Zulu Heart

by Steven Barnes

  Aidan’s head spun. Ishmael’s eyes seemed so deep, he felt almost uncomfortable as they fixed upon him. “Why do you look at me like that?”

  “I know a bit about you. Your mission. Your friendship with the Wakil. A promise you made, years ago, that you never forgot.”

  “I just want to get home,” he said, emptying his glass. “I just want this to be over.”

  “Why,” said Ishmael, “do you pretend to be something you are not?”

  “What?” When was the last time he had eaten? The wine was going right to his head. He was glad he didn’t have to stand.

  “When the leaders of the tribe refuse to take their role as leaders,” said Ishmael, “the tribe suffers.”

  “I don’t have a tribe.”

  Ishmael smiled. “It is time to awaken from your dream,” he said. Then he slapped Aidan’s face gently, and winked. “And now, it is time to risk our lives, and freedom and fortune. A bit more wine before we go?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  Smoke clung to the ground and curtained the air, smarting the eyes of the servants and firefighters as they hauled and dashed water, pulled precious heirlooms out to safety, or counted the household staff. After stressful hours the office fire had finally been extinguished.

  The Caliph himself had not reentered the house yet, although many of the staff had. He paced back and forth, a stout, bald, shaven man of middle years, his hands knotted behind his back. So far, he had managed to keep his rage under tight control, but it was obvious to all that this could not last. “And the damage?”

  “It is hard to say,” replied a guard. “Scrolls, documents …”

  “This is a bad business. And my wife?”

  The guard hesitated, reluctant to lift his gaze from the ground. “She is well, all things considered. In her room.”

  “I see. Well—continue on. Well done,” he said, with a tone that implied that the man might be skinned later if the Caliph determined that the guard’s negligence had engendered this catastrophe.

  The Calipha lay abed, swathed in woolen blankets and nightclothes. Doctors and nurses hovered about. Unlike the cabana’s spare environ, the Calipha’s own bedroom was a feast for the eyes and spirit: gold inlay in the walls, silken sheets and hangings about the bed, thick exotic carpets lining the floor. A huge mirror etched with silver veins dominated most of one wall, making the room appear twice its actual generous size.

  “Doctor Vin,” said the Caliph to the attending physician, a bulky man with thin, strong hands. “Your diagnosis?”

  Clearly, the staff was uncomfortable with the delicate situation. Vin most of all. “Nerve trauma, some abrasions to the wrist,” he replied.

  “I see. Leave us, please.”

  A mighty confusion reigned in the halls outside his wife’s door. Servants and guards still dashed and yelled and fumbled, disoriented and frightened by the late-night threat of fire. With a deeply respectful bow, Doctor Vin retired from the room. The Calipha felt deeply humiliated by the evening’s adventures, but somehow managed to maintain a regal posture.

  “My husband,” she said.

  “My lady.”

  Quite solicitously, he sat at the edge of her bed and took her hand.

  “It was horrible,” she said.

  “Yes, Nefriti. I’m certain that it was.” He stroked her brow.

  “I heard that your office was damaged.”

  “Yes,” said the Caliph. Then almost incidentally he added: “And I find it credible that the damage was intended to conceal intent as well as facilitate escape.”

  She placed one smooth dark hand against her throat. “What do you mean?”

  He stood from the bed, and began to pace. “What do I mean?” With those words, he fixed his gaze upon her, and there was such disdain in his expression that she pulled the sheets up more tightly around her neck. “I mean, my sweet, that in days past I have turned a blind eye to your indiscretions, even when some among our peers think to mock me behind my back.”

  His aspect began to change, grow more massive, as if sucking light and air from the room around him. “Only there is no ‘behind my back,’ my dear. There is nothing that goes on in New Alexandria that does not come to my attention. Nothing. We have had our sons and daughters. There will be no more, so this is the Yadbut Imbisȃt, the Time of Pleasure for you, I know. But what you have done in the past—”

  She tried to turn her face away.

  “What you have done in the past,” he continued mercilessly, “a simple slaking of your animal urges, meant little to me because you mean little to me, as I mean to you. Little save our shared yoke of power.”

