'Peace unto you, bin-Shibam.' Dorian addressed him in the familiar form, as one comrade in arms might greet another. 'It is many years since you stood at my shoulder in the pass of the Bright Gazelle and let no enemy through.'
The tall warrior stopped in mid-stride and stared at Dorian in utter astonishment.
'I see that God has favoured you. You are as strong as you were when we were young. Do you still bear the lance against the tyrant and the patricide?' Dorian went on.
The warrior cried out and rushed forward to throw himself at Dorian's feet. 'Al-Salil! True prince of the royal house of Caliph Abd Muhammad al-Malik. God has heard our fervent prayers. The prophecy of Mullah al-Allama is fulfilled. You have come back to your people in the time of their great sorrow, when most they need you.'
Dorian lifted bin-Shibam to his feet and embraced him. 'What are you, an old desert hawk, doing in the fleshpots of the city?' He held him
at arm's length. 'You are dressed like a pasha. You who were once a fighting sheikh of the Saar, the fiercest of all the tribes of Oman.'
'My heart longs for the open desert, al-Salil, and to feel a racing camel under me,' bin-Shibam confessed, 'but instead I spend my time here in endless debate, when I should be riding free and wielding the long lance.'
'Come, old friend.' Dorian led him towards his cabin. 'Let us go where we can speak freely.'
In the cabin they reclined on the piled rugs and a servant brought them tiny brass cups of treacly coffee.
'To my sorrow and discomfort, I am now one of the war council of the junta. There are ten of us, one elected by each of the ten tribes of Oman. Ever since we toppled that murderous monster Zayn al-Din from the Elephant Throne, I have been sitting here in Muscat talking until my jaw aches and my gut grows slack.'
'Tell me the subject of these talks,' Dorian said, and over the next hours bin-Shibam confirmed almost everything that Dorian already knew.
He told of how Zayn al-Din had murdered all the heirs and descendants of Dorian's adoptive father Caliph al-Malik. He related many of his other unconscionable atrocities and the sufferings he had inflicted upon his people. 'In God's Name, the tribes rose up against his tyranny. We met his minions in battle and triumphed over them. Zayn al-Din fled the city and took refuge on the Fever Coast. We should have prosecuted our campaign against him to the end, but we were split by controversy over who should lead us. There were no heirs of the true Caliph left alive.' Here bin-Shibam bowed to Dorian. 'God forgive us, al-Salil, but we did not know your whereabouts. It is only in the past few years that we heard whispers you were still alive. We have sent out messengers to every port in the Ocean of the Indies to seek you.'
'I have heard your pleas, though they were faint and far-off, and I have come to join your cause.'
'God's benevolence upon you, for we have been in grievous circumstances. Each of the ten tribes wants their own sheikh to take the caliphate. Zayn escaped with most of the fleet so we could not follow him to Zanzibar. While we talked endlessly we grew weaker, and Zayn al-Din grew stronger. Seeing that we delayed, his minions, whom we had scattered, rallied and flocked back to him. He conquered the ports of the African mainland, and massacred those who supported us there.'
'It is the first principle of warfare that you should never give an enemy grace to gather his strength,' Dorian reminded him.
'Even as you say, al-Salil. Zayn has gathered powerful allies to his
cause.' BiivShibam stood up and crossed to the porthole of the cabin. He drew aside the curtain. 'There is one of them who has come to us in all arrogance, purporting to act as a peace- maker, but in truth bringing an ultimatum and a deadly threat.' He pointed at the Arcturus anchored in the inner harbour.
'Tell me, who is aboard that ship? I see he flies the flag of a consul general.'
'He is the representative of the English monarch, his consul general to the Orient, one of the most powerful men in these seas. He comes purporting to mediate between us and Zayn al-Din, but we know this man well by reputation. As some merchants trade in rugs, he trades in nations, armies and all the weapons of war. He moves secretly from the conclaves of the English East India Company in Bombay to the court of the Great Mogul in Delhi, from the bosom of the Sublime Porte to the Emperor's cabinet in Peking. His wealth equals any of theirs. He has amassed it by dealing in power and war, and the lives of men.' Bin Shibam spread his hands expressively. 'How can we children of the sands deal with such a one as this?'
