The Triumph of the Sun

by Wilbur Smith

  All of this kept Rebecca’s mind from the threat that hung over them. They lived close to death. The smell of bloating human bodies wafted over the enclosure and their nostrils soon accepted this as commonplace. In the zenana Rebecca and Nazeera prevailed upon Ali Wad to enforce the Islamic custom: the bodies of the cholera victims and those who died of other illness were removed by his men and buried the same day. However, they had no control over the execution ground, which was separated from the zenana by only the boundary wall.

  A line of eucalyptus trees grew along the back wall of the zenana. The children and even some of the women climbed into the branches whenever the braying of the ombeya horns announced another execution. From this viewpoint they overlooked the gallows and the beheading ground. One morning Rebecca even caught Amber in the branches, watching in white-faced and wide-eyed fascination as a young woman was stoned to death not more than fifty paces from where she was perched. She dragged Amber back to their hut, and threatened to thrash her if she ever found her climbing the trees again.

  Yet her first thought when Rebecca awoke each morning was the dread that this day the summons from the Mahdi to attend him in his private quarters of the palace would be delivered. The arrival of the gift of clothing made the threat more poignant.

  She did not have long to wait. Four days later Ali Wad came to inform her of her first private audience with the Chosen One. Nazeera delayed the inevitable by pleading that her charge was stricken by her moon sickness. This excuse could work only once, however, and Ali Wad returned a week later. He warned them that he would come back later to fetch Rebecca.

  In the small screened yard at the back of their hut Nazeera undressed Rebecca, stood her naked on a reed mat and poured pitchers of heated water over her head. It was perfumed with myrrh and sandalwood that she had bought in the market. It was well known that the Mahdi detested unclean odours. Then she dried her and anointed her with attar of lotus flowers and dressed her in one of her new robes. At last Ali Wad came to escort her to the presence of the Chosen One.

  Nothing was as Rebecca had expected. There was no grand furnishing or tapestries, no marble tiles upon the floor, no tinkling water fountains. Instead she found herself on an open roof terrace furnished only with a few quite ordinary angarebs and a scattering of Persian rugs and cushions. Instead of the mighty Mahdi alone, three men were reclining on the angarebs. She was taken aback and uncertain of what was expected of her, but the Mahdi beckoned to her. ‘Come, al-Jamal. Sit here.’ He indicated the pile of cushions at the foot of his bed. Then he went on talking to the other men. They were discussing the activities of the Dervish slavers along the upper reaches of the Nile, and how this trade could be increased tenfold now that Gordon Pasha and his strange Frankish aversion to the trade was no more.

  Although she hung her head demurely, as Nazeera had cautioned her to do, Rebecca was able to study the other two men through her half closed lashes. The Khalifa Abdullahi frightened her, though she could barely admit it to herself. He had the cold and implacable presence of a venomous snake; an image of the sleek, glittering mamba came to her mind. She shivered and looked to the third man.

  This was the first opportunity she had had to study the Emir Osman Atalan closely. During their first meeting she had been too immersed in the game of survival for herself and Amber that she had played out with the Mahdi. Of course, since she had been in the zenana she had heard the other women discussing his reputation as a warrior. Since his final victory over Gordon Pasha, Osman was now the senior commander of the Dervish army. In power and influence with the Mahdi he ranked only below the Khalifa Abdullahi.

  Now she was able to watch him from the corner of her eye and found him interesting. She had not realized that an Arab man could be so handsome. His skin did not have the usual dingy umber tone and his beard was lustrous and wavy. His eyes were dark, but sharp and alert with stars of light in their depths, like jewels of polished black coral. In contrast his teeth were very white and even. It seemed to Rebecca that he was in a jubilant mood, waiting for the first opportunity to deliver some important tidings to the others.

  The Mahdi must also have sensed his eagerness, for at last he turned his smile upon him. ‘We have spoken of the south, but tell me now what news you have from the north of my domains. What do you hear of the infidels who have invaded my borders?’

