by Wilbur Smith
‘I have made some enquiries,’ Ryder admitted. Under his instructions Bacheet had spent several weeks pursuing them. Even the rabbit warren of ancient buildings and alleyways of Khartoum could not hide five thousand ardebs of grain indefinitely.
‘I would be fascinated to know the results of those investigations.’
Ryder regarded the tip of his cigar with a frown of annoyance. The lack of humidity in the desert air desiccated the tobacco leaf and caused it to burn like a grass fire. ‘Did you hear if, by any chance, the good general has offered a reward for the return of the missing dhurra?’ he asked. ‘Lord knows, he paid little enough for it on the first purchase. Six shillings a sack!’
‘General Gordon has not spoken to me of a reward,’ Penrod shook his head, ‘but I will suggest it to him. I would think that a reward of six shillings a sack might bring forth information, don’t you?’
‘Perhaps not,’ Ryder replied. ‘However, I believe that an offer of twelve shillings would be almost certain to produce results.’
‘I shall speak to him at the first opportunity.’ Penrod nodded. ‘Although that does seem a trifle steep.’
‘None of his promissory notes, either,’ Ryder warned. ‘It is common knowledge that the Khedive has given him drawing rights of two hundred thousand pounds on the Cairo treasury. A few gold sovereigns would sing sweeter than all the paper canaries ever to come out of the forest.’
‘A sentiment most poetically expressed, sir,’ Penrod commended him.
Rebecca sat in her secret place in a hidden corner of the battlements in the consular palace. She was hidden by an ancient hundred-pounder cannon, a monstrous rusting relic that had probably never been fired in this nineteenth century, and would certainly never be fired again. She had covered her head and nightgown with a dark woollen cloak, and she knew that not even the twins would find her there.
She looked up at the night sky and could tell by the height of the Southern Cross above the desert horizon that it was well after midnight, but she felt as though she would never be able to sleep again. In a single day her whole existence had been thrown into uproar and confusion. She felt like a captive wild bird, battering its wings against the bars, bleeding and terrified, falling to the floor of the cage with heart racing and body trembling, only to launch itself at the bars again in another futile attempt to escape.
She did not understand what was happening to her. Why did she feel this way? Nothing made sense. Her mind darted back to that morning when, as soon as she had seen the twins bathed and dressed, she had begun her weekly housekeeping inspection. As soon as she entered the blue guest suite she had seen the strange figure occupying the four-poster bed. She had not been informed by the staff of the arrival of any guests and Khartoum under siege was the last place to attract casual visitors. Knowing this, she should have left the bedroom immediately and raised the alarm. What had made her approach the bed she would never know. As she stooped over the sheet-covered figure, it had launched itself at her with the suddenness of a leopard dropping out of a tree on its prey. She found herself borne to the floor by a stark naked man with a dagger in his hand.
Remembering that terrible moment, she bowed her head and covered her face with her hands. It was not the first time that she had seen the male body. When Rebecca turned sixteen her parents had taken her on a tour of the capital cities of Europe. She and her mother had gone to see Michelangelo’s David. She had been struck by the statue’s unearthly beauty but the cold white marble had invoked in her no troublesome emotions. She had even been able, unblushingly, to discuss it with her mother.
Her mother often described herself as emancipated. At the time Rebecca thought that this merely meant she smoked Turkish cigarettes in her boudoir and spoke frankly of the human anatomy and its functions. After her suicide Rebecca realized that the word had deeper significance. At the funeral in Cairo she had overheard some of the older women whispering together, and one had remarked tartly that Sarah Benbrook had made David a cuckold more often than she cooked him breakfast. Rebecca knew her mother never cooked breakfast. Nevertheless, she looked up the word ‘cuckold’ in her father’s dictionary. It took her a while to work out the true meaning, but when she did she had decided that she did not want to be emancipated like her mother. She would be true to one man for life.
Rebecca had next seen the male body only last year. David had taken her and the twins with him on an official visit to the upper reaches of the Victoria Nile. The Shilluk and Dinka tribesmen who inhabited the banks of the river wore no clothing of any description. The girls recovered from the first surprise when their father remarked that it was merely custom and tradition for them to adopt the state of nature, and they should think nothing of it. From then onwards Rebecca looked upon the enormous dark appendages as a rather ugly form of adornment, rather like the pierced lips and nostrils on the tribes of New Guinea that she had seen illustrated.
