King of Kings

by Wilbur Smith

  Amber wandered through it all, happy to find herself in such a crowd again. The last few months had been hard. Each day had been full of back-breaking work as she expanded her gardens and fought the rains when they threatened to overwhelm her careful system of dams and channels. She had argued constantly with Ryder and Patch, spending her days fighting for the wood and labor to set up a large kitchen and a dozen shelters while they were still struggling to build the new furnaces and produce the necessary hundred ingots of silver for Menelik. Saffron had found this pregnancy harder than the last, so was in no mood to play peacemaker. Amber had managed in the end, cajoling, bribing and occasionally stamping her foot until she got what she needed. She had even built a second story on the hut she shared with Tadesse, reached by an outside staircase, and its floor was covered with the magnificent carpet Menelik had given her. It was a sanctuary for her, but was damp and smoky. When she tried to write she could not help thinking of Penrod, how his help and encouragement had made her work on Slaves of the Mahdi a delight, and how she ached for him still.

  As she continued to wander around, Amber hoped her brother-in-law had managed to forget his worries about the mine for a little while during the ceremony. Now it occurred to her suddenly that she had not seen Saffron or Ryder for a while. She walked between the fires, the singers and laughing crowds, searching through the faces in the light of the flames. At last she saw Ryder, but Saffron was not with him. Apparently ignoring the dancing and songs around him, Ryder was deep in conversation with a European man. Amber walked up to them and put a hand on Ryder’s arm.

  “Where is Saffron?”

  “I thought she was with you,” Ryder said, his brow furrowing with concern.

  Amber gave him a swift, tight smile. “Don’t worry. She wouldn’t want to disturb you. I’ll find her.”

  The man Ryder was talking to put out his hand and Amber shook it, already looking over his shoulder to see if she could spot her sister in the throng.

  “Amber, this is Bill Peters. He’s a mining engineer.”

  Amber looked at him properly and smiled. “Oh, how wonderful!” she breathed.

  He was rather older than Ryder—indeed, the thick hair of his head and beard were almost white, but he had only the faintest lines around his eyes. His grip was firm and cool, though perhaps he held on to her hand a moment too long.

  “So glad to meet you,” she added, then plunged back into the crowd.

  •••

  Amber hated it when people said twins had a particular bond, but suddenly she was heading directly back to their little stone house as if she knew what she would find. Everything was dark. She lit the lamp by the door and held it up.

  “Saffron?”

  She heard a groan. Saffron was lying in the middle of the floor, still wearing her beautiful dress from the coronation, and great lengths of green and blue material swirled around her on the sandy floor like the waters of an oasis.

  “Saffy? Saffy, speak to me!”

  “I called,” Saffron whispered, struggling to her feet, “but the singing—no one could hear me. The baby is coming, Amber.”

  Amber did not waste time with words. She ran back to the edge of the crowd and grabbed the shoulder of a young boy watching the festivities from a safe distance. At first the child was too shocked to hear a white woman speaking Amharic to understand what she was saying, but as soon as he had grasped her meaning, he ran off into the darkness in search of Ryder.

  Amber returned to her sister. She was leaning with her hands flat on the rough table in the middle of the room and panting hard.

  “It’s coming quickly, Amber.”

  “We must cut you out of the dress.”

  “No, don’t do that!” Saffron’s head jerked up. “You’ll ruin . . .” Then she bent forward suddenly and let herself fall to her knees on the earth floor, her forehead resting on the wood.

  “Fine, cut it off, cut it off!”

  Amber moved quickly, grabbing her knife from her travel bag, then crouching behind her sister and using it to slit through the ribbon lacing, the dress easing open with a sigh.

  “Hurry, I can hardly breathe,” Saffy said in a gasp. “Where is Ryder?”

  “He’s coming, darling,” Amber said firmly, then pulled Saffron’s arms free from the tight sleeves of the dress as if she were a doll, and half lifted her out of it, kicking it aside before allowing Saffron to drop to her knees again, still in her long, white shift. Amber took the shawl from her own shoulders and wrapped it around Saffron’s.

  She groaned again. “Amber, it doesn’t feel right.”

