Chapter Text
"Good God, Lawrence!"
Lawrence glanced down the dinner table, taking in the scandalised expressions that bordered the crystal and silver. He shrugged. "With all due respect, of course."
"I stand by what I said," Col. Fitzpatrick said, glaring at Lawrence. "The Arabs don't have a hope in hell of getting independence. What's more, they've done nothing to deserve it."
"And I stand by what I said." Lawrence's tone was pleasant, despite the words. "You're a damn fool and don't have a clue what you're talking about."
The silence stretched out until, with a strained cough, their host altered the topic of conversation and the rest of the guests leaped gratefully on the change.
"That kind of thing can't really be said with respect," an American history professor pointed out quietly.
Lawrence glanced at him and smiled quickly. "I said due respect, Mr Atkins. Not quite the same thing."
"Tricky type, aren't you?" Atkins said, with some admiration.
"Thank you. A very generous compliment."
"Now then, Col. Lawrence," Atkins said. "You've got more experience of the Arabs than any of us. Why do you think they should get their independence?"
Lawrence steepled his fingers and studied Atkins' face. "Are you genuinely interested or are you simply making conversation?"
Atkins laughed. "Oh, I'm interested."
"Very well. First, they are an ancient and dignified civilisation. They had lights in the streets when the Romans were nothing more than hairy farmers and the Britons were running around painted blue. The Arabs of the Hejaz were able to retain their culture even while occupied by the Turks, which suggests a certain cohesiveness."
"No lights in the streets, though," Fitzpatrick interrupted.
"No streets, Colonel," Lawrence said. "It's quite tricky to build them in the desert."
"It's not all desert."
Lawrence smiled. "You're not as ignorant as I thought. My apologies. You're correct, there are towns. These, however, have been the focus of the Turkish attempts to destroy the Arab culture, so they have suffered."
"And Damascus?"
"Yes." Atkins leaned forward. "What exactly did happen at Damascus? The Arabs held it for a while, then left. Why didn't they keep hold of it?"
"Simple," Fitzpatrick said. "They aren't capable of running a city. Strikes me as foolish to expect them to run a country."
"The Arabs present at Damascus were the fighters," Lawrence said. "Could a regiment of infantry be expected to turn a city from chaos to order, when they were denied any assistance?"
Fitzpatrick said nothing.
"Precisely. The Arabs who would be running the country would be the politicians and they would receive the same help in rebuilding as France will." He smiled softly. "If you judged the intelligence of all nationalities by their armies, the unavoidable conclusion would be that everybody is stupid."
Atkins laughed but fell silent when Fitzpatrick glared at him.
"You presume, Lawrence," Fitzpatrick said.
"I presume to tell you about a people I spent years with? I fought alongside them, watched them die for a cause they didn't dare believe in. I was one of them. Yes, I do presume. And I will continue to do so."
Feisal didn't trust the Moroccan interpreter. His French wasn't perfect and his English even less so but he could make out enough to be sure that what he was saying wasn't precisely what was being passed on. The Frenchmen's offensive responses were being thrown straight back at him, though, as they denied the legitimacy of his attendance at the talks.
He had been foolish to think the English would help him in his struggle for independence. Foolish to think that any of the colonial powers would give any more assistance than Dryden and Allenby had. He could negotiate in the desert, where he had control, but here in this damp, dismal land, where it was always cold and people tried to hide their greed, he was out of his element. A camel in the ocean; a ship in the desert.
Suddenly sickened by the charade, he stood. "Au revoir, monsieur." His salaam was offensively curt but these Europeans wouldn't pick up on it. They spoke a different language in more ways than one. He turned to the Moroccan. "Tell them I have other appointments. If they are willing to talk sense, I shall meet with them again."
The door shut behind him with a satisfyingly solid thud.
"Prince Feisal." The British lieutenant was nervous and he spoke slowly and loudly, the universal British approach to foreigners.
"Somebody to see-"
Before the lieutenant could finish, he was pushed to one side and Feisal was face-to-face with Lawrence.
They studied each other for a long moment, then Lawrence snapped to attention and saluted sharply. "Sir."
At one point, before the politics, Feisal had almost considered Lawrence a friend. That was before the war had changed them both. Now, he salaamed slowly, slightly. "My friend, Aurens." Because, even if Lawrence was still the broken man who had been driven from Arabia, he was the guide Feisal needed. Lawrence had wanted to be an Arab but he was a native of this world.
