In fact, she was wrong; I did know him, all too well – but I’d forgotten, you see. I thought of him as the well-spoken soldier I’d mistaken for a bodyguard – given to sudden bursts of temper over trifles, if you like, and didn’t care two straws about roasting an enemy, but that’s African war for you. But I’d not associated that man, who’d seemed to be sane enough, and a reasoning being, with the ghastly tales I’d heard of atrocities, of women and children massacred, of frightful tortures practised on countless victims … I’d forgotten Gondar, and that dreadful garden of the crucified. Yet that horror had been the work of the intelligent, earnest man who’d cross-examined me so briskly, and smiled and joked and dallied with the bonny bint riding beside me. It didn’t seem possible … until we rode down from the Fala saddle to the camp below Selassie. Then it became all too horribly plain.
The first intimation came when we had to halt at the King’s Road while a procession of Ab prisoners shuffled by. There were hundreds of them, in the most appalling condition, starved skeletons virtually naked, many of them covered in loathsome sores. Every one of them was chained, some in fetters so heavy they could barely drag them along, others manacled wrist to ankle with chains so short they couldn’t stand upright, but must totter along bent double. The stench was fit to choke you, and to complete their misery they were driven along by burly guards wielding girafs, the hippo-hide whips which are the Ab equivalent of the Russian knout.
“Who in God’s name are they?” I asked Miriam. “Rebels?”
“Huh, you’ll find no living rebels here!” says she. “They die where they’re taken.”
“So these are criminals? What the hell have they done?”
Her answer defied belief, but it’s what she said, with a shrug, and I was to learn that it was gospel true.
“What have they done? Smiled when the King was in ill humour – or scowled when he was merry. Served him a dish that was not to his taste, or mentioned tape-worm medicine, or spoken well of someone he dislikes, or came in his way when he was drunk.” She laughed at my incredulity. “You don’t believe me? Indeed, you do not know him!”
“By God, I don’t believe you!”
“You will.” She surveyed the last of that pitiful coffle as it staggered past. “True, not all have committed those offences; some merely had the misfortune to be related to the offenders. Oh, yes, that is enough, truly.”
“But … for smiling? Tape-worm medicine? And he takes it out on whole families? How long have they been chained, for God’s sake?”
“Some, for years. Why he brings them down now from their prison on Magdala, who knows? Perhaps to preach to them. Perhaps to kill them before your army arrives. Perhaps to free them. We shall see.”
“He must be bloody mad!” cries I. Well, I’d heard it said often enough, but you don’t think what it means until you see the truth of it at point-blank. And here was this lovely lass, riding at ease in the warm sunlight, tits at the high port and talking cool as you please of a monster to rival Caligula. She must have read the stricken question in my eye, for she nodded.
“Yes, he is a dangerous master, as his ministers and generals will tell you.” She smiled, chin up. “But those who know him, and his moods, and how to please him, find in him a devout and kind and loving friend. But even they must learn to turn his anger, for it is terrible, and when the fit is on him he is no better than a beast. Is that mad, Ras Flashman of the British? Come!”
She led the way across the road to the nearest pavilions, the first of which was the great red royal marquee with carpets spread on the ground about it, guards on the fly, and servants everywhere. Groups of men in red-fringed shamas were gathered before the other large pavilions, evidently waiting, and the plain beyond was covered almost to Magdala by a forest of bivouacs and shelters. The army of Abyssinia was at rest, thousands of men loafing and talking and brewing their billies like any other soldiers, save that these were black, and instead of shirt-sleeves and dangling galluses there were white shamas and tight leggings, and as well as the piled firearms there were stands of spears and racks of sickle-bladed swords. They looked well, as the Gallas had done, and perhaps as soon as tomorrow they would go out to face the finest army in the world under one of the great captains. And how many of them would come well to bed-time? How many Scindees and King’s Own and Dukes and Baluch, for that matter? Fall out, Flashy, thinks I, this ain’t your party; lie low, keep quiet, and above all, stay alive.
