Wellsted has never before attended a Muslim funeral. In Muscat’s hilltop graveyard, every important man in the community gathers as the corpse is laid to rest on his right side, facing eastwards like a good Muslim, towards Mecca. The news has travelled with lightning speed amongst the cognoscenti and there must be a hundred white
jubbahed
mourners, maybe more. The
imam
’
s
voice echoes the mournful
salat
and the
soultan
himself, when he hears what has happened, sends his condolences. Besides Wellsted and Jessop’s conveyance, several palanquins are pitched at the graveside.
From the shade, Wellsted thinks there is a beautiful simplicity about the ceremony. He knows that few of these men can possibly have known Ibn Mohammed well, but it is pleasant, he thinks, to see them pull together in a time of mourning.
‘I could not have wished for a better son,’ the old man repeats over and over.
Wellsted peers. The man is so elderly it is as if his skin is paper, though he can see a likeness across the years. Ibn Mohammed shares with his father a jawline and distinctive wide shoulders. The old man, though, has kinder eyes.
How terrible,
Wellsted thinks,
to lose a child.
He has never thought of Ibn Mohammed in the context of a family. In life, the slaver seemed hardly human, more as if he was made of rock. It is a shock that he went so quickly rather than weathering over time. Already, Asaf Ibn Mohammed’s story is becoming Muscat legend for he was a warrior, he was rich beyond Croesus and he died in the service of the
soultan
. The tale has all the elements of a nursery rhyme.
Jessop pays little attention. Shrouded from the proceedings by a thin curtain, he curls in the opposite corner, still taken up entirely by one letter after the other and occasionally sharing the contents with the lieutenant. It is as if, finally, he has his life back.
‘My cousin is delivered of a baby boy,’ he whispers. ‘Sarah swears that purple neckties are all the rage. Can you imagine?’
England is far more real to him than Muscat and he has already embarked on home leave in his mind. A mere peek through the curtain and the doctor has seen all he requires. Wellsted can hardly blame him, however, for he himself wishes he could join the men (for it is only men) as they gather to mourn around the grave. Mickey, however, has left strict instructions that the white men must stay hidden from view.
‘Tell Kasim I am here,’ Wellsted insists.
Mickey nods. In the event, although he does so, the navy agent is not sure if the slaver really takes in the information. He is so distant it is almost as if he is drugged. He hates society at the best of times and now on the worst of all possible occasions, he hovers like a thundercloud at the centre of the proceedings, brooding so resentfully that his appearance provokes as much concern as the corpse.
‘You have been ill?’ they greet him over and over. ‘Praise Allah you have recovered, brother.’
Kasim knows he will never recover. He cannot bear to look as they lower Ibn Mohammed’s corpse into the ground and the men pray together.
As they disperse, the gravediggers fill the hole and Wellsted from his hiding place says a silent prayer. He is glad Ibn Mohammed suffered only briefly. They were, after all, brothers on the sands. He decides he will return to the graveyard and visit when it is appropriate to do so. It is not the custom here to leave flowers but he thinks he will perhaps choose something of stone or metal as a remembrance on the grave. Kasim passes the palanquin so close that Wellsted could reach out and touch him. There is a blank expression on his face and his eyes are hard. Anyone who knows him would see that he is not a man to accept any comfort.
Ibn Mudar returns and the bearers move off. Wellsted, eager to see Zena, finds that he has butterflies in his stomach. As the sun sets, and the sound of songs of mourning float down the hillside on the air, he holds himself back from jumping out and proceeding at a run. All he cares about is that soon he will hold Zena in his arms.
As night falls, it is as if an additional layer of darkness draws in on Kasim and he sits with his fellows at the
mosque
and feels, despite their presence, entirely alone in his grief. The society of so many of his brothers is torturous. He can scarcely tell one face from another and all he can think over and over is that Ibn Mohammed shouldn’t have died. Why did he have to go, when Kasim himself survived the sickness? Around him the doyennes of Muscat society share their memories of his friend, but such were Ibn Mohammed’s protracted absences from the city that he was not widely known or at least, not known well. The old man sits in the corner and basks in remembrances of his favourite son – a slave stolen kindly to order, some money advanced to a brother in need or a gift for a valued client – while Kasim finds his voice all but useless and the witterings of those around him nothing short of inanity. He cannot say what he feels, for he has no words to describe it. He knows it is expected of him to sit here and take part. It is only one night. But the minutes are already stretching unbearably and emotions rip through him like a fury. He does not blame the doctor, who he knows tried his best. Nor does he resort to the blasphemy of blaming Allah. He desperately wishes things were another way, but there is, of course, nothing he can do. For a man like Kasim that, of itself, is worst of all.
