacle, blacker than any of them has ever seen before. Wellsted sends a silent prayer that Jessop and Jones are here and alive, though there is no obvious sign that this place harbours a prize so unusual and precious.
As he watches, a rough-looking fellow enters the emir’s tent and the lieutenant finds himself concerned that the slavers are safe. His fingers fly to the handle of his knife for a moment before he realises that Ibn Mohammed and Kasim would relish such a challenge and are more than capable of defending themselves. When the man comes out again a few moments later, he stares at the caravan, thinking for a moment, and then disappears to a small, grey tent pitched in the sunshine a little way off. It is strange, Wellsted thinks, for the rest of the camp has been made in the shade but that tent is nowhere near any shelter. It’s almost as if they have set it up to capture the heat. He chews on a stick of
araq
and contemplates. Then he decides to investigate.
‘Stay here,’ he whispers to Zena.
With the coffee cup still in his hand, he takes a circuitous route. First, he inspects the grazing to the south, then he stares for a few minutes into the fire that has been set, ready for lighting. He refills his drink, jokes with one of the slaves, overlooks the board game that is being played on the sand, and finally heads towards the tent in full view of everyone. The ruse works. No one is staring at him. The conversations around the coffee pot continue, the children are engaged in an endeavour that employs a ball and some kind of throwing device, like a slingshot. He makes it almost all the way across the camp before the rough fellow emerges from the grey tent. Smoothly, the man makes his
salaams
, puts his arm around Wellsted’s shoulder conspiratorially but firmly and walks him back to where he started.
‘You have come a long way? From Muscat?’ he enquires politely.
Wellsted nods. ‘The desert is harsh but beautiful,’ he says. ‘The sultan has sent us for the
Nazarene
.’
The man does not let slip even the smallest hint of what he might know. ‘The emir is talking to your master,’ he points out.
‘Do you think he will let the white men go?’
‘The emir will do what is right.’
It is agonising. Wellsted crouches a moment. The children abandon their game and edge towards the strangers, still throwing the ball half-heartedly between them. One of the little girls is pulled back by her mother but mostly they simply stand with wide eyes.
‘Did Allah punish this woman?’ a boy asks, staring at Zena.
The men laugh at such a provincial view, though the child bears burn marks of darker skin on his own legs so it is easy to see where he might have got the idea.
After an hour or so prayers are called and the sun sets, disappearing below the low line of the horizon as swift as a stone dropping through syrup. It sends waves of orange across the landscape. Kasim and Ibn Mohammed have yet to emerge from the emir’s tent. From time to time there is a burst of laughter from inside that lets the caravan know all is well. The animals are settled for the night and Kasim’s hawk, tethered to the litter, attracts the attention of the children and some of the men when it starts to flap. Wellsted gives the bird some water and a sliver or two of dried meat. The women start to cook dinner on a fire that is lit near the family tent, and the air fills with wafting garlic and meat cooked on thin sticks. The men wait for their food, talking and drinking coffee. There is a relaxed atmosphere. The
Bedu
are more comfortable to get along with than the
Wahabi
and it feels easy enough to settle. The discussion is of the long journey and the sandstorm once more. Only one of the emir’s men, a lone
Tuereg
slave, keeps his distance.
As he stares into the ebony pitch, Wellsted notices there is no light in the tent that is set on its own. He wonders if it is used for supplies, though he reasons that during the time they’ve been there none of the women have entered it to fetch flour for the bread or spices for the meat. If it contains something of value, he thinks, and he is caught investigating it, they will assume he is stealing.
So I must not be caught,
he decides, taking one last glance at the emir’s tent for signs of progress.
He whispers to Zena to stay put. ‘This is the most import ant thing – getting these men out of here,’ he hisses. ‘Nothing must come in the way of it.’
She nods in understanding and the master sets off once more. This time he saunters in a leisurely fashion in the direction of the darkness outside the camp where the men relieve themselves. He has been drinking coffee all afternoon and he has not visited the latrine area yet. It seems the logical way to leave the group.
Under cover of night, he skirts the outside of the honey-coloured campfire that flickers into the blackness. On one side there is the crackle of the flames, the sound of the laughter, a burst of singing. On the other he catches the occasional lowing of the animals – the camels asleep on their knees, they are not silent, especially when they have eaten well. It has been a day of unaccustomed plenty and now they are ruminating in safety, grumbling and calling out from time to time.
Wellsted walks quickly. He moves around the settlement perimeter and, on his belly, crawls the last few yards towards the tent. There is no sound from inside. He checks behind him but he is unnoticed so, tentatively, he lifts the tent flap. The air inside hits him like a wall. It is rancid – a solid, filthy, animal smell. He coughs involuntarily and squints into the gloom but can discern nothing.
‘Pssst,’ he almost whistles, for he thinks there may be an animal inside.
In answer there is a low, slow moan.
‘Hello,’ Wellsted tries. ‘
Salaam.’
A pause. Then a voice like cut crystal. A voice that would not be out of place in the mansions of Richmond or even at King William’s court. ‘Who’s there?’
A fumbling sound. A thump, as if a man has tumbled over.
‘Is that you, Jessop? Doctor Jessop?’
A gulp. A sob. ‘Yes. Thank God! Who are you?’
‘It’s me. Lieutenant James Wellsted, sir. Have you Jones with you?’
‘He died, James. He died today. Thank God you are here. Will the emir release me now?’
‘We are trying. The Sultan of Muscat sent a deputation and I’m part of it. They have been in the emir’s tent all afternoon.’
There is the sound of movement. Wellsted reaches inside and feels a stiff limb, as thin and hard as a tree branch. The skin is waxy with death.
‘Jesus,’ he says, withdrawing his hand. ‘Is that Jones? Is he still in there?’
‘Where are you, James?’
The voice comes from further in, he realises. Wellsted steels himself to push past the corpse. He touches an arm. It is lamentably thin, but this time it is alive. The fingers grasp at him, winding into the folds of his
jubbah.
‘You smell like the wind,’ Jessop sniffs.
Wellsted wraps his arms around the doctor. He was a sturdy man, from Northumberland if the lieutenant remembers rightly. Now the bones are sticking out all over his body and he is as slight as a girl. His breath stinks of rotten meat – the smell of his own body ingesting itself for survival. Wellsted feels in his pouch and pulls out some dates and the last of the dried meat that he had meant for the hawk. He presses them into the doctor’s hand.
‘Did Haines send you?’
Wellsted shakes his head but the men are so close the doctor understands the action.
‘I couldn’t wait to get away from you and Haines you know, and that stupid damned fight about that manuscript of yours. Bloody Socotra and who discovered which damn shrub.’
The doctor’s laugh is a dry, derisory bark.
‘He’s still fearsome about that affair. He banned me from his table the last several weeks before I left. I was glad to get off the
Palinurus
myself,’ Wellsted admits with a smile. ‘We’ll have you out of here in a jiffy, Jessop. Don’t worry.’