Flashman on the March fp-12

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “Three of them, Sadat?”

  “Nay, one of those beasts is a pack-animal. And only two have eaten and drunk by the dead fire, one of them a woman.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Use your nose, fool! Musk-oil.”

  “Ha, she should be young, then!” Coarse laughter. “Hey, Yusuf, look well out yonder! She can’t have gone far!”

  Suddenly light was shining down through the cracks in the trap; they’d brought their torches into the nave, and must have fixed them, for the light shone steady. Oh, God, would they see the trap? We huddled as far back as we could go to the side of the cellar, in the hope that if the trap were opened we’d be out of eyeshot of anyone looking down—unless they dropped in, so to speak… Quite so.

  We could only wait, Uliba’s cheek running sweat against mine, while heavy feet thumped the wooden flooring just above our heads, and Sadat the musk-oil expert was saying that this place would do as well as any other, so let Yakub and Gamal bring the stuff inside, and have a care how they handled it, careless dogs that they were. Now there was great bustle, with more of the gang arriving, sounds of heaving and exertion and commands, a ponderous weight dropped on the floorboards, and through all the clamour a voice gentling our horses which had been alarmed by the uproar, while another was roaring to Yusuf for news of the fugitives supposedly being pursued through the night. Someone close above us was demanding what should be done with the stuff—and my blood froze at the reply:

  “There must be a cellar under the trap yonder! What better place for the goods?” Uliba couldn’t repress a gasping sob. Then:

  “Why has God ordained that I should ride with fools?” wonders Sadat. “What worse place could there be than one where folk are sure to look?”

  “Eh? Oh, aye… well, then, where shall we put it?” “Underground, camel-spawn! Yonder, by the wall, you dig a hole, and bury it, and cover all with rubble so that only one lynx-eyed and enlightened by God, like Mahmud here, could hope to find it!” “Did he call me lynx-eyed and enlightened by God?” “Aye, but he didn’t mean it. Get a spade, clown!” “Why must I be the one to dig? Oh, lend a hand, then!” Uliba was limp against me, gasping with relief, and I was shud dering weakly as I heard them hauling some heavy article across the trap, and then came the crunch and scrape and foul language of labourers delving in the packed earth. Above that we heard our horses being appraised and their burdens examined, men coming and going, a disgruntled Yusuf reporting that whoever the bastards were who had fled into the night, they were nowhere to be found, demands for rest and food, to which Sadat (who was evidently their captain) retorted that they were riding out as soon as the goods had been safely concealed, and other conversation of the kind you’d expect to hear from marauders discussing the affairs of the day. I wish now that I’d paid closer attention, for there was interesting stuff about the possibility of enlisting gang members as guards for the Metema caravan, or taking a slap at one of the supply depots being established by the godless farangi invaders, but I was in too fine a funk to concern myself with anything but keeping tight hold of Uliba as two interminable hours crawled past, and my heart stopped whenever a footstep came near the trap. Please, dear God, I kept muttering, don’t let any of ’em get curious about the cellar… and I was just beginning to believe they’d do their business and leave us undisturbed when…

  “Aye, that’s deep enough. Lift it over.”

  “Will it be safe? When do we return for it?”

  “When we’ve scouted this farangi army and seen what’s to be had from them… perhaps from Theodore, too. He carries his treasury with him, like enough.”

  “What, despoil Theodore? Go rob a lioness of her cubs!”

  “Aye, we’d do better to carry our treasury safe to Kassala instead of burying it in this grave of serpents!”

  “I hate to leave it here! God knows it cost enough in blood and sweat to get it!”

  “Eh, Sadat, let’s have another look before we cover it! Just a look…”

  Cries of agreement, and Sadat, the indulgent ass, let them go ahead, there was a crash as of a lid being thrown back, delighted gloating, a warning snarl to Mahmud to take care, and then an almighty clatter of coin being dropped, ringing and rolling across the boards—and, dear Jesus, dropping through the cracks in the trap to the floor of the cellar! Uliba sobbed, my innards did a cart wheel, and recrimination raged overhead,—Mahmud being cursed for an idiot, coins being scraped up, some mean son-of-a-bitch crying that a few had fallen through the trap, Sadat shouting to let ’em alone and get the chest closed and interred, and the mean bastard crying that he was shot if he’d lose them… and throwing back the trapdoor.

