by Wilbur Smith
He would have to avoid the fleets of the Mogul and the Omani until he had reached the Christian court of the Prester and obtained his commission from him. He could not attack the Mussulmen before he had that document in his hands or he risked the same fate as his father, of being accused of piracy on the high seas.
Perhaps he would be able to link up with the Christian army commander General Nazet, of whom Grey had spoken, and place the Golden Bough at his disposal. In any event, he reasoned that the transport fleet of the Mussulman army would be gathered in these crowded seas in huge numbers, and they would fall easy prey to a swift frigate boldly handled. Grey was right in one respect: there would be fortune and glory to be won in the days ahead.
He heard the bell sound the end of the watch, left his charts and went up on deck. He saw at a glance, from the ship’s changed attitude to the tide, that the ebb had set in.
Then he looked across the harbour and, even at that distance, recognized the figure of Althuda at the head of the landing steps. He was in deep conversation with Stan Sparrow, who had taken the longboat back to wait for him.
‘Damn him,’ Hal muttered. ‘He is wasting time in idle chatter.’ He turned all his attention to the affairs of the ship, and watched his topmastmen going aloft, quick and surefooted, to set the sails. When he looked back at the shore again he saw that the longboat was coming in against the ship’s side below where he stood.
As soon as it touched, Althuda came up the ladder. He stood in front of Hal and said with a serious expression, ‘I have come to fetch Zwaantie and my son,’ he said solemnly. ‘And to bid you farewell.’
‘I do not understand.’ Hal was aghast.
‘Consul Grey has taken me into his service as a writer. I intend to remain with my family here in Zanzibar,’ Althuda replied.
‘But why, Althuda? Why?’
‘As you know well, both Sukeena and I were raised by our mother as followers of Muhammad, the Prophet of Allah. You are intent on waging war on the armies of Islam in the name of the Christian God. I can no longer follow you.’ Althuda turned away and went to the forecastle. He returned a few minutes later leading Zwaantie and carrying little Bobby. Zwaantie was weeping silently, but she did not look at Hal. Althuda stopped at the head of the ladder and gazed at him.
‘I regret this parting, but I cherish the memory of the love you bore my sister. I call down the blessing of Allah upon you,’ he said, then followed Zwaantie down into the longboat. Hal watched them row across to the quay and climb the stone steps. Althuda never looked back, and he and his little family disappeared in the throng of white-robed merchants and their slaves.
Hal felt so saddened that he did not realize that the longboat had returned until, with a start, he saw that it had already been hoisted aboard and that Ned Tyler waited by the whipstaff for his orders.
‘Up anchor, if you please, Mr Tyler. Set the top sails and steer for the channel.’
Hal took one last look back at the land. He felt bereaved, for Althuda had severed his last tenuous link to Sukeena. ‘She is gone,’ he whispered. ‘Now she is truly gone.’
Resolutely he turned his back on the white citadel and looked ahead to where the Usambara mountains on the African mainland lay low and blue upon the horizon.
‘Lay the ship on the larboard tack, Mr Tyler. Set all plain sail. Course is north by east to clear Pemba Island. Mark it on the traverse board.’
The wind held fair, and twelve days later they cleared Cape Guardafui, at the tip of the great rhino horn of Africa, and before them opened the Gulf of Aden. Hal ordered the change of course and they steered down into the west.
The harsh red rock cliffs and hills of the Gulf of Aden were the jaws of Africa. They sailed into them with the last breezes of the trades filling their canvas. The heat was breathtaking, and without the wind would have been insupportable. The sea was a peculiarly vivid blue, which reflected off the snowy bellies of the terns that wheeled across the wake.
Ahead the rocky shores constricted into the throat of the Bab El Mandeb. In daylight they passed through the rock-bound narrows into the maw of the Red Sea and Hal shortened sail, for these were treacherous waters, dotted with hundreds of islands and sown with reefs of fanged coral. To the east lay the hot lands of Arabia, and to the west the shores of Ethiopia and the empire of the Prester.
They began to encounter other shipping in these congested waters. Each time the lookout hailed the quarterdeck, Hal went aloft himself, longing to see the top sails of a square-rigged ship come up over the horizon, and to recognize the set of the Gull of Moray. But each time he was disappointed. They were all dhows that fled from their tall and ominous profile, seeking shelter in the sanctuary of the shoal waters where the Golden Bough dared not follow.
