by Wilbur Smith
“I think he looks like you, Penrod. You should keep him.”
He closed the box. “Thank you, al-Zahra, but I shall sell him. The King of Italy was keen to buy it at one stage.”
She put her arm through his. “I am so sorry about your Italian friends, Penrod.”
“So am I. They were brave men.”
Ryder called out, blowing the heavy smoke of his cheroot into the damp morning air. “Are we burying Kendal or leaving him for the hyenas?”
“Let them have him,” Penrod shouted back, then led Amber across the rough ground to where the others were waiting.
•••
One more farewell remained. Once Amber had learned that Dan had survived and sent Ryder and Penrod to her rescue, she would not leave before seeing him. He was feverish, but he knew her and thanked God for her rescue. The old man and his daughter-in-law were hopeful that he would survive.
Amber removed the jeweled combs from her hair and, with only the smallest pang of regret, she handed them over to pay for Dan’s care. They refused her at first, but she was gently insistent. Here was one family at least who would be able to buy seed and pay for oxen to help plow the fields when the rains came.
•••
They reached the battlefield of Adowa late in the morning. Penrod had given them his own account of the battle the previous evening, but nothing could have prepared Amber for the horror that awaited them. At first, as they reached the crest of the hill, Amber thought of the London parks in late autumn. The plain was scattered with heaps of what looked like fallen leaves, raked into piles. Then, with a turn in her chest, she realized that these were piles of bodies. Thousands of Ethiopian and askari soldiers tumbled together in death. Among so many black bodies, the smaller groups of white infantry, or single Italian officers who led the native battalions, stood out. They had been stripped naked and left sprawled under the blank stare of the climbing sun.
Ethiopian burial parties were dotted across the plain, digging deep pits in the sandy soil, carrying their dead from the crush of corpses and laying them to rest. The askari and Italian bodies they searched for any remaining valuables, then pushed them aside.
As the party followed the twisting path into the valley, they were observed with quiet suspicion, but the presence of Alula’s men meant they were not threatened or approached. Amber saw that some of the bodies had been mutilated. She turned away, her eyes glutted with death.
Ryder and Penrod offered no comment, and though it was clear the victory of Menelik’s army had been overwhelming, Geriel and Maki did not boast or preen. Too many of their own men had died for that, throwing themselves forward against the Italian artillery.
As they picked their way through the horror, Geriel began to speak, and Amber translated quietly for Penrod’s benefit.
“We were sent against Albertone’s brigade,” he said. “I and those who are best skilled with a rifle were sent up along the valley walls, and we watched as they fired bursting shells into the center of our lines. We saw men disappear, blown apart and leaving only blood. It was a terrible time. Until I could reach a place close enough to fire at the gunners, all I could do was count those bursts of smoke and fire, then watch as they broke great holes in the ranks. I thought: the emperor cannot have more men; no matter how vast our army, he cannot have more men. But still they came, knowing it was to their deaths. A white man was standing by the gun, directing the crew. Twenty times, as I crept forward, he pulled the lanyard to fire it, then ordered the reload and adjusted the aim. Twenty times that one gun turned our men into nothing but blood and bone before I was in range and killed him. One of his crew leaped into his place and managed to fire twice more before I killed him too.”
“I was taking messages between Alula and the emperor,” Maki said in the same soft, sad tone. “I saw Taitu herself directing our guns against them. I saw her turn to Menelik, her whole person afire, and tell him to send in his own men after Alula’s. They came fresh and fast, just as they were needed, and as they came the Oromo cavalry tore through the center. I knew then the Italians were dead. They only had to choose how much we would pay for their corpses.”
“They asked a high price,” Amber said. Even as she spoke, she lifted her eyes and saw the body of an Italian officer. His naked body was maimed and torn, his legs a mess of bone and exposed muscle. Across his belly was a deep sword wound and his entrails showed purple and obscene. His face, though, was unmarked—a young, handsome boy, pale-skinned for an Italian. His eyes and lips were closed and his expression was peaceful, as if he were only sleeping under the African sun and dreaming of some sweetheart at home.
