Hot Arabian Nights. Marguerite Kaye

themselves to a stranger. Though—you know, it has only just occurred to me, when we arrived in Al-Qaryma you were recognised almost instantly, even though you have been away ten years.’

      Azhar finished hobbling the camels. ‘I was a grown man when I left, Julia, and I did not spend all of my formative years closeted behind the palace walls.’

      Curious as to how he had spent his days, she was distracted by a cry of welcome coming from the largest of the village houses. An old woman stood in the doorway, her lined face unveiled, her arms extended in welcome. When he saw her, Azhar’s face lit up. ‘Johara,’ he said to Julia. ‘She is a herbalist. I was afraid—but I should have known she would still be here. I think she will live for ever. Come, let me introduce you.’

      He got to Johara’s side in time to prevent the woman from falling to her knees, pulling her into an embrace and speaking gently to her in his own language.

      ‘Madam Julia Trevelyan,’ Azhar said, introducing her.

      The woman’s face was heavily lined, her tiny frame bent and frail, but her eyes, under their drooping lids, were a bright and fiercely inquisitive blue. Herbalist, wise woman, fey wife, healer or witch, depending on which culture they inhabited, Julia had encountered Johara’s kind several times on her travels, and knew that they commanded respect as well as fear. She dropped to her knees, bending over the woman’s gnarled hand, and muttered the traditional words of greeting in her halting Arabic.

      After helping her back to her feet, she was rewarded with a nod of approval from Azhar, and a look she could only term quizzical from the old woman, who then broke into a torrent of Arabic, accompanied by many gestures. Standing to one side, Julia watched as the doors to the other houses in the village opened, and women of all shapes, sizes and ages began to emerge, two, three sometimes as many as four from each. They were all heavily veiled. One by one, they came forward, bowed over, eyes to the ground, forming two lines in front of the herbalist and their Crown Prince.

      Feeling awkward, Julia shuffled to one side. Azhar, his back to the women, deep in conversation with Johara, seemed not to have noticed their arrival. Julia tugged on his sleeve to get his attention, motioning over his shoulder. He turned, most reluctantly, it seemed to her. Had he been ignoring them? She caught what looked like a momentary flash of annoyance, or embarrassment in his eyes, before he said some sort of formal greeting and indicated that they should rise. They did so slowly, their eyes above their veils quite patently expecting more from him, but Azhar spoke under his breath to Johara and turned away.

      ‘We are invited to take tea,’ he said to Julia, taking her arm, compelling her into the wise woman’s house without a backward glance.

      ‘That was a little rude, if I may say so.’ Julia shook herself free. ‘Those women wished only to show their respect to their future King, and you as good as turned your back on them.’

      Azhar’s mouth tightened. ‘I do not deserve—’ He broke off abruptly. When he spoke again, it was through gritted teeth. ‘I am not yet their King. I have not yet been crowned.’

      There was a faint flush on his cheeks. ‘That is sophistry. Does it embarrass you, their adulation?’ Julia asked, confused by the strength of his reaction, recalling now, Azhar’s refusal to acknowledge the crowds which had followed them through the city on their arrival. ‘It does seem a little strange to me, the bowing and scraping I mean, but then I come from a country which has locked one King up, and put an overweight, over-indulged and frankly over-excitable popinjay on the throne in his place.’ The similarities between the two Regents, Prince George and Prince Kamal, struck Julia suddenly. Now it was her turn to blush. ‘I did not mean to compare the two, of course. It is the merest—I mean I am sure that your brother is not a...’ Libertine? Rake? ‘Profligate.’

      ‘Are you? You seem very certain about everything else, for one who has spent less than fifteen minutes in his company.’

      Azhar gave her one of his haughty looks. Instead of inhibiting her, it made Julia’s hackles rise. ‘I am a most astute interpreter of character,’ she said.

      ‘So astute, that you employed a thief as your dragoman.’

      ‘Oh! That was most—’ Once again, she broke off. ‘You are quite correct, of course. It is I who have been unfair, leaping to judge a man I do not know. Not that I am acquainted with Prince George either, but his habits are well established, and—and anyway, Azhar, we have strayed very far from the point. Even if it does make you uncomfortable, all the women were doing was showing you the respect due to their Prince.’

      ‘Even a prince must earn respect, Julia.’ Azhar took off his headdress, refolded it and replaced it. ‘It was not my intention to be rude. I—’

      A woman bearing a huge tray of tea things interrupted him. She was followed by Johara, who ushered them both to take their places on the cushions by the low table. As the sweet mint tea was poured with due ceremony, Azhar asked Johara to explain her craft for Julia’s benefit, translating the old woman’s words and Julia’s eager questions. Though she had encountered some of the plants mentioned, many were strange to her, either due to their local names, or simply because she had never encountered them before. Questions, more questions and yet more, Julia threw at Johara via Azhar, as the encyclopaedic extent of the woman’s knowledge became apparent. Finally, Johara clapped her hands and summoned one of her daughters.

      The book which was reverently laid on the table was folio-sized, bound in dark-red leather, and clearly ancient. ‘You are privileged indeed,’ Azhar said. ‘This book has been passed from mother to daughter in Johara’s family for more than two centuries.’

      The illustrations were so beautiful that Julia gasped. Plants, flowers, trees and roots, one species to a page, below which were what she assumed to be recipes for medicinal potions, documented in minute Arabic script. Julia carefully turned the pages, tracing the delicate paintings with her fingers. ‘These are wonderful. Please tell Johara that I am extremely honoured, that I have never seen anything quite so exquisite. Shukran,’ she said, putting her hands together. ‘Please tell her that I am very, very grateful.’

      ‘Johara says that you are welcome to copy the drawings if you wish, but you must not transcribe the recipes, or a curse will befall you and your family,’ Azhar said. ‘It is a warning I would not ignore lightly. But I thought you may prefer to take the likenesses of some of the specimens in their natural habitat. Many of them grow here at the oasis. Johara’s daughter will show you where, if you wish.’

      ‘If I wish! When may we start? Oh, I did not mean to be rude, but...’

      ‘But you are anxious to begin your task,’ Azhar said, smiling. ‘We have about four hours before we must leave.’

      ‘Thank you. Oh, thank you so much, but what about you, what will you do while I am working?’

      ‘I have ten years of history to uncover, Julia. I shall not lack occupation.’

      * * *

      As Azhar waited for Johara to summon the women of the village, he watched Julia heading off to the other end of the oasis with mixed feelings. The honesty he had requested of her came at a price. She saw too much. More, he suspected, than she chose to share with him. He suspected too, that he would prefer her to keep those thoughts to herself.

      Her perception discomfited him, surprising him into confidences he would rather not make, forcing him to confront facts he would prefer to ignore. His people’s unwarranted adulation, for example. Did they not realise that he had abandoned them? He had expected resentment at his return, sullen acceptance at best. If only his brother had made more of an effort to endear himself to the people. He’d had ten years to prove himself worthy. But then, hadn’t Kamal always held the belief that birthright alone was sufficient? Recalling Julia’s comparison of his brother and the English—what did she call him?—popinjay Prince, Azhar snorted in amusement. It was apt, there was no denying that. He wasn’t quite sure what a popinjay was, but he could imagine.

      Yes, Julia saw too much, but Julia had not the full picture. If she did, she would understand—Azhar