However, when Penrod Ballantyne had leapt upon her that morning the effect had been devastating. Far from leaving her uninterested and rather pitying, she found emotions and feelings of whose existence she had never dreamed until that moment erupting into her consciousness. Even now in the darkness, with the cloak over her head and her face covered with both hands, she was blushing until her face felt as though it was on fire.
I won’t think about it ever again, she promised herself. ‘It’ was as fully as she allowed herself to describe what she had seen. Never. Never again. She even eschewed that description on the second attempt. Then immediately she found herself thinking about it with all her attention.
After that long-ago visit to Europe, Rebecca had overheard her mother discussing the subject with one of her friends. They agreed that a woman in a state of nature was beautiful, while a man was not, except Michelangelo’s David, of course.
‘It wasn’t ugly or obscene,’ Rebecca contradicted her mother’s shade. ‘It was . . . it was . . .’ But she wasn’t sure what it had been, except very disturbing, fascinating and troubling. What had happened later between her and Ryder Courtney was connected with the first episode in some strange way that she could not fully understand.
Over the previous months she and Ryder had gradually become friends. She had realized that he was strong, clever and amusing. He had an inexhaustible fund of marvellous stories and, as Saffron had often remarked, he smelt and looked good. She came to find his company reassuring and comforting in the days of the siege, when death, disease and starvation gripped the city. As her father had observed, Ryder Courtney was a man of accomplishment. He had built up a thriving business enterprise and sustained it even though the world seemed to be falling apart. He took good care of his own people and his friends. He had shown them how to make the green-cake, and he could make her laugh and forget her fears for a few hours. She felt safe when she was with him. Of course, once or twice he had made physical contact with her – a light touch on the arm when they were talking, or his hand brushing hers as they walked together. But always she had pulled away. Her mother had warned her often about men: they just wanted to ravish you, then leave you sullied for ever so that you could never find a husband. That was bad enough but, worse, ravishment was painful and, in her mother’s experience, only childbirth more so.
Then that very morning after her horrible experience in the Blue Bedroom when her emotions had been in turmoil, she had gone alone to Ryder’s quarters. She had never done that before. She had always taken at least one of the twins with her as a chaperone. But this morning she had been confused. She felt guilty about her strange and ambivalent thoughts of Captain Penrod Ballantyne. She was terrified that she had inherited the bad seed from her mother. She needed to be comforted.
As always, Ryder had been pleased to see her, and ordered Bacheet to brew a pot of the precious coffee. They had chatted for a while, at first discussing the twins and their lessons, which, since the beginning of the siege, had fallen sadly into default. Suddenly and unexpectedly, even to herself, Rebecca had begun
to sob as though her heart would break. Ryder had stared at her in astonishment: he knew she was neither a whiner nor a weeper. Then her had put his arms round her and held her tight. ‘What has happened to you? I have never seen you like this. You have always been the bravest girl I know.’
Rebecca was surprised by how good it felt to be held by him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, but made no effort to pull away. ‘I’m being very silly.’
‘You’re not silly. I understand,’ he told her, in the deep, gentle tone he used when he was comforting a frightened animal or a hurt child. ‘It is getting too much for all of us. But it will soon be over. The relief column will be here before Christmas, mark my words.’
She shook her head. She wanted to tell him that it was not the war, the siege, the Dervish or the Mad Mahdi, but he stroked her hair and she quietened, pressing her face to his chest, his warmth and strength, and his rich man-smell. ‘Ryder,’ she whispered and lifted her face to explain how she felt to him. ‘Dear, dear Ryder.’ But before she could say more he kissed her full on the lips. The surprise was so complete that she could not move. When she had recovered her wits sufficiently to pull away, she found that she did not want to. This was something so new and different that she decided to indulge herself a few moments longer.
