When Kai rejoined the party, the same discussions were in the air.
“The most important question is,” said one guest, “if war came, how many weeks would it take to beat the northerners back?”
“The Egyptians have no taste for war,” proclaimed another. “They are dominated by their women, are too decadent and soft even to properly control their slaves.”
Another added, “I have heard northerners speak of emancipation.”
“Easy talk,” said the second. “Easy talk. They made their money selling slaves, knowing we build our economy on their pale shoulders. Now they want to preach morality, knowing it would cost them nothing. Feh!”
“The Prophet hated slavery,” Kai offered.
“But did not forbid it. His soul communed with the Almighty, but his feet trod the same dust as common men. A majority of our wealth is tied up in slaves and the crops they are needed to work.”
“Still,” said another guest. “As slavery vanishes from North and South Africa, there is pressure for Bilalistan to move in the same direction.”
The first guest snorted. “How the northerners agonize over the order of the universe! I’ve heard of men who voluntarily sell themselves into bondage, so that their masters can buy them and then set them free, thereby gaining favor with Allah.”
They laughed heartily, one tall bluff fellow loudest of all. “Truth,” he crowed. “I heard of one such who did this a dozen times before his last master sold him again to a rice farmer in New Djibouti.”
“Akmed,” said the man closest, “do you not have a rice farm in Djibouti?”
The tall one laughed. “Indeed. He works there in the paddies still, and claims he has a fortune in an Alexandrian bank!”
“Surely he would ransom himself…,” said the first.
“I have no need for his money.” Akmed laughed. “It is amusing to have an arrogant pigbelly slogging through the muck. He rants and barks at the moon.”
Several of the men enjoyed a good laugh, and then to Kai’s relief they settled back to political subjects.
“If it comes to a vote,” Akmed offered, “the north can control enough seats to force a change in the colonial accords.”
“Long before that happens,” another guest concluded, “we would leave.”
Kai nodded vague agreement and moved on to another conversation. He found it swiftly.
“If our country remains whole,” said a fourth guest, “make no mistake: our sons will fight on Abyssinian soil, against the Empress.”
“That would never happen,” a fifth offered. “My family traces its bloodline back as far as bin Jeffar’s but in the service of the Immortal one. I would rather have blood in the streets and be done with it. Captain!” he said, recognizing Kai. “What do you say?”
Kai smiled. “I say these are dangerous times. My father wanted to keep our economy and armed forces whole.”
“Easier said than done, I think,” said the fifth. “And your view of emancipation?” At this question, several new faces turned toward him.
Kai weighed his words carefully before answering. “I would think my possession of three hundred slaves speaks for itself.”
With relief, he noted that Babatunde had entered the room, resplendent in his varicolored, striped robes. He excused himself and fled to his teacher’s side. “I was not prepared for this,” he whispered.
“In many ways, your father shielded you,” Babatunde said. “Ali was prepared, but not young Kai. Allah has a sense of humor.”
“A pale one. They think me a bumpkin.”
“You are.”
Kai looked stricken.
Babatunde plucked a sweet from a passing silver tray. “A dear, clever bumpkin.”
Together they strolled until they reached the edge of another group, where a speaker of Kai’s age addressed a cluster of avid listeners. “The north has a much larger navy than the south,” he lectured. “If New Alexandria blockades Djibouti Harbor, they could strangle our economy.”
“They wouldn’t dare, Kaleb! It would mean war!”
The speaker, a slender young man with shaven head and a hawk’s eyes, seemed to warm to his subject. “Already, the Pharaoh has promised reinforcements for a raid on the Aztecs. His entire western fleet is headed our way.”
“You are saying that those ships are a threat to us?”
“I am saying they are a demonstration. A demonstration of Egyptian force.”
“The Empress’s navy is stronger than the Pharaoh’s,” said another guest. “We could appeal to her for help!”
“But if they have more factories, more manpower…,” said a third, older man, “if their alliance with the Pharaoh proves greater than ours with the Empress—what then?”
