The Monsoon (100 page)

“And the Masakara?” the Prince asked.

“How many?” They were on the right flank, a milling throng of camel men, restless as a flock of starlings.

“Six, seven thousand,” said a sheikh of the Harasis.

“At least that many,” said another.

“Perhaps more.” AlMalik looked to the other flank of the enemy where the black veils and headdresses marked them as the Bani Bu Hasan and the Harth. They were the wolves of the desert and there were as many of them as there were of the Masakara.

AlMalik tasted once again the bitter gall of disappointment in the back of his throat. They were outnumbered almost two to one.

Al-Salil had failed in his attempt to bring over the northern tribes: alMalik had heard nothing of him since he had vanished into the desert almost two moons ago. He knew in his heart that they had miscalculated, that he should never have sent alSalil to them. Every day he had dreaded receiving a gift from the Masakara, the severed head of his red-haired son in a leather bag. Although the grisly trophy had not arrived, the proof of his failure was out on the plain: almost fifteen thousand rebel lances drawn up against him.

Suddenly there was a disturbance along the centre of the Turkish line. Despatch riders galloped forward with orders from the Ottoman staff, and the horns sounded the advance. The Turkish cavalry moved forward, rank upon rank, rippling with sunlight off their accoutrements, but the Arab formations on the flanks held their positions, and allowed gaps to open in the front. This was unusual, and through his telescope the Prince watched with a sudden, keener interest.

There was another commotion among the enemy, and this time the staff gallopers sped out from the Turkish command in the centre, waving their arms, clearly urging their Arab allies to join in the general advance and close the dangerous gaps in the front.

Then at last the Arab formations began to move, but they wheeled right and left, towards the centre, where the Turks stood uncertainly, confused by this unexpected evolution.

“In the sweet Name of God,” whispered alMalik, and he felt his heart swell so that his breath came short.

In the centre of the front rank of the Masakara he saw a strange new banner unfurl, carried by a tall rider on a honey-coloured thoroughbred camel. He turned his glass upon this warrior and saw that the banner was azure blue, t shot through with gleaming silver script, and as he stared in wonder the rider threw off his headdress and couched his lance. His hair was red-gold and his lance was aimed at the Turkish flank.

“Allah! All praise to Allah! Al-Salil has done it. He has turned the rebel tribes to our cause.” As he stared in wonder, the Arab formations on either flank of the Turks started forward, catching the Ottoman in enfilade, closing upon them like a fist of steel.

The Prince roused himself, gave the order, “Advance” Charge at them,” the war drums boomed and the horns sounded an urgent, strident note.

With the Soar and the Awamir in the centre, the army of the south rolled forward, raising a towering cloud Of dust to sully the high blue sky.

of the line, and his heart Dorian rode in the centre was singing.

Right up to this last moment, he had not been certain that the sheikhs of the Masakara would hold true to their undertaking to turn upon the in pulled ahead of the Ottoman. The fleet beast under him riders on each side of him, and only Batula could match him, riding hard a lance-length behind.

Ahead the Turks were in confusion, most still looking down the valley to where Prince alMaliks army was rolling forward; only those closest to the right flank had seen the danger and were turning to meet the charge.

With a clash and shock, of body to body and shield to shield, they struck the Ottoman flank, and ripped through it. Dorian selected a man from the ranks, bulky in his chain-mail and bronze helmet, dark face contorted with rage and dismay as he struggled to control his plunging steed. Dorian dropped the tip of his lance and leaned low in the saddle. Under Batula’s training he had learned to pick a thrown desert melon out of the air at full gallop.

Now he aimed for the opening in the Turks chain-mail shirt, into his left armpit.

The lance jolted in his hand as the tip found the opening unerringly and slipped through the man’s chest until it struck the chain-mail on the far side, then the impact lifted the Turk clean out of the saddle and he hung on the supple lance, kicking.

Dorian dropped the tip and let him slide off the steel and roll in the dust, then he raised the lance again and picked out his next victim. This time the lance shattered in his hand at the force of the blow, but the steel head was firmly lodged in the throat of the man he had hit. The Turk gripped the stump with both hands and tried to pluck it out of his flesh, but he died before he could do so, then slipped down from the saddle to be dragged away by his fear-crazed horse.

