King of Kings

by Wilbur Smith

  Patch seemed to struggle for a moment, then gave a short nod and lapsed into silence. Perhaps he was learning something of this world from his new Abyssinian wife after all.

  Seeing that Patch was done, Amber spoke. “Ryder, I don’t think getting workers for the mine is going to be a problem anymore. I think we are going to have plenty of new recruits in the coming months,” she said.

  Ryder frowned. “Why? I think we’ll always need good men, especially ones who are willing and smart enough to do the work in the processing sheds, but you know as well as I do how hard it is to tempt an Abyssinian from his land and his cattle.”

  He noticed Amber looking at his wife, and saw out of the corner of his eye Saffron give a microscopic nod.

  “I went with Ato Asfaw back to his village to see Iyasu home. He’s recovering well, and telling everyone how you and Tadesse saved his life,” Amber said. “Ryder, disease has broken out among the cattle. Rinderpest. Even if this year’s rains are good, I’m not sure half the farmers will have oxen left to plow their ground properly. They could starve, and some people are going to come to us. Perhaps a lot.”

  Ryder thought of the thin frames of the bandits who had attacked them, the flicker in Ato Asfaw’s eyes when Ryder had asked in the usual way about his cattle and fields. He straightened his back.

  “Very well. Amber, work out how we’ll cope if we end up with refugees arriving at the camp. Chances are they won’t come until after the rains, but we should get ready. But first see if you can get any more news from Menelik’s people. I want to know what he’s agreed with the Italians before I start negotiating with him, not wait weeks until the official proclamations. Patch, start work on Rusty’s notebook.” He felt Saffron’s fingers under the collar of his shirt, touching the warm skin around his collarbone. “See Menelik and his men have everything they want.”

  Patch and Amber nodded, and left the hut without saying anything more.

  •••

  An hour later, Ryder sat up from the bed and reached for his shirt. Saffron laid her hand on his thigh.

  “I missed you,” she said softly, and curled around so she could kiss the bruise at the top of his hip.

  “I am going to see if Patch has made any progress with Rusty’s notebook. I want to have some idea of what it means before I talk to Menelik.”

  “Must you?”

  He made the mistake of looking down at her, her sensual smile, her honey-colored hair falling over her naked shoulders. She met his gaze, looking up at him through her dark lashes, and licked her lower lip. He groaned and pushed her back onto the bed, lying against her, feeling himself harden. She arched her back, lifting her breasts toward him. They were fuller already. He cupped one, weighing it in his hand, and she moaned very softly, then as he lowered his mouth to kiss it, he let his other hand run up her inner thigh till he met the softness of her mound. She gasped and he lifted his mouth from her nipple. Perhaps Rusty might profit from a little more time alone with the notebook.

  “Quietly, my darling. We don’t wish to disturb the emperor.”

  She giggled and twisted her head to one side so she could smother the sound of her arousal by biting on the flesh of her arm. He brought her near to the peak of her excitement before shifting on top of her. She clasped her hands on his shoulders and bit her lip as he slid into her.

  Amber went in search of one of Menelik’s servants, who had been pointed out to her as a scribe. If anyone was likely to know and tell her about the details of the treaty with the Italians, it would be him. She decided she would ask him how he made his ink. She was running low on her own supply, and her attempts to make a substitute had been unsatisfactory. It stained everything but paper.

  The man was welcoming and respectful, and happily shared the secrets of his trade. He was obviously pleased to discuss his work with such a beautiful young woman and one who could speak such excellent Amharic. He pressed her to accept a quantity of his own ink, and Amber asked if she might see some of his work. The treaty, perhaps? He hesitated, but Amber smiled and reminded him that in a few days the treaty would be read to both the parliament of Italy and to the princes loyal to Menelik in Addis. He looked reassured and carefully unrolled the treaty Menelik had just signed with the Italians in Wuchale.

