by Wilbur Smith
From these clues he pinpointed his position with a certain precision. He was about three hundred yards from the mosque, and half that distance from the riverbank. He was due east of the execution ground and therefore approximately the same distance from the Mahdi’s palace and harem. He could judge the direction of the prevailing wind from the occasional small high cloud that sailed past the window. When it was blowing the stench of rotting corpses from the execution ground was strong. This gave him a rough sense of triangulation. With a sinking sensation in his gut, he decided that he must be in the compound of the Beja tribesmen beside the Beit el Mal, the stronghold of his old enemy Osman Atalan. Next he had to consider how this had happened.
His first thought was that Yakub had betrayed him. He wrestled with this theory for days, but could not persuade himself to accept it. I have trusted my life too many times to that squint-eyed rascal to doubt him now, he thought. If Yakub has sold me to the Dervish, there is no God.
He used the shackle of his chain to scratch a crude calendar in the mud floor. With it he was able to keep track of the days. He had counted fifty-two days before they came to fetch him.
The two guards unlocked the chains from the iron stake. They left his legs and arms shackled. There was sufficient slack in this chain to enable him to shuffle along, but not to run.
They led him out into a small courtyard and through another door into a larger enclosure, around whose walls were seated a hundred or more Beja warriors. Their spears and lances rested against the wall behind them, and their sheathed swords were laid across their laps. They studied Penrod with avid interest. He recognized some of their faces from previous encounters. Then his eyes jumped to the familiar figure seated alone on a raised platform against the far wall. Even among this assembly of fighting men, Osman Atalan was the focus of attention.
The guards urged him forward and, with the chains hampering him, he shambled across the courtyard. When he stood before Osman a guard snarled in his ear, ‘Down on your knees, infidel! Show respect to the emir of the Beja.’
Penrod drew himself to attention. ‘Osman Atalan knows better than to order me to my knees,’ he said softly, and held the emir’s eyes coolly.
‘Down!’ repeated the guard, and drove the hilt of his spear into Penrod’s kidney with such force that his legs collapsed under him and he fell in a heap of limbs and chains. With a supreme effort he kept his head up and his eyes locked on Osman’s.
‘Head down!’ said the guard, and lifted the shaft of the spear to club him again.
‘Enough!’ said Osman, and the guard stepped back. ‘Welcome to my home, Abadan Riji.’ He touched his lips and then his heart. ‘From our first encounter on the field of El Obeid I knew there was a bond between us that could not easily be sundered.’
‘Only the death of one of us can do that,’ Penrod agreed.
‘Should I settle that immediately?’ Osman mused aloud, and nodded at the man who sat immediately below his dais. ‘What think you, al-Noor?’
Al-Noor gave full consideration to the question before he replied. ‘Mighty lord, it would be prudent to scotch the cobra before he stings you again.’
‘Will you do this favour for me?’ Osman asked, and with one movement al-Noor rose to his feet and stood over the kneeling prisoner with the blade of his sword poised over Penrod’s neck.
‘It needs but the movement of your little finger, great Atalan, and I shall prune his godless head like a rotten fruit.’
Osman watched Penrod’s face for any sign of fear, but his gaze never wavered. ‘How say you, Abadan Riji? Shall we end it here?’ Penrod tried to shrug, but his injured shoulder curtailed the gesture. ‘I care not, Emir of the Beja. All men owe God a life. If it is not now, then it will be later.’ He smiled easily. ‘But have done with this childish game. We both know well that an emir of the Beja could never let his blood enemy die in chains without a sword in his hand.’
Osman laughed with genuine delight. ‘We were minted from the same metal, you and I.’ He motioned to al-Noor to go back to his seat. ‘First we must find a more suitable name for you than Abadan Riji. I shall call you Abd, for slave you now are.’
‘Perhaps not for much longer,’ Penrod suggested.
‘Perhaps,’ Osman agreed. ‘We shall see. But until that time you are Abd, my foot slave. You will sit at my feet, and you will run beside my horse when I ride abroad. Do you not wish to know who brought you to this low station? Shall I give you the name of your betrayer?’ For a moment Penrod was too startled to think of a reply, and could only nod stiffly. Osman called to the men guarding the gate to the courtyard, ‘Bring in the informer to collect the reward he was promised.’
