by Marvin Kaye
Khalid smiled. “Yes. I am my father’s second son. My brother will inherit what is here and will take his place as one of the great scholars of the Shari’a. And I will be sent in exile to hold our land and house in England. For that reason I was sent to school there, to learn the workings of English law as thoroughly as my brother learns the Islamic. He is my brother and I love him, and I honour his place in the family as my elder, but I do wish that our fortunes were reversed.”
“While I wish I could live in England forever,” al-Rasheed sighed. “But there are advantages to being here as well. Anyway, it should be time for dinner. Would you care for a drink, Mr. Holmes? I have some very acceptable brandy and a decent Scotch.”
Both Peterson and I took water while al-Rasheed poured himself a generous whiskey. “I understand that my friend Khalid does not drink because he is Muslim and wishes to avoid the appearance of sin. Though he did like his beer in England. But you, Mr. Holmes, you are not Muslim. Why do you prefer water to good Scotch?”
“My body is not accustomed to this climate, Your Highness, and alcohol dehydrates one rapidly. Perhaps for one who is more used to desert conditions it is not a concern, but since the Empty Quarter is known to be the most arid place on Earth I think it best to refrain.”
Al-Rasheed nodded and put his own glass aside. Servants arrived bearing platters of lamb and rice and vegetables, which they set on the largest brass table directly in front of me. Then they brought china and silver and large serving spoons, which is much a Western affectation here. The Bedouin eat with their hands from the central dish, so the ceremonial washing of hands is a sanitary procedure as well as a welcoming gesture. The food was excellent, and I was sorry that Watson was not there to sample it. He is fond of mutton and this was delicious.
As we ate, the conversation turned towards Mr. Peterson’s coming marriage, which had been arranged by his parents. “Khalid seems to have gotten religion since we have returned,” al-Rasheed sighed. “At school he was too serious by half, and took a first in Law. He never went out with us drinking and at the bawdy houses he always married the girl.”
“It is easy enough and an old tradition,” Peterson protested. “And I always divorced them before I left. Besides, none of the girls even know what I said since it was in Arabic. It made no difference to any of them.”
“Yes, but it made a difference to you,” al-Rasheed said with a grin that could very easily become a sneer.
“Excuse me, but how is it possible to marry anyone for a few hours?” I asked, both curious and hoping to divert what appeared to be a long-standing argument.
Peterson waved his hand as if brushing off a fly. “In order to marry, according to Muslim rite, a man need only say ‘I marry thee’ to a woman three times. The divorce is the same, he merely has to repeat ‘I divorce thee’ three times and it counts as a legal divorce. It is the common custom here for men who do not have true wives with them to enter a temporary marriage for a set period of time so they can enjoy the comforts of home.”
These simple marriage customs seemed all too dangerous to me. While I myself found the idea simply foreign and strange, some men who have great weakness for the fair sex could find themselves married dozens of times. Watson, for example, would have married before he was out of public school, had the opportunity been so easy!
And yet it was such customs that kept these people primitive. If something as sacred as marriage can be entered with no more than the muttering of a few words, if Church and State both are not required to be present to sanction the union and all forms of ceremony are not established, then there is little public recognition for the most civilizing institution known. Indeed, marriage is known to civilize men, and the Arabs remain utterly wild with their constant raiding and incessant tribal wars.
“I always thought the English ladies much more intelligent,” al-Rasheed broke in. “They only provide what a man needs most and make no commitment for more than an hour, while the temporary wives here are expected to cook and wash and take care of the household as well. And though they are usually paid a reasonable sum upon the divorce, it is not so much as the ladies at Doll’s make in a single week.”
“But the employees of this establishment, they must pay for their own room and board and clothes and expenses all the time,” I pointed out. “While I suppose a temporary wife is supported in all these things.”
Khalid nodded and he smiled. “Just so. They are often given valuable gifts as well, clothes and jewelry and carpets, that they keep along with the payment.”
“Still, those unfortunates who have been forced to work in bawdy houses are rendered unmarriageable in the true sense, and when they grow older they are left to charity if they have not been prudent,” I remarked, thinking of the poor unfortunates in charitable establishments throughout my native land.
Even al-Rasheed blinked with surprise. “Unmarriageable?” he asked. “Why would a temporary wife be any more unmarriageable than any other divorced woman? Sometimes a second or third wife who is older, a fine cook and a good housekeeper, can make a household run far more smoothly. What does it matter if she is no longer beautiful?”
I had also forgotten that Muslim men were permitted four wives as well. Watson is very fortunate that he has never come to Arabia, for to have four wives a man must support all of them and treat them equally well. Upon reflection, it is no wonder that most Arab men marry only one wife at a time.
Khalid Peterson shook his head. “You must forgive my friend,” he said to me. “He is worried about marrying a young and fiery-tempered Bedouin girl who can’t do anything but milk camels and shake carpets. Even Ahmed must serve his family as I have served mine, though it is to neither of our liking.”
Al-Rasheed shot Peterson a hard look, and I began to wonder if the word “friend” did describe their relationship. Perhaps Peterson had been sent with al-Rasheed as his keeper at school, and had kept the role when they both returned. Certainly there was little warmth between them.
