by John Harris
Out of the whole shabby episode, only one thing had emerged worth having – the glow of his strange friendship with Pentecost, and all his ambitions had crystallised into the simple hope that the boy would survive. All along, this was what he had worked for, why he had ridden down to the Dharwa Passes and threatened the Muleimat and the Khadari and the Jezowi and the Shukri, why he had constantly prayed that Wintle would not reach the plain, so that Thawab’s guns should not throw their impersonal death about the fort.
As he stared at the ruined buildings, his eyes empty, the light catching the lines on his troubled face, he suddenly noticed a flutter of white and wondered what new device Pentecost was building for Thawab’s discomfiture. Despite the breaches that had been made, there was no longer any wish to rush the fort, the tribesmen preferring to wait until the guns had reduced its garrison to nothing. Hejri reims were no longer as Aziz remembered them, willing to die for their beliefs.
He sighed. The white spot over the wall was motionless, but then, as a breath of the wind from the north touched it, it moved and he realised it was a flag, a white flag.
For a second, his heart leapt as he realised that Hahdhdhah was offering to surrender, than it sank again at once as he felt that this could only mean that Pentecost was dead. He stared again at the fort, tears pricking his eyes, then he turned and strode away to the camp.
Thawab was asleep, but other men besides Aziz had seen the flag and they were arguing loudly with each other as he passed between the tents.
‘There is a white flag, Aziz,’ one of them told him. ‘The fortress wishes to surrender.’
‘It is no longer my concern,’ the old man said in a low voice, absorbed with his grief. ‘Thawab leads the Hejri warriors now.’
‘Thawab is asleep.’
Aziz stopped dead and whirled. ‘Then, in the name of Allah,’ he roared, ‘wake him! Who is this Thawab that he must be allowed to sleep undisturbed when great events hang on his heels?’
The men backed away hurriedly, then one of them broke from the group and began to run towards Thawab’s tents.
5
There was weeping in the fort as the flag went up, and the women began to emerge from the cellars, dirty, bedraggled, dust-covered and ashamed of their appearance. A few children began to move about the ruined courtyard. One or two of the wounded appeared, their faces drawn, shuffling and limping among the strewn timber and stone.
Fox and Chestnut and old Fauzan seemed slightly lost, as though the strain of the last weeks had left them numb, as though their emotions, under control for so long, still could not be relaxed. The int-zaids, however, made no attempt to hide their relief. There seemed now, their expression seemed to suggest, a chance that they would see their families again.
The place stank. Not much of it was left standing, but there were still, despite the frightened women and children and the thankful wounded in the courtyard, men crouching among the rubble, still behind their weapons, and the Sultan’s flag still flew from the staff above the central tower.
Fauzan recovered from the first emotions quickly and began to walk round what was left of the walls, a grim old man, unrelenting and bitter-faced, furious that they had finally had to give way before the hated Hejri, a man of unrelenting honest courage, still jeering at the Toweida Levies though, God knew, they had done their duty.
He paused here and there, resighted a gun, threw a few stones into place, suggested the rebuilding of a defence post. From the courtyard, Pentecost watched him. Minto had appeared, dragging his broken ankle, pale-faced from his long vigil out of the sun, his skin grey-green like the belly of a fish, his eyes sunken with weariness.
What would the people in England think of the defence of Hahdhdhah, Pentecost wondered. Probably nothing. Hahdhdhah was a distant place in the middle of a dusty plain surrounded by bleak red hills, in a country most people had never heard of. It was an obscure little defence, in an obscure little war, with small casualties, no publicity and remarkably little excitement. Just a lost little place with a name no one could ever spell.
Probably some TV commentator had done a piece on it, he decided, a swift-talking résumé kept within the allotted three or four minutes so as not to interfere with the Wednesday play or the sports features. Doubtless, talking in that harsh machine-gun-fire style of TV talkers that made it sound a little like a cup final. The Hejri are attacking. The defence is there, though. There’s a movement on the left but it won’t come to anything, because Zaid Fauzan’s well up. The ball moves to midfield…
Pentecost allowed himself a small cracked frosty smile at his own bitter imaginings.
