Beyond the Sand Dune

by Asen Djinah

  There was an atmosphere of détente between the two armies on the eastern border. A group of Samanid and Arabian soldiers were working together to set up a tent midway between the two frontlines. Labouring under the scorching sun, the mixed group of unarmed soldiers shared their waterskins while bantering and telling each other anecdotes.

  ‘I can’t believe I have wasted these last four years watching you, when I could have been in the comfort of my own home watching my beautiful wife,’ one Samanid soldier said good-naturedly to the Arabian soldier next to him.

  The others burst out laughing.

  ‘You should count yourself lucky as I don’t squabble like your wife does,’ the Arabian soldier replied in good humour.

  Everyone roared with laughter. Seeing the soldiers working and laughing together, one would find it hard to believe that they were adversaries. Although the two armies had faced each other for almost four years, there had never been an actual battle, aside from a few isolated skirmishes, mostly accidental. Once the tent was up, the soldiers placed rugs and cushions to furnish the luxurious meeting place. Soldiers from both sides had been relieved to learn that their leaders were finally meeting to talk, as both parties were eager to return home after four long years in post.

  ‘It is time to stop this stalemate,’ one Samanid soldier confided to the mixed group around him, ‘All I want is to be with my family.’

  ‘My son was born days after I left and is nearly four year old now. I yearn to see him and hold him in my arms for the first time,’ an Arabian soldier replied.

  When Omar was appointed as caliph, four years previously, the Samanid emperor had held an urgent summit with his commanders.

  ‘In the past, whenever a new caliph was elected, there has always been a period of uncertainty. I do not want to take any chances and have decided to dispatch our army to the border,’ Emperor Nuh said to his commanders.

  ‘The new caliph may have expansionist ideas, or he may decide to annex new territories to demonstrate his strength to potential rivals or even to increase his popularity among his people,’ he explained.

  With the Samanid army mobilising on the border, Caliph Omar had been forced to dispatch his own army to monitor the situation. Since then, the two armies had been facing off from afar, with neither ruler eager to become embroiled in a war. Soldiers and officers from both sides were desperate to leave this sun-scorched area and return to their families, hence the atmosphere of hope and anticipated joy ahead of the meeting between the two leaders. When they had completed furnishing the tent, the soldiers raised both the Samanid and the Arabian banners on top as a final touch.

  Jaffar arrived one day ahead of schedule and was pleased to see that everything was already in place.

  ‘This augurs a good outcome to our meeting,’ he said to Commander Ikrimah, pointing to the two banners flying side by side.

  ‘I hope the prime minister will arrive soon,’ Jaffar thought, although he did not mind the wait or having a few days of rest before undertaking the return journey.

  Ikrimah had obligingly ceded his comfortable tent to the grand vizier during his stay. While waiting for the meeting to take place, the commander arranged for Jaffar to inspect the various army units. On the second day, while watching the cavalry conducting a manoeuvre for his benefit, a messenger arrived with the much awaited news.

  ‘The Samanid prime minister has arrived and sends his request for the meeting to take place tomorrow at dawn,’ he informed the grand vizier.

  ‘At last the waiting is over and I will find out how amenable the Samanids are to my proposal,’ Jaffar thought.

  He was also pleased that the meeting would take place at dawn, before the heat picked up. In his experience, he’d found that interlocutors were more agreeable in the morning when it was still cool. As the heat became unbearable, they were more likely to become edgy and easily irritated.

  Jaffar was ready well before dawn. He was dressed in his ivory silk thawb that reached down to his ankles. A navy blue velvet bisht – long open coat – with elaborate silver embroidery around the neckline and down both sides completed his attire. His matching ivory keffiyeh – headscarf was held in place by a double-corded, navy blue agal which had the same silver pattern embroidered along the circular rope. Despite his thin frame, Grand Vizier Jaffar looked a stately and dignified representative of the caliphate. Commander Ikrimah was dressed in his full military uniform, with his leather body armour and metal helmet. The two men sat on their horses at the front of the escort party and waited.