  Torch-glare suddenly lit up the centre of the cellar, but we were in deep shadow against the side wall, and all that we could see through the open trap was two pairs of boots and robed legs up to the thigh; we must be out of their owners’ line of vision, but if they stooped to look under the floor, would they see us in the gloom? If they descended…

  “There they are! By Shaitan, Sadat, if you don’t want ’em, I do!” There must have been a dozen or more dollars glinting on the stony rubble of the floor, and as a booted leg swung over the edge of the trap I caught the glint of steel in Uliba’s hand in the shadows and my hand was on the butt of my Joslyn—for all the good that would do. The second boot swung down…

  “Wait, you fool!” roars Sadat, laughing. “Look before you leap, man!”

  There was a sudden howl of alarm from the man about to jump, the booted legs shot upwards as he fairly threw himself out of the trap, his mates crowing with mirth, and I stood paralysed between relief and revulsion.

  It is the practice of the female scorpion, after giving birth, to carry her young on her back, and even with six of the loathsome little transparent monsters in residence there was still no lack of room on the scaly top of the enormous yellow horror scuttling among the fallen coins. She must have been six disgusting inches long, not counting the great sting curved up and over her ghastly brood—and she wasn’t alone in her nest, either; Papa and a couple of uncles were on hand, and a joyous sight they all were, bless their horny little hides, for they’d saved us from detection and death, no error. Not that they’d have done our intruder any harm through his stout half-boots, but they were a grand discouragement to coin collecting.

  The trap was slammed shut to a chorus of jeers and taunts, and we were left in darkness and, in my case, imminent danger of heart failure. I was drenched in sweat, and Uliba was shaking as though with an ague. The danger might have passed, but it hadn’t gone; the force with which the trap had been closed had broken one of its slats, and through the gap I had a view beside which Mama Scorpion would have looked quite charming: the head and shoulders of a Soudani brigand listening to the orders which Sadat was giving for their departure. The odds are you’ll never meet one of the Soudani criminal classes, so I’ll tell you that this representative looked like an indescribably evil cathedral gargoyle, hook nosed and vulpine, with a tuft of beard, a steel cap with chain-mail earguards over black hair falling to his shoulders, and a grinning mouthful of jagged yellow tusks. Happy the bride who wakes up to see that on the pillow, thinks I, and was dam’ glad when he moved out of sight.

  Presently they left the nave, and we heard them mounting up, but by mutual consent (and not a word said) we stayed put until dawn, by which time we reckoned they’d be well away. It was not comfortable, for with those fine specimens of Buthus Arachnidae rustling about on the floor we daren’t sit or lie down, and while like the Soudani we were well shod against their stings, I found myself wondering if the horrid little buggers could climb or jump. [34] My legs were painfully cramped by the time daylight began to filter through the broken trap, but after chafing some life into them and satisfying myself that all seemed quiet Chez Scorpio, I took three hasty strides, hurled back the trap, and swung myself out. Uliba followed quickly—and there we were, chilled to the bone at dawn in an empty church in a ghost city a
nd not a thing to bless our selves with except the clobber we stood in, my Joslyn and cartridge-belt, and Uliba’s knife. Our horses were gone with the saddle-bags containing all our food, gear, spare kit, and dollars, and we were a day’s march from Lake Tana and heaven knew how far from Queen Masteeat’s camp.

