by Wilbur Smith
Osman’s expression remained impassive, but he was thinking quickly. He had let it be known that he was conducting these enquiries to facilitate trade with the Abyssinians and plan his state visit to Gondar. Had this woman guessed his true intentions, or had she been informed? What grounds did she have for the warning she had just given him? He went on with his enquiries, but now he studied the man before him more intently.
He was an elderly caravan master, prosperous from the cloth of his robes, intelligent judging by the depth of his knowledge. In all other respects he was unremarkable. He had stated that he was of the tribe of Hadendowa. Yet he did not affect the patched jibba, and there was something alien in his accent and the manner of his speech. Osman considered challenging his identity, but discarded the idea. He looked for the other signs that al-Jamal must have noticed. The man leant forward to take the small brass cup of coffee from the tray that had been placed before him, and the neck opening of his robe gaped to show a flash of silver. It was a fleeting glimpse, but Osman recognized the ornately engraved Coptic Christian cross that hung on a chain round his neck.
He is Abyssinian, Osman realized. Why would he dissemble? Are they spying on us as we are on them? He smiled at the man. ‘What you have told me has been of great value. For this I thank you. When do you begin your next journey?’
‘Great Khalif, three days hence I leave with two hundred camels laden with rock salt from the pans at al-Glosh.’
‘What is your destination?’
‘I travel to the new city of Addis Ababa in the hills, where I purpose to barter my salt for ingots of copper.’
‘Go with God, good merchant.’
‘Stay with God, mighty Atalan, and may angels guard your sleep.’
When the caravan owner left the audience hall, Osman gestured al-Noor to his side. When the aggagier knelt beside him he whispered, ‘The merchant is a spy. Kill him. Do it secretly and with cunning. None must learn who delivered the blow.’
‘As you order, so shall it be done.’
The staff left the hall, each making an obeisance to the Khalif as he passed, but when al-Jamal rose to follow them Osman said curtly, ‘Sit by me. We shall talk a while.’
By this time Rebecca could act the part of a concubine. The Mahdi had taught her how to please an Arab master. Flattery was the one sure way to achieve it. She was always astonished at how they would accept the most extravagant hyperbole as nothing more than their due. While she spouted this nonsense she could efface herself and keep her true feelings hidden. She sat as he had ordered and, with her face veiled, waited for him to speak.
‘Remove your veil,’ he said. ‘I wish to see your face while we discourse.’ She obeyed. He studied her features in silence for a while, then asked, ‘Why do you smile?’
‘Because, my lord, I am happy to be in your presence. It gives me great pleasure to serve you.’
‘Are all the women in your country like you?’
‘We speak the same language, but none of us is like the others. Great Khalif, I am sure your women are no different.’
‘Our women are all the same. The reason for their existence is to please their husbands.’
‘Then they are fortunate, great Atalan, especially those who have the honour to belong to you.’
‘How did you learn to read and write?’
‘My lord, I was taught to do so from an early age.’
‘Your father did not forbid this?’
‘Nay, sweet master, he encouraged it.’
Osman shook his head with disapproval. ‘What of his wives? Did he allow them to indulge in such dangerous practice?’
‘My father had one wife, and she was my mother. When she died he never remarried.’
‘How many concubines?’
‘None, exalted Khalif.’
‘Then he must have been very poor, and of little standing in this world.’
‘My father was the representative of our queen, and well beloved by her. I have a letter from Her Majesty that says so.’
‘If the Queen truly loved him, she should have sent him a dozen wives to replace the old one.’ Osman was fascinated by her replies, each of which led him immediately to another question. He found it difficult to imagine a land where it rained almost every day and was so cold that the raindrops turned to white salt before they hit the ground.
‘What do the people drink? Why do they not die of thirst if the water turns to salt?’
‘My master, before very long the snow turns back to water.’
Osman looked up to the spade-shaped windows. ‘The sun has set. You must follow me to my quarters. I wish to hear more of these wonders.’
