Swords of Arabia
Betrayal
Anthony Litton
© Anthony Litton 2014
Anthony Litton has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Author’s Note
Prologue
Summer 1916
Not one of the people assembled for the majlis had any certainty of their still being alive at the end of the day, let alone of the meeting’s success. But then – what was success? The diverse groups influential enough to affect the decision to be made were fiercely, viciously, divided between those who supported one path and those who supported its bitter alternative. There were even a few who sneered at both and would have no truck with either, whatever the majlis decided. Most, however, agreed that a decision – a choice – must be made. The great war raging in far-off Europe had, finally, fully reached Arabia. Two great imperial powers were locked in a death struggle and were now soliciting – demanding – that their Arab ‘friends’ support them, one against the other.
Each powerful grouping within the assembly was adamant in its support of one or the other of those great external powers. Any choice would offend almost half of those with power and influence in the sheikhdom. And the sheikhdom had already had too much happen to be sure that it had any stability left; any at all.
The small group of individuals with the power to make the final decision knew this. They also knew that too much had happened too quickly and too recently for them to be sure that, once the decision had been made, they themselves would survive long enough to implement it.
Then, when the first gunshots echoed round the large room, and the first of their friends fell, shot through the head at point blank range, they knew the time left was even less than they’d feared. As the room suddenly came alive with armed men, all with their weapons pointed directly at them, they realised that, perhaps, there was no time left; no time at all.
Chapter One
Summer 1915
Ya Allah! Ya Allah! The pain! Why am I fighting it? Why?
The figure twisting in agony seemed to listen to his own counsel, and let himself drift back into an unconsciousness blessedly free from the grinding, biting pain.
No! There’s a reason! There’s a reason! He fought against the beckoning oblivion.
Still unconscious, he flinched. The dipping and swaying of the swiftly moving camels, carrying the party headlong across the rock-strewn sands, caused his wounds, which were grievous, to grind against the bullets which had caused them. Even the well-padded litter he was travelling in scarcely cushioned the jolting and jarring. Bone and flesh ground against embedded metal and would have caused screams of pain had the figure been conscious; but then again, perhaps not. For his physical pain was nothing compared to what awaited him when – if – he regained consciousness.
Then suddenly: Fouad! Zahirah!
Consciousness suddenly started to pour back into the battered mind of the wounded man, and his groans became louder as both the pain and the returning memories became all but unbearable. He remembered now – remembered everything that had happened before his world went black. The shots, the attack, Fouad and Zahirah’s last conversation. Then nothing, until his brief return to consciousness just in time to witness the short and simple burial of his brother in a secret, but now carefully marked, spot, Then blackness again, before this – their headlong dash to the coast.
“Keep still, Lord! You will cause the bleeding to start again. And you have already lost much blood!” The gentle voice chided him, its owner attempting to restrain him as he fought against the pain and the fogginess still clouding his mind. He hadn’t known why, but he’d known it was important to remember everything; even though at some deep level he’d known he didn’t want to, didn’t want to at all.
But now – he did remember everything! The catastrophe that had overtaken them in the ruins of the isolated village. Fouad was dead and, if he knew Zahirah, she was even now racing back to Narash to protect her family and secure the position of Talal, their son.
But she would fail.
With a sick feeling deep inside him that had nothing to do with his wounds, he knew that she wouldn’t succeed. It could be no other way. She was a woman, now without her husband. No one, now, to give her the power and authority she would need, both immediately, and in the dangerous, the frighteningly dangerous, days ahead.
“The Lady Zahirah! Call her!” he gasped, struggling to rise.
“Lord, please!” The attendant’s voice trailed off. Under the strictest of instructions from her fiery mistress to ensure that the Lord Nasir was kept safe during their race back to the coast, and the Lord Nasir’s equally fierce demand that she immediately call that mistress, she gave in. She leaned out of the covered litter and called to one of the guards racing alongside it. As she did so, she did her best to shield the damaged man from the hot blinding sunlight which poured into the shadowy interior.
Within seconds, the camel carrying Zahirah’s litter had been turned back from the head of the column by the man leading it from his own mount and moved alongside Nasir’s. Zahirah held aside the litter’s hangings as their camels slowed and she looked across with concern at the young warrior, badly injured in defending her and her husband.
“Nasir! Take care! The bullets bit deep and are still inside you!”
“No matter! Zahirah, how long have I been unconscious?
She hesitated and then answered truthfully “One full day and a part of this, the second.”
“And how are the men?” he asked quietly
She hesitated, knowing that what he was really asking was whether they were still following her, a woman.
“They are still with us; all who started with us,” she answered, after a brief pause.
“And their mood?”
“Most are still content to stay in the race with us,” she answered, “though many are getting restless. We are holding them at present, we have to! We can’t allow anyone to get back to the town before us. But…” she shrugged with some bitterness, “It’s getting difficult, even with the loyal outriders Nawwaf put in place holding the column. He’s holding the waverers: for now, at least.”