Swiftly Hal learned how inaccurate were the charts that he had found in Llewellyn’s desk. Some of the islands they passed were not shown and others were depicted leagues off their true position. The marked soundings were mere fictions of the cartographer’s imagination. The nights were moonless and Hal dared not press on among these reefs and islands in the darkness. At dusk he anchored for the night in the lee of one of the larger islands.
‘No lights,’ he warned Ned Tyler, ‘and keep the hands quiet.’
‘There is no keeping Aboli’s men quiet, Captain. They gabble like geese being ate by a fox.’
Hal grinned. ‘I will speak to Aboli.’
When he came up on deck again at the beginning of the first dog watch, the ship was silent and dark. He made his rounds, stopping for a few minutes to speak to Aboli who was the watch-keeper. Then he went to stand alone by the rail, gazing up at the heavens, lost in wonder at the glory of the stars.
Suddenly he heard an alien sound and, for a moment, thought that it came from the ship. Then he realized that it was human voices speaking a language that he did not know. He moved swiftly to the stern and the sounds were closer and clearer. He heard the creak of rigging and the squeak and splash of oars.
He ran forward again and found Aboli. ‘Assemble an armed boarding-party. Ten men,’ he whispered. ‘No noise. Launch the longboat.’
It took only minutes for Aboli to carry out the order. As the boat touched the water they dropped into it and pulled away. Hal was at the tiller and steered into the darkness, groping towards the unseen island.
After several minutes he whispered, ‘Avast heaving!’ and the rowers rested on their oars. The minutes drifted by, then suddenly close at hand they heard something clatter on a wooden deck, and an exclamation of pain or annoyance. Hal strained his eyes in that direction and saw the pale set of a small lateen sail against the starlight.
‘All together. Give way!’ he whispered, and the boat shot forward. Aboli stood in the bows with a grappling hook and line. The small dhow that emerged abruptly out of the darkness dead ahead was not much taller at the rail than the longboat. Aboli hurled the hook over her side and leaned back on the line.
‘Secured!’ he grunted. ‘Away you go, lads.’
The crew dropped the oars and, with a bloodcurdling chorus of yells, swarmed up onto the deck of the strange craft. They were met by pathetic cries of dismay and terror. Hal lashed the tiller over, seized the hooded lantern and rushed up after his men to restrain their belligerence. When he opened the shutter of the lantern and flashed it around he found that the crew of the dhow had already been subdued, and were spreadeagled on the deck. There were a dozen or so half-naked dark-skinned sailors, but among them an elderly man dressed in a full-length robe whom Hal at first took to be the captain.
‘Bring that one here,’ he ordered. When they dragged the captive to him, Hal saw that he had a flowing beard, which reached almost to his knees, and a cluster of Coptic crosses and rosaries dangling down onto his chest. The square mitre on his head was embroidered with gold and silver thread.
‘All right!’ he cautioned the men who held him. ‘Treat him gently. He’s a priest.’ They released their prisoner with alacrity. The priest rearrange
d his robes and brushed out his beard with his fingertips, then drew himself up to his full height and regarded Hal with frosty dignity.
‘Do you speak English, Father?’ Hal asked. The man stared back at him. Even in the uncertain lantern light, his gaze was cold and piercing. He showed no sign of having understood.
Hal switched into Latin. ‘Who are you, Father?’
‘I am Fasilides, Bishop of Aksum, confessor to his Christian Majesty Iyasu, Emperor of Ethiopia,’ he replied, in fluent, scholarly Latin.
‘I humbly beg your forgiveness, your grace. I mistook this ship for an Islamic marauder. I crave your blessing.’ Hal went down on one knee. Perhaps I am pouring too much oil, he thought, but the Bishop seemed to accept this as his due. He made the sign of the cross over Hal’s head, then laid two fingers on his brow.
‘In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti,’ he intoned and gave Hal his ring to kiss. He seemed sufficiently mollified for Hal to press the advantage.
