by Wilbur Smith
Then he heard pounding hoofs close behind him. He could not help glancing back. The bull was towering over him like a dark cliff, already uncoiling its trunk to swipe him down. The blow would smash bone.
Once he was on the ground the bull would kneel on him, crushing him against the hard earth until every bone in his body was smashed, then stabbing those long ivory shafts repeatedly through what remained of his body.
He tore away his gaze and looked ahead. Still the sound of hoofs crescendoed. Without slackening his run Penrod braced himself for the shattering blow that must surely come. Then the hoofs were alongside him, and he saw movement from the corner of his eye. The black bulk of al-Buq was overtaking him. Osman was leaning forward over his withers and pumping the reins. He had kicked his foot out of the near side stirrup, and the empty iron bumped against al-Buq’s flank.
“Come up, Abd Jiz!” Osman invited him. “I have not finished with you yet.”
With his right hand Penrod snatched the stirrup leather and twisted it round his wrist. Instantly he was jerked off his feet, and he allowed himself to be carried away by the racing stallion. As he swung on the end of the leather he looked back. The bull was still at full charge behind them, but losing ground to the stallion. At last he abandoned the chase and, still squealing with rage, turned aside into the kit tar thorn. As he ran off he ripped down branches from the trees in his path in frustration and hurled them high into the air. He vanished over the crest of the hill.
Osman reined in al-Buq, and Penrod released the stirrup leather. He still held the hilt of the sword in his left hand. Osman threw his leg over the stallion’s neck and dropped to the ground, landing like a cat in front of him. The other aggagiers were widely scattered and for the moment the two were alone. Osman held out his right hand. “You have no further need of that steel,” he said quietly.
Penrod glanced down at the sword. “It grieves me to give it up.” He reversed the weapon and slapped the hilt into Osman’s right hand.
“In God’s Name, you are a brave man, and an even wiser one,” Osman said, and brought out his left hand from behind his back. In it he held a fully cocked pistol. He thumbed the hammer and let it drop to half-cock, just as al-Noor rode up.
Al-Noor also jumped down and spontaneously embraced Penrod. “Two true strokes,” he applauded him. “No man could have done it cleaner.”
They did not have time to wait for the tusks to rot free so they chopped them out. It took until noon the next day to remove the long cone-shaped nerve from the cavity in the base of each. It was painstaking work: a slip of the blade would mar the ivory and reduce drastically its monetary and aesthetic value.
They loaded them on to the packhorses, and when they rode into the main encampment the drummers beat loud and the horns blared. The women, even the Khalif’s wife and his concubines, came out to watch. The men fired their rifles in the air, then crowded around the packhorse to marvel at the size of the tusks.
“This must have been the father and grandfather of many great bulls,” they told each other. Then they asked Osman Atalan, “Tell us, we beg you, exalted Khalif, which hunter brought down this mighty beast?”
“The one who was once known as Abd Jiz, but who has now become the aggagier Abadan Riji.”
From then on no man ever called Penrod Abd Jiz again. That derogatory name was lost and forgotten.
“Command us, Supreme One. What must we do with these tusks?”
“I shall keep one in my tent to remind me of this day’s sport. The other belongs to the aggagier who slew it.”
Early the following morning when Osman Atalan emerged from his tent he greeted his waiting aggagiers and discussed with them the usual business of the day, the route he intended to follow and the purpose and object of the day’s ride. Penrod squatted nearby with the horses, taking no part until Osman called to him, “Your style of dress brings your companions into disrepute.”
Penrod stood up in surprise and looked down at his shift. Although he had washed it whenever an opportunity presented itself, it was stained and worn. He had no needle or thread with which to mend it, and the cloth was ripped by thorn and branch, worn threadbare with hard use. “I have become accustomed to this uniform. It suits me well enough, great Atalan.”
“It suits me not at all,” said Osman, and clapped his hands. One of the house slaves came scurrying forward. He carried a folded garment. “Give it to Abadan Riji,” Osman ordered him, and he knelt before Penrod and proffered the bundle.