Easier said than done. There was a stiffening to attention of the groups outside the tents, the servants scurried out of sight, and Miriam suddenly whipped a noose over my head and thrust me out of my saddle crying, “Get down! Be still!” as down the hill came a procession in haste. In front was Theodore, with a chico holding a brolly over his head, and in his wake a motley crowd of guards and attendants. I staggered but kept my feet, and was about to protest when Theodore, striding full tilt and shouting abuse at two skinny wretches hurrying alongside him (astrologers, I learned later) caught sight of me, and let out a yell of anger.
“You! You have betrayed me! You lied to me!” He came at me almost at the run, fists clenched and by the grace of God he was carrying nothing more lethal than a telescope, which he flourished in my face. “You swore you had no talk with the Gallas – yet they have marched, in their thousands, and lie now below Sangalat! How came they there? By Masteeat’s order! And who prompted her?” He flung out a hand in denunciation. “You! As Christ is my witness, I had nothing in my heart against you! Judas! Judas!” bawls he, and swung up the telescope to brain me.
Two things saved me. One was Miriam’s horse; startled by someone raving and capering a yard away, it reared, and since Miriam was holding t’other end of my noose I was jerked violently off my feet and went down half-strangled, but out of harm’s way. My other saviour was one of the astrologers who ran in front of Theodore, waving his arms and crying out, possibly a warning that the omens weren’t favourable for cracking heads – in which case he was dead right, for Theodore smashed him full on the crown with the telescope, and it was a lethal weapon after all, for it stove him in like an eggshell.
It had happened in seconds. I realised that Miriam, seeing him come down the hill in a towering rage, had sensibly decided that the more captive I looked the better, so she’d noosed me – and in an instant there beside me lay the corpse of the poor prophet with his skull leaking, and Theodore was dashing down the telescope, staring at his victim, and suddenly burying his face in his hands and running howling towards the red pavilion. He seized a spear from one of the guards on the fly, and began to stab the surrounding carpet, cursing something fearful. Then he flung the spear aside, shook his fists at heaven, and darted into the pavilion … and the assembled military and civilian worthies stood silent and thoughtful, determined not to look at each other, like a convocation of clergy when the bishop has farted extempore. They knew the unwisdom of noticing, having seen his royal tantrums before.
“Come!” snaps Miriam, and led me quickly in behind one of the nearest tents, where she dismounted and removed the noose. “Sit on the ground, say nothing. All may yet be well. I must see Damash.” And off she went, leaving me in some disquiet, sitting obediently and trembling like an aspen, an object of studied lack of interest to the aforementioned worthies; they acted as though I weren’t there, which suited admirably: I’d no wish to be noticed, especially by the frothing maniac in the red pavilion. I’d seen his quicksilver change of mood during the night, from mild to angry, and the sight of those wretched prisoners, and Miriam’s explanation, had convinced me that he was fairly off his rocker … but none of that had prepared me for the homicidal rage of a moment ago. That settled it. He was a murderous maniac – and I was his detested prisoner.
I’ll not weary you with my emotions as I sat there in the sun, or my terrors when presently a squad of burly ruffians in leather tunics arrived, bearing manacles, and marched me away from the tents to a little stockade within which stood a small thatche
d hut with a heavy door. They thrust me in, ignoring my inquiries for Miriam and Damash (I didn’t ask for Theodore), chained me, and left me in stuffy half-darkness to meditate on the mutability of human affairs, with a couple of spearmen outside.
Some things were plain enough – Masteeat and Fasil had lost no time, the Galla cordon that Napier had wanted was in place, and Theodore knew it; since he’d been on top of Selassie with a telescope he would also know that Napier was within striking distance, and that the game was up with a vengeance – hence, no doubt, his irritable conduct to your correspondent. And whether he chose to fight, fly, or laager on top of Magdala, the pressing question was what he would do with his European prisoners – cut our throats out of spite and die with harness on his back, or hand us over in reasonably good condition like a sensible chap … which he wasn’t.
There was no way of even guessing. On the one hand, here I was in chains, which boded no good, but didn’t suggest hasty execution, and Miriam had said all might yet be well. And since Theodore had kept our folk captive, often in chains, for years without killing any of ’em bar a couple of Ab servants, it looked odds on that he’d spare our lives … but then again, the man was barmy, and there was no telling what he might do now that his back was well and truly to the wall.
