The Damascened Blade(20)

James gathered his group around him and cleared his throat loudly to call them to order. ‘Well, if the brass hats expect me to behave like a ruddy Cook’s Tours guide, I’ll give them their money’s worth!’ he had warned Joe and he began.

‘Gor Khatri!’ he announced. ‘That’s where you are but how many of you know what the name means? No one? I’ll tell you. It means “The Warrior’s Grave”. Now we don’t know what warrior or precisely where his grave is located but one day perhaps we will. I hope so. This has always been a strong place. You will have appreciated its geographical and strategic advantages: within an easy ride of Peshawar, covering the trade routes of the Khyber and the Bazar Valley, close to the river yet not dependent on it – we have three deep wells all safely within the confines of the walls. And as you see we are by no means the first to exploit the situation. Its origins are lost in antiquity; we know it was used by the Kushan kings of Gandhara over two thousand years ago and I like to imagine Alexander the Great passing through and feeling safe here. Marco Polo visited the fort in 1275 or thereabouts.’ James smiled. ‘It’s reported that he found this a place where “The people have a peculiar language, they worship idols and have an evil disposition.” ’

‘But of course, nowadays we no longer worship idols,’ Zeman said helpfully to Lily. She tried to stifle her laughter.

James continued, ‘The Moghul Emperor Babur established a fortified caravanserai on this spot in the fifteen hundreds and Mountstuart Elphinstone found shelter here in the last century.’

‘Say, James, weren’t there ever any women here? I mean, we surely can’t be the first to visit, can we?’ Lily interrupted.

‘As a matter of fact, there are evidences of a Hindu shrine which could well be the work of the daughter of Shah Jehan . . .’ James went on.

‘He’s making this up!’ thought Joe. ‘Surely?’

‘. . . and who knows? Perhaps I should expand my standard speech to mention that Lily Coblenz, the Calamity Jane of the twentieth century, left her mark.’

Lily very much appreciated this and was the first to burst out laughing. The company trailed after James in good humour as he led them around the fortifications.

‘This,’ said James, ‘is one of the oldest parts of the fort. That tower is a hundred years old, maybe two hundred years old. You can’t tell because the style didn’t change for longer than that. And that alarm bell is about as old. We don’t use it but there it is. When we first moved here it was there to summon help – to turn out the guard. I suppose if this was a ship you’d say to signal “All hands on deck”. Even we have something a little more sophisticated now in the form of a siren if we need it but I’ve left the bell there. It’s part of the history of the place.’ And the inspection continued.

Apart from a close examination of the thickness, height and strength of the crenellated and loop-holed walls, the Afghans’ attention was caught by the sports facilities. Some of these (stage managed by James, Joe guessed) were being actively demonstrated by teams of Scouts who were obviously enjoying playing to an audience. ‘This,’ said James unnecessarily, ‘is our cricket pitch. And that our hockey field. The Scouts play cricket but the Afghanis don’t. We’re hoping we can change that. All play hockey, of course, and basketball.’

Grace Holbrook, it seemed, was holding the whole party together. She was just as at home with the Afghani escort from Kabul as with the Pathan Scouts themselves; just as at home with the imperial establishment as with Lily Coblenz. Interested and competent, she was clearly enjoying her tour of the fort, asking sensible questions about the water supply and the irrigation system, admiring the dairy herd and making suggestions for the planting of a second orchard.

The inspection wound on its way until James was able to say, ‘And this we’re really proud of! This is our poultry yard. We’ve found that Leghorns seem to do best. This is Achmed, our head poultryman.’ Joe turned to introduce to the party an appreciative Pathan and spoke to him at length in Pushtu, listening and translating his reply. ‘We have problems,’ he said. ‘Wild pheasants raiding our poultry yard! For example – look at that thing!’ He drew attention to a gaudy pheasant casually seated on a nearby roof. ‘As soon as our backs are turned he’ll come down like a wolf on the fold!’

‘Why don’t you just shoot him?’ came Lily’s eager voice. ‘Why don’t you let me shoot him? Go on, James! I wish you would!’ And, turning to Zeman, ‘Tell him to let me have a go!’