The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “Why, the Emperor! The King of Kings, monarch of Habesh, and by the power of God the conqueror that will be of Egypt and Jerusalem! You know him as Theodore.”

  I could only stare at them in utter consternation. Theodore’s people – the last folk on God’s earth I wanted to see. I ain’t often at a dead nonplus, but I was then, for this was the fear that had been in my mind for weeks – of falling into the hands of the mad tyrant who inflicted unspeakable tortures on his victims, who’d beaten missionaries and lashed their servants to death, who’d stretched Consul Cameron on the rack … and, my God, who knew, from what Portly had said, of my mission to Masteeat to enlist the Gallas against him … Portly? Could he be Theodore in person? For all I knew he might – but surely not, in a night skirmish away from Magdala, where he was supposed to be preparing to fight or run? No, impossible, but I was bound to ask …

  Diana clapped a hand over her mouth at the question, and the bodyguard laughed outright.

  “Do the soldiers of the English queen know so little of their quarry that they think such a fat little hippo as Damash could be the great Emperor – the Lion of Judah? Did he look like a warrior king, a veteran of thirty years in arms?” He glanced at Diana. “Ya, Miriam, what would Gobayzy or Menelek say to Damash as Emperor?”

  “Ask rather what Theodore would say to a fool who mistook Damash for the King of Kings,” says she. “How would he punish such an insult?”

  “Who knows the mind of kings? They are beyond the ken of common folk.” He put his head on one side, regarding me. “But I should not account this one a fool, as you do. Did you not hear him answer Damash, saying much, but telling nothing?” He leaned towards me, nursing his spear, his eyes intent on mine. “Perhaps Damash is right, and he is the kind of man the Dedjaz Napier would have sent to Masteeat – a man of a long head, skilled in dissimulation and never aiming where he looks.” He smiled. “You are that man, are you not, Ras Flashman?” Then he was solemn again. “When you come to stand before Toowodros, do not try to deceive him. He loves truth, above all things, and rewards those who deal fairly with him.”

  “And takes the hands and feet of those who lie, and feeds the rest alive to the birds and beasts,” taunts Miriam-Diana.

  “Peace, you hyena in woman’s shape!” He nodded to me. “I advise as a friend, Englishman. Remember my words.” He was turning away.

  My mouth was dry with alarm, but I forced my voice to be steady.

  “I’d be a fool if I forgot them … your majesty.”

  Miriam-Diana threw back her head with a yell and gave her thigh a ringing slap. “He knew you! By the power of God, he knew you!” She was grinning with delight. “They are not such blind fools, the English!”

  The bodyguard who ruled Abyssinia had turned back abruptly, but the solemn look was gone, and his voice was suddenly harsh.

  “How did you know me? What did he see?” He looked from me to her, and struck his breast in anger. “What is there here that denotes a king? This is a common soldier!” He shook his spear and slapped himself again, taking two abrupt steps towards me. I gave back, for in a mere moment his earnest, almost friendly manner had given way to shouting rage; it was as though another man had got into his skin, and Miriam was on her feet as though to intervene.

  “How did you know me?” he demanded, and jabbed a finger at me. “Have a care! Do not pretend that you saw royalty in my looks and speech, that you could not mistake the descendant of Solomon and Sheba, of Constantine and Alexander! I despise that kind of lie, that courtly flattery! Do not offend me with it!”

  Since that was precisely what I’d been about to do, I was briefly at a loss. I’d twigged early enough that he was no common spear-carrier; there’s no lack of Abs with handsome figureheads, with fine aquiline noses for looking down, but he had spoken with that calm assurance that you don’t find in the private soldier, and I’d marked him down as an Abyssinian gentleman-ranker, so to speak. But there had been something else.

  “You spoke of your companion … Damash? … as a fat little hippo. Common men do not talk so of superiors who wear the red-fringed shama. That made me wonder.” I climbed to my feet. “But when you cry ‘Peace, hyena!’ to one who commands the Emperor’s fighting women and wears a silver shield on her arm41 … then I do more than wonder. And whether you despise courtly flattery or no, I have stood before the face of many kings and queens in my time, and know the look … not at once, perhaps, but at last.”