The few moments became a few minutes and when at last she opened her mouth to protest, an incredible thing happened: his tongue slipped between her lips and stifled her protest. The sensation this produced was so overwhelming that her knees threatened to give way and she had to cling to him to hold herself up. The full muscular length of his body was pressed hard against her, and her protest came out as mewing sounds, like the cries of a newborn kitten seeking the teat. Then, to her consternation, she felt a monstrous hardness growing up between their lower bodies, something that seemed to have a life of its own. It terrified her, but she was powerless. Her will to escape evaporated.
A shrill high voice sundered the bonds that held her and set her free: ‘She’s kissing him! Becky is kissing Ryder on his mouth!’
Thinking about that moment now, she spoke aloud in the darkness under the great cannon: ‘Now even Saffy hates me, and I hate myself. It is all such a terrible mess, and I wish I could die.’
She did not realize how far the words had carried until a voice answered her from the darkness: ‘So there you are, Jamal.’ The name meant the Beautiful One.
‘Nazeera, you know me too well,’ Rebecca murmured, as the plump, familiar shape appeared.
‘Yes, I know you well and I love you more than I know you.’ Nazeera sat beside her on the carriage of the cannon, and placed her arms round her. ‘When I found that you were missing from your bed, I knew I would find you here.’ Rebecca rested her head on Nazeera’s shoulder and sighed. Nazeera was as soft and warm as a feather mattress and smelt of attar of roses. She rocked Rebecca gently. After a while she asked, ‘Now, do you still wish to die?’
‘I did not mean you to overhear me,’ Rebecca answered ruefully. ‘No, I do not want to die. Not for a while yet. But life is difficult sometimes, isn’t it, Nazeera?’
‘Life is good. It is men who are difficult most of the time,’ said Nazeera.
‘Bacheet and Yakub?’ Rebecca teased her. Nazeera’s admirers were no secret within the family. ‘Why don’t you choose one of them, Nazeera?’
‘Why don’t you make a choice, Jamal?’
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’ Rebecca lifted her cloak off her head and stared at Nazeera, her eyes large and dark in the starlight.
‘I think you do. Why is it that the day the beautiful captain returns to Khartoum you rush for safety to al-Sakhawi, and when you find out that he does not think of himself as just your old friend, you decide you want to die?’
Rebecca covered her face again. Nazeera knew nearly everything, and had guessed the rest. In a few words she had helped Rebecca understand her turmoil. Nazeera went on rocking her. She started to croon a lullaby, an old tune with new words: ‘Which one will it be? How will you choose, and who will it be?’
‘You make it seem like a child’s game, Nazeera.’ Rebecca tried to sound stern.
‘Oh, it is. Life is just a child’s game, but often the games of children, like those of grown-ups, end in bitter tears.’
‘Like poor little Saffy,’ Rebecca suggested. ‘She says she hates me, and she won’t speak to me.’
‘She thinks you have stolen her love from her. She is jealous.’
‘She is so young.’
‘No. She will soon be a woman and at least she knows what she wants.’ Nazeera smiled tenderly. ‘Unlike some older women I know.’
‘Twelve shillings?’ Ryder Courtney insisted. ‘There can be no misunderstanding?’
‘Twelve shillings. The word of an officer and a gentleman.’
‘That description might be debated,’ Ryder grunted.
‘Will you not carry a weapon?’
‘Yes.’ Ryder hefted the heavy ironwood club.
‘I meant a sidearm or an edged weapon.’ Penrod touched the sabre in its scabbard on his belt.
‘In the dark it will not be easy to tell friend from foe. I prefer denting heads with a fist or a club. Not so irrevocable.’
They were stepping out, shoulder to shoulder, along one of the sordid alleys of the native quarter of the city. They both wore dark clothing. The sun had set little more than an hour ago, but it was already dark. Just enough daylight lingered for them to pick their way along. Bacheet was waiting for them near the Ivory Tower, one of the more notorious brothels of the most dangerous section of the city. He whistled softly to attract their attention, then beckoned them into the ruins of a building that had been destroyed by Dervish cannon fire from across the river. The three found seats on the piles of masonry and shattered roof beams. The intermittent glow of Penrod’s cigar shed just enough light for them to make out each other’s features.