Kai chose this moment to speak. “We have a fighter’s chance—if courage does not fail.”
The hubbub quieted, and they turned to look at him.
“The young Wakil,” Kaleb said quietly.
“There is more to war than numbers,” Kai said urgently. “There is also heart—and mind.”
“I am sure that the Shrine of the Fathers taught you much, Sidi.”
Another guest whispered loudly enough to be heard. “But we may wish to leave some of our institutions intact.”
There was muffled laughter, and sharp glances. Kai ignored both. “It is my belief that we are at the end of the time when swords or even rifles decide wars. In New Alexandria one can find the beginning of a new era in human history—the time of the machine.”
“The machine?”
“Some of these devices will be tools of war,” Kai said, warming to his subject. “And the first to make use of them will control that new world—and their fate within it.”
“What kind of machine?”
“You know that the Senate supports the work of Maputo Kokossa.”
“A madman!” Kaleb said.
“But a brilliant madman,” said another with awe.
“Brilliant, yes, mad, no,” said Kai. “He has developed designs for advanced cannon, for ironclad warships, and even for a submersible.”
“Submersible? It swims like a fish?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“And how would such a vehicle display its colors?” There seemed general agreement on the question’s validity.
Kai responded. “The purpose of a submersible would be to compensate for an unfair numerical advantage, reinforced by secret treaties and—” He stopped himself, loath to tip his hand about the existence of the scrolls. Instead, he raised his voice. “Southerners!” He sharpened his voice, drawing attention from some of the other attendants. “Be not deceived: the north holds a terrible advantage over us in industrial capacity. Our strength is our freedom of spirit, the heights to which noble blood might spur the mind, that we might see further into the future than those of more mundane inclination. Should we not use it?”
Kaleb jutted his chin, and Kai suddenly remembered comments he had heard about this one: Kaleb was a duelist, a quarreler, of wealthy family and questionable appetites. “Are you quite sure that there is no other motivation?”
“Excuse me, Sidi?” Kai asked, choosing to dissemble a bit. “Do I know you?”
The man bowed deeply. “Kaleb Al-Makur, at your service.”
“And your question?”
“Sidi,” Kaleb said gravely, “the display of colors is an accepted part of civilized warfare, ensuring that civilian vessels are not fired upon. A military gentleman has certain duties, including the obligation to declare his affiliations.”
A reasonable assertion, and one deserving an answer. “Was it cowardly when New Medina’s patriots disguised themselves as Algonquin to rout the Northmen?”
The onlookers murmured in agreement.
“This may be truth in fact, but it was hardly a gentleman’s conflict, sir.”
“Still,” insisted Kai, “it points to the need for unconventional tactics at unconventional moments in history.”
Babatu
nde drew closer. “Wakil … perhaps that lesson on Setepenamen we spoke of?”
Kai brightened at his friend and tutor’s words. More and more guests drifted in their direction. Just behind them was a large pond, where bobbed several model ships: triremes, steam-screws, and dhows, painted in blue and red. Kai peeled a branch from a nearby mulberry bush, shucked its leaves, and divided the ships.
“Now watch,” he said. “In the battle of Alexandria, the Romans had every reason to believe they could repel Hannibal aland and simultaneously win a battle at sea. Their navy was superior to Egypt’s—or so they thought.”
“They certainly regretted that estimation, Sidi,” said Kaleb. “They were destroyed!”
“Yes. Abyssinia’s eastern trading route had provided the necessary technology. Specifically, the Malay sail, which proved more maneuverable. But, Sidi …”
He pushed another ship forward. “Think what might have happened if the Romans had been able to move a ship into position without the Egyptian alarm rising, close enough for Greek Fire?”
Kaleb scoffed openly. “You are speaking of Maputo’s ‘submersible,’ no doubt. Fire from beneath the water? Absurd!” His comment was generally accompanied by laughter and not-so-gentle mockery.