  ‘Mighty Mahdi, the news is good. Within the last hour a carrier-pigeon has arrived from Metemma. The last infidel crusaders who dared to march on your cities and attempt to rescue Gordon Pasha have fled from your sacred lands like a pack of mangy hyenas before the wrath of a great black-maned lion. They have abandoned the steamers that brought them to Khartoum, and which you and your ever-victorious army damaged and drove away. They have fled back past Wadi Haifa into Egypt. They have been vanquished, and will never again set foot upon your territories. All of Sudan is indisputably yours and, at your command, your ever-victorious army stands ready to bring more vast territory under your sway, and to spread your divine words and teachings to all the world. May Allah always love and cherish you.’

  ‘All thanks is due to Allah, who promised me these things,’ said the Mahdi. ‘He has told me many times that Islam will flourish in Sudan for a thousand years, and all the monarchs and rulers of the world will relinquish their infidel ways and become my vassals, trusting in my benevolence and placing their faith in the one true God and his Prophet.’

  ‘Praise be to God in his infinite power and wisdom,’ said the others fervently.

  The news of the withdrawal of the British army from the Sudan was devastating to Rebecca. Despite the fall of Khartoum and the repulse of the British river steamers, she had cherished a tiny flame of hope that one day soon British soldiers would march into Omdurman and they would be freed. That flame was cruelly snuffed out. She and Amber would never escape this smiling monster who now owned them, body and soul. She tried to fight back the dark despair that threatened to overwhelm her.

  I must endure, she told herself, not only for my own sake but for Amber’s. No matter the price I am forced to pay, no matter the obscene and unnatural practices forced upon me, I must survive.

  With a start she realized that the Mahdi was speaking to her. Although she felt dizzy with grief she gathered her courage and gave him her full attention.

  ‘I wish to send a letter to your ruler,’ he told her. ‘You will write it for me. What material do you need?’ Rebecca was startled by this demand. She had expected to be roughly handled and treated as a harlot, not as a secretary. But she gathered her wits and told him her requirements. The Mahdi struck the brass gong beside the bed. A vizier scurried up the stairs and prostrated himself before his master. He listened to the orders he was given and backed away down the stairs, chanting the Mahdi’s praises. In a short while he returned with three house slaves carrying a writing cabinet that had been looted from the Belgian consulate. They placed it in front of Rebecca, and because the sun was setting and the daylight fading, they placed four oil lamps around her to light her work.

  ‘Write in your own language the words I will tell you. What is your queen’s name? I have heard that your country is ruled by a woman.’

  ‘She is Queen Victoria.’

  The Mahdi paused to compose his thoughts and then he dictated: ‘ “Victoria of England, know you that it is I, Muhammad, the Mahdi, the messenger of God who speaks to you. Foolishly you have sent your crusader armies against my might, for you did not know that I am under the divine protection of Allah, and therefore must always triumph in battle. Your armies have been vanquished and scattered like chaff on the winds. Your powers in this world have been destroyed. Therefore I declare you to be my slave and my vassal.” ’ He paused again, and told Rebecca, ‘Be certain that you write only what I tell you. If you add anything else I will have you thrashed.’

  ‘I understand your words. I am your creature, and I would never presume to disobey your lightest wish.’

  ‘Then write this to your
queen. “You have acted in ignorance. You did not know that my words and thoughts are the words of God Himself. You know nothing of the True Faith. You do not understand that Allah is one God alone, and that Muhammad, the Mahdi, is his true Prophet. Unless you make full recompense for your sins you will boil for ever in the waters of hell. Give thanks that Allah is compassionate, for he has told me that if you come immediately to Omdurman and prostrate yourself before me, if you place yourself and all your armies and all your peoples under my thrall, if you lay all your wealth and substance at my feet, if you renounce your false gods and bear witness that Allah is one and that I am his prophet, then you shall be forgiven. I will take you to wife, and you will give me many fine sons. I will spread my wings of protection over you. Allah will set aside a place for you in Paradise. If you defy this summons your nation will be cast down, and you will burn for all of eternity in the fires of hell. It is I, Muhammad, the Mahdi, who orders these things. They are not my words, but the words that God has placed in my mouth.” ’

  The Mahdi sat back, pleased with his composition, and made the chopping sign with his right hand to show that he had finished.

