Secret of the Sands

by Sara Sheridan

  Wellsted nods to give the boy permission to speak.

  ‘Will there be dancing girls, sir? At the palace.’

  ‘Dancing girls?’

  ‘Yes. I saw some in the bazaar. Darkies. Dancing on chains, sir. Mr Ormsby calls them belly dancers. Half-naked they were, sir, begging your pardon.’

  The boy begins to hum a tune and raises his arms to demonstrate the way the slave girls move, then he giggles.

  ‘Ladies’ man, eh?’ Wellsted teases him. ‘Well, I suppose there might be dancing girls tonight. Couldn’t say. But hopefully dinner will at least be better than we’ve had on board of late.’

  Banned from the captain’s table and hence also Jardine’s culinary ingenuity, Wellsted has been subsisting on the same food as the men – of a far lower quality even at port than he would like. His body, always lithe, has become quite wiry.

  ‘Still, keeps body and soul together. A high shine on those boots, Hughes, if you please,’ he says breezily and dis appears, closing the door behind him.

  At six o’clock, the sun sinks into the sea, its brazen colours bleeding over the horizon, and Haines, on deck with old-fashioned captain’s feathers in his dress cap, fixed in place with a gold cockade, marches down the gangplank with Wellsted behind him. The men each carry a brass lantern on their way along the dark waterfront and the light picks up the glint of the embroidered brocade on their jackets and the brass buttons, polished till they almost glow. The relief after the heat of the day is palpable, although even at night Muscat is still hotter than the midday of an English July. The smell of fully fired bread ovens and roasting meat wafts out on the evening air and the glow of naft lamps oozes yellow light like syrup between the slats of the shutters all the way up the hillside. The night flowers are open and the streets, usually as full of animals as people, are deserted apart from here and there where luminous figures in bright, white jubbahs float like spectres along the dockside, the stragglers heading home from the mosque after evening prayers. They disappear up one side street or another shadowed by a black slave or two dodging out of the way of the free men between the palms. The officers enter the palace courtyard, the gates swinging open before them, and are greeted by a slave, one of many waiting at the disposal of the sultan’s visitors.

  ‘Captain Haines. Lieutenant Wellsted,’ Haines announces, as if the two men could be anyone else – there are few naval men in Muscat at any one time and the Palinurus is currently the only European ship at anchor.

  The man motions for them to follow him.

  Inside, the rooms are a riot of detail and colour. Every surface is ornately decorated with bright tiles or carvings of a detailed geometric nature. A series of courtyards open to the stars and lit by burning pools pepper the matrix that the slave navigates easily. The air smells of burning naft and luban with the occasional whiff of frankincense, as shadows dance across the broad, glossy leaves of exotic oasis plants and up the carved, pale stone of the palace walls. There is music; the haunting sound of an oud and a khallool – the Arabian lute and flute – and the chiming of the sajat bells. The exotic melody slips smoothly down the hallways like a snake. As they come to the court, the slave steps out of their way and they enter, both officers making their salaams amid the clatter of the bells and the hum of conversation. There are no women in the room, one would not expect them. Instead, there are groups of Muscat’s well-dressed merchants and retainers, imams, mullahs and minor aristocracy, arrayed in a kaleidoscope of colourful silks, gold and precious jewels that would put a Mayfair dinner party to shame. Most of the men crouch on pillows, smoking and laughing. The room feels like a rarefied version of the souk and Wellsted finds himself relaxing at the welcome familiarity of it. To one side there is the orchestra and beside that there are three young dancing boys, clean-shaven, with their eyes heavily outlined in kohl. Their dress is effeminate to a white man’s eye. Draped in lurid silks, their smooth skin glows in the lamplight, patterned with brown henna and thin strips of gold tied around their bodies. Jaunty hats, like bright bowls, sit upturned on their dark hair. Raphael himself could not array them more finely.

