Then Isabelle remembered the request of Shamira, her Bolgar friend. She fumbled around for the medallion in her small leather purse. It was not there.
“Young lady,” a deep man’s voice sounded. “I believe you’ve forgotten something.”
Isabelle turned around to face the man. “Uncle Parmenion!”
“Welcome back, girl. I was worried for you. Here’s something you gave to me yesterday morning. For temporary safekeeping. Remember?” The man handed Isabelle an object. It was the medallion.
“Thank you so much, Uncle Parmenion. I thought I'd lost it.”
“Lord Shakranta,” Isabelle spoke again, now addressing her new master. “Forgive me, Lord. I have one small wish to make. I hope it is not too inconvenient for you.”
“What is it, Isabelle?” Shakranta enquired. “Tell me.”
“I need to see a friend, before we leave. To say goodbye to her. She ... is also ... a bit unwell, by the way.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem. Let’s just finish off our shopping here. Then we can go.”
After having made their final purchases, Shakranta and his friends were just making their way back to the slave auction area, when they heard the sobs of a child. Shakranta turned around to see a little boy, about six years old, with not a single stitch of thread on his body.
“Zibâ Baji! Zibâ Baji!,” he seemed to call out to Isabelle by a familiar nickname, crying. After a while, Shakranta recalled that zibâ meant ‘beautiful’ in Persian, and that baji meant ‘sister’ in Oghuz Turkic.
“Ozalan!” Isabelle quickly walked over to the child, looking rather surprised. Apparently she knew him. “What’s the matter? Where’s your mother?”
“Zibâ Baji, don’t leave me,” the little boy pleaded. “I want to go with you, Zibâ Baji. Please, Zibâ Baji. Mother ... asked me ... to go with you," he continued sobbing.
And then only, it dawned on Shakranta that the word zibâ would also sound, to a small Oghuz child, close enough to the name Isabelle, and would be much easier for him to pronounce.
“Ozalan,” Isabelle coaxed the little boy, placing a shawl around his body to cover him. “Calm down, hero. You always told me that you wanted to be a warrior, didn’t you?”
The child went silent for some moments. Then he drew himself up, until he stood fully erect. “Like my father, Commander Uzulmez,” he replied proudly, in a firm, determined tone.
“Now, that’s better,” Isabelle kept soothing him. “So, tell me what’s happened. And where’s your mother?”
“Mother ... my Mother ... she’s dead.”
“What?”
“Mother ... is dead.”
“But I just spoke to her yesterday. She looked fine then.”
“She’s dead.”
“Oh God! Poor boy,” Isabelle’s natural motherly instincts took over immediately, despite her young age. Urging her, without herself being consciously aware of it, to protect and nurture an unfortunate child in his moment of crisis. She dropped down to her knees immediately, put her arms around the boy and hugged him close to her for the longest time, as he broke down sobbing again, burying his face in Isabelle’s chest.
“Shush,” Isabelle said. “It’s all right, Dear. It’s all right. I’m here with you now. I won’t leave you.” She kept hugging him, stroking his face and hair, kissing his head, like she was his own mother now.
Ozalan’s father, Uzulmez, was an Oghuz warrior of the Kinik tribe, who had served as a mercenary with the Bolgar army. His mother, Shamira, was a Bolgar woman who had long suffered from a strange sickness. Which had often struck her and laid her low at the most unexpected of times. Uzulmez had fallen in battle in a border skirmish with Byzantium. Shamira and her son were afterwards taken captive by the victorious Byzantine army and sold as slaves in Constantinople. That was how they ended up as friends and co-slaves of Isabelle. Co-slaves owned by Kolanos.
“Ozalan!!” a familiar hoarse man’s voice screamed. “How many times have I warned you not to wander too far away? Come here!” It was Kolanos.
Before the child had a chance to move, Kolanos lashed him repeatedly on his back, his bottom and his legs with a cane. Ozalan hugged Isabelle tighter. Isabelle shifted her body around to shield the child from Kolanos. Shakranta started moving towards the man.
“Kolanos!!” Isabelle screamed. “You vile beast! Stop it! He’s only a little child. And he’s just lost his mother.”
