To resume. The meal consisted of two kinds of beef, the cooked variety which was roasted black with peppers, and the raw stuff which they call brundo – it’s not bad at all when served with chutney, but I didn’t try it at the time. There was fruit for dessert, and the inevitable tej dispensed from long-necked flasks by the bouncing boobies brigade, and all the sweeter for that.
The two chamberlain chaps shared our nuncheon, as did two of the females, tawny languid ladies who weren’t domestics but more like companions to the mistress of the house, for they talked to her on equal terms, were well dressed and decked with costume jewellery, and plainly thought no small beer of themselves. But then all Ab women do, with cause; the waitresses, whom I spent the time admiring because Uliba didn’t bother to translate the table talk for my benefit, showed no embarrassment at being looked at, the saucy little dears. Uliba, by the way, had discarded her tunic in favour of an exquisite saffron robe which looked like silk, worn toga-fashion with one bare shoulder and two huge hooped golden earrings under her braids.
Just as the meal was ending there was a commotion in the room below, with female voices raised in anger, and presently one of the maids brought up the ladder-stair a girl who was the peachiest thing I’d seen so far, even in that company. She was tawnier than most, but with a long lovely Egyptian face and huge eyes which at the moment were disfigured by weeping. In fact, she seemed torn between grief and rage, sobbing into her cupped hands one moment, shaking her fists and raging the next, to the scandal of the women attendants and the wrath of the elders, all of whom contributed to the row, so that it was bedlam until Uliba snapped them into silence.
She spoke sharply to the weeping girl, who answered sullenly at first, then furiously, stamping and giving Uliba what sounded like dog’s abuse, to which she responded with an icy anger which changed the beauty’s tune altogether, for she flung herself down by Uliba’s charpoy, wailing and smothering her feet with kisses. Uliba spoke to her quietly, and the wench rose, drying her eyes, but then suddenly rounded on me of all people, letting fly another stormy volley, at which Uliba lost her temper altogether, boxed her ears, and sent her squalling down the stair again. The ladies and elders withdrew, leaving the two of us alone while the pap-flashers cleared away the dishes.
I was all agog to know what had ailed the girl. Uliba was still snarling in Amharic as she disposed herself on her charpoy again, but then she began to laugh while her tej cup was refilled, and informed me that the hysteric had been Sarafa’s woman, now presumably a widow, and consequently madder than a cut snake.
“I told her he had stayed to front Yando’s fighters of his own free choice, and the insolent bitch swore that you should have stayed also, but she supposed that you had supplanted Sarafa in my bed, and so were precious to me!” She banged her cup down, angry and merry together. “Ha! And then, because it is not known whether Sarafa is dead or taken, she falls to pleading with me to bargain with Yando for his life. Bemouti!e Well she knows what price I’d have to pay, and when I refuse her she calls me a heartless whore that stole her man and left him to die because I had found a new lover! And this from a slave-girl, to me!”
I agreed that discipline below stairs had gone to the devil these days. “So she wasn’t Sarafa’s wife, then, just his bit o’ black velvet?”
“His concubine, once – as though that gave her the right to rail at me!” She soothed herself with a sip of tej. “I should have the little slut whipped! Or sold to the Egyptians!”
What struck me, of course, was that the grieving tart had assumed that I was Uliba’s latest mount. Natural enough, perhaps, but it prompted a disquieting thought. What with all the to-do of ambush and flight, I’d given no thought to the part I was meant to be playing, and hadn’t even had the chance to remove my whiskers or take the first steps in transforming myself into Khasim Tamwar.
“Does she know who I am – what I am? Do the rest of them, those two old files, or the women?”
“To them you are an Indian traveller. So I have told them, and why should they not believe it? They have never seen an Englishman before. It is when we go south, among the knowing folk, that your disguise must be complete.”
“And when will we go?”
“Perhaps the day after tomorrow, if there is no sign of Yando. That will give time to change the hair on your face while we rest and prepare for the journey.”
“Very good, sultana … Now, tell me, what precisely did you say to that noisy young woman when she accused me of being your lover?”