Refusing to rise to the provocation, Kai kept his voice and manner mild. “There are other ways. I have seen Kokossa’s design for a mine at the tip of a lance, moved into position on the lead ship, to strike next to its powder magazine.”
“Thereby blowing themselves to hell!” Kaleb yelled, striking the water with his riding crop, rocking the ships and sending a great gout into the air.
“Kokossa is a genius,” another guest averred. “Not a man here doubts that. His variable gear made the steam dragon possible.”
“And his experiments with electricity!” crowed another.
Kai leapt in, sensing the tide of opinion flowing in his favor. “I tell you that with genius such as this on our side, we need fear nothing.”
“And I say that you are dreaming us into the grave!” said Kaleb.
Kai paused. There was something in the air that he had not sensed before: expectation. Men glanced from Kai to Kaleb alertly. Something had happened here, something of which he had insufficient knowledge. His nerves burned with warning.
Kaleb continued on, his posture clearly confrontational. “I say that your words are those of one who would strike from darkness in the name of honor. Who would destroy a mosque to save a few miserable doghairs.”
Kai gnawed at his lip. He softened his gaze, as Malik had taught him long ago, until he could take in almost two hundred degrees of arc. Judging by their posture, these men had already allied themselves with Kaleb. This was an attempt to force a confrontation. A merely verbal confrontation? No. Kaleb fancied himself the finest sword in the south. Well, then … Kai was supposed to rise to the challenge and defend his honor. Instinct told him that this situation would swiftly spiral out of control, that no mere wounding would satisfy Kaleb. His adversary intended to kill or cripple him. If duties of office prevented Kai, then by social convention Fodjour would be allowed to duel in his stead. During that defense, he or his second would probably be slain. In either case Kai’s Wakilhood would be damaged.
Would death come by fair means or foul? There were too many ways such a scenario might play out. Kai fought against the red tide of anger rising behind his eyes. No, Uncle …
He raised his palm in a placating gesture. “It is regrettable that you view my words in such a light. With your permission, gentlemen.” And he backed away from the group.
“War hero,” Kaleb said derisively as Kai left the field.
Babatunde studied his student as they retreated. “I am surprised that you take no offense,” he said.
Kai grimaced. “Oh, I take offense. But I will not let such a man dictate my battlegrounds. He has a purpose. Let him reveal it. Are you disappointed?”
“Pleased, actually.”
It seemed probable that Egypt and Abyssinia would war, then, largely over the status of European colonies, which had been divided up between African nations for hundreds of years, their resources looted and populations dominated.
Kai himself had read dozens of yellow-sheet novels as a youth. Lurid things: tales of fantastic adventure in the wilds of Europe. Black queens of primitive druid tribes, tales of gold and jewels. Mythical creatures lurking in the shadowed forests, worshipped by naked, painted cannibals.
All quite incredible, but stirring in a childish way. Some of his acquaintances had hunted in Germany. Some had even brought back light-paintings of themselves astride dead bears and wild bulls.
Seeking diversion, Kai wandered into the central garden. There, in a makeshift arena, the Caliph’s champion was engaged in a demonstration match with a huge red-haired slave.
The champion was a battle-scarred, black-maned German. He was barrel-chested and grotesquely thick through the arms, with short powerful legs and heavily callused hands.
The German was said to have an unbroken winning streak—that for the last four years, the brute had kept the Caliph’s gambling coffers full. His appearance in Radama was obviously an attempt to stimulate interest in wagers and competition.
Regardless of the daunting history, the guests laid their silver and gold down enthusiastically. Kai watched, distracted. The champion fought twice, with only five minutes’ rest between victims. Both times he performed in precisely the same fashion. He balled his fists and waded into his hapless foe, hammering from all angles. There was a limit to what flesh could bear, and the German’s blows simply conveyed force beyond that threshold. His opponent’s efforts at defense crumbled before the onslaught.
“He punches as if swinging an axe,” Kai said.
“It seems effective enough,” a guest countered as the second man was hauled senseless from the sand.