“We all must make sacrifices to serve our families,” I said, remembering only too acutely that I was not as unfamiliar with the concept as they appeared to believe.
Then a servant arrived with dessert, a pastry far too sticky and sweet for anyone over the age of ten. With the change of course came a change of conversation that was quite welcome. I already knew that I was not looking forward to spending the next weeks crossing the harshest desert in the world with these men.
Five days out of Riyadh, al-Rasheed was already begging water. He had gone through his ration as though he did not believe that there was no oasis, no spring, no place at all to get water until we crossed the sand. I did not feel obliged to share with him; apparently neither did anyone else.
“That is good,” Abdul Aziz said after he got my tent set and served me a portion of hard bread and dried dates. “Then he will die soon, and he won’t be able to kill me.”
“Why do you think he wants to kill you?” I asked.
“That is why he was sent with us,” Abdul-Aziz answered with the world-weariness of a youth. “I am the prince, the next in line to be king after my father. And I do not have any brothers. If he kills me, then he has defeated our line and we shall never be able to claim the throne in Riyadh again.”
“I think if he had wanted to kill you he would have attempted it by now,” I replied. “At least he would have begun looking for you, and he clearly shows no interest in anyone among the Murrah with some exception of the women. Though I think that he finds the veils disturbingly old-fashioned.”
Abdul Aziz smiled grimly. “With men like him to watch, it only proves that a veil is the only hope for a woman who wishes to retain her privacy and self-respect. And not to become the prey of something like him.”
Abdul Aziz would not mention the Rasheed name, and the boy tried to spit even at the pronoun, though of course he was too dry. We were all too dry, doling out our rations a drop at a time. The thought of spitting out precious moisture was abhor
rent.
“But it would still be good if he died,” the boy said again, as if to make up for his inability to complete the gesture of contempt.
Abdul Aziz sat in silence while I ate. One of the veiled women of the camp came up to the youth and handed him a plate with the same food that I had on mine. This happened every evening, and by now I could tell it was the same girl.
I was certain this was a girl or very young woman from the way she moved. It is interesting that when all other visual information is removed, one can still observe movement and pick out the finest detail that could indicate age or condition or even comfort under that concealing veil. I had concluded this must be Abdul Aziz’s sister, Noura.
Usually she did not speak, but on this evening she did so. “Brother,” she said very softly. “I would like you to come to my tent to stay the day and not remain with the other camel-tenders. I have heard some things that are disquieting, and would prefer your company. Perhaps we can discuss again the strategies of the Prophet when he fought the unbelievers at the Battle of Badr.”
“Yes, yes, of course I’ll be there,” he agreed quickly. “You don’t have to worry about coming up with conversation, I understand that the situation is not comfortable for you with the other women there. And all of them trying to find you a husband, too.”
“I just feel uneasy with one of them among us,” she said, with an involuntary turn of her head towards al-Rasheed’s tent.
“I am sorry, I have neglected you,” Abdul Aziz apologized quickly. “I wish you had told me sooner; of course you must not stay without a man in your tent to protect you.”
The girl said something that I didn’t catch and then appeared to float away, her great veil drifting over the sand.
Abdul Aziz looked at me and coloured. For a moment he had forgotten that they should not talk in front of me, that I could understand as well as any countryman of their tribe. And he could not mention her, not her name or her relationship to him, without dishonouring her and me both.
I was not concerned. The girl had said more than enough for me to be quite sure of who she was and in what relationship. And that she was uncommonly sensible and well educated for any woman in this world. The fact that she offered to discuss battle strategies with her brother was most forward. In fact, she reminded me of the young ladies who aspired to study at the great universities and would not permit the gentleness of their sex to blunt the acuity of their minds. I had never expected to find such a woman in Arabia—they were rare enough in England, after all.
Noura’s voice and accent told all the rest of the story. She had addressed Abdul Aziz as brother intimately and had every right to do so. It was apparent that they had even been schooled by the same tutor.
I stretched mightily and made a great show of being ready to sleep, so that my young prince could hide from the shame of my knowing that he had a female relative with him among the Murrah. “Time to turn in, I think,” I said crisply. “Thank you.”
Abdul Aziz bowed graciously, took my now empty plate, and walked through the street of tents, though he did not follow the direction of the other camel-tenders to go off to their own place near their four-footed charges.
I was just as glad that he had left. I found myself hoping that Peterson would arrive with his special smoke this evening. Some nights he would appear at my tent just before we were to retire to enjoy a smoke, though Peterson did not use tobacco. He had his own special blend that he shared with me, the effects of it being somewhat familiar and very useful. We could not spare the water for the bubble pipe that was traditional, so one of my pipes was sacrificed to the cause, and could not have been put to better use.
It was almost impossible to sleep through the heat of the day. The heat more than the dryness stuck to the skin and pressed downward. Every breath was pain, every hope of shadow welcome. The hot air rasped into our lungs, leaching out any hope of coolness or moisture. And the heat was unrelenting, constant, unchanging until sundown when the temperature would plummet suddenly with the darkness.