  Amber put her arms around her sister’s shoulders. “Do you need to stand up?”

  “Yes.” She leaned against Amber as she tried to lift her, then cried out again. “No, no . . . let me down. Amber, something is wrong!”

  Her face was drawn and her hair was damp with sweat. A wave of brutal pain made her cry out and Amber suppressed a squeal as she felt her sister’s fingers crush the bones of her wrist together. For another five agonizing minutes she could do nothing but murmur soothing words. Saffron was horribly pale and breathing hard.

  “Hang on, darling! Ryder is coming . . . Then I shall fetch a doctor.”

  As soon as she said it she realized she had no idea where she might find one. Would the empress help her, perhaps? They had met very briefly only the day before, and she was rather cold toward them. Someone at the court would know whom to fetch. How long would it take her to find someone?

  Saffron cried out again, just as Ryder arrived at a run. As soon as he had taken Saffron in his arms, Amber sprang to her feet.

  “I must find a doctor!”

  Ryder only nodded as he cradled Saffron against him. In the doorway she almost ran into Bill Peters, the engineer Ryder had been talking to earlier.

  “Excuse me, I have to find—”

  “A doctor?” Bill said. “When I heard what the matter was, I took the liberty . . .”

  He stepped aside and Amber saw for the first time that he was not alone. A small white man in eyeglasses and a European suit was standing beside him, holding a large medical bag.

  “This is Doctor Yuri Alexandrovich Mishkin. He is here as part of the Russian mission.”

  “Oh, thank you!” Amber exclaimed. “This way, doctor.” She pulled him into the hut, where Saffron and Ryder were huddled together by the table. “Ryder, Saffy, this is Doctor Yuri Alexandrovich Mishkin.”

  Ryder only nodded. Saffron looked up and Amber felt her heart freeze as she saw the fear in her sister’s eyes. The doctor must have seen it too.

  “Mrs. Courtney,” Mishkin said, smiling broadly as he set down his bag and took off his jacket, “I have delivered a hundred healthy babies in peasant shacks, and half of those in snowstorms. This place is a palace in comparison. You are safe with me. Now first we need to make you comfortable.”

  He gave his orders with precision and assurance. Amber dashed to and fro, fetching clean linen and hot water, while Ryder remained with his wife, holding her hand in his great paw as she rode the agony of her contractions.

  Once the linen and water were fetched, Amber knelt at her sister’s side, echoing the doctor’s gentle words of encouragement. She had almost convinced herself that her feeling of dread was just foolish imagination when Saffron gasped, squealed and shifted her hips sideways. Amber turned to look at Yuri Alexandrovich Mishkin and heard him mutter something short and sharp in Russian under his breath.

  “Doctor?”

  “One moment, I must check the baby’s position. Forgive me, my dear.” His tone was firm and clear. He bent over Saffron. She screamed and writhed away from him.

  “For God’s sake, what’s happening?” Ryder said.

  “The baby’s shoulder is stuck behind the pelvic bone,” the doctor said. “The child is not getting the air it needs. Keep Mrs. Courtney calm. She must not push.”

  Saffy’s eyes were wild and dancing. “I must, I must, Amber!”

  Amber t
ook hold of her sister’s face and turned it toward her, staring into her eyes, seeing the light of the bonfires outside reflected in them.

  “Saffy! Saffy, look at me! Do you remember when I was sick in Khartoum?”

  Some sense returned to her sister’s glazed expression. “Cholera, you were dying.”

  “I was, but I had you, and Ryder saved me, because I did what I was told.”

  “But, Amber—”

  “Saffron Benbrook! No excuses! Do not push!”

  Saffron pulled her head away and screamed, the muscles and veins in her neck standing out as she fought the urge.

  “Not much longer, Saffy, I swear it,” Ryder said. “Doctor?”

  Mishkin’s face was pink and his eyes looked huge and swimming behind his glasses. “One moment, just one moment. I nearly have it.”

  Saffron groaned and Amber looked up and saw Ryder’s face. The agony of tension in Saffron’s face was reflected in his.

  “Saffy! Think of Ryder, think of Leon!” Amber said.