  At the head, all eyes respectful of him, the ruler of Muscat, Oman and Zanzibar, Said Ibn Sultan, father of many children, husband of many wives, smiles graciously at the two foreigners. Resplendent in a red jubbah with a thick, purple silk sash and a magnificent turban wound around his head, he is comfortably seated on a huge leather cushion with gold ribbon at the edges. The sultan strokes his trimmed, greying beard and his eyes are bright with interest. Ibn Sultan is perpetually intrigued by pale skin and European clothes and is particularly gratified to note that the younger of the two men before him has not picked up even a hint of a tan on his travels, which sets his skin in particularly high contrast to his vivid blue eyes, and that the older one is wearing some rather striking feathers and a sufficiency of gold brocade. Immediately, it is the younger man that interests him most – his eyes are the eyes of a strange animal and Ibn Sultan is fascinated by all things foreign and strange. His jaded palate craves novelty and he always finds himself slightly afraid of white men, though he would never admit it and in any case, he thinks of the emotion as thrilling. He motions Wellsted forward.

  ‘You will sit near me,’ he commands.

  Haines stiffens. He is the senior officer but he can hardly argue with a sultan over precedence.

  Wellsted lowers himself onto the cushions at Said Ibn Sultan’s knee. He is careful to display the soles of his feet to no one for that would be the height of bad manners. There is, it seems to him, no position where it is possible to be comfortable for long without displaying the soles of his feet, and the lieutenant always ends up with pins and needles after an Arabian meal; however, he does the best he can and then accepts the small cup of spiced coffee that appears instantly at his hand.

  ‘Shukran,’ he says.

  Haines, further along, takes his place next to an emir. To Ibn Sultan’s disappointment, the captain removes the hat with the feathers and places it out of sight. Then he takes a long, slow draw on a shisha pipe.

  ‘They drink coffee in London?’ the sultan enquires.

  ‘Yes,’ Wellsted nods. ‘Though not as strong and never spiced. We drink ours often with cow’s milk or cream. I like it the Arabian way, the taste of cinnamon, cardamom and cloves.’

  ‘You drink rotten grapes also,’ the sultan comments.

  Wellsted laughs. ‘Sometimes. I think I prefer coffee. It keeps the head clear. Have you ever tasted rotten grapes, sir?’

  The sultan shakes his head. ‘Allah forbids it,’ he says simply.

  ‘Allah yahfutha,’ Wellsted answers immediately. May Allah keep you.

  Gradually, the food starts to arrive. There is a whole, roasted sheep, the skull smashed to release its meat, the eyeballs blackened, the ears roasted to a crisp leather and the swollen tongue succulent, pink and fragrant – a slippery meat much prized, as Wellsted knows from his brief forays inland. The custom is, as far as he can tell, to leave that to the end of the meal. There are platters of butter-basted chicken stuffed with apricots and fish baked whole and decorated with cucumber and pomegranate. Gleaming piles of steamed couscous and rice and branches strung with dates and grapes are borne by slaves who will not meet the eye of those they are serving. At the same time, dainty pastries of honey and almonds, piles of sugar-encrusted jellies and pink, coconut fancies are placed on the low tables, sending a waft of sweetness towards the lounging men on the cushions. It is more than even a large gathering such as this can possibly eat and the grin on Wellsted’s face is entirely genuine. The sultan immediately warms to him. It is his experience that men always want something and are at best guarded in his presence, at worst downright deceitful. To witness another’s delight is unusual and for it to be simply on account of a meal at court, where all are well-fed, is almost unheard of.

  ‘You are hungry?’ he asks the officer.

  ‘Yes, sir. On the water our supplies are meagre and at port it has been
very busy.’

  ‘And your people usually eat with knives, as I understand it. A strange custom to us – your race must be very warlike, Lieutenant, to bring naked blades to the table, where you feast with friends.’

  The sultan pulls off a piece of lamb from the shattered cheekbones – it is said to be the most delicate and delicious meat. He motions Wellsted to do the same.

  ‘We do, sir. Cutlery we call it. The Arab way is more direct.’

  The sultan notices that the other English officer is not talking to his dining companions and that he is having some difficulty with the custom of eating only with his right hand. The meat is slippery and balling the couscous into manageable mouthfuls is a skill that the captain has evidently not yet acquired. The floor around him is already scattered with failed attempts and ferrying even a small amount of the food that he takes from the plate as far as his mouth appears to require the man’s full concentration and will take, in his absence of aptitude, several tries. A lump of chicken falls and rolls down his dress jacket, marking it badly with a slick of grease. Wellsted, by com parison, is deft and quite relaxed and yet he is the junior of the two.