‘It’ll be nice to get back to Khaswe,’ he pointed out.
‘It’ll be nicer still to go home,’ Minto said.
As he stared over the walls, Pentecost suddenly realised what a joy it would be to see a different view. His heart full of emotion and overwhelmed by a desire to see his wife and children again, he felt weak at the thought of them and had to fight to keep back the tears.
Then he jerked himself back to the present and braced his shoulders. They were not free of Hahdhdhah yet. They still had to negotiate their exit, though somehow he had a feeling that Aziz would behave like an honourable man.
Even as he thought about Aziz, Fauzan turned his head from where he was leaning against a chipped embrasure, his grim face gentle as he looked at Pentecost.
‘A horseman comes, Reimabassi,’ he said.
Pentecost nodded and crossed towards him. Fauzan was on one of the few fragments of undamaged wall that was left, and he realised that the orders to give up Hahdhdhah had arrived only just in time.
As he stopped, the horseman reined in close to the walls. He was a thin-faced, hawk-nosed man Pentecost didn’t recognise, and he noticed from his turban and the twist in his girdle, that he wasn’t a Zihouni.
‘You fly a white flag,’ he shouted.
‘We wish to arrange terms.’ Pentecost’s voice came out cracked and high-pitched and he cleared his throat noisily. ‘I wish to speak to Aziz.’
There was a pause, then the horseman shouted back. ‘Aziz no longer leads,’ he said.
Pentecost’s eyebrows rose, and he was momentarily aware of a curious pang of regret. ‘Aziz is dead?’
‘He is not dead. He is as nothing. Thawab leads the Northern tribes.’
Pentecost’s eyebrows rose. He had never dreamed that Aziz could be supplanted so quickly. Doubtless the siege had found the old man wanting.
‘Aziz is no longer with you?’ he asked.
The horseman’s mount caracoled and for a moment they didn’t catch his words, then he brought it under control and tried again
‘Aziz is still with us, but Thawab commands.’
There was a touch of pride in the voice, and Pentecost realised that his red cloak and brown girdle indicated that he was a Tayur, one of Thawab’s men.
He paused for a moment, thinking. Somehow he didn’t trust Thawab. He was reputed to be devious. Then another thought occurred to him. Perhaps he could do old Aziz a good turn. He was aware how much his loss of rank would affect his pride. Perhaps he could give him back a little of it.
‘I will not treat with Thawab,’ he shouted.
The horseman stared upwards, startled.
‘Thawab commands,’ he insisted.
‘I do not trust Thawab. I have spoken already with Aziz and I know him for an honourable man. Thawab does not have this reputation.’
‘Thawab will want to come.’
‘Then the defence will be continued. Many more men will die.’
The horseman considered for a moment, then he raised his hand. ‘I will tell Aziz,’ he said.
6
‘I am in command,’ Thawab shouted in a fury. ‘It is I who should conduct negotiations!’
Aziz said nothing, allowing Thawab’s anger to work itself out.
‘Who is Aziz?’ he was shouting. ‘He is finished! He is out of date – a back-number! I shall negotiate!’
One of the Zihouni chiefs interrupted. ‘Aziz at least has spoken with Bin T’Khass,’ he pointed out sharply.
Aziz grinned at the words, beginning to feel more confident. Thawab would never risk a quarrel – not with Hahdhdhah almost within their grasp. And what warmed his heart above all was the knowledge that Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful, had left Pentecost alive and he had not forgotten the friendship between them.
The Zihouni chief was speaking again now. ‘Let Aziz go,’ he said. ‘There will be no fencing between them. They have already spoken together.’
‘No!’ Thawab roared the word. ‘I lead the northern nations!’
The Zihouni gestured angrily. ‘Thou hast not spoken with Bin T’Khass, and we are all sick of fighting! We need our women. If they are surrendering Hahdhdhah, we shall get the plain of Toweida. So let us get it over and done with. Let us negotiate and be rid of them so we can go home.’