  ‘This is a masterpiece that you have created,’ said Khalifa Abdullahi. ‘It gives voice to the power and majesty of God. Your words should be embroidered on your banner for all the world to read, and to believe.’

  ‘It is plain that these are the very words of Allah delivered through your mouth,’ agreed Osman Atalan, gravely. ‘I give thanks eternally that I have been privileged to hear them spoken aloud.’

  If it ever becomes known that I wrote this traitorous nonsense, Rebecca thought, I will be locked in the Tower of London for the rest of my days. She did not look up from the page but, trusting that no other person in Omdurman could read English, she added a final sentence of her own: ‘Written under extreme duress by Rebecca Benbrook, the daughter of the British Consul David Benbrook who was murdered along with General Gordon by the Dervish. God save the Queen.’ It was worth the risk, not only to excuse herself but to send a message to the civilized world of her predicament.

  She sanded the page and handed it to the Mahdi, with lowered eyes. ‘Holy One, is this as you wished?’ she whispered humbly. He took it from her and she watched his eyes move up the page from the lower right-hand corner to the top left, in the inverse direction. With a rush of relief she realized he was trying to read the Roman letters as though they were Arabic script. He would never be able to decipher what she had written. She was certain he would not admit this and show it to another person for translation.

  ‘It is as I wished.’ He nodded, and she had to stifle an instinctive sigh of relief. He handed the sheet of paper to Kalifa Abdullahi. ‘Seal this missive and make sure that it is delivered with all despatch to the Khedive in Cairo. He will send it onwards to this queen, whom I will take as my wife.’ He made a gesture of dismissal. ‘Now you may leave me, as I wish to disport myself with this woman.’

  They rose, made obeisance and backed away to the staircase.

  With a sharp surge of fear Rebecca found herself alone with God’s prophet. She knew that her hands were trembling and she clenched them into fists to keep them still.

  ‘Come closer!’ he ordered, and she rose from her seat at the writing cabinet and went to kneel before him. He stroked her hair and his touch was surprisingly gentle. ‘Are you an albino?’ he asked. ‘Or are there many women in your country with hair this colour, and eyes as blue as the cloudless sky?’

  ‘In my country I am one of many,’ she assured him. ‘I am truly sorry if it does not please you.’

  ‘It pleases me well.’ In front of him as he sat on the angareb her eyes were at the same level as his waist. Beneath the brilliant white cloth of his jibba she saw his body stir: the extraordinary masculine tumescence that she still found incomprehensible – a distinct creature with a life of its own.

  His tammy is waking up, she thought, and almost giggled at the absurdity of the prophet of God with a tammy between his legs, just like other men less divine. She realized how close she was to succumbing to hysteria and, with an effort, she controlled herself.

  ‘I can see the lamplight through your flesh.’ The Mahdi took her earlobe between his fingers and turned it to catch the beam of the lamp, admiring the pink luminosity of light that shone through. She blushed with embarrassment and he remarked the change immediately. ‘You are like a little chameleon. Your skin changes colour in tune with your moods. That is remarkable, but enticing.’ He took her earlobe between his teeth and bit it, hard enough to make her gasp but not enough to break the skin or draw blood. Then he sucked on the lobe, like an infant at the breast. She was unprepared for her body’s reaction. Despite herself she felt the heightened sensitivity of her nipples rubbing against the silk of her bodice.

  ‘Ah!’ He noticed her inadvertent response, and smiled. ‘All women are different, but also the same.’ He cupped one of her breasts in his hand and pinched the engorging nipple. She gasped again. He sat back on his haunches and unfastened the front of her bodice. He seemed in no hurry. Like a skilled groom with a nervous filly, he moved with gentle deliberation so as not to startle her.