Rebecca’s spirits quailed. Since she had been taken into his zenana, she had been able to avoid this confrontation. She smiled prettily, and covered her mouth with one hand as she had seen the other women do when overcome with shyness. ‘Again you fill my heart with joy, noble lord. To be with you is all in this life that gives me pleasure.’
The cooks brought up the evening meal to his quarters while Osman prayed alone on the terrace, which commanded a grand vista of distant mountains. As soon as he had completed the complicated ritual he dismissed the cooks, and ordered Rebecca to serve his food, but showed little interest in it. He took a few mouthfuls, then made her sit at his feet and eat from his leavings.
He continued to ply her with questions, and listened intently to her replies, hardly allowing her a chance to swallow before he asked the next question. Some time in the early hours of the morning she slumped over and fell into a deep sleep on the cushions from sheer exhaustion. When she awoke it was dawn and she was stretched out still fully dressed on his angareb. She wondered how she had got there, then remembered her dream of being a small girl again and her father carrying her up the stairs to bed. Had the Khalif carried her to bed? she wondered. If he had, that was some small miracle of condescension.
She heard excited shouts and galloping hoofs from below the terrace and rose from the bed, went to the window and looked down. In the courtyard Osman Atalan and some of his aggagiers were trying out a string of unbroken three-year-old horses that had been the gift of the governor of Gallabat. Penrod Ballantyne, almost indistinguishable from the Arabs, was up on a frisky bay colt that was bucking furiously around the yard with arched back and stiff legs. Osman and his other aggagiers shouted with laughter and offered ribald advice.
These days, whenever Rebecca laid eyes on Penrod her emotions were thrown into uproar. He was a heartbreaking reminder of that long-ago existence from which she had been snatched so untimely. Did she still love him, as she had once thought she did? She was not sure. Nothing was certain any longer. Except that the man who stood at the opposite end of the yard now ruled her destiny. She stared at Osman Atalan, and the despair she thought she had subdued returned in full force to overwhelm her like a dark wave.
She turned from the window and stared at the Webley revolver that lay on a side table across the room. She had seen the Khalif place it there before he went to his prayers the previous night. It had probably been taken from a dead British officer at Abu Klea or perhaps even looted at the sack of Khartoum.
She crossed the room and picked it up. She opened the action and saw that every chamber was fully loaded. She snapped it shut and turned to the mirror on the facing wall. She stared at her image as she cocked and lifted the pistol to point at her own temple. She stood like that trying to summon that last grain of determination to press the trigger.
Then she noticed in the mirror the initials engraved discreetly in the butt plate of the weapon. She lowered it and examined the inscription. ‘D. W. B. From S. I. B. With love,’ she read. ‘David Wellington Benbrook from Sarah Isabel Benbrook.’
This had been her mother’s gift to her father. She hurled it from her and ran from the room, back to the zenana to find Nazeera, the only person in the world to whom she could turn.
Penrod sat the colt easily and let him work himself into a lather as he whipped f
rom side to side with long elastic jumps, then stood on his hind legs and pawed at the sky. When the colt lost his balance and toppled backwards, the watching aggagiers shouted and al-Noor beat on his leather shield with his scabbard. But Penrod jumped clear, still holding the long rein. With a convulsive heave the colt came up again on all four legs, and before he could break away, Penrod sprang lightly on to his bare back. The colt stood on planted hoofs and shivered with outrage and frustration at being unable to rid himself of the unfamiliar weight.
‘Open the gates!’ Penrod shouted, to the captain of the city guard, then lashed the colt across the shoulder with the end of the reins. He sprang into startled flight, and Penrod turned him towards the open gates. They flew through and out into the lane, scattering chickens, dogs and children, skirted the souk, then ran out into the open country, still at full gallop. Almost an hour later horse and rider returned. Penrod walked the colt round the courtyard, turning him left and right, halting him, making him back up and stand at last. He threw one leg over his neck and dropped to the ground, stood at the colt’s head and stroked his sweat-drenched neck.
