The Kindness of Enemies

1. SCOTLAND, DECEMBER 2010

First semester examinations began that week and brought more normality. I found the daily routine of invigilation soothing and welcomed the concentration needed to start marking students’ papers. My colleagues, busy themselves, oscillated between sincere shows of solidarity against last week’s police search of my office and the natural instinct to keep their distance. I wanted nothing more than to pretend that everything was normal. In the staff room I found a stash of pro-life leaflets, identical to the one put on my desk. Fiona Ingram said they had been left there by a pro-life student and distributed to all the classrooms. She showed me Gaynor Stead’s paper, which she had been marking. She had tried, she said with a straight face, but could not give her more than a four out of twenty. Last year I had given her a zero. ‘That girl does not belong in a university,’ I said and Fiona sighed because she did wish all her students well. The news that another of my papers had been accepted for publication (with only minor revisions) arrived as a much-needed boost to my confidence. Iain was pleased but it did not stop him from saying, ‘Let me have that report on Oz Raja by the end of the week, latest.’ This was the moment I should have said no. This was a chance to back out, but now that things were settling, I did not want to rock the boat.

Wheels were set in motion for the needed repairs to my flat and for the insurance payment to kick in. The workmen would only come after the New Year and I had to face the task of finding a temporary place to stay. Luckily, Fiona knew an elderly couple willing to take in a lodger. I drove out to visit them. The room was small but sunny and I would not have to share a bathroom. I agreed to take it straight away and was disappointed when they said I could only move in after the holidays as they had family members spending Christmas with them. They were happy, though, for me to move some of my things in and this eased my situation a little.

In the hotel, I stayed up marking exam papers and putting off writing the report about Oz. I brooded over where I would spend Christmas. Put up with Kornelia in Fraserburgh or try, at this late stage, to find an alternative? All my friends had other arrangements and to impose on them would entail a fee of confiding my latest troubles. Now that I had my mum’s laptop, I surfed for last-minute Christmas travel deals and considered what I could afford of sunshine and seafood. There was still also my urge to visit the Caucasus. In the museum in Makhachkala I would be able to see Shamil’s saddle covered in crimson velvet and the medals sent to him by the Ottomans. He never wore any but he gave them to his naibs to signify their rank. For a long time I gazed at pictures of the mountains and the Caspian Sea but I was unable to commit to anything.

On Wednesday I found myself invigilating a class in which Gaynor sat next to Oz’s friend, the girl in hijab, whose name I never learnt because I had never taught her. Gaynor was diligently writing away, her greasy hair falling over the paper, blocking the light necessary for her to write in. She was her own worst enemy. She looked up suddenly and caught my gaze; it made me nervous. I turned away and walked to the back of the room.

We were only halfway through the allotted time and Oz’s friend had her head on the table. She had pushed her paper to the side and laid her cheek on the desk. Her eyes were closed. I went up to her. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I have a bad headache,’ she said, looking up. ‘I can’t focus.’

‘Do you want to go out for a short break?’

There were dark shadows under her eyes. ‘I’d rather stay here and rest a bit more. Maybe I will be okay in a few minutes.’

I could hear Gaynor behind me starting to mutter. We were disturbing her. She might complain about me afterwards. It would be like her to do so.

‘Let me know if you need to leave the room,’ I said to the girl. ‘Raise your hand.’ I would then have to call the Registry to send in an escort to supervise her until she returned.

Thursday was only a week since Oz’s arrest, though it felt like a month. I started to feel uneasy that I had not yet written the report. I met the girl as I came in through the car park. ‘Feeling better?’

She smiled. ‘Yes, fine. Exam tension, I suppose.’

I started to walk away when she said, ‘Do you have any news about Oz?’

I repeated what Malak had told me but it did not seem new to her.

‘He missed the exams.’ This was said in such a poignant tone as if it alone underlined the seriousness of his predicament.

‘He can resit them,’ I reassured her.

‘The police questioned me,’ she said. ‘They questioned all of his friends.’ She told me the details, speaking in a matter-of-fact way as if she was neither intimidated nor surprised. But her voice hardened when she said, ‘My parents told me to unfriend him on Facebook and not even to try to get in touch.’

‘They’re concerned about you.’

She rolled her eyes.

It was gratifying that she was open with me. ‘Was Oz very active in the Muslim Students’ Society?’

‘Not really. He’s different from everyone else.’

‘In what way?’

‘The way he was brought up. His mother’s an actor and for a lot in the MSS that’s not how a good Muslim woman should be. I remember, once, an invited speaker came to give a talk and afterwards Oz was one of those who took him back to the station. Apparently he spent the whole ride telling Oz that it was his duty as a son to convince his mother to quit her job! He got to him so much that he was almost crying.’

I could imagine the scene, the packed car, shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee. The colour rising to Oz’s face, the clenched fists. ‘But Oz and his mother are descended from Imam Shamil. Surely that counts.’

She gave a little laugh. ‘Not to that lot. They hate the Sufis.’

She was putting it bluntly. Theologically, Sufism’s veneration of its saints and the belief in their mystical powers was problematic. In modern times as Political Islam embraced transnationalism and activism, the Sufis were perceived to be not only passive and traditional, but often, also, reactionary and neo-cons.

‘That speaker shouldn’t have been invited in the first place,’ she was saying. ‘He’s on some list or other.’

‘What was his talk about?’

She made a face. ‘I don’t know. I arrived late, slipped into the first free seat on the front row and he suddenly stops talking and says to me, ‘Move to the back with the other sisters.’ It was so embarrassing. Everyone turned to look at me. I hadn’t even noticed that the seating was segregated! I felt like an idiot so I just got up and left. But he’s not going to say anything controversial in a lecture hall, is he? They save that kind of thing for private meetings in peoples’ homes.’

‘Could Oz have gone to such a meeting?’

‘Maybe. Do you think that’s why he’s in trouble? But why him? There are others.’

Perhaps he did something rash as a way of showing off, just because he was keen to fit in, to prove himself. He had struck me as being proud of Shamil, deeply loyal to Malak. Still, I knew that ache to belong. When you’re young, it could drag you against your better judgement.

I wrote the report that night. I could not put it off any further. On Friday morning I dithered before emailing it to Iain. Three hours later I clicked the send button. Then I waited for something to happen. I wanted something to happen. A penalty. Not this silence. Sometimes we do get what we want. My mobile phone rang. It was Grusha from Sudan. I had previously texted her so that we would stay in touch. Although she said the same thing she had said before — ‘Your father is getting worse. Can you come and see him?’ — this time I answered differently. I said yes, I would be there as soon as I could.

My request for compassionate leave was granted. Now that Iain had his report he inclined towards generosity. There was one more week to go before the holidays. Fiona would take over my hours of invigilation. As always, because her output was poor, he threw every extra administrative and teaching task onto her.

I was just heading out for lunch when I found a voicemail message. ‘Natasha, it’s Malak. I’m back home, not in Glasgow. Oz was released yesterday. We’re home now. He’s not talking to me. He’s not leaving his room. He won’t eat … I don’t know what to do. Can you come over? Maybe he’ll talk to you.’

I drove to Brechin straight away. I still had time before I needed to catch the overnight train to London. I was lucky with the traffic. Oz was innocent and that made me smile to myself. I had sensed the relief in Malak’s voice despite the concern. The countryside was still covered in snow. It ceased to amaze and was now part of the landscape as if it had always been there. I counted the days Oz had been held — eleven. They must have felt longer to him.

