by Wilbur Smith
The Mahdi took her hands, drew her down beside him on the angareb and laid her on her back. He lifted her knees and knelt between them. He lowered his face, and she was amazed as she realized what he was about to do to her. Nazeera had not warned her of this. She had believed that it would be the other way about.
What happened next exceeded her furthest imaginings. His skill was sure, his instinct faultless. She felt as though she were being devoured. As though she were dying and being reborn. In the end she cried out as if in mortal anguish and fell back on the angareb. She was bathed in perspiration and trembling. She was deprived of the powers of thought or movement. She seemed to have become merely a receptacle of overpowering bodily sensations. It seemed to last for an age, before at last the spasms and contractions deep within her stilled and she heard his whisper. Although his lips were at her ear, it seemed to come from far away. ‘Like the desert and the grave.’ He laughed softly. She lay for a long time, rousing herself only when she felt him begin to caress her again. When she opened her eyes she discovered to her mild surprise, that, like her, he was naked. She sat up and leant on one elbow looking down on him. He was lying on his back. After what he had done to her, all sense of modesty and shame had been expunged. She found herself examining him with almost as much attention as he had lavished on her. The first thing that struck her was that he was almost devoid of hair. His body was soft and almost feminine, not hard and muscled like Penrod’s or Ryder’s. Her eyes went down to his tammy. Although it stuck up stiffly, it was small, smooth and unmarred by ropes of blue veins. The circumcised head was bare and glossy. It looked childlike and innocent. It evoked an almost maternal feeling in her.
‘It’s so pretty!’ she exclaimed, and was immediately frightened that he would find the description effeminate and derogatory, that he might take it as an insult to his masculinity. She need not have worried. Once again her instinct had been correct. He smiled at her. Then she remembered Nazeera’s advice: ‘Master and Lord, would it give you offence if I presumed to do to you as you were gracious enough to do to me? For me it would be an undreamed-of honour.’ He smiled until the gap between his front teeth was fully exposed.
At first she was clumsy and uncertain. He seemed to regard this as more evidence of her virginity. He started to direct her. When she was doing what pleased him, he encouraged her with murmurs and whispers and stroked her head. When she became over-enthusiastic, he restrained her with a light touch. She became absorbed in the task, and her reward was a gratifying sense of power and control over him, however fleeting it might be. Gradually he urged her to increase the tempo of her movements, until suddenly he gave her complete and undeniable proof that she had pleased him. For a moment she was at a loss as to what to do next. Then she remembered that Nazeera had advised her to swallow quickly and have done.
Like a barbellate catfish in the muddy waters of the Nile, Penrod Ballantyne allowed himself to be absorbed into the teeming byways, alleys and hovels of Omdurman. He became invisible. He changed his costume and appearance almost daily, becoming a camel herdsman, a humble beggar or a nodding, drooling idiot almost at will. Yet he knew that he could not remain in the town indefinitely without drawing attention to himself. So, for weeks on end he left the sprawling city. Once he found employment as a drover with a camel dealer taking his beasts downriver to trade them in the small villages along the banks. On another he joined the crew of a trading dhow, plying up the Blue Nile to the Abyssinian border.
When he returned to Omdurman he made it a rule never to sleep twice in the same place. On the warning of Yakub he did not attempt to make direct contact with Nazeera or anyone else who knew his true identity. He communicated with Wad Hagma only through Yakub.
The preparations for Rebecca’s rescue were long drawn-out, seemingly interminable. Wad Hagma encountered many obstacles, all of which could only be surmounted with money and patience. Every time Yakub brought a message to Penrod it was for more cash to buy camels, hire guides or bribe guards and petty officials. Gradually the contents of Penrod’s once-heavy money belt were whittled down. Weeks became months, and he fretted and fumed. Many times he considered making his own arrangements for a lightning raid to snatch the captives and run with them for the Egyptian border. But by now he knew just how futile that would be. The zenana of the Mahdi was impenetrable without inside help, and daily the Dervish were exerting more control and restrictions on strangers entering or leaving Omdurman. Alone Penrod was able to move around with relative freedom, but with a party of women it would be almost impossible unless the way had been carefully prepared.