To keep my mind from glum speculation, I tried to remember how many times I’d been in chains before. Four or five, perhaps? Proper chains, that is, not the darbies used by the A Division peelers to restrain obstreperous revellers, but your genuine bilboes. There’d been Russia, when Ignatieff had caged me half across Central Asia, and the Gwalior bottle dungeon, and China when the Imps collared me before Pekin, and Afghanistan when that frightful bitch Narreeman was going to qualify me for the Hareem Handicap … at which point it struck me that my present situation, while most disturbing, was grace itself compared to these unhappy memories. I could only hope that I’d not be called on to walk in my new fetters, for they were easily the heaviest I’d ever worn, wrist manacles like double horseshoes, ankle irons two inches thick, and all connected by chain that could have lifted an anchor. And Cameron and Co. had had to wear these for months! Well, I’d not have to carry ’em for more than a day or two, one way or the other … and on this consoling thought I fell asleep – something I hadn’t done, bar my brief drunken stupor following Masteeat’s feast, for more than forty-eight hours.
A dazzling light and commotion at the doorway brought me back to life, trying to start up and failing thanks to the weight of those infernal clanking manacles. The door was open, someone was hanging a lamp from the roof beam and retiring, and as the door crashed shut again I was aware of a swaying figure in the middle of the room, a man whose shama had slipped from his shoulders so that he was bare to the waist. He gave a mighty belch and advanced unsteadily towards me, half-tripping over a large basket of bottles and food which the lamplighter had placed on the floor.
“How are you, how are you, my dear friend, my best of friends?” cries this apparition, whooping with laughter. “Thank God I am well! Are you well? Ah, my good friend, my heart rejoices to see you, for the friendship I have entertained for you has not diminished. Be of good cheer, for though you are bound with fetters, as Samson and Zedekiah were bound, even with fetters of brass, yet … yet …” His voice trailed away, muttering: “… and … and, who else? Yes, Jehoiakim also was bound, and Manasseh! They were bound, by the power of God! And so was Joseph, who was sold for a servant, whose feet they hurt with fetters, and he was laid in iron.” He gave another crazy laugh and almost fell over. “But have no fear, for the hour of your deliverance is at hand!”
My eyes had recovered from the lamp-glare, but I could hardly believe them, for the newcomer was Theodore, King of Abyssinia, and he was staggering drunk.
Just as Peacock’s Mr McQuedy, discussing condiments for fish, could imagine no relish superior to lobster sauce and oyster sauce, so I, on the subject of bizarre conversation, had never thought to meet a crazier discourser than Hung-Hsiu-Chuan, leader of the Taiping Rebellion, who was hopelessly mad, or Mangas Colorado, chief of the Mimbreno Apache, who was hopelessly drunk. I discovered in that hut under Selassie that I’d been quite wrong; King Theodore was both hopelessly mad and drunk, and could have given either of them a head start and a beating in the race to Alice’s tea party. If you’ve the patience, and know my earlier papers, you may make comparison with the following record of our chat, from the moment he plumped down, hiccoughing and beaming, in front of me, and spilled out the contents of the basket of food and drink.
I’d had no opportunity to study him at close quarters before, for our first meeting had been by flickering firelight, and at our second his face had been so contorted with rage as to be nigh unrecognisable. Now, with his black skin (for he was blacker than most Abs) shining with sweat, his eyes staring and bloodshot, and his mouth grinning slackly, he wasn’t your portrait painter’s ideal model; still I could weigh him well enough, and what I saw through the haze of booze and confusion was not an ordinary man.
He had force, no other word for it, a pent-up strength that was as much in the mind as in the body – and the body was impressive enough. He wasn’t above middle height, but he had the shoulders and arms of a middleweight wrestler, a chest like a barrel tapering to a slim waist; there wasn’t the least lip of flesh above his waistband. Groggy with drink as he was, I guessed he could move like a striking snake if need be; when he poured out cups of tej his hands were deft and steady.