  Amber traced the lettering with her fingers. The script of Amharic was very beautiful to her, a series of strange shapes that looked like monuments, crosses and squares arranged in neat lines across the vellum, like a map of some ancient land strewn with fantastic ruins. The scribe blushed and shrugged at her praise, then fetched from his strong box the Italian version of the same treaty. He knew no Italian, but the cursive script, so different from his own, fascinated him. They bent their heads over Amber’s notebook and she showed him how to write his own name in Latin letters, and they compared, laughing, his attempts with the copperplate flow of Italian penmanship. As they worked, Amber took careful note of the lands granted to the Italians as part of their colony of Eritrea. Courtney Mine remained firmly in the territory controlled by Menelik.

  Then Amber frowned. She blinked, then asked, trying to keep her voice light, to see again the matching clause in the Amharic version. She read them both several times, committing the phrases to memory in both languages, then before the scribe noticed anything wrong, started to talk once more about pens, papers and ink. When she left she gave her second best fountain pen to the scribe, a gift that made tears start in his eyes, and left in a somber mood to look for Ryder.

  •••

  The guards were surprised to see Ryder and Amber appear on the escarpment late in the afternoon, but they were civil, and it was not long before they were ushered into the huge tent in the center of the camp and the king’s presence. Menelik was reclining on a heap of cushions in the middle of the room like an Arab. He invited them to sit with him. One of his servants was roasting coffee on a small brazier among the rich carpets and wall hangings, perfuming the enclosed space with those dark and astringent aromas. They talked politely about the roads and the weather until they were served their coffee, black and thick in small china cups, then Menelik dismissed the servant.

  “You may speak freely now, my friends,” he said, sipping his coffee. “I thought we had agreed to negotiate this evening, Mr. Ryder. I hope you will persuade me it is in my interest to allow your works to continue.”

  “I look forward to our discussion, sire. I come because my wife’s sister wishes to bring something to your attention,” Ryder said, and Menelik turned his thoughtful gaze on Amber.

  Amber had met and spoken to many important men while she was in Europe, but she felt nervous and afraid before Menelik. She had spent the last hour thinking through the implications of what she had learned and they terrified her. She thought of her parents and of her sisters, and told herself to be brave.

  “I was speaking with your scribe this afternoon, sire,” she said in her low, clear voice. “He did me the great honor of showing me some of his work—the treaty you have just signed with the Italian government.”

  Menelik took another sip of his coffee and continued to watch her.

  “I know something of the Italian language, and I noticed something that troubled me.” Her mouth went dry.

  “Continue,” Menelik said. His voice was gentle, but no one could mistake the tone of command with which he spoke.

  Amber shifted her gaze to the richly woven carpet at her feet. Red and bright yellow, patterns that might be abstract but that resolved somehow into birds of paradise, mountains and pastures.

  “My lord,” she said, not daring to look up, “clause seventeen of the treaty in Amharic says that you, King of Kings, may, if you wish, make use of the Italian government and their diplomats to communicate with the other great powers of the world in Europe and beyond.”

  Menelik studied the remaining coffee in his cup, tipping it back and forth, but not letting any of it spill. “Until I have men I can send out as ambassadors into the world, Miss Amber, to make use
of our Italian friends in such a way is both practical and sensible. Do you not agree?”

  She glanced at him quickly, then returned her attention to the carpet. “Yes, sire, of course. But I looked at the Italian version too. In that it says you must make use of the Italians in that way.”

  She felt her face flush red. She and Ryder had spoken in whispers about the clause in the camp. The Italian clause would be like a declaration to all of Europe and the whole world beyond that Ethiopia, all the vast territory now under Menelik’s authority, was in effect the protectorate of Italy, unable to make her own sovereign arrangements with foreign powers. In the Amharic version, Abyssinia remained an independent nation.

  Menelik was silent a long time. Amber had expected him to rage, for his anger to be swift and terrible, but somehow this heavy silence was more frightening than an explosion of wrath would have been.

  “I do not know more than a few phrases in Italian,” he said at last. “But I read the treaty written in my own tongue with great care. You agree, Miss Amber, that in my language it says I may consult.”