The slaver hears of it from one of the other mourners. The poor chap is only passing the time in mentioning the news and is not expecting such a violent reaction. Still, Kasim is in mourning and despite the Prophet’s admonishment of loud sobs and wails and the showy accoutrements surrounding the death of a friend, the slaver cannot help himself reacting as he does. The fellow kneeling next to him is plain enough – he is a cabinet-maker, if Kasim recalls correctly, and is known for his fine inlays of mother-of-pearl.
‘I see Ibn Mudar has gone home to his new woman,’ he smiles slyly. The man is only making conversation and trying, he supposes, to lift Kasim’s spirits. ‘One wife as white as milk and then this one. She is
habshi
. Absolutely black. Young too, I heard,’ he confides, ‘and only newly arrived. She is a dancer, or so one of his slaves told my man.’
Kasim feels as if his head might explode as this information sinks in and understanding dawns. ‘She is a black slave? A young
habshi
? Do you know her name?’ he pushes.
The cabinet-maker gives a laconic shrug. ‘They say she was smuggled into the
harim
by the Pearl. Though Aziz said that Ibn Mudar bought her as a gift. Rumours fly, you know. Who can tell? Though she arrived in Muscat two days ago. On that much we all agree. Ibn Mudar has a fine collection of women. I must seek your help, Kasim. My own
harim
could use a little livening up.’
Kasim feels fury ripping through him. He cannot even manage the pleasantries that the cabinet-maker is expecting of him – the ‘Of course, I will keep an eye out for a suitable prize, my friend’, the pat on the back, the jolly collusion. He roars like a man who has been physically wounded, his face darkens and he rises to his feet without taking any leave. All he can think of is that Ibn Mohammed would not have died if the girl had not skipped the emir’s camp. The circumstances would have been different. They might have avoided the plague, somehow. They might have taken another route or had news of it in advance. And now this girl, the very cause of all this misery, has the temerity to return to Muscat and take her place in the safety of a rich man’s
harim
as if nothing has happened. Ibn Mudar sent him condolences from the white men, he seems to recall vaguely, but did not mention this – the bastard. They all know and no one said anything! Wellsted and Jessop must be laughing as they plot to steal away the very person responsible for Ibn Mohammed’s death. He will not stand for something so shameful and unjust.
‘That girl is a runaway!’ Kasim spits. ‘I demand her execution.’
The mourners dodge the slaver who takes no account of the crowding in the room as he pushes his way to the door with the cabinet-maker in his wake. The poor man is utterly taken aback at the vehemence of Kasim’s outburst.
‘My friend,’ he tries to appease his brother, making apologies as he follows him through the room. ‘What have I said?’ he asks, reaching out to touch Kasim’s shoulder.
The slaver pushes the man’s hand away so violently that the cabinet-maker loses his balance and drops the cup of mint tea that he is holding. The shards shatter across the floor.
‘She should be beheaded!’ the slaver shrieks. ‘I will do it myself!’
Stopping only to bow quickly before Mohammed Ibn Mohammed, he takes his leave and sets out for the compound of Ali Ibn Mudar, decided upon his purpose. His
khandjar
is not the appropriate weapon to sever her head, he thinks. It is too small a blade. He will have to stop on the way and find a more efficacious instrument.
Straight from the funeral, Wellsted stands in the vaulted doorway of the main reception chamber of Ali Ibn Mudar’s grand home. The women have been summoned, or at least Zena has, and Farida has made it clear that she would not miss this for the world and will come down from the
harim
to welcome her husband’s guest. As soon as they arrive, Dr Jessop retires to his chamber. He will sleep, he swears, for three days at a stretch at least. Jessop’s good-natured, easygoing character is not, in this instance, sharp in terms of understanding and he does not see the importance of the girl with whom Wellsted is so keen to be reunited. She has, after all, not come up during the course of one single conversation over the last several weeks. All he cares about is reading his letters over and over and savouring the news from home.