Geriel answered her. “Indeed, Miss Amber. They asked a great price.”
“Were any prisoners taken?” Penrod asked, and Ryder translated the question.
“Many,” Geriel said. “Most fought until they were killed, but some we surprised or surrounded. Menelik told us to allow surrender, to bring him living men and do no harm to those we could take alive. Not . . .” As he spoke he made a swift, short cutting motion in the air.
Amber knew about the tradition of castrating dead enemies and prisoners. It was proof a warrior had taken a man, and robbed him of his power to make another generation of fighting men. She was glad that Menelik had issued orders against the practice, though judging from the bodies she had already seen, it was not a command all of his men had followed.
At last they were free of it. The battlefield was behind them and they were moving into the camp of Menelik’s army. The scale of it defied Amber’s senses. It was an entire city reaching all the way back along the road to Adowa. Children dashed forward and back between the tents, keeping a watchful eye on small herds of thin-looking goats. Women sat in small groups grinding teff, or walked between the tents and campfires with woven baskets on their heads. Their costumes and faces came from all across Ethiopia, each tribe keeping loosely together, tailing out from the larger tents of their commanders and princes, which were in turn clustered around the huge tents of the emperor himself. Oromo cavalry led their sturdy horses, hung with silver ornaments, out to pasture; groups of priests sang their devotions in the open air; and the warriors watched the activity around them with grave and formal expressions. Some carried Italian revolvers on their hips or wore Sam Browne belts across their traditional clothing. From time to time one or another called out to Geriel: “Who are your prisoners?”
“English guests,” Geriel answered each time, but Amber felt the looks that were cast toward them as hot and hostile.
They saw prisoners too—small groups of men in torn and dirty uniforms, herded together and guarded. The askari and the Italians had been separated, but their expressions were the same. They hunched together on the ground, hollow-eyed, too exhausted and afraid to even look up as their captors passed.
As they approached the great red tent of Menelik himself, Amber saw something like field hospitals had been set up. Men were lying in lines on the ground, but under canvas. Women moved back and forth among them.
From the shadows she heard a shriek of delight and suddenly Saffron was running toward them. Geriel helped Amber down from the mule so she was ready when her sister pounced on her.
“Saffy! Ow! No, it’s only my ankle, but I’m quite well. Bill is dead. Oh, and we got the silver back!”
Saffron turned from her sister to her husband with a squeal of pleasure, then, when she was content they were both unharmed, she saw Penrod. She hesitated and glanced at Amber, who blushed slightly and nodded. Saffron at once bounced forward, put her hands on Penrod’s shoulders and stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
“Penrod, I am glad you are alive. We heard you were with the Italians, and I was afraid . . .” She swept her arm behind her, at the prisoners and the wounded and beyond the battlefield.
“Mrs. Courtney,” he said. “I am glad to see you again.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “You haven’t changed at all.” Then she put her head on one side. “Per
haps a little. Your eyes are kinder, I think.”
Penrod smiled at her.
“What news, Saffy?” Ryder said.
She reached out and took his hand, becoming suddenly serious. “Ras Alula would like to pursue the Italians and drive them into the sea, but I don’t think Menelik is going to do it. Tigray has no more forage, and it could become a massacre. He knows the European newspapers want to call him a savage, and he wants to be a statesman.”
“What of the prisoners?” Penrod asked. “What will happen to them? Was Baratieri taken?”
She shook her head. “No, he escaped. Menelik will share the Italian prisoners among the chiefs, but hold them responsible for their safety. They are arguing about the askari now. Most of the princes say they are traitors.”
“That means they will have their right hand and left foot cut off,” Ryder said.
“I would like to speak on their behalf, if you can arrange for me to see Menelik,” Penrod said, but Saffron pursed her lips and shook her head.