  ‘We don’t want to be too early at the tent, waiting for the other party to arrive; we would appear too keen. Nor do we want to make the other party wait, as it is disrespectful. The key is to arrive at exactly the same time,’ Jaffar said to Ikrimah.

  After a while, they saw in the distance that their counterparts were also ready and both parties started to move simultaneously forward, towards the tent in the middle of the no-man’s land. When they reached the meeting place, Jaffar was the only one to dismount, having previously instructed Ikrimah to remain in saddle. On seeing that only Jaffar would be in the meeting, the Samanid prime minister nodded to his commander to wait outside and he alone dismounted his horse. The two men entered the tent from opposite sides and came face to face inside, where two servants – one from each side – were already waiting.

  ‘Sobh Bekheir – Good Morning,’ the Persian greeted Jaffar in Farsi.

  Prime Minister Elyas was elegantly dressed, with a pair of plaited purple pantaloons descending to his ankles, but with the crotch hanging so loosely down to his calves that it could easily be mistaken for a robe. He wore a long, black velvet coat, reaching just below the knees, closed from the waist to collar with golden buttons and opened from the waist down. There was a golden border on each side of the opening and around the neckline. A thick, golden waistband with one end hanging loose on the side, plus a tall, cylindrical hat encircled at the bottom by gold and adorned with symbolic patterns, completed his outfit.

  ‘Sabah Alkhyr, Salaam Alaikum – Good Morning, Peace be upon you,’ replied Jaffar in Arabic although he was fluent in Farsi.

  ‘I am very grateful that you have accepted my invitation,’ he then added in Farsi.

  ‘How could I refuse an opportunity to meet the famous grand vizier of whom I have heard so much?’ Prime Minister Elyas replied, diplomatically.

  ‘The honour is really mine, to meet the great prime minister of Persia,’ Jaffar returned the compliment.

  As they sat down opposite each other on the pile of cushions, their servants poured refreshments in metal cups and handed them to their respective masters. It was customary at talks between enemy leaders for each party to bring their own refreshments and food, to avoid the possibility of being poisoned.

  ‘You must have heard about the mobilisation of the Byzantine army on our northern border,’ Jaffar started off.

  ‘You must be very worried,’ Elyas replied, ‘I heard that they are growing their army to twice the size of yours.’

  ‘Worried? Not really, Prime Minister. The Byzantines are not interested in our arid land. They are only interested in conquering the green and productive strip in the north. We are sending emissaries to negotiate with them, so that we can cede them the fertile belt of land without any fighting,’ Jaffar bluffed.

  Elyas looked puzzled. He had expected the caliph to be troubled by the presence of the Byzantine army.

  ‘It does make sense to give up the green belt, to avoid bloodshed and complete annihilation,’ he thought to himself.

  ‘Why would you do that, having them stationed on your doorstep? Once they are in the north, it will only be a matter of time before they attack you and conquer your entire territory,’ Elyas asked instead.

  ‘The question, dear Prime Minister, is whether they will attack south to conquer our arid desert, or attack east to conquer your fertile and productive lands. Besides, when we give them the fertile land we will sign a peace treaty with t
hem,’ Jaffar replied, playing his trump card.

  Now it was Prime Minister Elyas who looked worried and for a moment he did not know what to say.

  ‘That is a hypothetical question for the future. There is no need for you to worry,’ Jaffar added, deliberately minimising the veiled threat to the Samanids.

  ‘But you can’t just relinquish your fertile land without a fight. Your economy will be severely affected,’ Elyas finally blurted out.

  ‘We cannot fight them. They will be 70,000-strong by the time they attack and our army has only 20,000 men at present. It is the only way to avoid bloodshed,’ Jaffar explained.

  Prime Minister Elyas remained silent for a long time. He did not want to have the Byzantines on his doorstep. As Jaffar had implied, they would more likely be tempted to attack the Samanid Empire, not only for its fertile land but also to control the lucrative spice route. He sighed as he came to a reluctant decision.