  “Well, at least we can put our finances in order,” says I. “Like old Ali Baba, we’ve lain doggo while the Forty Thieves cached their loot; now all we have to do is find it and fill our pockets.” She hadn’t heard the old tale, so I told it to her while we fossicked about—she was much taken with Morgiana’s boiling the robbers in oil, I remember. The cache was easy to find under a layer of rubble by the wall of the nave, and at the cost of skinned fingers and broken nails we clawed up the loose earth to reveal a stout iron-shod chest. It wasn’t locked, and when I heaved up the lid we were looking at a sizeable fortune in Maria Theresas, jewellery, wrought precious metal, gold pieces of a currency unknown to me, and carved ivory. We filled my pockets and her wallets with the gourshis, a hundred dollars apiece or thereabouts, and reluctantly abandoned the rest except for a fine ebony-hafted Damascus scim itar which I took, and various jewelled bangles, necklaces, and a gold fillet and veil which Uliba fell on with cries of delight—she was a very feminine Amazon, really, preening herself in a polished silver hand mirror and gloating as she threw it and other choice pieces into the cellar so that the Soudanis would have to brave the scorpions to retrieve them, and lamenting that we couldn’t capture the female and her young and enclose them in the chest before we reburied it, thus ensuring a jolly surprise for the returning robbers. Quite splendid in her malice, she was; I’d not have been surprised if her braids had stood on end and hissed at me.

  Being famished, and not knowing how soon the Soudanis might come back, we made speedy tracks out of Gondar. From a vantage point on the south wall of the ruined palace we could survey the country as far as Lake Tana some forty miles away, a distant gleam of silver in the morning sun, its forested shore stretching away into the haze. The sooner we were under cover in those woods, the better, so we travelled at the Highlander’s pace, a mile at the trot and a mile at the stride followed by a moment’s rest standing, and then away again. Uliba ran like a Diana and I like a labouring bullock, but not too bad for forty-five, and within the hour we were in sight of a village of the plain called Azez, which I supposed we should avoid, but Uliba said the time for concealment was past now that we were afoot, and besides we’d get no news of Masteeat if we continued to skulk in rocks and bushes.

  “We must seek it out, in a safe place where there are safe people to question. No, not in the village.” We had stopped in a grove some way short of the little cluster of thatched huts, and she was shading her eyes to scan the low hills beyond. “There should be a monastery over yonder, of monks of St Antonius the Hermit… if the wars have passed them by. Monks know everything…”

  “And if they recognise you? They could pass word to this fellow Gobayzy who’s after you, or even to Theodore—”

  “We’ve seen no trace of Gobayzy, no one will recognise me this far south, and Theodore has no more bitter enemy than the Church since he plundered and murdered at Metraha last summer. Anyway, we have no choice, so come, and keep your ears open for the monastery bell.”

  We set off across the plain, and as we went, skirting well wide of the village, she told me of Theodore’s crowning infamy at Metraha, an island in Lake Tana which had been a holy place of sanctuary from time immemorial, and consequently a haven much used by mer chants to deposit their treasures—St Paul’s crossed with the Bank of England, if you like. Theodore had gained access to it by treachery, looted its vast store of gold, silver, grains, and precious stuff—and then herded the inhabitants, priests, merchants, women, and children into the principal buildings and burned them to death.

  “So we run no risk of betrayal to Theodore. Rather,” says Uliba complacently, “will the holy fathers show all kindness and respect to a noble lady of Tigre bound for the court of the Queen of the Gallas, who had the misfortune to be robbed of her caravan by Soudani bandits who murdered her servants and would assuredly have slain her (or worse) had she not escaped by night with her faithful Hindee attendant. Hence her destitute condition—”

  “Lucky for her she was able to deck her destitution with a few choice trinkets—oh, and a purse of dollars—which she was fortunate to be able to carry away with her, and from which she will make a generous gift to the monastery’s alms chest. If that does not move their pity,” says she, “I know nothing of Christian priests. Besides, these will be provincial simpletons, properly awe-stricken in the presence of rank.”

  I didn’t doubt that, but one snag occurred to me. “They’re Coptic Christians, ain’t they… suppose they spot you for a Galla? After all, you’re on your way to Masteeat—can you pass as a Christian?”

  She gave me her superior smile, and drew from the bosom of her tunic one of the necklaces she’d pinched from the Soudanis’ hoard: a fine cord of pale blue silk skilfully intertwined with gold and silver threads. “This is called matab; is it not beautiful? All Christians of Habesh wear them from their baptism; it is the first thing these Christos look for in each other. And this one, as you see, is of the most precious kind, such as only the high-born and wealthy would wear… ah, but listen! The bell!”