Penrod took it from him and shook it out. He saw that it was a clean, unworn jibba and with it were a pair of sandals of tanned camel hide.
“Put them on,” said Osman.
Penrod saw at once that the jibba was plain, not decorated with the ritual multi-coloured patches that had such powerful political and religious significance and constituted a Dervish uniform. He would not have donned the jibba if it had. He stripped off his rags and slipped it over his head. It fitted him remarkably well, as did the sandals. Somebody had observed his size shrewdly.
“That pleases me better,” said Osman, and swung up easily into al-Buq’s saddle. Penrod moved up to his usual position at the stirrup, but
Osman shook his head. “An aggagier is a horseman.” He clapped again, and a groom led a saddled horse from behind the tent. It was a sturdy roan gelding that Penrod had noticed in the herd of spare horses.
“Mount up!” Osman ordered him, and he went into the saddle, then followed the group of riders into the forest. Penrod was conscious of his inferior rank in the band, so he kept well back.
Over the first few miles he assessed the roan under him. The horse had a comfortable gait and showed no vices. He would not be particularly fast. He could never outrun any of the other aggagiers. If Penrod ever tried to escape, they would run him down quickly enough.
No great beauty, but a hard pounder with good temperament, he decided. It felt good to have a horse between his knees again. They rode on towards the blue mountains and the Abyssinian border. They were heading now directly for Gallabat, the last Dervish stronghold before the border. Though the mountains seemed close, they were still ten days’ ride ahead. Gradually they left the wilderness behind. There were no more signs of elephant or of the other great game animals. Soon they were passing through fields of dhurra and other cultivation and many small Sudanese villages. Then they started to climb through the foothills of the central massif.
When they off-saddled to recite the midday prayers, Osman Atalan always left the others and spread his carpet in a shaded place that overlooked the next green valley. After he had prayed he would usually eat alone, but that day he called Penrod, and indicated that he should sit facing him on the Persian carpet. “Break bread with me,” he invited. Al-Noor set out between them a dish of unleavened dhurra cakes and as ida and another dish of cold smoked antelope meat. He had hastily cut the throats of the animals before they died from the lance wounds that had brought them down so the flesh was hal al There was a smaller dish filled with coarse salt. Osman gave thanks to Allah and asked for His blessing on the food. Then he selected a morsel of smoked meat and, with his right hand, dipped it in to the salt. He leant forward and held it to Penrod’s lips.
Penrod hesitated. He was faced with a crucial decision. If he accepted food and salt from Osman’s hand it would constitute a pact between them. In the tradition of the tribes it would be equivalent to a parole. If thereafter he tried to escape, or if he committed any warlike or aggressive act against Osman, he would break his word of honour.
Swiftly he made his decision. I am a Christian, not a Muslim. Also, I am not a Beja. For me this is not a binding oath. He accepted the offering, chewed and swallowed, then picked out a scrap of venison,
salted it and offered it to Osman. The Khalif ate it and nodded his thanks.
They ate slowly, savouring the meal, and their easy conversation concerned the affairs that absorbed them both: war, hunting and the pursuit of arms. At first it was wide-ranging,
then became more specific as Osman asked how the British trained their troops and what qualities their commanders looked for in their officers.
“Like you we are a warlike people. Most of our kings were warriors,” Penrod explained.
“This I have heard.” Osman nodded. “I have also seen with my own eyes how your people fight. Where do they learn these skills?”
“There are a people called the French, a neighbouring tribe. We have sport with them on occasion. There is always trouble in some part of the Empire that must be controlled. During periods of peace we have colleges, which have been established for many generations, to train our line and staff officers. Two are famous: the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich, and the Royal Military College at Camberley.”
“We also have a school for our warriors.” Osman nodded. “We call it the desert.”