‘What think you, Abadan Riji?’ Osman Atalan called down from the terrace. ‘Is this a horse fit for an aggagier?’
‘He is strong and swift, and he learns quickly,’ Penrod responded.
‘Then he is my gift to you,’ said the Khalif.
Penrod was astonished at this mark of approval. It enhanced his status yet again. He lacked only a sword to be counted a full warrior of the Beja. He clenched his right fist and held it to his heart in a gesture of respect and gratitude. ‘I am not worthy of such liberality. I shall name him Ata min Khalif, the Gift of the Khalif.’
The following day Penrod loaded his ivory tusk on to one of the packhorses and carried it down to the souk. For an hour he sat drinking coffee and haggling with a trader from Suakin. In the end he sold the tusk for two hundred and fifty Maria Theresa dollars.
When he had entered the souk he had passed the stall of a fat Persian. In pride of place among the merchant’s wares a sword was laid out on a sheepskin fleece. Now Penrod came back to him. He examined all his other stock, showing particular interest in a matched necklace and earrings of polished amber, and avoided glancing at the sword. He haggled the price of the amber jewellery, and drank so many more cups of coffee that his bladder ached. In the end he struck a bargain at three Maria Theresas for the necklace. He bid the Persian farewell, and was leaving his stall when his eye fell at last upon the sword. The Persian smiled: he had known all along where Penrod’s true interest lay.
The slim curved blade was of the finest Damascus steel, unembellished by gold engravings and inscriptions for the graceful wavy patterns in the metal, caused by the strip forgings, were sufficient ornamentation. This was not a pretty bauble but a true killing blade. With the bright edge Penrod shaved a patch of hair off his forearm, then flicked his wrist. The steel sang like a crystal glass. It cost him seventy-five Maria Theresas, the equivalent price of two pretty Galla slave girls.
Three days later Osman Atalan held an audience in the great tent that had been set up at the edge of the city. Penrod waited his turn among the supplicants, then knelt before the Khalif. ‘What more do you require of me, Abadan Riji?’ Osman asked, and his tone was sharp and brittle as flint.
‘I beg the mighty and noble Atalan to accept the gift of one he has honoured with his benevolence.’ He placed the roll of sheepskin at Osman’s feet.
Osman unwrapped it and smiled when he saw the lovely weapon. ‘This is a fine gift and one that I accept with pleasure.’ He handed the sword back to Penrod. ‘Carry it for me. If you must use it, use it wisely.’
Between them they had reached a compromise. The slave was still a slave, but accoutred like a warrior.
Rebecca sat at the Khalif’s feet each day, recording the proceeds in the audience hall. Every evening she was sent back to the zenana in the governor’s palace. At first his indifference was a relief to her, but after three days it irked her. Had she given him offence by falling asleep in his presence, or bored and annoyed him with garrulousness, she wondered. Or am I just unattractive to him? It really does not matter what he feels. Only what happens to Amber and Nazeera, and of course to me also. Endlessly she and Nazeera discussed this predicament, which involved them all so intricately and intimately. Their well-being and even their lives were in the Khalif’s hands. From hating the thought of allowing Osman Atalan to touch her, Rebecca began to fear that he would not do so.
Nazeera held up to her the example of his fourth wife Zamatta. ‘She was unable to hold his interest. And so, even though she is a relative of the Khalifat Abdullahi, he sent her back to Omdurman as soon as she had a babe in her belly. She may never see him again, and will probably pass the entire remainder of her life locked in the zenana. Beware, al-Jamal. If he rejects you, you may not be so fortunate as Zamatta. He might sell you, or give you to some old emir or sheikh who smells like a goat. And Amber – what will he do with her? The Khalifat likes children, young children. He would welcome her into his own harem, if Osman Atalan offered her to him. You must strive to please him. I shall teach you how, for I have some small experience in these matters.’
With these threats as an incentive Rebecca determined to pay full attention to Nazeera’s advice and instruction.
