Golden Lion

by Wilbur Smith

  They dressed her, if it could be said to be dressing, in a short-sleeved bodice that resembled the ones Judith had seen Indian women in streets of Zanzibar wearing beneath their saris. Those tops, however, had been cotton or silk, whereas this one was a barely visible wisp of sheer gauze, dotted with golden sequins and tiny jewels that barely even covered her breasts. Nor was her modesty preserved by a sari, for the only other garment she was given was a pair of loose pantaloons that hung low on her hips and was gathered at each ankle made from the same material and sprinkled with even more sparkling, glittering decorations. Her outfit was completed by a pair of silken Turkish slippers, embroidered with golden thread.

  ‘Come … look at how magnificent you are,’ said the first servant girl, leading Judith by the hand to a full-length mirror in a richly carved wooden frame that stood on the far side of the chamber. Judith gasped at her own reflection. She had imagined that she had gone to great lengths to look pretty for Hal but this was something quite different and she found herself both shocked but also fascinated by the blatantly erotic way in which she had been transformed. She had become a dancing-girl, a houri, a concubine and she did, indeed, look extraordinary. Had it been Hal waiting for her she would have been thrilled. Just the knowledge of the effect that she would have on him, looking like this, would be enough to arouse her before she even stepped into the same room as him. But to look like this for a stranger, a man who had abducted her by force, felt like a form of violation, as if the act of rape that she was now fearing had already begun.

  She was still lost in troubled thought when the eunuch reappeared, examined her – his lips pursed in a thoughtful pout – gave a little, ‘Huh!’ as if surprised by her presentability and then for a second time said, ‘Follow me.’

  She was led back through the large salon where she could feel the gaze of all the other women on her and sense them sizing her up and deciding where she ranked in their pecking order. The eunuch wafted a limp hand back and forth to hurry her up and took her down a long corridor to a set of double doors which he opened and ushered her through before following her into the room that lay beyond them, closing the doors behind him as he came.

  Judith found herself in a smaller, but infinitely more ornate version of the salon where the concubines were all waiting, just in case they should be required to serve at their master’s pleasure. Every surface, everywhere was covered in carvings and inlays that were a priceless profusion of gold, marble, onyx, jade, deep black obsidian, pure blue lapis lazuli, shimmering mother-of-pearl and sparkling mirrored glass. As she walked past one mirror and saw the light glinting off the precious stones, sequins and pearls in which she herself was covered she felt as though she too were just one more perfect, decorative object designed to enchant the jaded senses of the man for whom it had all been brought into being.

  The eunuch bowed low before a golden divan upon which a man was sitting and said, ‘Your highness, here is the woman who was brought to me earlier this evening. I hope she meets with your satisfaction.’

  With that, he scurried away, leaving Judith to look at her captor. The prince, as the serving girls had called him, was dressed in finery that was almost as jewelled, though a great deal less revealing than hers. He wore a bright pink silk coat with matching trousers and at the front of his turban a brooch was pinned consisting of the largest diamond Judith had ever seen, set in gold and surrounded by a ring of smaller stones, above which was a plume of egret feathers.

  He was, she estimated, in his thirties and had strong, handsome features, just beginning to be softened by the fat being laid down by a life of limitless self-indulgence. As a young man he must have been very attractive indeed. Even now it would not be the greatest torment imaginable for a concubine to give herself to him, aside, of course, from the shame and abasement that the very state of concubinage brought upon a woman.

  Then again, the woman kneeling on the divan by the prince’s side, with her lips nibbling at his ear and her hand running playfully over his thighs and groin, did not appear to feel ashamed or debased. On the contrary, Judith thought to herself, she seemed to be enjoying her work.

  Judith imagined that there must be bodyguards and servants somewhere nearabouts and there was music coming from somewhere off to one side of the room, but there was only one more person visible: the Buzzard. He stood behind the divan, his one arm straight down at his side, his only movement that characteristic, bird-like nodding and darting of the head.