They stood aside and a familiar figure sidled through the gate to stand gazing about him nervously. Then Wad Hagma recognized Osman Atalan. He threw himself upon the ground and crawled towards him, chanting his praises and protesting his allegiance, devotion and loyalty. It took him a while to traverse the yard for he stopped every few yards to beat his forehead painfully on the earth. The aggagiers guffawed and called encouragement to him.
‘Let not your great belly drag in the dust.’
‘Have faith! Your long pilgrimage is almost ended.’
At last Wad Hagma reached the foot of the dais, and prostrated himself full length with arms and legs splayed out flat against the dusty ground like a starfish.
‘You have rendered me great service,’ said Osman.
‘My heart overflows with joy at these words, mighty Emir. I rejoice that I have been able to deliver your enemy to you.’
‘How much was the fee on which we agreed?’
‘Exalted lord, you were liberal enough to mention a price of five hundred Maria Theresa dollars.’
‘You have earned it.’ Osman tossed down a purse so heavy it raised a small cloud of dust as it struck the ground.
Wad Hagma hugged it to his chest, and grinned like an idiot. ‘All praise to you, invincible Emir. May Allah always smile upon you!’ He stood up, head bowed in deep respect. ‘May I be dismissed from your presence? Like the sun, your glory dazzles my eyes.’
‘Nay, you must not leave us so soon.’ Osman’s tone changed. ‘I wish to know what emotions you felt when you placed slavers’ chains upon a brave warrior. Tell me, my fat little hosteller, how does the sly and treacherous baboon feel when it leads the great elephant bull into the pitfall?’
An expression of alarm crossed Wad Hagma’s face. ‘This is no elephant, mighty Emir.’ He gestured at Penrod. ‘This is a rabid dog. This is a cowardly infidel. This is a vessel of such ungodly shape that it deserves to be shattered.’
‘In God’s Name, Wad Hagma, I see that you are an orator and a poet. I ask only one more service of you. Kill this rabid dog for me! Shatter this misshapen pot so that the world of Islam will be a better place!’ Wad Hagma stared at him with utter consternation. ‘Al-Noor, give the courageous tavern-keeper your sword.’
Al-Noor placed the broadsword in Wad Hagma’s hand and he looked hesitantly at Penrod. Carefully he placed the bag of Maria Theresa dollars on the ground, and straightened. He took a step forward, and Penrod came to his feet. Wad Hagma jumped back.
‘Come now! He is chained and the bone in his arm is broken,’ said Osman. ‘The rabid dog has no teeth. He is harmless. Kill him.’ Wad Hagma looked around the courtyard, as if for release, and the aggagiers called to him, ‘Do you hear the emir’s words, or are you deaf?’
‘Do you understand his orders, or are you dull-witted?’
‘Come, brave talker, let us see brave deeds to match your words.’
‘Kill the infidel dog.’
Wad Hagma lowered the sword, and looked at the ground. Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, in the hope that he had lulled his victim, he let out a blood-chilling shriek and rushed straight at Penrod with the sword held high in both hands. Penrod stood unmoving as Wad Hagma slashed double-handed at his head. At the last moment he lifted his hands and caught the descending blade on his chai
n. Such was the shock as it hit the steel links that Wad Hagma’s untrained hands and arms were numbed to the elbows. His grip opened involuntarily and the sword spun from his hands. He backed away, rubbing his wrists.
‘In God’s Holy Name!’ Osman applauded him. ‘What a fierce stroke! We have misjudged you. You are at heart a warrior. Now, pick up the sword and try again.’
‘Mighty Emir! Great and noble Atalan! Have mercy on me. I shall return the reward.’ He picked up the bag of coins and ran to place it at Osman’s feet. ‘There! It is yours. Please let me go! O mighty and compassionate lord, have mercy on me.’
‘Pick up the sword and carry out my orders,’ said Osman, and there was more menace in his tone than if he had shouted.
‘Obey the Emir Atalan!’ chanted the aggagiers. Wad Hagma whirled round and raced back to where the sword lay. He stooped to pick it up, but as his hand closed on the hilt Penrod stepped on the blade.