Thawab glared, prepared to argue, then he noticed that there was no answer from his Deleimis and he realised that they, too, were sick of the siege. Aziz mustered more support than he had known.
Suddenly, Thawab backed down, his eyes glittering. There would be time later to remove Aziz. He was still a child when it came to politics, and far too honest for a leader. And, after all, if anything went wrong, if the Sultanate repudiated any arrangements they made, it would be Aziz who would be to blame.
‘Very well,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘Let Aziz negotiate.’
7
‘Sir!’ Fox appeared in Pentecost’s doorway. ‘His Nibs is here.’
There had been silence for an hour, not a single shot, not a shout, not a movement except from the village where they could see activity in the camp across the road – a flock of goats, the children who minded them, and a slow-trotting donkey. For an hour the whole plain had seemed to be silent, and the women had gone back to the cellars, because they had been doing it for so long it had become the habitual thing to do.
Pentecost laid down his pen. He had been finishing his diary, bringing it up to date, setting down every single fact by which they might be judged.
‘Aziz?’ he asked.
‘The man himself,’ Fox grinned.
Pentecost allowed himself one of his bleak smiles. ‘I’ll come,’ he said.
He had already washed and shaved carefully and dressed in his best uniform. Fox, too, was carefully dressed in an officer’s uniform made up of fragments from Lack’s kit.
‘Let’s make them think there are still enough of us to hold them off,’ Pentecost had said.
There were also four Dharwas, dressed in clean clothing, their jackets, girdles and head-dresses borrowed from all corners of the fortress so that they presented a confident appearance. Fauzan had cynically picked the four fattest men he could find, so that they appeared to be in no danger of starving. Pentecost wished to give the impression that they could stay in the fortress just as long as they chose. With this in his mind and with Wintle almost out of the Dharwas, it would be wise for Aziz to negotiate quickly and give him what he wanted.
He rose from the desk and fastened on his belt and revolver.
‘Do we carry a white flag?’ Fox asked.
‘No,’ Pentecost decided. ‘We go out looking as though we’ve won.’
Fox grinned. Outside, the four Dharwas were standing at ease, their uniforms brushed and hurriedly mended, their boots clean.
‘Very good,’ Pentecost said. ‘Let’s go.’
As the splintered gate creaked open, they slipped outside, forming up into a group, and as they moved forward down the dusty road, lined with all the debris left behind by the attackers – scraps of clothing, broken weapons, scattered cartridges and trampled bushes – they saw five men break away from the silent line of horsemen in the distance. Then they saw Aziz, dressed like Pentecost in his best clothes – black Zihouni headdress, green girdle, black cloak and decorative beads. He held up his hand, and his four companions halted in a small group so that Aziz advanced alone, the Mannlicher butt-foremost as in all their previous meetings.
He had stopped now and dismounted. He was holding his own banner and as Pentecost came to a stop in front of him, his grim face broke into a smile.
‘Greetings, oh my son!’ he said warmly.
It was as good as an embrace.
‘Greetings, my father Aziz,’ Pentecost replied gravely.
Aziz grinned. ‘Thou art a mighty warrior, Bin T’Khass,’ he said. ‘Thou saidst thou wert great and indeed thou art. They will sing of thee around the fires in years to come as they do of El-Aurens and Owinda-el. Thou hast almost defeated the whole Hejri nation.’
Pentecost replied in the same tone, boastful, vain, in the way the Hejris understood.
‘We still can, Lord Aziz,’ he said. ‘But I have received orders from Khaswe. The Sultan makes a treaty. He is willing to give up the Toweida Plain.’
Aziz tried to make the surrender easier. On any other occasion he would have gloated over his enemy, but now he was anxious to salve the pride of the young man opposite. He could see that Pentecost was thin and hollow-eyed. The polishing and brushing, and the appearance of Fox and the four Dharwas behind him might have fooled Thawab but they didn’t deceive an old campaigner like Aziz.
His voice was gentle. ‘Thou hast not been defeated, my son,’ he said.
‘No,’ Pentecost’s words were brisk. ‘Only in Khaswe have they given up hope. The plain is yours, Aziz.’