  She realized he was highly skilled in the amorous arts. Well, he has had much practice, hundreds of concubines. She set herself to remain aloof and unmoved by his expertise. But when he lifted out one of her breasts from the opening of her bodice, and bit her nipple as he had her earlobe, with a tender sharpness that forced another gasp from her lips, she found her good resolution wavering. She tried to ignore the ripples of pleasure that radiated from her nipple through her body. When she started to pull away he held her with a light pressure of his teeth. The pleasant sensation was piqued by guilt and the conviction that what was happening was sinful. Not for the first time in her short life she realized that sin, as much as sanctity, held its own peculiar attraction. I do not want this to happen, she thought, but I am helpless to prevent it.

  His mouth wandered over her breast, his lips kneading and plucking at her flesh, his tongue slithering and probing. She felt her sex melting, and the shame receded. She began to itch with a strange impatience. She needed something more to happen but she was not sure what.

  ‘Stand up!’ he said, and for a moment she did not understand the words. ‘Stand up!’ he ordered, more sharply. She rose slowly to her feet. Her bodice was still open and one breast bulged free. He smiled up at her as she stood over him, his smile sweet and almost saintly.

  ‘Disrobe!’ he ordered. She hesitated, and his smile faded. ‘At once!’ he said. ‘Do as I tell you.’

  She slipped the robe off her shoulders, and let it drop as far as her waist. He looked at her, and his eyes seemed to caress her skin. A light rash of goose pimples rose round her nipples. He reached out and drew the fingernail of his right forefinger over it, scratching the skin lightly. Her knees felt as though they might give way under her. Although she had known all along that this must happen, she felt her shame return powerfully. She was an English woman and a Christian. He was an Arab and a Muslim. It flew in the face of all her training and beliefs.

  ‘Disrobe!’ he repeated. Her dilemma was insoluble, until her father’s words, which she had so recently read in his journal, returned to her: ‘One must always bear in mind that this is a savage and pagan country. We should not seek to judge these peoples by the standards that apply at home. Behaviour that would be considered outlandish and even criminal in England is commonplace and normal here. We should never forget this, and make allowance for it.’

  Daddy wrote that for me! she thought. She hung her head demurely. ‘No man has ever laid eyes on what lies beneath this silk.’ Shyly she touched the swelling of her own pudenda beneath the cloth. ‘But if you will remove my covering I will know that it is the Hand of Allah and not of a common man that does so. Then will I rejoice.’

  Unwittingly she had hit upon the perfect response. She had abrogated the responsibility to him. She had placed herself in his power, and sh
e could see that in doing so she had pleased him inordinately.

  He reached out again and slipped the dress down over the bulge of her hips. As it fell round her ankles, Rebecca cupped her hands over her Mount of Venus. He did not protest at this last demonstration of modesty. It was what he expected of a true virgin, but he said softly, ‘Turn.’ She revolved slowly and felt one of his fingers trace the curve of her buttock where it met the back of her thigh.

  ‘So soft, so white, but touched with pink, like a cloud at dawn with the first ray of sunrise upon it.’ With the touch and pressure of his finger he guided her, inducing her to lean over with straight legs until her forehead almost touched her knees. She felt his warm breath on the back of her legs as he brought his face closer to examine her. Again his finger insisted and she moved her feet wider apart. She could feel his gaze, directed deeply into her most secret places. He was seeing things that no other person, nurse, parent, lover or herself, had ever laid eyes upon. In this respect she was truly a virgin. She knew she should resent this minute examination of her body, but she was too far gone, too deeply under his influence. He was possessing her with his dark, hypnotic gaze.

  ‘Three things in this world are insatiable,’ the Mahdi murmured. ‘The desert, the grave and the quimmy of a beautiful woman.’ He turned her back to face him again, and gently removed her hands, which still covered her mount. He touched her pubes. ‘Surely this is not hair but spun thread of gold. It is silk and gossamer and soft morning sunlight.’

  His admiration was so manifest and poetically expressed that she welcomed rather than resented his touch as he gently parted the outer lips of her sex. Of her own accord and without his further guidance she moved her feet apart.

  ‘You must never pluck yourself here,’ he said. ‘I grant you special dispensation not to do so. This silk is too beautiful and precious to be discarded.’