  Her lips trembled, as if trying to frame a denial, an attempt swiftly abandoned.

  He leaned close. “But now you seem to have rendered my home vulnerable to a man with a purpose.”

  “A purpose?” she said, her voice and cheeks hollowed by fear. “He … he sought to escape. He … wanted a distraction.”

  “Is that what you think? That he acted spontaneously to wrest freedom from the grasp of bondage? That he crept into the house, stole no gold or silver that might have earned his way past a guard or bribed his way onto a ship or a Nation-bound caravan, and damaged nothing save my office?”

  He pushed himself more closely into her face.

  “What if I told you that the only thing missing was the cipher machine?”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Yes. Waters run deep here. Deep indeed. But know you—if your addiction to their loathsome pale flesh has jeopardized the alliance I have spent years in building …” He whispered the next. “You will go west, my sweet.”

  He stroked her again, even more lovingly, and then left. The Calipha pulled her sheet up almost to the lips an Irish slave had kissed so savagely, and she began to quake.

  Soldiers swarmed the streets of New Alexandria. Whites were stopped and frisked, their faces compared to a poor drawing of an Irish fighting slave. The vaguest similarity proved sufficient for detention.

  A cart drawn by a pair of horses, flying the Judean star, rolled through the street, creaking beneath a load of barrels.

  “Halt!” cried a soldier.

  “Yes sir?” said Ishmael, the elderly merchant holding the reins.

  “Your papers.”

  The merchant presented a leather sheaf. The soldier unfolded and read the documents within. Then, grudgingly, he handed them back. “What are you carrying here?”

  “Tomatoes, for New Djibouti.”

  “Open up,” the soldier said.

  “Open…?” the merchant asked. “But my papers!”

  “This is an emergency. Come on.”

  The merchant looked a bit askance, but complied. The soldier pried open one barrel, and then a second. Tomatoes, a vegetable discovered during the African conquest of the New World. He thrust his sword through the slats of a third. When he withdrew, thin red juice glistened on the blade.

  “My vegetables!” cried Ishmael.

  The guard, clearly disgusted, waved him on. “If you have a complaint, file it with the Caliph’s office. On your way.”

  “I will! I will file!” he cried back over his shoulder as he trundled off.

  The soldier was joined by one of his comrades, who had just finished an inspection on the far side of the street. “Jews. Can’t tell ’em from the damned pigbellies.”

  “‘Bellies? Ask me, they’re just pigs who don’t eat their own,” he said, and at that strange and disturbing image, they shared a nasty chuckle.

  The cart trundled toward the dock, and rolled past a second checkpoint. Hapless male slaves were rounded up as the cart backed up against the loading dock.

  “All right!” Ishmael said nervously. “Hurry. We sail on the morning tide.”

  As the men unloaded the barrels, a second cart arrived, this one carrying a variety of boxes. A guard sorted through them quickly, saw that the crates were too small to conceal a human being, and waved it on. It sat next to the first wago
n. The merchant knocked three times on his own cart.

  The “wooden” floor of the wagon was curiously thick, actually metal with a thin covering of sheet wood. A hatch dropped open. Aidan dropped out of the first, and Nessa thumped to earth from beneath the second.

  Men loaded the barrels onto a third cart, and Ishmael quickly waved Aidan and Nessa into place behind it. And thus concealed, they crept up onto the ship’s deck, to concealment, and safety.

  Once on board, they were ushered below with all deliberate speed. The hold was dank and cold, crammed with boxes and pallets, bundles of cloth and odd machinery. Aidan thought he sensed a flash of motion: a rat? But remembering the three cats he had seen upon the deck, decided that they were probably safe enough.

  “I am bin Abraham,” said the captain, a tall, bearded man with a cloud-shaped birthmark on his right cheek and bright, intelligent eyes. It struck Aidan that bin Abraham would be about his father Mahon’s age … if only Mahon had lived. “You will be safe here,” the captain said. “So long as we are not discovered, this ship is sovereign Judean soil. Welcome to the Solomon.”

