by Wilbur Smith
She was touched by his naivety. Sometimes it was like talking to a small child. Not for the first time she felt an extraordinary tenderness towards him, which she had forcibly to suppress. This is no child. This is a shrewd, ruthless, arrogant tyrant. I am completely at his mercy. Why did that thought excite her, she wondered. But before she could decide the answer he made another disconcerting change of subject.
“But I have heard that their steamers are able to voyage on the land further and faster than the bravest horse. Is this true?”
“It is true, mighty Khalif. These carriages are different from the river steamers and are called steam locomotives.” It took her a few moments to rally her thoughts, and she described how she had journeyed from
London to Portsmouth in a single day, including a stop for refreshment. “That is a distance greater than from Metemma to Khartoum.” Her voice was husky and disturbed. He still held her chin, but now he stroked her cheek and touched a lock of her hair. She was surprised at the gentleness of his hard fingers, this savage warrior from the primal deserts.
“What unguent do you use to keep your skin and hair so soft?” he asked.
“This is how I was born.”
“It grows dark. Light the lamps so that I may see you more clearly.”
She remembered how Amber had disapproved of the transparency of the silk she wore. She slipped the light woollen shawl off her shoulder as she stood up, and tossed it over the table as she went to take a taper from the fire pot. She cupped the flame in her hands and carried it across to the lamp. It caught, then burnt brightly; the warm yellow light chased the shadows along the walls. She lingered there a little longer, trimming the wick until the flame was burning evenly. Her back was turned to him, but she was aware of the picture she made. I am acting like a harlot, she thought, then seemed to hear her father’s voice: “It’s an honourable profession. The oldest in the world.” She smiled in confusion as the ghost voice went on, delivering his often repeated advice to her: “Whatever you do, do it to the very best of your ability.” It was a blessing.
“I shall try, Daddy,” she replied inwardly, and at that she felt a touch. She had not heard Osman Atalan cross the room behind her. His hands on her shoulders were strong and steady. She smelt him. It was a good smell like a well-groomed horse or a cat. Muslim men of his rank bathed as many times in a day as an Englishman did in a month.
She stood submissively as his hands ran down from her shoulders, under her armpits, then reached in front of her to take her breasts. They filled each of his hands. He took her nipples and rolled them between his fingers, then pinched them until she gasped. The pressure was skilfully applied, just sufficient to startle and arouse her without inflicting pain. Then he pulled her back against him. It was some moments before she realized that he had shed his jibba and was now naked. Through the silk of her robe she could feel the hard muscular length of his body pressing against her back. Tentatively she pushed back with her buttocks, and found conclusive proof that he did not find her repellent. With Nazeera’s advice and instruction still sharp in her mind, Rebecca stood without moving as she appraised that which the Khalif was pressing against her. It seemed to be of similar shape to Nazeera’s hippo tusk, and it was certainly every bit as hard.
She turned slowly in his arms and looked down. It seems that I am to be blessed indeed, she thought. Like the ivory tusk, he was smooth and slightly curved. She touched him, then encompassed him with her hand. Her fingers were barely able to meet round his girth. She made the movements of her hand that Nazeera had demonstrated and felt him throb and leap in her grip.
“Great Khalif, in your manly attributes you are peerless and imperial.”
He took the word ‘imperial’ as a comparison to the Light of the World, Muhammad el Mahdi, who now sat at the right hand of Allah, and he was well pleased. “I am your stallion,” he said.
“And I am your filly, in awe of your strength and majesty. Treat me gently, I beg you, sweet lord.”
She continued to hold him. She expected him to pounce upon her as Ryder Courtney had done, but his restraint surprised, then titillated her. She kept her grip on him as he undressed her, and was still holding him as she fell back on his mattress. She attempted to direct him to her source, using both hands and coming up on her elbows so she could watch him disappear inside her. But he resisted her urging, and began to examine her as though she were indeed a thoroughbred filly, turning her this way and that, lifting each limb in turn, admiring and caressing them. It was at first flattering to be at the centre of his attention, but he was so unhurried and deliberate that she became impatient. She longed for the delicious sensation of being deeply invaded that she had last known with Ryder Courtney.