  ‘We can help you to fight them, Grand Vizier. We cannot fight alongside your men, as there has been no hostility between us and the Byzantines in the past – we cannot get involved without any direct provocation. But in terms of resources, we can help you covertly,’ Elyas suggested, looking directly into Jaffar’s eyes and hoping the grand vizier would take up his offer.

  Jaffar did his best to not smile or gloat. His goal had been to secure a peace treaty, but the way the conversation was going was better than he ever dreamt of, with the prime minister offering to help. He pretended to think for a while, not wanting to appear too keen to accept Elyas’ offer.

  ‘Prime Minister, are you asking us to fight the Byzantines so that they don’t attack you in the future? It seems as though you are asking us to fight on your behalf,’ he asked instead, sounding intentionally perplexed.

  ‘Grand Vizier, we will be happy to contribute towards your war chest and anything else. Just name what you need,’ Elyas replied, a little too hastily.

  Once again, Jaffar took his time and remained silent, working out how much he could ask for, without being disrespectful to the prime minister. Asking too much might result in the prime minister withdrawing his offer.

  ‘I may be able to convince Caliph Omar... that is, if you could provide us with substantial resources. We only have 20,000 men as I told you and to fight such a large enemy we will need significant help,’ he finally replied, probing to see how much he could ask for.

  ‘Just name what you need,’ Elyas replied, impatiently.

  With Commander Khalid’s demand of 9,000 additional horses in mind, Jaffar decided to be bold and try to solve his problem in one fell swoop.

  ‘If you could contribute a chest of gold coins, body armours and shields, and most importantly 5,000 horses for our cavalry, I think I could convince the caliph that we stand a chance of defeating the enemy and keeping our fertile land. This way both our empires will benefit,’ Jaffar finally said, laying out his demands in the open.

  Prime Minister Elyas was stunned at such an audacious request and his immediate inclination was to categorically refuse. However, being the diplomat that he was he gave himself time to think about the implications.

  ‘After all, it is not such a high price to pay to get the Arabians to fight for our security. And they will need all the help possible to ensure they defeat such a large army,’ Elyas finally concluded that he had no choice but meet Jaffar’s demands.

  ‘Your demands are excessive, Grand Vizier, but I understand that it will take a lot of resources to defeat such a large enemy. Since we cannot afford that you fail, I agree to meet your demands without further negotiation. Emperor Nuh always listens to my recommendations. You have my word that we have an agreement,’ Elyas replied.

  ‘Caliph Omar also heeds my recommendations and I hold his authority to sign a binding covenant on his behalf,’ stated Jaffar.

  ‘I presume that it is the same with you. If we are to stand a chance against the Byzantines, we must mobilise at once. Let us call our commanders inside so they can discuss the timeframe and details of our agreement. Tomorrow we can meet again and sign our treaty formally,’ he then suggested.

  Commander Ikrimah was amazed at the deal secured by Jaffar. For the nine months he had been stationed at the eastern border, he had naturally regarded the Samanids as the enemy and not once had it crossed his mind that they would be making such huge concessions. From what he had previously heard, he already knew how competent Jaffar was in running the empire. However, having seen first-hand the deal negotiated with the enemy – after only one meeting – he had a new-found respect for his grand vizier. In his tent, Jaffar was feeling jubilant with the outcome of his meeting, having expected nothing more than a simple peace treaty. Now that the agreement was officially signed, Jaffar was impatient to depart and get back to Qadday. He could not wait to tell Devorah all the details of his latest accomplishment. Being in the high position of Grand Vizier, he had no friends to confide in; it was only with Devorah that he could share his achievements.

  ‘She will be very proud, as usual,’ he thought fondly, ‘just like ummi and abbi would have been.’

  The thought of his parents instantly dampened his spirits and he felt a wave of sadness sweeping over him. The familiar sense of remorse returned as he relived the circumstances of the day they were taken away.

  ‘Could I have done anything to help them?’ he asked himself for the millionth time.

  At the back of his mind, he knew very well that as a twelve-year old he could not have done anything differently. His eyes welled up.

