by Wilbur Smith
Osman was silent as he considered this extraordinary proposal. He thought that Abdullahi had wildly overestimated the appeal of the Mahdiya to the Egyptian population. It was true that the majority were Islamic, but of a much milder persuasion than the Dervish. There was also a large Coptic Christian population in Egypt, which would oppose the Sudanese Mahdiya fanatically. Above all, there were the British. They had only recently taken over supreme power in that country, and would never relinquish it without a bitter fight. Osman knew the quality of these white men: he had fought them at Abu Klea where there had been a mere handful of them. He had heard that they were building up their armies in the north. Their battleships were anchored in Alexandria harbour. No army of the Khalifat could ever fight its way over those thousands of miles to reach the delta. Even if by some remote chance it did, then certain destruction awaited it there at the hands of the British. He was trying to find the diplomatic words to say this without incurring Abdullahi’s ire, when he saw the sly glint in his eye.
Then he realized that the proposal was not what it seemed. At last he saw through it: Abdullahi was not intent on the conquest and occupation of Egypt; rather, he was setting a snare to catch his enemies. The Ashraf were the main threat to his sovereignty: Abdel Kerim was the cousin of the Mahdi and one of the leaders of the Ashraf. He had under his control a large army, including a regiment of Nubians who were superb soldiers. If Abdel Kerim failed against the Egyptians, Abdullahi could accuse him of treachery and have him executed, or at least strip him of his rank and take the Ashraf army under his own command.
“What an inspired battle plan, great Khalifat!” Osman was sincerely impressed. He realized now that Abdullahi, by virtue of his cunning and ruthlessness, was indeed fitted to become the one ruler of the Sudan.
“As for you, Osman Atalan, I have a task also.”
“Lord, you know that I am your hunting dog,” Osman replied. “You have only to command me.”
“Then, my warlike child, my faithful hunting dog, you must win back for me the Disputed Lands.” This was the territory around Gondar, a huge tract of well-watered and fertile land that lay along the headwaters of the Atbara river, and stretched from Gallabat as far as the slopes of Mount Horrea. The Sudanese and the Abyssinian emperors had fought over this rich prize for a hundred years.
Osman considered the task. He looked for the pitfalls and snares that Abdullahi was setting for him, as he had done for Abdel Kerim, but found none. It would be a hard and difficult campaign, but not an impossible one. He had sufficient force to carry it out. The risks were acceptable. He knew he was a better general than the Abyssinian Emperor John. He would not be forced to campaign in the highlands where the advantage would pass to Emperor John. The prize was enormous, and the recaptured lands would become part of his own domain. The thought of moving his personal seat of government to Gondar, once he had captured the city, was attractive. Gondar had been the ancient capital of Abyssinia. There, he would be so far removed from Omdurman that he could establish virtual autonomy while paying lip service to Abdullahi.
“You do me great honour, exalted lord!” He accepted the command. “Before the rise of the new moon I shall leave Omdurman and travel up the Atbara river to reconnoitre the border and lay my battle plans.” He thought for a moment, then went on, “I shall need some pretence to travel along the border, and perhaps even visit Gondar. If great Abdullahi should write a letter of greetings and good wishes to the Emperor that he orders me to deliver to the Abyssinian governor at Gondar, I could secretly inspect the de fences of the city and the deployment of the enemy troops along the border.”
“May Allah go with you,” said Abdullahi gently. “You and I are as twin brothers, Osman Atalan. We think with one mind and strike with the same sword.”
In a flotilla of dhows, Osman Atalan and his entourage sailed up the Bahr El Azrek, the Blue Nile, as far as the small river town of Aligail. Here, one of the major tributaries joined the Nile. This was the Rahad river, but it was not navigable for more than a few leagues upstream. Osman offloaded his aggagiers, his women and slaves, almost three hundred souls. The horses had come up in the dhows from Omdurman. At Aligail he sent his aggagiers fifty miles in all directions to hire camels and camel-drivers from the local sheikhs. Once the caravan was assembled they moved eastward along the course of the Rahad. The caravan was strung out over several miles. Osman and a select band of his aggagiers rode well in advance of the main column. Penrod ran beside his horse with the rope round his neck.
