Primus pilus
Magister Australis
Part 1
He sees the report on an internet news service. A young woman, the tenth beheading in Saudi in 2015, a grainy image, clipped from a YouTube video taken on today's ubiquitous mobile phone.
Hard to tell much from the image. Just a body, clad from head to toe in black, lying in the dust in the square. Soldiers on guard, the executioner standing over the black-clad body, sword raised. A white van waiting. Four police to hold her down. The report says three blows with the sword to remove her head.
Executed. No martyr's sacrifice. Just brutal death.
His mind wanders back over 30 years. A young man, in another hot, dusty square. Only there on a brief stopover. A UTA flight from Paris to a city in Saudi returning from a couple of weeks of leave in Europe. 14 hours before his Gulf Air flight further to the south-east.
His passport is filled with NOCs and multiple re-entry visas for most of the Middle East so, instead of being stuck in the most basic of airports, he will take the chance to clean up and to sleep the afternoon in a real bed in the comfort of the A/C.
Progress through immigration and a probing customs is slow and it is mid-morning by the time he is clear. Outside the terminal he feels the hot desert wind. The shamal has begun early this summer, the air ladened with dust.
His pre-arranged driver, a Pakistani, collects him for the trip to the hotel. He has used the same driver before and he takes the front seat. Cold air blasting from the vents, better than the feeble flow in the back. The old blue Mercedes slows near the market square and the souk, traffic and people and livestock. Even in a city there are camels and goats. He has been here before but he still finds the markets intriguing and he takes photographs like a tourist.
Then the car is stopped by the gathering crowd. Men mostly, a few with women in tow, two or three, walking a few paces behind. Most Saudis by their dress but many Bedu from as far as Oman with camels and goats for the market. And a few "guest" workers, Baluchis, Indians, Pakistanis, even Phillipinos.
The driver asks a policeman, "how long?" The officer shrugs. The young man thinks immediately of the Arabic, "Bukara, Insh'allah". Tomorrow God willing. The usual answer to every delay. It will soon be time for prayers. He would rather be checked into his hotel before the break; before everything closes for the afternoon.
It is an oil city, westerners are common, and he does not feel threatened. He has the usual swag of letters of introduction with his photo, multiple stamps, in blue and red, with every official insignia. Details of his contracts, his sponsors. And he has his own contacts too, British officers serving in local police and armed forces down the Gulf and rugby friends from clubs from Jordan to Oman, so he makes up his mind.
The hotel is just a few minutes away. He can walk. He tells the driver to collect him at 8:00 PM to return to the airport. He has just his camera and one bag, a light grip, and it hangs from his shoulder as he walks towards the hotel.
The heat is blistering and the hot wind cools nothing. The city is close to the Gulf and the shamal keeps the humidity down but the young man's shirt is soon wet at his armpits and he feels the sweat trail down his spine.
At first it is easy to slip through the crowd but, as he steps into the square, his progress slows, the growing numbers jostle and he is pushed off course into the market square. He looks around, searching for a way through, but he is caught there now, a part of the crowd.
He sees the report on an internet news service. A young woman, the tenth beheading in Saudi in 2015, a grainy image, clipped from a YouTube video taken on today's ubiquitous mobile phone.
Hard to tell much from the image. Just a body, clad from head to toe in black, lying in the dust in the square. Soldiers on guard, the executioner standing over the black-clad body, sword raised. A white van waiting. Four police to hold her down. The report says three blows with the sword to remove her head.
Executed. No martyr's sacrifice. Just brutal death.
His mind wanders back over 30 years. A young man, in another hot, dusty square. Only there on a brief stopover. A UTA flight from Paris to a city in Saudi returning from a couple of weeks of leave in Europe. 14 hours before his Gulf Air flight further to the south-east.
His passport is filled with NOCs and multiple re-entry visas for most of the Middle East so, instead of being stuck in the most basic of airports, he will take the chance to clean up and to sleep the afternoon in a real bed in the comfort of the A/C.
Progress through immigration and a probing customs is slow and it is mid-morning by the time he is clear. Outside the terminal he feels the hot desert wind. The shamal has begun early this summer, the air ladened with dust.
His pre-arranged driver, a Pakistani, collects him for the trip to the hotel. He has used the same driver before and he takes the front seat. Cold air blasting from the vents, better than the feeble flow in the back. The old blue Mercedes slows near the market square and the souk, traffic and people and livestock. Even in a city there are camels and goats. He has been here before but he still finds the markets intriguing and he takes photographs like a tourist.
Then the car is stopped by the gathering crowd. Men mostly, a few with women in tow, two or three, walking a few paces behind. Most Saudis by their dress but many Bedu from as far as Oman with camels and goats for the market. And a few "guest" workers, Baluchis, Indians, Pakistanis, even Phillipinos.
The driver asks a policeman, "how long?" The officer shrugs. The young man thinks immediately of the Arabic, "Bukara, Insh'allah". Tomorrow God willing. The usual answer to every delay. It will soon be time for prayers. He would rather be checked into his hotel before the break; before everything closes for the afternoon.
It is an oil city, westerners are common, and he does not feel threatened. He has the usual swag of letters of introduction with his photo, multiple stamps, in blue and red, with every official insignia. Details of his contracts, his sponsors. And he has his own contacts too, British officers serving in local police and armed forces down the Gulf and rugby friends from clubs from Jordan to Oman, so he makes up his mind.
The hotel is just a few minutes away. He can walk. He tells the driver to collect him at 8:00 PM to return to the airport. He has just his camera and one bag, a light grip, and it hangs from his shoulder as he walks towards the hotel.
The heat is blistering and the hot wind cools nothing. The city is close to the Gulf and the shamal keeps the humidity down but the young man's shirt is soon wet at his armpits and he feels the sweat trail down his spine.
At first it is easy to slip through the crowd but, as he steps into the square, his progress slows, the growing numbers jostle and he is pushed off course into the market square. He looks around, searching for a way through, but he is caught there now, a part of the crowd.
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