Authors: Jane Jackson
‘The mosque of al-Nasir Muhammad.’
‘How old is it?’
‘More than five hundred years.’
She looked forward to telling Jago later. Watching Sabra move forward to help Antonia, who seemed to be having trouble with her camel, Caseley realised she had been so absorbed in what Sabra was telling her, she had relaxed and was swaying easily with the movement of the animal beneath her.
Before long they had left the city and the cacophony of braying donkeys, hawkers shouting to attract buyers, the richly dressed, the rag-clad beggars, grinding wheels and jingling harnesses of calèches, and the babble of different languages. The smells of rotting fruit, dung and smoke from charcoal fires receded.
It was still hot and the breeze whipped up fine dust that caught in her throat. She lifted the edge of her head scarf over her nose and was instantly more comfortable.
As they passed a small group of flat-roofed mud houses she saw women dressed in dusty black cotton and blue beads carrying pots to a well.
Soon they were climbing along a narrow, stony track between rocky crags. The day wore on and grew hotter. Heat shimmered above the rocks and Caseley felt increasingly thirsty.
Rounding a bend they gazed down onto what looked like a dry riverbed. Though deep and narrow, it was flat. As her camel picked its way down the steep, stony path Caseley leaned back and closed her eyes. She quickly opened them again, preferring to see where she was going. She left the rein loose and trusted her camel.
At the bottom they stopped. As a servant caught the halter and tugged, Caseley’s camel dropped to its knees then folded its legs underneath. Lifting her leg over the saddle post she slid stiffly down, her legs shaky. A few moments of stretching and flexing loosened her up. Jago came over.
‘Did you enjoy your first camel ride?’
‘I did. If I sound surprised, it’s because I am. I was very nervous when we set off. Being perched so high with nothing to hold on to was – terrifying.’
His smile flashed white and wry in his bearded face. ‘You looked as if you had been born to it.’
His compliment sent a rush of pleasure through her and she felt her face warm. ‘Sabra was telling me about some of the ancient buildings. Listening to her I forgot to be scared and that helped me relax.’
‘You make it sound easy.’ His self-mockery, admitting to her what he would deny to anyone else, reminded her how close they used to be.
She had told him things she had never spoken of, even to Rosina. He had revealed secrets of his own. Out of sharing those revelations had grown a bond she treasured, believing it unique and unbreakable. No matter how distant his voyages or how long he was away, she had believed she was as often in his thoughts as he was in hers. She had trusted their love, their marriage, him.
She knew men strayed. Living in the same house as Rosina and Liza-Jane, who knew all the town gossip, how could she not? But never once had it crossed her mind that Jago might.
Her throat painfully raw with unshed tears she turned away, swallowing hard. She would not cry. That would provoke questions she could only answer with lies because the truth was too private and painful.
She had seen what happened to betrayed wives who complained about their husbands’ actions. They forfeited their dignity, only to be scorned and blamed. As if a man’s decision to break his marriage vows must be his wife’s fault. Besides, tears would make her appear weak. Though battered by grief and wounded by loss, she was not weak. She would take a breath, then another. Her heart would continue to beat, and she would go on living.
‘When you get used to it, it is not so hard,’ she said.
Sabra called, beckoning them towards food the servants were laying out, and the moment passed.
Caseley crossed the dusty ground, aware of Jago close behind.
––––––––
S
eated in shadow cast by a jutting rock, they ate a picnic lunch of bread, cheese and dates. Sheikh Imad, Jago and Pawlyn sat a little way away, talking in low voices.
Antonia kept looking across, visibly irritated. ‘They’re not being very sociable.’
‘For Captain Barata and Mr Pawlyn this journey is not a social occasion,’ Sabra reminded.
Dragging her gaze from Jago, Caseley saw two of the bodyguards sitting one on either side of the group, their backs to the cliff. The other two, each carrying a gun, had positioned themselves high in the rocks so they could see anyone approaching from either direction.
Two of the servants were walking away, apparently searching the sandy wadi floor.
‘Sabra?’ Because the three of them were alone, Caseley was comfortable using the Sheikha’s name. ‘What are they looking for?’
‘Wood.’
‘Here?’ Antonia’s voice rose in disbelief. ‘There isn’t even a blade of grass, let alone a tree.’