'Have you heard his terms? Do you know what message he brings?' 'We have not yet met him. We have promised that we will do so on the first day of Ramadan. But we are afraid. We know that we will have the worst of any treaty we make with him.' He came back to kneel before Dorian. 'Perhaps in our hearts we were waiting for you to come to us, and to lead us into battle as you did so many times before. Give me your permission to go back to the council and tell them who you are, and why you have come.'
'Go, old friend. Tell them that al-Salil wishes to address the council.' Bin-Shibam returned after nightfall. As soon as he entered the cabin he prostrated himself before Dorian. 'I would have come sooner but the council does not wish the English consul to see you come ashore. They bade me convey to you their deepest respect and, for your father's sake, they profess their loyalty to your family. They are waiting now in the throne room of the palace. I beg you, come with me and I will take you to them. From them you will learn more to your great profit and to ours.'
Dorian left Mansur in command of the flotilla. He threw a cloak of camel-hair over his head and shoulders and followed bin-Shibam down into the felucca. On the way to the palace jetty they passed close to the anchored Arcturus. The captain was on deck. Dorian saw his face m the light from the compass binnacle. He was giving orders to the orhcer of the watch. His was a fruity West Country accent, but it sounded strangely alien in Dorian's ears. I am already returning to the
ties and loyalties of my childhood, he thought, and then his mind took another turning. If only Yasmini were with me now to share this homecoming.
Guards were waiting for them when they landed at the stone jetty, and they led Dorian through a heavy iron-grid door, and up a circular staircase into a maze of narrow passages. The walls were of stone blocks and lit by torches guttering in wall brackets. It smelt of mould and rodents. At last they reached a heavily barred door. His escort beat upon it with the hilts of their lances, and when it swung open they went on down corridors that were wider and under high-domed ceilings. Now there were rushes on the floors and tapestries of silk and fine wool on the walls. They reached another doorway, with armoured sentries standing before it, who crossed their lance blades to deny them entrance.
'Who seeks admittance to the war council of Oman?'
'Prince al-Salil ibn al-Malik.'
The guards drew aside and made deep obeisance. 'Pass through, Your Highness. The council attends your arrival.'
The doors swung open slowly, creaking on their hinges, and Dorian stepped into the hall beyond. It was lit by hundreds of small ceramic lamps, the wicks floating in perfumed oil. But the light they shed was not sufficient to disperse the shadows that cloaked the far recesses, and left the high ceiling in darkness.
A circle of robed men was seated on cushions at a low table. The tabletop was cast from pure silver in the geometric patterns of Islamic religious art. The men rose as Dorian stood before them. One, who was clearly the elder and most senior of the council, came forward. His beard was shining white and he walked with the deliberate and venerable gait of age. He stared into Dorian's face.
'God's blessings on you, Mustapha Zindara,' Dorian greeted him, 'my father's trusted councillor.'
'It is him. In God's name, it is verily him,' cried the old man. He fell upon his face and kissed the hem of Dorian's robe. Dorian lifted him to his feet and embraced him.
One at a time the others came forward, and Dorian greeted most by name, asked after their families, and reminded them of desert crossings they had made together, battles they had fought as brothers in arms.
Then each took up a lamp. They all gathered around him and led him down the length of the long hall. As they approached the far end, something tall and massive glowed with a pearly lustre in the lamplight. Dorian knew what it was, for the last time he had seen it his father had been seated upon it.
They led Dorian up the steps and placed him on the piles of tiger skins
and silken cushions embroidered with gold and stiver thread that covered the summit platform of that tall structure. It had been carved three hundred years before from one hundred and fifty massive ivory tusks: the Elephant Throne of the Caliphate of Oman.
Over the following days and weeks, from before dawn until after midnight, Dorian sat in council with his councillors and ministers. They reported to him on every facet of the affairs of the kingdom, from the mood of the populace and the desert tribes to the coffers of the treasury, the condition of the fleet and the strength of the army. They told him of the virtual breakdown in trade, and explained the diplomatic and political dilemmas that confronted them.
Swiftly Dorian grasped the desperate straits to which their cause had been reduced. What remained of the fleet that had made Oman a great seafaring