Seeing Kolanos lift his cane for yet another round of lashing, Isabelle was now at the end of her tether. As the cane came arcing down towards Ozalan, she rose and leapt at the man, clung to his cane wielding arm, and sank her teeth into that arm with all the strength and ferocity her frail body could muster.
“Hey you!!!” Shakranta bellowed, now surging towards Kolanos. "You vicious bastard!!!"
Tegrud, Ashgar, Einhard and Philokles all stood at the ready, each with his hand on his own sword hilt, just in case somebody else intervened and the situation swerved out of control.
Kolanos turned around. Bunching his big fist, he strode towards Shakranta with a glare that could only have meant kill. As Kolanos came within a stride of Shakranta, he leapt at Shakranta, swinging his fist at the Langkasukan. Shakranta danced to Kolanos' right, dropped low, then struck Kolanos solidly in the kidney region. Kolanos jerked and swayed. Shakranta rose and gave the man a mighty slap that stunned him momentarily.
Shakranta was big and tall for a Langkasukan, but Kolanos was something else. The man was a mountain. As the Greek surged forward again, Shakranta shot out a fast jab with his left hand. Big mistake. Kolanos caught Shakranta's arm, wrenched it and thundered his head into Shakranta's face. It might as well have been the butt of a prizefighting bull. Shakranta staggered dizzily. Kolanos yanked him in.
Shakranta struggled to break himself free, but Kolanos' grip was iron. The Greek spun Shakranta around and snared him in a head lock, squeezing Shakranta's throat with his right arm while his left hand gripped Shakranta's left wrist, twisting it, behind Shakranta's back.
As Kolanos squeezed tighter Shakranta began to struggle for air, his face losing colour, his vision blurring. "What're you going to do now, warrior?" Kolanos whispered, lingering over the last word. "Doesn't look like your mama is going to see her sunny boy again, does it? Poor woman."
Philokles made a subtle gesture to Shakranta, offering to intervene. Shakranta waved him off with his free right hand. He tried to heave out a bit of space for his throat, but it was useless.
No, he could not just let himself die now. If he did, all the struggles and sacrifices of his mother and his grandfather toward reviving the Dharma Kusuma Dynasty and restoring the kingdom of Amdan Negara would have come to nought. Then, a powerful anger surged through him. He slammed his right heel on Kolanos' right foot. Once, twice, thrice. He heard a groan escape the man's throat on the last one.
As Kolanos' hold loosened a mite, Shakranta whipped his head back against the Greek's face, smashing his nose. Kolanos staggered, but his hold was still unbreakable. Shakranta slipped his right leg behind Kolanos and pushed back hard against the man's chest with his body and right arm. The two swayed clumsily, then fell backwards heavily.
As Kolanos thudded back first onto the earth, Shakranta slammed his own body against Kolanos' chest, knocking some air out of the man. Then he swung his right elbow backward and downward, catching Kolanos in the face.
Then Shakranta shimmied and swung out with his left foot, aiming it at Kolanos' face. The Greek grabbed his foot with both hands and held it around chest high, practically immobilising Shakranta. The Langkasukan shuffled about on one leg. He turned this way and that, trying to figure out what to do, but Kolanos held firm, intending a sweep kick that would send Shakranta crashing to the ground.
Just then, though, Shakranta did the impossible. Pivoting himself on his captured left foot, in one movement he leapt and spun to his right, and with his back to his opponent he thrust out his right leg in the manner of a pole, striking Kolanos hard with his heel squarely in the centre of the man's chest.
"Attaboy!" someone in the crowd screamed, egging Shakranta on. "Give him a good whack."
"Yeah!" another one shouted. "Kick his head in."
"Break his neck!" yet another yelled. "He's better dead than alive."
It felt like the kick of a battle-seasoned destrier. The force of it threw the Greek back a few paces. Then Kolanos grimaced and clutched his chest in pain, staggered and swayed. Before the big man had a chance to recover, Shakranta bounced forward, shimmied and shuffled, then made a light, soft, deft sweep with his left foot. It unbalanced Kolanos just enough for him.