Still he lingered over her, taking his time so deliberately that she felt she must scream in her desperation. She had once owned a tabby cat named Butter. In her season Butter would yowl and sob to attract feline admirers. Rebecca understood that imperative now. How many thousand women has he known? she wondered. For him there is no urgency. He cares not at all that he is causing me such distress.
She tugged at him again with both hands. “I beg of you, great Atalan, lack of you is torture beyond my ability to endure. Please be merciful and end it now.”
“You asked me to treat you gently,” he reminded her, with a smile.
“I am a silly creature who does not know her own mind or nature. Forget what I have said, my lord. You know much better than I ever will what must be done. Make haste, I entreat you. I can wait no longer.” He did as she asked, and this time she could not forbear from screaming, louder and longer than Butter ever had. None of Osman Atalan’s other women had ever acknowledged his mastery in such a comprehensive vocal fashion. He was flattered and amused.
He did not dismiss her on rising, as was his habit, but kept her beside him as he ate his breakfast. Soon none of the other concubines he had brought with him from Omdurman were honoured by a summons to his private quarters. Rebecca took up almost permanent abode in them. She did not bore him, as the others were wont to do.
Once Osman Atalan had assembled all the expert first-hand information of the local guides and hunters and traders, he employed Rebecca’s artistic skills and penmanship to incorporate it into a large-scale map of the border and the disputed country immediately beyond, where he expected one day soon to do battle with the Ethiopians. He gave a tracing of this map to Penrod and sent him out on a scouting mission to check it against the terrain. He could not entrust this task to any of his aggagiers: for all their loyalty and dedication to him, none was more than barely literate and none possessed more than a vestige of map-reading skills. However, to exclude any from such an important expedition would be to afford them deep insult.
On the other hand he was still not certain how far out of his sight he could trust the slave Abadan Riji. He solved this delicate problem by selecting al-Noor and six other aggagiers to accompany him, ostensibly as his jailers but in reality as his bodyguard. Osman left them in no doubt that they should accede to the reasonable orders and directions of Abadan Riji in the accomplishment of the objects of the expedition. On the other hand if they returned to Gallabat without their charge, he would decapitate them.
After his scouts had left, Osman Atalan remained at Gallabat to review with the Dervish governor the state of his province, also to receive the Abyssinian emissaries from Aksum. Emperor John was anxious to discern the true reason for the presence of such an important Dervish on his borders. His ambassadors brought valuable gifts, and assurances of mutual peace and goodwill. Osman sent back a message that as soon as the season of the big rains ended he would travel to Gondar to meet the emperor.
Meanwhile the thunderstorms raged daily over the mountains, affording him ample opportunity for prolonged discourse with his new favourite.
Penrod’s expedition left Gallabat in the middle of the morning, just as soon as the rain of the previous night had blown over and the sun broken out between the high cumulu
s-nimbus cloud mountains. They were as lightly equipped as a tribal raiding party. Each man carried his own weapons and bedroll on the pommel of his saddle, while three pack mules brought up the rear with leather bags of provisions and cooking pots bouncing on their backs. Half a mile beyond the last buildings of the town they came upon a group of five women sitting beside the track. They were engaged in the endless feminine pastime of hairdressing. This was the equivalent of the aggagiers’ sword-honing, and filled their idle hours, of which there were many.
It was not possible for an Arab woman to arrange her hair alone: it was a social enterprise that involved all her close companions. The styling was elaborate and might take two or three days of patient, skilled creation. In the year that Amber had lived in the harem she had learnt the art so well that, with her nimble fingers and eye for detail, her skills were much in demand among the other women of Osman Atalan’s zenana; so much so that she was able to charge a fee of two or three Maria Theresas, depending on the labour required.
First, the hair had to be combed out. It was usually wiry, matted with congealed cosmetics and twisted into tight curls from its previous dressing. Amber used a long skewer to separate the strands. After that she employed a coarse wooden comb to bring about some order to the dense tresses. All these preliminaries might occupy a full day, which was enlivened by laughter and the exchange of juicy morsels of scandal and gossip.