  ‘My dear General Nazet,’ the prince said, and Judith noticed that Aleena – for she assumed that this was the favourite that the servant girls had mentioned – stopped what she was doing at the mention of the word ‘general’ and frowned in her direction, ‘how strange to think that our lives and fates have been so closely intertwined for the past two years and yet we are only now meeting for the first time. I am the Maharajah Sadiq Khan Jahan. Your old adversary, Sultan Ahmed El Grang, leader of the Omani Arabs, served me as you served the child who called himself Emperor of Ethiopia.’ The prince sighed and shook his head. ‘You know, a woman of your beauty is really wasted on the battlefield.’

  ‘No,’ said Judith, ‘a soldier of my experience is wasted in this glorified whorehouse.’

  ‘Please, beloved, I do not understand,’ said Aleena, sitting up straight. ‘Why do you call this woman “general”? Why does she say that she is a soldier?’

  ‘Because, my precious, not only is she your match in loveliness, she was El Grang’s match as a soldier. She commanded armies while you just command the guardsman who stands to attention between my legs. Now, go! I must talk to the general. I will call for you later if I need you.’

  ‘Do not wait too long,’ Aleena purred, ‘for every hour without you is an eternity to me.’

  She got up off the divan and made her sinuous, bottom-wiggling way out of the room, barely breaking stride as she passed Judith and yet flashing her a wordless glance of raw hostility that was as much a declaration of war between women as any ruler’s opening of hostilities against another man’s kingdom.

  The prince smiled complacently as his plaything departed, then, leaning forward and looking directly at Judith, said, ‘I am a civilized man and I pride myself that I act with honour and in accordance with the laws of God. But I confess I find myself in something of a quandary. Were you a man of general’s rank, whom I had captured in battle, I would hold you prisoner. If I felt it was safe to do so, I would offer you back to your people for ransom and, in exchange for the required sum, and your solemn word of honour that you would not bear arms against me or my people ever again, I would release you back to your family. Of course, for a commander of your eminence the ransom would be many, many lakhs of silver rupees: so many, in fact, that I doubt the treasury of the Emperor of Ethiopia himself could possibly meet the price. So that would leave me with the less pleasant option of granting you a swift and honourable death. You would not be tortured or mistreated and you would die like a man.

  ‘But you are not a man and that complicates the issue … You are regarded, both by your people and mine, with an awe that no man would ever enjoy, as though you are somehow magical, more than human. A young woman, little more than a girl, who nevertheless leads great armies to victory: truly she must be something more than human. Your people – and of course I talk now about the common folk, rather than the higher class of educated individuals – believe that you have come down to them from heaven, like an angel.’

  ‘And yours think I am a she-demon from hell. I am well aware of that,’ said Judith. ‘But I am neither angel nor demon. I am a woman, plain and simple. So what are you going to do with me?’

  The prince gave a contemplative sigh. ‘Ah, there’s the question … I admit I have thought a great deal, over many months, about what I would do if you ever came into my hands. I have changed my mind on more than one occasion, and I may even change it again.’

  ‘And …?’

  He shrugged. ‘The temptation to sell you into slav
ery, to whomever will bid the highest sum for you is a very powerful one. To think of one who has been exalted on high, as you have been, brought to the very depths of human existence … who among those who have suffered at your hands would not take pleasure at that? But to give you away like that … what a waste! And what pleasure would it really bring me?

  ‘Then again, you are a woman of remarkable beauty and, I am told, fecundity, too. Those are valuable commodities and I could gain great favour by offering you as a concubine to my brother the Great Mogul, or even the Sultan in Constantinople. Were either of them to have a son by you, what a man he might be. But why should I let either of those two men gain such advantage? Surely, since I have you, I should just keep you for my own use.’

  Judith almost spat rather than spoke her next words. ‘I would rather die than be your concubine. And I would kill my own child, too, rather than let it be raised in your court and under your god.’