  “Without doubt, sire.”

  “But you are certain that in the Italian it says ‘must’?”

  “It may be an oversight, a simple error of transcription, sire, but I am certain, the official version in the Italian language that bears your signature and seal says ‘must.’”

  Amber could swear she smelled lightning. Her hands had formed into tight fists at her side and she dared not look up. She felt Ryder’s strong fingers close over her own and squeeze them briefly. She felt such a profound gratitude for his comfort in that moment, she swore she would never tease or annoy him again.

  Menelik stood, and Amber and Ryder did the same.

  “A mistake in the transcription,” he said quietly. “That is almost certainly the case. To think my Italian friends were attempting something . . . underhand would distress me.”

  “Yes, sire,” Amber said, staring at the carpet again.

  “I thank you for bringing this matter to my attention, as you put it.” He turned to Ryder. “Mr. Ryder, I am very glad I decided to visit you here. It seems to me you and your people are excellent diplomats.”

  Ryder thanked him, his voice even and calm.

  “I can assume, I think, that this mistake will not be spoken of outside your family?”

  Ryder nodded.

  “Good,” Menelik continued. “Now, Mr. Ryder, my Italian friends would very much like me to drive Ras Alula from power in this region, and snuff out the claims of Ras Mengesha to my throne at once. I find, however, that I have been away from my capital and my queen for too long already. When I have enjoyed one more night at Courtney Camp, and we have concluded our negotiations, I will take my men south.”

  Ryder was listening very carefully, both to the words and to the layers of meaning under them. He did not wish to miss the gold under the wax. Menelik turned away from them both for a moment, choosing his words and their weight with the same care as the Ethiopian poets and minstrels.

  “I have the greatest respect for Ras Alula,” Menelik said, facing them again. “He wishes to serve the emperor, who is dead. It is a mistake, but a mistake made for honorable reasons. Now I have given the Italians the right to protect themselves in the area surrounding Massowah, to that he must submit. But you may, Mr. Ryder, tell Alula and Mengesha they still have my love, for I love them just as a father must love even his most wayward children. And you may tell him that, for the moment at least, I shall make no move against him. If he provokes my Italian allies, the consequences must fall upon his head. But if he does not move against me, he need not fear an attack from the warriors of Shoa.”

  “I understand, my lord,” Ryder said.

  Menelik clapped his hands together sharply. Three of his servants entered the tent, and Amber caught a glimpse of dusk behind them.

  “We will join you in the camp in a little while,” Menelik said. Then he addressed his servants, pointing down at the carpet under his feet. “This is to be taken down into Courtney Camp. A present from myself to Miss Amber.”

  Amber gasped. “Thank you, sire. It is beautiful.”

  Menelik smiled, and everything felt cool and welcoming again. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Little sister, you seemed to find the carpet so fascinating while we spoke. It must be yours.”

  •••

  The feast that night was a triumph. Freshly woven straw mats were laid across the central square and torches and oil lamps were lit around the church and along the fences that held back the livestock, as if fuel were as plentiful as sand. The smell of roasting meat filled the camp and Menelik summoned his musicians from the escarpment to entertain the camp. The women dressed in their best, braided and oiled their hair, and draped gauzy shawls of turquoise and gold over their shoulders. The young girls brought out the wicker massob baskets on which the spongy sour pancakes of injera sat, and in the center of each were piled hotly spiced chicken and lamb stews and fragrant pepper and bean sauces. The older children wove between the guests, carrying heavy gourds of tulla, filling the beakers.

  Menelik sent his canopy and stool back up the hill and sat next to Ryder on one of the tree trunk benches. Ryder offered him the basket and Menelik tore off a piece of injera and used it to scoop up some of the stew from the central mound, put it into his mouth and chewed with his eyes slightly closed, then grinned and clapped his hands together as he swallowed.