  There’s no doubt about it, I’m good at dealing with barmy savages. They scare the bile out of me, and perhaps terror lends wings to my wits, for when I think of the monsters I’ve conversed with and come away with a whole skin, more or less … Mangas Colorado, Ranavalona, General Sang-kol-in-sen, Crazy Horse, Dr Arnold, God knows who else … well, it took more than luck, I can tell you. You must know when to grovel and scream for mercy, but also when to take ’em aback with impudence or argument or pure bamboozle. To find myself in the presence of Mad King Theodore was enough to turn my bowels to buttermilk, but having seen him quiet and crazy in quick time, and realised that he was intelligent well above par, like many madmen, I knew that straight talk and a firm front to cover my quaking guts were my best bet … oh God, I hoped so, and tried not to quiver as I waited, watching him.

  You never can tell what they’ll do when you answer ’em cool and apparently steady: some laugh, some ponder, some snarl, some set about you (I’m thinking of Arnold), and some, like Theodore, study you in disquieting silence. Then:

  “You were quite wrong, you see, Miriam. He is no fool.”

  “Your majesty was wrong also,” says she pertly. “He knew you.”

  “Not until I had studied him, and seen what manner of man he was. Damash served his turn.” To me he said: “What success had you with Queen Masteeat? Oh, we can be plain now: I have known for weeks that a British envoy was on his way to seek her help, and since you reached her yesterday we have been watching … fortunately for you.” He gestured towards the Galla dead. “Did you not prosper with her?”

  If I said no, I hadn’t prospered, and he had a spy at her court to tell him otherwise, or had intercepted my message to Napier, I was done for. If I told him the truth, that the Gallas were taking the field to cut him off, God knew what he would do. I’d seen already how swiftly his mood could change; I daren’t risk it. I said there’d been no time even to broach Napier’s request, and was subjected to another silent stare.

  “No time for talk?” says he. “But time for these –” he gestured again “– to bring you out for death? No, that is not Queen Masteeat’s way.”

  “Not with a fine tall soldier,” sniggers Miriam, who seemed to go in no awe of him at all. He paid her no heed.

  “So who condemned you? And why?”

  I told him the truth of it, since it could do no harm, and he presumably knew that Uliba-Wark had guided me south. “We were separated by your riders at the Silver Smoke; she chose to think I had abandoned her, and these dead men were her hirelings to murder me.” I nodded at the clearing. “And there she lies.”

  “Uliba-Wark? Dead?” Theodore stared, and wheeled abruptly, striding to the group about Uliba’s body; they scattered like birds. Miriam followed him in some alarm. “I saw it was a woman, but I did not know her, negus, truly …”

  “It is no matter,” says Theodore. He looked down at what remained of Uliba, and shrugged without disgust. “She was a stinging gadfly, a sower of discord, a trouble in the eyes of God and man. She coveted her sister’s throne, they say. Behold her now.”

  “She coveted men, by all accounts,” says Miriam, and gave me her jeering grin. “Were you her lover, ras of the British?”

  I was not about to mention a lady’s name, but her question seemed to catch Theodore on the raw somehow, for he stared hard at her, head back, and then at me, and then at her again, and smiled at last, crooking a finger.

  “Hither, wanton,” says he, and she came to his side. He put an arm about her waist and fon
dled her chin, and she purred like a kitten and nuzzled him. “Speak not of love to fine tall soldiers,” says he. So that explained the licence she enjoyed; one of his concubines, obviously, as well as commanding his killing women. Versatile female. And Theodore of Abyssinia was as jealous as the next man.

  And now Damash came rolling back, followed by a groom leading two horses. Behind him the women had finished their revolting chore, and were assembling more or less in ranks, except for Gorilla Jane who was dragging along one of the Galla corpses. Then I saw that it wasn’t a corpse, but a living being, bleeding from a dozen wounds. Theodore, still with his arm about Miriam, addressed me.

  “Ras Flashman, though you come with the power of the English Queen to destroy me, who have wished for nothing but peace between her throne and mine, and laboured by the power of God to that end against the wickedness of evil men, yet I hold no malice in my heart towards you, or your Dedjaz Napier, who writes cordially to me and I to him. I take you to be my guest in Magdala, where we shall look into each other’s hearts, in love and friendship.”