  She felt Saffron’s fingers squeeze her own again. The doctor twisted sideways and Saffron screamed again.

  “Now!” Mishkin shouted. As he slid his glasses back up his nose, his fingers left a bloody smear across his cheek. “Push now, Mrs. Courtney!”

  Saffron lifted her hips and back off the rough blankets and arched her spine with effort as she pushed. The shriek she gave ended with a groan and she collapsed sideways onto Ryder’s chest.

  “Yes, Mrs. Courtney!” Mishkin called out. “Once more.”

  Saffron’s cry was animal, torn from her through gritted teeth. Ryder gripped her shoulders as if she would slip away from him into hell.

  “Good! Excellent,” Mishkin breathed.

  Amber could smell blood and heard the slippery rush of flesh and fluid. She twisted around and saw the doctor was cradling something in his arms, bloody and still. Saffron sighed and her head fell back against Ryder again.

  “Come on, my little one,” Mishkin whispered into the sudden, terrible stillness, broken only by Saffron’s ragged breaths. He was wiping roughly at the baby’s face with his handkerchief. “Come join us in the world, my treasure.”

  A cough and then a thin wail. Amber saw the baby raise its fist, stretching out into the air for the first time. Mishkin took hold of the tiny hand, testing the baby’s limbs, then nodded to himself. “Ochen horosho. Very good!”

  “Is everything all right, doctor?” Amber asked, a tremble creeping into her voice.

  He smiled at her warmly. “Mr. and Mrs. Courtney,” Mishkin said gently, as Saffron’s eyes opened. “You have a healthy daughter.”

  He passed the baby to her mother, then cut the cord, and Amber let out a long sigh. Ryder did not try to speak, but stared down at the tiny infant nestling against his wife’s chest. Amber lifted the lamp so they could see her face. Her eyelids fluttered open as the light fell across them and she gave a breathy hiccup. Ryder felt a sudden shift as his world broke apart, reformed around his love for the little girl.

  Mishkin adjusted Saffron’s shift and laid a blanket over her, then stood, leaning heavily on the rickety table.

  “What shall we call her, Saffy?” Ryder asked.

  Saffron could not speak above a whisper. “Doctor, what was your mother’s name?” she asked.

  Amber held a beaker of brandy and water to her sister’s mouth, and Saffy took a sip as she waited for him to reply.

  Mishkin was already washing and packing his instruments. “My mother was an Englishwoman, madam. A painter who came to the Russian court and met my father during her stay. Her name was Penelope.”

  Saffron looked at her husband and he nodded.

  “Penelope Courtney, then. You have all our thanks, doctor.”

  “Neechevo, which in Russian means: ‘don’t mention it.’ It was a pleasure to bring such a pretty child into the world.”

  Amber showed him out, but did not go back into the house at once. Ryder and Saffron would want to be alone with Penelope for a little while.

  Something moved in the shadows and Amber jumped.

  “I’m so sorry, I did not wish to startle you.” It was Bill Peters. “I hope all is well.”

  Amber put out both her hands to him. “Yes, indeed it is, and all our thanks to you. Where did you find that wonderful man?”

  He laughed. “I came over here with the Russian delegation. So when I heard Mrs. Courtney was in labor, I thought of Yuri.”

  Amber wrinkled her nose in surprise. “But I thought you were English by your accent?”

  “So I am. Born in England, then began to travel as soon as my apprenticeship was over. Silver mines in Bohemia, then I began working in the Urals, but the climate is unforgiving in that region. When I heard some men from St. Petersburg were coming to see Menelik, I signed up to join them and try my luck here.”

  He smiled at her and Amber felt some strange sliver of fear in her belly, but could not for the life of her think why. Perhaps it was because the smile did not seem to reach Bill’s eyes, which remained oddly cold and blank. The bonfire nearest to them suddenly crackled and flared, sending up a great fountain of sparks. The crowd gathered around it shouted and laughed, then the music started up again—bouncing, joyful melodies, a chorus of delight and new beginnings.

  Bill offered Amber his arm with a slight bow. “Perhaps I can bore you with my whole life story while we have a walk through the crowds, Miss Benbrook?”