  ‘Yes, that was what I feared,’ the prince said, nodding his head. ‘And in any case, I could hardly keep you as a member of my harem, unless it were in solitary confinement. You’ve already made a mortal enemy of Aleena, and although she is as pretty as a kitten, she is dangerous as a tigress. Then there are my other concubines to consider. These are young women from many lands, but all have come from very modest backgrounds. The life they lead here is paradise compared to the ones they left behind and all they have to do in return is to please and obey me. They do not doubt that is a very fair bargain and they would never rebel in any way. Yet you might plant ideas in their head that would make them unhappy, disobedient and unwilling to please. This would cause me great inconvenience, not least because I would have to kill them all and find replacements.’

  ‘I’m sure I would hate to put you to such trouble,’ said Judith with heavy sarcasm. ‘But now that you have told me all the various possibilities you have rejected, what fate have you chosen for me?’

  ‘First, you will join me for dinner. I should like to hear your account of your Ethiopian campaigns – the disposition of your forces, the tactics you planned in advance, the fresh decisions you were obliged to make in the heat of battle, and so on. I shall treat you with respect and ask no more of you than your military insight. Is that acceptable?’

  ‘Do not expect me to enjoy your company, Prince Jahan. But yes, I will engage in conversation at least.’

  ‘How gracious you are, madam. At the conclusion of our discussion, you will be led to your quarters, where you will be confined for the next three weeks. You will want for nothing, as befits your rank. Sadly, I will be obliged to put you up for sale at the slave market, but have no fear, I have no intention of letting anyone else buy you.’

  ‘So why pretend to sell me, then, other than as a means of abasing and humiliating me?’

  ‘Come now, the humiliation of the great Nazet is quite something in itself,’ the prince said. ‘The news that you were put on the block in Zanzibar and traded like any other piece of flesh will reverberate around Africa, India and the Levant. You can imagine what it will do to your people’s morale … and to mine. But my true purpose goes beyond that. You are really just being shown in a very public place as bait …’

  ‘To draw in Sir Henry Courtney, if he is still alive.’

  The prince beamed with delight. ‘Exactly! Ah, what a pleasure it is to talk with a woman who understands these things. Yes, I would have both in my thrall. And after that, well, again I confess my mind is not yet completely set, but if I had Sir Henry, I would offer you a very simple choice: give yourself to me, or I will kill him.’

  ‘No … I would …’

  ‘Kill yourself? But consider this: if you kill yourself, then I will also kill him. Give yourself to me, completely, for a full night and not only will he live, but there will be a chance that you are reunited.’

  ‘What chance is that?’

  ‘Simple. I will set Sir Henry to fight against this creature here …’ The prince idly wafted a hand in the direction of the Buzzard. ‘It will be one mortal enemy against another, each armed with a sword, to the death. You will be watching, for whichever one of your suitors stays alive will take you as his prize.’

  The sound of a throat being cleared could be heard from behind the leather mask. ‘Hush, Buzzard,’ the prince commanded, ‘do not say a word. You know the terms by which I allow you here, and you know that if you speak you will forfeit your life. But look at the prizes I am offering you: the death of the man you hate and the body of the woman he loved.’

  ‘That … thing will never, ever have my body.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’d rather die first, so you keep saying,’ the prince snapped, irritably. ‘But I don’t believe you. What mother would kill herself and her child? A mother will do anything, endure anything, accept any indignity to preserve the life of her child. Are you really so different? As for you, Buzzard, you did well today. You brought me General Nazet. And I am giving you something in return. Go into the city. Find a place to drink your infidel spirits. Find a woman if any will go near you. Pretend, for this one night, that you are still a man.’

  f Zanzibar was an island on whose shores the peoples of half the known world washed up, then the Tres Macacos, or Three Monkeys, was the place where the scum of the known world settled. It was a drinking establishment located off an alley that ran to one side of the dead end of a side street in the heart of the oldest, filthiest quarter of the city. It sold alcohol, which the Omani authorities, heeding the words of the Qu’ran, officially prohibited, but to which a few blind eyes were turned, providing that it was only sold by infidels to infidels. The payment of large bribes to a number of relevant individuals also contributed to the tavern’s continuing existence, all the more so since the individuals in question were regular patrons. Like many Zanzibaris, they went to the Macacos not for the raw cane spirit that passed for rum, nor the acrid vinegar that was sold as wine, but for the cock- and dogfighting that took place in a dirty, half rotten arena, rank with the smells of chicken droppings, dog mess and blood that had been erected in a yard at the back of the property.