  Tears streamed down Nessa’s face again, although she struggled for composure. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

  “I will be back later with mattresses. Food. For now, be very quiet, and if anyone but me calls for you—do not answer.” He managed a smile at this last.

  “I am in your debt,” said Aidan.

  “Repay it with silence.” The captain chuckled. “You know, you will be the first slaves I’ve ever smuggled south.”

  And still chuckling to himself, he left. Nessa sagged to a seat.

  “Are you all right?” asked Aidan.

  Nessa hung her head for a moment, and then smiled.

  “Just fear, I think. A little weak and sour-mouthed.”

  She looked around herself. “Maybe it’s just being in the belly of a ship again.”

  The image that comment conjured was simply too vile for words, and he banished it from his mind. “At least we’re together,” said Aidan.

  “Again. And heading to freedom?”

  He nodded. “As close to it as we can get, in this world.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  7 Jumada al-Awwal A.H. 1295

  (Friday, May 10, 1878)

  By the time the Solomon reached Djibouti Harbor, a blockade was in full effect. The Judean ship was intercepted by a steam-screw flying Alexandria’s colors. It dispatched a boat to meet them.

  “Ahoy the ship,” called the officer in the prow of the little skiff. “This harbor is closed, by order of the Caliph. I am Captain Otomo Ramses.”

  “Bin Abraham, at your service. Please inspect my manifest,” said the Solomon’s captain. “I left New Alexandria before the blockade began, and carry goods from the Caliph’s own storehouse. If I could but complete my run, I will return nothing but gold for his treasury.”

  “And that is all?” asked Ramses.

  “Yes,” said the captain.

  Ramses brooded. The words had been correct, but he remained unconvinced. “Hmmm …”

  “And here,” said the captain, opening his purse. “I am sure that the Caliph would want you to share in the proceeds.”

  He handed the officer a half-Alexander. The man grinned and bit it.

  “Last shipment?”

  “The last,” said the captain. “You’ll not see me again until the blockade is lifted.”

  “Very well,” said Ramses. “Sail on! Officer—signal the ships that this vessel has my approval to proceed.”

  Aidan and Nessa clambered onto deck as the ship approached the harbor. The statue of Bilal loomed up above them as they passed, a Titan guarding his kingdom.

  “I remember,” said Nessa, “so many years ago, seeing that statue and thinking that it must have been a giant, frozen there by God.”

  “A giant, yes,” said the captain. “But a mortal giant.”

  “Bilal,” said Aidan. “First to call the faithful to prayer.”

  “Yes. He saved the Prophet’s daughter.”

  “The Prophet. Peace Be Upon Him.” Aidan’s words were tinged with bitterness.

  “Yes,” said the captain, in a philosophical tone. “Peace upon him indeed. He made peace with us, and commanded his people to keep that peace.”

  “And they have?”

  “For thirteen hundred years. And because of that promise, you are now free.”

  Aidan nodded, accepting the captain’s subtle rebuke. “Yes. We are in your debt. What do you know of these ships—are they Djiboutan?”

  “I think not. Supposedly, they amass here for an expedition to Azteca. But similar massings have occurred at other harbors in Djibouti. You saw the one at the Brown Nile. It is no accident.” He spat over the side. “War approaches, I’ll wager, but not with the Aztecs.”

  Bin Abraham looked at Aidan. “Your journey is almost over. You said that you owed me a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “Then answer a question for me. I was reluctant to ask it when first you arrived. Seemed none of my business. I was told to help you because you were on a mission for the Wakil of New Djibouti.”

  Aidan nodded cautiously.

  “Tell me, lad: why do you help those who enslave your people?”

  Aidan sighed. Why indeed? “I suppose I believe I have to take sides.”

  “Why the south? Certainly your interests would be better served in the north. It is the northerners who talk emancipation.”

  “Yes,” admitted Aidan. “They talk. But it is a southerner who found my sister for me. I trust a man, not a government.”

  Bin Abraham smiled, and laid a warm, gnarled hand on Aidan’s shoulder. “A man. Yes. Ultimately, it is ever thus.”