Wad Hagma tugged at it ineffectually. ‘Get off!’ he whined. ‘Let me go! I meant nobody any harm.’ Then he dropped his shoulder and lunged at Penrod with all his weight, trying to push him backwards off the sword. Penrod swung the loop of chain. It whipped across the side of Wad Hagma’s jaw. He howled and sprang backwards, clutching the injury. With a loop of chain swinging threateningly Penrod followed him. He turned and scuttled across the yard towards the doorway, but when he reached it a pair of aggagiers blocked his way with crossed swords. Wad Hagma gave up, and turned back to face Penrod as he stalked after him, swinging the loop of chain.
‘No!’ Wad Hagma’s voice was blurred, and the side of his face distorted. The chain had broken his jaw. ‘I meant you no harm. I needed the money. I have wives and many children . . .’ He tried to avoid Penrod by circling along the wall, but the seated aggagiers pricked him forward with the points of their swords and roared with laughter when he hopped like a rabbit at the sting. Suddenly he darted away again, back to where the sword lay. As he reached it and stooped to seize the hilt, Penrod stepped up behind him and dropped the loop of chain over his head. With a quick twist of his wrists he settled the links snugly under Wad Hagma’s chin and round his throat. As Wad Hagma’s fingertips touched the sword hilt Penrod applied pressure on the chain and pulled him up until he was dancing on tiptoe, pawing at the chain with both hands, mewing like a kitten.
‘Pray!’ Penrod whispered to him. ‘Pray to Allah for forgiveness. This is your last chance before you stand before him.’ He twisted the chain slowly and closed off Wad Hagma’s windpipe, so that he could neither whimper nor whine.
‘Farewell, Wad Hagma. Take comfort from the knowledge that for you nothing matters any longer. You are no longer of this world.’
The watching aggagiers drummed their sword blades on their leather shields in a mounting crescendo. Wad Hagma’s dance became more agitated. His toes no longer touched the ground. He kicked at the air. His damaged face swelled and turned dark puce. Then there was a sharp crack, like the breaking of a dry twig. All the aggagiers shouted together as Wad Hagma’s limbs stiffened, his entire body sagged and he hung from the chain round his throat. Penrod lowered him to the ground and walked back towards Osman Atalan. The aggagiers were in uproar, shouting and laughing, some mimicking Wad Hagma’s death throes. Even Osman was smiling with amusement.
Penrod reached the spot where the sword lay, swept it up in a single movement and rushed straight at Osman, the long blade pointed at the emir’s heart. Another shout went up, from every man in the yard, this time of wild surmise and alarm. Penrod had twenty paces to cover to reach the dais and the courtyard exploded into movement. A dozen of the aggagiers nearest to the dais leapt forward. Their swords were already unsheathed, and they had only to come on guard to present a glittering palisade of steel to prevent Penrod carrying his charge home. Al-Noor darted forward, not to oppose Penrod head on but cutting in behind him. He seized the dragging leg chain and hauled back on it, whipping Penrod’s feet from under him. As he hit the ground the waiting aggagiers rushed forward.
‘No!’ shouted Osman. ‘Do not kill him! Hold him fast, but do not kill him!’ Al-Noor released his grip on the leg shackles and grabbed the loop of chain that held Penrod’s wrists. He jerked this viciously against the half-healed shoulder. Penrod gritted his teeth to prevent himself crying out but the sword fell from his hands. Al-Noor snatched it away.
‘In God’s glorious Name!’ Osman Atalan laughed. ‘You give me great entertainment, Abd! I know now that you can fight, but tomorrow I shall see how well you run. By evening I doubt you will have the stomach for more of your games. Within a week you will be pleading for me to kill you.’
Then Osman Atalan looked down from the dais at al-Noor. ‘You I can always trust. You are always ready to serve. You are my right hand. Take my Abd to his cell, but have him ready at dawn. We are going out to hunt the gazelle.’