Penrod laughed, then agreed. “The battlefield is the best training school, but we have found the academic study of the art of war invaluable too. You see, most of the great generals of all the ages from Alexander to Wellington have written of their campaigns. There is much in which they are able to instruct us.”
When they rode on eastwards, Osman summoned Penrod to ride at his side and they continued their discussion animatedly. At times they became heated. Penrod was describing how Bonaparte had been unable to break the British square at Waterloo, and Osman had mocked him lightly. “We Arabs have not studied at any college, and yet unlike this Frenchman we broke your square at Abu Klea.”
Penrod rose to the bait, as Osman had intended he should. “You never broke us. You penetrated locally, but the square held and healed itself, then became a trap for your emir al-Salida, his sons and a thousand of his men.” They argued with the freedom of blood-brothers, but when their voices rose the aggagiers looked at each other uneasily and pressed close to be ready to intervene if their khalif was threatened. Osman waved them back. He reined in on the skyline of another ridge in the series that climbed like a giant staircase towards the mountains.
“Before us lies the land of the Abyssinians, our enemies for many centuries past. If you were my general and I asked you to seize the territory as far as Gondar, then hold it against the rage of Emperor
John, tell me how you, with your schoolroom studies, would accomplish this task.”
It was the kind of problem that Penrod had studied at the staff officer’s college. He took up the challenge with enthusiasm. “How many men will you give me?”
“Twenty-five thousand,” Osman replied.
“How many does the Emperor have to bring against me?”
“Maybe ten thousand at Gondar, but another three hundred thousand beyond the mountains at Aksum in the highlands.”
“They will have to descend through the high passes to bring me to battle, will they not? Then I must invest Gondar swiftly, and once the city is contained I will not pause to reduce it, but I will drive on hard to seal the mouths of the passes before the reinforcements can debouch into the open ground.”
They discussed this problem in detail, considering every possible response to the attack. Their discussion continued unflaggingly over the rest of the march to Gallabat. It was only when they came in sight of the town that it occurred to Penrod that it had not been an academic discussion, and that this journey was a prelude to the Dervish invasion of the kingdom of Abyssinia. Osman was calling on his training as a military adviser.
So the Mahdi’s jihad did not end at Khartoum, Penrod realized. Abdullahi knows that he must fight or he will languish and perish. Then he considered how much damage he had unwittingly done by giving encouragement and expert advice to Osman.
Even if the Dervish triumphs here at Gondar, Abdullahi will not be satisfied. He will turn his eyes on Eritrea, and he won’t stop there. He cannot stop. He will never stop until he is forcibly stopped. That will not happen until Abdullahi has aroused the wrath of the civilized world, he decided. In my own humble way I may have done something to help bring that about. He smiled coldly. There are exciting days ahead.
The Dervish governor of Gallabat was almost overcome by the honour of receiving the mighty Khalif Osman Atalan as a guest in his city. Immediately he vacated his own mud-brick palace and placed it at the disposal of the visitors. He moved into a much smaller, humbler building on the outskirts of the town.
Osman decided to rest in Gallabat until the cessation of the monsoon period, which would make travelling in the hilly country around Gondar almost impossible. This would entail a delay of several months,
but there was much to keep him occupied. He wanted to gather every scrap of information that might be of importance during the coming campaign. He sent out word that the local guides who had taken caravans up to Gondar through the high passes, and those warlike sheikhs who had raided the Ethiopian territories for cattle and slaves must come to him in Gallabat. They hastened to his bidding. He questioned them at great length, and recorded all they had to tell him. This information would comprise the bulk of his report to the Khalifat Abdullahi when he returned to Omdurman.
Osman recalled that the Mahdi had used the white concubine, al-Jamal, as a scribe and letter-writer. She was skilled in many languages. He ordered her to be present at these interrogations to write down the facts as they were revealed by the witnesses. He had seen little of al-Jamal since the beginning of the expedition for he had had marital obligations elsewhere. But Osman had barely settled into the governor’s palace before the older women slaves of the harem came to him with the news that his youngest wife had at last responded to his repeated attentions by missing her moon. They informed him that she had not flown her red banner for two months past.
