The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Page 2

  ‘So, the British lieutenant is to become the son-in-law of Ibn Shalan.’

  ‘One wrong word from you, Mitkhal, and I’ll kick you across the desert faster than a duck can fly,’ Harry snarled, venting the frustration he’d been forced to keep in check all afternoon.

  ‘That would be an interesting experience.’ Mitkhal grinned, looking down on Harry from his six and a half feet.

  ‘First you help me up.’ Harry extended his hand. ‘Then you explain exactly what happened here just now.’

  ‘If the honourable Ferenghi would care to walk to the outskirts of the camp, we can talk without an audience,’ Mitkhal muttered in English as he heaved Harry to his feet. Weakened by a rush of blood to his legs, Harry grasped Mitkhal’s arm. Walking was impossible. Standing pure torture.

  ‘You offered the Sheikh the one thing he could not refuse, Harry: guns. Whatever the future holds for the desert, it will involve bloodshed. The tribes with the greatest firepower stand the best chance of surviving.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Harry gingerly lifted one foot and placed it in front of the other.

  ‘The horses helped. Shalan’s impressed with Dorset. Perhaps he’s taken her as an indication of the quality of British stock.’

  ‘And his daughter? Hasn’t she a say in the matter?’

  ‘Marriage among the Bedawi is often a matter of compromise, just as it is among the Effendi. I overheard Colonel Perry tell Mrs Perry, when she took Miss Perry to India, that an officer with good connections and a private income would make the most suitable match for their daughter.’

  ‘The Perrys’ affairs are none of your concern.’

  ‘But the Bedawi’s are soon to become yours. And we all serve the interests of those who pay for our bread.’

  ‘Save the philosophy for Shalan.’ Harry tentatively moved forward. ‘If you want to serve, you can begin by telling me why Shalan is prepared to accept an infidel as a son-in-law. I thought we were regarded as lower than desert sand.’

  ‘Infidels are, but you have just proved yourself a true believer. I hope for your sake Shalan doesn’t put your knowledge of the Koran to the test. But then –’ Mitkhal shrugged his massive shoulders as they stepped into the dried-up wadi that served as a stockade for the tribe’s riding mares ‘– any Sheikh would take the devil himself into his family for 500 guns.’

  ‘And if the devil has no desire to marry an illiterate harem girl?’

  ‘Ssh!’ Mitkhal glanced around. Seeing no one, he continued in a whisper. ‘The devil should think again. Shalan has offered his protection for the pipeline on the only terms possible. If he openly allied his tribe to the British, he would endanger his position with every independent tribe in the desert, including his own. He neither needs nor wants a British alliance, but he does need guns. In accepting them from you as his daughter’s bride price, he compromises no one. His tribe will understand. After all, every man knows, or thinks he knows, something of young girls and love.’

  ‘What do the Bedawi, with their bride-bartering and closed harems, know of love?’

  ‘As much as, if not more than, the Effendi. Women see more than goats outside the harem. They often pick out the man they wish to marry, then it is up to their father, or brother, to contact the chosen one. Shalan is probably telling everyone who’ll listen that, to his dismay, his daughter settled on you. As a Bedouin, he would like to oppose the match, but as a loving father, his daughter’s happiness is paramount.’

  When they reached the stubble of thorn bushes that provided sparse grazing for the horses Harry whistled. His grey mare Dorset cantered towards them; nuzzling into his abba, she searched for hidden food. Women’s love wasn’t even as straightforwardly selfish as that of an animal, he mused as he patted her neck.

  He’d had enough of women’s subterfuge to last him a lifetime. First, there had been darling cousin Lucy. It had taken a disastrous engagement to wake him up to the fact that her deep and abiding love was for his inheritance, not him. Then he’d met Alicia, a pretty but fortuneless Captain’s niece who’d sworn undying affection until a 40-year-old major offered her a wedding ring. And Christina – despite the problems she’d caused him, he smiled. Elegant, beautiful, innocent-eyed Christina, the colonel’s wife who generously made love to every lieutenant who joined the regiment; only to get caught in his bed.