Malak opened the door. She was pleased to see me and her warm welcome lifted my spirit. ‘It took you no time to get here,’ she said. ‘Easy and smooth.’ This house had cause for celebration but she spoke in hushed tones, as if there was someone ill inside.

‘We came back yesterday,’ she explained. ‘I hired a car because he refused to take the train. He said he didn’t want to be around people. All the way in the car, he lay in the back seat. He wouldn’t speak to me. He said he wanted to sleep but I could tell he wasn’t asleep. I could tell he was just tense, staring in the dark. I put on the radio and he shouted at me to turn it off. Rudely. Not like himself at all. Then when we came back, he wouldn’t eat dinner. He wouldn’t shower. He just went to his room and stayed there. I knock, he doesn’t answer. But he is there. I hear him moving around. I eavesdropped.’ She ran her hand through her hair. She looked like she too hadn’t slept well.

‘You have to look after yourself,’ I said to her. ‘How can you take care of him, if you are in a state?’

She shook her head. ‘I need to take the rented car back into town. And the day after tomorrow I have to fly to London to record a radio play. How am I going to leave him like this?’

‘He’s had a bad experience. Give him time. Why don’t you grab yourself a bite to eat and I’ll stay here while you take the car back into town.’

‘Thank you, Natasha. I’ll pick up a few groceries for him too.’

I left her in the kitchen and went upstairs. I knocked on the door of his room. ‘Oz, it’s me, Natasha.’

There was no sound from inside. Perhaps he was asleep. I stood at the door not sure what to do next. Then I heard him moving, getting up from the bed, walking around. I knocked again. ‘Oz, I know you’re not feeling well. But do you think you’re up to coming downstairs and lying down on the sofa for a bit? I’ll wait for you downstairs. Your mum is just going into town for a bit.’

In the sitting room, I sat staring at the empty space on the wall where Shamil’s sword had been. The sun shone at an acute angle low in the sky. A flash of brilliance before the early darkness.

Oz came down in his pyjamas, wrapped in a blanket. Unshaven, his hair greasy, streaks of dark skin under his eyes. He sat on the sofa, drew his feet up underneath him and bunched up under the blanket. He lowered his head.

I told him about my father being ill and how I was going to Sudan. I spoke about the weather. He listened to me or at least to my voice. He emitted anger and some bewilderment.

When he finally spoke, he said, ‘I’m not going back to uni. If that’s why you’re here.’

It seemed an odd thing to say. I chose my words carefully. ‘There is no rush to go back to uni. You’ve missed the first week of the exams and I wouldn’t advise you to try and sit for the second week. What you would need to do is fill out an Extenuating Circumstances form —’

‘Extenuating circumstances!’ He looked straight at me for the first time and gave a forced laugh. ‘Oh yes, I was just pulled in for a whole ten days of fucking questions. One stupid question after another. They locked me up in a tiny room. I couldn’t even sleep. They were watching me every single minute of the day, writing things down, every little thing I said or did …’ He stopped abruptly and looked out of the window. A bird had flown past and made him nervous.

‘What sort of questions did they ask you?’

‘Don’t you start asking me questions! That’s what Malak was doing and I can’t stand it. One question after the other. What did they feed you? What did they say? What did you do to make them suspicious? I don’t want to answer any more questions. Enough.’ He put his head back on his bunched-up knees.

‘You are out now,’ I said. ‘They’ve released you without charge. This is excellent.’ I tried to sound pleased or at least grateful. The room was getting darker.

He spoke without looking up and his voice was muffled. ‘I shouldn’t have been there in the first place.’

‘You’ve had a terrible experience. In time you will get over it. A few weeks’ rest and recuperation is what you need. You can even take the next semester off. Why not? Just start the new academic year fresh in September.’

He shook his head, threw the blanket on the floor and stood up. ‘I’m not going back there.’ He headed towards the kitchen. I heard him rummaging in the fridge then slamming shut the door of the microwave. ‘Good,’ I thought. ‘At least he is starting to eat.’

I drew the curtains and switched on the lights. These were the shortest days of the year.

2. LONDON, DECEMBER 2010

I went to the Sudanese Embassy to get a visa. My Sudanese passport had expired years ago and I never renewed it. I actually didn’t even know where it was. Lost over the years. In one move or the other. In it my name was Natasha Hussein. But on everything else — my British passport, my Russian passport, my driving licence, PhD — I had a different surname. In the spatial details of the embassy, in its hue, tones and pace my planned destination started to take shape. Men who spoke like my father, a woman in a tobe coming in to renew her passport, pictures of the Nile on the wall, younger versions of Tony waiting to collect their visas. A certain casualness, a slower tempo, a difference that made me, for the first time, excited to be travelling.

‘Your visa will take four to six weeks.’

I was taken aback. ‘But I need to go now. My father is seriously ill.’

‘Are you Sudanese?’

Why ask such a difficult question?

‘When was the last time you were there?’

‘Twenty years ago.’

I also, they said, needed a sponsor. On Cleveland Row, I called Grusha. She told me not to worry. She said that Yasha could pull a few strings for me at my end. I was to fill out the form and wait a few days in London.

In my hotel room I surfed for news of Oz’s release without charge. His arrest had been a news item; would his release also be one? There was nothing among the snow warnings, cancelled flights and delayed trains. I had been lucky to get here. Instead a news item from Sudan caught my eye, a video posted on YouTube of a woman being whipped by the police. She is unrestrained in her cries, pleading and shuffling on her knees, raising her arms uselessly to obstruct the blows. A small crowd watches. The scene is slow and saturated in humiliation, a world removed from valour or decency. The policeman is laughing at this vocal plaything rolling on the ground; the sun shines on his blue uniform and on the white of a nearby parked car. I don’t want to go there.

I spent the following day at the National Archives among the correspondence of the Foreign Office. Here was the response of the British ambassador in Turkey to the news of the kidnapping: ‘Shamil is a fanatic and a barbarian with whom it would be difficult for us … to entertain any credible or satisfactory relations.’ Lord Clarendon, the foreign secretary, certainly agreed, calling it an ‘atrocious and revolting outrage’. This was the end of British support for Shamil. His reputation, strong in the previous decades, was shattered. The admiration he had roused after Akhulgo turned to disgust. Did he guess this would happen? Did he care? Or was Jamaleldin more important to him? I might never know.

As I left the archives, I ‘heard’ my mother talk about shopping. She had loved London, loved Harrods. And now the city went on without her. Of course it did. The whole world had. On Oxford Street I joined the Christmas shoppers, looked at the window displays, wondering if I should buy new Sudan-friendly clothes, but I did not want to be stuck with them if my visa didn’t come through. Instead I bought gifts for Grusha and Yasha; I bought a dressing gown for my father. I could post them if I ended up not going.

With time on my hands, I called Malak. She asked me to meet her tomorrow in the Starbucks near the BBC. She would be finished by six, she said. I got there before her and waited for quite a time. She came in looking tired and distracted after a whole day of recording. She said she was playing the part of a Jewish postmistress in 1940s Poland but did not give more details. ‘It was hard to leave Oz though he insisted he would be fine,’ she said, sitting back in the sofa, the mug huge in her hands. She was wearing layers of grey and blue, loosening the scarf around her neck, pulling strands of her hair behind her ears.

‘He needs a good rest,’ I said.

‘Yes. I lost my temper with him, though. I shouldn’t have but I did.’

‘What happened?’

‘He told me he wanted to leave and join his father in South Africa. Give up his studies, give up his whole life here. Just up and go!’

‘What’s he going to do there?’

‘He doesn’t know. He hasn’t thought about it.’

‘He’ll come to his senses. Give him time.’

