by Wilbur Smith
She gave them a little of the dhurra bread. Amber managed a few mouthfuls, and kept them down. Nazeera nodded with satisfaction, and took her on to her own lap to allow Rebecca a chance to eat and rest. She stroked Amber’s hair and crooned softly to her. The child fell asleep almost at once. ‘She will be well again within days. Young ones have the most resilience.’
‘What will happen to us?’ Rebecca repeated her question.
Nazeera pursed her lips as she considered how much she should say. As much of the truth as is good for her, she decided. ‘You and all these women are part of the spoils of war, as much as horses and camels.’ Rebecca glanced at the sorry creatures around her, and felt momentary pity for them, until she remembered that she and Amber were in the same predicament. ‘The Dervish will use them as they wish. The old and ugly will become house and kitchen slaves. The young and nubile will be used as concubines. You are young and surpassingly beautiful. Your hair and pale skin will intrigue all men.’
Rebecca shuddered. She had never imagined what it might be like to fall under the power of a man of different race. Now the thought sickened her. ‘Will they draw lots for us?’ She had read in Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire that that was what soldiers did.
‘No. The Dervish leaders will select those they want. The Mahdi will choose first, then the others in order of their rank and power. The Mahdi will choose you, there is no doubt of that. And it is good. He is the best for us, far better than any of the others.’
‘Tell me why. Explain this to me. How can you know what he is like in his zenana?’
‘He already has over three hundred wives and concubines, and his women talk. It is widely known where his tastes lie, what he likes to do with his women.’
Rebecca looked puzzled, ‘Don’t all men do the same thing, like—’
She broke off, but Nazeera finished the question for her: ‘You mean the same as Abadan Riji and al-Sakhawi have done to you?’
Rebecca blushed scarlet. ‘I forbid you to speak to me like that ever again.’
‘I shall try to remember,’ Nazeera replied, with a twinkle in her eye, ‘but the answer to your question is that some men want different things from their women.’
Rebecca thought about that, then lowered her eyes shyly. ‘Different things. What is the different thing that the Mahdi wants? What will he do to me?’
Nazeera glanced down at Amber to make sure she was asleep, then leant closer to Rebecca, cupped her hand to her ear and whispered. Rebecca jerked back. ‘My mouth!’ she gasped. ‘That is the most disgusting thing I have ever heard.’
‘Nay, silly girl. Think a moment. With a man you do not love, or one you hate, it is quicker, easier and less uncomfortable. You do not lose your precious maidenhead, or if you have already done so, nobody is any the wiser. Even more important, there are no undesired consequences.’
‘I can see that with certain men this might be preferable.’ Then another thought struck her, and her expression changed again. She looked intrigued. ‘What is it like . . . to do that to a man or let him do it to you?’
‘First, remember this. With the Mahdi you obey him in all things with every semblance of pleasure and joy. Only one thing is vitally important. With the Mahdi you must never display repugnance. He is divine, but in these matters he is as vain as all other men. Unlike other men, however, he has in his hands the power of life and death, and he does not hesitate to employ it on all who displease him. Thus the next thing to bear closely in mind is not to gag or spit. To reject and expel his essence would be a mortal insult to him.’
‘But, Nazeera, what if I do not like the taste? What if I cannot help myself?’
‘Swallow quickly and have done. In all events you will grow accustomed to it. We women learn and adjust very quickly.’
Rebecca nodded. Already the idea was not so shocking. ‘What else must I remember?’
‘There is no doubt in my mind that the Mahdi will choose you. You must greet him as the Chosen of God and the successor to His Prophet. You must tell him what a deep joy and honour it is to meet him at last. You can add whatever else you wish – that he is the light of your eyes and the breath of your lungs. He will believe this. Then you must tell him that al-Zahra is your orphan sister. The holy law places a duty on him to protect and care for the orphan, so she will not be parted from you. There are quotations from the holy writings about orphans that you must learn by rote so that you are able to repeat them to him. I will teach them to you.’ Rebecca nodded, and Nazeera went on, ‘There is one other thing more important than all else. You must do or say nothing that might cause the Mahdi to pass you by. Show no anger, or resentment or disrespect. If he should reject you, the next choice will fall to his Khalifa Abdullahi.’
