Gawd, my arms ache, I’m getting too old for this, all the marching, the fighting, the aftermath. Yes, there is always the aftermath. That is something the bards never sing about, the stench of cauterised flesh, blood and voided bowels, the stink of the battlefield that is the stink of death.
A soft movement in the air brings the scent of jasmine and citrus to my nose. My prize is close at hand. Nowadays it is always close at hand, by day and even more so by night. Hasheen, that’s its name. In the barbaric tongue of Hasheen’s people it means something, though I do not know what. I should find out. There is much I must find out about Hasheen.
For now I must find out other things as Barak approaches with a half concealed smirk. Barak thinks I am getting soft. It is an opinion that I guess is shared by half of my war captains. Ten years ago I would never have broken my vows and taken Hasheen as my prize for my bed. Then I was the War Chief of the Kingdom of the Mountains, now I am High General of the Rodan Empire.
No, I was not defeated on the field of battle. It was via diplomacy and the marriage bed that the Kingdom joined the Empire and I entered its service. Hard service at that, it has been nine years of war and conquest. Now, though, nearly all the nations that ceded to the rebels and left the Empire on the ascension of Lady Bragoyon to the throne have returned, either of their own choice or my persuasion. There are now only a handful that resist and support the Lady’s cousin. It has, however, taken ten thousand kingdom warriors to bring this state, not to mention fifty thousand auxiliaries from the nations of the Empire.
Barak kneels before me to report, head bobbing in the formal manner of an Empire courtier. Hasheen’s scent wafts about. I wave Hasheen away. Barak’s eyes follow with lust as my prize walks through to my sleeping quarters. Now there is no distraction and I can smell Barak.
It is often said that a good general has a nose for things. Well there is more truth in that than many think. Armies stink, and it is often a whiff of that stink that has warned me of hidden troops or an ambush. Barak though does not stink, which is a problem. A captain at the end of a hard day’s battle should make an over ripe soft cheese on a hot day smell pleasant. As things are a Trantaium bed boy would stink worse than Barak after five minutes with a fat merchant.
Captains should be in the midst of things. Not the front line, at least not normally, they are too valuable for that. They should be in the third or fourth rank. Safe from immediate threat but close enough to feel the sense of battle. From the lack of stench I doubted not that Barak had viewed the battle from the tent with messengers running back and forth with instructions to the fighters. That was typical of the new officers. No longer were they drawn from the sacred warriors of Um, War Goddess of the Kingdom of the Mountains. No longer were they pledged to the Goddess in chastity and poverty. Now they travelled to battle with trains of baggage carrying luxury in which to live and with bedmates aplenty for their delight.
I had tried to keep the old ways, the way of the warrior, possessing only that which I could carry on my person or my horse, taking no partner to my bed, for my body was for the service of the War Goddess Um. Those had been the old ways and had been for an old life in a distant place. Over the years things had changed. Even I had a baggage wagon now, which carried my tent and papers. It was needed, for within the expanse of the Empire it could be many weeks travel to a place of substance where I could find shelter and accommodation. No longer could I fight my battle and be home in my house by the next evening.
First had come the tents, which, as I have said, were needed in the vast tracts of the Empire. Then had come the possessions to fill the tent, the justification for which was less clear. With possessions came the need for staff, somebody to care for them, to pack and unpack them, see that they were cleaned and accounted for. Even the most junior officer within the army needed a slave to tend to their wants. The war captains, masters of ten thousand soldiers, needed a veritable army to care for them. Cooks, clerks, grooms, the list went on and on. It was, of course, inevitable that sooner or later one of these would find its way into its captain’s bed.
I though, so far as was possible, had kept to the old way. My tent was simple, a sleeping room and a canopied vestibule in which I conducted the business of war. My staff and they were staff, I had the Highlanders’ objections to being served by slaves, consisted of the minimum needed. A groom, cook and steward tended to all my needs. If more were needed my steward would hire the required staff for the hour or the day.
Now to this I had added Hasheen, my prize. I had acquired Hasheen at Tutalow, after the siege of that city. Hasheen is not from there, but from some distant land of barbarians beyond the White Mountains. Taken as a slave late in youth Hasheen had been sold to a merchant of Tutalow and served as house slave for five years. When the city fell, as was the custom for any who offered resistance to our lady the Empress, all its inhabitants were taken prisoner. According to the custom of the Empire the line of prisoners was marched before the officers of the army so we could take our pick of the slaves. They were not ours to take, for the belonged to our lady the Empress, but we had the right to buy them for a standard fee set so long ago that it was now only a fraction of the value of any slave.
Each officer could take a pick of the slaves as they were paraded past to the number that was allowed by their rank. A Field Sergeant was allowed up to five, a Lieutenant ten, at Barak’s rank they could take fifty, my own entitlement was a hundred. This was our bonus for the slaves could be sent back to the cities of the inner Empire and sold for far higher than we paid. One could grow rich on the profits of such sales, which is why my officers moaned when a city surrendered without resistance, for then we could take no slaves.
Although I would preside over the picking, as was required, I did not take part. My steward would pick for me. Good strong workers who I would send to my estates in the east to work on reclaimed land. Not as slaves but as bonded workers, each to work off the cost of their purchase, transport and housing. Then they were free, to go where they would or stay and work for my estates having a plot of land to farm and build their home, for I am a Highlander and have a dislike for being served by slaves. Most of them stayed and my estates and businesses have grown and prospered as a result.
Things though changed at Tutalow, before the line of prisoners had started to form I had seen Hasheen. That body drew attention, not only its height, a barbarian height that towered over the rest of the prisoners who were mostly people of the plain, but the flowing length of golden hair that hung down to the waist. Then our eyes met, in that moment I knew what I wanted. At that moment I understood what true slavery was, for at that moment I became the slave of Hasheen.
I, of course, was not the only one to identify this jewel amongst the garbage that was the bounty of Tutalow. Every one of my officers salivated at the thought of such a possession, at taking such a slave to their bed. As Hasheen was paraded forward into the circle of disposition a good twenty or more of my staff stood indicating that they wished to acquire this prize. Then they saw that I was standing. I, who never claimed a prize in all my time as commander of the armies of the Empire, I who is well known to follow the old ways, the ways of the Goddess Um and her demand for chastity.
As is the courtesy when you observe that a fellow officer wants a prize which you have also selected, most sat down, then when they observed that I still stood, other sat down, all except Barak. Barak lusted after the prize with an intensity that showed upon the face. There was no way that Barak would give way before my wants, so we had to bid for it.
By tradition when two or more wish to possess the same prize the prize will be auctioned between them. The funds coming from the auction are shared equally between all who could have put a claim upon the prize. That day the auction was fierce and by the end of the day I had the prize, though it meant that I would have to mortgage many of my lands in the East to have funds for the remainder of the year. Some of my junior officers’ share of the proceeds was more than twice their annual pay, for which they were grateful. It is hard being a junior officer in the army of the Empire.
Barak though was angry; that the prize had lost was one thing, more upsetting though was that a limit had been shown to the extent of Barak’s funds. The legends of great wealth that Barak had built up were shattered. They did not match my wealth, for who else could pay ten thousand golden thalers for a prize?
So Hasheen joined my baggage, bringing to it the softness and glamour that accompanies those of the weaker sex, bringing that softness and weakness into my tent and my bed. That, at least, was the opinion of many, encouraged no doubt by Barak. No word was said of this to me but I saw the looks and was aware of the whispered comments behind my back. The old general has gone soft since taking a bedmate in breach of the sacred vows. What do they know of the sacred vows, they who have never taken them, never stood before Um and drank the blood at the altar? For them it is just something of legend and myth.
Alright, I changed. Hasheen brought something to me I had never had. It was not softness, it was knowledge. Hasheen was part of my baggage and travelled as such with the baggage train. There was much said that would only be hinted at in my company. Such words were told to me in the privacy of my bed. I could learn more about my army in an hour from Hasheen than in a week’s presentations from my officers. So it was that when Galania was pressing to push forward against Ulth, I knew the reason. Not that there was any strategic need but that Galania had deep debts to pay and needed the profit from the prizes to cover them. I also knew that many of the units had been driven hard to come to the point of assembly and were tired, in need of rest. So I delayed the march of Ulth, giving my army time to recover and the citizens of Ulth time to understand our strength. Both being beneficial, by time we marched on Ulth the army was fit and ready for a fight, the citizens of that city knowing what was coming decided to open their gates and pledge loyalty to our Lady, who, now having a thriving city that could be taxed rather than a pillaged ruin, was well pleased.
Galania though did not get the prizes to pay off the debts owed. That also needed action. I could not allow the personal needs of an officer to affect the strategy of the campaign. So I called an audit so that each officer had to show they had the funds to support their rank, Galania failed of course and left the army.