Lawrence's mouth tensed and he swallowed hard but he allowed his hand to be taken and held for a moment.
"I am surprised to see you here. I did not expect the British to show enough sense to include you."
Lawrence's expression was cold and Feisal knew Lawrence remembered all too clearly that it was Feisal who had sent him away from Damascus. "I'm here as a technical adviser."
Feisal stepped back and made a point of studying Lawrence's clothing. "Indeed. Colonel Lawrence. I don't think I have seen you in the colonel's uniform before."
"Unlikely, sir."
"However, I suspect this visit is not for the pleasure of talking over old times." He didn't wait for Lawrence's answer. "Therefore, we should adjourn to somewhere a little more private than a dusty hallway with Frenchmen - and their cunning little Moroccans - listening to every word. Perhaps your aide could find us somewhere?"
"He's not my aide. Just someone I picked up from somewhere. But I'm sure he could find us a room." Lawrence switched back to English and turned to the lieutenant. "We need to talk in private, Lt. Mansfield. Where can we go?"
Mansfield glanced between the two men. "Er, the small morning office is empty, sir. Just down the hallway and on the left."
"Jolly good. And you can stand outside and protect our privacy."
Mansfield swallowed and brought himself to attention. "Yes, sir."
The morning office was dark and cold. Half a dozen chairs were ranged around the table and a few sheets of paper had been left out from an earlier meeting. Lawrence sat on the table and studied Feisal as the Arab settled himself on the least uncomfortable chair and carefully adjusted his robes.
"How is the conference going?"
"As you would imagine. We are but a little people." Feisal spoke the words with disgust. "And I am fighting on an unknown battlefield with untried troops against an enemy who changes from day to day. We are losing, Lawrence, and we will continue to lose."
"I think I can help you. Help the Arab cause, that is." Lawrence straightened. "I have to help you. The lies were told in Allenby's name but I told them."
"A sword with two edges," Feisal murmured.
"What?"
"No matter." Feisal waved the query away. "You would indeed be helpful. You know the people. You know how they think."
"And most of the time, I wish I didn't." Lawrence picked up one of the sheets of paper and began folding it. "You mentioned the French had Moroccan interpreters. You don't have interpreters of your own?"
Feisal spread his hands in a gesture of dismissal. "No. Not that I can trust."
"Very well. I'll interpret at your next meeting." He smiled slightly. "If, that is, you can trust me."
"In the circumstances, I have very little choice. But you tried very hard to give us Damascus, so I think I will trust you."
The two men studied each other, each assessing his ally in silence.
The door slammed open and two men nearly fell through the doorway. "I'm sorry, sir," Mansfield apologised. "He wouldn't-"
"No matter, Lt. Mansfield," Feisal interrupted, his English heavily accented. "Sherif Ali is welcome at - almost - all times. You can go."
Mansfield backed out the room and Feisal glanced between the two remaining men. "Surely you expected Sherif Ali to be present, Lawrence?"
Lawrence slid off the table and stood straight, lifting his head. It let him stare down at Ali but Feisal was reminded of a horse ready to fight for escape. "No. I didn't. The last time I saw him, he was still learning politics."
"What better place to learn than the nest where all the vipers gather?" Ali's gaze was fierce. "I see you have become an English gentleman. Again."
"I was never anything but. Good day, Sherif Ali." Lawrence turned slightly and salaamed towards Feisal. "Prince Feisal."
The door slammed shut behind him and Ali turned his glare to Feisal. "Why did you not tell me he was going to be here?"
Feisal raised one eyebrow. "I did not know myself, although I should have guessed. This is going to be a struggle." He glanced towards the door and smiled slightly. "And wherever there is a struggle, you will find Lawrence."
Ali was waiting when Lawrence and Feisal left the meeting with two American officials. Lawrence was laughing at a comment of Feisal's and Ali's stomach turned with anger. "He has no right," he reflected bitterly, but he didn't know of which man he was thinking.
When Lawrence saw Ali, his face lost all humour and he nodded a curt greeting. "Sherif Ali."
"Was it a profitable meeting?" Ali asked.
"Most profitable, thank you." Lawrence turned to Feisal, ignoring the American aide waiting patiently. "I think the Americans are finally starting to listen to us. Mr Graham seemed very impressed with your arguments." Now, he acknowledged the presence of the American aide and allowed himself to be drawn away from the two Arabs.
