“What is an archaeologist?” he frowned.
“He digs for history, Your Excellency. He tries to understand how people lived, what they wore, what kinds of houses they constructed, what they ate, how they wrote, and so on.”
“Hmm. I see.” Uthman seemed unresponsive. “I have heard of such men, yes. It seems a waste of time, but I shall need to think about it. Do you have men?”
“Yes, Your Excellency. We have a team of Tuaregs.”
His face hardened and he shook his head. “We do not trust the Tuaregs. This cannot be permitted.”
My heart sank.
Father Bąkiewicz sidestepped the issue by suddenly showing interest in a piece of art nearby. “Ah, Your Excellency, a remarkable painting!”
Uthman Shaykh Al-Din’s face relaxed visibly.
“Yes, in Sudan, we are very fond of painting and art. That was created by someone I know in the south.”
“May I look at it?
“Certainly!”
Father Bąkiewicz stood up and went to the painting, looking at it very carefully and with considerable interest.
“It seems to be some kind of a hunt.”
“That is correct.” Uthman Shaykh Al-Din was pleased.
“Very lifelike. Remarkable! Look at the colours, Tadeusz!”
I remembered that I was Tadeusz and made appropriate cries of appreciation.
“Yes. The khalifa himself likes art, though few know that about him,” Uthman observed, with a hint of pride.
“Those who appreciate art certainly think at a higher level! We seek an audience with the khalifa, Your Excellency. We would like to personally present our respects to him.”
“Ah, yes. Let me see what I can do. Hmm, well…today will not be possible. Would you come here tomorrow morning? We expect him back from a trip then.”
Meanwhile, more tea was brought in. I was reminded uncomfortably of my tense experience at the Sankore Mosque.
We bid Uthman Shaykh Al-Din good-bye and walked back to our camp.
“A close shave there, Holmes.”
“Every man keeps his interests and passions within reach, Watson. The way to a man’s heart and achieving our objective is to determine what his likings are. That is invariably his Achilles’ heel. Though of course, we are not seeking to exploit him in anyway. It is simply a practical negotiation tactic.”
“Astute, Holmes. Let us see what tomorrow brings.”
“I am hopeful, Watson. And with you as Tadeusz, how can I fail?”
I looked at him sharply, but Holmes’ face was inscrutable.
The next day brought us to the office of Uthman Shaykh Al-Din again. He was a striking man, quite fit and energetic, of medium height. He beamed at us.
“Welcome, my friends. I have good news. I have been able to convince the khalifa to give you fifteen minutes. You may ask him whatever you wish.”
“We are deeply grateful, Your Excellency!”
And without further ado, we were escorted into a large room, in the presence of the khalifa, with a number of courtiers spread across the room.
Khalifa Abdallahi ibn Muhammad was certainly a charismatic individual. His eyes were cold, not betraying his thoughts in the slightest. He was dressed in a white jallabiya, with a grand turban, and looked impressive and every bit a ruler.
We bowed respectfully. He nodded imperceptibly and glanced briefly at Uthman.
After the introductions, we sat quietly on a rug waiting for permission to speak.
After a while, the khalifa spoke. “Uthman says you wish to meet me to seek permission for something.”
“Yes, Your Excellency. We are from Poland. I am a scholar of history and wish to learn about your great country.” Father Bąkiewicz’ Polish accent was quite remarkable.
“Hmm.” The khalifa took a date from a plate nearby and popped it in his mouth.
He chewed with great deliberation. He looked long at Father Bąkiewicz with expressionless eyes.
“But are you not a man of God? Why do you do this?” he said.
“You, too, are a man of God, Your Excellency. Yet you are interested in providing a good government for your people. We know you respect knowledge. Did not the Prophet, Peace Be Upon Him, say that all men should seek knowledge even if we have to go to China?”
The khalifa nodded gravely. It had hit home.
“What exactly will you do?” he asked, popping in another date.
“I wish to visit the area near Jebel Barkal.”
“Yes, once upon a time, there were great things there. But no one remembers now. What will you do once you reach that place?”
“I will search for the buildings of the King Aryamani who lived more than two thousand years ago. I wish to write about the matter.”
The khalifa thought for a long time. He beckoned to Uthman Shaykh Al-Din and the two spoke in low voices
“I give you permission but on several conditions. One: that my guards will go with you. Two: that you will not take anything from there without my permission. Three: that you will tell me what you have learned. And four: that you will help me with a strange problem I have just encountered.”
“Of course, Your Excellency. That is completely agreeable. It is your land and your country’s heritage. I shall certainly do as you suggest. But I do not understand your fourth comment.”
The khalifa spoke slowly. “Someone who studies the past and makes inferences must have a logical mind. And I can sense you are an intelligent man. I require the services of men of strength, culture, and wisdom, wherever they may be from. I have long understood that I do not know everything and that it is wise to look for those who might impart new knowledge.”
Father Bąkiewicz bowed. “I thank you for your compliments. I shall do my humble best to assist you.”
The khalifa stood up. So did the entire court. He beckoned to us and we followed him as he went into another room.
