“Please! I know no names. I only know I was paid to keep someone informed. We need the money, we are poor and have many needs,” he added.
“And now your family will have no one to provide for them and will suffer even more want. It is a choice you have made yourself,” Nawwaf, said flatly, his black eyes as cold as death.
Zahirah leant forward suddenly and whispered in his ear. He looked surprised for a moment, then nodded appreciatively. Ay! She is a clever one! he thought as he looked down again at the man, now sobbing openly at his feet.
“The Lady Zahirah is kinder than I would be,” Nawwaf said bleakly, shaking his
head at the renewed hope in the man’s eyes. “No, you will still die for your attempted betrayal, but she wishes me to tell you that if you divulge all you know, she will provide for your family on her return to the town. They will neither starve nor be mistreated in any way.”
The man sobbed, both in acceptance of his own death, and with the removal of his fears about his family after that death. He nodded and whispered a name which stunned the few who heard it.
Salman.
A prince of the ruling house and, ominously, a full brother to Mishari, Faoud’s rival, defeated over ten years previously.
Ya Allah! Will that ulcer never heal? Zahirah thought savagely; things are serious indeed, she thought, watching dispassionately as Nawwaf killed the man with one shot to the head.
Scant hours later, as dawn was starting to lighten the night sky, exhausted and near the end of their endurance, they were almost within sight of the town. Then, suddenly, they saw a column of dust moving rapidly toward them. Friend or enemy? thought Nawwaf as he kept the column racing ahead. He had no option; they had to win the race to the town and, if the approaching column was bent on attacking them, then swift movement was the best tactic; hit them head on. For Zahirah, the approaching riders raised nothing but anger and an implacable determination to sweep whoever it was out of the way of her warriors. Nothing would stop her reaching the town and making certain her family was safe; nothing. She had already paid too high a price to risk losing everything now. If the approaching men were allies so be it, she would welcome, and, in due course, reward, them. If not, their bodies would be crushed under the hooves of her camels and their bones left to bleach under the remorseless desert sun. She had lost her husband to bloodshed, she would have no hesitation in shedding more to achieve what he, and she, had decided was to be. As ever with her, nothing of this showed on her face. Having ordered that the curtains of her litter be opened, she watched impassively as the mounted warriors raced towards them.
Then, some of the tension in their column relaxed and the riders halted, as they all saw that the approaching force was small. Friend or foe, they were not a real risk to her forces.
They weren’t – but the message they brought was.
“We have messages for the Lord Nasir and the Lady Zahirah,” gasped the rider at the column’s front as he dragged his horse to a savage halt, it’s hooves spraying gravel and sand. “From Mish’al ibn Nawwaf,” he added, as he drew a harsh breath. He turned towards Nasir who, on hearing of the approaching riders, had, with a strength than stunned his attendants and almost killed him, risen from his pallet, left his litter and was upright by the time the racing riders reached them.
“Tell us,” he commanded quietly, his camel manoeuvred next to Zahirah’s at the head of the column.
“He ordered us to tell you that he received your message, sped to the town and that the Lady Firyal, and the Lady Zahirah’s family are safe, under his and Daoud’s protection. And, for the moment, he has the citadel,” he added.
Any relief that they felt was obliterated by the chill his next words caused.
“He begs you all to make all haste. The town has received news of – of the Lord Fouad’s death and there is much unrest, and,” he added ominously, “some gatherings of various forces, who may wish the the Prince Talal harm.”
Nasir’s reaction was immediate. “So be it,” he said calmly, as he swiftly ordered three riders to race ahead of the main column and seize Salman, before the young sheikh realised his spy had been caught. His reasons for planting the man may have been benign, but, until they were sure, the stakes were far too high to leave him at liberty Then, transferring to a horse and ordering himself to be strapped to the beast’s back, Nasir quickly had his whole force move into a lumbering trot that swiftly turned into a gallop which soon ate up the remaining distance to the town, and their family.