  The tavern’s main saloon, meanwhile, played host to a motley assortment of pirates, smugglers, slave-traders, mercenaries, merchants and seamen of every sort, rank and race, attended to by crudely painted, pox-ridden whores. The air was thick with the heady aromas of tobacco smoke, unwashed bodies, stale liquor and the sinus-clearing perfumes with which the ladies doused themselves after every customer. But even in this grubby temple to depravity and decay, the arrival of the Buzzard, accompanied by his personal slave and a pair of guards whose presence was intended both to protect him and discourage any possible thought he might have of escaping Prince Jahan’s employment, brought a hush to the room and turned even the most jaded, world-weary, seen-it-all heads. One drunken wit was fool enough to shout out, ‘Sorry, birdie, they don’t serve no worms ’ere!’ A second later, the Buzzard’s blade was at his neck and he was stammering a grovelling apology.

  The Buzzard strode to the bar. ‘Rum,’ he rasped. He gave a wave of his hand that brought the slave forward, holding his drinking can. ‘Fill that. Right to the top. If you want money, ask Prince Jahan, for I don’t carry any.’

  The serving wench nodded in dumb terror. She knew, as all Zanzibaris did, that the prince had tamed a djinn who was half-man, half-bird. She had also heard about the killing of the boy who had thrown filth at him and the criminals at the city jail whom the monster had slaughtered. If he wanted rum but saw no need to pay for it, she was not going to argue and nor, she knew, would her boss.

  The Buzzard’s slave picked up the full can and then followed his master across the room to one of the very few empty tables in the place. He then inserted the spout into the mask’s mouth hole as was his usual practice and the Buzzard greedily gulped down the first alcohol to have passed his lips in months.

  Somewhere in the room someone was foolish enough to titter. The Buzzard swatted the spout away with an angry flick of the wrist, go
t to his feet and surveyed the room, his nose turning before him like the bowsprit of a tacking ship, and bobbing up and down as his eye scanned the room, just as a bowsprit moves with the impact of each new wave. All laughter stopped, as did all conversation. Then the motion of the Buzzard’s head ceased. He stopped and stared at a particular table. Heads turned towards it, following his gaze. The Buzzard got up from his place and strode across the tavern floor, with scarred, grizzled, teak-hard ruffians scrabbling to get out of his way as he passed.

  The Buzzard reached the table that had attracted his attention. A single man was sitting there, with a bottle of wine and a pewter tankard in front of him. He did not quail at the Buzzard’s approach. He simply sat and stared straight back at the painted eyes of the leather mask, with a look of cussed stubbornness on his face that said, ‘I’m not going to flinch. So if you want to scare someone you’d better look somewhere else.’

  But then the Buzzard did something no one in the room had foreseen. He stopped by the table, pulled out a chair, sat down on it and said, ‘Captain Hamish Benbury, as I live and breathe. How are you keeping, you cantankerous old bastard?’

  The stillness in the room deepened, the tension tightened still further as Benbury remained as silent and immobile as a tombstone. Then he turned his head, spat on the sawdust-covered floor, looked back up at the Buzzard and said, ‘Good day to you, too, Cochran. My mother used to say, “You’re a long time dead.” Evidently she was wrong.’ He took a long drink of his wine and then added, ‘I used tae think you couldn’t get any uglier. Evidently I was wrong on that too.’

  The Buzzard started laughing, only to discover – for this was another new experience – that his lungs and throat couldn’t handle it. For a few seconds he was struck by a violent and agonizing coughing fit that made him slam his fist against the table in protest at his discomfort and frustration. He looked around for his slave, who was still at the table where he had been sitting, and gestured furiously for him to come over. The slave got halfway across the room, realized that he had left the rum behind, dashed back for it and then frantically raced towards the Buzzard and stuck the spout in his mouth once again.