‘Would that be worse?’
‘Abdullahi is the cruellest, most wicked man in Islam. Better we should all perish than he take you or al-Zahra as his concubine.’
Rebecca shivered. ‘Teach me the quotations.’
She was a quick learner and, before Amber woke, Nazeera was satisfied that she would acquit herself properly in the presence of the prophet of God.
Osman Atalan returned across the Nile from the city he had conquered. He came in glory at the head of the flotilla of boats that had carried his army to Khartoum. Every man, woman and child who could walk, toddle or totter came down to the riverbank to greet him. The war drums boomed and thumped and ombeyas blared. One groom held his weapons, his lance, spears and broadsword. Another groom held his warhorse al-Buq for him, fully caparisoned, with his rifle in the scabbard behind the saddle.
When Osman stepped ashore from the dhow he was preceded by al-Noor who carried over one shoulder a leather dhurra bag, whose bottom was stained a dark wine colour. The crowds shouted when they saw it, for they guessed the contents. They shouted again at the sight of Osman, so tall and noble in his gleaming white jibba decorated with the brightly coloured patches.
Osman mounted al-Buq and processed through the town. The crowds lined both sides of the narrow, winding streets, and the road was strewn with palm fronds. The children ran ahead of his horse and the women lifted their infants high so that they could look upon the hero of Islam and tell their own children that they had seen him. Brave men and mighty warriors tried to touch his foot as he swept past, and the women ululated and called his name.
At the Mahdi’s palace, Osman dismounted and took the stained dhurra bag from al-Noor. He climbed the outside staircase to the flat-roof terrace where the prophet of Allah sat cross-legged on his angareb. He made a sign to the young women who attended him, and they prostrated themselves quickly before him, then moved gracefully backwards, leaving the terrace to the two men.
Osman went to the Mahdi and placed the sack before him. He knelt to kiss his hands and feet. ‘You are the light and the joy of our world. May Allah always smile upon you, who are his chosen one.’
The Mahdi touched his forehead. ‘May you always please God, as you have pleased His humble prophet.’ Then he took Osman’s hand and raised him up. ‘How went the battle?’
‘With your presence watching over us and your face before us, it went well.’
‘What of my enemy and the enemy of Allah, the crusader, Gordon Pasha?’
‘Your enemy is dead and his soul boils eternally in the waters of hell. The day you had foreseen has arrived, and those things you had prophesied have come to pass.’
‘All that you tell me, Osman Atalan, pleases God. Your words are as honey on your lips and sweet music in my ears. But have you brought me proof that what you say is true?’
‘I have brought you proof that no man may doubt, proof that will resound in the heart of every son of the Prophet throughout all Islam.’ Osman stooped, gripped the corner seams of the dhurra bag and lifted it. The contents rolled out on to the mud floor. ‘Behold the head of Gordon Pasha.’
The Mahdi leant forward with his elbows on his thighs and stared at the head. He was no longer smiling. His expression w
as cold and impassive, but there was such a glow in his eyes that struck fear even into Osman Atalan’s valiant heart. The silence went on, and the Mahdi did not move for a long time. Then at last he looked up again at Osman. ‘You have pleased Allah and his prophet. You shall have great reward. See that this head is placed on a spike at the gates of the great mosque that all the faithful may look upon it and fear the power of Allah and his righteous servant, Muhammad, the Mahdi.’
‘It shall be done, master.’ For the first time Osman used the title ‘Rabb’, which was more than ‘master’. It meant ‘Lord of all things’. ‘Rabb’ was also one of the ninety-nine beautiful names of Allah. Had his praise exceeded the limits of flattery? Was this not blasphemy? Osman was immediately stricken by his own presumption. He bowed his head and waited for the Mahdi to rebuke him.
He need not have feared. His instinct had been flawless. The serene smile blossomed once more on the Mahdi’s beloved face. He held out his hand to Osman. ‘Take me to the city you have won for the glory of Allah. Show me the spoils of this great victory that brings the jihad to its full flowering. Take me across the river Nile and show to me all that you have achieved in my name.’