“You mustn’t say anything to him in front of his advisers,” she warned him. “But Amber, he will want to see you. That might give you the chance, Penrod. He has had me sketching and painting, and Amber is to write an account of . . . well, everything, I think.”
“I wasn’t even at the battle!” Amber said, but already she was wondering how to describe to an audience in England the camp and personalities of Menelik and Taitu.
“Then you’d better find some paper and start talking to the people who were,” Saffron said firmly. “Your friend the scribe is in camp somewhere. He’ll help.”
“I’ll need a walking stick,” Amber said with a sigh.
“Tadesse will find you one. Good gracious, your outfit! It’s rather magnificent, but perhaps something less showy would be better for camp?”
•••
Ryder and Penrod left the women to their work. Ryder found Menelik’s steward and presented him with the missing ingots. He seemed shocked to see them, but there was no doubting their number and each was stamped with the sign of Courtney Mine. Ryder was ushered into the audience chamber and Menelik placed the roll of vellum, dotted with seals and ribbons, which granted permanent title to the land, into Ryder’s hands himself, in the presence of all his princes.
“I had these prepared some weeks ago,” the emperor said. “I had faith in you, Mr. Ryder.”
“As I had in you, sire,” Ryder replied and bowed.
“You did,” Menelik conceded, “and your faith has been rewarded. When you read the documents you hold, you’ll see the tax on the silver is reduced to fifteen percent.”
Ryder made some quick and gratifying calculations in his head. Menelik raised his voice so the assembled elite of his warriors and princes could hear him.
“When I was a boy, I guarded my father’s herd. When I was a youth, I plowed the fields that feed my people. When I became a man, I fought to protect those lands and add to my patrimony. Now I thank my friend, Ryder Courtney, for proving that this new work, which will enrich my people still further, is as honorable as that of the farmer or the warrior. Let no man speak against this endeavor or shun any man who chooses to work with metal again in my lands.” Then Menelik bent forward and asked quietly, “Who am I, Ryder Courtney?”
Ryder went down on one knee. “You are His Imperial Majesty Menelik the Second, Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah, King of Zion, King of Kings of Ethiopia and Elect of God.”
Menelik smiled and got up from his throne. He put out his hand and Ryder clasped it warmly as he stood. “I am indeed. Now go in peace, Mr. Ryder.”
Penrod persuaded Geriel to act as his guide and went among the Italian prisoners, giving what comfort he could and filling his notebook with names so that their families might be informed of their survival and capture. It was somber work. He heard tales of heroism and confusion on the battlefield. General Dabormida had failed to support Albertone, but instead led his men almost into the enemy camp on the northern flank. Some troops escaped in good fighting order from the encirclement that followed, but the young general himself, so eager to see his first combat, had died on the field. Most of the Italians seemed stunned, half dead with exhaustion and the crushing knowledge of their defeat. Penrod encouraged them to be hopeful.
The sky was already beginning to darken when he came across Albertone, the braid torn from his jacket and his face and hands still stained with dried blood. He looked at Penrod with an expression of deep loathing and would not speak to him.
At last a young Abyssinian found him and told Penrod in delicately accented English that he was expected at Menelik’s tent. The youth introduced himself as Tadesse, and Penrod realized this was Amber’s young friend.
Geriel went back to Alula’s camp to find food and rest, and as they passed through the crowds, Penrod asked Tadesse if he planned to return to Courtney Camp.
“No, Mr. Penrod,” he said. “The emperor has invited me to Addis Ababa. I shall go. He has plans for a new hospital in the city. I might learn much, and serve him better.”
“Have you told Miss Amber?”
“I have. She offered to send me to England to learn medicine, but this is my home. I do not want to forget it and fill my head with your ways and customs. I have said the same to Mrs. Saffron and Mr. Ryder. They are my family, but it is time for our ways to part.”
They had reached one of the entrances to the red imperial tent. The guards nodded to Tadesse, and he pointed Penrod inside.
“Go in. You are waited for.” He hesitated. “Mr. Penrod, Miss Amber is my very great friend. You caused her much pain.”
