Hot Arabian Nights

‘By anointing thy heart, we give to thee, our King, the enduring and unquestioning love of our people. In the name of your revered father, King Farid, so suddenly stolen from his magnificent life, we do name you, Sheikh al-Farid, his most revered and most high successor, King Azhar of Qaryma.’

King Azhar of Qaryma. He would never be her Azhar. He had never been her Azhar, Julia reminded herself sternly. But she wished he could have been. Stupid, stupid Julia, but still she wished he could have been.

The Chief Celebrant handed Azhar the glittering ceremonial sword of Qaryma clad in its diamond-encrusted sheath. The huge emerald glittering in the hilt was reputed to have been discovered in a tomb thousands of years old, Aisha had told her. The first row of men in the audience, the most powerful in this kingdom and the members of Azhar’s Council, stood to play their allotted roles in the ceremony. Kamal, Julia noted, looked sullen and sulky, but nevertheless played his part dutifully. ‘Receive this kingly sword, our King, from our unworthy hands, and with this sword do justice, stamp out iniquity, and protect and defend your people.’

The final words were spoken by all, echoing around the high walls of the throne room. ‘With this sword, our King, we most humbly beg that you restore the things that are gone to decay, punish and reform what is amiss, and confirm what is in good order.’

The heavy ring of office was placed before Azhar on a velvet cushion as the sun crossed the dome above the throne. Golden rays bounced onto the crescent suspended over Azhar’s head, and onto the walls and pillars of the Divan. Azhar was enveloped in a golden glow, the sunlight setting his cloak ablaze, making him look like a golden deity.

He pulled the sword from its sheath and raised it above his head. ‘I am Azhar, King of Qaryma,’ he declared. ‘I am the source of all power, all wisdom, all happiness. I am the infallible one. I make the laws and I enact the laws. None can question me. None can harm me. I am Azhar, King of Qaryma. Beloved and revered.’

The familiar words brought a lump to Julia’s throat. She had no option but to accept that it truly was over. He was Azhar, King of Qaryma, and she was Julia Trevelyan, botanist cum artist from Cornwall with some outstanding deathbed promises to fulfil. Soon they would be separated by thousands of miles. The distance made no difference. The vows Azhar made had already torn them asunder. Azhar, King of Qaryma, stood alone at the pinnacle of power, quite out of her reach.

For ever.

* * *

Julia said no farewells. Her journey from the palace through the deserted streets of Al-Qaryma was very different from the one she had made just a few weeks before. The streets were carpeted with the rose petals which had been thrown at the feet of the new King’s cavalcade as he paraded through the city, while she made her final preparations to leave. It looked as if everyone in Al-Qaryma was at the palace joining in the celebrations. All was silent apart from the jangle of the bells on the reins of her own much more modest cavalcade.

She was escorted by a guard to her first overnight stop, the name of the oasis unfamiliar to her. There, she would meet her new dragoman and the men who would escort her all the way to Cairo. Azhar had obtained all the relevant papers for her. He had arranged for the caravan of camels and mules, a fresh supply of gold, and he had armed her guard. He had refused to accept her bank notes, asking instead that she carry his letters to his agent in Cairo. The letters would put an end to his trading business. Ten years of work, ten years of Azhar’s determination and dedication, of his ambition and his flair, to be ended by a packet of letters. Julia patted the package, tied in a leather purse around her waist, along with Daniel’s watch. Now that it was no longer ticking away her time in Qaryma, she found the watch reassuring. It reminded her of Daniel, but it also reminded her of Azhar, who had gone to such trouble to get it back for her.

The two landscapes she had painted of Cornwall, she had left for Azhar in her rooms, along with one of the paintings she had made of the secret garden in the Fourth Court. She hoped he would not find them a painful reminder. She hoped he would look at them and think of her. She hoped, she was ashamed to admit, that he would miss her.

The camels left the city streets and turned towards the desert. Tonight she would sleep under the stars once more. She would take solace in their beauty. She would not look back in sorrow to the desert Prince she had left behind, she would look forward in anticipation to the life she would make for herself. She would not regret her time here in Qaryma because she was done with looking back. There could have been no more perfect idyll.

But it was over. She allowed herself one final glance over her shoulder. The heat haze made the city shimmer like a mirage. And like all mirages, it was not real. It really was over.

Chapter Twelve (#ub915ee44-d9cc-576a-82bc-32f661f6b28f)

Qaryma—two months later

‘And so, as I’ve just explained, this is where the source of the problem is located,’ Kamal said, pointing at a map of the entire region. ‘The centre of the illegal trade network lies here.’ He circled an area of the map with his finger. ‘I have come up with several strategies for dismantling this web of corruption.’

Azhar listened with half an ear as his brother began to expound each of his proposals in detail. After a most reluctant beginning, Kamal was thriving in his new role with all the zeal of a convert. The qualities which had made him an accomplished thief served to make him an equally accomplished thief-hunter. His devious mind was proving the scourge of the vagabonds he had once consorted with.

As a result, their relationship was on a slightly better footing. They would never be close, that was impossible after all he had done. Kamal’s ambition and sense of entitlement would always leave him vulnerable to corruption, his weak character would always cloud his judgement. Azhar was not fooled into thinking his brother was either reformed or redeemed. He would never trust him, but he could respect the work he was doing and the difference he was making.