Osman took his hand and brought him to his feet. They went down to the riverbank and embarked in the dhow that was waiting for them. They crossed the flow and went ashore in the harbour of Khartoum. When he walked along the corniche to the governor’s palace the crowds spread before him bolts of looted silk, fine linen and wool so that the Mahdi need not soil his feet in the dust and filth of the captured city. The chorus of prayer and praise that went up from the prostrating crowds was deafening.
In the governor’s audience hall the Mahdi took his place beside Khalifa Abdullahi, who was working with four black-robed kadi, the Islamic judges. They were questioning the wealthy citizens of Khartoum who had been brought before them in chains. They were asked to reveal where they had hidden their treasures. This was a protracted process, for it was not enough simply to reveal all one’s wealth at the outset. The Khalifa Abdullahi and his kadi had to ensure that the victims were holding back nothing. The full answers were extracted with fire and water. The branding irons were heated in charcoal braziers and when the tips glowed red they were used to burn the texts of appropriate sura from the Koran into the naked bellies and backs of the victims. Their agonized shrieks echoed from the high ceilings.
‘Let your cries be heard as praise and prayers to Allah,’ the Mahdi told them. ‘Let your riches be offerings that you render to His glory.’
When there was no space left on their blistered skin for further religious texts to be inscribed, the red-hot irons were applied to their genitals. At last they were carried to the water fountain in the middle of the atrium of the palace. There they were strapped to a stool and tipped backwards over the wall of the fountain until their heads were below the surface of the water. When they lost consciousness, they were tipped forward, mucus streaming from their mouths and noses. They revived, and were immersed again. Before they expired the judges were well satisfied that they had revealed all their secrets.
Abdullahi led his master to the governor’s robing room, which they were using as a temporary treasury, and showed him all that they had collected so far. There were bags and chests of coin, piles of plate and chalices of silver and gold; some were even carved from pure rock crystal or amethyst and encrusted with precious and semi-precious stones. There were heaps of silk and fine wool in bolts, satins embroidered with gold thread, more chests of jewellery, fantastic creations from Asia, India and Africa, earrings, necklaces, collars and brooches set with fiery diamonds, emeralds and sapphires. There were even statuettes in images of the old gods, fashioned thousands of years previously and plundered from the tombs of the ancients. The Mahdi frowned angrily when he saw these. ‘They are an abomination in the sight of God, and every true Muslim.’ His usually mild tones thundered through the halls so that even the khalifa trembled. ‘Take them hence, smash them into a hundred pieces and throw the fragments into the river.’
While many men scrambled to obey his order, the Mahdi turned to Osman and smiled again. ‘I think only what Allah wishes me to think. My words are not my own words. They are the very word of God.’
‘Would the blessed Mahdi care to see the women prisoners? If any please him, he might take them into his zenana.’ The khalifa sought to placate him.
‘May Allah be pleased with you, Abdullahi,’ said the Mahdi, ‘but first I wish some refreshment. Then we shall pray, and only thereafter will we go to view the new women.’
Abdullahi had prepared a pavilion in the governor’s garden at a spot that overlooked the river and the beach beside the harbour on which the gallows had been erected. Under a tent of plaited reed matting, which was suspended on bamboo poles and open on all sides to allow a cooling breeze to blow through, they reclined on splendid rugs of the finest wool and pillows of silk. From clay pitchers that allowed the liquid to permeate through and cool the rest of the contents, they sipped the Mahdi’s favourite beverage of date syrup and ground ginger. In the meantime they watched, with mild interest, the execution of Gordon’s men. Some of the victims were cut down from the scaffold while they still writhed in the noose and thrown into the river, hands bound behind their backs.
‘It is a pity that so many are of Islam,’ said Osman, ‘but they are also Turks, and they opposed your jihad.’
‘For that they have paid the price, but in as much as they were of the true faith let them find peace,’ said the Mahdi, and extended the forefinger of his right hand in blessing. Then he stood up and led them towards the Customs House.