Aziz’s face was grave. ‘I take it without much joy,’ he said. ‘I would have preferred to have defeated thee, Bin T’Khass, and then taken thee to my tents as a friend and as the great warrior thou art.’
Pentecost’s face split in a smile. ‘That would indeed have been a celebration, Aziz,’ he said.
Aziz’s face grew grim as they came to the business of the meeting.
‘What do you demand?’ he asked.
‘Safe conduct south of the Dharwas. Not only for me, but also for my officers and men, and for the wounded and civilians, women and children.’
‘It is granted. I wish thee well. Do you still have lorries?’
‘Enough. My men will march out.’
‘All this is granted.’ Aziz was eager to be helpful and he remembered again how someone had once described to him the honours due to a defeated army. ‘You shall march out like warriors. With your backs straight, your heads high, and your weapons in your hands.’
Pentecost smiled, touched by the gesture. ‘You are a generous foe, Aziz.’
Aziz smiled back at him. ‘When will all this take place? My people are impatient to see thee gone.’
‘Tomorrow, Aziz. We have nothing to stay for. Tomorrow when the sun is highest.’
‘This is well.’
‘My men will form up outside the fort for all to see there is no deception.’
‘The camp across the road will vanish and my Zihounis will line up across the plain to see thee go. They will tell their sons, “We saw Bin T’Khass leave!”’
‘You do me much honour, Aziz.’
Perhaps, Aziz thought, remembering Thawab, I am out of date with my honour. Perhaps we are both out of date.
‘The signal will be when I haul down the flag of the Sultanate from the tower,’ Pentecost was saying, and Aziz thrust his banner forward.
‘I would consider it an honour if Bin T’Khass were to raise my own standard. When I am old it will hang in my tent.’
Pentecost gave a little bow. ‘I trust thee, Aziz.’
‘There will be no mistake,’ Aziz said. ‘I am in control. Thou hast not only held off our warriors, thou hast also defeated Thawab. He sulks now in his tent.’
‘Until tomorrow then, Aziz.’
‘Until tomorrow, my son.’
His heart full, touched by the old man’s affection, Pentecost stepped hack and saluted – the best he could manage. Aziz stared at him and gravely raised the Mannlicher in a strange parody of a present arms. Then, without a word, they turned th
eir backs on each other and headed back to their respective parties.
8
Tafas waited in his palace, a defeated man suddenly grown old, watching the pearly light over the city catching the tips of the minarets. He heard the muezzin’s keening cry lingering in the air – ‘There is no God but Allah and Mohamed is his prophet,’ and he sighed as he caught the perfume from the garden below.
Rasaul stood before him, confident of his own power growing as that of the Sultan dwindled. The city was quiet, because the news of the Sultan’s proposed departure had somehow spread to the Khesse area. Only the British still hadn’t heard, because Rasaul had been careful to keep it from them in case a complaint of treachery should change Tafas’ mind. With power almost in his hands, Rasaul had no intention of permitting any accident of that sort.
‘Arrangements have been finalised,’ he was saying. ‘Hahdhdhah is to be turned over to Aziz tomorrow at midday.’
The Sultan eyed him sullenly. He felt he had been betrayed and there was no one now he could trust – not even in the palace. Even his meals were late and carelessly served because the servants, too, were waiting for him to go.
He sighed. ‘Brigadier Wintle was informed, of course,’ he asked.
Rasaul inclined his head in a way that was meant to be an assent, but Tafas’ eyes narrowed.
‘You did inform him, Rasaul?’ he snapped.
Rasaul’s hesitation was barely perceptible but Tafas stared at him angrily. ‘I will send a signal,’ he said. ‘Personally. From the palace radio station.’
Rasaul kept his face from showing his annoyance. He had hoped the whole operation could be completed without bringing anyone else into it – in case outside influences changed things. He had long since made plans to prevent such an eventuality, in fact. He tried to turn the old man’s attention aside.
‘There is a motor launch waiting in the harbour,’ he said. ‘It will take you to your yacht. I have made all the arrangements.’