The country became more wooded and pleasant as they moved slowly towards the mountains. There were a few small villages along the river, but these were well separated and the land between was populated with wild game and birds. They came upon rhinoceros and giraffe, buffalo, zebra and antelope of all descriptions. Osman hunted as they travelled. Some days were passed entirely in the pursuit of a particular species of antelope that had caught his attention. Spurning firearms, he and his aggagiers used the lance from horseback to bring down the quarry. There were wild rides and Penrod was able to keep up only by grabbing hold of Osman’s stirrup leather and letting himself be pulled along by al-Buq at full gallop, his feet touching the earth lightly every dozen paces or so. By this time he was in such superb physical condition that he delighted in the sport as much as any of the aggagiers. It was all that made his captivity bearable, for during the chase he felt free and vital once again.
Most nights Osman’s party slept in the open under the starry sky wherever the day’s hunting had taken them. They were usually far ahead of the main column. However, when they had killed some large animal, such as a giraffe or rhinoceros, they camped beside the carcass until the main body caught up with them. When the baggage train arrived, Osman’s enormous leather tent was erected in the centre of a zareba of thorn bush. It was the size of a large house, furnished with Persian carpets and cushions. The smaller but no less luxurious tents of his wives and concubines were placed around it.
Unlike the Mahdi and the Khalifat Abdullahi, Osman had limited himself to four wives, as decreed in the Koran. The number of his concubines was also modest, and although it fluctuated, it did not exceed twenty or thirty. On this expedition he had brought with him only his latest wife: she had not yet borne him a child and he needed to impregnate her. He had also restricted himself to seven of his most attractive concubines. Among this small group was the recently acquired white girl, al-Jamal. Until now Osman had been so occupied with affairs of state and politics that he had not yet gathered and tasted her fruits. He was in no hurry to do so: the anticipation of this consummation added greatly to his pleasure.
Penrod knew that Rebecca was with the expedition. He had seen her going aboard one of the dhows when they embarked at Omdurman. He had also seen her from a distance on four different occasions since the land journey had begun. Each time she had avoided looking in his direction, but Amber, who was with her, had waved and given him a saucy grin. Of course, there was never an opportunity to exchange a word: Atalan’s women were strictly guarded, while Penrod was kept on a leash during the day and locked in leg shackles each evening. At night he was confined to a guarded hut in the zareba of al-Noor and the other aggagiers.
Even though he was usually exhausted when he settled down on the sheepskin that served him as a mattress, he still had opportunity to think about Rebecca during the long nights. Once he had convinced himself that he loved her, that she was the main reason why he had defied Sir Charles Wilson’s strict orders and returned to Khartoum after the battle of Abu Klea. Since then his feelings towards her had become ambivalent. Of course, she was still his fellow countrywoman. Added to that she had surrendered her virginity to him, and for those reasons he had a duty and responsibility towards her. However, her virtue, which had initially made her so attractive to him, was now indelibly tarnished. Although she had not done so of her own free will, she had become the whore of not one but at least two other men. His strict code of honour would never permit him to marry a
nother man’s whore, especially if that man was his blood enemy and of a dark, alien race.
Even if he were able to subdue these feelings and take her as his wife, what good could come of it? When they returned to England the full story of her defilement and degradation at the hands of the Dervish would not remain secret. English society was unforgiving. She would be branded for life as a scarlet woman. He could not present her to his friends and family. As a couple they would be ostracized. The regiment would never condone his choice of wife. He would be denied advancement and forced to resign his commission. His reputation and standing would be destroyed. He knew that in time he would come to resent and, later, even hate her.
As an ambitious man with a well-developed instinct for self-preservation and survival, he knew what his course of action must be. First, he would do his duty and rescue her. Then, painful as it might be, they must part company and he would return to the world from which she would be for ever excluded.