This though was all seen as softness on my part, that I was being influenced by my bedmate, who I now kept close at hand. During meetings of the War Council Hasheen would stand behind my chair, a jug of sherbet and a cool towel ready to refresh me when I needed them. From that position Hasheen could listen to all that was said and then, during the break fro refreshment, advise me on the options available to me. For, as I said, Hasheen was from one of the barbarian peoples, a people where both of the sexes fight as equals and had a great knowledge about war. More importantly though Hasheen could go amongst the lower ranks of the army and their baggage, there hearing what was being said. As such Hasheen was my eyes and ears within the army and brought to me much that my officers preferred to keep hidden from me.
So it was that I learnt much from Hasheen, not only about my own army but about the world beyond the Empire, the world from which Hasheen came. There, it seemed that both sexes were equal and any could take such role as they liked and were fitted for. Many who we would regard as the weaker sex would learn to use weapons of war and acquire great skill in them. Hasheen had been trained in both knife and sword and in the privacy of my bedchamber had shown competence with each.

The bell of St Giles chimed the quarter hour as the old man took his seat by the bay window of the library. Across the lawn, beyond the ha-ha, the first signs of an evening mist started to rise from the stream that was hidden from even this elevated view.
The library of Dellington Hall, unlike most Georgian libraries, did not occupy a position on the ground floor. Instead it looked out over the Dellington estate from a lofty first floor position. Indeed, on this side of the building, it was actually the second floor, the true ground floor being the rear of the basement, as the hall had been built into the side of a steep embankment.
The reason for such an awkward  location for the hall was the desire of the first baronet for the property to be clearly visible not only from the road to London, but also the canal beyond it, ownership of which had raised the funds to build this edifice in the middle of nowhere. This meant building it on the crest of Mortimer Rise. Unfortunately the side of the Rise away from the canal, sloped steeply down, thus giving rise to the unusual layout of the building.
Although it was the first baronet who built Dellington hall, it was his grandson, Sir Edward, who had moved the library from what were quite cramped quarters on the ground floor to the more spacious accommodation on the first floor. This was due in part  to the quantity of books that Sir Edward had acquired during his years at Cambridge, where, contrary to the custom of the time for a member of the landed gentry, he had actually studied and acquired a first class degree and gave every indication of establishing himself as a scholar within that renowned seat of learning.
Unfortunately for Sir Edward's academic ambitions, an outbreak of cholera in Manchester had removed from existence both his father and his grandfather, in that order. Both gentlemen had been in that city at the time to take pleasure in the entertainments that were on offer. Manchester they had thought to be more civilised than Liverpool. It was also further away than Chester, a location where there was little doubt they would be seen and recognised.
The other reason for Sir Edward's removal of the library from the ground to the first floor, was the threat of flooding. It was not unknown for the gentle stream that flowed across the meadow beyond the ha-ha to become a raging torrent, whose waters would spread throughout the valley. On more than one occasion the basement of the hall had been inundated. Only two years before Sir Edward had obtained the title, the waters had actually reached the steps of the front entrance on the other side of the house. To do so Sir Edward had calculated had required a flood of a good twelve feet.
Although the men of his estate had assured Sir Edward that such an event was of an uncommon occurrence, none of them knowing of such in their lifetimes, or hearing of such in their fathers' lifetimes, Sir Edward was not assured that an event of an even higher magnitude could not happen again. Given his regard for his books and his disregard for dancing, Sir Edward had no hesitation in instructing that the ballroom, which run the length of the house on the east side, from front to back, be split to make a library, study and work room for himself.
To fund such alterations to the hall Sir Edward had be forced to liquidate his holdings in the canal company. A course of action which turned out to be very fortuitous. Within a few years the railways would have taken most of the canal’s trade -, and the stocks that Sir Edward had sold be worth a tenth of what he had sold them for.
Extravagant as Sir Edward was in his refurbishment of Dellington Hall, he still had considerable funds left from his sale of the canal stock. Most of it he spent buying up market gardens on the outskirts of London, the rest he invested in railway stocks.
Within twenty years, the expansion of the railway system throughout the land, but particularly around London, meant that areas that had been beyond easy travelling distance into the City, became commutable. Sir Edward had built houses on his market gardens and in doing so, by the middle of the century, had become one of the richest men in England. Not that many knew of his riches, for Sir Edward was a private man. He gave no grand balls, indeed he had destroyed his ballroom. Likewise he gave no dinners or receptions, for he was far too busy reading or working in his work room.
In fact Sir Edward Dellington was not a social sort of man. He kept to himself, to such an extent that he barely ran a household to see to the upkeep of Dellington Hall. He also did not marry. So, it was that the house that was inherited by Sir Edward's nephew Sir John Dellington, the third baronet, was somewhat decrepit. It was also miles from anywhere that Sir John would care to be seen. Given that, and the vast wealth that Sir John had inherited from his uncle. Sir John settled into a comfortable abode in Mayfair, all but forgetting about Dellington Hall, except when some bill for some vital repair made its way to his desk.
That changed with the unpleasant incident involving his younger son Phillip and a private from one of the guard regiments in Kensington Gardens. Sir John quickly settled matters concerning Phillip by marrying him off to Margaret, the youngest daughter of the Duke of Melton. The one everybody politely avoided comparing to a horse. Such a comparison being insulting to the horse.
Once Sir John had got the two married, in what was a very quiet ceremony, they were despatched off to Dellington Hall, with an allowance from both families sufficient to live in a fair amount of comfort, on the strict understanding that neither of them was to show their face in polite society. An understanding that both Phillip and Margaret were happy to comply with. After all neither of them had much liking for polite society. Phillip much preferred the society of his valet, Thomas, and certain young men with whom Thomas was associated. Margaret was of a similar temperament with regard to her maid Rose.
Both Margaret and Phillip understood one another from the start and were quite content with their household arrangements. So once the required unpleaseantnesses had achieved their required result in the birth of young Clive, they withdrew from each other's company. Margaret to the west wing and Phillip to the east wing. Margaret and Phillip were always polite with each other when they met, usually over breakfast, and over time became good friends.
Clive was about three when his nanny made him understand that the woman who walked around the gardens and looked a bit like his pony was his mother. Clive never could recall seeing his father.
Once Sir John had obliged the Duke of Melton by arranging to take the ill-countenanced Margaret off his hands, the Duke obliged Sir John by offering his very well endowed sister, Jane, for Sir John's older son, Paul. An offer, which both Sir John and Paul, having given consideration to the settlement on offer with the lady in question, were happy to accept. Especially as the Duke had used his influence to get Paul a commission in the 11th Hussars, at no cost to the Dellington family. In the end that turned out to be a bad choice of regiment, as Paul found out when charging the Russian guns.
‘ Sir John was apoplectic when news of the fatal charge reached London. The news of Paul’s failure to survive compounded Sir John’s apoplexy, which in turn, resulted in Philip becoming the next baronet
For the next forty odd years Sir Phillip and Lady Dellington had what they considered to be the perfect marriage. They now only saw each other twice a year. One such event was Christmas, the other was Lady Day, for which Lady Dellington always made a point of being at Dellington Hall. She needed to ensure she got her share of the annual rents. Most of the rest of the year Lady Dellington, accompanied by Rose, was inclined to spend in Paris, though she preferred Nice just after Christmas. Sir Phillip Dellington fully appreciated a wife who was so obliging, and therefore did not begrudge her the one third share of the annual rents that the wedding settlement had allocated to her.
Sir Phillip, of course, remained at the Hall all year round accompanied by Thomas, who was equally happily married to Rose. Although both Thomas and Rose might be separated from their marriage partners because of their duties to their master and mistress, neither complained and both were more than adequately remunerated.
That fact that Sir Phillip was at Dellington Hall and Lady Margaret was either in Paris or Nice, meant that the London house, belonging to the Dellingtons, was for many years, unused. One cannot say unoccupied as there was, of course, the resident army of servants required to accommodate Sir Phillip or Lady Margaret should either decide to visit the property for any reason. The fact that neither was ever likely to visit was neither here nor there. The house was ready and waiting for them should they decide to visit. The beds were freshly made up each week, and warmed, with a warming pan, each night, whether or not they were being used. It was the proper thing to do. A fact which turned out to be useful when Clive Dellington found that he had finished his final term at Harrow without having achieved either the academic achievement required go up to Oxford or Cambridge, or the sense of duty required to enter the army. In fact one of the few achievements that Clive had ever made was the fact that he fully appreciated the total folly of his Uncle Paul's achievement in the Charge of the Light Brigade, no matter what Tennyson said about it.