As Kolanos' hold loosened a mite, Shakranta whipped his head back against the Greek's face, smashing his nose. Kolanos staggered, but his hold was still unbreakable. Shakranta slipped his right leg behind Kolanos and pushed back hard against the man's chest with his body and right arm. The two swayed clumsily, then fell backwards heavily.
As Kolanos thudded back first onto the earth, Shakranta slammed his own body against Kolanos' chest, knocking some air out of the man. Then he swung his right elbow backward and downward, catching Kolanos in the face.
Shakranta sprang back up with a somersault, bringing loud cheers from the now sizeable crowd of onlookers that had gathered around the area in the meantime, some of them slaves in chains. Kolanos lifted himself up slowly. Both now faced each other again. As Kolanos came in, Shakranta struck out with two quick flick kicks to Kolanos' left, hitting him in the ribs.
Then Shakranta shimmied and swung out with his left foot, aiming it at Kolanos' face. The Greek grabbed his foot with both hands and held it around chest high, practically immobilising Shakranta. The Langkasukan shuffled about on one leg. He turned this way and that, trying to figure out what to do, but Kolanos held firm, intending a sweep kick that would send Shakranta crashing to the ground.
"Attaboy!" someone in the crowd screamed, egging Shakranta on. "Give him a good whack."
"Yeah!" another one shouted. "Kick his head in."
"Break his neck!" yet another yelled. "He's better dead than alive."
As Kolanos lurched momentarily to his right, Shakranta leapt and spun again, smashing a roundhouse kick onto the left side of Kolanos' face, striking the Greek right on the base of his jaw, cracking his jawbone. Kolanos swayed and stumbled for a while, then crumbled completely, hitting the ground hard with not a sound from his throat. The crowd clapped, whistled and shouted in applause.
“Such a heartless brute,” Shakranta muttered. “High time that you learnt something about compassion.” But Kolanos was no more capable of hearing him, let alone reply. Not for a while, at least.
Isabelle pulled herself up, Shakranta lending her a hand. While little Ozalan waddled over to her, looking concerned, offering what comfort and consolation he could.
“Zibâ Baji, are you hurt?” he enquired.
“Ughh, I’m fine, Oja," Isabelle smiled. "Just a little dazed.” But now she felt the beginnings of a throbbing pain in her head.
Strangely, the child Ozalan never let out a single sound when he was being beaten hard with Kolanos’ cane. Like the spirit of a warrior had suddenly flowed into him from somewhere. Making him strong, proud and defiant.
But that was not so strange, actually. For Ozalan was the son of Uzulmez, commander of the mercenary battalion of the Bolgar army until his death in battle. Among the most formidable soldiers of the Tsar of Bolgarsko Tsarsvo, now mostly called simply Bolgaria. Ozalan, therefore, surely carried some of Uzulmez' warrior blood in his veins.
“Come, young man,” Shakranta squatted facing the boy, holding the child's small hand in his own. “You will come with us." Then he turned to Isabelle.
"Isabelle, let’s go look around for some suitable clothes for Ozalan and you. We also need some medicine for Ozalan’s wounds as well as your headache. And buy anything that either of you two wants to eat or drink."
"You could do with some medicine yourself, Sir," the girl commented. "Your eyes are swelling up."
"Isabelle, let’s go look around for some suitable clothes for Ozalan and you. We also need some medicine for Ozalan’s wounds as well as your headache. And buy anything that either of you two wants to eat or drink."
"You could do with some medicine yourself, Sir," the girl commented. "Your eyes are swelling up."
Shakranta threw a pouch containing fifteen drachma to Kolanos’ side. As payment for Ozalan.
Shakranta and his group were all about to go when a sound like the clatter of hooves rumbled in the distance. Moments later, a squadron of about twenty well-armed soldiers in full battle armour came galloping in, kicking up a pall of dust in their wake, their distinctive burgundy cloaks dancing in the wind. It was the Varangian Guard, led by none other than General Frederik himself, their Captain.
"Greetings, Your Excellency," the man addressed Shakranta. "We received word that there was some trouble around here, involving you and Kolanos. We came over to see that you're all right."
"Well, fortunately I am."