‘He’s not thinking things through. As if the authorities won’t be watching him! He’s been given a police warning against accessing prohibited materials online. Why suddenly leave the country? That would raise their suspicions!’

We fell silent after that. I ate more of my cake.

Malak sighed. ‘I am the one being asked the questions now.’

I raised my eyebrows.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The money I send to my relatives in Chechnya.’ She put on an accent. ‘It better not be funding terrorism.’ She was more rattled about this than she was letting on. It was in the way she held her mug, the slight tremble of her lips before she bent her neck down to sip her latte.

And here I was with my laptop still held by the anti-terror squad, applying for a visa to a pariah state. We were both tainted.

Should we swap reassurances or bolster our defences? Quickly she had swapped roles. From the optimistic ‘activist mum campaigning for release of her son’ to the shadows of being under suspicion. Here she was saying, ‘I can see this unravelling. My dinner invitations drying up, even the offers of roles dwindling ever so slowly without knowing exactly why. Not much needs to be said, does it? One day you are okay, strong and acceptable and then, just like that, everyone turns their back. If I didn’t have my faith, I would go mad. If I didn’t believe that I was following my destiny, I would …’ She stopped abruptly.

‘I think you are being unduly pessimistic,’ I said, trying to convince myself.

‘But I never am,’ she laughed. ‘All my life I have been hugely optimistic. I have gone ahead with loads of energy, loads of goodwill. Until now. I am stumped. I stay up at night wondering about Oz’s future. Will he get through this? I don’t know what is going on in his head right now. Will he give up on uni? Will this brand him for life and be on his records? Will he lose his faith or his mind?’

‘He is young, he will get over it,’ I said with as much conviction as I could muster.

‘He had a narrow escape,’ her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘But what about the others out there? The ones who are really guilty. What do I know about them? As long as the threat is there, there will always be suspects being pulled in.’

‘What would Shamil have done?’

She smiled and sat back. ‘I wonder.’ She took a sip of her drink. ‘He would have seen through these militants — that they “fulfil neither a contract nor a covenant. That they call to the truth but they are not its people”. He would have gone after the hate preachers who say to the young men of this day and age, “go out and make jihad”.’

Interesting that, from her point of view, the leader of one of the longest and most significant jihads in modern history would, if he were alive today, be a supporter of the War on Terror. Unlike Shamil and his highlanders, radical Islamist organisations were inspired by Hegel and Marx, their inner workings ticked along the lines of Trotskyist parties in their suppression of dissent and critical opinion. No wonder that the founders of Political Islam, those revolutionary elite who turned their backs on tradition and worked towards a perfect society, never took Shamil as a role model. Al-Qaeda was a modern phenomenon, with no patience for Shamil’s traditional spirituality and utter contempt for the choices he made at the end of his career.

‘Oh yes,’ said Malak. ‘Shamil would have gone after these bigoted preachers. But I don’t have his credibility. No Muslim would listen to me. I got some hate mail when Oz’s case was mentioned in the newspaper and someone made the connection. “You slut,” he or she wrote. “Serves you right for taking off your clothes just to entertain the British public.” I don’t know what that’s about. I’ve never done a nude scene in my life!’

‘Eat,’ I said, pointing to the sandwich she had only nibbled at. Eating was a solution of sorts.

She smiled and sounded like her normal self again. ‘The only good thing out of all this is that I’ve lost my appetite.’

Malak invited me to go to a zikr with her. She said that she always attended this particular one when she was in London. It was performed by the same Sufi tariqat that Imam Shamil had belonged to. I agreed to join her for anthropological reasons. The confrontation with religious belief and practice faced every modern historical researcher. We, staunchly secular and sure of ourselves, plunged into politics and economics, ideology and warfare, power and pressures, then hit against the faith of the characters we were studying. The prayer book Anne Boleyn was reading during her last days in the Tower, Genghis Khan bowing in thanks to the sacred Burkhan Khaldun mountain and now, for me, Shamil’s Sufism. I had read how the captives in Dargo heard the chants coming from Shamil’s apartments when such gatherings took place. To Madame Drancy (who put her fingers in her ears and cried out that she’d had enough) the zikr had sounded like a repetitive song in chorus, a chant of ‘la ilaha illa Allah’ accompanied by a movement that increased in rapidity until it reached a climax then stopped to restart again with a different phrase, ‘astaghfir Allah’ or peace and blessings on the Prophet Muhammad.

Malak’s modern zikr was held in a North London dance studio. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors, cushions on the sprung hardwood floor, a barre all the way round. We arrived early, before people started taking off their shoes at the door and walking in. She seemed to know nearly all of them and grew more animated with every greeting. The men were wearing turbans and loose trousers, the women in skirts with hijabs or, like Malak, in loose trousers and flowing tops. I was not the only one without anything on my head. ‘The man in the navy jumper over there,’ Malak whispered, ‘is an aristocrat, closely related to the queen.’ She pointed out a well- known photographer, an architect and an aromatherapist. Dumpy Asian housewives, extravagantly handsome Nigerian men, hippies and New Agers. I wondered what Shamil would make of this lot. His legacy reaching Britain in this way, tame but undisciplined, capacious and gently accessible.

A haphazard circle of sorts was formed. The sheikh leading the zikr (the German man Malak had identified as an architect) sat cross-legged at the head of the circle. His green turban rose high above his head and matched the waistcoat he was wearing. He held a long rosary in his hand. Stretched around him the men formed an inner circle, followed by another semi-circle. The women sat behind them. I kept shifting away, sliding my cushion back until I drifted further and further from Malak. The lights were dimmed and I could no longer see her. In front of me was a Pakistani woman, her rose dupatta soft in the dim light. The sheikh started with a ten-minute talk, the words of Grandsheikh, he said, and I wondered if he was referring to Shamil’s mentor, Sheikh Jamal el-din or a more modern Grandsheikh. It was always a temptation to reach out to the past. To try to grasp what little of it remained.

‘Our ego is a wild horse. It is never satisfied. It wants more and more. Tame your ego and ride it. Don’t let it ride you.’ I tried to concentrate on the lesson but I could not get over the discomfort of sitting on the ground. He went on, his accent appealing, a soothing coolness in his delivery. ‘Our souls have unlimited capacity for knowledge and will ever be thirsting for more. As long as the soul is imprisoned by the senses of the physical body, our mind will hold it down. The mind is the guardian over the soul and keeps it passive, inactive. The situation will remain so until we transcend the boundaries of the mind and open ourselves up for the soul’s activity.’ My knees ached; pins and needles started to tingle in my feet. I shuffled to the back of the room so that at least my back was resting on the wall. When they started the actual zikr, I was far out of the circle.

A few of the men swayed from side to side. Most had their eyes closed. The rhythm of the chant was brisk; it rose, quickened and came to a faltering stop. Then the sheikh led with another phrase. I did not join in but I closed my eyes. My mind wandered to how unfit I was, inflexible. I should care more about my weight, my health in general. I had always been overweight and sedentary. My mother was a child gymnast and when she was older she enjoyed sports and cared about fitness. I ate to spite her, to distinguish myself, and then it became a habit. Peace and blessings on the Prophet Muhammad. I could walk out now if I wanted to. Out to the bitter cold. My breathing was slowing down. Perhaps I could try yoga. It could be my New Year’s resolution.

I felt heavy on the ground. Like I weighed a ton and I was taking up too much space. This enlargement was subtle and painless. It did not embarrass me. And I could see now that there was too much distance between myself and the outskirts of myself, between my core and the edges. Too much distance to travel on my own. Not much fuel either, no elan. Where did I learn this word from? It was not Russian, but in Russian the same concept existed. With due respect, I would disagree with what I had just heard, though this forum hardly encouraged discussion. Hey Sheikh-Architect, over here, let me tell you that without my mind I do not exist. It is the only part of me I am proud of. It is me.