  Lucy – Alicia – Christina – scandal – Basra – and now some damned Arab girl he hadn’t even seen. He slid to the ground and rested his back against Dorset’s legs. Wrenching his head coil and kafieh from his head, he ran his hands through his thick, fair hair.

  ‘It’s close to sunset but you could still get sunstroke.’ Mitkhal crouched beside him.

  ‘You think I should marry this girl?’

  ‘Refuse the hand of Shalan’s daughter and you will insult a great Sheikh. Shalan is not rich, but he is powerful, and even Colonel Perry would tell you it is not wise to offend a powerful Sheikh.’

  ‘So, if I refuse to marry this girl, Shalan would lose face.’

  ‘And you would probably lose your head, but there is a sunny side, as Lieutenant Smythe would say.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ Mitkhal echoed. ‘The Koran tells every man, beggar or Sheikh, he can have only four wives, no matter how he may lust for more, but the Koran also tells us how to divorce an unsatisfactory one. Alliances consolidated by marriage stand, provided the wife was treated well while the marriage lasted. And if the woman is returned to her family without a demand for the repayment of the bridal price, everyone is happy. The wife’s family is richer, the wife free to find another husband, and the man has a vacancy which will enable him to make another alliance through the marriage bed.’

  ‘Desert politics.’

  ‘Common sense.’

  ‘To an Arab.’

  ‘What other kind of honourable man is there?’

  Harry felt the sun burning his scalp and tossed his kafieh back on his head. ‘Suppose I just go through the motions of marrying this girl?’ He wound the Bedouin agal of black horsehair around his headcloth.

  ‘If you leave her before you enter the bridal tent you would insult the bride and her family, and Shalan could be accused of retaining the bride price under false pretences. If you have a problem with women …’ Mitkhal faltered, recalling Harry’s lack of interest in the Bedouin gypsy girls he procured for the use of the British officers from time to time.

  ‘The girl could be as ugly as sin.’

  ‘She is rumoured to be beautiful. Shalan has received many offers for her. Sheikhs from the Muhasin, Bawi, Chaab, Sirdieh have asked for her, only to be turned away.’

  ‘They may have asked, but for which daughter? Every Arab talks of his sons, but I’ve yet to meet one who’s counted his daughters.’

  ‘Shalan has only one daughter of marriageable age, Furja. Her mother, Aza, was very beautiful. Shalan loved her deeply.’

  ‘Spare me the romance,’ Harry pleaded, sensing the storyteller who was about to emerge.

  ‘It is important you understand the relationship between this girl and Shalan. He loves her because she is all that remains of her mother’s blood. Aza’s family were Sirdieh, ordinary tribesmen, yet Shalan paid Aza’s father a bride price fit for a princess. He married Aza because he loved her.’

  ‘I take it he was fortunate enough to see her before their wedding.’

  ‘Shalan was 15 and Aza 13 when they married,’ Mitkhal continued, ignoring Harry’s interruption. ‘During the 23 years that followed, he took no other wives. Aza bore him four children. His sons, Mahmoud, Faris, and Amir, and this one daughter, Furja. And his sons …’

  ‘Were hanged by the Turks last year.’ Harry recalled Perry’s briefing.

  ‘Aza and Furja were forced to watch. By the time Shalan returned, the Turks had left and the women had cut down the bodies and buried them. Shalan did not wait to eat or drink before riding out to avenge their deaths. That night, Aza left the tent and walked out into the des
ert. A week later, her body was found. When Shalan was told of Aza’s death he was desolate. He had taken his vengeance but there was nothing left of his family except Furja. He married again, taking the four wives allowed by Allah’s law; but has made it plain he loves none as he loved Aza. Now he has two sons and I think a daughter, but the eldest boy is a baby. He stands alone without the sons of his youth at his side. Only Furja remains. It is she, not his eldest wife, who rules the harem. Shalan has said he values her too highly to allow her to marry outside the tribe, which is why she lives in his tent although she is past the age of marriage.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  Harry threw a stone at a lizard basking in the sun. He missed but the creature scuttled away. Fifteen! He remembered his twin, Georgina, at that age. Scrawny figure, grubby fingers, spotty face, unkempt hair hanging greasily down her back, shrill, shrewish voice. A child of 15. His wife. Sharing his bed!