So, shortly after his eighteenth birthday Clive Dellington took up occupancy of the house in Mayfair, along with an allowance which would probably have kept a small Midlands town well fed for a year. For the next twenty years Clive worked hard on being the young bachelor about town. A condition which he maintained, despite the deflowering of a number of young females of good birth, until the Prince of Wales found himself attracted to a voluptuous young actress, who unfortunately was unmarried. It being unthinkable that the Prince of Wales would take an unmarried woman for his mistress, Clive obliged and married the lady. Some years later, after his accession to the throne King Edward rewarded the service by way of a seat in the House of Lords and the title of Baron Stokeman.
Unfortunately, the accession meant that Queen Alexandra decided that the presence of the still voluptuous though not so young actress at houses where her husband was staying was not desirable. As a result Clive found he had a wife who was quite enamoured by her status as a Baroness and fully intended to hang onto it. Though in many ways this was a piece of good fortune for Clive, who was, to be honest, not maturing as elegantly as one might have hoped, and was finding it increasingly difficult to entice younger female members of the aristocracy to his bed. Fortunately the Baroness was still a number of years younger than him, and well versed in the arts of pleasing older men. After all she had kept the Prince of Wales entertained for ten years.
Some eight months after the accession of the King and, therefore the termination of his relationship with the Baroness, Robert Dellington was born. King Edward sent a nice christening present for the boy, together with a message indicating that the boy might be better cared for by his elderly grandfather, well away from London and any speculation as to his paternity.
It was a suggestion which both the Baron and Baroness were equally in agreement with, so young Robert, together with his nurse, were bundled off on the ten-forty-five to Manchester. They departed the train at Macclesfield from whence a pony and trap took them to Dellington Hall.
The Honourable Robert Dellington was a delightful child who was doted on by his aging grandfather Phillip, who was no longer served by Thomas. Sir Phillip had been devastated by the death of his servant, far more than by the death of Lady Margaret, who had not long survived the departure of Rose.
In all honesty Sir Phillip may well have gone the same way as Lady Margaret, for after Thomas's death he had sunk into a deep melancholy which nothing seemed to raise him from. The staff of Dellington Hall had almost been in despair for the wellbeing of their master, and their employment. Baron Clive had made his views on the Hall clear on one of his occasional visits. He had no intention of maintaining such a large and expensive property stuck out in the back of beyond.
However, the presence of the child in the Hall brought a new life both to the Hall and to Sir Phillip, who proceeded to survive his son Clive by three months, two days and sixteen hours having reached the age of one hundred and two.
Of course everything had not been plain sailing after Robert arrived at Dellington Hall. For the start there had been the problems of the Baron and Baroness's style of living. It was, to put it mildly, somewhat extravagant. As Lord Clive pointed out one had to live in a style appropriate to one's social status. For the Baron and Baroness, this meant hosting frequent dinners, balls and other events at which the great and the good could be expected to be in attendance. It also required a country property, where his Majesty could be entertained whilst he was slaughtering the wildlife.
As the Baron informed his father, Dellington Hall was totally unsuitable for this purpose. For a start, it was bloody inconvenient to get to, stuck as it was in the back of beyond. Secondly, it did not have sufficient wildlife of the right kind to be slaughtered. This being the case, based on his expected inheritance, the Baron took out a rather large bank loan to purchase a conveniently located grouse moor in Yorkshire.
The purchase having been made at a time when Sir Phillip was still in a state of melancholy following the loss of Thomas, and young Robert had not reached the point of development where his inquisitive mind would brighten his grandfather's life, had seemed eminently reasonable at the time. Unfortunately for the bank involved and the Baron, the presence of young Robert seemed to have an amazing effect in reviving the wellbeing of Sir Phillip. Upon the death of Lord Clive, the bank in question found that he had very few assets and that the value of Yorkshire grouse moors had suddenly diminished, a side effect of the Wall Street Crash.
Of course the Baroness had urged Sir Phillip to settle the debts of Lord Clive for the good name of the family. A request which resulted in a response from the centenarian asking as to what good name she was referring, given that he was a queer and she was a whore.
Fortunately, for the Baroness, the Married Women's Property Act of 1882 meant that her jewels were not part of her husband's estate. As such she was well within her rights to take them with her when she left the London house to take up residence at an Italian villa, with one of her footmen. The sale of a particular necklace, a gift from the late King, more than adequately provided for the purchase of the property.
One cannot say that the death of his father had much of an effect on Robert, who was busy studying at Oxford at the time. In fact he did not immediately find out about it, having been distracted from picking up his mail by an interesting article in Nature on The Effect of Direct Current on the Frequency of Sonometer Wire. It was not until one of the college porters addressed him as mi lord, that he realised that the event had taken place.
Robert did think for a moment that the college porter might have been mistaken, but on consideration he realised that the chap was an Oxford college porter. The chances of him making such an error were less than the maître d’ at the Savoy Grill, confusing an Earl with a Duke. It could happen in theory, but, on the basis of probability, would probably not.
Upon checking the volume of mail that was awaiting him unread, he found the telegram from the Baroness, informing him of the change in his status. It also asked that he intercede with his grandfather for some funds. Robert having grown up in the comparatively fugal environs of Dellington Hall and Uppingham School (Sir Phillip had learnt from his mistake in sending Clive to Harrow), was not inclined to pass on the request.
Lord Robert, as he now was, returned to Dellington Hall for Christmas and was somewhat surprised to find his mother there. Over the Christmas table, much to her annoyance, Sir Phillip and Lord Robert spent their time discussing the work of Mr Chapman and the ozone-oxygen cycle. Eventually, after they had been interrupted in their discussion a number of times by irrelevant observations from the Baroness, Lord Robert agreed with Sir Phillip on some provision being made for his mother, conditional upon her residing in Italy. With this in mind, Sir Phillip was kind enough to endow her with a small pension, as the mother of his heir, for her to live on. The pension being provided on the understanding that she stayed, with her footman, in Italy.
It must be admitted that the Dowager Baroness found Italy particularly agreeable, once she got there and was comforted about her new social situation by her footman who was now her major-domo. It was even more agreeable when she became the mistress of El Duce. There was something about the strongman of Italy she found most appealing. He was also able to supply here with more jewels.
Although not particularly put out by the death of his father, Lord Robert was most upset when just over three months later his grandfather died suddenly. Indeed if it had not been for George, a college servant who had looked after Lord Robert's set in college, the young man would have been totally inconsolable. However, seeing the distress that the news had brought to his lordship, George had remained in his room that night, as he did for many nights after.
Eighteen months later, having obtained a rather good degree from Oxford, Lord Robert established himself in residence at Dellington Hall. He was, of course, accompanied by George, who had now been elevated from college servant to research assistant. Fortunately, the investment policy of the Dellington family over the years had been to invest in manufacturing and infrastructure, rather than banks and finance, had left the family with a good income stream. Therefore Lord Robert had no necessity of seeking gainful employment, or doing anything else which needed him to generate wealth. He was able to spend his time in what was going to become known as blue skies research. Two fields particularly interested him. The first was fluid dynamics, especially airflow over fast moving objects. His other area of interest was the work of Robert H. Goddard, with whom he was in frequent correspondence.
Lord Robert's correspondence with Robert Goddard eventually resulted in Lord Robert, with George, visiting the United States of America. It was during this visit that Lord Robert was introduced to Millicent Amy Ferriberg and her eighteen month old son Colin. Mrs Ferriberg was the widow of the aviation pioneer John Ferriberg, and a woman who had a strong understanding of the principles of flight in her own right.
So good was her understanding that she was, some years later, heard to announce that if her late husband had been aware of Lord Robert's work on airflow over fast moving objects, then she would not have been a widow upon her meeting with Lord Robert. As she stated, that would have been unfortunate, for it would have prevented the arrangement that she and Lord Robert came to.
You see, Lord Robert badly needed somebody to run his household. The management of Dellington Hall was taking him away from his books, his research and above all his George. The widow Ferriberg was one of those women who got little or no enjoyment from the provision of those services which many men expect from women, especially their wives.
Once the widow Ferriberg became aware of Lord Robert's relationship with George, and Lord Robert became aware of the widow's disinterest in certain activities, they both agreed that the other would be an ideal partner. Therefore, in the autumn of 1933 at the British Embassy in Washington, Millicent Amy Ferriberg became Lady Millicent. Shortly after their arrival at Liverpool in December 1933, Colin Ferriberg was adopted by Lord Robert, thus assuring the continuance of Dellington estate. The title, however, became extinct, due to the fact that Colin was not a descendent by the blood.
In the years that followed, Lady Millicent enjoyed herself running an efficient household, and took an active part in local society. Not that there was that much society in that part of the country. However, the Women's Institute used the grounds of the Hall for their annual gala and the agricultural society made use of the Great Meadow for the annual farm stock show.