“Nawwaf?” Nasir felt a wave of relief at hearing his friend’s name.
“Yes. I thought he’d forsaken us and rode with the others when they chased ibn Saud, but it appears he was trying to get many to turn back,” she replied. “He left some men to bury our dead and raced to join us when your messenger reached him.” Despite their desperate situation she managed a small smile of genuine pleasure. “He brought some good tidings with him – Mamduh is still alive!”
“Our uncle? But I saw him fall!” exclaimed Nasir, his voice, though weak, clearly carrying the joy he felt.
“Yes, but he was only wounded – badly, very badly – but he’s alive. Nawwaf arranged a strong escort and he’s being take
n directly back to the coast.”
Thanks be to Allah! Nasir thought. To lose Mamduh would have been a heavy personal blow, as he had always been close to his fierce, plain-speaking uncle. More crucially, however, his loss would have been a grave weakening of his great-nephew Talal’s position in the coming struggle for power.
“He then raced here – fortunately – and so far we have kept all together,” Zahirah finished.
“You and he have done well,” agreed Nasir, “but trying to hold the column together with many unwilling riders will slow us down, dangerously so, Zahirah.”
“I know, but we have little choice but to hold all together if we are to arrive back before anyone knows what’s happened.”
“I must speak to the men: lead them,” he said struggling to rise.
“Nasir! You can’t! You’re too badly injured!”
“And if I don’t, Zahirah, we will lose many men; some of whom will dash headlong to Narash – and you will lose the race to claim the throne for your son,” he responded bluntly.
She bit her lip, and didn’t reply. She knew he was right; the warriors were already getting restless at being led by her; soon the column would fragment.
“You are right – thank you,” she said, after a moment.
“I will tighten the bandages, Lady, to give him some support,” Ayesha, the attendant said, as she reached for more cloths.
Zahirah nodded. “We will have a brief halt, while you do that. Then, Nasir,” she flashed, “you can rise from your bed and cow those jackals who would dare to challenge me!” So saying, she had her mount raced back to the head of the column.
Even the camels were tiring, so swift had been their passage. Beast, therefore, was as willing as rider for the short pause in a hollow amongst some small hills. All were equally glad of both the respite from their gruelling pace and the small amount of shade offered by a few scattered clumps of thorny shrubs. Few had questioned the reason for the halt, so there were many gasps of surprise as Nasir rode into view, having timed his appearance carefully for maximum impact. His horse walked slowly, carefully picking its way amongst the broken rocks littering the ground.
The young sheikh held himself erect, for the moment, having no need for the support of Nawwaf, who rode closely beside him. He stayed mounted, as much because he had neither the strength nor dexterity to do otherwise, as to ensure he was visible to all. He looked slowly round the warriors, all now gathering around him. It was working, as he’d known it would. The joy and relief he saw on many of the upturned faces, turning from uncertainty or downright hostility as they saw him ride slowly into view, told him that they had had little time left before Zahirah had faced serious unrest, if not outright rebellion. He knew it was only the force of her personality and reputation that had kept the column of fighting men from fragmenting sooner into squabbling groups. Nawwaf, for all his reputation as a fighter and a leader – in normal times more than enough for warriors to follow him, and follow gladly – wasn’t of the ruling house. With all that had happened, it was a prince of that house that the men needed to see and to follow.
“Friends,” he began, his voice stronger than he’d feared it would be, and carrying clearly to all gathered in the sheltering hollow. “we have suffered grievously in losing our sheikh, our emir, the mighty Fouad. You all know that we, men of Narash, now face dangerous times if we are to survive so great a loss and remain strong enough to repel all who wish us ill.” He paused, and saw the grief and exhaustion on their weather-beaten faces. No man amongst them was a coward; none would even think of fleeing a battlefield, even outnumbered ten against one. Indeed, many there had been on such battlefields and outnumbered by as many, if not more, and had remained unflinchingly behind Fouad. And there we have it, the young warrior thought, his heart clenching, as their – his – loss hit him again. Fouad was dead, shockingly and unbelievably dead, and in circumstances that could themselves breed trouble in the future. And, unless he was very careful in the next few tension-filled minutes, he knew that everything his brother had fought for would be lost. As his eyes locked for a moment with Zahirah’s, as she sat silently looking out from her litter, her face veiled and her eyes inscrutable, he knew that she knew it too.