‘Has Aswat arrived yet?’ Ryder asked in Arabic.
‘Yes,’ replied Bacheet. ‘He came an hour ago, at sunset.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Penrod. ‘Who is responsible for this business?’
‘I can’t be certain yet. Bacheet has heard his men call him Aswat but he wears a mask, to keep his face well hidden. Nevertheless, I have my suspicions. We will know for sure before the night is out.’ Ryder turned back to Bacheet. ‘How many men with him?’
‘I counted twenty-six. That includes six armed guards. They will work late tonight. They always do. There is a lot of dhurra, and the sacks are heavy to move about. Aswat divides them into two gangs of about twelve men each. When the curfew falls, and the streets are deserted, they carry the sacks to the customers in other parts of the city. Two of Aswat’s armed men who know the password of the night go ahead of each gang to make sure the road is clear of patrols. Two others bring up the rear to make sure they are not followed. Aswat waits at the tannery. It seems he won’t take a chance on the street.’
‘How many sacks does Aswat distribute every evening?’ Ryder asked.
‘About a hundred and twenty.’
‘So by now he has sold a few thousand,’ Ryder calculated. ‘Probably less than three thousand left in his store. Do you know what he is charging for a sack?’
‘At first it was five, but he has raised it to ten Egyptian pounds. He takes only gold, no notes,’ Bacheet told him.
Ryder shook his head. ‘Chinese Gordon is getting another bargain. The going rate is ten pounds. He is offering me but twelve shillings reward.’
‘I’ll cry for you tomorrow,’ Penrod promised. ‘Where is Aswat storing the stolen grain?’
‘At the end of this street,’ Bacheet explained. ‘He is using an abandoned tannery.’
‘Who have you left to watch the building?’ Penrod asked Bacheet.
‘Your man, Yakub. He is a Jaalin. The most treacherous of all tribes. Even that slithering of snakes have driven him out from their nest. I do not trust Yakub at all. He has no sense of honour, especially with
women,’ said Bacheet, bitterly. It was well known that he and Yakub were rivals for the favours of the widow Nazeera.
‘But he is a good man in a fight, is he not?’ Penrod defended Yakub.
Bacheet shrugged. ‘Yes, if you do not turn your back on him. He is waiting behind the tannery, on the canal bank. My men are hidden in the courtyard of the Ivory Tower. The mistress of the house is a good friend.’
‘She should be,’ Ryder murmured drily. ‘You are one of her best customers.’
Bacheet ignored such a fatuous remark. ‘I chose this place to wait because from these windows we will be able to keep watch on the alley.’ He nodded at the empty window openings. The glazing had been blown out by the shell blast, and the frames had been stolen for firewood. ‘It is the only way to reach the tannery.’
‘Good,’ Ryder said. ‘Two of your best men must follow the gangs. I want the names of all the merchants dealing with him. As soon as we have them we shall drop in on Effendi Aswat at the tannery.’
At that moment they heard the muffled tramp of feet. Bacheet slipped out through a shell hole in the rear wall to carry out Ryder’s orders. Penrod stubbed out his cigar and wrapped the butt in his handkerchief, then joined Ryder at the empty window. They stayed well back in the shadows so that they were not spotted from the alley. A group of dark, furtive figures moved past the window. The two guards were first: they wore khaki Egyptian uniform with a flowerpot fez. They carried their rifles, bayonets fixed, slung over the shoulder. The porters followed them, bowed under the heavy dhurra sacks. The two armed men of the rearguard followed a short distance behind.
When they had disappeared Penrod remarked, ‘Now I understand why you would not allow me to bring any of the garrison troops, and why you insisted that we use only your Arabs. Gordon’s Egyptians are in this up to their necks.’
‘Deeper than their necks,’ Ryder corrected him. Within a short time the unburdened porters and their escorts came hurrying back down the alley towards the tannery. Bacheet appeared again, with the suddenness of the genie from the lamp. ‘Ali Muhammad Acrani, who has a house behind the hospital, has bought all twenty-four sacks of the first delivery,’ he reported. They waited for the next delivery to pass the windows. It was after midnight before the heavily laden porters left the tannery for the sixth time and staggered down the alley.