When not investigating the properties of air moving over surfaces at high speed, Lord Robert, inevitably accompanied by George, would spend long hours walking the grounds of the Hall, especially the woods. Even though their relationship was understood in the Hall, they shied away from public displays of affection within its walls, unless they were in the privacy of Lord Robert's room. However, outside in the woods they felt freer and would often walk hand in hand.

The weakening light of the last day of October cast long shadows across the road in front of us. It was approaching four and we should have been at Aunt Margaret's a couple of hours ago. God knows we had left Beverley with plenty of time to spare. What I had not counted on was getting some dirty fuel when we stopped at Pickering. At least I presume that is where we got it. Normally I am very careful about what fuel goes into my MG 14/28 Super Sports, but needs must, and I had to refuel at a garage just outside the town. We had not been driving for more than another twenty minutes when the engine started to splutter, finally stopping with an awful cough. Usually the sign of some interruption in the fuel supply.
Fortunately Gerry, my secretary, is a pipe smoker so he had some pipe cleaners in his luggage. Doubly fortunate, he had been my mechanic in the Royal Flying Corp during the war, so knows a thing or two about engines. In fact he knows most things mechanical, coming as he does from one of the Midland's leading engineering dynasties. Despite that it still took him about an hour to clean out all the pipes. He used one of my silk kerchiefs to fashion a temporary filter that he put over the pipe leading to the fuel pump.
"Might well get clogged up again before we get there," Gerry stated. "At least if it does I will only have to clean out that one point. We should still make your Aunt's before nightfall."
"I hope so," I responded. "Don't want to be stuck out here at night."
"What's up, old chap? Scared of hobgoblins?"
"Not scared, just wary. Strange things happen out here on the moors," I responded.
"Come off it Michael, it's 1925, those sorts of beliefs went out of date with the War."
"In Town maybe. But probably not around this part of the country," I pointed out.
We mulled that over in silence as I willed the car onwards. With a bit of luck we would be able to make it.
Once we were over the next rise, it would only be about a mile or so to Timbuklan House and downhill all the way. As we crested the rise the house came into view, appearing to float over the low mist that arose from the moor. At that point the engine started to splutter. I dropped the gears into neutral and allowed the car to coast down towards the house. Fortunately, we picked up enough momentum on the run down to the entrance that I was able to turn the car sharply into the drive and run up it nearly to the door.
Aunt Margaret opened the door as we drew to a stop.
"You took that turn a bit fast, didn't you, dear" my father's sister stated as she embraced me and kissed me in the French style, one peck on each cheek.
"Not much choice really. I got some dodgy fuel and the engine cut at the top of the rise. Case of take the corner at speed or push the car up the drive," I replied.
"And I suppose you would have used Gerald to do the pushing," she commented, giving Gerry a hug and peck on each cheek. She slipped her arm into Gerry's. "Leave your luggage, I'll send Baines out to deal with it. Better get Evans to look at the car."
"I'll have a word with him," Gerry said. "He'll need to know about the lash up I did."
Aunty smiled. "You are such a clever man, Michael is so lucky to have you."
On that I had to agree.
Aunt Margaret guided Gerry into the house, I followed on behind. On the way in I commented on the surprising lack of cars. I had expected there would be a large turnout for my Aunt's sixtieth birthday. Even though she had virtually exiled herself to the wilds of the North Yorkshire Moors, as the Dowager Duchess of Kilamorgan she was one of the leading lights in establishment society Her attraction might be due to the small fact that she had been able to bail out quite a few of them with helpful loans. As one political scribbler had stated, at least a third of the upper house owed monies to the Dowager Duchess, at least another third would like to.
I suspected that one reason Aunt Margaret placed herself here at Timbuklan House was so that she could not be accused of dabbling in politics. Mind you, I also suspected that she probably had a direct phone line to Baldwin. The couple of times I had been with the Prime Minister when my aunt had been mentioned, he had almost blanched. Not that I could blame him, I have seen my aunt on the warpath a couple of times. It is enough to make anybody blanch.
"They are all over at Tampanton today. The Nesbits, those parvenus that bought the estate last year, are putting on a shoot." The tone of her statement made it clear that my aunt disapproved of blood sports. "No doubt my brother is wasting a fortune, one he hasn’t got, on the shot needed for him to massacre hundreds of defenceless birds.”
"Uncle George is here?" I asked, knowing full well she could not be referring to my father, who was out in India running a patch of Empire on behalf of the Viceroy.
"Of course he is," Aunt Margaret stated. "You don't expect him to miss out on free board and lodgings and the chance to massacre defenceless creatures do you? He arrived on Monday and I have no doubt will hang on till the last. I doubt I will be rid of him before the Christmas season starts."
"You might have him till the New Year then," I stated.
"Not a chance," Aunty replied. "I've decided to winter in Nice. Thought I would take my time going down, spend a few weeks in Paris on the way. Leaving on the fourteenth."
"I'm sure Lindsey will be happy to see you," I commented. Aunty laughed. Her relationship with Lindsey St Just was widely known, but it had always been conducted in such a manner, even when the Duke was alive, that nobody could take offence. Unlike my relationship with Gerry: Uncle George had definitely taken offence to me having 'that man' living with me.
Aunty must have guessed what I was thinking. "Don't worry about George, I doubt he will say anything inappropriate," she stated as we entered the withdrawing room. She pulled the bell cord to summons the service.
"Why not, he always has in the past," I commented.
"Dunlievin is here, with John Mitchell," Aunt Margaret replied. Just then Baines came in, my aunt ordered tea and some light refreshments, stating that dinner would be late due to the hunting party. Baines was instructed to ask the parties in the library to join us. She then continued. "Even my brother knows better than to say anything that might reflect on that relationship."
I had to smile at that information. The Duke of Dunlievin was probably one of the richest men in Britain, he was certainly one of the most politically powerful. He was also openly in a relationship with the war hero, John Mitchell.
Just then the door opened and was held for a beautiful woman to enter. I had not seen my cousin, Elizabeth Hallard for some five years, but her beauty had not diminished. If anything it had grown since our last meeting. Behind her the Reverend Paul Hallard, her husband entered, to be followed by John Mitchell.
Both Gerry and I stood as Beth entered the room. I had known her from childhood. Gerry had first met her when she had been nursing me after my kite had come down in no man's land in January nineteen eighteen. I had been lucky to survive the prang. Gerry had been posted to a training role at Waddington and taken the opportunity to visit me as I convalesced at the family seat near Boston. It seemed he was blaming himself for my crash as he had entrusted the service of my plane to another mechanic.
It was during that weekend that we both declared how we felt about each other. Beth had been witness to the events and have given us her tacit approval. Unfortunately, Uncle George had also been there and had demanded that Gerry immediately leave the house, denying him the use of the phone, even though it was late at night and a four mile walk to Boston. I learnt later that Beth had gone to the stables, saddled a couple of horses and gone after Gerry. She had found him about a mile down the road to Boston. Got him mounted and rode to Boston with him, then brought the horses back. Unfortunately, Gerry had never ridden a horse before and found the whole experience something of an ordeal.
As things turned out the following week I was deemed fit for light duty and the powers that be also posted me to Waddington to train new recruits. There I was able to establish my relationship with Gerry, which we have managed to maintain ever since.
Of course, our relationship was illegal thanks to the eighteen eighty-five Labouchere Amendment. The amendment was introduced to the Sexual Offences act as a way to attack the Duke of Clarence, whose proclivities were well known in certain sections of society. Not that it had much impact in that direction. It was the working and middle class men who got caught up by the act. Those with family connections were fairly immune against any police action, no matter how open their relationships were to the public gaze.
I greeted Beth, then Paul, then I turned to John Mitchell.
"Nice to see you again," I commented. "How is James?"
"Very upset at being the Duke of Dunlievin," John Mitchell stated.
"Why, he's known he was in line for the title for years," I pointed out.
"Yes, but he had expected to have many more before it descended upon him," John informed me. I could appreciate that. James' grandfather had died at the ripe old age of ninety seven, in nineteen eighteen a few weeks after the armistice he had been so instrumental in bringing about. The title had gone to James' uncle, who had died last year at the expected three score years and ten. Unfortunately, James' father, who was considerably younger, did not long outlive his brother, dying a few months ago.
I had been out of the country at the time, so had not made the funeral or seen either James or John since. Even with some shelter from prosecution that my position in society gives us, in general Gerry and I prefer the more liberal attitude to our relationship that exists in Paris and Berlin.
We had just seated ourselves when the maid brought tea in. Aunt Margaret asked John what he was doing these days.
