Wilbur Smith - C11 Blue Horizon

by C11 Blue Horizon(Lit)

  Even in her dreadful predicament she took note that he was still speaking English, unaccented and sweet in her ears, the voice of home. If I must die, let that be the last sound I hear, she thought, but could not trust her own voice to reply to him. She looked down through dizzying space to the valley floor so far below her. Her head swam with vertigo, but she hung quiescent and felt his hard fingers biting into her ankle through the soft leather of her boot. Above her Mansur grunted with the effort, and the rough rock of the cliff scraped against her hip as she was drawn upwards a few inches by his strength.

  Blindly Mansur groped backwards with one leg and found a narrow

  cleft in the rock. He shoved his knee and thigh deeply into it. It anchored him, and now he could release his left hand with which he had been clinging to a precarious hold. He reached down over the sill of the cliff and locked both hands on to Verity's ankle.

  "I have you now with both hands." His voice was harsh with the effort. "Courage, girl!" More decisively she was pulled upwards. He paused to gather himself.

  "And a tiger!" Mansur gasped out the old nautical exhortation to encourage himself and her.

  She wanted to scream at him to shut his mouth, to eschew the childish nonsense and use all his strength to lift her. She knew that the difficult part still lay ahead when he had to heave her backwards over the rock rim. He pulled again and she was dragged up another short space. There was a pause and she felt him adjusting and strengthening his position, using his hips to wriggle backwards, trying to wedge his other leg into the cleft in the rock. He pulled again more strongly from his enhanced position, and she was lifted higher.

  "God love you for this," she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, and he heaved again so hard that she felt her leg might be pulled out of its socket in her hip.

  "Nearly there, Verity," he said, and pulled, but this time she did not move. A small shrub had taken root in a crack in the cliff face. Now its branches had hooked into her breeches. He pulled again but he could not budge her. She was firmly held by the wiry bush.

  "Can't move you," Mansur grunted. "Something holding you."

  "It's a bush, catching my legs," she whispered.

  "Try to reach it," he ordered.

  "Hold me!" she replied, and bent her body at the waist, reaching up with one hand. She felt the branches under her fingers, and made a quick grab at them.

  "Got them?" he demanded.

  "Yes!" But her grip was one-handed and tenuous. Then her heart turned to ice in her chest as she felt the boot he was holding begin to slide slowly off her foot.

  "Boot's coming off!" she sobbed out.

  "Give me your other hand," he panted. Before she could refuse she felt him release one hand from her ankle and reach down along her leg. Her foot slid further out of the soft leather boot.

  "Your hand!" he pleaded. His fingers were scrabbling urgently down her thigh towards where the bush had come up against her and blocked her way. She felt the back of her boot ride down under her heel.

  "Boot's going! I shall fall!"

  "Your hand! For the love of God, give me your hand."

  She lunged upwards and their fingers locked. She still had a grip on the bush with her other hand. Mansur was hanging on to the ankle of the boot, but now his right hand was linked to hers. Verity was doubled up, suspended by both arms and one leg. The skirts of her coat fell away from her face so she could see again. His face above her was flushed and swollen. His beard was dark, sodden with sweat. It dripped into her upturned face. Neither dared move.

  "What must I do?" she said, but before he could answer it was decided for them. The boot slid off her foot. Her lower body dropped forcefully, then flicked round. Now she was stretched out arms upwards and feet down. Although the jerk had loosened her grip, she was still clinging to his right hand and to the bush.

  Both were drenched with sweat, which greased their skin. His fingers began to slide through hers.

  "I can't hold on to you," she gasped.

  The bush," he said. "Don't let go of the bush."

  Though she felt as though he were crushing the bones of her fingers, their grip parted like a faulty chain link, and she dropped again until the bush broke her fall. It cracked and bent with her weight.

  "It will not hold," she screamed.

  "I can't reach you." He was groping for her with both hands and she was stretching up with her free hand, but she was just beyond his reach.

  "Pull! You must pull yourself up so I can get you," he grated. She felt the ice in her heart numbing her muscles. She knew it was over. He saw the despair in her eyes, saw her grip on the bush start to fail. She was going to let go.

  He snarled at her savagely, trying to shock her into a last effort, "Pull, you feeble creature! Pull, damn your lily liver!"

  The insults stung her and anger gave her the strength for one more attempt. But she knew it was useless. Even if she could reach him their sweat-slimy hands could not hold together. She lunged for the branch and found a double hold, but the bush could no longer bear her weight. It crackled and snapped as it tore.

  "I am going!" she sobbed.

  No, damn you, no!" he shouted, but the bush gave way. She started to fall, but suddenly both her wrists were seized and held. Her fall was arrested with a strength that made the joints of her upper arms pop in their sockets.

  Mansur had made his last effort. He had freed his legs from the cleft in which he had wedged them, and threw himself forward over the lip f the cliff. At the full stretch of body and arms he had just reached her.