Uthman closed the doors and asked us to sit. The two Sudanese men in their large billowing dresses and hard faces made an arresting sight.
“I hope you have consulted a doctor, Your Excellency,” said Father Bąkiewicz. “Travel causes one to be careless with food, and the effects linger long, unfortunately. Please rest for a few days.”
“Yes, the palace physician has given—but wait! How did you know I am unwell and have travelled recently? Are you a spy?” The khalifa jerked up, his eyes round with astonishment. Uthman looked flabbergasted.
Father Bąkiewicz smiled. “The fact that you were consuming a considerable number of dates did not escape my attention, Your Excellency. I am aware that dates are considered very effective for stomach disorders. Your face seems dull, if you will excuse the remark, suggesting that you are quite tired. And outside your palace, I observed a number of steeds who, judging from their state of exhaustion, had possibly just brought you in from a sojourn outside Khartoum. Surely, there is not such a mystery.”
The two Sudanese men looked agape at Holmes and then at each other.
“Excellent, excellent. You are precisely the kind of man I am looking for! My judgment was right!” cried the khalifa.
“A small matter, Your Excellency. Please do let me know how I may help.”
The khalifa took a deep breath. “The matter is very sensitive.” He spoke slowly.
“We certainly appreciate that. Nothing will ever be revealed unless you wish it.”
“I do not know why I am telling you this. It is rare for me to trust anyone so easily. But because I am the successor of the Mahdi, perhaps I have been blessed with divine insights.” Uthman nodded in assent, and made appreciative sounds.
“The situation is as follows. We are presently severely challenged to our southeast by the Ethiopians. To our north, the Egyptians are playing games and the dirty, untrustworthy British, French, and Italians a
re working with them. God is on our side, which of course is the side of all that is just and correct.”
Father Bąkiewicz nodded politely. I looked at my shoes; I was British.
“I have been the target of three recent assassination attempts. In one case, an attempt to poison—of course, my taster died. In another case, an assassin managed to slip through every layer of security and shot at me from that niche—that one over there. Unfortunately for him, the gun was defective and misfired, causing him injury. He would have been executed anyway, but the wounds were fatal and he died before we could interrogate him. And lastly, on this very trip, I was fired upon by a group of bandits at a town called Haya in the Nubian Desert, near the Red Sea Hills. This is very surprising because the Beja chiefs of Haya are completely loyal to me. So we believe they were not bandits but trained assassins. They escaped. But one of my men was killed.”
Father Bąkiewicz sat back in his chair, eyes closed, listening intently.
“I am of the opinion that the British and French are behind this but I have no proof. I need advice.”
Father Bąkiewicz opened his eyes and looked far into the distance. He was lost in thought for a few moments.
“Please proceed. What else can you tell me? You will have to be open with me, Your Majesty, if you wish me to be of assistance.”
The khalifa did not repond. He exchanged glances with Uthman.
“Are you sure, Your Excellency, that you have not omitted some matter, believing it to be minor? Are you facing, for example, any kind of internal revolt?”
The khalifa hesitated.
“A revolt? No, that is not the case.”
“And everything is peaceful in the provinces? Darfur? Kordofan? Sawākin? Juba? And here in Khartoum?” Holmes looked at the khalifa keenly and then at Uthman.
“Well, it is not possible to ensure happiness for all,” said Uthman vaguely, his eyes shifting to the drapes of the window. “You certainly are aware of Sudan,” he added, his voice betraying reluctant admiration.
“Why do you suspect the British and French?”
“Well, first, they are Europeans. Everything they do has a motive. Yes, you are one, but are a man of God, so I trust you. They have laid claim on the Suez, from Sinai to Aden. The Suez has always belonged to us. They simply lay claim on whatever interests them and then say it belongs to them because no one else has laid claim in a way that they accept. An admirably convenient habit. We must learn how to do the same.” He snorted.
“I am the only ruler who can challenge them. The rest are slaves—in Egypt, Ethiopia, and elsewhere. They are upset with me for having defeated King Yohannes of Ethiopia some years ago. A long list of grievances. But I do not care. God is with us.”
The khalifa suddenly stood up and strode about the room restlessly, clutching his stomach.
“But in any case, I have not told you what the problem is. I can certainly get more guards and improve my personal security. The Mulazimiyya soldiers are very good and will protect me well. You cannot help me there. But what I need to do is find out who is behind these attacks. How do the attackers seem to know where I am going and when?”
Father Bąkiewicz raised an eyebrow. He had already settled in well in his chair, the tips of his fingers together.
“You suspect someone in the court or perhaps the household?”
“That is correct. But it is not possible to directly confront anyone without proof. The matter is very delicate. The loyalty of no one should be either assumed or suspected.”
The khalifa grimaced, rubbing his stomach.
“I used to worry only about the north and the east. But I am sure the Frenchmen will move upward from below the Nile’s origin, from Congo. In other words, there is pressure from practically all sides. If, at this time, I am unable to manage internal problems well, we are finished. Outwardly, I must give the impression that we are united and powerful.” The man was in the grip of significant tension—physical and mental.
Uthman excused himself, citing another engagement.