"The normal you know, for a university tutor," he replied. "Mostly looking into working class social movements in Europe." It was a glib answer and one which I suspected had a great deal of truth in it. After all John Mitchell was a senior tutor at the London School of Economics and word was he was in line for a chair as soon as one became vacant or was created. One suspected the later was probably more likely.
I could not avoid thinking of the rumours I had heard of the Consultative Intelligence Committee and John's possible involvement with it. However, the existence of such a group was always denied, so John could not be involved with it, but if it did exist, being a university professor would be a perfect cover for the type of thing John was rumoured to be doing. One thing was certain, John always seemed a lot better informed than most people around him were, that included a lot of leading politicians.
"Don't tell me James is off shooting?" I said.
"No, he's upstairs resting," John replied. "There was some sort of panic at the Foreign Office and he was there all night. Didn't come home till gone seven this morning and we had to be on the eight thirty for York. He finds it impossible to sleep on trains so as soon as we got here he collapsed. He’s catching up on sleep so he can face the trials of dinner tonight."
"Are you intimating that my dinners are a trial?" Aunt Margaret asked.
"My dear lady, your dinners are not the trial, it's your guests that are the problem."
"Oh I do hope that my brother does not start giving you or Gerry problems," Aunt Margaret sighed.
"Get him talking about Africa," the Reverend Hallard suggested. His wife smiled at him. "Once onto one of his tales of the great white hunter he is unstoppable and won't talk about anything else."
"He probably doesn't want anybody asking what he was really up to in Africa," John commented. From the seriousness of his expression I thought John must know something that led him to say that.
"What do you mean?" Aunt Margaret said.
"Nothing particular," John stated. "It just one hears things."
"Do tell," said Beth.
"No, I couldn't," John replied.
The telephone in the hall rang. Baines came through to inform Aunt Margaret that the hunting party was leaving Tampanton House.
"They'll be here in an hour," Aunt Margaret stated. "Tell cook we will dine in two hours please Baines."
"Better make it two and a half," suggested John. "That fog is getting awfully thick. It will slow down their return across the moor."
Aunt Margaret agreed to the suggestion but went on to add that we might like to take the opportunity to freshen up and change for dinner. We all took the hint that had been given.
As we entered the main hallway, I pulled John aside and asked what he meant about Uncle George and Africa. I wondered if he knew more than the snippets I had heard about his activities around the time of the Second Boer War.
"Look Michael, there's nothing official but some people have asked some questions about your uncle. He's seems to have acquired a lot more funds than could have been expected of a White Hunter."
"What are you suggesting?" I asked.
"I'm not suggesting anything," John replied. "It's just that your uncle seems to have been better connected with some of the Muslim leaders in those parts than one might have expected."
I had to accept that John would not tell me anything more, so thanked him and made my way up to my room.
Gerry and I wandered down to the ground floor about two hours later. We had been expecting the first gong for dinner, but it had not sounded so we thought we better find out what was going on. Just as we came down the stairs the hunting party came in. Lady Dorothy, an old school friend of Aunt Margaret, and her husband, Sir Richard, led the way, followed by their son Martin and a young lady I did not know. Behind them came Uncle George. He looked up at us as we came down the stairs.
"Back in the country are you Michael?"
"Yes, Uncle George," I replied.
"See you've still got that hanger-on," he sniffed.
"Gerald is my companion and my secretary in that order," I stated.
My uncle was about to say something, but Aunt Margaret interrupted to inform me that James and John were in the Billiard Room and could probably do with somebody to play with. We made our way to the Billiard Room. As we approached I noticed the door was partially open.
John greeted us as we entered. "Heard him starting on you," he stated.
"Yes but aunty intervened," I replied.
"Be careful," James advised. "I wouldn't put it past George to rush into your room hoping to find you in a compromising position."
"Surely not!" I exclaimed.
"Unfortunately I think James is right," John responded. "Shaw called it 'Middle Class Morality' in Pygmalion. I think it is more a case of middle class pseudo-respectability. They love to show others up just to show how moral and respectable they are."
"But Uncle George is definitely not middle class and he is certainly not respectable. Even I've heard rumours of what he got up to in Africa during the Second Boer War and after."
"That may be the case, but most of the people he is in contact with don't know him, they only know the persona he presents. That is one of middle class respectability," John stated. "They crave to be part of a group, to have fixed rules that give them status. To be part of a group you have to define who is not part of that group. Our kind are easy targets.
"Mussolini is already describing us as being degenerates and hinting that we should be excluded from society. That maniac down in Munich is worse."
"At least he's not in power," I pointed out.
"Not yet but I would not count on him being out of power very long," John stated.
"Really John, I think you are being a bit pessimistic there," James commented. "I've read the Foreign Office briefings and they are saying he is a harmless nationalist fanatic. Anyway, his putsch failed, they've only just let him out of prison. He's lost all credibility."
"James, no nationalist fanatic can be harmless," John pointed out. "Since his release from prison in January he has been stirring up trouble. He is attracting a lot of middle class support."
"I thought he had been banned from public speaking," James said as he racked the red balls on the table.
"He has been, after the incident in February following his release," John confirmed. We tossed a coin for break, John won. "Actually the fact he has been banned might be working for him. Some of his deputies are far more acceptable to the middle class than Hitler is."
"I got the impression that he was leading a workers' party," I stated.
"Yes, both Mussolini and Hitler started off with a workers' party," John responded. "They needed disillusioned unemployed workers to give them a start. However, both had to turn to the middle class to get support and acceptability. The middle class are very good at turning a blind eye to what they don't want to see, so they do not see the brutality that both employ to support their position. If you are an opponent of either the Fascists or Nazis you are likely to find yourself beaten up or worse.”
As if to emphasise his point, John made the break, smashing the white into the cluster with such force that the reds were scattered all around the table.
"It is the middle class,” John continued, “who are providing the funds the Nazis use to pay the thugs they call Sturmtruppen to smash the offices of newspapers that print articles critical of Hitler. It's their money that funds the thugs who push liberal lawyers into dark side allies and then kick them to death."
"But Uncle George is not middle class," I pointed out.
"Then what is he?" James asked. "Think about it. He does not have a courtesy title does he?"
"No, his father died before he inherited the main title," I responded. "It went directly to his older half-brother."
"And your father holds a title doesn't he?"
"Yes, but he is the oldest son of my grandmother's second marriage to my grandfather, after George's father died."
"So, he is not in either line of succession," John pointed out. "He feels left out. He really does not feel part of the aristocracy, even though he is born into it. He's made his home in the upper middle class and is comfortable there, with their ideals and prejudices. They are making their influence felt more and more each year."
"Mackenzie got six months at York last week," James informed me, changing the subject.
"What!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, he and Peter were caught at it in the hay loft" James stated. "Mackenzie got off with six months at the magistrates."
"What about Peter?" I asked.
"Peter's a stable hand, he's been sent to the Assizes, he's looking at two years," James said.
"But Mackenzie and Peter have been together for years," I pointed out.
"We know," John replied. "Somebody was out to get them."
"You can be fairly sure about that," James said. "Apparently the chap who walked in on them is de Lorrain's chauffer."
"De Lorrain, isn't he one of Uncle George's pals?" I asked.
"Yes he is," James replied. "William de Lorrain and your uncle are both founder members of the Society for Morality and Standards."
"Never heard of it," I commented.
"Not surprising, they only set themselves up a few months ago," James informed me. "That Mosley fellow is also a member."
"Wasn't he deselected by the Tories?" Gerry asked, re-joining the conversation after he had made an excellent effort at clearing the open reds. 
"Bit hard to say which came first, his deselection or him becoming an independent, word is that he will be joining labour at the next election," John said.
"It really does not matter all that much whether he jumped or was pushed. I know the high ups in the party were not happy about him," James informed us. "I suspect he probably moved before they could do anything about him. Since then he has become something of a rabble rouser.
"Anyway, both your uncle and de Lorrain are in the SMS. One thing they have been doing recently is pushing for cases to be taken to court. You know the standard procedure on a first offence has been a caution. They've been campaigning to put a stop to that.
"It also looks as if they have adopted a policy of outing couples in ways that ensure they are prosecuted. Hence de Lorrain's chauffeur walking into a place where he had no reason to be and catching Mackenzie and Peter. Ten years ago the chap would have been told to mind his own bloody business, now Mackenzie has six months and Peter's facing two years."
"That's bloody unfair on Peter," Gerry stated. "Why wasn't he dealt with in the magistrates."
"Don't know but we can guess. I had a word with Uncle David on Friday before we came north. Hopefully, he can pull some strings on Peter's behalf," James stated. "The result of course is more of us are taking up residency in Paris or Berlin."
"I would advise Paris," John stated. "Berlin is too unstable."