  He was hanging head down, only his toes hooked into the rock cleft held him. But he had to raise her before she slipped through his fingers again. He braced his elbows against the face of the cliff and slowly bent his arms, raising her until they were face to face. His features were swollen and contorted with the agony of his straining muscles, and with the rush of blood into his inverted head. "I cannot lift you higher," he breathed, with their lips almost touching. "Climb up my body. Use me as a ladder."

  She locked one arm through his, the bend of her elbow through the bend in his. This left his other hand free. He reached down and took hold of her leather belt and pulled her a little higher. She grabbed his belt buckle and they pulled together. He reached lower and took a handful of the seat of her breeches. She hooked her other arm between his legs and again they heaved. Now her face was level with his waist and she could see over the top of the cliff. He reached down, linked his fingers together and made a stirrup for her bare foot. With the purchase this gave her she could drag herself up and over the lip.

  She sprawled on the rock for only an instant, then whipped round. "Can you get back?" she gasped. He was fully extended, powerless to pull himself backwards and regain the crest.

  He was almost too far gone to articulate coherently. "Get the horse," he gasped. "Rope on saddle. Pull me back with the horse."

  She glanced around and saw the stallion a quarter of a mile away, trotting back up the valley. "Your horse is gone."

  Mansur reached backwards and tried to find a finger hold on the rock, but it was smooth. There was a tiny rasping sound as the toe of one boot moved in the rock crack. He slid forward an inch towards the edge of the cliff. Then his foot caught again. She was frozen with horror. His toehold was all that held him from the drop. She seized his ankle with both hands, but she knew it was hopeless. She could never hope to hold the weight of such a big man. She tried to brace herself as she watched his foot slip again and then his hold in the cleft broke. He slid forward irresistibly, and his ankle was plucked from her hands.

  He shouted as he went over the edge, and she flung herself forward across the rock sill to peer down, expecting to see him falling away with his robes ballooning around him. Then she stared in disbelief. The hem of his white robe had snagged on a shard of granite on the lip of the cliff. It had broken his fall, and now he was swinging like a pendulum just below her, dangling over that dizzying void. She stretched down with one h
and to try to reach him.

  "Give me your hand!" she called. She was weak with her own efforts to escape, and her hand shook wildly.

  "You will never hold me." He looked up at her, and there was no fear in his eyes.

  That touched her deeply. "Let me try," she pleaded.

  "No," he said. "One of us will go, not both."

  "Please!" she whispered, and the hem of his robe tore with a sharp, ripping sound. "I could not bear it if you died for me."

  "Worth it," he said softly, and she felt her heart break. She sobbed and looked behind her. Then hope bloomed again. She slid back from the edge and wedged herself firmly into the rock cleft. She reached back over her shoulders and seized a double handful of her dense brown hair, pulled it forward and twisted it into a loose rope that hung below her waist. Then she threw herself flat on to the rock sill. She was just able to see over the edge. The rope of her hair tumbled forward.

  "Take my hair," she shouted. He swivelled his head and stared up at her as it brushed lightly against his face

  "Do you have purchase? Can you hold me?"

  "Yes, I am wedged into the rock cleft." She tried to sound confident, but she thought, Even if I can't we will go together. He twisted her hair round his wrist, and with a final crack of tearing cloth the hem of his robe gave way. She had just time to brace herself before the shock of his full weight dropping on to her hair half stunned her. Her head was jerked forward and her cheek slammed into the rock with a force that jarred her teeth. She was pinned down. She felt the vertebrae in her neck popping, as though she were hanged on the gallows.

  Mansur hung on the rope of her hair only for the seconds it took him to orient. Then he climbed up, hand over hand, swiftly as a top yard sailor going up the main shrouds. She screamed involuntarily for it seemed that her scalp was being torn from her skull. But then he reached past her, found a handhold in the rock cleft and heaved himself over the rim of the cliff.

  He turned instantly, seized her in his arms and dragged her back to safety. He held her to his chest and pressed his face against the top of her head, knowing how intense must be the agony of her scalp. She lay in his arms, weeping as though in bitter mourning. He rocked her gently as though she were an infant, mumbling incoherent words of comfort and gratitude. After a while she stirred against him and he thought she was trying to escape his embrace. He opened his arms to free her, but she reached up and slipped her arms around the back of his neck. She Pressed herself to his chest, and their bodies seemed to melt together like hot wax through their sweat-soaked clothing. Her sobbing stilled and then, without pulling away from him, she lifted her face and looked into his eyes. "You saved my life," she whispered.

  "And you saved mine," he replied. The tears still cascaded down her face and her lips were trembling. He kissed her, and her lips opened without resistance. Her tears tasted of salt, and her mouth of fragrant herbs. Her hair fell in a tent over them. It was a lingering kiss, and ended only when they were forced to breathe.

  "You are not an Arab," she whispered. "You are an Englishman."

  "You have found me out," he said, and kissed her again.

