An air of self-satisfaction hung about him as he strolled through his large compound, trailed by a group of sycophantic retainers who kept a discreet distance between him and their lowly selves. The menteri of Bandong was known for his swift hand and quick temper. Many a man had had his throat slit or his face slapped because of an ill-considered remark. But that had not discouraged the young men who came from miles around seeking employment in the minister’s service, for Datuk Long Mahmud was the wealthiest chief in these parts.
A strikingly handsome man in his late thirties, he was aristocratic in his bearing, with a high forehead and an aquiline nose with a neat black moustache beneath it. He carried himself like a warrior prince, demanding unquestioning obedience from his followers. Like his father before him.
As he strolled down the path leading to his residence, his eyes were coolly assessing the men putting the finishing touches to the balai, the audience hall he was building. His brown face gave nothing away except the impression that he would not tolerate fools easily. Strong men had been known to quake before him when he was angry. His reputation as one of the dashing hot bloods of Perak’s nobility and his prowess in the Malay martial art of bersilat had spread as far north as Kedah, where younger warriors uttered his name with awe.
Before his father’s death, he had been a rake and a wayward wanderer, travelling to Penang, Malacca and Singapore, gambling away hundreds of silver dollars a night. Rumour had it that he often made up for these gambling losses by robbing a European vessel or two. It was no secret among those who knew him that he detested the English and the Dutch sea captains who had branded his Bugis relations as pirates and outlaws and had handed them over to the British navy for punishment. He was apt to remind his listeners that before the arrival of the Dutch and English, the Bugis were kings of the seas of Southeast Asia. They were the warriors and kingmakers, not the beggars and brigands the Dutch and English had made them out to be. However, such things no longer preoccupied him. Ever since his father’s untimely death, the responsibilities of government and trade and the cares of looking after his family and clan had turned him away from all that. Now a territorial chief, he realised that a warrior’s prowess was not enough. He must cultivate allies through sweet talk and wily deeds if he were to survive the intrigues in the sultan’s court and maintain his hold on the Chinese miners in his district.
Two men were coming to see him that night. One was the son of the menteri of Larut, chief of the richest province in Perak, and the other was the Lodge Master of the Black Flag clan. And I’m ready, he thought, pleased with the figure he cut. He was dressed formally to receive his guests. His maroon jacket of stiff Kelantan silk woven with fine gold thread shone in the evening light. The row of ornate gold buttons down the front of his jacket and the diamond rings on his fingers spoke of his wealth and good fortune. His trousers of stiff black silk, made tight round the ankles, were partially covered by a handsome sarong, which hung in graceful folds from the waist to the knees. Emerald green, peacock blue, gold and silver threads were cunningly woven into an intricate weave of ever-changing shimmers. His headdress was no less striking. It was a kerchief of stiff cloth, tied above his brow, folded over his head and arched up on the left, with a border of gold leaves. It was often reported that the menteri’s attire was richer and grander than the sultan of Perak’s.
Needless to say, every penghulu, every chief in the country had heard of Datuk Long Mahmud’s wealth, and his power was reputed to be second only to that of the menteri of Larut. It had even been whispered that the sultan himself feared the Datuk and was beholden to him for numerous gifts of money and jewellery to the royal purse.
His swift ascendancy in the Perak court was naturally a worrying affair to the other chiefs, who suspected that there was more to his generosity than met the eye. His bloodline was impeccable. The descendant of a long line of noble families in the Celebes and Aceh, he was linked, on his mother’s side, to the legendary Tun Perak, the greatest chief minister of the Malacca sultanate. This connection alone would have been sufficient to gain him the support and respect of all the common people.
And Datuk Long Mahmud was fully aware of the advantage of his noble lineage in times of trouble. He knew that his fellow chiefs feared his undue influence over the heir to the throne. Fools, he thought, such influence was empty without the backing of wealth and weapons! And he was not ready to make his move yet. First he had to build upon and expand his father’s gains. Thanks to Allah’s most gracious mercy and compassion, his late father had succeeded in persuading the sultan to cede to the family, in perpetuity, the whole of Bandong Valley, a feat repeated by only one other chief, the menteri of Larut. It was a legacy he had to preserve, he thought. And his eyelids drooped like a veil over his dark eyes, hiding all signs of what he might be thinking.