"Be careful," James advised. "I have the advantage I can demand trial by the House, which I am sure they would wish to avoid. Unfortunately neither you, John nor Gerry have that right. Though they might have a problem dragging war heroes into the courts."
"Gerry did just as much in the war as I did," I pointed out.
"I know that, but you were the flying ace and John was dashing around Arabia, following Lawrence. Gerry was a mechanic. Doesn't play that well."
Just then the tam-tam rang out with the first gong for dinner. Gerry looked at the table and commented we probably just had time to finish the game. James agreed. There were two reds and the colours left. It was John's shot. A few minutes later the table was cleared. We congratulated each other on the game and made our way to the reception room just as the second gong sounded.
Sir Richard and Lady Dorothy were already there, talking to Aunt Margaret. Baines came over to us with a tray of Amontillado sherries. He offered it first to James.
"Your Grace."

Mordecai looked down at the lump of crystalline carbon that lay, egg like, on the end of his dorp stick. He looked at it, but was not thinking of it. Rather, he was thinking of Rachel, his wife and Sara, his daughter, now both asleep in the attic flat on the floor above.
Fifty years ago this Sabbos, he had first seen Rachel's face as he had crushed the glass beneath his heel, and she had raised her marriage veil. He had been fifteen and she only a couple of months younger. She had been really too old to marry with little chance of finding a partner in life, but Debora the matchmaker had arranged this match.
Rachel's looks were not the best and she was considered simple and a bit backwards, always daydreaming around the village. Mordecai's family, though, could not be choosy. They were outsiders, new to the community, having come from further to the east. To make matters worse, his mother was the daughter of a convert. Not for four generations would the Hasidim regard them as truly one of the people.
That did not matter, though, to Rachel's parents. Here was a family with a son. Maybe they were outsiders but they kept the Sabbos and followed the ways. More importantly, they needed a wife for their son. The boy was fifteen; he should have been married two years ago. What sort of family did not find a wife for their son before the end of the year of his bar mitzvah? The answer was simple; one who would take their Rachel.
It was some three days after the wedding when the Cossacks had come and Rachel had shown herself to be a jewel. Whilst the rest of the village had fled down the road and eastwards towards Moscow, Rachel had led Mordecai deep into the forest. There they had lain hidden in a secret place that Rachel had found. When they had returned to their village, it had been empty. The pair of them had spent the day scavenging for what they could find for the cold journey west.
Two years later they had come to Amsterdam. Here they were welcomed. Their little family now included Samuel, their firstborn; by then he was already nine months old.
Rachel, already heavy with David, had found work first. Pushing the elderly Mevrouw Jacobson in her bath chair around the Dam. It was the granddam who had instructed her son Isaac to find a job for Mordecai. A job and also a place for the family to live. A single room in the back of the attic, sharing a kitchen in the cellar five floors below.
Mordecai had worked hard at even the lowest of jobs and Isaac had been impressed. Isaac started to teach Mordecai the trade and Mordecai learnt it well.
Saul had followed David and had been named after the granddam's late husband, much to the delight of the granddam, who gave instructions to her son. So Mordecai and Rachel, together with their children, moved to an achterhuis on the Keizersgracht.
Mordecai also showed that he had an eye for diamonds, showed that he could be more than a cutter and polisher, following the lines marked on the stone. He could look at a stone and see its potential. To know how to cut it so as to maximise its value: that was what having an eye for a diamond was all about.
It had been a large yellow diamond that had shown Mordecai's eye to Isaac. A large stone but badly flawed. Isaacs had marked it to be cut for one large and three small stones. When he handed it to Mordecai the latter had asked why they did not do an alternative cut? That cut would give two large and one small stone. It was, though, a cut perilously tight to the flaw. One error on the cleave and the stone would shatter into worthless fragments.
Isaac had repeated his assessment of the stone. He could find no error with Mordecai's line. After three days he handed the stone back to Mordecai with the instruction to 'cleave it'. The next stone that Isaac handed to Mordecai was not marked to define the cut.
That had been what, forty years ago? Or was it less? Mordecai could not recall. He only knew that decision had been the start of his real life. To take the rough stone and find the jewel hidden in its heart. As he cleaved such stones his name became known in the small world of elite diamond cutters. Those men in Antwerp, London, New York and Amsterdam who would tackle the most difficult of stones. To these he became known as 'the Dutch Pole', the man who could cut flaws out of major stones.
This acquisition of status brought with it many changes. Isaac made him a partner and the family moved into a spacious flat on the top two floors of the workshop and store on the Herrengracht. Major stones were now referred to him by name on a commission of the final sale price rather than a set cutting fee.
Samuel, his eldest, had come into the business, though he never had his father's eye for a stone. He was gifted though with a merchant's mind and rapidly became a major dealer in stones. Twenty years ago he had moved to New York to set up a branch of the business in that city.
That same year Sara, the jewel in Mordecai's life, had come into existence. The pregnancy had come late for Rachel and been unexpected. It had been a long and difficult labour that had taken its toll. From early on it had been clear that Sara was a simple child. She was, though, a loving one who filled the Herengracht apartment with laughter, music and song.
David, Mordecai's middle son, had become filled with Zionist ideas and gone to Palestine. He now fought in the Jewish Brigade, against the Germans, as part of the British Army. Saul, the youngest of Mordecai's son, was a rabbi who had sailed for New York with his young wife as the first bombs had fallen on Rotterdam. That was four years ago, and it had been many tense weeks before Modica had received word from his eldest that Saul had arrived safely together with the case of uncut stones that Mordecai had sent out to preserve the family's wealth.
Four years ago—it seemed longer. Mordecai and Rachel had been glad that Mevrouw Jacobson, the granddam of the family Jacobson, had died before the Germans had arrived. She had not been there, unlike Mordecai, to see her son, the now elderly Isaac, kicked and beaten to death by a group of Stormtroopers. Mordecai had seen it. He had been looking from the window he now looked out off, as it had taken place on the street below.
Mordecai had seen a lot from that window over the last four years. He had seen the columns of his fellow religionists moving to the station, to go east for resettlement. Many of his friends had gone on those trains. Many had also vanished underground, like the Franks. Others had been taken, usually during the night, not to be heard of again.
They had not come for Mordecai yet. At least they had not come for him, but they had come to him. Many German officers, in their black uniforms with their death head insignia, had brought him stones to be recut, so they could not be recognised.
Mordecai lifted his gaze and looked at the clock. It was ten past four. Rachel should have been preparing the Saida, the Sabbos meal, rather than sleeping. Though it would not be a real Saida as there had been no kosher meat for the last four years, and now that the Allies had taken the South of the country, there was little food of any kind to be found here in the North.
He looked out of the north-facing window. The late afternoon light was just right, perfect for viewing the stone. Beyond the window, life moved on. A large black-cowled nun cycled past the old police station. The building was now the Gestapo local office. Outside was a young solder, thinking of a girl in Holzgerlingen, taking no notice of the nun. Probably just as well thought Mordecai, as he realised that the nun did not seem comfortable on the cobbled road along the canal.
The observation set up a new chain of thought. Was it a nun? The local sisters were quite proficient at making their way along the canal side roads at high speed on their bikes. So, who was the nun? An outside sister, moved into town from a country convent? Unlikely, as since the war had started the orders had, so far as possible, moved their members out of the city. Was it an RAF airman, shot down, now making his way down the line? Mordecai hoped it was and that he would soon return and drop more bombs.
Hopefully they would start bombing the railways. That would stop the Germans moving people east for resettlement.
Resettlement, such a simple term. They now knew what it meant. The camps were around Lublin. Then there were the names that were whispered by people passing on news, Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen and other places, that were no longer just names on a map. Word had got back about them. Now they were a terrible reality.
Through the window, Mordecai could also see Josef Khoen walking down alongside the canal. On the opposite side from the Gestapo building. A sensible precaution, even for one who assisted the occupiers in their work. Even without his yellow star, Josef's beard and Hassidic sidelocks proclaimed him to be a Jew. What services he supplied the German overlords, Mordecai did not know, though he had his suspicions.
Josef was carrying a small brown case. Where was he going? Not to the station! No Jew went to the station of his own free will. Though how much free will was left to them these days? Not much, Mordecai thought — though there was always some left.
He looked back at the diamond. Two hundred and fifty carats cut in the oriental style. That style attempted to preserve the size of the stone. In this it differed from the European cut—that tried to maximize brilliance. That brilliant cut had been developed in Antwerp and here in Amsterdam.
That the stone had an oriental cut was not surprising; it betrayed a blue cast that was associated with Indian Stones.
