either. Jones had hoped for jewels in Arabia. He had daydreamed of pearls as round as muscat grapes and plentiful as if on the vine, of emeralds big enough to fill a handmaiden’s belly button and diamonds bright and copious, like desert stars. His dreams have been quickly shattered. While there are occasional treasures, most of the people on the Peninsula are poor and, like everywhere else in the world, riches are hard to come by. A tenant farmer at home probably owns more in the way of material goods than the average emir. Jones is coming to accept there is little either His Majesty or himself is likely to profit from this expedition. No wonder the whole damn country is full of beggars. Paupers to a man, the Arabs. Jones empties his cup and once more curses his misfortune to be sent here of all places after the high society of Bombay where he hobnobbed with senior officers’ daughters and gambled copiously in the mess. The cellar in India was much finer than he expected and due to the large amount of Jocks in almost every regiment, the whisky, in particular, was excellent. By contrast, Arabia is an unforgiving country and although some of the officers seem almost to enjoy the hardship, Jones is not one of them. He is merely getting on with what he has to and hoping to get away with as much for himself as he can.
‘Good heavens,’ Jessop mumbles under his breath, sitting up slightly and staring at the chap with the camel. ‘Well, if that doesn’t take the biscuit.’
The Dhofari finishes his coffee and begins to laugh at the wide, blue eyes of the white men as they realise what his brother is doing. He takes a stick of araq from his robe and carefully begins to pick, cleaning his teeth as he studies Jessop and Jones’ facial expressions.
‘Good Lord,’ Jones echoes, his face even pinker than usual. This country takes everything a step too far, he thinks. ‘Is he actually …?’
‘Yes. Yes, old man,’ Jessop nods. The doctor is the son of a gentleman farmer and used to livestock but his voice is still incredulous. ‘I do believe he is sewing up the animal’s arsehole.’
‘She give milk soon. Very soon,’ the Dhofari assures them in a low voice.
This place is completely beyond the pale. Jones shudders. He is thirsty, of course, and hungry too if it comes to that, but he finds himself unsure now if he will be able to drink the camel’s milk after all.
Zena has never seen the sea before and it takes her by surprise. The Indian Ocean is a startling blue, and the unrelenting African sunshine plays on its surface so that, for all the world, the water could be studded with diamonds or, perhaps, stars. It is the sound that is most striking though – the movement of the waves as they roll onto the sand is like the voice of a great god. The slavers allow the group to stop a moment and the slaves turn towards what Zena calls in her mind, the Giant Blue. She is so stunned by the majesty of it that she is almost glad they have brought her here and stares rapt at the water as goosebumps rise down her arm at the great booming rush of the waves.
It is undeniably beautiful, though some of the others are afraid and one or two let out a scream. The slavers stare openly at the faces of their cargo. This feels like a ritual – something they know to do and the group spends a moment in silence as, after the initial fear, an air of reverent awe descends upon the villagers. These people worship rainclouds and sunshine, they give offerings to the god of thunder, but the phenomenon before them now is so huge that it is almost beyond comprehension. It is as if they have been brought to the very edge of the world. The slavers have stolen the youngest of each tribe and, apart from Zena, who at seventeen summers is one of the older captives, not one child in the party has even heard of the sea.
I had no idea it was so, so … The words trail in her mind for she cannot decide which ones to use to describe the shimmering vision before her. As she grasps for an adjective, one of the boys breaks away from the group, free from his bonds since that morning when the slavers clearly decided they had broken enough spirits to simply herd the villagers without having to slow the party by keeping them tied. They watch him whooping with joy as he runs, long-limbed, into the water, falling face down on the bounty for they have been dry-mouthed for days. Water has been in short supply since they left the village. The boy realises, too late, that the sea is salt. Two of the slavers trudge wearily into the surf and pull him out. Laughing, they slap him soundly and he folds on the sand so you’d hardly believe he’d bounced so elegantly into the water.
‘It will poison you, you fool.’
Zena is perturbed. The sea is so beautiful it is strange it should be deadly – no one has ever mentioned that before. But then she is learning that in life, away from all she has known, things generally are not what they seem. Not so far.
Kasim and Ibn Mohammed wave the party on. Zena hears Kasim say, ‘I always wonder which one will be the brave child.’
Ibn Mohammed only stares. ‘The foolish child, surely. That boy will be dead before the trip is done.’
The men agree on this as if it is a simple matter of fact, something they have seen many times before. Zena wonders if curiosity in these circumstances is always fatal? Or is it the boy’s propensity for action – the very fact that he tried to help himself that will doom him? She shudders in the sunshine. What on earth are they walking towards? What do these men in dark robes have in mind? Now the ropes are untied, she is not sure what it is that is stopping her from running back into the undergrowth and making for home, where those left behind will surely have buried her uncle, resurrected what was left of the village and, in the sensible way of her family, got on with their lives. She is afraid and yet something here is fascinating – she likes the water. She is enticed by the prospect of seeing the wider world – a place she has already been privileged to hear about but has never visited. Zena glances inland despite herself and then focuses on the movement of her feet. The slavers are watching all the time. They sleep in shifts and can smell dissention, or perhaps courage. You need only pitch in the wrong direction or trip and they will flog you. Kasim’s eyes sparkle and Ibn Mohammed, for the most part, maintains his cold outward appearance. She has never met people so removed from those around them. The whole party is cowed and the Arabs need only give an order for everyone to jump to action. The men’s authority is impressive.
I will stay, she decides, feeling sick in the pit of her belly. It is important to Zena to pretend she has a choice.
To the east, on the ocean, the atmosphere aboard the Palinurus has become intolerable on more than one count since the departure of Dr Jessop and First Lieutenant Jones from the complement of officers. If only the damn malaria had taken Wellsted instead of any of the others, Captain Haines curses to himself. However much Haines hates losing good men to the fever, even as he is damning his only surviving lieutenant’s good health, he feels a wave of shame. He does not admit that the reason he is so angry is because he wanted to achieve what Wellsted has done and write a memoir of their trip so far. Instead, he blusters that the lieutenant is an upstart who has behaved abominably. Still, the captain has to grudgingly allow that perhaps to wish Wellsted dead is too harsh.
The mortalities were unexpected, of course – if Haines had known that a fever was about to break out, he would never have sent Jessop onto the jabel. Choosing him for the mission, Haines can’t help thinking, was an unfortunate mistake. Had he been aboard, the doctor might have been able to save at least some of the crew from the sickness. But the man was keen and how was Haines to know what was going to happen? Generally, this side of Africa, if a chap survives his first weeks in Bombay, he tends to be fine. The dead men, of course, wherever their souls may be,