  ‘Ibn Shalan wants Furja to stay in his tent, but apart from his love for her he is afraid that if he allows her to marry into one desert tribe, the others will see an alliance in the marriage. He already has a blood feud with the tribeless ones. The Turks have put a price on his head; Shalan may have no close allies, but at the moment, he has only two enemies.’

  ‘But if I marry his daughter, won’t the other tribes assume he has thrown in his lot with the British?’

  ‘You haven’t been listening,’ Mitkhal answered impatiently. ‘Shalan will present your marriage as a love match. If the bride price is mentioned, it will be dismissed as insignificant compared to Furja’s happiness. Everyone will understand his wanting to please her after the tragedy of her mother and brothers, and then again, you are a truly tribeless one. The British have no tents, only houses in the towns and ships that cross the ocean. Where could you take Furja? To your bungalow alongside the barracks in Basra? I think Shalan will suggest you pitch your tent alongside his, and when the marriage fails and you divorce her, Furja will return to his harem. Precisely where he wants her.’

  Harry shivered. The sun hung low on the horizon, a flaming ball that sank closer to the purple line that divided desert from sky with every passing minute. After the heat of the day, the air was cool, but it would soon become uncomfortably cold. That was the problem with this hellish climate. Extremes. Always extremes.

  He scrambled to his feet. ‘You’ve discovered a great deal about Shalan.’

  ‘People talk.’

  ‘Apparently only within your earshot.’ Harry hit Dorset on the flanks. She cantered off up the wadi.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Exactly what you expect me to.’

  Mitkhal laid a restraining hand on Harry’s arm. ‘Be careful. You may secure the safety of the pipeline, but don’t treat this marriage as one of your British jokes. Shalan is not a fool. He may be up to something I know nothing of.’

  ‘I have you to protect my back.’

  ‘With Ibn Shalan, you need Allah, not me, to protect your back.’

  They retraced their steps along the stone-spattered wadi as twilight thickened. By the time they reached the closed circle of the camp, the tents were no more than shadows in the darkness. Only one side of Shalan’s tent was rolled up, and that faced inward. The fat lamps were lit, hung high on the tent poles, their pungent, smoky flames ready to illuminate the evening meal. When Harry pushed his way through the throng of men, he detected the aroma of roasting goat flesh overlaying the odours of camel dung, coarse tobacco, and horse sweat.

  Mitkhal sniffed. ‘I’m ready to eat.’

  ‘You’re always ready to eat.’ As Harry entered the confines of Shalan’s tent, the curtain that walled in the harem billowed. Was the girl alongside him, her body separated from his only by a layer of cloth? Was she studying him through a hole in the curtain, sizing him up the way dealers did stud camels? His masculine pride baulked at the notion. Then he remembered she’d been kept in seclusion. The only men who entered the harem were her father and his eunuch slaves; even her brothers would have moved out to the Mukhaad – the men’s quarters – once they’d passed childhood. Hopefully seclusion meant inexperience and a brief “marriage” to a naïve virgin couldn’t be any worse than bedding one of the coarse, native whores in the Regimental Rag in India who took delight in discovering their customers’ sexual foibles and even greater delight in broadcasting them to their fellow officers. But then neither would she be a Christina, he reflected regretfully. Christina had been kind, gentle, and quick to forgive his fumbling failings as she’d introduced him to an intense and erotic world.

  ‘Shalan is waiting,’ Mitkhal prompted.

  Harry pushed his way through to the circle of favoured guests, leaving Mitkhal with the mass of Shalan’s tribesmen. The Sheikh clasped his shoulder in an ostentatious show of friendship before leading the group outside. They crouched and scrubbed their hands in sand. Dalhour was waiting, brass jug in hand, when they returned. The slave poured a little water over the hands of each man, before passing around the towel slung over his shoulder. After the ritual cleansing, they squatted in a semi-circle under the open canopy of the tent.