Once it was possible to burrow down as far as the scalp, a hunt for trespassers was conducted in which everyone participated. The sport was accompanied by cries of triumph and shrieks of delight as the scurrying vermin were hunted down and crushed between the fingernails. Once the field had been cleared, Amber dressed the locks with a concoction of oil of roses, myrrh, dust of sandalwood, and powder of cloves and cassia mixed with mutton fat. Then the most delicate part of the operation took place. The hair was twisted into hundreds of tiny tight plaits and set with a liberal application of sticky gum arabic and dhurra paste. This was allowed to dry until it was stiff as toffee. On the final day each tiny plait was carefully unpicked with the long tortoise shell skewer, and allowed to stand on its own, free and proud, so the woman’s head appeared twice its normal size. The finished work was usually greeted with squeals of admiration and approbation. After ten days the entire process was repeated, affording Amber a steady income.
This morning Amber was so intent on her work that she was not aware of the approaching band of aggagiers until they were less than a hundred paces off. All present were now placed in an invidious situation. Here were five of the Khalif Osman Atalan’s women, unveiled and unchaperoned, except by each other, about to be confronted by a war party of the same Khalif’s trusted warriors. The correct and diplomatic behaviour would have been for both sides to ignore the presence of the other, and for the aggagiers to pass by as though they were as invisible as the breeze.
“Captain Ballantyne!” screamed Amber, and jumped to her feet, leaving the skewer sticking from her customer’s bushy curls. She flew down the road to meet him. None of the women knew quite what to do. So they giggled and did nothing. Al-Noor, at the head of the band of horsemen, was in a similar predicament. He scowled ferociously and glanced at Penrod. Penrod ignored both him and Amber and rode on expressionlessly. Al-Noor could think of no rules to cover this situation. Al-Zahra was still a child, not a woman. She was in sight of four other women, and six warriors. By no stretch of the imagination could she be in any danger of violation. In the event of any repercussions all the others present were in equal guilt. In the last resort, he could plead with the Khalif that Abadan Riji was the leader of the band and therefore responsible for any breach of etiquette or custom. He stared straight ahead and pretended that this was not happening.
“Penrod Ballantyne, this is the first opportunity I have had to speak to you since Khartoum. “Amber danced along beside Ata.
“And you know very well why.” Penrod spoke from the corner of his mouth. “You must go back to the other women or we shall both be in serious trouble.”
“The women think you very dashing. They would never tell on us.” They were speaking English, and Penrod was sure that none of the aggagiers understood a word of it.
“Then take a message to your sister. Tell Rebecca that I will seize the first opportunity to arrange your escape, and bring both of you to safety.”
“We know that you will never let us down.”
His expression softened: she was so pretty and winsome. “How are you, Amber? Are you bearing up?”
“I was very sick, but Rebecca and Nazeera saved me. I am well now.”
“I can see that. How is your sister?”
“She is also well.” Amber wished he would not keep harking back to Rebecca.
“I have a little gift for you,” said Penrod. Surreptitiously he slipped his hand into the saddlebag and found the amber necklace and earrings he had bought in the souk. He had wrapped them in a scrap of tanned sheepskin. He did not hand them to her directly but dropped them into the road, using his horse to conceal the move from the other aggagiers.
“Wait until we have gone before you pick it up,” he instructed her, ‘and don’t let the other women see you do it.” He pressed his heels into Ata’s flanks and rode on. Amber watched him out of sight. The eyes of the other women also followed the band of horsemen. Amber scooped up the small roll of sheepskin. She could barely contain herself until she was alone in the zenana before she opened it. When she did she was almost overcome with delight.
“It is the most beautiful gift I have ever had.” She showed it to Rebecca and Nazeera. “Do you think he really likes me, Becky?”
“It is a very handsome gift, darling,” Rebecca agreed, ‘and I am sure he likes you very much.” She chose her words carefully. “As does everyone who knows you.”