  When they drew apart, she said, "I am so confused. Who are you?"

  "I will tell you," he promised, 'but later." He sought her lips again, and she gave them willingly.

  After a while she placed both her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back gently. "Please, Mansur, we must stop this. If we don't something will happen that will spoil everything before it has begun."

  "It has begun already, Verity."

  "Yes, I know it has," she said.

  "It began when first I laid eyes on you on the deck of the Arcturus."

  "I know," she said again, and stood up quickly. With both hands she flung the glorious profusion of her hair back from her face and over her shoulders.

  "They are coming." She pointed back up the valley at the band of horsemen who were galloping towards them.

  A they rode back to Isakanderbad, al-Salil and Sir Guy listened to Verity's account of the near tragedy. When al-Salil asked Mansur for his version of events, Mansur replied quite naturally in Arabic, and Verity was obliged to go along with the deception that he spoke no English. She translated for her father his praises of her courage and resourcefulness, and could omit none of his hyperbole now that she knew Mansur understood every word.

  At the end Sir Guy smiled tightly and nodded to Mansur. "Please tell him that we are in his debt." Then his expression turned bleak. "You were at fault. You should not have been alone in his company, child. Your behaviour was scandalous. It will not happen again." Once again Mansur saw fear in her eyes.

  The sun had set and it was almost dark when they reached the encampment. Verity found her tent lit with lamps whose wicks floated in perfumed oil and her clothing from the ship had been unpacked. Three handmaidens were waiting to attend her. When she was ready for her bath they poured warm, perfumed pitchers of water over her, and

  giggled as they marvelled at the whiteness and beauty of her naked body.

  The evening meal was laid out under a dazzle of stars, and the desert air had cooled. They sat cross-legged on cushions while the musicians played softly. After they had eaten, servants offered hookahs to the Caliph and Sir Guy. Only al-Salil indulged. Sir Guy lit a long black cheroot from the gold case that Verity carried for him. Politely she offered one to Mansur. Thank you, my lady, but I have never found tobacco to my taste."

  "I agree with you. I also find the odour of the smoke unpleasant in the extreme." Instinctively she had lowered her voice, even though her father spoke no Arabic.

  Now Mansur was certain she was terrified of him. There was more to her feelings than simply that Sir Guy was a daunting figure, hard and unyielding, and Mansur knew he would have to be circumspect in what he now had in mind. He kept his voice on the same even level when he spoke again. "At the end of this street there lies an ancient temple to Aphrodite. The moon rises a little before midnight. Although dedicated to a pagan deity, in the moonlight the temple is very lovely."

  Verity had not heard him, or so it seemed from her lack of reaction. She turned back to translate a remark that Sir Guy had made to al Salil, and the two men continued their earnest conversation. They were discussing the extent of the Caliph's gratitude to Sir Guy for his intervention with the Company and the British government. In what manner could the Caliph best demonstrate it? al-Salil asked. Sir Guy suggested delicately that five lakhs of gold rupees might be appropriate, which should be followed by an annual payment of another lakh.

  The Caliph began to understand how his brother had amassed such vast wealth. It would take two ox carts to carry that amount of gold. The treasury in Muscat no longer held a tenth of that amount, but he did not inform Sir Guy of this. Instead he brought the subject to a close. These are matters we can discuss again, for I hope to enjoy many more days of your company. But now, if we are to rise again before the sun tomorrow, we should repair to our sleeping mats. May pleasant dreams attend your slumbers."

  Verity took her father's arm as he escorted her to her tent with torchbearers leading them through the encampment. In turmoil, Mansur watched her go: he had no indication that she would honour their assignation.

  Later, dressed in a dark cloak, he waited in the temple of Aphrodite. Through a hole in the dilapidated roof the moonlight played full on the

  statue of the goddess. The pearly marble glowed as though with internal life. Both her arms were missing, for the ages had taken their toll, but the figure was graceful and the battered head smiled in eternal ecstasy.

  Mansur had stationed Istaph, his trusted coxswain from the Sprite, on the roof to keep guard. Now Istaph whistled softly. Mansur caught his breath and his pulse beat faster. He stood up from his seat on one of the tumbled stone blocks and moved to the centre of the temple so that she would see him at once and not be startled by his sudden appearance from out of the shadows. He saw the dim light of the lamp she carried as she came down the narrow
alley, stepping over the rubble and debris of three thousand years.

  At the entrance she paused and looked across at him, then set her lamp in a niche in the doorway and threw back her hood. She had braided her hair in a single rope that hung down over one shoulder, and in the moonlight her face was as pale as that of the goddess. He let his own cloak fall open to hang from his shoulders, and went to meet her. He saw that her expression was serious and remote.

  When he was within arm's length she put out a hand to stop him coming closer. "If you touch me I shall have to leave at once," she said. "You heard my father's rebuke. I was never again to be alone with you."

  "Yes, I heard. I understand your predicament," he assured her. "I am grateful you have come."