A curry was served at the end of the zikr, followed by tea. Malak moved closer to me. Paper cups, mint leaves in the boiling water. Moroccan tea, someone said.

I couldn’t help with picking up the empty plates, scrunching up the plastic sheet that had served as a tablecloth. I stood apart, waiting and watching. Malak looked as if a load had been lifted from her shoulders. The darkness under her eyes was gone. I was the one sluggish, drugged.

She was smiling when she led me out of the room. My legs were sore and stiff, I almost stumbled down the stairs. She held my arm and spoke to me gently. ‘We’ll take a taxi. I’ll drop you off. Your hotel is on my way.’ She was staying with friends in Hampstead.

I dozed in the taxi. The streets were wet with rain, the taxi sped through the night. Malak was humming a refrain from the zikr, something that had a tune, words I couldn’t understand. She was petite but she was spiritually strong.

The feeling of heaviness and enlargement followed me to the hotel. I fell into the darkest layers of sleep. It must be because I had inhaled too deeply from the opium of the people. When I woke up in the morning for a split second I did not know where I was. My mobile was ringing. It was Grusha from Sudan, but instead of news about my visa which she had promised to expedite, she spoke softly. ‘I am at the hospital with your father. Here, he wants to speak to you.’

I sat up in bed. ‘Papa,’ I said, ‘I will be with you in a few days’ time.’ I had not spoken to him for nine years. ‘How are you feeling now?’ I stood up and pulled open the curtains. A remnant of yesterday’s heaviness was still in my arms.

‘Natasha,’ he grunted and then a couple of sentences in Arabic.

‘In Russian,’ I said. ‘I’ve forgotten my Arabic.’

He needed time to make the adjustment. I could hear Grusha in the background helping him. He spoke slowly. ‘You have no business staying on in Britain without your mother. Leave that foreign man and come home.’

I was amused at Tony being the ‘foreign man’ and my father forgetting that I had grown up.

‘Papa, I don’t live with Tony. I have my own flat. I have a full-time job and two cars. I’m thirty-five years old.’

‘I made a mistake,’ he said, as if I hadn’t been listening. ‘I should not have let you go. I should have kept you here with me. And now I want to set it right. I want my daughter back with me where she belongs. Come over here and I will look after you.’ He was upset. Ill, in pain and getting himself more upset. ‘People make mistakes. I made a mistake. You don’t know how I felt. Your mother blackened my name, she turned me into a laughing stock. That’s why I let you go. It was wrong and that’s why we need to set this right.’

I felt sorry for him. I said, ‘I will come to Khartoum and spend time with you. I am hoping to come in the next few days. But I will have to return. My work is here.’

‘Resign. There are jobs here.’

‘I can’t do that. I’m settled here.’

This made him more agitated. His voice was louder. ‘I’m telling you it’s a mistake. The biggest mistake. You see because you were her daughter. I couldn’t stand even looking at you. That was when I made the wrong decision. Take her, I said. She can go to hell, I said. That is the mistake that needs to be put right. Don’t tell me you have to go back. I am your father and I am ordering you …’

Anger surged through me. I did not trust myself to speak. Instead, I threw the telephone across the room. It skidded onto the carpet and the back broke off. All that hard work, all that sucking up, jumping through hoops then proving myself again, all that I had achieved and he called it a mistake.

I picked up my mum’s laptop and opened it onto my Staff Profile page at the university. The best photo of myself and next to it who I was. Dr Natasha Wilson, lecturer in history. Next to the photo was my office phone number and my email address. Click to see my profile, click to see my research interests and the research grants I had been awarded. Click to see the modules I taught and a list of my publications.

My body was buzzing. Patches of red floated before my eyes. To calm myself, I should work on the revisions to my paper now. Never mind breakfast, never mind that I could hear Housekeeping up and down the corridor and they would be wanting to clean my room next. I opened the document and began to write.

When in January 1854 Britain and France allied themselves with the Ottomans in the Crimea, Shamil’s prospects were strengthened. He had been actively rousing the Muslim minorities in Georgia and Circassia to join the jihad. An Allied advance into the Caucasus would have driven the Russians out of Georgia and the eastern Caucasus. Instead the Allies concentrated on the Black Sea and when Russia lost Sevastopol it turned to the Caucasus and concentrated all its military might on the Muslim insurgents. For only a brief period a large-scale and arguably successful Muslim-led uprising against imperial Russia was a credible possibility.

3. KHASAVYURT, THE FRONTIER OF SHAMIL’S TERRITORY, FEBRUARY 1855

In the library of the District Commission, Jamaleldin sat flipping through an encyclopaedia. A painting of a crab held his attention. This particular crab was found in cold waters and due to its size and taste was suitable for eating. It was not an attractive animal, asymmetrical and spiky with too much resemblance to a scorpion. Crabs walked sideways and backwards. This irritated Jamaleldin. No living thing should walk backwards. It was unnatural and gloomy.

Ever since the meeting with Younis and Mikhail, he had felt himself weakening. It was not because his father’s men had repelled him — they should have after the distance he had covered, what he had learnt and become. Instead the highlanders promised to drag him down to their level. Threatened him with love and the gravity his father exerted. Without his Russian army uniform, without the tsar’s language on his tongue, was he any different from them? They would pull him in and then take him for granted. He would slip and become uncouth like them, leaping over boulders, sitting on the ground to eat, wrapping his head in a turban. He would become wild like them and they were wild not because he remembered them as such but because Russia and Europe said they were. The mountain spirit was in him, it had always been in him but it had been latent all these years, held down by newness and duty. All it needed was a stir and it would thicken. Like a crab, he was edging backwards to them.

David Chavchavadze walked into the room holding a letter. He was ruffled, not agitated. Jamaleldin could read his face now and judge his mood from the way he walked, the twitch of his moustache and the vein on his forehead. Whether it was visible or whether it throbbed was a good barometer. Now David was moderately engaged, which meant that the news was neither good nor bad. David stood tall and began reading out loud, somewhat gratuitously Jamaleldin thought, extracts from the latest letter to arrive from Princess Anna via one of the Georgian servants who had volunteered for the journey to Dargo-Veddin. ‘“It is impossible to reason with these people. I have failed to convince them that you cannot offer a greater sum … Today, David, I no longer believe that we are destined to meet again in this life. I try, I do try to submit to this trial with Christian humility and to hold on to the hope of that better future promised to the suffering. I will undergo with gratitude whatever may be in store for me here and I will constantly pray that Alexander’s fate is better than mine. May God strengthen you in your grief and reward you.” ’

David’s voice started to tremble. ‘She does not know that you are here,’ he said to Jamaleldin and folded up the letter. ‘If she did, she would not be despairing. But they should have heard by now that you are on your way.’ He began walking back and forth hemmed in by the shelves of books. ‘Delays, delays! First they ask for the sum in gold and I get that ready. Then Shamil changes his mind.’

Jamaleldin winced at the mention of his father’s name. He always did, as if it was something intimate that should not be exposed, at least not in that tone, not with that impatience. Yet the name was there, it had to be said. Shamil was the core of the matter. It made Jamaleldin dizzy.

‘And why does Shamil want silver instead of gold?’ David continued. ‘Because the amount would look more impressive were it in silver and presumably he must satisfy the mercenary hordes who seek to gain out of all this. They must be ignorant not to realise that there is no difference, gold or silver, it is the same sum. The trouble I went to find silver! A little bit from here, a little bit from there. It was not easy. I still have five thousand in gold. They had better accept it and not change their minds again.’