‘I will sleep and sleep and only rise for pastries,’ the doctor forms the words with delight, the missives still bulging from his pockets. ‘Or perhaps to bathe again.’
‘You are welcome, my friend, and if you are in need of some entertainment . . .’ Mickey need say no more. There are plenty of girls in his household from which the doctor is welcome to take his pick.
‘Ah, thank you. I am not entirely recovered, however. I shall sleep first, I think, and then see how my appetite fares. And that is a doctor’s opinion,’ he says wryly as Aziz shows him to his room.
Wellsted waits downstairs with his host. The chamber is luxurious – the tiled floor is littered with piles of soft cushions and intricately woven carpets and the air is awash with aromatic scent. An array of fine brass lamps are lit and the coolness of the night air is refreshing. Still, the lieutenant cannot stay still – he is far too twitchy. Mickey regards his newly dapper guest with amusement. No Arab would expose his emotions over a mere woman so clearly. The boy is like a thoroughbred ready to race.
‘What do you think they are doing?’ he asks.
Mickey draws a small square of jellied rosewater to his lips. ‘Women,’ he says vaguely, though the truth is that, in general, most women be they slave girls or wives race when their husband or master calls them, and he knows he should more accurately say, ‘Farida . . .’ Mickey is contented though. He likes to wait. That way when he sees her, it is all the more satisfying. He is interested to see how things will transpire tonight. Farida swears the girl is mad for the white man’s love, and now, looking at the lieutenant, Mickey has no doubt those feelings are reciprocated.
Upstairs, Zena paces the floor, only a few yards over her master’s head. Mickey’s presumption is correct and it is Farida who is holding up proceedings. She is almost dressed now and will soon emerge from the flurry of slave girls that has assembled to assist her.
‘Sit down,’ she motions to the
habshi
. ‘Have a pastry.’
Zena waves off the notion. ‘He is
here
,’ she insists.
Farida laughs. ‘
I pass by these walls and I kiss this wall and that wall. It’s not Love of the bricks and mortar that
has taken my heart, But of the One who dwells within
,’ she quotes from a poem they read together the afternoon before.
Zena shrugs. ‘Come on,’ she says.
They have been reading poetry since she arrived, or more accurately, a few hours thereafter, when Farida, having extracted a detailed account of the girl’s trip into the Empty Quarter, her escape from the emir’s encampment and her feelings for her master, realised that in addition to this rush of first-hand adventure, Zena was literate. The slave girl has enjoyed leafing through the books and quoting poetry aloud. Luxurious though it was in her grandmother’s house, there was nothing so grand as a library, but here Farida has a well-indexed, interesting collection including some books (with illustrations) dedicated to the arts of love. It is these in which she has taken a particular interest in the three days she has been waiting for news of her lieutenant.
‘Oh that,’ Farida winks, as Zena leafs through the pages, ‘there is always more to learn about that operation.’
Now, though, Zena would willingly torch the lot just to be in his arms.
Farida rises at last and flicks her hair over her shoulder. Agonisingly slowly, the maid places a sheer veil of the lush colour of grass over her head while another opens the door.
Zena tries to contain her excitement and not break into a run.
He first catches sight of her coming down the stairs. They both hesitate slightly, for the terms of this meeting are unspoken. Then, when she approaches, Wellsted reaches out and gathers her close, not even noticing Farida sweep past and station herself on the cushions next to her husband. Such a public display of affection is unheard of, but Mickey and his wife simply sit side by side like proud parents and watch while Wellsted and Zena embrace.
Wellsted touches Zena’s lips with his own. Kissing her is like drinking salted water, he thinks. His thirst only increases. She pushes him away shyly and smiles.
‘How did you get here?’ he asks. He cannot take his eyes off her.
‘Boats.’
‘And you bypassed the plague towns?’
She nods.
‘You are lucky. Ibn Mohammed is dead of it.’
Zena feels relief at this news, but she is much more interested in how the master has fared. ‘And you?’ Wellsted cuts a dashing figure with his uniform reinstated but she wants to hear that is he is well.