"Looks like everything's in good order now," Frederik smiled in amusement as he saw Kolanos lying motionless on the ground.
"Who doesn't?" Frederik responded. "The man has quite a reputation around these parts."
"Looks like he's just picked up another one now," Tegrud sneered. "For going down cold with just a few blows."
"Should improve his general attitude a bit then," Einhard added. "At least for a little while."
Philokles chuckled.
§
After crossing the Bosphorus on a barge, the land journey from the Asiatic side of Constantinople to Nineveh took three weeks. On the way, the group made stops at Gordium, Kanish, Haran and Nisibis to rest and recover. From Nineveh, they took a boat, then another barge, all the way down the Tigris until they reached Opis.
From Opis they left the Tigris and took horse to Sippar, then sailed by barge again down the Euphrates. They made further stops at Babylon, Borsippa and Erech, then continued all the way down to the Persian Gulf, where they took a ship to Siraf, the biggest port city in Persia.
The group stayed at Ashgar’s family home in the suburbs of Siraf for three nights, at his father's insistence, before sailing onward to Gumarun, another port city. Then they took another month to sail home from Gumarun to Gujarat.
The two kids proved to be a boon to Shakranta, Tegrud and Ashgar on their long journey. The childish antics of Isabelle and Ozalan provided them all some much needed distraction from what would otherwise have been a dreary four weeks of gazing at the horizon, the sky, the clouds and the sea.
The men took turns regaling the children with folk tales, or real stories of their own adventures. While Isabelle herself turned out to be a storyteller of quite some reckoning.
The children had both been granted complete and immediate freedom by Shakranta, just before boarding the ship. But they opted to follow him back to his homeland and pledged to serve him for pay, as he had offered. Well, at least Isabelle did. Ozalan, meanwhile, was still too young to fully grasp the seriousness of such weighty matters.
Ozalan, in particular, turned out to be more than a handful for the three men, as well as Isabelle, his chief minder. His tireless, unrestrained ebullience kept them both busy and entertained. As well as alert, in case something untoward occurred. Suddenly unshackled from the constraints that had stifled him as a slave child, he was transformed into a ball of energy in perpetual motion.
§
Tegrud allowed Ozalan and Isabelle to feed his two hawks and play with them. So that the kids did not get so stressed up from boredom during the journey. The young raptors continually had Ozalan shouting, screaming and shrieking in delight. There was always food aplenty for them, and they had their pick of the fish that swam around the ship. The kids would toss small crumbs of bread or other food into the water, the fish would come rushing in, and the two birds would swoop on the fattest among them.
While Ashgar started teaching Ozalan to ride his two young Persian ponies at walking pace. Ozalan was rather scared at first. But the ponies were well trained and gentle, especially with children. Ozalan gradually overcame his initial fears. Isabelle, on the other hand, was already quite an accomplished rider, and she helped to guide Ozalan along.
§
The weather was a bit cool. The sky was cloudier than usual. A slight wind was blowing. It had been drizzling lightly all morning. One by one, Shakranta, Ashgar and Tegrud dozed off, after a rather heavy breakfast, washed down with thick, black Byzantine coffee sweetened with honey, served by Isabelle.
Suddenly, Shakranta was woken up by the shrill screeching of Tegrud’s two young hawks. The birds seemed extremely agitated. One was pecking at Tegrud’s chest and neck, trying to wake him up. The other was flying about restlessly, looking bewildered. It kept flying out to the sea in one direction, then flying back into the ship, then flying out in that same direction again.
Shakranta looked around him for the kids. They were nowhere to be seen. And then he heard a faint cry from one side of the ship. The side that Tegrud’s bird kept flying to. It sounded like Isabelle.
Shakranta rushed over to that side. He saw Isabelle in the water. Swimming towards something. Or trying hard to. Looking further ahead, he saw a little lump of something, bobbing up and down in the water. And then he saw two little hands flailing. Good heavens, he thought. It was Ozalan.
Shakranta jumped into the water immediately. Isabelle herself had got into difficulty by then. Shakranta swam for Ozalan first. Securing the child fast with his left hand, he then quickly went for Isabelle. He managed to grab her arm just as she was about to start sinking. Then he heard the splashing sound of another person jumping into the sea. Then another. It was Tegrud, followed by Ashgar. They had been awoken and alerted by Tegrud’s hawks.