  “Excellent, excellent!” he said, and nodded toward Saffron. It was the signal for everyone else to begin, and soon everyone was ripping strips of injera off the shared platters, eating or handing morsels back to the waiting children. Conversation became general and loud, and the musicians started a fresh tune with a jangling, bouncing rhythm that made the flames of the bonfire dance. The tension of the afternoon seemed to have melted away in the firelight and as Ryder looked around the faces in the crowd, he saw only laughter and pride.

  Menelik took another bite and leaned slightly toward Ryder. “How many ingots have you now?”

  “Very few, my lord,” Ryder replied evenly, and Menelik grunted. “Our small stock of refined silver I took to Ras Alula in tribute.”

  “Perhaps I should take this land from you and put it in more skillful hands,” Menelik said. “Many foreigners come to my court now, engineers and miners among them.”

  Ryder breathed slowly. “I have sunk my fortune into this land, and I know it better than my own face. At last, I see the path ahead of me clearly, and the wealth the land promises is within reach. I may go about in rags today, but give me time, my lord, and I shall fill your treasury with silver.”

  “And your own pockets.”

  Ryder nodded. “Yes. But I shall deal with you and your people honestly.”

  It was dangerous to refer to the differences in the Italian treaty in this way, and Ryder knew it, but Menelik had to give him time. He watched the firelight play across the face of the King of Kings. Ryder thought he looked angry, but Ryder could not tell if that anger was directed toward him or the Italians.

  “How much time?” Menelik asked.

  Ryder calculated swiftly in his head. “To reach full production? Five years.”

  Menelik snorted and waved his hand. “Five years? Mrs. Saffron’s art and Mrs. Amber’s book have made them rich. Go home, and let your wife buy silk shirts for your whole family.”

  Ryder was surprised, and it must have shown in his face. Menelik glanced at him, his eyes glinting with satisfaction.

  “We receive visitors from France, Russia and even Britain, Mr. Ryder,” Menelik continued. “I did not come here without knowing something of your family and your history. I intend to buy a printing press and set it up in Entoto. I shall have Mrs. Amber’s book translated.”

  Ryder controlled his temper. He was not going to pour his blood and treasure into the ground and have nothing to show for it but a copy of his sister-in-law’s book in Amharic.

  “Great King, I cannot be reduced to the
slave of my young wife. You cannot ask it of me, sire. You say you know me; then you must know I mean what I say. I will wrest the silver from these hills, and I will make proper tribute. Yes, five years seems long, but what is five years in the history of kings and empires?”

  Menelik lifted his beaker to his mouth and took a deep draft, looking up into the star-scattered sky.

  “So now I am your great king? Good. Very well. You may continue to work for now. My coronation will be held after the rains. Attend me then, and bring me one hundred ingots of silver. Do that, four times a year for five years, and I shall confirm your right to this land and its wealth forever.”

  Ryder felt his heart freeze. To produce a dozen ingots had taken months. Even if Rusty’s notebook allowed them to increase production fivefold it would be almost impossible. Then to have to hand over every shining bar to Menelik for five years?

  His head filled with images of loss and sacrifice, the steamer, Rusty. He thought of the days and weeks spent struggling against the rock and ore alongside his men, and his hands clenched. If Menelik stood by this insane demand, Ryder would dynamite the workings himself, then take up his rifle and go and fight along Ras Alula until the bandits or Menelik’s troops gutted him.

  Menelik tore off more of the injera and used it to spoon up the stew.

  “Bring it to me, Mr. Ryder, and I shall sell it through Djbouti on your behalf. Twenty out of every hundred ingots I shall keep for myself. Perhaps I will sell them, perhaps I shall just build a silver throne out of them for my coronation.”

  Menelik was pleased with the trick he had played and he watched the emotions chasing each other across Ryder’s face with glee.

  “It is a test, Mr. Ryder. Prove to me you can wrest wealth from these hills and we shall work together. From this point forward I will guarantee the safe transit of your silver, and you shall pay no other tithe to any other ruler or official in my empire. In return you shall promise to sell your silver only through me. This is not a raid, my friend; it is the beginning, I hope, of a partnership. Now, do you agree?”