Batula. tossed the spare lance to Dorian, who caught it neatly and in the same movement couched the long shaft and dropped its bright head to the level of the next man’s belly.

In the first few minutes of the charge the ranks of the Ottoman were ripped wide open, charged from both flanks, and while they still reeled the main army of the south crashed into their disordered front.

The locked armies revolved like a mass of debris caught up in the vortex of a whirlpool, and the uproar was deafening as men hacked and shoved, shouted and died. It could not last longi for the conflict was one@ sided and the fury of the attackers too fierce. Caught in flank and front, outnumbered at every point, the Ottoman line bulged and began to give. The Arabs sensed the victory and pressed forward, like wolves around a dying camel, tearing, howling, ripping into them, until at last they’ broke and the battle turned into a bloody, broken shambles.

Dorian’s first charge had carried him deep into the mass of the enemy and, for a desperate while, he and Batula were cut off and surrounded. The second lance broke in his hands, so he drew out his sword and fought until his right arm was daubed with Turkish blood to the shoulder.

Then abruptly the fury of the enemy around him abated and they broke away, turning the heads of their mounts towards the rear. Dorian saw men throw down their weapons as the Arabs came racing through the gaps in their front. The Turks whipped their mounts into a gallop and fled.

“Full chaseP Dorian yelled.

“Chase them!

Cut them down.” Mingled like oil and water, the two armies streamed back across the plain together, the Arabs were ululating and swinging their bloody swords, shouting their war-cries as the battle turned into a rout and the fleeing Turks made little effort to defend themselves. Some threw themselves from their horses and knelt in the path of the attackers, begging for mercy, but the Arabs lanced them casually as they rode by, then wheeled back to strip the corpses of gold and booty.

Dorian fought his way through to the rear. Ahead he saw that the Ottoman staff had long ago abandoned the battle, and were also in desperate flight across the plain.

The general and every one of his officers had grabbed a horse or a camel and were fleeing back towards the city. In all this multitude there was only one man Dorian wanted.

“Where is Zayn al-Din?” he shouted to Batula. Dorian had seen him earlier that morning as the army had debauched through the gates of Muscat. Zayn al-Din had been with the Turkish staff, riding behind the Ottoman general, wearing half-armour and carrying a lance as though he were eager for the fight. With him had been Abubaker, his old crony and henchman from the zenana at Lamu. Abubaker had grown tall and lean, with long moustaches, and he also was dressed in the accoutrements of a warrior. Although his two old enemies had ridden within two lance-lengths of Dorian, neither had recognized him among the ranks of the Masakara, for Dorian had been mounted on a strange camel and his face and red hair had been swathed in the folds of a black turban.

“Where is he?” he shouted to Batula.

“Can you see him?” He jumped up and stood tall on the wooden saddle frame of the running camel, a careless feat of skill, and from the height he scoured the open plain ahead, which was covered not only with the fleeing enemy but also with bolting loose horses and unmounted camels whose riders had been hacked down.

“There he is!” Dorian shouted, dropped back easily into the saddle and urged his mount forward. Zayn al-Din was half a mile ahead, mounted on the same bay stallion that Dorian had seen that morning.

His plump body was unmistakable, as was the golden head-rope around his blue headdress. Dorian pushed his camel to the top of its speed.

He overhauled and passed many other Turks, some high ranking officers, but he ignored them and, like a cheetah coursing the gazelle of his choice, bore down swiftly on Zayn al-Din.

“Brother!” he called to him, as he ran close behind the bay stallion.

“Stay a while! I have something for you.” Zayn looked back over his shoulder. The wind plucked off his headdress and his long dark hair and his beard fluttered. Terror turned his face the colour of rancid camel butter as he saw Dorian close behind him, saw the long curved sword in his hand, his face all speckled with other men’s blood, his grin savage and merciless.

Zayn al-Din seemed paralysed with fear, clinging to the pommel of his saddle, his eyes fixed on Dorian as he came alongside and raised the scimitar on high. Then, with a shriek, Zayn released his grip and fell out of the saddle.

He struck the hard ground and rolled like a boulder down a steep hillside, until he lay still at last in a dusty heap, like a pile of old clothing.