Osman was pleased. His fourth wife was a niece of the Khalifat Abdullahi and therefore her pregnancy was of great political importance. Her name was Zamatta. Although she had a pretty face, she enjoyed her food and had thick thighs, a pudding-shaped belly and a pair of soft, cow-like udders. At this time in his life Osman Atalan demanded more from his favourites than a musical giggle and a willingness to lie back and open their legs. He had done what had to be done, and now he felt no inclination to spend more time in the company of the dull-witted Zamatta.
During the first few days of the interrogations al-Jamal had taken up an unobtrusive position behind the governor’s dais in the audience hall. On the third day Osman ordered her to move to a seat below the front of the dais. Here she sat cross-legged with her writing tablet on her lap, directly in his line of vision. He liked the quick movements of her slim, pale hands, and the texture of the cheek that was turned towards him as she wrote. As was fitting, she never raised her eyes from the parchment or looked at him directly. Once or twice while he was watching her a mysterious smile touched her lips, and this intrigued him. Seldom before in his life had he been concerned with what his women were thinking, but this one seemed different.
“Read back to me what you have written,” he ordered.
She lifted those strangely pale blue eyes to look at him, and his breath caught. She recited the evidence, without having to read it.
When she finished she leant towards him and dropped her voice so that he alone could hear. Trust him not, Great Lord,” she said. “He will give you little for your comfort.” They were the first words she had ever addressed to him.
Osman’s expression remained impassive, but he was thinking quickly. He had let it be known that he was conducting these enquiries to facilitate trade with the Abyssinians and plan his state visit to Gondar. Had this woman guessed his true intentions, or had she been informed? What grounds did she have for the warning she had just given him? He went on with his enquiries, but now he studied the man before him more intently.
He was an elderly caravan master, prosperous from the cloth of his robes, intelligent judging by the depth of his knowledge. In all other respects he was unremarkable. He had stated that he was of the tribe of Hadendowa. Yet he did not affect the patched jibba, and there was something alien in his accent and the manner of h
is speech. Osman considered challenging his identity, but discarded the idea. He looked for the other signs that al-Jamal must have noticed. The man leant forward to take the small brass cup of coffee from the tray that had been placed before him, and the neck opening of his robe gaped to show a flash of silver. It was a fleeting glimpse, but Osman recognized the ornately engraved Coptic Christian cross that hung on a chain round his neck.
He is Abyssinian, Osman realized. Why would he dissemble? Are they spying on us as we are on them? He smiled at the man. “What you have told me has been of great value. For this I thank you. When do you begin your next journey?”
“Great Khalif, three days hence I leave with two hundred camels laden with rock salt from the pans at al-Glosh.”
“What is your destination?”
“I travel to the new city of Addis Ababa in the hills, where I purpose to barter my salt for ingots of copper.”
“Go with God, good merchant.”
“Stay with God, mighty Atalan, and may angels guard your sleep.”
When the caravan owner left the audience hall, Osman gestured al-Noor to his side. When the aggagier knelt beside him he whispered, “The merchant is a spy. Kill him. Do it secretly and with cunning. None must learn who delivered the blow.”
“As you order, so shall it be done.”
The staff left the hall, each making an obeisance to the Khalif as he passed, but when al-Jamal rose to follow them Osman said curtly, “Sit by me. We shall talk a while.”
By this time Rebecca could act the part of a concubine. The Mahdi had taught her how to please an Arab master. Flattery was the one sure way to achieve it. She was always astonished at how they would accept the most extravagant hyperbole as nothing more than their due. While she spouted this nonsense she could efface herself and keep her true feelings hidden. She sat as he had ordered and, with her face veiled, waited for him to speak.
“Remove your veil,” he said. “I wish to see your face while we discourse.” She obeyed. He studied her features in silence for a while, then asked, “Why do you smile?”