The column swept into town and raced through the narrow streets to the citadel, outriders warning the population crowding the narrow roads to clear a way for the galloping warriors. The town gates were theirs; would those of the citadel also still be held by loyalists? They would soon know, Nasir thought grimly as, pain ripping through him, he forced his lathered horse even faster through the narrow streets. He felt his weakened body tense as their frenzied approach brought them quickly to the great gates and – they were opening!
Thanks be to Allah! he thought, as they raced through into the square and pulled their over-weary mounts to a savage stop.
Mish’al hurried down from the walls to greet them. “Nasir! My friend! You arrive not before time! Lady Zahirah,” he said, turning to her as her attendants helped her down from her litter. “Your children are safe inside the citadel, with the Lady Firyal,” he assured her quickly.
“The Lady Firyal is aware of her son’s death?” she asked, after thanking the young fighter for his swift action.
He nodded sadly, his open, handsome features creased in pain. “Indeed she is. There was too much shouting and chanting for her not to know that something was amiss. When I arrived, she asked me what was happening.” He paused unhappily. “I couldn’t lie to her, though I wish to Allah that I could,” he finished. “And, more ill news, Salman has gone. As soon as we got your message,” he continued, turning back to Nasir, “we sent guards to his palace, but he had already fled – leaving everything behind.”
Both nodded, unsurprised. “No matter, there will be time later to catch him and have him explain his actions – though his fleeing itself tells us much,” Nasir replied, grimly.
“I must go to the Lady Firyal,” Zahirah said. Like her young brother-in-law, she was content to put the problem of Salman to one side for the present. Turning to Nasir, swaying on his feet as he leant against a wall of the square for support, she urged him to have his wounds seen to. “We can’t afford to lose you, also” she said quietly as she turned and hurried off to Firyal’s private apartments.
Nasir, with the last of his iron self-control, turned to Mish’al. “You did well in securing the citadel. Do we know how the information reached the town so quickly?”
The other man nodded his thanks but then shook his head. “Much of the work was already done by the time I got here. Daoud secured the citadel only minutes before one of the mobs tried to enter.” Nasir face lost what little colour it had remaining in it.
“That close!” he gasped.
Mish’al nodded sombrely. “Yes. He’d heard the growing unrest and had reports of many groups of men gathering. He didn’t know why, but his instincts made him put extra guards on the citadel walls and had the family moved into the main meeting room and surrounded them by guards.”
“All of the family? “Nasir asked quickly.
“Yes, Daoud would not be so foolish as to leave any of the Lady Zahirah’s children at risk!”
“He is a wise man! Though how did he – or you – know of my brother’s death? We were certain we kept all our men together and none slipped away to reach here before us.”
“You did. The source was ibn Saud,” said Mish’al flatly.
“ibn Saud! He sent a messenger?”
“No – more underhand. He sent a handful of men to circulate in the town and deliberately spread the news; knowing it would cause unrest, even panic, particularly...” He trailed off, and his self-assurance seemed to ebb away as he suddenly
stumbled over his words.
“Go on!” Nasir said, his voice suddenly sharp. He sensed what was coming, though he fervently hoped that he was wrong.
“They said...” He paused, took a deep breath and continued, “They said that the Lady Zahirah had killed him; killed the Emir!” he finished, his face showing both the horror he felt and the desperate hope that the informants had lied.
“She did,” replied Nasir, after a moment’s hesitation. “But only when ibn Saud was at the door of the house we were defending and seconds before Fouad would have become his prisoner and plaything.”
“Even so,” murmured the young chieftain.
“And after Foaud had made her swear she would do so, if our defences crumbled and it became inevitable that it was either that or he become ibn Saud’s trophy.”
“Ya Allah! What a woman! I would scarce dare do such a thing and I am a man!” gasped Mish’al, torn between admiration and horror.