  A small boat, rowed by a bulky black boatman, was making its way from the dock to the ship.

  “For us?” asked Nessa.

  “Yes. This is where we go our several ways. Good luck to you, Irish. Madam.”

  “Good-bye, Captain. You are a good man.”

  “As men go. Farewell.”

  They climbed down the ladder to the waiting boat. The boatman oared them about and away.

  “What now, Brother?” asked Nessa.

  “Now? Now our life begins.”

  An oar stroke at a time, the boat made its way across the bay’s oily waters to the dock. Awaiting them, as he had prayed, stood Babatunde and Kai.

  “Is this your friend?” Nessa asked.

  “He is.”

  “Is he mine as well?” Her voice was nervous this time.

  “He is.”

  The boatman tied up his craft. Aidan leapt up onto the dock, then helped his sister to disembark.

  “Aidan,” Kai said soberly. “Despite my best efforts to kill you, once again you seem to have survived.”

  They embraced, hard.

  “And this can be no one but your sister,” said Babatunde, and clasped her hand warmly. “Welcome to New Djibouti.”

  “Thank you,” said Nessa. “And you must be the notorious Babatunde.”

  The smaller man bowed. “My reputation precedes me.”

  “The heliographs delivered certain code words. Was their optimism misplaced?” asked Kai, feigning moderate interest.

  “You know it was.”

  Aidan extracted the leather pouch, and handed it to Kai. Kai held his breath as he opened it and peered within. He pressed it tightly closed, and then wrapped the cylinder again, and tucked it into his belt.

  Kai looked from one to another of them, excitement and respect and love all melding in his eyes. “Oh, Aidan—you have outdone yourself. Come! A feast awaits you—on one condition.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That you tell me everything.”

  They boarded a coach. Aidan settled back into his seat and sighed vastly. He had actually done it! “Everything?” He shook his head. “Kai, I don’t know. There was violence, and danger … and other, well, intimate things not fit fo
r an aristocrat’s ears.”

  “Ahh!” Kai groaned. “I die! A quarter-Alexander for your tales.”

  “Half.”

  “Whole!”

  “Done….”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  Nessa watched Aidan shake his head ruefully as he saw the two children manning Dar Kush’s main gate. Strange how familiar, and comforting, and irritating their happy faces were, welcoming the master and his guests home. Much like bin Jeffar’s country estate, but there were differences, too. Seldom had she seen a white and black man interact as did Aidan and the Wakil. Despite everything she and her brother had shared in their days at sea, she still had not been prepared for the obvious affection and ease between the two.

  “Master’s home! Ring the bell, idiot!” the boy called from the gate.

  “Pox ye!” laughed the freckled, black-haired girl beside him.

  Kai leaned over to Aidan. “Tata is smiling,” he said with a deep and healing satisfaction. “I wouldn’t have believed it.”

  “I’m ringin’, I am,” Conair called. “I’m ringin’!”

  Nessa leaned out of the coach, eager eyes wide and taking in every blade of grass. “It’s beautiful.” Even as she said that, she saw the dozen slaves who ran to meet them. She cast an eye at Aidan, and he shook his head shallowly. She sensed his reservation and remained silent.

  Summoned by her servants and the bell, Lamiya came out from the main house to greet them. “Welcome back, Husband, Babatunde.”

  She smiled at the sight of Aidan. “You look a bit more bruised and ugly, Irishman.”

  “I was determined to return—even if only to haunt your husband.”

  “Then let us rejoice while breath remains. Come. I believe that Bitta can find you a wine flask.”

  “Blessed be,” said Nessa, and meant it. Ishmael’s wine had awakened a hunger in her, and bin Abraham had nourished it aboard the Solomon. There was so much to learn, so much to see … and a bit of that dark, sweet nectar would definitely ease the way.

  “Standard hieroglyphs,” said Babatunde, scanning the ivory disks. “No diacritical marks.” He glanced up. “The code device is as I posited. Twenty rows across, twenty-three positions on each wheel—”