“We have to return swiftly to our town before rumours – or truth – create instability and allow those not loyal to our great leader to rise up and take advantage, to destroy all he – and we – have built up, with the loss of much blood.” He paused, as he felt his back spasm and tighten around his wounds, sending yet more waves of pain washing through his body. Nothing of the anguish showed on his face, however, as he took a deep breath and continued. “I am taking certain steps to ensure the town is made safe for us. We – all of us – must do our part before we get there. We must travel swiftly and stay together. I want no wanderer from our ranks to leave. We travel as a body; a body who has sworn allegiance to our late emir, and thus have transferred that allegiance to his chosen successor – to Talal!”
Almost with one voice they echoed his cry; almost with one voice. Zahirah, missing nothing, saw on too many faces that their allegiance lay elsewhere; or would if they could but leave the column and reach those they secretly supported.
Nasir had also noticed and his next words carried a warning; a warning which all who knew the young prince were well aware that he would not hesitate to carry out.
“I know you are all my friends, but note this; should there be any amongst you whom I’ve misjudged and he try to slip away unnoticed, be aware that my guards will be vigilant, and I myself merciless, should any betray my trust. And now, my friends, we must make haste – you, alas, on your uncomfortable mounts, while I loll in shameful luxury on the back of my trusted companion here!” The listening warriors laughed as he pointed comically to the bad-tempered camel bearing his litter as it was brought near him for him to resume his invalid status. And invalid, Zahirah saw with alarm, was what he seriously was. Had it not been for Nawwaf tactfully leaning in and supporting him as he turned his mount, he would have fallen. And, Zahirah had no doubt, the hopes of their house with him, so finely balanced were things; so finely balanced.
Chapter Two
A few minutes later, the column was again racing across the sands. Once more at the head of the column, Zahirah nodded with relief as Nawwaf, sent to her by the now scarcely conscious Nasir, hurriedly explained the orders his friend had given.
He’d sent Abdul, one of the remaining members of his inner band and one of his most trusted men, to find Mish’al ibn Nawwaf, one of the sheikhdom’s fiercest warriors and, though still young, one of the most trusted of Fouad’s chieftains. At present he was patrolling the approaches to the western borders several days travelling from the coast. He had orders to speed back to the town and protect the persons of Firyal and all of Zahirah’s children, by both Fouad and her second husband Mohammed; protect all, but especially Talal and his male siblings. Nasir well knew that if word reached the town of what had happened before their own party reached there, then almost immediately one or more of the cabals that had bedevilled his brother’s reign would kill his heir without a moment’s hesitation. This would be swiftly followed by the murder of his young brother and his half-brother, Mohammed’s son. They would then seize the throne; before sending out the order to kill any suspected of remaining loyal to Fouad’s line. Such was the way of things in Arabia.
He also well knew that there was more than one shadowy grouping competing for power, and it was inevitable that blood would be spilt when they clashed, as they would. In hours, if they were not careful, the emirate would be plunged into bloody chaos; a wounded beast, defenceless against ibn Saud, the long-time enemy of the dead Faoud, should he seize the long- awaited moment and attack.
Throughout the long hours they raced, their camels eating up the distance. They sped on even into the inhuman heat of the midday hours, under the merciless, glittering disc of the sun, as it poured its almost unbearable heat down onto their heads, protected only by
their white keffiyehs or headdresses. Despite their speed it would be several more days before they got back to the safety of the town nestling next to the blue, cool waters of the Gulf. Zahirah also knew that the pace they were setting risked great harm to her wounded kinsman. Had things been normal, she would have left him with a strong guard to follow on at a slower, safer, place. That she couldn’t, she well knew. She needed his status as a warrior and close kin to Fouad to keep her men in line.
And so their race continued. Reluctantly, Nawwaf deputising for Nasir, called brief halts during the hottest hours of the days that followed. Food and water, the minimum necessary to keep up their endurance, were consumed impatiently, almost resentfully, all riders anxious to be on their way.
Then, on the last evening before they expected to reach the coast, as they briefly rested in the shelter of some dunes before riding again through the night, a shout was heard from one of the guards Nawwaf had placed around the camp. After a few moments a man was dragged into the firelight and thrown down at his feet as the young commander was talking to Zahirah.
“He was caught trying to leave the column,” shouted one of his guards.
Nawwaf, nodded, unsurprised. He’d known that with every mile nearer they got to the town, the risk of someone trying to leave and race ahead grew.
“Who were you trying to reach?” he asked coldly, his usually warm features now closed and hostile.
“N…. n... no-one,” the man stuttered, his fear making him trip over the very words he hoped would save him. Despite several more attempts, he refused to give any names.
“Time is short, otherwise we would bleed the name out of you,” Nawwaf said coldly. “You are aware of what the Lord Nasir ordered for anyone who was caught trying to leave our ranks?” he asked, looking down at the man at his feet.
The man nodded weakly. He did know – and he also knew that his life was over. He had no hope of mercy from the men around him. They were too loyal to the memory of Fouad to look kindly on anyone they thought was betraying him. Despite this, human nature being what it is, he made one last attempt to save his life.
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