She regarded me with open amusement as she reclined on her charpoy, a very picture of sexual impudence in her silken robe with one shapely thigh and bare shoulder displayed, and if it hadn’t been for the maids chirruping among the dishes at the end of the room I’d have made a plunge at her. To no avail, judging by her reply.
“Why, I told her the truth – that you were no lover of mine. The brazen wretch swore that I lied, and when I said I had known you but a few hours, and on horseback, too, she cried, ‘Aye, but what of the future?’ I said that was in God’s hands, and she might sleep at my chamber door tonight if she wished, to be sure that no lover came creeping in to me.”
“That was dam’ considerate of you! But I tell you what, sultana, I’ve a notion worth two o’ that – why don’t she sleep at my chamber door, eh? Now, that would really convince her!”
She considered me for a long moment, the strong disdainful face impassive, and then a little imp began to play at the corner of the carved mouth and she swung her legs off the charpoy in one graceful movement and stood looking down at me.
“I told her the future was in God’s hands,” says she coolly. “It is also in mine.” And with that she stooped, brushed her lips on mine, and walked swiftly away, leaving me to the shrill giggles of the maids and the reflection that she was a teasing, provoking, wanton baggage adept at stoking what old Arnold called the flames of lust … and giving me a gentle hint that the fire brigade would be along shortly.
And it was, as I’d expected. I know women, you see, and long experience had taught me that when they start playing Delilah it’s a sure sign that they’re coming to the boil themselves. So it came as no surprise, after I’d said my prayers (you may guess their content) and was drowsing in happy anticipation on the charpoy in my peaceful chamber, listening to the distant creaks and murmurs of the sleeping castle, and the occasional cry of some night beast out yonder, that a soft footfall should approach my room, and a gentle draught stir the air as the door opened and softly closed again.
But I’m a wary bird, and my hand was on the Joslyn beneath my pillow, only to let go as a tall figure advanced silently into the shaft of moonlight from the high narrow window – a figure in a robe of saffron silk which slid to the floor without a sound, revealing a splendid golden body swaying slowly towards me, slim hands clasped over her breasts and then falling away to caress her hips as she passed from the moonbeam into the shadow, kneeling on the charpoy and leaning down over me, her expert fingers and those wonderful lips questing across my body.
Ordinarily I’d have said “Good evening”, or “Come in, my dear, it’s your birthday”, but she had insisted, you remember, that in moments of crisis she and she alone should take the lead, so what could a dutiful soldier do but lie to attention as she made a meal of me, teasing and fondling until I was fit to burst, at which point fortunately she began to conduct herself like some randy Roman empress in a rogering competition, bestriding me furiously with ecstatic cries, those unseen lips finding mine at last as she plunged and writhed in a perfect frenzy, grunting and gasping with an abandon which I shouldn’t have thought her style at all, but you never can tell how they’ll behave in the happy throes, and when she concluded her performance by throwing up her arms and screaming, I confess I entered into the spirit of the thing uninvited, going “brrr!” between her boobies as she collapsed whimpering on my ruined carcase.
“Uliba-Wark,” says I, when I’d got my breath back, “from the
moment we met I knew our love was fated, and I’m here to tell you you’re the best ride I’ve had since I left home.” For I like to give credit where it’s due, you know.
I spoke in Arabic, and she replied in a distracted way in what sounded like Amharic, heaving herself up to full stretch above me, and for the first time her head was in the moonlight – the beautiful Egyptian head and shining black eyes of Sarafa’s woman. She, too, was breathing with difficulty, smiling at me in a most ingratiating way and murmuring a question which I could only suppose was a plea for a high mark from the examiner.
Well, she’d earned it, eighty per cent at least, even if my immediate instinct had been to cry “Sold! Impostor!” But that would have been downright discourteous, after the little darling had exerted herself so splendidly, and I was too blissfully sated to tax myself with wondering why Uliba-Wark had put her up to it, or why, so soon after her hysterics of grief for Sarafa, his bint had been ready, nay eager, to pleasure herself groggy with your correspondent – on whom, I may say, she worked her wicked will twice more before daybreak, the naughty little glutton. Seeking consolation? Obeying mistress’s orders? Beglamoured by Flashy’s whiskers? Who could tell?