  She was being ridiculous. It had been just some trick of the night, the smoke and excitements of the day.

  She put her hand lightly on his arm. “Call me Amber. That would be delightful, Bill.”

  The following morning, when Ryder told them he had asked Bill to join them at Courtney Mine and Camp, Amber was determined to be pleased. They were desperate for an engineer at the mine and now one had fallen into their laps like a gift from heaven. She had managed to ignore her strange reaction to Bill’s smile and remember the debt they all owed him for finding the wonderful Doctor Yuri. His company had been very pleasant. Bill had told her all about his travels and asked sensible questions about Khartoum and Amber’s rescue from the harem. She nevertheless felt an itch at the back of her mind that she could not quite name. Perhaps it was the easy fluency with which Bill told her about his life. She was a storyteller herself and she heard a note in his account that seemed not quite right, like when a string of an instrument is out of tune, and that false tone keeps creeping in, no matter the skill of the player. She told herself she was being fanciful, and set about cooking Saffron something to eat.

  Empress Taitu was gracious enough to act as godmother to Penelope, and Ryder spent far too much of the money he received from Menelik’s steward entertaining every man, woman and child who came to offer their congratulations. Menelik sent presents for the whole family, including oil paints and canvas for a delighted Saffron and a typewriter for Amber. The sisters pounced on these treasures with shrieks of delight and Saffron at once sent a note to the empress asking permission to paint her portrait as soon as she had recovered from the birth. Permission was graciously granted and by the time the portrait was complete, both Saffron and Amber had come to love the fierce little empress, and she in her turn let it be known the sisters were under her particular protection.

  Of Menelik they saw very little, and they heard no discussion about the treaty while they were in Addis. The Italian envoy seemed very at home in the court. Amber asked Ryder one evening what he thought as they all sat together in front of their temporary home. Among the emperor’s presents had been a set of very comfortable camp chairs, shipped, apparently, direct from Harrods.

  “Does Menelik not care? Or do you think he means to accept that Ethiopia is a protectorate of Italy?”

  Ryder undid the top button on his collar and stretched out his legs. Saffron handed him his glass of whisky and settled Penelope on her shoulder, patting her tiny back.

  “He cares. And he’ll never accept Italy’s ‘protection,’” Ryd
er said. “He is playing a long game. And the Italians are so keen to keep him from complaining about the treaty and their new colony, Eritrea, they are selling him every rifle he wants to buy.”

  “The empress told us he is spending his share of your silver on guns,” Amber said and sipped her tea. She did not like whisky and in any case, Saffron would never allow anyone other than Ryder to help themselves to the spirit.

  “From what I’ve seen of Menelik,” Ryder said, “when he has enough of those guns, he’ll use them to deal with anyone who challenges his authority in Ethiopia. Including the Italians.”

  Ryder stopped speaking and his face broke into a broad smile. A heavily veiled woman was approaching them through the crowd, and by her side was a white man, respectably dressed but looking uncomfortable in his smart clothes. His gray hair stuck up at all sorts of strange angles from his head, making him look like an alarmed sheepdog. Amber recognized him at once. He had once worked for Ryder as engineer of his steam ship, the Sacred Ibis, and had suffered the horrors of Khartoum at their side.

  “Why, Jock!” she shouted, and bounced up to him, catching him by the shoulders and kissing him firmly on his pink scrubbed face.

  He blushed furiously. “Is that little Miss Amber? Why, what a treat you’ve grown up into. We are just coming to visit your sister. We heard she’d had a baby and wish to offer our congratulations.”

  Saffron gave a cry of delight. “Oh, how wonderful!”

  She passed the baby to Amber and stood up a little awkwardly so she could take her turn at embarrassing Jock with a kiss.

  Ryder clapped him on the shoulder and shook his hand hard. “Jock, it’s good to see you! How is the Sacred Ibis? How are you?”

  Jock looked both pleased and embarrassed by the warmth of his reception, and answered in a broad Scottish accent, untempered by years of adventure in Africa. “Oh, I’m right enough. And the Sacred Ibis is still the best little steamer on the Blue Nile, though she is called Durkhan Sama now, you know. Madam pays a good wage.”