After a long time in which he seemed plunged into deep thought, he raised his handsome profile and sniffed the fragrance of jasmine perfuming the air in his compound. His eyes travelled to the distant hills surrounding his beloved valley. Bequeathed to him by his father. Bequeathed to his father by His Royal Highness. The land of his children and Insya Allah, God willing, the land of his children’s children and all their descendants. Not just an acre of earth for digging and planting, or measuring and selling by the white men and the Chinese.
He stopped at the foot of the stone steps. His home was an impressive building of white stone and teakwood, raised a few feet above the ground by stone pillars. It was a beautiful Malay-style house built on a much grander scale than the kampong hut on stilts. The only building of brick and teakwood in the country, it boasted a sloping roof of red tiles and eaves of carved wood. At the top of the steps was a spacious covered verandah fronting the main entrance. Elaborately decorated with carved beams of teakwood, it had a balustrade with an intricate floral design. Rich wall hangings and carpets from the Middle East, bamboo mats from Malacca, and silk cushions from India had turned the verandah into an audience chamber in which the Datuk received and dined with his guests.
Slaves and servants hovered about him. When he moved, their eyes followed him. When he stopped, they waited for a word or an order, their eyes anticipating his wishes. When he stopped at the foot of the steps, one of his female slaves descended in haste and knelt before him with head bowed and eyes lowered.
“Pardon, my great lord and master! Your most unworthy slave welcomes you home. Please pardon your unworthy slave for her slowness in greeting your lordship. May His Most Merciful and Bountiful shower His blessings on you!”
She removed his sandals with the reverence of one touching a sacred object. Then, using a polished coconut half-shell, she scooped water out of a stone jar and gently washed away the sand clinging to his feet. She knelt to dry them with a soft cloth, her lips brushing his feet lightly. He admired the suppleness of her body and the roundness and fullness of the breasts beneath her cotton blouse.
“Enough,” he murmured and rewarded her with one of his rare smiles which she caught when she raised her eyes at the sound of his voice. But she hastily lowered them again and backed away with bowed head, profound salaams, and as many words of self-deprecation as demanded by custom.
“Come and serve me tonight.”
“Your unworthy slave hears and obeys you.”
More slave girls awaited him when he entered the verandah. One came forward with a towel for his face. Another brought a silver basin of rose-scented water for the washing of his hands before the evening meal. Two slave girls stationed themselves behind him, fanning the air with palm leaves as he reclined on a cushion. When their lord and master had rested sufficiently, more slaves came in. A rich meal of nasi lemak, rice cooked with coconut milk, and spicy curries of beef, chicken and vegetables was set before him. Oil lamps were lit and a rich warm glow flooded the verandah.
He ate slowly, relishing each bite as was his habit. Five or six slave girls fanned the air, while others waited on him in silence, discreet and alert to his wishes. It was said that among the chiefs of Perak, he owned the largest number of debt slaves and indentured labourers. So numerous that he himself had lost count. Thousands of peasants in Bandong Valley owed their livelihood to him and looked up to him as their lord and protector. When the rice harvests failed, he lent them goods and money. When they could not settle their debts, they offered him the services of their wives and daughters, who would then work as his slaves in his household. It was a practice sanctioned by law and tradition, and he had never questioned the rightness or wrongness of it. If fate had blessed him, he was obliged to provide for his peasants and collect what was owed to him. No more, no less.
“Good evening, my most honoured and respected Father. May Allah’s greatness and mercy always watch over you.”
“May He who sees all things watch over you too, my son.”
Ibrahim had the makings of a fine warrior. Fifteen years old, the son of his first wife.
“Come, share the evening meal with me. We’re expecting visitors.”
“Who are they, most honoured Father?” Ibrahim asked as he moved across the room with the padded stealth of a tiger.
He was a tall noble-looking youth with the same proud eyes as his father. His high forehead and smooth sun-browned face belonged to his Celebes ancestors, but the dignity with which he conducted himself was his mother’s, the daughter of a noble family of chief ministers.
“The chief of the Black Flag is coming to pay his respects and taxes. After that, the son of the menteri of Larut and his matchmaker. He wishes to marry your sister. Sit with me and learn. Insya Allah, you will take my place one day.”