A moment ago I said that I knew women … and I should have added that what I know is that there’s no explaining ’em, or understanding ’em, or telling what they’ll do next. If you’re lucky enough to be bedded unexpected with a beauty like Sarafa’s wench, you must just follow the wisdom imparted to me by an Oriental lady of my acquaintance, after she’d filled me with hasheesh and ridden me ruined: “Lick up the honey, stranger, and ask no questions.”
* * *
a The Blue Nile.
b Speak the language (Army slang, from Hind.).
c Native frame-and-cord bedstead.
d Mead.
e By my death!
Chapter 6
So I didn’t, rising late and greeting Uliba-Wark and her household with cheerful composure and not a word or sign to suggest that I’d spent half the night trollop-wrestling. That Sarafa’s lass had been less discreet was plain from the reluctance of Uliba’s ladies and elder statesmen to meet not only my eye but my presence, and the shameless giggling and whispering of the Bosom Brigade when they served me breakfast. I confess I’d hoped that Uliba herself might have her curiosity piqued by my nonchalance, but if it was, she didn’t show it. Her first words to me were that Yando and his gang hadn’t put in an appearance, so we should be able to set off south next day.
“But he may be about still, on the watch, so we shall ride out before dawn. There will only be the two of us, remember, without Sarafa and his man to scout, so we must go warily and quickly. Come, I’ll show you the way we must follow in the dark.”
The vantage point was the top of the far tower overhanging the valley, which we reached up various ladder-stairs, and a pretty picture she made climbing nimbly in her little leather tunic, with Flashy panting wearily in her wake. I was breathless by the time we reached the roof, despite a brief rest while I studied a peculiar contraption in the top chamber: a massive hook dangling in the middle of the room from a rope which ran over a great wheel in the ceiling to a windlass near the wall. Most sinister it looked, but when I asked Uliba about it she said simply, “That is the dungeon,” and directed my attention to the astonishing panorama before us.
South in the misty distance towered the huge silver peaks of the Ab highlands, beyond a vast rocky plateau criss-crossed by forested strips and ravines. Immediately below us, at a depth so dizzy that I automatically kept a hold on the parapet, lay the valley floor, a boulder-strewn river-bottom along which a thin thread of silver indicated the stream which flowed out of a jungly cleft ten miles away.
“That is our road, along the river to the woods,” says Uliba. “Once under cover of the trees we shall be safe from pursuit. If we should be parted in the dark, we shall rendezvous by the white rocks yonder, where the river emerges. If I don’t arrive in twelve hours …” she pointed to the mountains “… Lake Tana lies beyond the ranges. You remember the names of the river and village? And the compass bearing? You are sure? Good … Well, since I see that you are more intent on staring foolishly at me than in studying the road on which your life depends, I suggest that we go down, and you can use the rest of the day changing yourself from a moonstruck farangi soldier into an Indian traveller with his wits about him. Come.”
She said it with a smile, ever so pleasantly, and she looked so delectable in that shiny leather corset of which I had been mentally stripping her, that I thought, oh, what the devil, the blazes with pretences, let’s have the cards on the table.
“Hold on,” says I, and took her gently by the arm as she moved past me. She turned in mild surprise, and I’ll swear she expected lustful assault then and there, so I stared into those proud fearless eyes for a long moment, and then said: “You have the damnedest way of punishing insolent slave-girls, haven’t you?”
A split second’s bewilderment, and then delight that I’d been first to mention it. “Punishment? You think that was why I sent Malee to you?” She started to laugh. “I do not believe it! You have far too brave an opinion of yourself to think you could be a penance to any woman! Punishment, indeed!”
“Well, thank’ee ma’am, but you did speak of whipping or selling her, you know.”
“Oh, fool’s talk! What, whip or sell Malee, who was my playmate? Who prepared my bridal bed? Who would give her life for me, even as Sarafa did? I owe her too much kindness and friendship for that!”
“So much kindness that you stole her lover?”
“What has that to do with anything? I took him because he pleased me – and since my own husband dallied with Malee when he’d tired of me, why should I not enjoy Sarafa?”