Shakranta passed Ozalan over to Tegrud, while he shifted his hold of Isabelle to his left arm, leaving his stronger right arm free for paddling. Ashgar then swam to the other side of Isabelle, holding her other arm, helping Shakranta to pull her back toward the ship.
§
The two children approached Shakranta, Ashgar and Tegrud, as they were sitting down, talking. Ozalan, particularly, looked rather sheepish.
"Lord Shakranta, General Ashgar, General Tegrud,” Isabelle spoke with eyes downcast, addressing the three men. “We’re both very sorry. For getting ourselves into trouble. And for causing you all so much distress.”
"Hey, it’s all right, kids,” Shakranta assured them. “Don’t you two worry your little heads too much about it. It’s such a small matter.”
"Well, the both of you gave us a great chance to refresh our swimming skills, children,” Tegrud responded, with his usual robust good humour.
"We’d be a great deal more distressed if we don’t have you both with us now.” Ashgar added. “Every day would be so dull. So, how did it happen then?” he enquired. “Tell us.”
"Well, I was just feeding some fish, as usual,” Isabelle explained. “Then, a big one came skipping in over the waves. One of General Tegrud’s hawks was flying about, saw it, and made a spectacular swoop. Oja got excited and made a wild dash to the ship’s side, to watch. He climbed up the side at speed, and he just tumbled over. And all I could think of, then, was to run and jump out, after him.”
§
The five spent a few days in Gujarat. On their final morning together, Tegrud and Ashgar accompanied Shakranta, Isabelle and Ozalan to their ship.
"Isabelle. Ozalan. I have a gift for you two. For you, Ozalan, consider it a special gift from one Oghuz to another. Don't you ever forget, we Oghuz people, we've been hunters for thousands of years. The tazy (hound), the gyrgy (hawk), the chagri (falcon) and the burgut (eagle) have always been our good friends. Take this pair of young gyrgy (hawks) with you two. The female one is for you, Isabelle. While you, Ozalan, you shall have the male one.”
"Thank you,” Isabelle and Ozalan said, almost in unison.
"I name my male gyrgy Zarpcy, the Warrior,” said Ozalan.
"And I shall call my female gyrgy Mehrandokht, Daughter of Mehran,” said Isabelle in all earnestness.
"Such a beautiful name. For such a beautiful lady,” Tegrud commented, repeating exactly the same phrase that one of the drunken Frankish mercenaries in Constantinople had used with reference to Ashgar when he was in a woman’s disguise.
Memories of that encounter with those Franks in Constantinople came drifting back to Ashgar, Tegrud and Shakranta, bringing an amused smile to each of them.
Moments later, Isabelle got the joke, and blushed slightly. “Oh! I’m sorry, General Ashgar. Perhaps I should find another name,” she offered.
"Oh no!” Ashgar responded quickly. “Don’t you worry about it, girl. It’s perfectly all right. Please keep it. Maybe it’ll remind you of me,” he continued in sportive good humour.
"Take good care of them both, Ozalan, Isabelle,” said Tegrud. “They'll bring you good luck. And they shall be good friends and companions for you two in Amdan Negara.”
"I shall, Uncle Tegrud. I shall love them always,” said Ozalan.
"Me too, General Tegrud. My father also kept chagri and gyrgy. He taught me many things about them. Like how to handle them and look after them.”
"Splendid,” said Tegrud. “Zarpcy and Mehrandokht shall be in good hands then.”
"Now it’s my turn to give the gifts,” Ashgar spoke to the kids after a while. “You two, especially Ozalan, are going to need a couple of small horses. For riding practice when you’re in Amdan Negara. Before you grow big enough to be able to ride Lord Shakranta’s big horses safely and comfortably. So, Ozalan gets this young male Persian pony, and, for you Isabelle, you get his female friend.”
"Thank you, General Ashgar,” Isabelle said. “I name her Khanum, the Lady.”
"Thank you, Uncle Ashgar,” said Ozalan. “I shall call my pony Shahpur, the Prince.”