If he were to carry through this determination, and rescue Rebecca and her little sister, his first concern must be to find freedom himself. To achieve this he must gain the trust of Osman Atalan and his aggagiers, and lull any suspicions they harboured that the sole purpose of his miserable life was either to assassinate the Khalif or to escape from his clutches. Once he induced them to relax the conditions of his imprisonment he knew he would find his opportunity.
The closer they came to the Abyssinian border, the more wild and grand the land became. Magnificent savannahs gave way to forests of stately trees, interrupted by open glades of green grass. Twenty-five days after they had left the Nile they came upon the first herd of elephant. Closer to the towns and villages, these great animals had been ruthlessly pursued by ivory hunters and had been forced to withdraw deeper into the wilderness.
This herd was drinking and bathing at a pool in the Rahad river. The water was deep and broad, surrounded by fever trees with canary yellow trunks. They heard the squealing and splashing from a great distance, and manoeuvred downwind to climb the low kopje that overlooked the pool. From the summit they had a splendid view of the unsuspecting herd. It was made up of fifty or so cows with their offspring. There were three immature bulls with them, but they carried nondescript tusks.
One of Osman Atalan’s young warriors had not yet killed an elephant in the classical manner, on foot and armed only with the sword. Osman described the technique to him. It was a masterly dissertation.
Penrod listened with fascination. He had heard of this dangerous pastime in which the aggagiers earned their title, but had never seen its execution. Towards the end of his lecture, when Osman was pointing out the exact point on the back of the elephant’s hind leg where the sword stroke must be aimed to sever the tendon, it occurred to Penrod that Osman was addressing him as much as the Arab novice. He dismissed this as an idle thought. The herd finished drinking and wandered away through the grove of fever trees. Osman let them go unmolested. They were not worthy of his steel. He ordered the aggagiers to mount up and they rode back to the encampment.
Three days later they came across more elephant tracks. The aggagiers dismounted to study them, and saw that they had been made by a pair of bulls. The pad marks were fresh and one set was enormous. With animation they speculated among themselves as to the size and weight of ivory that the larger bull carried. Osman ordered them to remount and led them forward at a smart walk, so that the sound of galloping hoofs would not alarm and stampede the quarry.
“They drank at the river early this morning and now they are returning to the hills to take cover in the thickets of kit tar thorns where they feel secure,” Osman said. As they approached the hills they saw that the lower slopes were covered with the reptilian and venomous green thorn bush which contrasted with the brighter, fresher colour of the deciduous forest higher up the slope. They found the big bull standing alone on the edge of the thicket.
“The two bulls have parted company and gone their separate ways. This will make the hunt easier for us,” Osman said softly, and led them forward. The elephant was drowsing quietly, fanning his huge ears, rocking gently from one foot to the other. He was angled away from them and his head was lowered so that the thorn scrub reached to his lower lip and hid his tusks from view. The aggagiers reined in the horses to rest them before beginning the hunt. The breeze was steady and favourable and there was no reason to hurry. Penrod rested with the horses. He squatted on his haunches and drank from the waters king that al-Noor unstrapped from the pommel of his saddle and dropped to the ground beside him.
Suddenly the bull shook his head so that his ears clapped loudly, then reached out with his trunk to pluck a bunch of kit tar blossom. When he lifted his head to stuff the yellow flowers into the back of his throat, he revealed his tusks. They were perfectly matched, long and thick.
The hunters stirred and murmured in appreciation.
“This is a fine animal.”
“This is an honourable bull.”
They all looked to Osman Atalan to see whom he would choose for the honour, each hoping it would be himself.
“Al-Noor,” said Osman, and al-Noor pushed his mount forward eagerly, only to slump again in the saddle when his master went on, ‘slip the leash off Abd Jiz.”
Penrod came to his feet with surprise and al-Noor removed the rope from round his neck.
“It is too great an honour for an infidel slave,” Al-Noor whispered enviously.
Osman ignored his protest. He drew his sword and reversed it before he handed it to Penrod. “Kill this bull for me,” he ordered.