Ali watched him go. "I do not trust him," he said quietly.
"You have changed your opinion of Lawrence before. I hope you will have cause to change it again."
"He was unable to help us in Damascus. Why should it be any different here? He seeks easy victories, nothing more."
"Maybe. But if he seeks easy victories and he fights on our side, he has more confidence than I do."
Ali glanced sharply at Feisal. "You are sure he fights on our side? He is English."
"He was English before." Feisal smiled softly, his eyes fixed on Lawrence. "I am relying on you to persuade him to stay on our side." Ali's mouth tightened and his gaze jerked back to Lawrence. "But now he returns and it would, I think, be wise to say nothing of this conversation to him."
Lawrence's look challenged Ali. "I have a meeting with President Wilson tomorrow. Once Wilson is publicly in favour of Arab independence, we'll be fighting from a strong position."
Feisal spread his hands and beamed genially at Lawrence. "Already, your support gains us new allies."
Ali wished he could claim it was an accident that he passed Lawrence on his way to meet with Wilson. He wished he could claim the sight of Lawrence, dressed in British uniform but with a gutra and simple cord agal, didn't affect him. "Are you going to a costume party?" Ali spat the words but Lawrence turned them aside with a vague smile.
"I need to be visibly associated with the Arab cause in some way." He shrugged and, with the ease of long practice, unwrapped the headcloth's corners to arrange it into a more formal placing.
He could have been talking to anybody and Ali's anger increased. "You mean you are not instantly recognised as Lawrence of Arabia? What a hardship for you. How difficult."
Ali thought he saw a brief expression of pain flicker across Lawrence's face but it was gone in an instant and Lawrence's voice was light and brittle when he replied. "For myself, I would welcome obscurity. Alas, Arabia demands ever more from me."
"You will never welcome obscurity. It is not in you."
Lawrence drew breath to reply but the words never left his mouth. After a moment, he sighed and his expression softened. "There is a lot in me that I never knew, Ali. And now, I must go."
Ali watched him until he turned a corner. It was so easy for fear to turn to anger and hatred. So easy to believe that a man should be more than just a man. So easy to lose track of the man himself.
Ali avoided Lawrence for the next two days. He ignored Feisal's comments that Lawrence needed a personal connection to the Arab cause.
He had been that connection before. He didn't think he could survive being it again.
He had his own meetings to attend. Americans, Zionists, Mesopotamians. A Russian, though Ali doubted anything useful would come of that. The Russian was struggling too hard for his own country to spare any of his little influence for Ali's. All the little countries, scurrying to build alliances and friendships to make their cause that little bit stronger.
Ali's frustration grew every moment. His land was not a little country. It was a vast country, vaster than these tiny minds could
comprehend. It was strong and ancient, a sleeping lion. One day, the lion would wake and roar and then these fools would see what they had been playing with.
But until then, he must struggle.
He sat, cross-legged, in front of the fire in his room. Dinner had been bland and dry and he was hungry and cold. He had thought Paris would be like Cairo but it was damp, dull and grey and made him long for home. If he concentrated on the fire, he could imagine himself there. Imagine that he could look up to see friends and allies who thought like he did and had the same knowledge. He was tired of the strangeness.
His reverie was interrupted by a demanding knock on his door. The staff's hesitant taps . they were evidently nervous of the savages in their midst . were familiar but this imperative slamming was new. The knock came again and Ali slid upright, his hand on his knife. They were fighting a battle, after all, and he had no idea if these foreigners would resort to physical violence.
He only opened the door a crack but it was shoved violently open and his knife was out before he realised it was Lawrence standing there, face taut with anger. "It's a damn outrage!" Lawrence snapped as he pushed past Ali.
Ali shut his eyes for a moment and forced himself to be calm. Then he shut the door and turned to face Lawrence. "What is?" he asked quietly.
"This!" Lawrence gestured round the room. "You're a senior member of the Arab delegation and they put you in this place!"
Ali glanced around. True, the room wasn't particularly large but it was clean and had everything he required. "What is wrong with it?" he asked.
Lawrence's face creased with frustration. "It's too small, too spartan. They keep you by the offices, rather than with the leaders." He seized an analogy. "It's a labourer's tent, not a prince's."