“The Lady Zahirah is no ordinary woman, my friend, as we all should know by now. But her attendants saw her face when she had done as he asked. They told me they’d never seen such desolation, such grief, on anyone’s face before.”
Mish’al nodded, glad of Zahirah’s showing even some of what a woman should feel.
“That is, for the seconds it took for ibn Saud to enter the room and she turned and shot at him!” He laughed grimly at his friend’s look of stunned disbelief. Then, gesturing away Mish’al’s urgent suggestion that he have his wounds seen to, he turned with difficulty and ordered his warriors to dismount and strengthen the citadel’s defences. He needed time to ascertain exactly what the threats were to his brother’s family and heir. Only when they were all as secure as they could be would he be prepared to have his wounds seen to.
In the event, everything was secure when he finally did have the bullets removed; though he knew nothing of it. As the final placements were made, the citadel kept safe at least for the moment, he collapsed onto the battlements, haemorrhaging heavily. A double danger as he’d already lost a life-threatening amount of blood.
Chapter Three
Her attendants following, Zahirah hurried along the corridors, many shadowed and lit by oil lamps despite the hard, bright light of the day outside, to the elderly sheikha’s apartments overlooking the busy harbour. As she entered the spacious and fragrantly scented outer rooms, one glance at the ravaged, tear-stained faces of the children, told Zahirah that they also had already heard of Fouad’s death. Only Talal and Firyal remained dry-eyed. The effort it demanded from them both was clear in their devastated faces as they turned on her entrance. Unable to speak herself, she merely embraced all the children together while she looked across the room to the shattered woman looking back at her; a woman who seemed to be literally dying before her eyes. Though only in her later middle years, she was already ill and increasingly frail, and the sudden news of her eldest son’s death had seemingly crushed even more of the remaining life out of her and would cost her many of the remaining years she could have hoped for.
Despite her near-collapse at hearing of Fouad’s death, however, she had rallied all her failing resources. With her usual clear-sightedness, she had moved quickly to use the time, the precious time, bought by Daoud and Mish’al’s fast response to the crisis.
Thus, when Zahirah, had dealt with the first waves of pain and loss in her children and turned to face her, she had much to tell the younger woman.
“I have summoned Ali, Habib, Zafar and Hillal,” the older woman began, naming Fouad’s four surviving full brothers. “I see them all being behind Talal, though for their own very varied reasons,” she added, a world of motherly cynicism in her voice. “Ali and Habib are away patrolling the inland oases, so it will take time for them to get back here. Hillal I sent out with a strong guard and is moving around the town. His presence will reassure our friends and warn those ill-disposed to us,” she continued quietly. “Zafar is here in the citadel and will join us shortly. Should it be deemed necessary he will accompany you and Talal onto the Eastern balcony; though I would advise doing that only as a last resort.”
Zahirah nodded, awed as she always was when she observed the older Sheikha at work. Whether they were events she had caused to come to pass and then moulded to her aims, or those, as now, cataclysmically unexpected, she rarely took a false step. She had carefully ensured that the brother most likely to challenge for the Emirship was out in the town, near enough to watch but safely out of the citadel. Zafar, the son inside the citadel, was the least likely of the four to mount a challenge. Though of high status and thus useful to have by their side, he was notoriously lazy and had no interest in becoming Emir. Indeed, Firyal’s plump, gentle youngest son had little interest in anything except his racing camels and his falcons: on both of which he spent lavishly, too lavishly. His mother’s quiet funding ensured both his gratitude and his support when needed.
Assured that all that could be done in the short term had been done, Zahirah concentrated on her children. There would be precious little time available to spend with any of the five in the coming days, so she took them in her arms and comforted them as they wept. She raised her eyes from them only twice in the next few hours. Once, on hearing of Nasir’s collapse, she ordered, on Firyal’s suggestion, his removal to a room adjacent to the large chamber and had his wives and children brought into the citadel as well. They were both well aware that of all Fouad’s family he was the one seen as closest to Talal and themselves. They were equally aware that, seriously wounded as he was, he was vulnerable as never before. Though unlikely, it was not impossible that his family were at some risk, also, hence their move into the safety of the old fortress.