  ‘There are only two officers on your vessel?’ the soultan enquires.

  ‘Myself and Captain Haines,’ Wellsted says. ‘And three midshipmen – boys, really. We lost the rest to fever.’

  The sultan nods and then goes in for the kill. He likes to see what he can stir up when he has the opportunity to talk to white men about their tribal factions and has found that he can affect ignorance if necessary to deflect any offence. It is merely sport – the fun of provoking a genuine response. Here, as in all palaces, the truth is rare.

  ‘You British fear the French, do you not?’

  Wellsted is not fazed. ‘We beat the French, sir. Though they are strong in Morocco and in Egypt. I fancy they might fear us more.’

  ‘I have had the French at my table,’ the sultan says vaguely. What he means is that the English have beaten the French away and made the slave trade westwards all but impossible. It is, in his view, ridiculous. His revenues from slavery are down. However, the English are making up for it – financially, at least. The recent treaty that he concluded with His Majesty in response to the British antipathy to slaving has given the sultan a most gratifying lump sum and he is replacing his revenue from the human traffic by selling cloves to Europe, which is proving a money-spinner of unexpected proportions.

  It is the soultan’s belief that the survey the white men are undertaking is on account of their longstanding feud with the French. He is right, though he has not taken this line of thinking to its logical conclusion. However arrogant Said Ibn Sultan might be, it would never occur to him that he might connect two seas by digging out large portions of the desert as the British are considering and the French will in due course effect. In any case, he wants to make it clear that he is happy to take British money.

  ‘I do not miss the French,’ he nods.

  Wellsted accepts this information gracefully, while deftly popping thin strips of meat into his mouth. When he speaks, the lieutenant’s tone is completely open, his appetite is piqued and all he can think of, at this moment, is dinner.

  ‘They are culinary masters, the French, sir. Their rotten grapes, well, I shouldn’t say it, but French rotten grape is the best in the world. On board we drink wine from the German states and it is fine enough. But a good red burgundy is a wonderful thing. I am sure the French enjoyed your hospitality. Your kitchens must be magnificent.’

  The sultan laughs. He has never been to his kitchens and has no notion of how all this food is prepared. But he is enjoying this new white man – it is most diverting to hear the fellow talk and the sultan is mesmerised by Wellsted’s movements. The Nazarene are such outlandish beasts, Ibn Sultan thinks. They are so alien. Ajamiyah is the word. Like rare animals, they are otherworldly – yes, that is it. White devils, white ghosts. Djinns from the north.

  ‘Out on the wadi,’ Wellsted continues, oblivious to the sultan’s particular fascination, but his blue eyes shining nonetheless, ‘we shot birds. Odd creatures – sand grouse, I think – but they were delicious roasted over the fire. And we had wonderful oranges fresh from the trees. My hands smelled of fruit the whole day.’

  ‘You like the wadi?’ the sultan asks, intrigued at the very idea. There has, of course, been poetry written about the nobility of Bedu encampments. The beauty and freedom of a nomad’s life. But the soultan has always lived in a palace of one kind or another and camps very rarely – only if he has to travel – and then in some considerable style.

  ‘Oh yes, sir. I like the wadi very much. In my country, the stars and moon do not hang so low. On the wadi and up on the jabel I fancied I could catch them in my hand. It is a wonder, sir, a true wonder in your land. I climbed the jabel one night to see how close I could get to it. The jabel, sir, is rough country. My shoes came to pieces afterwards – they were navy-issue and very sturdy. I wonder how your subjects manage – so many go barefoot in those conditions. Your people must be very strong.’

  The sultan finds his mind wandering. What must it be like to camp, alone, outside Muscat, and shoot your own food out of the sky. To be so excited by the stars that you will climb a hill to try to catch one. Travelling as he usually does, with an entire entourage, is not as direct. It has aroused in him no particular affection for the harsh interior away from the prosperous trading ports.

  ‘Have you been to Zanzibar, Lieutenant?’ he enquires.