  Harry sat on Shalan’s right and the Sheikh clapped his hands. Five men carried an enormous brass platter into the tent that held four goats’ carcasses heaped on a bed of rice and gravy. Fold upon fold of soft, thin bread flaps rippled around the edge of the dish. On top of each carcass lay the bloodied, severed head of the goat, proof that the animals had been freshly slaughtered in honour of the divan.

  The favoured circle moved in the moment the dish was set on the ground. Delving into a carcass, Shalan extracted a torn section of liver and offered it to Harry. Harry accepted graciously, swallowing it in one mouthful, gritting his teeth against the bitter taste he’d detested from childhood. Placing his left hand behind his back, he scooped a handful of rice into the palm of his right and tossed it over the dish, allowing the gravy to trickle through his fingers. Balancing the ball he’d made on his thumb and forefinger, he flicked it into his mouth. Noting the manoeuvre, his fellow guests nodded approval of his manners, followed his example and began to eat.

  Mitkhal had expended a great deal of time teaching Harry desert etiquette. Bedouin customs and traditions were more steeped in ceremony than those of the average

  European Court

  . Thanks to Mitkhal, Harry knew better than to touch the dish with his left hand, or with fingers he’d licked or put into his mouth. As he continued to wade through the selection of morsels Shalan heaped before him, he wished the Sheikh would honour him with the burnt outside, rather than the undercooked entrails of the carcass. He was glad when the favoured few had eaten their fill and Shalan signalled to the slaves. When the dish was carried to the next group of warriors, Mitkhal among them, Harry rose and walked outside with Shalan. Together they scrubbed the grease from their hands. Harry pulled a pack of Golden Dawn from his abba; to his amazement, Shalan accepted one.

  ‘How long will it take to deliver the bride price?’

  ‘A week to travel to Basra, a week to assemble the livestock and guns, and a third for my companion and I to bring them to wherever you’re camped.’

  ‘A month in all.’

  ‘Perhaps a few days less.’

  ‘We will say one month; that will allow for the unexpected. It is not wise to count the days too closely when travelling across the desert.’

  ‘So I’ve learnt.’

  ‘Your friend will travel to Basra without you.’

  ‘It is dangerous to travel the desert alone.’

  ‘Twelve of my men will accompany him to assist with any difficulties he may encounter.’

  ‘And what am I to do while he travels to Basra?’

  ‘Marry my daughter. Tomorrow. She has waited long enough for her bridal night.’

  ‘But the bridal price …’

  ‘If your friend fails to deliver it within the month, I will take your head as payme
nt.’ Shalan stared at him from eye sockets that appeared disconcertingly empty in the moonlight.

  ‘Anything can happen on the road between here and Basra.’

  ‘My men will see it doesn’t.’ Shalan rubbed the cigarette Harry had given him between his fingers, turning the tobacco to dust. ‘But perhaps it is not the dangers of the desert that concern you. Perhaps you are worried your Commanding Officer will fail to supply the bridal price you have agreed to deliver.’

  ‘The bridal price will be paid.’ When Perry had said, “You’re free to offer whatever it takes,” Harry fervently hoped it had been the man and not the brandy talking.

  ‘The marriage will take place before your companion leaves so he can tell your British friends of the union between our two great peoples.’

  ‘And the bride?’

  ‘Is delighted to be of service to her tribe. How delighted, you will see for yourself in the morning. Now you must excuse me. It is no small matter to arrange a daughter’s wedding at short notice.’

  After Shalan left, Harry went in search of Mitkhal. He found him gossiping to Dalhour at the back of the tent. Seeing him, the slave went off to seek the dish of food that was being passed down the descending ranks of Shalan’s guests and retainers. It wouldn’t be carried into the harem until every man had eaten his fill, and the slaves had to wait until after the women had finished.

  ‘The wedding’s set for the morning.’

  ‘I heard.’ Mitkhal reached for a cigarette.

  ‘Shalan’s only just told me.’

  ‘Dalhour confided that the bride wasn’t too thrilled at the prospect of marrying a Ferenghi. She said she’d as soon marry a donkey.’

  ‘That makes two of us.’

  ‘It’s a good omen to agree on something so soon.’