Ali shrugged. "Currently, I am a labourer."
"But the rest of the world needs to see you as a prince. It gives you status. Gives the Arab cause status." Lawrence's eyes widened. "Is Feisal's room this small?"
"Prince Feisal has a suite."
"That's something," Lawrence said. "But he should really have his own house. I'll arrange something for him. And I'll try to get you moved to a suite or, failing that, my hotel. It's more appropriate." He nearly spat the last word.
"I would rather stay here."
Lawrence blinked. "I explained."
"I know. But here I am right next to the information I need. I am a labourer. And there's no point putting a labourer in a prince's clothes, if they keep him from his work."
Lawrence considered it. "You're right," he said abruptly. "And... There is a perception among westerners that Arabs are lazy. If you are seen to be working all hours... If we put it about that you requested rooms near the offices, to allow you to concentrate on work. And I'll move here, too."
"No!" The denial was out before Ali could control it. Not here. He couldn't cope with having Lawrence so close to him.
"Why not?"
"You are part of the British delegation," Ali said desperately. "Would it not give offence if you moved to stay with the Arabs?"
"Just the kind of offence that's needed." Lawrence looked uncomfortable. "I need to do something to make it plain to them that I'm
with the Arabs, anyway."
"The costume was not enough?" Ali said bitterly.
"They viewed it as you do," Lawrence said, his voice suddenly heavy with tiredness. "A costume."
Ali nearly stepped forward but he held himself back. He could not afford to care for this man again.
Lawrence pulled himself straight with a visible effort. "I'll get my kit moved here tomorrow." He moved towards the door, then stopped. "Oh, yes. The reason I was looking for you. Wilson has announced that he's going to appoint a committee of inquiry for Syria."
Ali thought it through. "That, I think, is a good sign. It shows he is taking us seriously. And if America takes us seriously then, perhaps, so will the rest of the countries." He smiled broadly. "Yes. It is a good sign."
Lawrence smiled back at him. "Yes. A good sign."
It was only when Lawrence had gone that Ali realised he had let his guard down in those last few minutes.
He tried to keep his distance when Lawrence invited him to visit his new rooms. They were smaller even than Ali's but the floor in front of the over-sized fireplace was decorated with a warm sheepskin rug that gave an illusion of comfort, helped by the over-stuffed sofa that sat near it. The desk was small and the bed, though large, was obviously old.
"Such a martyr for our cause," Ali sneered, glancing round.
Lawrence laughed. "We've both suffered worse than this." The warmth in his eyes slowly faded and he frowned, staring into the past. "I've suffered much worse than this."
He stood silent for a long moment and Ali finally dared to interrupt him. "Aurens?"
Lawrence blinked and he was suddenly back in the present. "Aurens." His voice caressed the name. "It's been a long time since I've been Aurens."
"Not that long."
"A long time," Lawrence repeated softly. "I still want to be an ordinary man, Ali."
"You don't." Ali stated it with certainty. "You wish you could want to be ordinary. There is a difference."
"Once, I would have agreed with you. But things change."
Lawrence was reaching towards him and Ali had to turn away. "Yes! Things change!" he snapped. "I have changed. Our friendship has changed. I cannot-" He stopped, suddenly aware of the fact that Lawrence was frozen. "I cannot," he repeated quietly.
"Cannot what?" Lawrence's tone was conversational but his face was blank.
Ali struggled for the words. "I cannot go back to the person I was."
"I don't expect you to. I don't want you to."
"You do. You expect me to care for you still, despite everything."
Lawrence studied him for a moment, then turned away with a sigh. "I don't expect anybody to care for me."
"Yet they still do. Even when they don't want to."
Lawrence didn't say anything but he picked up a pen and played with it.
"I think that caring for you will destroy me, one day," Ali said.
"You shouldn't."
"I know. I have tried to stop."
"I wish it could be how it was," Lawrence said softly. "On the way to Aqaba."
Ali smiled slightly at the memory. "Before everything."
"Not everything." Lawrence was looking at him and Ali was growing warm with the memories.
"It can't."
"No." Lawrence shut his eyes for a moment. "Too much has changed. But we fought together then." Lawrence reached one hand towards Ali. "Can we fight together now?"
"We already fight on the same side."
"But we don't fight together."
"No. No, we don't." Ali took Lawrence's hand and was surprised to find it trembling in his grip. "But I think we should."