At last he discovered a small cave in a limestone outcrop in the desert a few miles beyond the town. This had once been the haunt of a religious hermit. The old man had been dead for some years, but the spot had such an unhealthy reputation among the local people that Penrod felt reasonably secure in taking it over. There was a tiny water seep at the back of the cave, just sufficient for the needs of one or two persons, and for the small herd of goats he purchased from a shepherd he met on the road. Penrod used the animals to support his disguise as a desert herder. From the cave back to Omdurman was a journey on foot of a mere two or three hours. Thus he was always in contact with Yakub, who rode out at night to bring him a little food and the latest news from his uncle.
Often Yakub stayed in the cave for a few days, and Penrod was glad of his company. He was unable to carry openly the European sword that Ryder Hardinge had given him at Metemma. It would attract too much attention. He buried it in the desert from where he would be able to retrieve it, and perhaps one day return it to Major Hardinge’s wife. He instructed Yakub to find him a Sudanese broadsword, then practised and exercised each day with it.
Whenever Yakub visited him they sparred in the wadi at the front of the cave where they were hidden from the eyes of a casual traveller or a wandering shepherd. Such was his skill that after half the day at practice Yakub disengaged their blades with the sweat dripping from his chin. ‘Enough, Abadan Riji!’ he cried. ‘I swear, in the Name of God, that no man in this land can prevail against your blade. You have become a paragon of the long steel.’
They rested in the low mouth of the cave, and Penrod asked, ‘What word from your uncle?’ He knew the news could not be good: if it had been Yakub would have given it to him immediately on his arrival.
‘There was a vizier of the Mahdi with whom my uncle had come to an understanding and everything was at last in readiness. Three days ago the vizier fell foul of his master on another matter. He had stolen money from the treasury. On the Mahdi’s orders he was arrested and beheaded.’ Yakub made a gesture of helplessness, then saw his master’s face darken with rage. ‘But do not despair. There is another man more reliable who is in direct charge of the zenana. He is willing.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Penrod. ‘Your uncle needs only fifty pounds more.’
‘Nay, my lord.’ Yakub was hurt by the suggestion. ‘He needs a mere thirty to seal the matter.’
‘I will give him fifteen, and if all is not in readiness by this new moon at the latest, I will come to Omdurman to have further speech with him. When I arrive I will be carrying the long steel in my right hand.’
Yakub thought about this seriously for a while then replied, just as seriously, ‘It comes to me that my uncle will probably agree to your offer.’
Yakub’s instincts proved correct. Four days later he returned to the hermit’s cave. When he was still some way off he waved cheerfully and as soon as he was within hail he shouted, ‘Effendi, all is in readiness.’
As he came to where Penrod was waiting he slid down from the saddle of his camel, and embraced his master. ‘My uncle, so honest and trustworthy, has arranged everything as he promised. Al-Jamal, her little sister, and Nazeera will be waiting behind the old mosque at the river end of the execution ground three midnights hence. You should return to Omdurman earlier that day. It is best if you come alone and on foot, driving the goats before you in all innocence. I
will meet you and the three women at the trysting place. I will bring six strong fresh camels all provisioned with waterskins, fodder and food. Then I, Yakub the intrepid, will guide you to the first meeting place with the next relay of camels. There will be five changes of animals along the road to the Egyptian border, so we will be able to ride like the wind. We will be gone before the Mahdi knows that his concubines are missing from the harem.’
They sat in the shade of the cave and went over every detail of the plans that Wad Hagma had laid out for Yakub. ‘Thus you will see, Abadan Riji, that all your money has been spent wisely, and that there was no reason to distrust my beloved uncle, who is a saint and a prince among men.’
Three days later, Penrod gathered up his few meagre possessions, slipped the sword in its scabbard down the back of his robe, wrapped the turban round his head and face, whistled up his goats and ambled off towards the river and the city. Yakub had given him a flute carved from a bamboo shoot, and over the months Penrod had taught himself to play it. The goats had become accustomed to him and they followed him obediently, bleating appreciatively whenever he struck up a tune.