“My most honoured Father, I thank you for your kindness and trust.”
“Is your mother well?”
“My mother asked me to let you know that she is well.”
He fumed in silence at the arrogance of his first wife. No greeting or words of respect for her lord. Just a message that she was well. Arrogant, wilful and headstrong, Tengku Saleha was the daughter of the chief minister of Pahang.
“Tell your mother that I wish her well,” he growled.
“Greetings, my lord! May His Most Gracious and Merciful bless you and your family! Your humble slave awaits your lordship!”
His face lit up when he saw the Kedah trader. Musa Talib was kneeling at the top of the steps, reeling off a string of salaams and other words of respect.
“Musa, my dear friend, come over here. Please sit.” He indicated one of the cushions. “You’re just in time to join us for the evening meal.”
“O my lord, you honour me. Please accept my thanks and gratitude. May Allah in His most gracious and bountiful mercy continue to bless your lordship and your lordship’s son!”
“May His great compassion bless you too,” both father and son replied.
“But first let this slave make his report. The Tuan Hakka of the Black Flag and his men are camped outside your lordship’s compound waiting to come into your presence. If it so pleases your lordship, of course,” Musa Talib added hastily. He knew full well that all the Malay chiefs were very touchy about their dependence upon the Chinese miners for their income, and a go-between like him had to tread with great care if he valued his life.
“Ah, Musa, my friend. This evening it so pleases me to let the Chinamen wait a while. A little anxiety is not such a bad thing for our friends in the Black Flag, don’t you agree?”
He turned to Ibrahim.
“Remember this, my son. We can ask the Chinese miners to leave our land any time we please. Keep them waiting now and then. Otherwise they’ll think that they’re more powerful than us. Might they not, Musa?”
Caught off-guard, Musa could not hide the slight quaver in his voice.
“Your ... Your lordship certainly has a point there.”
“Your Hakka friend is Tuan Yap Kim How, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lord ... no ... I mean no, my lord. Not friends. No, no.” Musa Talib shook his head emphatically. “That Hakka is an associate. Business and trade only.”
“Good, Musa, I’m pleased to hear that. You’ve done very well in your trading with your associate.”
“His Gracious Merciful has blessed me, my lord.”
“Come, my friend, let’s eat. Then we’ll talk to the infidels.”
“Thank you, my lord, thank you. Your unworthy slave thanks his lordship. May Allah bless you. You’re most kind to this unworthy slave.”
Musa Talib bowed low as he waited for the slave girl to fill his plate with fragrant rice. He kept his eyes on Datuk Long Mahmud’s face as he scooped up a ball of white rice with the stubby fingers of his right hand and put it into his mouth. He ate delicately and sparingly despite his great bulk. He was a big-boned man with chocolate brown skin. Everything about him was broad and generous, from his wide face to his flat nose and thick brown lips. His dark eyes were watchful as he ate, his jaws masticating upon a piece of beef, like a buffalo chewing cud. He had grown up together with the Datuk in those far-off days, before the Datuk’s father had acquired land rights, tin mining rights, revenue collection rights and trading boats to sail up and down the coast of Perak. In those early days, Musa’s father, the Indian-Muslim trader, gave credit and loans to the Datuk’s father. Musa and Datuk Long Mahmud were carefree young bucks then, out to have a good time together. But things had changed ever since the Datuk became menteri. These days, it was not often that Musa was invited to dine with the Datuk. He wondered what lay ahead for him this evening.
Datuk Long Mahmud’s face was a mask in the lamplight. It betrayed none of his thoughts about Musa, whom he referred to as the Mamak, when talking to his advisors.
But Mamak Musa would never betray that he was affronted by the derogatory name. Why should he be such a fool? Years of serving the Malay chiefs had taught him to be servile in words and wily in deeds. He was not ashamed of his own lineage. His Indian-Muslim ancestors had settled in Kedah more than three hundred years ago; Musa had even claimed with the pride of a rooster that his forebears had once exercised a strong influence over the affairs of state and trade in the royal court of the Malacca sultanate. But that, Datuk Long Mahmud mused, was typical of Musa’s hyperbolic stories.