  No one except Devorah knew the true story, not even Kateb his mentor. Jaffar had told everyone that both his parents had passed away very quickly, one after the other, after catching an unknown illness. Only Devorah, having lived through the episode with him, knew the truth about his parents. She was the only one able to understand and comfort him.

  Chapter 6

  For the rest of his life, Jaffar would never forget the day they came for his parents. It started out as a normal day with Jaffar out playing with his friends, when the courtyard door burst open and a group of six religious guards entered the enclosed area. The sight of the armed guards with their familiar white robes and blue turbans made everyone instantly stop what they were doing. The boys and girls froze where they stood, intimidated by the guards. The women, busy with their cooking and washing, also stopped to watch what was to come.

  ‘Where is the home of Feryal and Thawfik?’ one of the guards asked the group of girls playing near the entrance.

  One girl simply pointed to the room, too scared to speak. As the guards made their way to the dwelling Jaffar broke into a run, trying to reach the door ahead of them. The guard at the back of the group put out his hand and stopped Jaffar in his tracks.

  ‘Stay back, boy,’ he gruffly told Jaffar.

  The commotion drew Thawfik out to the doorway. Jaffar had found it odd that for the past few days his father had not been going to work. But seeing him standing on the doorstep, the frightened boy was glad that his father was home.

  ‘Abbi would know what to do in this situation,’ Jaffar thought with relief.

  ‘Thawfik? Do you know why we are here?’ one of the guards asked.

  Thawfik nodded, showing no surprise.

  ‘We need both you and your wife to come with us,’ the guard continued.

  Jaffar had always wondered why his father didn’t argue or offer any resistance – or how the guards knew his father and mother by name. It was only much later that he understood.

  ‘Could you give us some time to pack a change of clothes?’ Thawfik asked in a defeated voice.

  It became clear to Jaffar that his father had been expecting the guards all along.

  Devorah’s mother, Eliana, had also come out to see what was happening. On seeing Jaffar close to the guards, she ran across the yard and grabbed the boy. She put her hand over Jaffar’s mouth and dragged him to her own doorstep. Jaffar wanted to scream at the guards, but Eliana held her hand firmly over hi
s mouth.

  ‘Keep quiet or the guards will take you also,’ she hissed in his ear.

  With Devorah by his side, Jaffar watched as his father walked out carrying a bundle of clothes, followed by his mother. It seemed that his mother also had been expecting the guards, for she was fully dressed and wearing her niqab. The guards moved aside and, keeping their distance, motioned the couple to follow them. As they were about to go through the courtyard door, Thawfik turned towards Eliana and Jaffar and gave them a slight nod. Feryal on the other hand did not even glance at her son, staring straight ahead. After they had left, complete silence lingered in the courtyard. One by one the women called out for their children and they all went inside until only Eliana, Jaffar and Devorah were left outside.

  It was only after Eliana had taken Jaffar inside her room that she removed her hand, now wet with tears, from the boy’s mouth.

  ‘Why did you let them take Abbi and Ummi away? Why can’t I go with them?’ he screamed.

  ‘You can’t go where they are going, Jaffar.’ Eliana said, ‘It is not a place for children. I will explain later.’

  Jaffar pushed her away and ran out of the room. He went to his best friend's door and called out his name. No one came out. He went to the next room and call out his other friend, but again no one came out. He knew they must have heard him, but couldn’t understand why they were ignoring him. He sat down on the bare ground alone and cried. After a while, feeling hot in the full glare of the sun, the distressed boy got up and went to his parents’ room to sit in the shade, on the doorstep. Devorah and her mother must have been watching him, for once again Eliana rushed across the courtyard and grabbed hold of his hand.

  ‘Come and have something to eat with us. When Doran comes home in the evening, he will know what to do,’ Eliana said gently.

  The little boy did not know what else to do. Exhausted by his tears, he meekly allowed her to pull him up and take him to her home. Eliana made him and Devorah sit, poured some cold milk for the two children and gave each a piece of stale bread. During all this time, Devorah had not uttered a single word.