But the real power was in the eyes, bright and piercing despite the blood-streaks and the occasional drunken tears; there was no tipsy vacancy about them – and that in a way was the shocking thing, ’cos by rights he should have been goggling like the last man out of the canteen. Drunk, yes, but it didn’t suit him; you felt he’d no business to be bottled. It was like seeing the Prince Consort or Gladstone taking the width of the pavement singing “One-eyed Riley”. And he was a sight handsomer than either of ’em; forget his tendency to slobber and stare and he was a deuced good-looking fellow, fifty or thereabouts with a pepper-and-salt dusting to grizzle his hair, which was braided in tails down the back of his head; his nose was hooked and prominent and his lips were thin when his mouth was shut, which it wasn’t at the moment. But his normal expression, when sober, was pleasant and alert. When he went mad, which he was liable to do at any moment, he looked like a fiend out of Hell.
So that’s the Emperor Theodore, as best I can limn him for you. One last thing before I get to his chat: I’ve never seen a black face that looked less African: slim, fine-boned, like a dusky Duke of Wellington. Oh, and he had a curious habit, just occasionally, of spitting thoughtfully when he spoke; just a sideways ptt! of the lips, disconcerting until you got used to it.
Theodore [jovial, passing a cup of tej]: We shall drink the vintage of the grapes of Ephraim! Ah, my friend, I have been impatient to see you, and to bring you comfort in the prison-house. Even as the Lord looked down from the height of his sanctuary, so I too heard the groaning of the captive. A toast! Name it, my friend!
Flashy [taken aback]: Eh? A toast? Me? Ah, well, let’s see … Here’s how, your majesty!
T: Let me shake your hand. Ah, your chains; do they fret you painfully?
F [toadying warily]: Oh, just a bit … no trouble, really –
T: Do you know why you are chained?
F [cautiously]: Well, I imagine it’s because your majesty misunderstood about my … my dealings with the Gallas – perfectly natural mistake, of course, could have happened to anyone –
T: What are the Gallas to me? You are the one who has misunderstood, my friend, if you think you are chained as a punishment. I chained you as I chained your countrymen, because the British Government thought me cowardly and weak. But now I have released my good friend Mr Rassam, and Lieutenant Prideaux, and I shall release you also, to show I am not afraid. [Earnestly] I had to chain you, in order to release you. If you were not chained, how could you be released? [Laughs heartily and drain
s cup of tej.]
F: How indeed!
T: I also chained them because I knew that must bring against me a British army, trained and disciplined, an army such as I have longed to see. [Sighs] I only hope God will spare me to see them before I die. [Drinks again.]
F: Will your majesty fight them?
T: If it is God’s will. My soldiers are nothing compared to your disciplined army, where thousands move in obedience to one. If they come in love and friendship I shall be so moved as to be unable to resist them, but if they come with other intentions I know they will not spare me, so I shall make a great bloodbath and afterwards die. [Emits the grandfather of all belches, closes eyes, and appears to fall asleep.]
Relief was flooding through me, and not only because he was behaving like an intoxicated Cheeryble and plying me with liquor; it would be another story in the morning when his majesty awoke with a head like a burst beehive and started playing Ivan the Terrible. But at least he wasn’t about to kill me, had spoken of my release, and as good as promised to give in without a fight if Napier came “in love and friendship” – which could be managed, surely. Then again, he’d so many screws loose that you couldn’t be certain of anything he said, especially when he was half-seas over. It was of academic interest, but I wondered if his claim that he’d imprisoned our people deliberately to provoke an invasion might not have something in it, unlikely though it seemed …
Theodore [waking with an almighty yell]: Damocles! By my death, I am Damocles, with a blade poised above my head, suspended by a horsehair! [Stares up] Do you not see it, about to fall? Am I not Damocles?
Flashy [taken by surprise]: Wasn’t he the chap who was tied up so that he couldn’t get at his rations … or had to roll something up a hill … didn’t he? A vulture …?
T: The British army is that blade, coming to pierce me, and I know not what to do! What will happen? I am like a pregnant woman; I do not know whether it will be a boy or a girl or an abortion! [Starts to weep, drinks deeply.]
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 394