  The island is his favourite possession – the sea is never so blue as off its coast and the coralline rock is easily carved so the buildings are magnificent in their ornamental splendour. Though Muscat is cosmopolitan, there is no doubt, the island’s position to the south makes Zanzibar Oman’s most prosperous trading post with all the attendant splendours that go with the accumulation of large sums of money on a pivotal point between many cultures. The truth is, though, that it is not the trade that entices the soultan but the buildings, which are magnificent. The great man feels more at home there than anywhere else in his territories. He spends a good deal of time on the island and he often thinks that although Muscat, of course, is the capital, it’s Zanzibar that truly deserves to be his first city.

  ‘No, sir. I have never been to Zanzibar, though we mapped the island of Socotra, which was of tremendous interest. It is beautiful – the desert roses and the dragon’s blood trees. There is a wonderful morning mist that renders the scenery of the hills particularly lovely.’

  The sultan waves his hand as if to bat off this inferior geographical location. ‘But you have been inland here?’ he asks. ‘On the mainland? In the desert?’

  If he considers this a trick question, Wellsted does not show it, he merely shakes his head. ‘No, sir, not without your permission. Only at Aden a few miles, as is permitted.’

  The sultan’s political sensibilities are twitching. The western end of the Peninsula, particularly to the north is often the subject of territorial wranglings – the fringes of the country are fluid and subject to frequent change. There are several oases where his men regularly clash with the Wahabi and come off sometimes worse, sometimes better. At Aden there have been difficulties because of its proximity to Africa. Anywhere you can set up a slave market is bound to be profitable and therefore worthwhile fighting over.

  ‘At Aden you say?’ he enquires. ‘Why there?’

  ‘I was in search of two fellow officers, Dr Jessop and Lieutenant Jones, who have gone missing.’

  Wellsted hesitates but the sultan smiles.

  ‘It was at Aden, sir, that I heard a rumour of them.’

  ‘That they offended the Bedu?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Yes. Did you hear that too?’

  The sultan laughs. He has found the nub of it at last, he thinks. ‘If you have something to ask of me, then you must merely say so, Lieutenant.’

  Wellsted smiles. ‘Yes. Sorry, sir. We would like to find them. Our naval agent, Ali Ibn Mudar, is making enq
uiries and if there is anything you could do to help in this matter, His Majesty King William would be most grateful.’

  ‘But you would like to find them yourself, I think? You are that kind of man.’

  Wellsted nods.

  ‘You cannot travel far inland of Muscat, Lieutenant. It is dangerous country and you are a Nazarene. As soon as you get into Wahabi territory they will tear you to pieces whether you are under my protection or not. Your fellows went in from the Dhofari side and only travelled a few days. To find them, you will have to roam further. The Bedu, as you know, do not stay in one place for long. They set up camp all over the desert – they trade as they go and follow the water. To find them will be difficult and they are as likely in Wahabi territory as in my own. If I give you permission, I am only granting you leave to die.’

  The sultan pulls the wing from a succulent chicken as if to demonstrate the technique.

  ‘Even with royal approval it is too dangerous. You,’ he points out, ‘have blue eyes. You might as well be a woman travelling alone.’

  ‘Yes,’ Wellsted says sadly. ‘That is probably a disadvantage. I see what you mean.’

  ‘The interior is for the Bedu and for slavers, of course. They travel heavily armed and remain, for the most part, unmolested.’

  ‘Slavers,’ Wellsted wonders out loud. ‘Do you think that our officers might have been taken into slavery?’

  The sultan inclines his head and shrugs his shoulders very slightly. ‘Who knows, Lieutenant Wellsted. White men make poor slaves.’

  ‘I see. Quite,’ Wellsted beams, entirely unoffended by this shortcoming in his race.

  ‘I will think upon it,’ the sultan promises.

  The orchestra changes rhythm to a slow and haunting melody and, having found out what was wanted of him, the sultan loses interest. He abruptly turns away from the lieutenant and starts to talk to the fellow on the other side. Wellsted pops a piece of moist chicken into his mouth and savours it slowly. The young dancers are gyrating in the corner to the lyrical sound of the oud and he wonders what the ship’s boy, Hughes, might make of them – they are almost the same age after all.