Jamaleldin wished he did not have to listen to this. He wished for a companion his age. Twenty-four hours a day he was in the company of David Chavchavadze. They even shared the same room. Was the prince afraid that he would abscond or put a pistol to his head? David certainly hid it well. He certainly conveyed a feeling of trust and gratitude. But why read Anna’s letter out to him? So that Jamaleldin would feel sorry for her plight instead of feeling sorry for himself.

‘When will this finally come to an end? Our men had to wait a whole month in Dargo because Shamil was away. Then they want to exchange other prisoners as well. That opens more doors of negotiations. Then they tell me: come to Dargo yourself for a visit. A visit! So that you could see your wife and son. And then what? I said. Come back empty-handed? I would not do that. Either they come back with me or not at all.’

Mistrust on all sides. Jamaleldin could see through them both. The Russians believed the Chechens were wily and suspicious. The Chechens believed the Russians were aggressive and treacherous. They were both right, they were both wrong. One led to the other.

‘My first offer to him was forty thousand roubles.’ David was still pacing up and down. His scalp shone through his receding hairline. ‘Would I conceal or keep back one shaour when my family’s liberty is at stake?’ He suddenly stopped and faced Jamaleldin, posing this disingenuous question.

For the sake of peace Jamaleldin replied, ‘You would not.’ He strained to remember what a shaour was. It was a Georgian coin valued at only five kopeks.

‘He has still not turned my offer down.’ David resumed his pacing. ‘Nor has he accepted it.’

A knock on the door and Jamaleldin was saved by a visit from a group of young officers who asked him to join them for a ride. He readily agreed. On a horse he felt more like himself. He could race and exert himself to the point where his muscles trembled and his heart beat louder than his thoughts. He could pretend that everything was normal. Not quite. The mountains were there, up ahead waiting for him. Their forests and snows, their steepness that this horse could not manage, though other horses could.

Why was he thinking of them all the time? Of him all the time? In the evenings when he knocked back schnapps and lost money playing cards, Shamil’s disapproval ruined his pleasure. He was a marked man. And yet there was the ache to thaw and he wanted more than anything to see how Ghazi looked now. With a brother one would be less lonely, one would stretch out and spar without needing to win. The prospects played out in his mind, secrets soft as dreams. He dreamt of his mother and woke up with the fresh realisation that she was dead. He would not be going back to her, he would not be going back to Akhulgo. The course of the war had altered and his father, who split a man vertically in two halves with one blow of his sword, who could out-run and out-jump friend and foe, must have aged, even if only a little.

On the following morning two highlanders came. They were the official negotiators sent by Shamil. One of them, Hassan, circled Jamaleldin asking him one question after the other. What did he remember from his childhood? What was the name of his mother, his uncle who was long-ago martyred, his father’s cook? What was the colour of his father’s horse? Jamaleldin’s answers were vague, the Avar language let him down. He needed an interpreter. He started to feel bored. There was no point to this interrogation. Hadn’t Younis vouched for him already?

Hassan exuded ambition. His thick eyebrows almost met. His copious beard was perfectly black. He was not as old as he wanted to look. ‘My commission is to ascertain whether you are really the son of our great imam. I need positive physical evidence. Please bare your right arm.’

Jamaleldin rolled up his sleeve. Hassan grabbed his arm. His hand was rough and warm. ‘Yes, I can see the scar.’ A smile entered his voice. His grip loosened. He looked Jamaleldin straight in the eye. ‘When you were very young, you fell from a mill and wounded your arm. It was the kind of deep cut that would leave a scar.’

Jamaleldin rolled down his sleeve. He did not remember falling from a mill and hurting his arm. The scar had once or twice roused his curiosity but it was neither ugly nor big enough to embarrass him. Now he could make up a story about himself climbing inside a mill in Akhulgo and falling on the straw. Little Ghazi frightened by the sight of blood, running off to tell their mother and Jamaleldin looking at the frazzled stained flesh and willing himself to be brave.

Hassan turned to David. ‘You have delighted us with the return of Shamil Imam’s son. On my honour, I can now assure you of the return of your family very soon.’

Jamaleldin could see the relief in David’s face, the restrained excitement. The highlanders promised they would convey the news to Shamil in Dargo and return in three days’ time. I am that close, Jamaleldin thought. Days, not weeks or months.

Hassan and his companion returned as promised but not with a message from Shamil concluding the exchange. Instead the letter read, ‘I thank you for keeping your word with regards to my son’s return from Russia but do not think that this will end the negotiations between us. Besides my son, I require a million roubles and a hundred and fifty of my men whom you now hold prisoners. Do not bargain with me. I will not take less.’

Jamaleldin watched David’s face transform; he saw his hand for the briefest of moments grip his revolver and then let go. ‘Is the imam withdrawing his word after he has given it? Can he even count up to a million? I challenge him on that.’

Hassan frowned. ‘There is no need for insults.’

‘Well, I cannot add another kopek. It is forty thousand roubles or nothing.’

Hassan shrugged. ‘Write this down for Shamil Imam and we will take it to him.’

‘I will not write another letter,’ David shouted. ‘Tell him he is lucky I offered forty. I should have said twenty but I didn’t think the emperor would permit Jamaleldin’s return.’

The wording struck Jamaleldin. It was true, the emperor had permitted his return. Reflect on the decision, sacrifice yourself to save the princess — all an illusion. The truth was that he had been a hostage all these years held by elastic constraints. A rubber band that allowed him to join a regiment, dance in a ball, ask for the hand of Daria Semyonovich. Humiliation pumped through his blood. He could no longer hear David, who continued to shout. The room, the biggest one in the District Commission, began to seem strange, full of eerie sounds and people who were unaware of each other. The aides-de-camp, interpreters, orderlies on the side — all appeared to him as crooked as puppets. He felt someone nudging him; it was Hassan turning towards him with a smile that was itself like a word in a foreign language. ‘Don’t worry, brother, that’s just our way of negotiating. We’ll get you out of here soon. Don’t worry.’

It was too much. The tears rose to his eyes. ‘Worry? You think I’m worried. You don’t understand, do you, that I’m not even happy I’m returning. I’m no longer one of you. I’ve forgotten how to be. If I could, I would turn round and go back to what I know.’

Suddenly David was in front of them, eyes blazing at Hassan, the vein on his forehead stretched blue-grey, spit forming on the corners of his mouth. He pitched in, ‘And I will take Jamaleldin back to Petersburg, see if I don’t. If by Saturday you don’t bring me an acceptance of my offer, I swear by my Creator both of us will leave Khasavyurt. Listen to me. Listen to me well: I will not be played with. Shamil can do what he likes with my family. Yes, he can. Do you understand me? If he makes my wife his slave then she is no longer my wife. She is not. I will renounce her.’

4. DARGO-VEDDIN, FEBRUARY 1855

When news of Jamaleldin’s arrival in Khasavyurt first reached Dargo, it was greeted with celebration. Gunshots were heard throughout the aoul and there was much chanting and thanksgiving. Chuanat rushed into Anna’s room to congratulate her and Madame Drancy sank to her knees in gratitude. But it was Zeidat’s reaction that turned out to be the most accurate. She stood at the doorway with arms folded and said, ‘I don’t understand why you’re so happy. Does Shamil Imam only have one son? The boy’s return is not enough. You will not be released for less than a million.’