“Against fools or trees, yes,” Kai said, and turned away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
23 Ramadan A.H. 1294
(Monday, October 1, 1877)
The town nearest Aidan’s crannog was called Salima, after a famed Sudanese oasis. If an oasis was a place of nourishment and comfort, Bilalistan’s Salima did not deserve its name. It was a dusty, ugly place of clapboard, brick, and clay, home to perhaps eight hundred souls.
Every few days, Aidan brought his catch in for sale and trade. Many of the townsfolk shunned the whites entirely, and some others welcomed them with smiles and cheating hearts. Fortunately, a few were open to trade with any honest man regardless of his color, and for these Aidan was ever grateful. Akii-bua was one such, a mallet-fisted Kikuyu shopkeeper in his fifties who wore a patch over his left eye, souvenir of some youthful military adventure. “Hey, Irish,” he said. “Wasaamu Alakum.”
“Waalaykum salaam, Sidi.”
The big man leaned over his counter. “And what have you for me today?”
“Fresh fish, and pelts,” Aidan replied.
The shopkeeper rubbed his meaty hands together briskly. “Excellent.”
Akii-bua examined the catch. Two other customers entered the little shop. They sneered openly at Aidan, but the Irishman kept his back straight and his face forward.
“I can give you cash,” said Akii-bua. “Or credit.”
“I’d prefer to take it half in cash, the rest on account.” The storekeeper spat in his hand, and extended it to Aidan. Black and white palms pressed.
“Have you picked out the items?”
“Doing it now.” Aidan cocked his head to the side. “Tell me, Akii-bua—some of the others in town won’t deal with us. Why do you?”
The storekeeper grinned his gap-toothed grin. “It’s business, and the first obligation of a good Muslim is to support his family.”
“But you have no family,” Aidan said.
“Not yet. But when I am rich,” he crowed, “ah-hah!”
Aidan grinned and shouldered his bag. “Well, thank you. You’re a good man.”
The customers had ret
reated toward the back of the shop. Akii-bua noted this, and seized the opportunity to speak more seriously. “Be careful, Irish. As you’ve probably noticed, some of mine hate some of yours.”
“Story of my life.” Aidan grunted.
“I’ve been out to your village,” the shopkeeper said. “What is that word you call it?”
“Crannog,” Aidan said.
“Yes. Well, you work hard out there on your ‘crannog.’ Allah loves blisters. I guess slavery served you well, eh?”
Aidan managed not to flinch. “Some say.”
“Well, you people are willing to do any honest task, work long hours. Some of the black folk hereabout don’t work as hard, or as shrewdly … and frankly, aren’t doing as well.” He ran his fingers through his generous beard. “Jealousy is a worm that eats its own tail. You watch yourself, Irish.”
Entering or exiting Salima from the south, one traversed its most elegant section, a double row of single-story brick buildings: stores, a tiny mosque, and a hotel. A coffeehouse served both liquid refreshment and hashish, with a back room in which men could find more fleshly comforts. Aidan knew that white women often earned extra coppers servicing townsmen in the darkness, but fought to keep the vile images from his mind. Salima also had posts for trading with the Ouachita, crowded with government agents and private land brokers feverishly swindling the natives out of their remaining land.
“I don’t like this place.” Donough sniffed the air.
“It’s not so bad,” Aidan said. “Seen worse.”
“Where?”
“Little town I passed through with Kai, years back.” He dug in his memory, trying to remember the name. What was it? Addis Ababa. That was it. A real piss-trench, filled with blustering blacks and beaten-down slaves.
“Smaller’n this?”
“No. Bigger. But nastier, I think.”
“Ah,” his companion said. “These folks’ll get nasty enough, when it suits ’em.”
There was painful truth to that. Already, Aidan could see the inevitable end of the conflict to come. As Bilalistan’s population increased, the Ouachita and other natives would be driven off the continent, or perhaps into perpetual war in frosty Vineland with the vile Northmen. Or the natives might eventually join the Aztec Empire, which of course might lead to troubles for Bilalistan.
Zulu Heart Page 11