No, damn you, no!' he shouted, but the bush gave way. She started to fall, but suddenly both her wrists were seized and held. Her fall was arrested with a strength that made the joints of her upper arms pop in their sockets.
Mansur had made his last effort. He had freed his legs from the cleft in which he had wedged them, and threw himself forward over the lip f the cliff. At the full stretch of body and arms he had just reached her.
He was hanging head down, only his toes hooked into the rock cleft held him. But he had to raise her before she slipped through his fingers again. He braced his elbows against the face of the cliff and slowly bent his arms, raising her until they were face to face. His features were swollen and contorted with the agony of his straining muscles, and with the rush of blood into his inverted head. 'I cannot lift you higher,' he breathed, with their lips almost touching. 'Climb up my body. Use me as a ladder.'
She locked one arm through his, the bend of her elbow through the bend in his. This left his other hand free. He reached down and took hold of her leather belt and pulled her a little higher. She grabbed his belt buckle and they pulled together. He reached lower and took a handful of the seat of her breeches. She hooked her other arm between his legs and again they heaved. Now her face was level with his waist and she could see over the top of the cliff. He reached down, linked his fingers together and made a stirrup for her bare foot. With the purchase this gave her she could drag herself up and over the lip.
She sprawled on the rock for only an instant, then whipped round. 'Can you get back?' she gasped. He was fully extended, powerless to pull himself backwards and regain the crest.
He was almost too far gone to articulate coherently. 'Get the horse,' he gasped. 'Rope on saddle. Pull me back with the horse.'
She glanced around and saw the stallion a quarter of a mile away, trotting back up the valley. 'Your horse is gone.'
Mansur reached backwards and tried to find a finger hold on the rock, but it was smooth. There was a tiny rasping sound as the toe of one boot moved in the rock crack. He slid forward an inch towards the edge of the cliff. Then his foot caught again. She was frozen with horror. His toehold was all that held him from the drop. She seized his ankle with both hands, but she knew it was hopeless. She could never hope to hold the weight of such a big man. She tried to brace herself as she watched his foot slip again and then his hold in the cleft broke. He slid forward irresistibly, and his ankle was plucked from her hands.
He shouted as he went over the edge, and she flung herself forward across the rock sill to peer down, expecting to see him falling away with his robes ballooning around him. Then she stared in disbelief. The hem of his white robe had snagged on a shard of granite on the lip of the cliff. It had broken his fall, and now he was swinging like a pendulum just below her, dangling over that dizzying void. She stretched down with one hand to try to reach him.
'Give me your hand!' she called. She was weak with her own efforts to escape, and her hand shook wildly.
'You will never hold me.' He looked up at her, and there was no fear in his eyes.
That touched her deeply. 'Let me try,' she pleaded.
'No,' he said. 'One of us will go, not both.'
'Please!' she whispered, and the hem of his robe tore with a sharp, ripping sound. 'I could not bear it if you died for me.'
'Worth it,' he said softly, and she felt her heart break. She sobbed and looked behind her. Then hope bloomed again. She slid back from the edge and wedged herself firmly into the rock cleft. She reached back over her shoulders and seized a double handful of her dense brown hair, pulled it forward and twisted it into a loose rope that hung below her waist. Then she threw herself flat on to the rock sill. She was just able to see over the edge. The rope of her hair tumbled forward.
'Take my hair,' she shouted. He swivelled his head and stared up at her as it brushed lightly against his face
'Do you have purchase? Can you hold me?'
'Yes, I am wedged into the rock cleft.' She tried to sound confident, but she thought, Even if I can't we will go together. He twisted her hair round his wrist, and with a final crack of tearing cloth the hem of his robe gave way. She had just time to brace herself before the shock of his full weight dropping on to her hair half stunned her. Her head was jerked forward and her cheek slammed into the rock with a force that jarred her teeth. She was pinned down. She felt the vertebrae in her neck popping, as though she were hanged on the gallows.
Mansur hung on the rope of her hair only for the seconds it took him to orient. Then he climbed up, hand over hand, swiftly as a top yard sailor going up the main shrouds. She screamed involuntarily for it seemed that her scalp was being torn from her skull. But then he reached past her, found a handhold in the rock cleft and heaved himself over the rim of the cliff.