A fair question, which had me stumped. It was being borne in on me that the moral climate of Abyssinia was not quite that of our own polite society – not that Uliba’s Belgravian sisters are averse to a cut off the joint from time to time, but they know enough to keep quiet about it. But I was still well in the dark.
“You say she’s your old playmate, bosom pal, God knows what – yet she harangues you like a fishwife in public, calls you a heartless whore, and you box her ears –”
“We have been calling each other that and worse since we were ten years old and rivals for the same schoolboy!” cries she, laughing. “Not that I could ever rival Malee! Is she not lovely? You seem to have found her so, from what she tells me,” she added, with a sniff in her voice. “The little slut could hardly keep her eyes open.”
“Well, now you know what you missed,” says I. “Sending me a proxy-doxy in your own dress to fool me in the dark! Is that some kind of Abyssinian insult?”
“First a punishment, now an insult!” cries she gleefully. “No, effendi, merely a whim, a little trick, a jest to remind the great farangi soldier that the wild barbarian woman will do what she will do in her own good time … not his.” The carved lips were pouting impudently, and suddenly laughing before I could deal with ’em. “But if it will soothe your manly pride, know that I sent Malee to you at her own request … no, truly, when she had cried out her tantrum, and implored my forgiveness, as she always does, she begged me. Why? Because she believes that you are my new fancy, and whatever I have, why, Malee must have, too. And she’s a lecherous strumpet, as you’ve no doubt discovered, with the appetite of a rutting baboon. So I indulge her.” She arched her brows, playful-like. “Am I not a kind mistress to my bondwomen?”
“Perhaps too kind, sultana. Oh, I ain’t complaining … but I’ll tell you something about slaves: however devoted and loving and like bloody spaniels they seem, they never forgive their owners for owning ’em.” They don’t, either, though what prompted me to say it just then, I don’t know, unless I was just mentally marking time while debating whether to kiss her before I wrenched off that scanty tunic, or after. But I debated too long, and she was off with a laughing dismissal of my caution, and down the ladder-stair before I cou
ld get to work.
I spent the day imagining Khasim Tamwar, which is the key to disguise. You must “catch the man” if you’re to impersonate him faithfully, as I’d learned to do in the past with Crown Prince Carl Gustaf (dignified royal duffer) and Makarram Khan (truculent Pathan ruffian) and my military self (bluff mutton-headed hero), to name but a few. I decided Khasim would be a bit of a languid exquisite, and carefully shaved my splendid moustache to a mere line along the upper lip, got rid of my whiskers, and spent time oiling and curling myself a lovelock with a hot iron – frontier style rather than Hyderabadi, but no one in Abyssinia would know the difference. I’d grow a little imperial, too, and remember to point my toes as I walked, which ain’t difficult for a cavalryman.
Finally I boned a length of silk off my room dragon to improvise a tight turban, and having spruced up my boots, pyjamys and sash, stood forth for Uliba’s inspection. “Oho!” says she, mighty droll, “is it the Indian horse-trader or the Prince of the Seventh Sea-Coast? My ladies must see this wonder – and Malee, too!”
“Half a tick,” says I. “They know me as Khasim Tamwar, but what tale are you telling ’em to explain our going south together?”
“What is to explain if I make a pleasure journey to the Sea of Tana with a handsome stranger? Let their imaginations work!” Which they did, judging by their slantendicular looks and the smirks of the booby-sporters, but Malee wasn’t to be seen. Fagged out, no doubt.
In the evening Uliba took me to a little room off the stables where we packed our bags for the trip – spare clobber of shamas and boots and waterproof cloaks, blankets and utensils, biltong and bread and teffa-cakes, flasks of maise and tej, cheese and dried fruit and locust-balls, God help me. We split my two hundred dollars between us, at my suggestion since she’d have to do the buying of necessities along the way, and in addition to my Joslyn and cartridge-belt I had a dagger and sword from the citadel’s armoury – not one of their sickle-blades but a straight cross-hilted weapon with Deus vult engraved on the blade – a Crusader sword, bigod, and why not, for if it was seven hundred years out of date it was still in Christian land.
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 381