It was in itself a torture, this unknown future, this hope that now dangled close. Anna might believe that Shamil truly wanted his son back but Zeidat and the naibs were winning the argument. How much could they get out of David Chavchavadze was the question they were asking themselves. They would push him to the limit. He was doing everything he could — mortgaging, selling and borrowing, but it might not be enough.

And what would become of her if she stayed? More and more often she was thinking along these lines. Anna Elinichna, Queen of Georgia — Shamil had won her with these words, courted her with a dream. These days she was imagining what would have been preposterous months ago. It was a seductive, repulsive path. She would join Shamil’s resistance. She would fight with the Chechens for a free Georgia. The prospect was thrilling. It filled her with a dislike of herself but still she could not stop weaving the fantasy. It often threw up surprises. She would contact those relations of hers who had been exiled by the tsar, who had never submitted wholeheartedly to the annexation of their country. David, cautious and pro-Russia, had always urged her to steer clear of them; now she would seek them with an offer of her own. And here in this household there would have to be changes too; the delicious toppling of Zeidat, and Madame Drancy would definitely have to go. Madame Drancy did not believe that Muslims worshipped the same God she did. She would consider Alexander a Christian soul lost to Islam. She would become reproachful and ultimately insubordinate. Her position as governess or even companion would become untenable. It would be necessary to move her to another aoul or seek some way for her to individually secure her own ransom. Unlikely, but there was no other option.

The mountains were filled with the displaced. Here among Shamil’s men were captives and deserters. Their wellbeing was a function of how much they integrated or made themselves useful. In Georgia and in Russia, there were also Chechens who had gone over to the Russians. Their survival, too, depended on how easily they fitted in and how valuable they could be. Each with their personal heartache, each with their individual story. The only common thing being that their loyalty would always be suspect, their loved ones far away, their aura tinged with the shame of defection.

One of Shamil’s men was a Georgian who had in his childhood been made prisoner. Abid was esteemed by Shamil because of his intelligence and natural fighting skills. His story fascinated Anna. One of the older women in the household had fallen in love with Abid. Shamil approved the marriage in order to strengthen Abid’s attachment. If his wife and children were now part of Dargo-Veddin, Abid was less likely to escape. On one occasion when a battle had turned unfavourable, Shamil and Abid were separated from the rest of the troops. Pursued, they galloped until they came very near to the Russian border. ‘I have always felt that one day you will leave me,’ Shamil said to him. ‘If you wish to return to the Russians here is the opportunity. Don’t be afraid. No one will follow you.’ Abid was adamant that his loyalty was to the imam. Yet he was fated to leave. Years later he fell in love with a Georgian prisoner and when she was, only last month, ransomed by her people, he followed her. Now his children would grow up with a father who had deserted them, a mother who was lamenting her fate. Anna wondered how successful Abid would be back in Georgia. She doubted that he would rise to a position as high as that of being Shamil’s arms-bearer.

Alexander came into the room to find her dozing. She was neither healthy nor ill; neither calm nor energetic. ‘Mama,’ he tugged at her sleeve. She sat up and stroked his hair. He was taller now, less cuddly, less precious.

‘Zeidat took me to her room,’ he said. ‘She gave me sweets and told me that Papa doesn’t love me any more. She said it would be better for me if I stayed here. Is it true what she said?’

‘No.’ She held him by the shoulders. ‘No, it is not true. Papa loves you and he is doing all he can to bring us home. And soon we will go home. I promise you.’

He looked relieved. She hugged him to herself and close to her neck he whispered, ‘I don’t remember which is our house in Tiflis and which is Tsinondali. They are two houses but I think they are one house.’

She went over the differences between them. She jogged his memory. They spent a successful hour regaining their past, shutting out the present. Until a cry was heard from outside and Alexander rushed out to join the domestic drama caused by the mischievous Muhammad-Sheffi breaking the lock of his grandmother’s room.

Talking to Alexander had restored her to herself. She felt stronger, her head cleared as if she was waking up from the most vivid of dreams. The promise she made to her son must not be in vain. All that she had told him was the truth. David loved them both and they had a home and a life to go back to. She must not give in to confusion and this sidling astray. Some connections were too deep to be realised, too subtle to be convincing. She was not the Queen of Georgia. She would never be. She was David Chavchavadze’s wife, mother of Alexander, and she did not belong here. Her life was on hold. She must speak out and fight; she must say it again and again to break up this deadlock. ‘My family do not have a million roubles.’

She went to Chuanat’s room and asked for her help. ‘I must speak to Sheikh Jamal el-Din. He is the only one who has the strongest influence over Imam Shamil.’

Shamil was surprised to see his teacher coming into his room. He stood up and moved forward to kiss his hand. They had not been alone together since that night they had argued about Princess Anna. Every day he prayed behind him in the mosque and on Thursday nights they sat next to each other in the zikr circle, but they had not exchanged more than greetings and the day-to-day administrative discussions and correspondence that Jamal el-Din was involved in. Seeing him now venerable and grey with his intelligent expression and compassionate eyes, Shamil felt a pang of nostalgia, a longing for their former closeness. He should have been the one to make the first move. Even if he was not ready to apologise, he should have traversed the distance and at least expressed in action, if not in words, some penitence. He bent down now and kissed his teacher’s feet. To say out loud that he was honoured by this visit would be to sound formal and formality in itself was undesirable when it was intimacy that was due.

When he was seated cross-legged on the floor and after the customary refreshments, Jamal el-Din asked, ‘Are you going to reply to Colonel Williams’ letter?’

Colonel Williams, based in Anatolia, was the British commissioner to the Ottoman forces. He had sent a strongly worded reprimand against fighting women and children and demanded the immediate release of the captives. Shamil said, ‘I will explain my position and ask him why they did not support me last spring when I intended to march into Tiflis. We could have seized Georgia together. I fear that the Sublime Porte has forgotten us. All we are getting from the Ottomans are medallions and flags!’

‘They make the men happy.’

‘Yes, but we need more.’

‘Unlike Lord Palmerston, the British ambassador to Turkey has never been our steadfast friend. Do not underestimate his power over the sultan. Now he has seized on this business of the kidnapping to label you a barbarian not worthy of association.’

Shamil pondered on this analysis. He would do anything to rebuke the Ottoman sultan face to face. Georgia could have been taken and still it might. If only the Allies would advance onto the Caucasus instead of putting all their effort into the Black Sea. He looked up when his teacher called his name.

‘Shamil, I have spoken to your captive. She has assured me that a million roubles will not be raised by her husband.’

So this was why he was here. Shamil became more alert. ‘Will not or cannot?’

‘Even if Prince David has a million roubles, the tsar will not permit him to give you such a sum. Are they now in the business of financing us so that we can fight them even more?’

‘He is offering forty thousand.’

‘A huge sum.’

Shamil paused. He did not want to sound contradictory. ‘It would be best to receive more.’

Jamal el-Din sighed. ‘And if you cannot receive more and there is no exchange — what will you end up with — the princess as your fourth wife? Is this what you want?’

The princess as his fourth wife. Is this what he wanted? Shamil paused again but this time for a different reason. He might have disagreed with his teacher but he had never lied to him. He would not lie to him now. ‘I want my son.’

Jamal el-Din smiled. ‘Yes, you do. My namesake. Son of Fatima, may Allah grant her mercy. Son of the Imam of Chechnya and Dagestan. Brother of Ghazi Muhammad, brother of Muhammad-Sheffi. The boy belongs here with us.’

Shamil’s voice had a catch. ‘They tell me he does not speak a word of our language.’

‘This is natural. Years he has been away. You must not hold it against him. And he can learn. Be easy on him and when he comes back, insh’Allah, you must let him live as he likes.’