“I understand, Tadesse. I will not do so again.”
The young man nodded, then stood aside.
Penrod passed into the main body of the tent, though it was more of a canvas palace, carpeted and hung with colored silks. At the far end of the room Menelik sat on his throne. He was leaning sideways toward Amber. She stood beside him, supporting herself with a heavy walking stick and dressed in the simple white clothes of the Abyssinian women, a thin veil over her hair. She had asked the emperor something and was now taking notes of his reply. Penrod took the chance to study Menelik, this king the Italians had thought more a myth than a man. He was talking to Amber in a low, even voice, sketching patterns in the air. Even without knowing the language well, Penrod could tell he was describing the action of the battle, and he saw neither rage nor exultant pride, only the neutral narration of an experienced commander.
Menelik glanced sideways and saw Penrod waiting for him. He finished the point he was making to Amber, then looked at Penrod coldly and spoke. Amber translated.
“I am told you wished to have speech with me?”
“Yes, sir,” Penrod replied with a bow, neither servile nor insolent. “I have learned to admire the troops of the Italian native battalions. I hope to persuade you they should not be maimed, but treated in the same way as your Italian prisoners.”
Menelik was silent for a moment, and when he replied his voice sounded dark and growling. Then Amber said the words in her own sweet, clear tones. It was, Penrod thought, like communicating with some ancient oracle through his virgin priestess.
“You have set yourself a hard task then, Major. You know, I think, the traditional form of punishment for traitors such as they are. Those that survive their punishment will be allowed to return to their Italian friends as they can; in Eritrea they will be no further threat or charge to me. The Italian government will pay to have their white soldiers returned to them, but you cannot think I am such a fool as to believe they would pay ransom for prisoners with black skins. Why should I keep them then?”
He might be right. It was impossible to tell what the Italian government would do when news of the defeat reached them.
“Sir, I do not deny what you say,” Penrod said. “But I believe that even if they are unwilling, the government might be forced to recognize their responsibility for their men, whatever their color. However, if you continue to
allow this punishment, they will delight in branding you a savage.”
It was a risk, and Penrod saw Menelik’s expression grow fiercer and darken as his words were hesitantly translated.
“Savage? Tell me, Major, what would you do with British traitors?”
“I would shoot them, sir. But I am a soldier. You must now be acknowledged emperor of a sovereign African state. You are a soldier too, but you must also become a statesman.”
This time the corner of Menelik’s mouth twitched into a smile. He knew he was being flattered.
“I have heard you, and I will consider what you say.” His face grew serious again. “Do you know what will happen after the rains, Major Penrod?”
“I do not.”
Menelik sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Then I shall tell you, and you shall understand the ways of savage warriors like myself. I will sit outside my palace, with my men around me. They will open the gates, and old men, women and children, who have walked many miles, will come in turn to stand in front of me. We will greet each other, I shall look into their eyes, they shall look into mine, and then they shall leave. Who are these people? They are the wives, the mothers, the fathers and children of the men who were killed yesterday. I will look at each of them, be seen by each of them. For as many days as is needed I will sit on my throne through the hours of daylight and they shall see the man for whom their loved ones died. And I shall look into their eyes and know their son, their husband, their father is dead for me. I read the Europeans always speak of a reckoning after a battle, but they do not do this, I think? They do not look into the faces of the families of those killed.”
“No, sir, they do not.”
“Yet we are the savages.” Menelik sighed. “Go, Major Penrod. You may speak to the prisoners as you wish and travel as you see fit on my word. I have no quarrel with the British. Tell your queen that.”
•••
They stayed in the camp for two more days while Amber gathered accounts of the battle from the Ethiopian princes, the soldiers and the Italian prisoners, and while Saffron sketched furiously. Then, with the mineworkers now released from their service in Menelik’s army, they made their way across the battlefield and west into the mountains toward Courtney Camp. They were greeted with rejoicing and grief. Not all the men had returned.