He wanted to arrive on the outskirts of Omdurman an hour or so before sunset, but he was a little premature. Half a mile short of the first buildings he turned the goats loose to graze on the dried-out thorn scrub and settled down to wait beside the track. Although he wrapped himself in his robe and pretended to doze, he was wide awake. An old man leading a string of six donkeys loaded with firewood passed him. Penrod continued to feign sleep, and after calling an uncertain greeting the old man walked on.
A short while later Penrod heard singing accompanied by the tapping of finger drums. He recognized the traditional country wedding songs, and then a large party of guests came along the road from the nearest village only a short distance to the south of the city. In their midst walked the bride. She was covered from head to foot with veils and the tinkling jewellery of gold and silver coins that formed part of her dowry. The guests and her male relatives were singing and clapping, and despite the Mahdi’s restrictions on these ceremonies, they were dancing, laughing and shouting ribald advice to her. When they saw Penrod squatting on the roadside they called to him, ‘Come on, old man. Leave your flea-bitten animals and join the fun.’
‘There will be more food than you can eat, and perhaps even a sip of arak. Something you have not tasted for many years.’ The man displayed a small waterskin with a conspiratorial smirk.
Penrod answered them in a quavering unsteady voice: ‘I was married once myself, and I do not wish to see another innocent fellow take that same hard road.’
They roared with laughter.
‘What a waggish old rascal you are.’
‘You can give wise counsel to our doomed cousin in how best to appease a demanding woman.’
Then Penrod noticed that all the guests had the broad, over-developed shoulders of swordsmen, and despite their humble attire their swagger and strutting self-confidence was more that of aggagiers than cringing country oafs. He glanced down at the bare feet of the bride, all that was visible of her, and saw that they were broad and flat, not painted with henna, and that the toenails were ragged and broken.
Not the feet of a young virgin, Penrod thought. He reached over his shoulder and took a grip on the hilt of the sword concealed down the back of his robe. As his blade rasped from the scabbard he sprang to his feet, but the wedding guests had surrounded him. Penrod saw that they, too, had drawn weapons as they rushed at him from every direction. With surprise he realized that they were not edged blades but heavy clubs. He had little time to think about it before they were on him in a pack.
He killed the first with a straight thrust at the throat, but before he could disengage and recover, a blow from behind smashed into his shoulder and he felt the bone break. Still, he parried one-handed the next blow at his head. Then another hit him in the small of the back, aimed at his kidneys, and his legs started to give way. He stayed upright just long enough to send a deep thrust into the chest of the man who had broken his shoulder. Then a great iron door slammed shut in the centre of his skull and darkness descended upon him like an ocean wave driven by the storm.
When Penrod regained consciousness he was uncertain where he was and what had happened to him. Close by where he lay, he heard a woman moaning and groaning in labour.
Why does not the stupid bitch hold her mouth, and have her brat elsewhere? he wondered. She should show some respect for my aching head. It must have been cheap liquor I drank last night. Then, suddenly, the pain ripped through the roof of his skull and he realized that the groans were issuing from his own dried-out mouth. He forced his eyes open against the pain and saw that he was lying on a mud floor in an evil-smelling room. He tried to raise his hand to touch his damaged head, but his arm would not respond. Instead a new shaft of agony tore through his shoulder. He tried to use the other hand for the job, but there was a clink, and he found that his wrists were fastened together with chains. He rolled over painfully and cautiously on to his good side.
Good is a relative term, he thought groggily. Every muscle and sinew of his body throbbed with agony. Somehow he pushed himself into a sitting position. He had to wait a moment for the blinding agony in his head, caused by the movement, to clear. Then he was able to assess his situation.
The chains on his wrists and ankles were slaving irons, the ubiquitous utensils of the trade across the country. His leg shackles were anchored to an iron stake driven into the middle of the dirt floor. The chain was short enough to prevent him reaching either the door or the single high window. The cell reeked of excrement and vomit, of which traces were scattered around him in a circle at the limit of the chain.