‘True,’ Sabra agreed. ‘But rain does come, though it is unpredictable, sometimes very little, sometimes too much. Then this bare ground is covered with grass, flowers and small bushes.’
‘That must look very beautiful, though it’s hard to imagine right now.’ Shielding her eyes, Caseley looked up. The sky wasn’t the cornflower blue of a summer sky at home. It had the brutal glare of hammered steel.
‘After the rain sinks into the ground, the vegetation quickly dries out.’ Sabra nodded towards the returning servants, each now carrying an armful of scrub and twigs. She spoke to one. Dropping his armful he pulled two dry brown palm fronds from the pile. Taking the dagger from the scabbard on his belt he stripped off the ragged leaves, then handed the long, flexible stems to Sabra, bowed, and picked up the scrub again.
Sabra offered one of the sticks to Antonia and the other to Caseley. ‘Gentle tapping,’ she reminded.
‘Thank you.’ Caseley wasn’t sure she would dare use it, but it would have been discourteous to refuse.
The men stuffed most of scrub into the nets. With the rest they lit a small fire, boiled water, and brewed tea sweetened with hard sugar cracked off a cone and flavoured with torn mint leaves. Served in small, thick glasses, it was surprisingly refreshing. Then aware of a need that had become more pressing during their meal, Caseley turned to Sabra.
‘I need to – Where should –?’
‘I was about to suggest it.’ The Sheikha led her and Antonia a short distance back down the wadi to privacy among the rocks.
Out of the shade the heat was intense, radiating off the rocks and burning her head and shoulders. Caseley was grateful for her loose robes. Covering her from head to toe, they were more modest than the fashionable figure-hugging gowns well-dressed Cornish women were wearing. The loose layers allowed air to reach her body and offered a freedom of movement she wasn’t used to. They were, she realised, ideal for this climate.
As they walked back to the camels she saw the three men returning from the far side of the track and guessed they had answered a similar call.
‘Can we not wait for an hour or two, until the sun is lower?’ Antonia asked.
Sabra shook her head. ‘We still have some distance to travel and Sheikh Imad will not wish to arrive late.’
‘Surely he could arrive whenever he wished.’
Sabra shook her head. ‘To do so when his party includes strangers would insult his hosts.’
Once again, Caseley was surprised by Antonia’s lack of understanding. It couldn’t be deliberate rudeness. She wouldn’t want to jeopardise her friendship with Sabra or Sheikh Imad. Perhaps because they were at ease in European company, she had never thought it necessary to learn what Egyptians or Bedouin considered polite. How could she not realise, that far from excusing bad manners high rank made courtesy imperative, not least because it set an example.
As the remains of the meal were quickly packed away, one of the servants helped Sabra onto her camel then turned to assist Antonia. Another approached Caseley. He bowed then bent forward, linking his fingers. She put her sandaled foot into his cupped hands and he boosted her up onto the saddle.
She quickly hooked her leg around the post and slid her other foot into the stirrup. She was still adjusting her robes when the great beast lurched to its feet, with a sound between a bray and a roar. She grabbed the front saddle post and nearly dropped her stick.
‘You need to be quicker, Caseley,’ Antonia called from her own camel. ‘There are no doctors here if you fall off and hurt yourself.’
‘I’ll remember next time.’
‘She has a gift for stating the obvious,’ Jago said as he came to Caseley’s side.
‘It is a fair point. I’m sure she means well.’
‘Don’t count on it. The heat isn’t too much for you?’
‘No. I’m so grateful to the Sheikha for making sure we were – are – properly dressed for it.’
‘I would have liked to ride and sit with you, but –’
‘You and Sheikh Imad have much to discuss. It’s a blessing you have Mr Pawlyn to translate. The Sheikh has beautiful manners, but I don’t think he would have been comfortable with me as your interpreter. Everything has worked out for the best. You need not worry about me.’
His gaze held hers, intent. ‘You ask the impossible.’ Summoned by Pawlyn’s shout, he returned to his camel.
Watching him go, Caseley waited for her heartbeat to settle. He did care. She wanted to believe it. But doubt whispered:
with such an important task to fulfil he will not want distractions.
As soon as the men were mounted the party set off.