  He seemed to expect an answer, so I said, “Much obliged … ah, negus.” He kissed Miriam and toyed with her hand a moment.

  “Bring the ras to Islamgee,” says he, and mounted. Damash was budged into the saddle by the groom, but as they prepared to ride off Gorilla Jane cried that here was the Galla chief still alive, though incomplete, and what should be done with him. At her feet, with her companions crouched over it like vultures, was that dreadful thing, stirring feebly, and I saw it was Goram.

  Miriam brightened. “We should question him, negus.”

  “A Galla warrior will tell you nothing,” says Theodore. He stood in his stirrups, a hand raised. “The blessing of God upon you brave women. And the blessing also on you, Ras Flashman, and His mercy and peace.” He wheeled his horse, and as he passed Gorilla Jane and the shattered wreck of Goram, he added: “Throw him on the fire.” So they did.

  Chapter 13

  I spent a week as “guest” of the Emperor Theodore, and it was one of the longest of my life. How our prisoners, Cameron and Co., endured it for two solid years is beyond me. There may be nothing worse than being in the hands of a deadly enemy, but finding yourself at the mercy of a lunatic runs it close, for there’s no telling what he’ll do – load you with chains or send you presents, threaten you with flogging or swear eternal friendship over a glass of tej, discuss the causes of the American Civil War or invite you to kill him ’cos life has become a burden – that was Theodore, the maniac who held our lives in his hands, torturing our gracious Queen’s consul half to death, and firing twenty-one-gun salutes to celebrate her birthday. Not the worst host I’ve ever been billeted on, perhaps, but quite the most unpredictable.

  There was no way of foreseeing, as they brought me away from that place of slaughter where the Gallas died, that those seven days of horror and hope, of living on the razor’s edge, were to see the final act of the astonishing melodrama, part-tragedy, part-farce, known as the Abyssinian War. For me, it was the last mile of that wild journey that had begun a few short months ago in Trieste. I tell you it as it was; it’s all true.

  It was still pitch dark and drizzling gently when we set out, Miriam and I and a few others mounted, with the rest of those female crocodiles trotting behind. I didn’t reckon we’d gone far by sunrise, five miles perhaps, and then we were in a stony desolation of tall cliffs and deep ravines, rounding a mighty eminence of rock on our right hand and following a saddle that connected it to another towering flat-topped height a mile or so ahead, which came into full view as the dawn mist lifted and the sunlight struck it and turned it for a moment into a mountain of gold. I asked where we were.

  “Selassie,” says Miriam, pointing ahead and then jerking a thumb at the cliff to our right. “Fala.”

  These were the names I’d heard only yesterday, in Fasil’s room at Masteeat’s camp … yesterday, dear God, it seemed an eternity ago! I pictured that sand-table model and tried to match it to what I was seeing … yes, there below us was the road that Theodore had made for his artillery, winding between Fala and Selassie, with folk and carts moving along it, and gangs of what looked like men in chains. As near as I could judge we were coming from the south-west, and if you look at my sketch you’ll see what was about to come into my view as we rounded Fala.

  Beyond the saddle, at the foot of Selassie, was a group of tents – or pavilions, rather, for they were larger and set apart from the camp of little bivouacs at the northern end of the long plain that I knew must be Islamgee. And at the far southern end of that plain, less than two miles from where I sat transfixed, was a great towering cylinder of black rock sprouting out of the plain like a column fashioned by some giant sculptor – and the reason I sat transfixed was that I knew what it was before Miriam said the word: “Magdala”.

  So there it was, the eagle’s nest, the stronghold where Mad King Theodore had held a handful of British and German captives for four years, his last outpost where he would be trapped with nowhere to run, for I didn’t doubt that Masteeat’s regiments would even now be marching to cut him off from that wilderness of peaks in the hazy southern distance. And there, below me on Islamgee, was his army – how many strong? Seven thousand, ten? Was he waiting there to meet Napier in the open, or would he retire into Magdala, pulling up the metaphorical drawbridge – gad, if he did, that rock would be a bastard to take by storm! Or might he even march to meet Napier, who must be close by now, surely … And on the thought I turned to gaze north-westwards, straining my eyes across that rock-strewn plain that stretched away across the Arogee plateau directly below us, five miles and more to a distant dark line running across our front, which I knew must be the chasm of the Bechelo. From it the King’s Road wound across the undulating land to Arogee and between Fala and Selassie to the very foot of Magdala.