“I wish I could grow up soon. Then he would no longer treat me as a child,” said Amber wistfully.
Rebecca hugged her hard and felt her tears just below the surface. At times like this the peril of their situation and her sense of responsibility towards Amber was a burden almost too heavy for her to bear. If you do to this beautiful child what you did to me, Penrod Ballantyne, she vowed silently, I shall kill you with my bare hands and dance on your grave.
The principal object of the expedition into Abyssinian territory was to scout the three main mountain passes through which any army coming down from the highlands to the relief of Gondar would have to march.
The major combe in the mountain chain was the gorge of the Atbara river. Although the ground on the north bank of this river was precipitous and guarded by sheer rock cliffs, the slope of the south bank was less demanding. The ancient trade route ran along this side of the river. It took Penrod’s party almost three weeks to reach the mouth of the pass. It rained heavily almost every night, and during the day the rivers and streams were swollen, the ground sodden and swampy. The going was so heavy that on some days they covered less than ten miles. The aggagiers suffered cruelly from the wet and cold, to which they were unaccustomed.
Once they reached the Atbara gorge they climbed the slope of the south bank and about three hundred feet above the level of the river they came upon a saucer of ground that was hidden from any traveller on the caravan road below. A tiny stream ran down the middle of this hollow. Fresh green grass grew along both banks of the stream. They had driven the horses and mules hard, and Penrod decided to rest them for a few days while he observed any traffic coming down through the pass.
Each morning Penrod and al-Noor climbed to the lip of the saucer and took up a position in a patch of dense scrub just below the skyline. On the first two days they saw no sign of any human activity. The only living creatures were a pair of black eagles who had their eyrie in the cliffs above the north bank of the river: they were curious about the two men and came sailing along the hills on their immense wings to pass close over their heads as they crouched in the scrub. During the rest of the day they were often in sight, carrying hare and sm
all antelope in their talons to their young in the shaggy pile of their nest.
Apart from these birds, the mountains seemed barren and deserted, the silence so complete that the mournful cry of the eagles carried clearly to them, although the birds were mere specks in the blue vault of cloud and sky.
Towards evening on the third day Penrod was roused from a drowsy reverie by another alien sound. At first he thought it might be a fall of rock rattling down the hillside. Then he was startled to hear the faint sound of human voices. He reached for his telescope and scanned the caravan road as far as the first bend of the pass. He saw nothing, but over the next half-hour the sounds grew louder, and when the echoes picked them up and accentuated them he was no longer in any doubt that a large caravan was threading its way down the pass. He lay on his belly and focused the spyglass on the head of the pass. Suddenly a pair of mules appeared in the field of his lens. They were heavily laden, followed immediately by another pair, then a third, until finally he counted a hundred and twenty beasts of burden and their drovers descending along the riverbank towards the vale of Gondar.
“A rich prize.” The sight had woken the bandit instincts in al-Noor and he watched the caravan hungrily. “Who can say what is in those sacks? Silver Maria Theresas? Gold sovereigns? Enough for each of us to afford a hundred camels and a dozen beautiful slave girls. Paradise enow!”
“Paradise indeed! Who could ask for more?” Penrod agreed, grim-faced. “If we lifted a finger to these good merchants, Abyssinia would be thrown into uproar. The plans of the exalted Khalif Atalan would be frustrated, and you and I would be sent to Paradise without our testicles with which to enjoy its pleasures. All things in their season, al-Noor.”
Slowly the leading mules of the column came closer until they were passing directly below Penrod’s lookout. Three men were bringing up the rear. Penrod studied them. One was a young lad, the second was short and pudgy and the third was a powerfully built rascal, who looked as if he could give good account of himself in a fracas. As they rode closer still, their features became more distinct, and Penrod almost let out an exclamation of surprise. He checked the outburst before it passed his lips. He did not want to arouse curiosity in al-Noor. He looked again more carefully and this time there could be no doubt. Ryder Courtney! His mind had difficulty accepting what his eyes had seen.