The following afternoon Nazeera returned from a visit to the souk, and displayed her purchase: the tusk from the lower jaw of a hippopotamus. ‘We shall use this as a tool of instruction,’ she informed Rebecca. ‘There is much demand for toys such as this among the women of the harem and zenana who do not see their husbands from one feast of Ramadan to the next. They call them the jinn of the angareb. The Khalif Atalan has different tastes from those of the Divine Mahdi. Your mouth and sweet lips alone will not suffice. He will require more of you than the Mahdi ever did.’ She held up the tusk. ‘The Khalif will be this shape, but if he is so large you will be blessed indeed.’ Nazeera went on to demonstrate her artistry.
Rebecca would never have dreamt that some of the behaviour Nazeera described between man and woman was possible, and she found herself becoming more interested in the subject than the cold contemplation of survival required. She thought about it a great deal at night before she slept, and if Amber had not been lying beside her on the same angareb she might have indulged in some preliminary experimentation with the ivory toy.
However, it seemed that Osman Atalan had lost interest in her even before he had pursued their relationship to its full potential. Eventually he finished questioning the last of the witnesses. He was about to leave the audience hall without having acknowledged her, when unexpectedly he turned to one of his viziers. ‘This evening the concubine al-Jamal will serve my evening meal. See to it.’
Although she kept her eyes downcast Rebecca felt a lift of intense relief, tempered by a stirring of trepidation. I must play the game that Nazeera has taught me to arouse his carnal passions, and make our lives secure, she thought, then tried to suppress the flutter of excitement in the pit of her stomach. It seemed, however, that this particular evening the Khalif’s passions were more conversational than concupiscent. He gave her little opportunity to try out her freshly acquired knowledge.
‘I know that in your country the ruler is a woman,’ he said, before he had finished eating.
‘Yes. Victoria is our queen.’
‘Does she rule firmly and are her laws strong?’
‘She does not make the laws. The laws are made by Parliament.’
‘Ah!’ said the Khalif knowingly. ‘So Parliament is her husband, and he makes the laws. That is clever of him. He must be cunning and wise. I knew that a man must be behind it all. I should like to write a letter to Lord Parliament.’
‘Parliament is not a single man. It is an assembly of the people.’
‘The common people make the laws? Do you mean the cooks and grooms, the carpenters and masons, the beggars, fellahin and gravediggers? Anyone of this riff-raff can make
a law? Surely this is not possible.’
Rebecca struggled for half of the rest of the night to explain an electoral system of government and the democratic process. When finally she succeeded Osman was appalled. ‘How can warriors like those Englishmen I have fought allow this obscenity to exist?’ He was silent for a while as he paced the floor. Then he stopped in front of her, and his tone was diffident, as though he feared her answer. ‘Women also have this thing you call a vote?’
‘Women do not have a voice. No woman may cast a vote,’ she replied.
Osman placed his fists on his hips and laughed triumphantly. ‘Ha! Now at least I can still respect my enemies. At least your men keep control of their wives. But tell me, please. You say your ruler is a woman. Does she not have a voice, a vote?’
‘I – I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘You Franks!’ He clutched his head theatrically. ‘Are you mad? Or is it me alone?’
Rebecca found that she was beginning to enjoy herself. Like a pack of hunting dogs, their discussion ranged over wide territory and started some extraordinary game. This was like the unrestricted and open-ended discussions in which her father had indulged her. Beyond the open windows the cocks crowed at dawn while she was still trying to explain to him that the Atlantic Ocean was wider than the Nile or even, in God’s Name, Lake Tana. When he sent her back to the harem unmolested, her relief was tempered by a strange feeling of inadequacy.
Before she joined Amber on the mattress she held up the oil lamp and studied herself in the small mirror. Most men find me appealing, she reminded herself, and thought of Ryder Courtney and Penrod Ballantyne. So why does this savage treat me like another man? she wondered.
The next morning she watched with Amber and the rest of the women from the terrace of the harem as Osman Atalan rode out at the head of a band of his aggagiers on a hawking expedition along the eastern border.