  Surveying that broken ground, bordered by hills and gullies, it struck me that Theodore could do a sight worse than choose the third course – advance beyond Arogee to lay ambushes in the rough country bordering his road; better that than being besieged in Magdala or meeting our people on the flat plain of Islamgee where they’d make mincemeat of him in open battle …

  Miriam gave a cry of excitement and stood in her stirrups, shading her eyes and pointing – and as I followed her finger I felt that same wild thrill of disbelief giving way to joy that I’d felt in the garden of Lucknow when we’d heard, ever so faint on the morning air, the far whisper of the pipes that told us Campbell was coming. For it was there, through that shimmering heat haze and the last wisps of mist, on the lip of the plateau beyond the Bechelo … as though to a cue, the last actor was coming on to the stage, with no sound of pipes or rumble of gunfire, heralded only by tiny shining pinpricks of light barely visible in the dusty distance, and I’d ha’ given a thousand for a glass just then, for I’d seen ’em too often to be mistaken – lance-points catching the morning sun … But whose? Bengali Native Cavalry? Scindees? For instinct told me they must be ours, and now it was confirmed by eyes that were younger and sharper than mine.

  “Farangi!” cries Miriam, with an added oath. “On Dalanta! The Negus was right – those vermin of Dawunt and Dalanta should have been destroyed! They have lain down before your people! Aiee, they come! See there, they come!”

  “How d’ye know they’re my people?”

  I didn’t know, then, that Theodore had fallen out with the tribes on the Dalanta plateau, which lies north of the Bechelo river, slap across Napier’s line of march, and that the obliging niggers had cleared the way for us.42 But I could read the consternation on Miriam’s pretty face.

  “They can be no one else! We had word when they crossed the Jedda three days ago; now they are on the lip of the Bechelo, and once across the ravine …” She gave a disgusted shrug and spat, and I gazed towards salvation and concluded reluctantly that I daren’t try a run for it, not on a miserable Ab screw that was bound to founder within a mile. Besides, all I had to do was w
ait; Napier was far closer than I’d dared to hope, and even with the Bechelo chasm to cross, which I knew from Fasil’s model was three-quarters of a mile deep, he couldn’t be more than two days’ march away. I absolutely smacked my palm in delight, and Miriam cried out scornfully:

  “Ha! You rejoice at their coming? But what of their going, when the Amhara drive them like sheep back to Egypt?”

  I knew she didn’t believe it, just from her sullen scowl. “If the Amhara are mad enough to try, they’ll find those sheep are wolves,” I told her. “They’ll eat your army of peasants at a bite … no, they’ll not need to, for their guns will blow your rabble to bits, and the elephants will trample the dead.” Unless Theodore has the sense to go to ground on that bloody rock, I might have added, but didn’t.

  “Elephants!” She shuddered; they’re mortal scared of jumbo, you see, being convinced he can’t be tamed. She looked thoughtful, and as we rode on I guessed she was wondering how she’d fare in person if Theodore took a hiding. Sure enough, after a moment:

  “Suppose your people triumphed … what would they do to Habesh?”

  “To a pretty lass like you, you mean? I know what I’d do.”

  “No!” cries she fiercely. “You would protect me!”

  “Would I now? In gratitude for wanting me fed into the fire?”

  “You were a prisoner then!” She rode closer, and said in a low tone, “Now, if your people triumphed, you could do me good … and I would be grateful.” Softly, with her knee against mine, if you please.

  “My dear, you’re a girl after my own heart,” says I. “But what if your side won, eh? They won’t … but just suppose …”

  “Then I would protect you from the wrath of Theodore! As I shall, even now.”

  “I doubt if he’ll be wrathful with me just now,” says I. “Not with the British Army on his doorstep.”

  She stared at me. “You do not know him! Oh, believe me, ras of the British, you know him not at all!”