News travelled swiftly in the zenana. Within hours it was known by all, including Ali Wad and the guards, that the Mahdi had expressed himself pleased with the infidel woman, al-Jamal. Rebecca’s status was enhanced immeasurably. The guards treated her as though she was already a senior wife, not a low-ranking concubine. She was given three female house slaves to attend her. The other women of the Mahdi, both wives and concubines, called greetings and blessings to her as she passed, and they carried petitions and supplications to her hut, begging her to bring them to the notice of the Mahdi. The rations that were sent to her from the kitchens changed in character and quantity: large fresh fish straight from the river, calabashes of soured milk, bowls of wild desert honey still in the comb, the tenderest cuts of mutton, legs of venison, live chickens and eggs, all in such amounts that Rebecca was able to feed some of the sick children of the lowest-ranking concubines who were in real need of nourishment.
This new status was passed on to the others in her household. Nazeera was now greeted with the title Ammi, or Auntie. The guards saluted her when she passed through the gates. Because it was known that Amber was the sister of one of the Mahdi’s favourites, she, too, was granted special privileges. She was a child and had not seen her first moon, so none of the guards raised any objection when she accompanied Nazeera on her forays beyond the gates of the zenana.
That particular morning, Nazeera and Amber left the zenana early to go down to the market on the riverbank to meet the farmers as they brought in their fresh crops from the country. Figs and pomegranates were in season, and Nazeera was determined to have the first selection of the day’s offerings. As they passed the large edifice of the Beit el Mal there was a disturbance down the street ahead of them. A crowd had gathered, the war drums boomed and the ivory horns sounded.
‘What is it, Nazeera?’
‘I don’t know everything,’ Nazeera replied testily. ‘Why do you always ask me?’
‘Because you do know everything.’ Amber jumped up to see over the heads of the crowd. ‘Oh! Look! It is the banner of the Emir Atalan. Let’s hurry or we shall miss him.’ She ran ahead and Nazeera broke into a trot to keep up with her. Amber ducked between the legs of the crowd until she had reached the front rank. Nazeera forged her way in behind her, ignoring the protests of those she shoved aside.
‘Here he comes,’ the crowd chanted. ‘Hail, mighty Emir of the Beja! Hail, victor of Khartoum and slayer of Gordon Pasha!’ With his banner-bearer riding ahead and four of his most trusted aggagiers flanking him, Osman Atalan was up on the great black stallion, al-Buq. As this entourage swept past Nazeera and Amber they saw that a man ran at the emir’s stirrup. He wore a short sleeveless shift and a loincloth. On his head was a plain turban, but his legs and feet were bare.
‘That’s a white man!’ exclaimed Nazeera, and around her the crowd laughed and applauded.
‘He is the infidel spy, the henchman of Gordon Pasha.’
‘He is the one they once called Abadan Riji, the One Who Never Turns Back.’
‘He is the prisoner of the emir.’
‘Osman Atalan will teach him new tricks. Not only w
ill he learn to turn back, but he will be taught to turn in small circles.’
Amber shrieked with excitement, ‘Nazeera! It is Captain Ballantyne!’
Even over the noise of the crowd Penrod heard Amber call his name. He turned his head and looked directly at her. She waved frantically at him but the cavalcade carried him away. Before he was gone Amber saw that there was a rope round his neck, the other end of which was tied to one of the emir’s stirrups.
‘Where are they taking him?’ Amber wailed. ‘Are they going to kill him?’
‘No!’ Nazeera placed an arm round her to calm her. ‘He is far too valuable to them. But now we must go back and tell your sister what we have seen.’ They hurried to the zenana, but when they reached the hut they found that Rebecca was gone.
Nazeera immediately taxed the house slaves. ‘Where is your mistress?’
‘Ali Wad came to fetch her. He has taken her to the quarters of the Mahdi.’
‘It is too early in the day for the Mahdi to begin taking his manly pleasures,’ Nazeera protested.
‘He is sick. Wad Ali says he is sick unto death. He is struck down by the cholera. They know that al-Jamal saved her little sister al-Zahra and many others from the disease. He wishes her to do the same for the Holy One.’
As the news of the Mahdi’s illness swept through the zenana a high tide of wailing, lamentation and prayer followed it.
As they reached the edge of the desert Osman reined in al-Buq lightly and at the same time urged him forward with his knees. It was the signal for the stallion to break into a triple gait, the smooth, flowing action so easy on both horse and rider. It is not a natural pace, and a horse has to be schooled to learn it. The emir’s outriders followed his example and tripled away at a pace faster than a trot but not as fast as a canter.