The drone of a light bomber sounded overhead. Mordecai glanced upwards through the window. Against the sky he saw the plane. Luftwaffe. It would be returning to its base after a patrol out over the North Sea. It was rare these days to see a German plane in the sky.
A ribald comment from one of the two men behind him brought him back to the task in hand. How was he to cut the stone?

The Imam looked at Ahmed with a face of compassion, a face that brought a small bit of peace to the troubled soul of the half naked youth who stood before him. He had been in a state of terror since the moment that his father and older brother had barged into Ty’s flat and, against the protests of Ty’s mother, forced their way into Ty’s bedroom there to find Ahmed and Ty, whilst not actually in flagrante delicto, certainly in a highly compromised state of undress. For a moment there had been a stillness of disbelief on both part, then Ahmed had been sized and still three quarters naked dragged down the street to the Mosque.
There had been shouting, loud voices and Ahmed had been hit a number of times, mostly by his two brothers who were insisting that he must be stoned. It was the Imam who had brought quiet to the proceedings. First he had asked for those who had witnessed the act of sodomy to stand forth. None did. Then he had asked how they knew that there had been an act of sodomy.
Ahmed’s uncle, who was only a couple of years older than Ahmed, informed the Imam that he was going out with Ty’s sister, who was about to convert to the true faith so they could marry. It was Ty’s sister who had told him that his fourteen-year-old nephew was having an unnatural relationship with her thirteen-year-old brother and that they were that afternoon having sex in her brother’s bedroom. Once he had learnt of it he had gone to his elder brother, Ahmed’s father and informed him and Ahmed’s elder brothers of the situation. They had then gone to Ty’s flat, found the boys in a compromising situation, and dragged Ahmed to the Imam.
“Ah,” stated the Imam, “although the situation you found the two boys in would suggest there is truth in the accusation made against them, there are in fact no witnesses to any unnatural behaviour between the two boys.”
“Sharron, my fiancée, Ty’s sister, says she saw them together, having sex.” Ahmed’s uncle stated.
“That may be but that is the word of an unbeliever, albeit one who is coming to the true faith, and also the word of a woman against a believer and a man. As such it carries little weight in our consideration.
“It appears that the requirements for judgement under Shira have not been met but we have a situation that no doubt must be dealt with. I suggest you leave Ahmed with me so I can investigate things without pressure.” With that the Imam indicated that all the others should leave, which they did, Ahmed’s brothers spitting on him as they passed him on the way out and his father giving him a look of desperation. Once they had left, the Imam turned his attention back to Ahmed.
“That has solved the immediate problem; now we have to deal with you, Ahmed.”
“Yes, Imam.”
“The first thing I have to ask you, and I need you to answer honestly, is are you gay?”
“Yes, Imam, I am.”
“Good. At least you don’t lie or try to avoid the question. It does though present us with a problem and one that is not going to be easy to deal with. First, you realise that you cannot see Ty again? Ahmed looked down at the floor trying to hold back the tears that threatened to whelm up in his eyes.
“It is for his own safety as well as your wellbeing. You and that boy have brought dishonour to your family. As it is I believe I can get them to live with the dishonour you have brought to them but if you see that boy again you will heap dishonour upon dishonour; your family will seek to affirm their honour. You know what that would mean?”
Ahmed nodded. He knew full well what his family would do to affirm their honour. His aunt died because she would not accept the husband chosen for her but insisted on going with the boy she had met at University. He knew that as things were his life was already forfeit in the eyes of his family despite mild reassurances from the Imam, but if he made it worse they would go after Ty as well, that he could not let happen.
“Good,” the Imam continued, “I see you understand. Now let’s sort out a solution to this problem.”
It took most of the rest of the evening and into the early hours of the morning to make the numerous phone calls that were needed, but eventually everything was put into place. The Imam explained to Ahmed that many boys drifted into unnatural relationships without realising the danger they were in and that such things were not part of Allah’s design for the world. He also explained that in the immoral society of the West it was easy for a good Muslim boy to fall into error but that this could be corrected. He told Ahmed that he needed to go to a community where there were strong Islamic values in place, where he could again find out what it meant to be a good Muslim.
The Imam told him that there were good people who realised the problems that boys like him had and that they would arrange things. He phoned Ahmed’s father and told him that Ahmed was being sent away to a good Islamic community where he would be sorted out and then sent some papers around to Ahmed’s house for his parents to sign. When they were returned, they came with Ahmed’s passport and suitcase of clothes. It was then that Ahmed realised that he really would not be seeing home again; his family had rejected him—for them he was dead.
A car arrived to take him away in the early hours of the morning. By this time Ahmed was very tired but also very hungry as he had had nothing to eat since breakfast and it had been hours since he had drunk anything. Two men in the car introduced themselves as Mamoud and Jaffri and told him that they were sorry it was so late but it had been a long drive. They also apologised for having to rush but said they could not stop and talk as they had to get back as soon as possible. Ahmed followed them out to the car.
Once in the back of the car he started off Jaffri informed him that that would not be stopping on the way to London but if he was hungry there were some sandwiches and a drink in coolbox in the back. The information that they were going to London was new to Ahmed—he had had not idea of where he was being taken; the information that there was food and drink available was welcome. He quickly found the coolbox, ate a sandwich and drank a bottle of soda. Then he got himself as comfortable as he could and drifted off to sleep in the back of the car.
When he woke Ahmed found himself lying on a single iron framed bed in a long, thin room. Next to the bed was a small cabinet on top of which was laid a folded thawab and sirwal.[1] High above the bed was a small window through which light dimly filtered. There was a door, slightly ajar, to one side of the room which Ahmed guessed led to a bathroom and another at the of the room which he thought was probably the main door into the room. As if to confirm his thoughts it opened and Mamoud entered carrying a tray of food.
“Ah you are awake. Good, get off you bed and strip,” he instructed as he placed the tray down on the small table by the door. Ahmed looked at him questioningly.
“What does Islam mean Ahmed?”
“It means submission.”
“Yes, submission to the will of Allah but how are you going to learn submission to the will of Allah if you do not know how to submit yourself to those who are caring for you? Now strip.” Ahmed did, feeling very embarrassed and also feeling that something was wrong. Did not the faith say that haya (modesty) was virtue that every Muslim should acquire but here he was undressing before a man he did not know? Once he was naked he stood with his head bowed in shame to be seen by a stranger.
“Good, you are learning. I see that you have not plucked your pubic hair within the last forty days as our culture requires. Go to the bathroom, there you will find a razor and shaving foam. Shave your pubic hair, the hair by your anus and under your arms. I will take your clothes, and when you are done you may dress as becomes one of the faith. Then you may eat.” With that Mamoud turned and left the room, as he closed the door Ahmed heard a distinct click like the dropping of a lock. He guessed that he was locked in the room.
In the bathroom Ahmed shaved his body, and then dressed in the thawab and sirwal. Once dressed, he ate what was on the tray and then lay on his bed to think. He had no idea where he was or what time it was—his watch was gone. In fact, everything he had brought with him was missing; it was as if everything that was part of Ahmed had been removed from him.
After what only seemed a few minutes Mamoud returned and informed him it was time for noon prayers, and then lunch; he indicated a prayer mat rolled in the corner at the foot of the map. Ahmed took the mat and hesitantly looked round the room for some indication as to the direction of Mecca. Mamoud advised him at the wall with the window pointed toward Mecca. So Ahmed made his noon prayers, somewhat surprised that Mamoud did not pray.
Once he had finished Mamoud left and returned shortly after with a tray of food. He explained that at the moment Ahmed would be kept confined to his room for his own safety as there were others with the same problem in the house and they did not want to tempt any of them. Mamoud also informed him that Jaffri would be coming to see him in a couple of hours. He then left leaving Ahmed to eat his meal.
To Ahmed a couple of hours seemed to be a very long time indeed—so long that he started to feel hungry and then famished. He was certain it must by now be early evening but the light through the small window gave no indication of diminishing. Then, Jaffri arrived.
“Are you ready to start to live according to the will of Allah?” he asked.
“I have always been ready.”
“But you have failed in doing so, Ahmed, and brought dishonour upon Islam and your family.” Ahmed nodded, casting down his eyes. “I see from your demeanour that you acknowledge the fault in yourself.” Again Ahmed nodded. “We must give you a new start, Ahmed is dishonoured and can be no more; you are from now on Abd Al Ala.[2] From now on you will answer to that name and you will become that person, a true and good servant of Allah.”
So started Ahmed’s transition to Abd Al Ala, a transition that would take place over the next few weeks, weeks that were for Ahmed a time of confusion and exhaustion. Sometimes the days seemed to drag slowly into an eternity; at others they seemed foreshortened, passing in but a moment.[3] In time Ahmed found himself thinking of himself as Abd Al Ala, though sometimes he slipped and thought of himself as Ahmed, and when he did he found himself thinking of Ty.