He heard a soft rustle nearby and looked down. A large grey rat was feeding on the few rounds of dhurra bread that had been left on the filthy floor at his side. He flicked the chain at it, and it fled, squeaking. Next to the bread was an earthenware pitcher, which made him realize how thirsty he was. He tried to swallow but there was no saliva in his mouth and his throat was parched. He reached for the pitcher, which was gratifyingly heavy. Before he drank he sniffed the contents suspiciously. He decided it was filled with river water and he could smell the woodsmoke from the fire over which it had boiled. He drank and then drank again.
I think I might yet survive, he decided wryly, and blinked back the pain in his head. He heard more movement and glanced up at the window. Someone was watching him through the bars, but the head disappeared immediately. He drank again, and felt a little better.
The door to the cell opened behind him and two men stepped in. They wore jibbas and turbans, and their swords were unsheathed.
‘Who are you?’ Penrod demanded. ‘Who is your master?’
‘You will ask no questions,’ said one. ‘You will say nothing until ordered to do so.’
Another man followed them. He was older and grey-bearded, and he carried all the accoutrements of a traditional eastern doctor.
‘Peace be upon you. May you please Allah,’ Penrod greeted him. The doctor shook his head curtly, and made no reply. He set aside his bag, and came to stand over him. He palpated the large swelling on Penrod’s head, obviously feeling for any fracture. He seemed satisfied and moved on. Almost at once he noticed that Penrod was favouring his left side. He took hold of the elbow and tried to lift the arm. The pain was excruciating. Penrod managed to prevent himself crying out. He did not want to give the two interested guards that satisfaction, but his features contorted and sweat broke out across his forehead. The Arab doctor lowered the arm, and ran a hand over his biceps. When he pressed hard fingers into the site of the broken bone, Penrod gasped despite his resolution. The doctor nodded. He cut away the sleeve of Penrod’s galabiyya and strapped the shoulder with linen bandages. Then he folded and tied a sling to support the arm. The relief from pain was immediate.
‘The blessing of Allah and his Prophet be upon you,’ Penrod said, and the doctor smiled briefly.
/> From a small alabaster flask he poured a dark, treacly liquid into a horn cup, and gave it to Penrod. He drank it, and the taste was gall-bitter. Without having spoken a word the doctor repacked his bag and left. He returned the next day, and the four days that followed. On each visit the guards refilled the water pitcher and left a bowl of food: scraps of bread and sun-dried fish. During these visits neither the guards nor the doctor spoke; they did not acknowledge Penrod’s greetings and blessings.
The bitter potions that the doctor gave him sedated Penrod, and reduced the pain and swelling in his head and shoulder. After he had completed his examination on the fifth day the doctor looked pleased with himself. He readjusted the sling, but when Penrod asked for another dose of the medicine, he shook his head emphatically. When he left the cell, Penrod heard him speaking in a low voice to the guards. He could not catch the words.
By the following morning the effects of the drug had worn off, and his mind was clear and sharp. The arm was tender only when he tried to lift it. He tested himself for any concussion he might have suffered from the head blow, closing first one eye and then the other while he focused on the bars of the window. There was no distortion or any double vision. Then he began to exercise the injured arm, starting first by simply clenching his fist and bending the elbow. Gradually he was able to raise the elbow to the horizontal.
The visits from the taciturn doctor ceased. He took this as a favourable sign. Only his guards made brief visits to leave water and a little food. This left him much time to consider his predicament. He examined the locks on his shackles. They were crude but functional. The mechanism had been developed and refined over the centuries. Without a key or a pick he wasted no more time upon them. Next he turned his mind to deducing where he was. Through the lop-sided window he could see only a tiny section of open sky. He was forced to draw his conclusions from sounds and smells. He knew he was still in Omdurman: not only could he smell the stink of the uncollected rubbish and the dungheaps but in the evenings he caught a softer sweeter whiff of the waters of the river, and could even hear the faint calls of the dhow captains as they tacked and altered sail. Five times a day he heard the wailing cries of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer from the half-built tower of the new mosque, ‘Hasten to your own good! Hasten to prayer! Allah is great! There is no God but Allah.’