Penrod tested the balance and weight of the blade, cutting with it forehanded, then backhanded. He spun it in the air and caught it with his left hand, then cut and thrust again. He turned back to Osman, on al-Buq. Penrod was balanced on the balls of his bare feet; he held the sword in the guard position. His expression was grim. The blade was steady as if fixed in the jaws of a steel vice, pointed at the Khalif’s chest. Osman Atalan was unarmed and within the sweep of Penrod’s sword arm. Their eyes locked. The aggagiers urged their mounts forward and their hands rested on their sword hilts.
Penrod brought the sword slowly to his lips and kissed the flat of the blade. “It is a fine weapon,” he said.
“Use it wisely,” Osman advised him quietly.
Penrod turned away up the slope towards where the bull elephant stood. His bare feet made no sound on the stony earth and he stepped lightly. He felt the breeze chill the sweat on the back of his neck. He used its direction to guide him as he angled in behind the bull. It was an enormous creature: at the shoulder it stood over twice his own height.
Penrod had in mind every word of Osman’s advice as he studied the hind legs. He could clearly make out the tendons beneath the grey and riven hide. They were thicker than his thumb, and as the beast rocked gently they tightened and relaxed. He fastened his gaze on them and moved in quickly. Unexpectedly the bull humped his back and braced both back legs. From the pouch of loose skin between his back legs his penis dropped out and dangled until the tip almost touched the ground. It was longer than the span of Penrod’s outstretched arms and as thick as his forearm. The bull began to urinate, a powerful yellow stream that hosed out a shallow trench in the hard earth. The smell was rank and strong in the noonday heat.
Penrod closed in to within three yards of the bull’s haunches, and stood poised, the sword lifted. Then he ran forward and swung the blade, aiming two hand spans above the bull’s right heel. It sliced down to the bone, and with a rubbery snap the tendon parted. In the same movement Penrod stepped across to the other leg, reversed his blade and cut again. He saw the recoil of the severed tendon under the thick hide, and jumped back. The crippled bull squealed and dropped heavily to his hindquarters in a sitting position with both back legs paralysed.
Behind him Penrod heard the aggagiers shout in acclamation. He watched the jets of blood squirting from the twin wounds. The bull’s struggles to regain his feet aggravated the flow. It would not
be long. The bull saw him and swung his head to face Penrod. He tried to drag himself forward, but his movements were awkward and ineffectual. Penrod retreated before him, watching until he was certain that the bull was mortally wounded, then turned and walked unhurriedly back towards the group of watching horsemen.
He had covered half the distance when another elephant squealed on his right flank. The sound was so unexpected that he wheeled to face it. All this time the second, younger bull had been standing nearby, also asleep on its feet. The kit tar bush had concealed it, but at the cries and struggles of its companion it burst out of the dense thorn bush at full charge, pugnaciously seeking a focus for its alarm and anger. It saw Penrod immediately and swung towards him, rolling back the tips of its huge ears and coiling its trunk against its chest in a threatening attitude. It trumpeted wildly. As it began its charge the ground trembled under its weight.
Penrod glanced around swiftly for some avenue of retreat. There was no point in running towards the group of horsemen. They could offer him no help and would gallop away before he reached them. Even to climb into one of the tall trees that grew nearby would be of no avail. Standing on its back legs the bull could reach even to the top branches to pull him down, or it could knock over the whole tree almost effortlessly. He thought of the ravine they had crossed a short distance back. It was so narrow and deep that he might crawl down into it beyond the bull’s reach. He whirled and ran. Faintly he heard the ribald shouts of the aggagiers.
“Run, Dung Beetle! Spread your wings and fly.”
“Pray to your Christian God, infidel!”
“Behold, the fields of Paradise lie before you.”
He heard the elephant crashing through the scrub behind him. Then he saw the opening of the ravine a hundred paces ahead. He was at the top of his own speed, his tempered, hardened legs driving so hard that the elephant was overhauling him only gradually. But he knew in his heart that it would catch him.