He turned instantly, seized her in his arms and dragged her back to safety. He held her to his chest and pressed his face against the top of her head, knowing how intense must be the agony of her scalp. She lay in his arms, weeping as though in bitter mourning. He rocked her gently as though she were an infant, mumbling incoherent words of comfort and gratitude. After a while she stirred against him and he thought she was trying to escape his embrace. He opened his arms to free her, but she reached up and slipped her arms around the back of his neck. She Pressed herself to his chest, and their bodies seemed to melt together like hot wax through their sweat-soaked clothing. Her sobbing stilled and then, without pulling away from him, she lifted her face and looked into his eyes. 'You saved my life,' she whispered.
'And you saved mine,' he replied. The tears still cascaded down her face and her lips were trembling. He kissed her, and her lips opened without resistance. Her tears tasted of salt, and her mouth of fragrant herbs. Her hair fell in a tent over them. It was a lingering kiss, and ended only when they were forced to breathe.
'You are not an Arab,' she whispered. 'You are an Englishman.'
'You have found me out,' he said, and kissed her again.
When they drew apart, she said, 'I am so confused. Who are you?'
'I will tell you,' he promised, 'but later.' He sought her lips again, and she gave them willingly.
After a while she placed both her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back gently. 'Please, Mansur, we must stop this. If we don't something will happen that will spoil everything before it has begun.'
'It has begun already, Verity.'
'Yes, I know it has,' she said.
'It began when first I laid eyes on you on the deck of the Arcturus.'
'I know,' she said again, and stood up quickly. With both hands she flung the glorious profusion of her hair back from her face and over her shoulders.
'They are coming.' She pointed back up the valley at the band of horsemen who were galloping towards them.
A they rode back to Isakanderbad, al-Salil and Sir Guy listened to Verity's account of the near tragedy. When al-Salil asked Mansur for his version of events, Mansur replied quite naturally in Arabic, and Verity was obliged to go along with the deception that he spoke no English. She translated for her father his praises of her courage and resourcefulness, and could omit none of his hyperbole now that she knew Mansur understood every word.
At the end Sir Guy smiled tightly and nodded to Mansur. 'Please tell him that we are in his debt.' Then his expression turned bleak. 'You were at fault. You should not have been alone in his company, child. Your behaviour was scandalous. It will not happen again.' Once again Mansur saw fear in her eyes.
The sun had set and it was almost dark when they reached the encampment. Verity found her tent lit with lamps whose wicks floated in perfumed oil and her clothing from the ship had been unpacked. Three handmaidens were waiting to attend her. When she was ready for her bath they poured warm, perfumed pitchers of water over her, and
giggled as they marvelled at the whiteness and beauty of her naked body.
The evening meal was laid out under a dazzle of stars, and the desert air had cooled. They sat cross-legged on cushions while the musicians played softly. After they had eaten, servants offered hookahs to the Caliph and Sir Guy. Only al-Salil indulged. Sir Guy lit a long black cheroot from the gold case that Verity carried for him. Politely she offered one to Mansur. Thank you, my lady, but I have never found tobacco to my taste.'
'I agree with you. I also find the odour of the smoke unpleasant in the extreme.' Instinctively she had lowered her voice, even though her father spoke no Arabic.
Now Mansur was certain she was terrified of him. There was more to her feelings than simply that Sir Guy was a daunting figure, hard and unyielding, and Mansur knew he would have to be circumspect in what he now had in mind. He kept his voice on the same even level when he spoke again. 'At the end of this street there lies an ancient temple to Aphrodite. The moon rises a little before midnight. Although dedicated to a pagan deity, in the moonlight the temple is very lovely.'
Verity had not heard him, or so it seemed from her lack of reaction. She turned back to translate a remark that Sir Guy had made to al Salil, and the two men continued their earnest conversation. They were discussing the extent of the Caliph's gratitude to Sir Guy for his intervention with the Company and the British government. In what manner could the Caliph best demonstrate it?