Dorian wheeled his camel and stood over him as Zayn crawled up on to his knees. His face was white with dust,

and there was a raw graze down one cheek. He looked up at Dorian and began to blubber.

“Spare me, alSalil. I will give you anything.”

“Throw me your lance,” Dorian called to Batula, without taking his eyes of Zayn’s abject face. Batula tossed it across to him. Dorian lowered the point and placed it on Zayn’s chest. Zayn began to weep, and the tears cut tunnels through the dust that powdered his face.

“I

have a lakh of gold rupees, my brother. It is all yours, if you spare me, I swear it.” His mouth was slack and his lips quivered and drooled with fear.

“Do you remember Hassan at the Pass of the Bright Gazelle?”

Dorian asked grimly, leaning out from the saddle to stare into his face.

“God forgive me,” Zayn cried.

“It was in the heat of the fighting. I was not myself. Forgive me, my brother.”

“I wish only that I could bring myself to touch you, then surely I would cut out your testicles as you did to my friend, but rather would I touch a poisonous snake,” Dorian spat with disgust.

“You do not deserve the warrior’s death by the steel of the lance, but because I am a compassionate man I shall give it to you.” He pressed forward with the long shaft and the bright point pricked Zayn al-Din’s fat chest.

Then Zayn saved his own life. He found the only words that could avert Dorian’s implacable wrath.

“In the name of the man who is our father. In the love of alMalik, grant me mercy.” Dorian’s expression changed, his gaze wavered, and he withdrew the lance tip an inch.

“You ask for the judgement of the father you have betrayed. We both know it must be the garotte of the executioner. If that is the death you choose, over the clean death I offer you, so be it, then. I grant it to you.” Dorian put up the lance, and rammed the butt down into the leather bucket behind his heel.

“Batula!” he called, and when his lance-bearer came up he ordered him, “Bind the arms of this eater of swine flesh behind his back and place a noose around his neck.” Batula slipped down from the saddle and swiftly trussed Zayn’s arms, then dropped a running noose over his head. He passed the end of the rope up to Dorian, who made it fast to one of the loops on his saddle.

“On your feed” Dorian barked, and gave the rope a yank.

“I am taking you to the Prince.” Zayn lurched upright, then staggered after Dorian’s camel. Once he lost his balance and rolled on the ground, but Dorian did not slacken the pace or even look back, and Zayn struggled up again, his robe ripped and his knees bloody. Before they had covered a mile of that sanguinary plain, on which the corpses of the Turks lay like seaweed on a storm-lashed beach, the golden sandals had been torn from Zayn’s feet and his soles were raw. His face was swollen and black as the rope half choked him and he was so weak he could no longer call for mercy.

Prince Abd Muhammad alMalik rode up to the gates of Muscat at the head of his retinue, the citizens of the city and the courtiers of the Caliph al-Uzar ibn Yaqub threw open the gates and came out to greet him. They had torn their garments and poured ash and dust over their heads as a sign of repentance, and they knelt in front of his horse, pleading for their lives, swearing allegiance to him and hailing him as the new Caliph of Oman.

The Prince sat impassively on his horse, a noble, magisterial figure, but when the vizier of his brother Yaqub came forward bearing a stained sack over his shoulder, alMalik’s expression turned to sorrow for he knew what it contained-.

The vizier emptied the sack into the dust of the roadway and Yaqub’s severed head rolled to the feet of the Prince’s mount, and stared up at him with dull, glazed eyes.

His grey beard was matted and filthy, like that of a street beggar, and the flies settled in a humming cloud on his open eyes and bloody lips.

AlMalik gazed down on him sadly, then looked up at the vizier and spoke softly.

“You seek to win my approval by murdering my brother and bringing me this sad broken thing?” he asked.

“Great “lord, I did only what I thought would please you.” The vizier blanched and trembled.

The Prince gestured to the sheikh of the Awamir at his side.

“Kill him!” The sheikh leaned from the saddle and, with his sword, split the vizier’s skull down to the chin.

“Treat my brother’s remains with all respect and prepare him for burial before the setting of the sun. I shall lead the prayers for his soul,” said alMalik. Then he looked at the cringing citizens of Muscat.