After the first couple of weeks Mamoud and Jaffri started to speak to him only in Arabic. At first he found this hard because the only Arabic he had learnt was that he needed for his prayers. He was though encouraged to study hard and learn the language by committing to memory a passage from the Quran each day. Jaffri spent many hours with Abd Al Ala explaining to him the wonder of the Quran and the teachings therein. He explained how as Ahmed he had come under the influence of Shaitan, the Whisperer, through the influences of the West and been tempted into error. Only by rejection of everything that was Western could he truly return to the heart of Islam and to the way of Allah.
Ahmed ceased to be and Abd Al Ala was born. As he submitted himself to the will of Allah as given to him by Mamoud and Jaffri he found that things no longer seemed so confused. The days that were far too long no longer troubled him and the nights that were far too short for sleep were a thing of the past. He was allowed out of his room and joined Mamoud, Jaffri, and others in the prayers and for meals. His life became orderly and structured, but deep within he held a secret, the secret of his love for Ty. In the darkness of the night he would awake and think of the boy he loved, a love he understood he had to reject if he was to be at one with the Ummah, [4] the community of Islam.
Abd Al Ala guessed he had been at the house for about six or seven months when he was introduced to Khalam. The tall gaunt man joined them for Friday prayers and delivered a sermon to those present in the Musallah.[5] He spoke about the truth of Islam and how those who tried to follow it were being corrupted by ways of the West. He said that to truly find the will of Allah you had to return to the desert, the wild places where Islam had its birth, that you needed to give yourself over to Islam and its service.
After the prayers Jaffri introduced Abd Al Ala to Khalam saying that he thought Khalam could help him. Khalam looked at him for a while and then said, “So, you are one who has been corrupted by the ideas of the West.”
“Yes effendi.”
“It is not uncommon but one can release oneself from the grip if you immerse yourself in Islam. I know; for once I was trapped by the illusions of the West, but know, though, I am free from them. I have found peace for I have found my place within Islam.”
“How?”
“The path for each person is different. Though this I can tell you—you cannot find it here.” Khalam swept his arm round indicating the whole of the building. “Even though you have cut yourself off from the world outside, it still influences and controls you. The West is there ready to pounce and pull you back. You are trapped here in this building and its grounds, for if you go beyond the surrounding wall you are in the West. If you truly wish to find peace and remove the dishonour on who you were before, you need to leave the West and come to the world of Islam.”
This was to be the first of a number of conversations that Abd Al Ala was to have with Khalam over the next few weeks. He never knew when he agreed to go with Khalam to the Yemen, in fact he was not even sure he had agreed, but somehow by the end of the year it was taken for granted that he would travel with Khalam when he returned to what was now his home.
* * * * *
The fierce reflected heat of the blazing sun struck back from the sandstone rocks at the prone body of Abd Al Ala, making a joke of the sanctuary promised by the shadow of the overhang. In the two years that had elapsed since he first met Khalam, Abd had become used to hard conditions, first in the training camp in the Yemeni mountains and then in the desert of Mali and in Somalia. Wherever there was Jihad, there was Khalam, and for the last two years Abd had been at his side, fighting for the cause of Allah.
On the road running across the plain at the end of the valley a distortion in the shimmering heat haze indicated the dust cloud of a motor vehicle. Abd raised an arm and signalled to the watcher on the other side of the valley. The distortion took on form, not yet recognisable as vehicles, just blotches in the heat haze moving across his field of vision. Abd shaded his eyes to see better, trying to count the vehicles. It would be easier of course to use binoculars but there was always a risk, no matter how careful you were, that as you moved them the sun would catch the lens and the flash of reflected light would give your position away. Far safer to use ones eyes, and young eyes like Abd’s could see well at the distances required. He counted five blotches moving, rechecked his count, then singled the result to the watcher across the valley.
The moving blotches slowed then turned towards the valley, and as they did their shape became distinct. It was as Khalam had predicted, three troop carriers with an armoured car front and back. Now Abd waited, waited for the [right?] moment—he had to allow time to signal and time for the watcher to respond. He had to make his signal as the end troop carrier had just moved off the mine, so that in the second it would take for the detonation to take place the armoured car would have driven over it.
As he watched, he felt the tightening in his stomach and the sickness that always came over him. He should be happy that he would kill the enemies of Islam this day, but somehow it felt wrong. Khalam praised him for working so well for the cause and for removing the dishonour he had brought to his family and to Islam, but he always felt empty after each such attack. He knew he was doing the work of God but was not sure he liked the God he was doing the work for.
Surely all he had done in the last two years had removed the dishonour he had done to his family and to Islam. Was not Allah the compassionate, the merciful?
The convoy moved into the valley. Abd watched and counted the seconds as each vehicle moved passed his marker. The front of the last troop carrier came level with his marker. One, two, three, he signalled. Four, five, six, the detonation lifted the rear armoured car from the ground. Three shoulder mounted anti-tank launchers fired their missiles at the leading armoured cars. RPGs were launched at the troop carriers.
Instinctively Abd grabbed his PP19 submachine gun and dashed down the valley side towards the battle, though he was fully aware by time he got there it would all be over. It was, and by time he got there silence was once more descending on the valley, his fellow fedayeen[6] were already stripping what was salvageable from the remains of the convoy. A young black soldier, his body thrown clear by the force of the explosion, lay broken across a nearby boulder. Abd looked at him and in that moment Ahmed remembered Ty.
They move quickly to salvage what could be of use to them and then dispersed in groups of three or four into the surrounding mountains, meeting up late that evening in isolated caves far from the site of the attack. Abd sat at the side of the flickering fire looking into the flames. He felt that something deep inside him had awakened, though he did not understand what. Khalam looked across at him and after a few minutes indicated to Abd that they should go outside the cave. Abd stood up and followed him out. As they exited the cave mouth Khalam drew a familiar box from his pocket, opened it and offered Abd one of the pastilles inside. Abd took one anticipating the joy that they brought.
“Walk with me a bit for I feel that you are disturbed and I need to talk with you,” Khalam commanded.
“Yes, effendi. I find I am troubled.”
“And what is this trouble?”
“I don’t know, effendi, though at times I find myself doubting what must be done.” In the darkness Khalam nodded in understanding. He knew where the youth was coming from.
“Do you know the cause of these doubts?”
“No, effendi.”
“Then we must seek help and find the answer for you.” Khalam seated himself down on ledge overlooking the path they had followed. He indicated to Abd that he should join him. “Sometimes, if things do not feel right, it is an indication that we are fighting the will of Allah, and the only solution is once again to find what it is that Allah wills for us.” Abd, feeling calm and restful indicated his agreement. Then raised a question that had been in the back of his mind for ages.
“Effendi, why is it that you always give me one of your pastilles before we have such talks? What are they?”
“Ah, they are an old concoction, Dumas writes that the Count of Monte Cristo[7] used them to ease the stress of travel. I find that when a person is stressed they help him relax and to understand what is being said to them.
“Anyway, my friend, you have troubles to which we must find an answer. I think we might best go and visit Sheik Namir; he will be able to guide you.”
Over the next three weeks Abd travelled with Khalam across Asia, following the secret routes that had been used for centuries by those who wished to avoid the attention of the authorities. Eventually they came to a small village in the foothills of Afghanistan, it was here that Abd was introduced to the Sheik Namir.
The Sheik was known to all within the Jihad movement as a leader and respected teacher. Few, though, ever met him for those who opposed the true teaching of Allah sought his death, and as a result his whereabouts were a closely guarded secret as he moved frequently through the lands where his followers had support. It was in late evening that Abd was brought into the presence of the great man.
“Ah my child, my servant Khalam says that you are troubled. Is this so?” Abd nodded to the Sheik. “It would be good then for us to talk and for me to give you guidance in these matters, but first though let us have refreshments and you must relax.” The Sheik nodded to Khalam who withdrew the box from his pocket and offered Abd one of the pastilles.
Coffee and sweet pastries followed after which the Sheik and Abd talked for many hours. Abd found himself relaxed and at ease in the presence of the great man and found himself telling him things that he had hardly admitted to himself in the deepest parts of his thoughts. He told the Sheik that at times he still found himself thinking of himself as Ahmed and at those times he would think about Ty, that he still wanted to be with men and with Ty, and how the guilt of these thoughts was eating up the inside of him.
The old Sheik listened to the words of the youth and pondered upon them. Then he asked whether these thoughts had made Abd feel alone and useless, with no purpose.
“Hakkim,[8] there are times when I feel that I have no purpose, that there is no reason for me to be here.”
“But are you not a fighter in Jihad and a loyal servant to Khalam.”