‘This is a most providential encounter, your grace.’ Hal rose to his feet again, ‘I am a Knight of the Temple of the Order of St George and the Holy Grail. I am on a voyage to place my ship and its company at the disposal of the Prester John, the Most Christian Emperor of Ethiopia, in his holy war against the forces of Islam. As His Majesty’s confessor, perhaps you could lead me to his court.’
‘It may be possible to arrange an audience,’ said Fasilides importantly.
However, his aplomb was shaken and his manner much improved when the dawn light revealed the power and magnificence of the Golden Bough, and he became even more amenable when Hal invited him aboard and offered to convey him on the rest of his journey.
Hal could only guess at why the Bishop of Aksum should be creeping around the islands at midnight in a small, smelly fishing dhow, and Fasilides became remote and haughty again when questioned. ‘I am not at liberty to discuss affairs of state, either temporal or spiritual.’
Fasilides brought his two servants aboard with him, and one of the fishermen from the dhow to act as a pilot for Hal. Once on board the Golden Bough, he settled comfortably into the small cabin adjoining Hal’s. With a local pilot on board Hal was able to head on towards Mitsiwa with all dispatch, not even deigning to shorten sail when the sun set that evening.
He invited Fasilides to dine with him and the good Bishop showed a deep affinity for Llewellyn’s wine and brandy. Hal kept his glass filled to the brim, a feat that called for sleight of hand. Fasilides’ dignity lowered in proportion to the level in the brandy decanter, and he answered Hal’s questions with less and less reserve. ‘The Emperor is with General Nazet at the monastery of St Luke on the hills above Mitsiwa. I go to meet him there,’ he explained.
‘I have heard that the Emperor has won a great victory over the pagan at Mitsiwa?’ Hal prompted him.
‘A great and wonderful victory!’ Fasilides enthused. ‘In the Easter season, the pagan crossed the narrows of the Bab El Mandeb with a mighty army, then drove northwards up the coast seizing all the ports and forts. Our Emperor Caleb, father of Iyasu, fell in battle and much of our army was scattered and destroyed. The war dhows of El Grang fell upon our fleet in Adulis Bay and captured or burned twenty of our finest ships. Then when the pagan arrayed a hundred thousand men before Mitsiwa it seemed that God had forsaken Ethiopia.’ Fasilides’ eyes filled with tears and he had to take a deep draught of the good brandy to steady himself. ‘But He is the one God and true to his people, and he sent us a warrior to lead our shattered army. Nazet came down from the mountains, bringing the army of the Amhara to join our forces here on the coast, and bearing in the vanguard the sacred Tabernacle of Mary Mother of God. This talisman is like a thunderbolt in Nazet’s hand. Before its advance the pagan was hurled back in confusion.’
‘What is this talisman of which you speak, your grace? Is it a sacred relic?’ Hal asked.
The bishop lowered his voice and reached across the table to grip Hal’s hand and stare into his eyes. ‘It is a relic of Jesus Christ, the most powerful in all Christendom.’ He stared into Hal’s face with a fanatical fervour so intense that Hal felt his skin crawl with religious awe. ‘The Tabernacle of Mary contains the Cup of Life, the Holy Grail that Christ used at the Last Supper. The same chalice in which Joseph of Arimathea collected the blood of the Saviour as he hung upon the Cross.’
‘Where is the Tabernacle now?’ Hal’s voice was husky, and he returned Fasilides’ grip with such strength that the old man winced. ‘Have you seen it? Does it truly exist?’
‘I have prayed over the Tabernacle that contains the sacred chalice, although none may view or lay hands upon the chalice itself.’
‘Where is this holy thing?’ Hal’s voice rose with excitement. ‘I have heard of it all my life. The chivalric order of which I am a Knight is based upon this fabulous cup. Where may I find it and worship before it?’
Fasilides seemed to sober at Hal’s excitement, and he drew back, freeing his hand from Hal’s grip. ‘There are things which cannot be disclosed.’ Once again he became remote and unapproachable. Hal realized that it would be unwise to pursue the subject further, and he sought some other topic to thaw the Bishop’s frozen features.
‘Tell me of the fleet engagement at Adulis Bay,’ Hal suggested. ‘As a sailor, my concerns lie heavily upon the seas. Was there a tall ship similar to this one fighting with the squadrons of Islam?’