This is when we travelled. In the morning camp was set, the boys assigned to the guests, as we were called, and the veiled women taking care of the rest, women who, under their veils, could seem almost invisible as they went about their chores around us. Had I not just heard the conversation with Abdul Aziz’s sister, I would not have realized just how invisible they were in this world.
As usual, I invited Peterson in. We both reclined on the carpets as he prepared the pipe, not breaking our silence until we shared some long, thoughtful puffs and began to feel the ancient poppy relax our minds along with our bodies.
“They say that al-Rasheed will die,” I started. “Because no one will give him any water. Certainly I hope you will not. You have already helped him out of too many scrapes altogether.”
Khalid shrugged. “He has taken his servants’ rations. Taken them completely, not shared any of what they have hoarded. That is not the way the Holy Koran tells us we should treat our servants and slaves, not even the unbelievers.”
“You do not seem terribly upset,” I noted.
Peterson smiled bitterly. “It affords me the opportunity to build my credit for Paradise,” he replied. “And of the requirements of a believer, charity is the easiest.”
I said nothing, though I knew that sharing water here could not be called easy at any time.
“Why do you tolerate him?” I inquired, though were it not for the relaxation of the pipe I certainly would not have asked such a personal question.
Peterson shrugged. “As long as I act as his caretaker, I can remain here. And perhaps I can do more charity by keeping him from some of the serious harm he could do others. Often I can distract him, or suggest something that is less evil than his original plan. This, I think, can be counted a charity.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
And then the drug took us both into the long periods of silence that were our habit. We smoked one more bowl together. By then it was the full blaze of near noon and I drifted with some help into a deep and dreamless sleep.
When I awoke I suddenly knew for certain what was going on and what al-Rasheed meant to do. I had known it earlier, but exhaustion, extreme discomfort, and distraction from the problem had slowed my normal processes. There were two royal personages in this caravan—a young prince and an unmarried princess. Rulers have used marriage as frequently as murder to gain or keep a throne.
Al-Rasheed was indeed up to no good, but I didn’t know how I could tell Abdul Aziz. To mention that his sister even existed was to treat her with contempt. And yet, he was in as much danger as she. If al-Rasheed married Noura as he intended, the young prince would never be able to take the throne. That would be as bad as death for the youth, and far far worse for all of the people of Arabia. To say nothing of the Foreign Office and England.
I knew nothing of the dispatches I had been sent to deliver, but I could not ignore the fact that Europe had been stable for a long time. There was an undercurrent brewing, some shift in the wind as Mycroft put it. “Be assured,” he had said, “that this is the quiet before the storm. We have been blessed with undeniable good fortune, but the Queen cannot live forever and the Prince is, well—he is the Prince. With Germany courting the Ottomans and the Hapsburgs trying to expand and consolidate an empire too large by half, to say nothing of the Russians, this blessing of peace we have now cannot last.”
Arabia and its Holy Cities make it a crucial place for policy throughout the Middle East and North Africa. In Egypt, Syria and Transjordan, people are swayed by mullahs and kings of Mecca. Even to the Sultan of the Ottoman throne, the word of the Arabians carries weight. And while the Ottomans might be rotting of corruption and their empire splintering under their fingers, they are still a powerful force and not to be dismissed at all.
No, eliminating Abdul Aziz as an ally and contender in this area would hurt England and all of Europe. Al-Rasheed might appear a better ally on the surface, but he is cruel and selfish an
d without true nobility. He would make a dangerous ally and an untrustworthy friend, always ready to jump for his own advantage and sacrifice all the treaties signed and loyalties pledged.
No, it was not for Abdul Aziz and Noura alone that I was so concerned. Abdul Aziz is the prince that all wish Edward would be; al-Rasheed would be the self-serving monarch all civilized men despise. And he was ready to pounce on my young friend in a way that I could never explain. Not within the confines of Arab propriety, and not without grave consequences.
Abdul Aziz arrived as always, with a camel ready to be packed up with the tent and my belongings. My riding camel would not be saddled until he finished those tasks.
“Did you have a good rest?” I asked, as I did every evening.
“Yes, thank you, I slept very well,” he said in English. We were practicing, as usual, and so it was difficult to express complex thoughts.
“Did you hear that al-Rasheed has taken his servants’ water?”
The young Arab prince stepped back in sheer horror. “No. Oh no. That is, that is. . .” Even in Arabic he could find no word for how terrible an act that was. “That cannot be true,” he finally said, though his face gave lie to the statement. He knew it was true.
“Yes, it is true,” I said. “Khalid ibn Peterson told me so after we ate this morning. He is giving the servants some of his water, so perhaps they will not die. I was curious because I think that Peterson seems to be a good man, and yet he remains in the company of someone so untrustworthy.”
“Untrustworthy,” Abdul Aziz repeated. I gave him the word in Arabic and he shook his head and then spoke in that language. “No, he is much worse than untrustworthy. He is abomination, he is the portrait of the immoral man, the apostate, the man who is lower than the beasts.”
Then we heard the screams just as I caught the first scent of smoke on the air. “Fire, fire!” The youths who tended the camels ran among the tents to rouse help. “Near the camels,” someone yelled with a clear and authoritative voice.