“Musa, my friend. You’re pensive tonight. Your face is full of thoughts.”
“Must be the heat. I’ve been walking too much, and this fat body of mine is tired.”
“Give our honoured guest some lime juice.”
A slave girl quickly poured out a tumbler of lime juice for Musa Talib who drank it gratefully.
“I’ve asked Ibrahim to meet you tonight. My son, Musa Talib is my friend. He and I have been through much together when we were young, reckless and fearless. Is it not, Musa?”
“Aye, those were the days, Datuk.” Then lapsing into the more familiar tone of friendship, he went on, “The days when our kris and swords were swifter than the thunderbolts from heaven. We banded together to drink the blood of those English dogs who plundered our land.”
They laughed at the memory of their exploits.
“‘My beloved land and home!’ you used to bawl at the top of your voice when you had one toddy too much, and I had to lug your fat body home.” And then, in a more serious tone, the Datuk went on, “So you see, Ibrahim, it’s important to have a few good friends in life. One like Che’ Musa here.”
“You do me a great honour, Datuk, to consider me a friend still.”
“Why, Musa, I’ve always thought of you as myfriend. And because I consider you a friend of my family, I’m going to seek your advice on Ibrahim’s education.”
“Your lordship honours me. Your slave is not worthy of the honour. But as always, I’m at your lordship’s service. But please keep in mind that I’m only a humble trader, and this is something new,” Musa murmured, caution in his voice.
“No, no, not new. I’ve given the matter much thought. I intend to send Ibrahim to Penang. For a year or so. Insya Allah, he might learn something valuable from the white man.”
“Learn from the English dogs in Pulau Pinang?”
Too late! He had dared to question the Datuk’s judgement and violated the rules of adat or custom.
“Pardon, my lord! Pardon your slave!” Beads of anxious perspiration covered his forehead.
“How many times have I told you that it’s called Penang now?” the Datuk chided him gently. “I’m told by Baba Wee that the English dogs even call it Prince of Wales Island after one of their princes.”
“Aye, begging your pardon and forgiveness, my lord! Your slave craves your pardon! As Allah is my witness, I am a Kedah man, and I can never bring myself to call our island by the white man’s name. Please forgive me, my lord!”
“Musa, as always you take things too much to heart.” Datuk Long Mahmud shook his head. “Come, my friend, let’s look ahead. That’s the way to go. Now about Ibrahim’s education. I’m thinking of sending him to the English school to learn the language of the white man.”
He went on talking as if he was unaware of the shock and surprise on the faces of his audience. Ibrahim would have protested vehemently had he been less well-bred. His face was impassive. But Musa Talib was vulgar. He questioned the wisdom of sending away the heir to the seat of Bandong. The Datuk’s second and third wives and his other sons might misread his intentions and create trouble for him. Besides, what could the boy learn from the white men who had robbed the Malays of their land? Land that is Allah’s gift to those born in this country? Sending the boy to Penang to be taught by Englishmen might make him half-white and half-brown.
“So you disagree with me, Musa.”
“No, no, no, my honoured lord! Please forgive your unworthy slave who has chatted like a silly mynah bird. This unworthy slave has spoken far too much. I forgot myself. Please forgive me, please forgive me!”
Musa Talib beat his chest and bowed his head several times in abject fear. His distracted eyes wandered to the Datuk’s hand. He might kill him with a single thrust of the kris hidden in the folds of his sarong.
The room was strangely quiet. No one spoke. The slave girls, sensing the gravity of their master’s mood, kept very still. For a moment or two, Musa did not know whether he would be allowed to live.
“I will think about what you have said. Send for the munshi. We will listen to what the teacher has recorded in the annals on the founding of Bandong. Will you stay and listen too, Musa?”
“You do me a great honour, my lord.”
Musa Talib kept the smile upon his face, but inside his heart, he was fuming. He had failed to see the trap in time. Like a half-submerged crocodile in the river, the Datuk had been waiting for him to stumble before grabbing him in his jaws. Stupid, stupid fool! he scolded himself. He knew that before the evening was over, he would have to pay dearly for having spoken so boldly out of turn, and it would cost him a goodly sum. A sum that would pay for Ibrahim’s English education. But what good would an English education do for the future menteri of Bandong?