‘I will. To have him again safe from the infidels and their crooked ways is all I want.’

‘Well, you should be content with the position you forced your enemies into.’

Shamil bent his head. He knew the enemy better than Jamal el-Din did. This was an enemy that could never deliver contentment, a relentless enemy, a force that quickened and grew and devoured like fire. ‘What about my naibs? They must not think that I favour my son more than the cause.’

‘Your naibs are greedy. They need to be taught a lesson. Money is like grass. It withers.’

‘True.’

Jamal el-Din went on, ‘We do not serve money, we serve Allah.’

‘I know this. But expectations have been raised. I am in an awkward position.’

‘One in which you put yourself. Be decisive. Gather the people, tell them that money withers but our deeds last for ever. Strengthen their souls with a gathering of zikr. Remind them that we serve Allah and not our desires.’

Shamil sighed. ‘Would you talk to your daughter? Zeidat does not understand compromise.’

Jamal el-Din smiled. ‘When a man cannot control his wife it must be the end of Time coming upon us.’

She was going home. It was true. Ameena and Chuanat crowding around her, Madame Drancy in tears, the elderly Bahou hobbling into their room with toothless, wet smiles to babble apologies, to thank them again and again and kiss Anna’s hand. It was a miracle, she insisted on explaining as Chuanat translated, Allah had prolonged her life so that she would see her first grandson come home again. Fatima’s boy whom she had rocked to sleep and for whom she had chewed the first solid food to pop into his tiny mouth. My daughter Fatima died waiting for him, she explained to Anna and shuffled back to her room, touching the walls for balance, her eyesight dim with tears.

Chuanat insisted on a goodbye party. A gathering in her room of tea and sweets. ‘You will forget me, Anna, but I will think of you every day,’ she said without reproach. ‘You will go back to your busy life and we will be here as we are.’

Anna’s head ached from the tension. The fear of even more dashed hopes. Everything to say and nothing to say. Sheikh Jamal el-Din, when he had come to visit her said, ‘Child, why are you doing this to yourself? We told you that no harm would come to you. So why all the despair?’ He had been taken aback by how poorly she looked, how thin. Now she would go back to David in this state only nine months away but looking nine years older.

And was it real? Would this optimism last? The sight of a splendid white horse in the courtyard was real enough. The children crowded around it. Alexander was given a ride. The stallion with a black star on its forehead was for Jamaleldin’s journey home. Everyone in the aoul wanted to touch it.

Men sent to Khasavyurt to count the silver roubles returned satisfied. Shamil decided the day for the exchange. Thursday 11th March.

‘You have been so kind to me, Chuanat.’

‘You brought us the outside world.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Ameena. ‘You two are turning this into a gloomy affair.’ She was young enough to believe in happiness. ‘Look, Anna. Look at the wagon being prepared for you.’ It was pulled by horses instead of oxen and the drivers were dressed like Russian coachmen. Carpets were placed at the bottom; a stock of bread and fruit for the journey.

The mandatory black veil covering her face. Alexander sitting on one side, Madame Drancy on the other. She was truly leaving. From the inner to the outer court, they passed through the gate and out of the aoul. They were accompanied by hundreds of men led by Ghazi Muhammad and youths led by Muhammad-Sheffi. No more wooden houses now, no stone towers. She felt the wagon lurch forward, Madame Drancy squealed and they began to descend the mountain. She gripped Alexander’s hand. It was one of the first fine days of spring. She lifted up her veil to see flocks of swallows and new green on the mountainside.

Ditches to go over, steep cliffs where they had to temporarily abandon the wagon and go on horseback. A drawbridge and times when they paused for rests. Halfway down the mountain they were joined by Shamil and more of his men. They were in their best clothes, glittering arms and their finest horses. He rode next to her and said, ‘According to our custom a father must not go out to meet his son. It should be the other way round. I am here to accompany my guest and prevent any disorder among my men.’

She hid that tether of anxiety that had kept her awake last night. The fear that something would go wrong. Yet he was the one who said, ‘I could not sleep last night thinking about my son. I kept praying that everything would go smoothly without treachery.’

Madam Drancy was dozing next to her, Alexander on the horse of one of the men. Whatever she wanted to say she could say now. Whatever she wanted to ask. Instead she said, ‘There was another negotiating meeting held last night. What was it about?’

‘A request for us not to fire our guns in celebration.’

‘Was that all?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you for the costume you gave Alexander. He will remember it all his life.’ She had seen him lift her son up to kiss him goodbye, she had seen him bless him.

‘And Anna, Queen of Georgia. Will she remember all this too?’

She would not be addressed like this again. It blurred the question that he asked. She said, ‘There was indeed once long ago a Queen of Georgia.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘Queen Tamar. You are like her in many ways.’

She would not be in the company of one who knew the secrets she even hid from herself. Knew the thoughts before they formed into words or wants.

He said, ‘I want to tell you that I tried to take care of you as if you were my own … my own family. It was not my intention that you suffer. You suffered because of my ignorance in how to treat such a noble lady as yourself and my lack of means.’

She must not spoil things by crying. Even her voice must be clear like that of a princess, if not a queen. ‘You kept your word, Imam Shamil. I trusted you and you did not let me down.’

The wagon shuddered over a rock and next to her Madame Drancy woke up with a jolt and looked out. ‘It’s the Russian army,’ she cried. There they were, visible across the river, lines and lines of them, a whole regiment. Anna saw a sight that was familiar and should be reassuring. David’s army; strong and disciplined, as if they would never tire of war. When she turned her head back towards Shamil, he was gone.

5. KHASAVYURT, MARCH 1855

The news of the tsar’s death did not surprise Jamaleldin. It only intensified the feeling of an ending. With the rest of the troops, he raised his hand and swore an oath to the new tsar, Alexander II. Jamaleldin was returning to his father without confidence in the success of the highlanders. Mighty Russia would ultimately win the war in the Caucasus. It was one of the few things he was certain about.

David gave him his sabre as a parting gift. ‘Do not cut any of our people with it,’ he said.

‘Neither yours nor ours.’ Close now to the mountains he could not ignore the cold-blooded policy with which aouls were razed down to every last chicken and cooking utensil. No wonder the tsar had denied him active service in the Caucasus.

‘I hope you will be a bridge between the two sides,’ said David.

Jamaleldin’s heart sank. A bridge was solid, dependable. Whereas he was like a wafer that could break any minute.

‘Talk to your father about peace,’ David continued. ‘Convince him.’

Just the thought of meeting his father after all these years dismayed him. But, yes, he would talk to him of peace because he would not be able to talk to him about war. Peace was a more dignified version of defeat. He turned away. ‘Have the carts been loaded?’ It had taken two of his father’s men a whole twenty-four hours to count the money. When he asked them if they were afraid that they were being short-changed, their reply surprised him. They were afraid that there was deliberately more money than had been agreed upon, paving the way for accusations of treachery.

David said, ‘All is according to plan. The carts have been loaded. Only thirty men from each side will be present at the actual exchange. The rest will stay in their positions.’

The day itself was bright and strange in that it coincided with the funeral of the tsar. In Petersburg they were burying his putrefied, perfumed body, the streets filled with crowds. If it wasn’t for all this, Jamaleldin would have been at the lying-in. Instead he was riding out towards the mountains. On the banks of the river Michik, the troops took positions. David was determined that nothing should raise the suspicions of the highlanders but the infantry was ordered to be ready to cross the river and fire if need be. Bayonets in place and the officers raised their field glasses. Through his, Jamaleldin saw the high black banners and what looked like thousands of Chechens. There under that tree the exchange would take place. He saw a horseman gallop towards the tree and when he reached it he waved a pennon. This was the signal. Jamaleldin, David and thirty others proceeded forward with the carts. The dip in the land obstructed the corresponding thirty highlanders who had crossed the river. Jamaleldin could not see his destination. He felt as if he was riding towards nothing. Just more sky, grass, rocks. Slowly, not a word, not a whisper, just the sound of the swallows, horses and the wheels of the carts.