The wadi wound between tall rocky cliffs that crowded in on both sides. They walked from deep shadow to glaring sunlight and back. The heat was like an oven. Conversation became too much effort.
Moving easily with the swaying gait, Caseley changed both rein and stick to her left hand and raised her bent leg to free wadded layers of cotton. She was instantly more comfortable. Her gaze fell on the tasselled blanket with its diamond pattern of red, black and gold covering the padded saddle. Who had made it? How long had it taken to weave?
Her camel smelled warm and musty, like hemp rope. It was the colour of caramel. So, too, were Antonia’s and Robert Pawlyn’s. Sheikh Imad and Sabra’s camels were pale cream, and Jago’s golden brown.
As her camel turned its head she saw its eyelashes were over an inch long. She really would have so much to tell Rosina and Liza-Jane. Shying away from thoughts of home, she looked at the rocks. In a deep, damp crevice the green leaves of a tiny plant provided an unexpected flash of colour in a landscape of grey, ochre and brown.
Her camel swung its head again. She tapped its shoulder with the stick, then held her breath. Its ears twitched then it stalked on, facing forward. She smiled to herself and felt ridiculously proud.
Soothed by the rhythmic swaying her mind drifted. It was a relief not to think, to simply
be
. Hours passed.
Eventually, the narrow ravine widened. Behind the rocky hills she could see higher crags and peaks. Wide shallow channels of grey sand and gravel that reminded her of streambeds marked the wadi floor. As the sun sank lower, the harsh quality of the light softened and the furnace-like heat began to diminish.
At last Sheikh Imad called a halt. Caseley waited while a servant made her camel kneel. She slid down with a groan of relief and arched her back.
Returning from a much-needed comfort break among the rocks, she saw a fire had been lit and the last of the riding camels was being unsaddled then hobbled so they could not stray.
The servants unpacked fodder from the nets and poured water from large clay jars into a bowl, taking it to each camel in turn.
‘What about us?’ Antonia complained. ‘Surely the camels can wait?’
‘No, they are always tended first,’ Sabra said. ‘We treat them well because without them we would die. We could not walk to safety. It is too far and there are few wells in this part of the desert. Besides, these animals are from Sheikh Imad’s own herd and very valuable.’
As the servants started unloading the pack camels, Antonia hurried across to supervise the removal of her camera boxes and tripod. Suddenly Caseley was aware of Jago beside her. Though she had spent the afternoon looking at his back, seeing his bearded face beneath the loosely draped white head cloth sent a jolt through her. Meeting his gaze she felt a tug of attraction all the more startling because for an instant she was seeing, not her husband, but a stranger.
‘Caseley? Is the heat –?’
‘No, no.’ She pulled herself together. ‘I’m glad we’ve stopped, though. Have you got used to your camel?’
‘You were right. It does feel like being on board a ship.’
Caseley saw Sabra beckon. ‘I think it’s time to eat.’
As they walked towards the fire she saw two woven striped blankets had been laid on the ground a short distance apart. The Sheikh and Robert Pawlyn were sitting cross-legged on one. Sabra stood by the other, speaking to one of the bodyguards.
‘It seems we are to be separated again,’ Jago murmured.
‘Sabra wants to make us familiar with Bedouin customs so we will feel more comfortable.’
‘And do you? Feel comfortable?’
Seeing his concern she answered honestly. ‘I am beginning to, though everything is very new and strange. I’m glad I came. I won’t let you down, Jago.’
His features tightened as if in pain, then he smiled. ‘I hope I may see you later. But –’
‘I won’t expect it. How are you getting on with the Sheikh?’
‘He wears courtesy like armour. Yet his questions show an open mind and make me hopeful he will be able to persuade the elders to our side.’
‘Surely the gold will help?’
Jago shrugged. ‘The tribe is already wealthy, so who knows? Pawlyn is invaluable and not only for interpreting. Without his knowledge of Arab manners and the way they do business I might have caused grave offence.’
Looking past him she touched his arm lightly. ‘You should go. The Sheikh is waiting.’
‘I’m glad you’re here.’ Without waiting for her response, he left.
Caseley watched Antonia try to place herself near Sheikh Imad but Sabra diverted her. As Caseley lowered herself to the blanket she could hear the two servants muttering their disapproval. Should she warn Antonia? No. Rather than taking heed, she would be more likely to take offence.