Father Bąkiewicz spoke. “And what, Your Excellency, are the issues that are uppermost in your mind?”
“Since the Suez Canal opened some twenty-five years ago, the economy of Sudan has been affected. I have some very specific plans to reclaim control, which I cannot reveal.”
“It is not possible to help anyone, Your Excellency, who does not want to give information.” Father Bąkiewicz shook his head. “I am only a man of God and cannot guess.”
The khalifa looked down for some time, thinking. Then he raised his head.
“The issues that occupy my mind, Father, are the following: The problem of the Suez—now that the Suez Canal is working, the economy of Sawākin31 is affected. Ships that previously unloaded at Sawākin for an overland journey now have no need; they continue straight up north. The new ships that travel to India have no need to stop at Sawākin, and continue to Aden. Thus, our economy is affected.
“Next, the problem in Darfur is acute. The Mahdi had tried to reduce the slave trade via Bahr el Ghazal but did not realize the economic impact of lost tax revenue. I am restoring it—the slave trade—to some extent but it is not easy. There are some problems with the social fabric there now. The Dinkas are usually a source for slaves. Now they are restless. There is talk of possible rebellion. I must crush it for the sake of our economy.
“Third, I am worried about one of my sons, Omar, who is Uthman’s older brother from my first wife. He is not a strong boy, mentally. To be a ruler, one must be harsh and restless and only occasionally kind. Some function in the opposite manner, but I believe that people respect the ruler who is tough and clear. Omar is kind and soft, perhaps an unfortunate trait inherited from his mother.
“Those are the things that consume me these days, Father.”
There was an awkward silence. The khalifa helped himself to another date, chewing carefully. Presently, he spat out the pit.
“What is your view, Father?”
Father Bąkiewicz reflected.
“I can think of more than a dozen possibilities. Could the issues be linked? And what is the name of your son? Omar?”
“How could the issues be linked?” The khalifa was puzzled. “Yes, my son’s name is Omar.”
“May I have the pleasure of meeting him?”
“Fine. Let me summon him,” said the khalifa.
The khalifa shouted out to an attendant, who came in and then departed quickly.
The conversation strayed toward art and Father Bąkiewicz’ perspectives were much appreciated. The khalifa’s interest in colour and shape was unusual, and he talked about colour radiating energy of various kinds. And about various Sudanese schools of art. I found the discussion ironic to some extent—a warlord discussing fine art with such passion and interest with a Polish “man of God.”
The attendant came back to say that Omar had not been found.
“Where is he?”
“Some say he may have gone to Khartoum.” The attendant spoke in a whisper, looking away nervously.
The khalifa reacted in the most extraordinary way.
He got up in a rage and shouted. “Again? What is wrong with this fool? I told him to stay here and listen to my report about my trip! How will he learn if he keeps going away? Fool! Imbecile!” He threw a ceramic tea cup violently at the wall. It broke into several pieces with a loud crash.
Father Bąkiewicz and I watched the khalifa. His behaviour was most extraordinary. Presently, the khalifa caught himself.
“Please visit my chief of security, Ismail El Kachief. He will help you.”
He said something to the attendant, who gestured to us to accompany him.
We stepped into the next room where we met Ismail El Kachief. He was a tall, unsmiling man with cold eyes. We walked together to his office a little way away.
“And
what precisely is this slavery issue in Bahr El Ghazal, Ismail?” Father Bąkiewicz asked as we sat down again.
“Do you know about our slave trade?” the chief asked, observing Father Bąkiewicz carefully.
“No.”
“We have a long history of slave trade between sub-Saharan Africa all the way through to Egypt. The source has lately been Bahr El Ghazal, where there are many Dinkas, whom we use as slaves. They are filthy people with no intelligence. Traders catch them and take them to Egypt through Darfur. It was previously an important source of taxation for us till the Mahdi, the khalifa’s predecessor, unfortunately put an end to it.”
“I see.”
“The revenues through taxes were significant, though of course, many slaves died on their way to the North. The loss might have been manageable had it not been for the Suez Canal problem, which in turn caused a problem at Sawākin and reduced the revenues of the kingdom even further.”
“What is your opinion about the assassination attempts?” asked Father Bąkiewicz.
“I regret that my staff is not very competent. You must know the history of Sudan to understand what has happened. In any case, internal politics are extremely complicated here and it is difficult to get reliable intelligence. I occasionally wonder if my police give me intelligence or are loyal to someone else.”
“I see. But yet, it cannot be that you do not have an opinion.”
“Correct. I do.”
“And?”
“I think it could be the work of Omar, the son of the khalifa.” The chief spoke slowly.
Father Bąkiewicz waited for the chief to elaborate.
“Other than me, Uthman, and Omar, there is no real way that anyone in the palace would know about the movements of the khalifa.”
“And, what is more, over the past year, Omar has vanished for long periods and refuses to explain where he goes. I have tried following him but he always slips away. He invariably goes in the direction of Khartoum. I believe he meets his men there and gives them instructions.”
“But why would the son of the khalifa seek to overthrow his own father? Would he not succeed him naturally?”
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu Page 24