It was time to ride uphill and suddenly there they were. It was their unexpected beauty that caught at his throat. Surreal and timeless. Graceful men on small horses, their guns resting on their right thighs. Their swords decked in silver and gold, insubstantial in comparison to the mountains behind them. The highlanders had sprouted from this soil, this place and nowhere else; men sleek with home, lustrous with what they believed in. And here was their leader moving straight towards him. A young man all in white as if the peaks had anointed his fur hat, tunic and horse with snow. He was smiling at Jamaleldin, he was swinging down from his horse. It was him. It was Ghazi and Jamaleldin found himself hugging him tight, the men cheering, and his brother’s face in his hands. It’s you, it’s you, little brother. I knew it was you.

With reluctance, Jamaleldin turned to see the wagon with the captives. Women covered in black veils, impossible to tell who was who. A child’s voice called out. ‘It’s Papa, it’s Papa!’

Ghazi pulled away from Jamaleldin; he went back and lifted Alexander off the wagon and brought him to his father. David held the boy tight, sank his head in his hair. Then he started to walk towards the wagon but Ghazi blocked his path. Ghazi struck a pose and was now giving a speech through the interpreter. Jamaleldin was arrested by the sight and sound of his brother, his slight nervousness, the marks on his skin but still the full cheeks that he remembered as a child pinching until they became red. Ghazi said, ‘Prince David, we are not people of treachery and haram behaviour. We are warriors, true believers. My father Shamil Imam gave me orders to inform you that he took care of your family as if they were his own. He is now returning them to you pure as the lilies, sheltered from all eyes, like the gazelles of the desert.’

Jamaleldin understood why David clenched his fist even as he gave a stiff bow. The vein on his forehead was more pronounced than ever. He was furious; the expression in his eyes was straightforward hatred and the desire for revenge. Jamaleldin turned to join Ghazi but the little brother, now turned commander, gestured for him to remain. Not yet.

The wagon with the princess and Madame Drancy rolled closer and the two women took off their veils. He recognised Anna straight away. She held herself rigid, the veil still clutched between her fingers. Their eyes locked. It was as if she knew that his reluctance was due to regret; a part of him had always yearned to return. Her eyes turned towards David and softened, her chin trembled as if she were years older, scoured and undone. It was now possible for Jamaleldin and his party to proceed forward. The three carts with the money, the Chechen prisoners who were part of the exchange, Ghazi and his men, Jamaleldin still flanked by two Russian officers and another aide-de-camp, all crossed the Michik river. Above them were the bulk of his father’s troops but no sign of his father.

Ghazi touched his arm. ‘He will not see you in these clothes. You must change.’

Jamaleldin was not sure if he understood. Ghazi tugged at his jacket. Another highlander held out a bundle of native clothes.

‘Shamil Imam’s orders,’ Ghazi grinned. ‘Time to strip.’

‘Here?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can’t.’

Ghazi burst out laughing. ‘We’ll cover you.’

They formed a circle around him, giving him their backs. He tugged off his boots, he unbuttoned, he pulled down. The cold air on his skin, the snow-capped mountains above and a Russian military uniform fell into a heap on the grass. Here he was between one dress and the other, neither Russian nor Chechen, just naked and human. It was a restful place to be with sun on his back and grass between his toes. He shivered and pulled on the familiar-unfamiliar clothes. Someone had gone through considerable effort to guess his size, to provide the best cloth, the most elegant cut. The long dark cherkesska made him feel regal and feminine, humble and yet daring, supported but unrestricted; the white lambskin papakh reminded him of the one he wore long ago when he left Akhulgo. His feet without the heaviness of boots felt vulnerable, the leather insoles put him in touch again with grass and rocks.

‘Are you going to keep us till sunset?’ joked Ghazi.

‘Don’t look.’

‘Bashful as a maiden, are you?’

When the circle opened and he emerged, a large number of highlanders broke from their ranks and surged towards him. They shoved and pushed to kiss his hand, the hem of his cherkesska, to get a better look at him. Because I am his son they think I am special, they think I am more than what I am. The mob pressed more closely; there was confusion and aggressive jostling. He worried about the Russians around him — they were completely outnumbered, face to face with men who would be happy, at any other time, to slit their throats. The highlanders gazed at the Russians with curiosity; one of them touched the eye-glass of the oldest officer, one of them examined his pistols. With gestures and the little bit of Avar that he could remember Jamaleldin ordered them to step back. It surprised him that they obeyed almost instantly.

Ghazi barged through what had become a mob, swiping away at the men as if he was pushing aside the low branches of trees blocking his path. Another highlander followed with a whip. Some of the men were haggard and painfully thin, their faces scarred with old and new wounds. Some were little more than youths who should be at their lessons instead of in campaigns. But here they were, full of trust. His father’s flock. His people, for what else was this soreness and shame building inside him other than the recognition that they looked like him and that he was of them. They were lashing him with the weight of their expectations. He trembled because any minute now he would have to bear his father’s eyes on him.

Shamil had retreated under a tree further up from the river. After making sure that the wagon with the princess had crossed safely, he wanted to be alone. He sat and faced the direction of Makkah. He bent and pressed his forehead to the ground. This was a time to feel small and weak in front of the magnanimity of the Almighty. His son was coming home. All the years of waiting and hoping, of feeling helpless and betrayed. All the frustrations of failed attempts and prisoners not valuable enough for an exchange. Soon he would hold him in his arms, soon he would look and look at him again, marvel at the child-to-manhood changes. This was a day to give thanks and because he could not give enough thanks, because no words would be eloquent enough, no amount of praise would be adequate, he wept. Subhan Allah wa bi hamdu. Subhan Allah wa bi hamdu. Years ago in Akhulgo when he gave Jamaleldin up to the Russians he had lifted up his palms and called out for all to witness, ‘Lord, You raised up Your prophet Moses, upon him be peace, when he was in the hands of Pharaoh. Here is my son. If I formally hand him over to the infidels, then he is under Your trust and charge. You are the best of guardians.’

The boy was coming back from the hands of the enemy. Jamaleldin had been watched over all along, he had been protected all along. Shamil begged forgiveness for every flicker of doubt, for every moment of impatience, for every flirtation with despair. He cried until his beard became wet.

When he heard the men’s cheers, he rose and joined the naibs who had gathered in a wide circle. Shamil sat and waited for his son. At last, there he was, haloed, vulnerable, one of the most beautiful sights Shamil had ever seen. He must not rise and rush towards him. The son should come to the father. Jamaleldin drew near. Shamil saw his mother Fatima in him, saw his resemblance to his brothers. Jamaleldin’s face had matured but not changed. He stepped onto the carpet. He knelt and kissed his father’s hand. Jamaleldin must greet the others first, all the naibs and elders, Sheikh Jamal el-Din too, he must show his appreciation for the honour they were bestowing upon him by leaving their homes and coming here to welcome him.

At last Shamil took his son in his arms. To have his fill of holding him, to have his fill of looking at him. This was more than an earthly delight, this was a whiff of Paradise. Alhamdulilah, alhamdulilah. I thank Allah Almighty for protecting my son.