When they entered the main hall the captured women had been lined up against the far wall. They prostrated themselves as the Mahdi entered and sang his praises.
The guards had erected a dais at the opposite side of the hall to where the women knelt. This was covered with Persian carpets. The Mahdi took his seat upon them, then motioned for his khalifa to sit at his right hand and the Emir Osman Atalan to sit on his left. ‘Let them bring the captives forward, one at a time.’
Ali Wad, who was in charge of the women, presented them in inverse order of their appeal to masculine taste. The old and ugly to start with, and the younger and prettier to follow. The Mahdi dismissed the first twenty or so, who interested him not at all, with a curt gesture of his left hand. Then Ali Wad led forward a young Galla girl. The Mahdi made a sign with his right hand. Ali Wad lifted her robe over her head and she was naked. The three great men leant forward to examine her. The Mahdi made a circular movement with his right hand, and the girl revolved before them to display all her charms, which were considerable.
‘She is, of course, too thin,’ the Mahdi said at last. ‘She will have eaten little in the last ten months, but she will plump up prettily. She is pleasing, but she has a bold eye and will be difficult. She is of the kind that causes trouble in the zenana.’ He made the left-hand sign of rejection, then smiled at his khalifa. ‘If you decide she is worth the trouble, you may take her, and I wish you joy of her.’
‘If she makes trouble in my harem, she will have stripes on her lustrous buttocks to show for it.’ The Khalifa Abdullahi flicked her with his fly whisk on the threatened area of her anatomy. At the sting she squeaked and stotted in the air like a gazelle ewe. Abdullahi made the right-hand sign of acceptance and the girl was led away. The selection went on at a leisurely pace, the men discussing the females in explicit detail.
The daughter of a Persian trader caught their particular attention. They all agreed that her features were unattractively bony and angular, but the hair of her head was red. There was some discussion about its authenticity, which the Mahdi settled by having Ali Wad remove her garments. The gorgeous ruddy tone of her dense, curling nether bush dispelled their doubts.
‘There is every hope that she will bear red-headed sons,’ said the Mahdi. The first Prophet Muhammad, of whom he was the successor, had possessed red hair. Thus she was highly valuable a
s a breeder. He would give her to one of his emirs as a mark of his divine favour. It would reinforce the emir’s loyalty and strengthen the bonds between them. He made the right-hand sign.
Then Ali Wad led forward Rebecca Benbrook. Nazeera had covered her head with a light shawl. Amber had just enough strength to totter at her elder sister’s side, clinging to her hand for comfort and support.
‘Who is the child?’ demanded Khalifa Abdullahi. ‘Is she the woman’s daughter?’
‘Nay, mighty khalifa,’ Ali Wad replied, as Nazeera had coached him. ‘It is her little sister. Both girls are virgins and orphans.’
The men looked interested. A maidenhead was of great value, and bestowed a magical and beneficial influence on the man who ruptured it. Then, as Nazeera had told him, Ali Wad drew off the shawl that covered Rebecca’s head. The Mahdi drew a sharp breath, and both the khalifa and Osman Atalan sat straighter as they stared in astonishment at her hair, which Nazeera had combed out carefully. A beam of sunlight through one of the high windows transformed it into a crown of gold. The Mahdi beckoned Rebecca to come closer. She knelt before him. He leant towards her and fingered a lock. ‘It is soft as the wing of a sunbird,’ he murmured in awe.
Rebecca had been careful not to look directly into his face, which would have been a gesture of disrespect. With her eyes still lowered, she whispered huskily, ‘I have heard all men speak of your grace and of your holy state. I have longed for sight of your beautiful face, as a traveller in the great desert longs for his first glimpse of Mother Nile.’
His eyes opened a little wider. He placed one finger beneath her chin and lifted her face. She saw at once that what she had said had pleased him. ‘You speak good Arabic,’ he said.
‘The holy tongue,’ she agreed. ‘The language of the faithful.’
‘How old are you, child? Are you virgin, as Ali Wad has told us? Have you ever known a man?’