As Shakranta and the two kids were just about to board their ship, Isabelle suddenly turned around and scrambled back toward Ashgar and Tegrud. Ozalan then followed closely on her heels.
"General Ashgar, General Tegrud, you two helped save my life that day. I’m indebted to you both forever,” Isabelle said. Then she gave the two men a peck on their cheek, each of them stooping low for her to reach him. It was a common Saxon gesture of close friendship, when it’s time for two friends or relatives to part ways.
"Oooh, that’s nice,” Tegrud purred, in his usual provocative way. “Good bye, Zibâ Baji. You take care, all right.” He addressed Isabelle by the affectionate name that Ozalan liked to use for her.
"You too, General Tegrud. Good bye.”
"Good bye, Isabelle. Have a safe journey,” said Ashgar.
"And you, General Ashgar. Good bye.”
"Aren’t you going to give me a kiss too then, Oja?” asked Tegrud.
"No!” Ozalan answered quickly. “I’m not a girl.”
"In that case, I’m the one who’s going to give you a kiss, then,” Tegrud said, grabbing the boy and hoisting him up to his chest, then planted a kiss on his warm cheek. “You remind me of my little nephew, Son. Boisterous and exuberant all the time.”
Ozalan shrieked and screamed, squirming in the grasp of Tegrud’s big muscular arms. "Ughh. You’re too hairy, Uncle Tegrud.”
"That’s why the ladies love me.”
"But I’m not a lady,” Ozalan insisted, adamantly, sending Ashgar into great guffaws.
Shakranta stood waiting on the ship, observing their antics patiently from afar.
"Hey, boy,” Tegrud continued. “You’re going to be a hairy one as well, one day when you’re fully grown up. Because you’re a western Oghuz too, you know. Just like me. And don’t you ever forget that, alright.”
"Of course I won’t,” Ozalan replied. “When I grow up, I’m going to be a brave and strong Oghuz warrior. Just like my father, Commander Uzulmez.”
"Good boy,” Tegrud commended. “I’m sure you will.”
Ashgar grabbed Ozalan and hugged him tightly as soon as Tegrud put him down, stroking his face and his thick mop of wavy, jet black hair, in a fatherly way.
"Good bye, Uncle Tegrud. Good bye, Uncle Ashgar,” little Ozalan at last managed.
"Good bye, Oja,” Tegrud and Ashgar responded, almost together.
§
Mubarak the muballigh had been enthralled by the stories he had heard about Suvarna Bhumi, the Golden Continent, and Suvarna Dvipa, the Golden Islands. His Arab compatriots had taken to calling those islands Serendib, taking their cue from the truncated Indian version, Suvarn Dvip, and fashioning it into something that rolled off their tongue much easier. The moment Mubarak had heard from traders about the arrival of Shakranta, the young warrior prince from the Golden Peninsula who was also fast making a name for himself in mercantile circles, he had made it a point to meet Shakranta as soon as Shakranta appeared at the palace of Sultan Mahmud.
The two had become good friends over the months that Shakranta stayed in the palace grounds as a special guest of Mahmud, each regaling the other with tales from their native lands, and stories of their own adventures in foreign lands, whenever they both had the time to spare. Despite their close association, Mubarak never ever tried to push his faith onto Shakranta, while Shakranta always regarded the elder man with the utmost respect.
Before Shakranta left Ghazna for Byzantium, he had invited Mubarak to go with him to his homeland when the time came for Shakranta to return. Mubarak was pleased beyond his dreams, and he made his way to Gujarat with all haste as soon as he received word that Shakranta had arrived back there from Constantinople.
§
Kembang Seri Wangi had sailed to Patani, to close a trade deal connected with the family’s business with some merchants from the north. Leaving Amdan Negara in the hands of two trusted commanders, her own adopted brothers General Pinang Jingga and General Nibung Ulung, she had been accompanied by another commander, General Buluh Padu. When her son arrived back at Dharmakusuma Palace in Bukit Panau from another long sojourn abroad, she was still away.