‘As you see me,’ he confirms. ‘We bought a ship. A
dhangi
. Sailed it down the coast, though the sickness held us up a while. I’m so sorry that you had to leave alone . . .’ his voice trails. ‘It was so fast and you were forced to take action without any help. It weighs on my conscience but the doctor was so ill . . .’
Zena nudges him fondly. ‘You’re here,’ she says, ‘I’m here. And it is fine.’
Mickey claps for service. The spell breaks and the lovers are re-called into the room. Small goblets of blood-red pomegranate juice are passed on a tray. They stain the lips.
‘Quite the cocktail party, eh, Lieutenant?’ Farida smiles.
‘Madame,’ he pays his respects. ‘I am simply so very glad—’
‘She is some chicken, your lovely girl,’ Farida cuts him short. She cannot bear ceremony of any kind and prefers to be on a more informal footing. The Pearl continues, ‘I admit I am fond of Zena already. She is an intelligent and plucky young woman. I cannot be doing with these females who interminably scent themselves. I cannot be doing with it.’
‘I have come to see that Zena is her own person,’ Wellsted replies, blushing. ‘In fact, I have an oath to keep, for I swore when Mickey gifted her to me, that I would set her free when we were through the desert. Is there some legal process I need to undertake?’
Mickey shakes his head. ‘It is a righteous act and you can simply decide upon it, if you wish,’ he says.
‘Then I free you,’ Wellsted says. ‘I free you now.’
Farida raises her goblet. ‘Well, here’s to it,’ she toasts.
Zena hesitates. ‘But, what will I do?’ she asks nervously. The hairs on the back of her neck are standing on end in excitement. This is what she has wanted but still. ‘Free or not, I have nothing,’ she says
Mickey smiles. ‘No. I would not say that.’
‘Don’t worry, Zena,’ Wellsted reassures her, ‘we will see to things.’
He is about to embark upon an explanation or an invitation or perhaps a proposal, when he is interrupted by shouting in the courtyard. Someone is making an unholy racket. Mickey looks up, a smudge of pomegranate, red as blood, on his lips. Admirably difficult to rattle, he betrays nothing, as if it is as normal for there to be a rumpus in the evening as ordering dinner or gazing at his wife. However, when the door of the room bursts open and Kasim enters with a drawn blade in his hand, dragging Aziz by the arm, Mickey takes the precaution of rising and interposing himself between Farida and the weapon. It is a long way to cross the room, but it is enough of an insult for Kasim to burst into the presence of another man’s wife, never mind brandishing a blade.
The slaver’s face sets in a grimace as he takes in the scene. This is too domestic for his taste at the best of times, but that Zena is here while Ibn Mohammed lies freshly buried under the earth is a huge injustice. It is as he suspected. Everyone else knew where the girl had run to. He roars like an injured animal and flings Aziz to the floor.
‘It is true then! I claim her! I claim the girl! She is a runaway slave and subject to the laws of Muscat!’ he says, his voice low with menace as he continues his advance.
Wellsted does not draw his sword but he puts his hand to the scabbard. ‘Kasim,’ he says, ‘I have freed Zena. She is not a slave now.’
Kasim is not listening. It is no matter to him. The girl must die. He crosses the room in an instant and quickly grabs Zena, forcing her onto her knees and raising his blade to take a shot at her neck. He must pronounce sentence before severing the head from the body, as custom dictates, and in that moment Zena struggles but she cannot break free. She bites the skin of his forearm savagely but this only enrages him more. As he pushes her off, the razor-edge of his blade catches the skin of the girl’s shoulder, a welt opens and blood trickles down her arm, staining the sheer ma terial of the
jilbab
.
‘I am free now,’ she protests, ‘he freed me and you have no right. You never did have the right. You stole me. You are nothing but a thief!’
Kasim grabs Zena’s hair and pulls her onto her knees. He struggles to keep the girl in place as he lifts his blade, ready to dispense swift justice. ‘In the name of Said Ibn Sultan, I sentence you to beheading.’
At once Zena kicks hard, landing a blow to Kasim’s crotch. The blade falls but misses its mark, only wounding her again, at the collarbone. She shrieks in pain as Wellsted launches himself at Kasim with the full force of his body. He topples the slaver with a struggle, and the men roll across the floor. Wellsted realises that his European clothes put him at a disadvantage for it is far easier to move in a
jubbah.