The Bishop unbent a little. ‘There were many ships on both sides. Great storms of gunfire and terrible slaughter.’
‘A square-rigged ship, flying the red croix pattée?’ Hal insisted. ‘Did you have report of such a one?’ But it was clear that the Bishop did not know a frigate from a quinquereme.
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps the admirals and the generals will be able to answer these questions when we reach the monastery of St Luke,’ he suggested.
The following afternoon they sailed past the entrance to Adulis Bay, steering inshore of the island of Dahlak at the mouth of the bay. In this much Fasilides had been accurate in his report. The roads were crowded with shipping. A forest of mast and rigging was outlined against the brooding red hills that ringed the bay. From each masthead flew the banners of Islam and the pennants of Omani and the Great Mogul.
Hal ordered the Golden Bough hove to, and he climbed to the main yard and sat there for an hour with the telescope held to his eye. It was not possible to count the number of ships at anchor in the bay, and the waters seethed with small boats ferrying the stores and provisions of a great army to the shore. Of one thing only Hal was certain, when he returned to the deck and ordered sail to be set once more: there was no square-rigged ship in Adulis Bay.
The shattered remnants of the Emperor Iyasu’s fleet lay off Mitsiwa. Hal anchored well clear of these burned and battered hulks, and Fasilides sent one of his servants ashore in the longboat. ‘He must find out if Nazet’s headquarters are still at the monastery, and if they are we must arrange horses for us to travel there.’
While they waited for the servant to return, Hal made arrangements for his temporary absence from the Golden Bough. He decided to take only Aboli with him, and to leave command of the ship to Ned Tyler.
‘Do not remain at anchor, for this is a lee shore, and you will be vulnerable if the Buzzard should find you here,’ he warned Ned. ‘Patrol well off the coast, and look upon every sail as that of an enemy. If you should encounter the Gull of Moray you are, under no circumstances, to offer battle. I shall return as swiftly as I am able. My signal will be a red Chinese rocket. When you see that, send a boat to pick me up from the shore.’
Hal fretted out the rest of that day and night but at first light the masthead hailed the deck. ‘Small dhow coming out from the bay. Heading this way.’
Hal heard the cry in his cabin and hurried on deck. Even without his telescope he recognized Fasilides’ servant standing on the open deck of the small craft. He sent for the Bishop. When Fasilides came on deck he was showing the effects of the previous evening’
s tippling, but he and the servant spoke rapidly in the Geez language. He turned to Hal. ‘The Emperor and General Nazet are still at the monastery. Horses are waiting for us on the beach. We can be there by noon. My servant has brought clothing for you and your servant that will make you less conspicuous.’
In his cabin Hal donned the breeches of fine cotton that were cut full as petticoats and taken in at the ankles. The boots were of soft leather with pointed upturned toes. Over the cotton shirt he wore an embroidered dolman tunic that reached half-way down his thighs. The Bishop’s servant showed him how to wind the long white cloth around his head to form the ha’ik turban. Over the headcloth he fitted the burnished steel onion-shaped helmet, spiked on top and engraved and inlaid with Coptic crosses.
When he and Aboli came back on deck the crew gawked at them, and Fasilides nodded approval. ‘Now none will recognize you as a Frank.’
The longboat deposited them on the beach below the cliffs, where an armed escort was waiting for them. The horses were Arabians with long flowing manes and tails, the large nostrils and fine eyes of the breed. The saddles were carved from a single block of wood and decorated with brass and silver, the saddle-cloths and reins stiff with metal-thread embroidery.
‘It is a long ride to the monastery,’ Fasilides warned them. ‘We must waste no time.’
They climbed the cliff path and came out onto the level ground that lay before Mitsiwa.
‘This is the field of our victory!’ Fasilides crowed, and stood in his stirrups to make a sweeping gesture that encompassed the grisly plain. Although the battle had taken place weeks before, the carrion birds still hovered over the field like a dark cloud, and the jackals and pariah dogs snarled over piles of bones and chewed at the sun-blackened flesh that still clung to them. The flies were blue in the air like swarming bees. They crawled on Hal’s face and tried to drink from his eyes and tickled his nostrils. Their white maggots swarmed and wriggled so thickly in the rotting corpses that they appeared to move as though they still lived.