“Mother, how... How did father die?” Talal suddenly. She looked down at him with infinite sadness. At ten years of age the boy, her eldest surviving child, and his father’s heir, would now, she knew, have to grow rapidly – too rapidly – into manhood.
She’d seen the question shadowing his eyes, black and so like his father’s, from the moment she’d entered the room and knew it must be answered. The one question that she doubted her son, and perhaps many others, would understand the answer to. Looking up, she saw the same question mirrored in his grandmother’s eyes. In truth, that they hadn’t asked it hours before was mute testimony in itself to the shock they wall felt. But now, she knew she couldn’t put off explaining what was inexplicable to those closest to both Fouad and to herself.
Breathing deeply, she started to speak, but then a commotion at the door made her turn quickly. She relaxed only slightly as Badr, Faoud’s powerful half-brother, strode into the room, at the head of half a dozen heavily armed men, his long, loping stride carrying him across the room with unconscious arrogance. He emanated an absolute surety of his right to be there, a power he exuded wherever he went and whatever the circumstances. He seemed entirely oblivious to Daoud shadowing him and his men with a dozen of his own from the garrison. Any prince of the house being accompanied into the citadel by even a small group of armed men was in clear violation of rules in place since Fouad’s father’s time. None watching felt it was an accidental oversight by the powerful prince.
The tall warrior, whose hawk-like features and lithe, muscular build made him the closest in appearance to Faoud, his dead half-brother, bowed his head briefly to Firyal before turning his attention fully onto the younger woman. “Sister – I…” For a moment she thought he would lose his famous self-possession, show some emotion, but he didn’t. “I didn’t believe the rumours swirling round the town when I rode in just now, but… Daoud has just confirmed that the Emir – that Fouad – is dead!”
She nodded, and was saved the need to say anything further as Nasir called weakly from the adjoining room. Hurrying to the side of the deathly pale invalid they were surprised to see, besides Ayesha and Nawwaf, a distraught Isaac Ben Ishmail, Faoud’s podgy chamberlain, out of breath as though he’d been running.
“Brother!” Nasir said and, striving to sit up, b
riefly grasped Badr’s arm and embraced him before turning to Zahirah.
“We must call a majlis! Have Talal recognised before them and endorsed by them, before any other names gather enough backing to challenge him.” Only then did he seem to see the armed men ranged behind his older brother, but beyond casting an approving glance at Daoud’s state of readiness, said nothing, as he sagged back onto his pallet.
Zahirah nodded. It was a risk that, having called it, they could lose control of the family gathering, but without it, Talal’s accession would be merely hollow show. “How many of the family and other customary members are available?”
“I’ve sent messages, in Lord Nasir’s name, and at his request, to all family members who were not in the town or with him on the recent campaign, and so may not know what has happened,” cut in Isaac, his genuine grief making him unusually forceful. “As also ordered, I’ve requested that they return urgently and gather here.”
Badr, taken aback at the speed and efficiency of their organisation, made the best of a bad job. “Yes, speed is vital in these troubled times and the sooner the family gathers the better. Then we may swiftly do what is right.” he ended enigmatically.
Nasir had come far in the two or so years since, as an impulsive and callow youth, he had lead an urgent expedition to al Hofuf. He neither looked at Zahirah nor allowed his face to register his growing unease both at his half-brother’s words and the armed men clustered behind him. Neither did Zahirah, long skilled in hiding any of her thoughts, let her face show anything of what she was thinking. This was as well for family relations as she prepared, should it become necessary, to mentally shift Badr from the column marked ‘Friends and Rewards’ to that headed ‘Enemies and Death.’
Swords of Arabia: Betrayal Page 2