Still, he knows Kasim’s fighting style well. All sense of being brothers is entirely lost. Both men are livid.
‘He is dead,’ Kasim cries out. ‘Don’t you understand that he is dead because of her?’
Wellsted doesn’t hesitate. He lands a punch squarely on the man’s jaw and then furiously tries to wrench the blade from his grasp. He does not want to kill Kasim, but he recognises he may not have a choice but to try.
‘My friend,’ he says, ‘we have fought on the same side. Stop this. Please.’
Kasim lands a blow to Wellsted’s stomach in return and the lieutenant is winded but manages to remain on top.
‘You would choose her over your brother?’ the slaver squeals in disbelief. ‘You swore allegiance to Ibn Mohammed, and this girl,’ he can hardly bring himself to spit the words; it is disgusting, unnatural that the white man favours this woman over his duty to a fellow traveller, ‘she is nothing. She is a runaway whether you freed her or not. She is only a whore. A
habshi.’
Wellsted reaches behind him and unsheathes the
khandjar
he has stowed on his trouser belt. He carries the weapon out of sheer custom, for it has not left his possession in months but there was nowhere else to put it in his western clothes. Now he understands that it is an advantage to be able to draw it unexpectedly from behind. He holds the short, curved blade to Kasim’s throat.
‘She is mine,’ he sneers, ‘and I will not let you kill her. He’s dead, Kasim. He’s gone. It’s not Zena’s fault. He was sick. He was too weak. She made it back to Muscat alone and I’ll be damned if I’ll see you harm her now.’
‘Weak,’ Kasim chokes. It seems a strange thing to say about Ibn Mohammed. It is certainly not a word that in normal circumstances would spring to mind. He cannot bear it. He kicks to try to free himself. ‘Weak,’ he repeats again in outrage.
‘I don’t want to kill you, but I will do it,’ Wellsted threatens.
Kasim’s eyes flash. He struggles but realises that the lieutenant has pinned him to the floor. In frustration he tries to land a punch. Wellsted puts his hands on the slaver’s throat to restrict the man’s movement. Then he slides the
khandjar
to the man’s side, ready to stab if he has to. Kasim feels a sob wrench his throat. That he should lose a fight under these circumstances is an horrific loss of face. Now, when Ibn Mohammed needs him to be strong and defend his honour, he is helpless. He is trapped. This is what Kasim expects to do to others and he despises them when they succumb.
‘Ibn Mohammed,’ he manages through gritted teeth as he pushes against the lieutenant, but Wellsted has the advantage.
As he comprehends that he has completely failed, Kasim feels a wave of despair descend. He only wishes he had died too. He has no desire to live with this humiliation. His life is worthless. He has proved it to himself. In desperation, he lifts himself, pushing his own skin against Wellsted’s blade, so that a few tiny specks of blood well up where the knife cuts through. He pushes as hard as he can and does not even feel the pain as the blade of the
khandjar
slices the fabric of his
jubbah
and lodges deep in his side. Wellsted pulls away in shock and Kasim falls back on the tiles with a curse, blood spilling from the gash. The pain starts now and it is edifying, distracting at least from the feeling of helplessness and grief he has endured all day.
‘With honour,’ he says, satisfied.
Zena has pulled herself to her feet and is staunching her wounds. She stands over him. ‘With honour,’ she sneers at him. ‘How dare you speak of honour?’
Mickey motions the girl to keep back. He is so perfectly composed that Wellsted wonders briefly what a chap would have to do to shock him.
‘Lieutenant Wellsted,’ he says, ‘will you allow me? Aziz, fetch the doctor, and the
imam
as well. Kasim is in need of both physical and spiritual assistance this evening. And as for you, my dear,’ he addresses himself to his wife, ‘I think it is best if you ladies both return to the
harim.
Will you go upstairs, Zena, and the women can tend to your wounds?
’
It takes a moment, but without a word they all do exactly as Mickey directs. The atmosphere is broken. Farida helps Zena out of the room. Mickey peers at Kasim’s wound. Even from here he can see that the slaver has missed all major veins, arteries and organs. The agent lays his hand on Kasim’s shoulder as Wellsted reholsters his knife, his hands shaking. When Jessop enters the room, the doctor glances around blearily but asks no questions. He simply comes forward to examine the patient.