When she came back, there were three strangers in the family abode: a young, extremely fair-skinned girl with blue eyes and hair almost the colour of the skin of ripe boiled corn, a small boy whose features she thought looked like a mix of Persian, Greek and Tatar, and a tall Arabic looking man sporting a thick growth of beard and sideburns but no moustache. Ever the hospitable hostess, she had no problems whatsoever accommodating the presence of her new guests.
As she got to know them better later, Kembang Seri Wangi seemed especially delighted to have Isabelle and Ozalan in her home, having long missed the merriness and good cheer of having children around the house ever since Shakranta had grown up. As for Mubarak, he looked a bit strange to her at first. But then they always did, these mysterious men of the temple, she reflected. Still, he seemed like a pleasant change from the usual Hindu Brahmins and Buddhist Bhikkus that Shakranta had often liked to bring home with him, intermittently, from time to time.
Something peculiar about this holy man, which did not escape Kembang Seri Wangi’s keen observation, was that he worshipped no statue and revered no idol, and that there was nary an amulet on him. A while later, she started seeing Isabelle praying in the same manner as Mubarak, but completely enveloped in plain white cloth except for her face, sometimes alone, other times together with him, a short distance behind him. Occassionally, she would find Ozalan joining in with them too, often after some persuasion from Isabelle.
The Khan of Volszkaya Bolgariya and his followers had converted to Islam en masse after an official visit by Amir ibnu Fadhlan, special envoy of the Caliph of Baghdad, the Khan then proclaiming Islam as his kingdom’s official faith. Isabelle had been fascinated by how that faith considered all men and women as absolutely equal, whether dark or fair, slave or king, prince or pauper. She had then pursued it further, rather ardently, within the bounds that always constrained a slave, listening with rapt attention to a captive preacher from Baghdad at every rare opportunity.
Soon, she would listen, utterly absorbed, to Mubarak as he stood under the cool shade of a big beringin tree in the grounds of Dharma Kusuma Palace on certain days, patiently teaching and explaining the basic tenets of his faith to a constantly growing number of people from the local community.
Within a couple of months, Kembang Seri Wangi, her son Shakranta, her adopted brothers and the entire Dharma Kusuma clan had firmly embraced Islam. It was only a long time later that Mubarak let on that it was not his decision alone to come to Amdan Negara, although he was quite passionate about it.
Rather, Sultan Mahmud al-Ghaznavi, without Shakranta's knowledge, had played a major role too, coaxing, cajoling and exhorting Mubarak no end to give full vent to his thirst for adventure in the Golden Peninsula. Mubarak's close friendship with Shakranta had not escaped the Sultan's keen observation, and the Sultan had, for the sake of Islam, vowed to himself to make use of it to the full.
Thus went Mahmud's last words to Mubarak, as the Sultan bid farewell to the Arab preacher adventurer, just when the man was leaving Ghazna for Gujarat. And how well Mubarak was fulfilling Mahmud's wishes.
Taking Mahmud's advice, Mubarak had done ample research on Suvarna Dvipa, including events related to Islam's first incursions there three centuries previously. He knew then, for instance, of an early king of Sri Vijaya named Sri Indra Varman who had indeed embraced the faith after a period of close communication with Caliph Omar ibn Abdul Aziz. Even decades earlier than that, during the time of Caliph Uthman ibn Affan, one Prince Jaya Sima, a son of Queen Sima of Kalinga in Java was believed by some to have converted.
That period of Islam's first advance in the Golden Islands had been shortlived, ending with the assassination of young king Rudra Vikraman, son and successor of Sri Indra Varman. It was due partly, as believed by some, to intense political machinations by rivals in the then majority Buddhist Srivijayan hierarchy acting in cahoots with their Chinese and Indian allies among the foreign business fraternity of Palembang, who viewed the new Muslim traders arriving in wave upon wave in Palembang as a potential threat to their long established presence.
Mubarak thus knew and accepted that he had a stiff challenge on his hands. He had to do his best to avert a repeat of tragic past events.
They called Mahmud the Sword of Islam. But he did not spread the faith by force of might alone. It was the power of his wisdom which played the much bigger part. A wisdom which even Shakranta could not help noticing from early on in their relationship, and which the prince had strived to emulate.
§
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