  It was tolling faintly, but stopped as we entered the little valley in which stood a plain adobe building of no great size, walled, with an arched gateway, and surrounded by plots too small to be called fields in which white-robed Abs were digging and hoeing without enthusiasm. They stopped to stare as the high-born lady of Tigre, a striking figure in her scanty tunic, boots, and veiled fillet, sashayed towards the gate with her faithful Hindee attendant throwing a chest as he followed dutifully in her wake.

  Chanting greeted us as we passed through the archway into a courtyard where a crowd of robed and turbaned jossers were waking the echoes with what I learned later was a Coptic psalm, and plainly we were intruding on a service—or, as it proved, a rehearsal for one, Palm Sunday no less, which fell a week hence. The turbaned lads were priests, bearing strange long wands with heads like crutches, while the commonalty and sundry infants carried palm fronds. To the fore was a dignified old file called the Abba (which I suppose is abbot); he wore a very stylish yellow leather coat and carried a curious article like a catapult with abacus beads between its arms, which he waved from time to time. In attendance were a priest bearing a fancy sort of decorated cross, a tiny chico with a bell as big as himself, and two deacons holding up an enormous Bible. (* For a description and illustration of the Palm Sunday ceremony, see Simpson, Diary.)

  Even as we appeared the singing stopped and the Abba began to read from the Bible, but left off in some confusion when one of the deacons drew his attention to Uliba-Wark, who was listening attentively, hand on hip, nodding approval. Everyone goggled at waving a graceful hand to them to continue, and then turning aside to seat herself on a bench by the gateway. The Abba, who’d been taken flat aback (it dawned on me that there wasn’t another female in the courtyard), steadied up and began reading again in a shaky falsetto, but shooting little disturbed glances in Uliba’s direction as she crossed her legs and sat back, finger on cheek, gently smiling as though she were watching a show performed for her benefit. The reading finished (cut short, I suspect), the Abba and his gang retired through an inner doorway, shooting more little glances, and presently a bald chap with a staff of office approached Uliba and invited her within. She rose with dignity, made a little gesture to me which I interpreted as an order to scatter a few dollars to the hoi-polloi, and swarmed away. I distributed, smirking, bowed tact fully to the cross-bearer who was leading the peasantry in another psalm, and hastened after my mistress like a good little minion.

  Even with my limited Amharic I could follow much that was said at the audience which followed in the monastery chapel. Uliba was conducted with great deference to a chair hurriedly placed between the front
pews, while the Abba enthroned himself nervously on a stool before the altar, his attendants standing by with palms, crutches, and open mouths. I don’t know if Coptic priests are celibate, but these gaped at her like hayseeds at a burlesque show in the Chicago Loop; I don’t suppose their modest little God-hutch had ever seen her like, and she played it like the grandest of dames, surveying them coolly and turning that elegant profile as she swept off her fillet and veil and handed them carelessly to me, looking stern beside her chair. She charmed them with a gracious apology for interrupting their rehearsal, and the Abba near fell off his stool assuring her that it didn’t matter tuppence, honestly, and please how could they serve her excellency?

  This before she’d said a word about being a great swell on her way to a queen’s court, or being despoiled; she did it simply by style and looks and those remarkable legs, and had them eating out of her dainty palm. Awe-stricken, she’d said they’d be, and awestruck they were.

  The account of our adventures which she gave them was succinct and fairly offhand, but it had them agog, knuckles to teeth and gasping concern. The Abba didn’t know what Habesh was coming to, what with evil emperors and foreign invaders and plundering rebels and noble ladies molested and robbed by heathen brigands, God forgive them, but what protection and comfort the Church could offer, she should have, and her servant too, infidel though he was. This consisted of food, drink, attention, prayers, the best chamber in the monastery placed at her ladyship’s disposal (with a mattress in the passage for Vilkins the butler), and the promise of such clothing, equipment, and transport as could be drummed up overnight.

  I was given my vittles in the monks’ refectory, watched by curious and none too friendly eyes, for they’ve no use for non-Christians, and as a “Hindee” I was right beyond the pale. Uliba dined in some state in the Abba’s private apartments, and if the news she got was confused and disturbing, it was definite at least on the main point.