King of Kings

by Wilbur Smith

  Ryder made a series of swift calculations in his head. It was a steep tax, and made no allowances for what he had lost in the enterprise so far, but he had known that whatever route he chose to market with his silver would involve bribes, fines and a mounting range of taxes in every province he passed through. The route to Massowah meant passing between the people of Ras Alula and the Italians; to go via Entoto was a longer route, but with Menelik’s protection it would be a safer one. If he could produce the quantity Menelik required: four hundred ingots a year for five years. It was impossible, but it must be done.

  “I will be at your coronation, sire. With one hundred ingots.”

  Menelik looked satisfied, but Ryder saw the flickering threat in his eyes.

  “See that you are, Mr. Ryder. Or I will give this land to men who can deliver what they say they will.”

  •••

  Menelik’s caravan left late the next morning. The great tents were collapsed and piled onto innumerable light wagons.

  Ryder stood on the escarpment, holding Saffron’s hand on one side, and a curious Leon’s on the other. Patch, his wife Marta and Amber were standing with them, and together they watched the royal caravan begin its stately progress south toward Menelik’s capital. Saffron put her free hand over the early swell of her belly.

  “What will happen? Can we trust him, Ryder?” she asked.

  Ryder watched the dust kicked up by the horses and mules, the carts, the warriors and servants of Menelik’s retinue.

  “I hope so, Saffy,” he said at last, then turned away and led them back toward their camp.

  As soon as she was back in her own house, Amber bent over her notebook, considering the question of the refugees who might arrive in the camp after the rains, and writing a collection of neat lists. Tadesse would help her, and the priest. She used the fresh ink she had got from Menelik’s scribe to sketch a plan for another orchard and fruit garden in the adjoining valley. If they were planted in the next few weeks and they managed to control the flow of some of the springs of that flank, it could provide a bountiful harvest. From time to time memories of the starving masses in Khartoum filled her mind. Men and women driven mad with hunger and fear. She had witnessed Ryder’s compound being overrun by a mob driven wild by the notion that he was storing food and seen the slaughter that followed in spite of all Ryder’s attempts to prevent it.

  The night drew in. She lit her lamp and continued her work.

  •••

  Ryder and Patch spent the next three days bent over Rusty’s notebook, with the sheaf of papers Amber had translated scattered over the rough tabletop in the hut they called their office by the new works. The process, the measurements, a thousand technical details were worked out and recorded in Rusty’s neat, heavy handwriting. It was as if he had climbed out of his grave and spoken to them.

  Ryder thumbed through the pages. It was mostly dry, technical stuff, but occasionally in the margins Rusty had written something more personal. A few words of Amharic and their translations, a tiny sketch of Ryder himself battering away at the side of the mountain. Ryder felt a fresh burst of grief for his friend, and saw him again lying on the earth with the mercury sliding from his nostrils. He closed the book.

  Patch was sitting opposite him and reworking his calculations on the back of Amber’s pages according to what they had deciphered so far. He glanced up.

  “Sort of hurts harder, don’t it?” he said. “Having his voice in our hands again.”

  Ryder said nothing and Patch worked on awhile before clearing his throat and trying again. “Three days, and then we can make the changes to the arrastra and build the new amalgamation pit. What else?”

  “Have you seen his design for a reverberatory furnace?” Ryder asked.

  Patch shook his head. Ryder found the page and spun it around to face his friend. Patch frowned as he read the notes under the diagram, then whistled.

  “If he’s right, this could be the making of us. We’ll save on quicksilver and fuel. Think it will work with charcoal?”

  Ryder felt a warmth in his blood. “Rusty believed it would, and I trust him. Let’s get Ato Gebre in here. I want these built and tested before the month is out.”

  Patch picked up the book and kissed it with a resounding smack, and for the first time in weeks, Ryder laughed.

  It was impossible to tell, looking back, the moment Penrod began to recover. He became aware slowly, over many weeks, that he had, from time to time, forgotten to be angry. He moved through the days mechanically, tending to the sick, eating the plain food in the dining hall and discussing Sufism with the silk merchant as an intellectual diversion, just as he moved through innumerable chess games, testing his mental powers.

  Then one day he came away from the infirmary and found himself laughing at something one of his patients had said. On another he discovered the pleasures of gently teasing the formidable Cleopatra. Then came a moment, as he was cleaning the ulcerated wound of a child, that he forgot himself. Caring for the frightened little boy, he was no longer Penrod Ballantyne, VC, the hero who had brought down a corrupt monster and saved the royal houses of Europe from deep and damaging scandal, he was simply a means to help this one child. A sensation flashed through him, but he could not identify it at first. It was like a sudden light of startling intensity but without heat or pain. Crouched among the bandages, murmuring soothing nonsense to the child as he worked, it struck him with such force he felt as if his heart had exploded in his chest.

  A little shaken, he finished the work at hand and went to empty out the dirty water and fetch fresh, his head lowered. Cleopatra sent him his next patient and he greeted him, an ancient beggar with a reputation for foul if colorful language. As Penrod kneeled and began to unwrap the old, discolored bandages, he put a name to the feeling he had just experienced: peace—but a peace more profound than anything he had ever felt before. It puzzled him.

  He tried to explain it to the silk merchant that evening as they played a game of chess. The merchant took his knight’s pawn.

  “Freedom from your raging heart, Penrod. That is what you have discovered. We shall make a Sufi of you yet.”

  Penrod took his rook. “I am not sure I believe in God.”

  The silk merchant raised his eyebrows. “That is a little churlish, my friend, given it seems you have just met Him.” He studied the board. “Now here is a pretty problem you have set me. Let me concentrate.”

  As the weeks unfolded, Penrod began to discover a lightness he had not known before. He experienced no more blinding flashes, but that peace began to enfold him. He thought of nothing other than the work at hand. When he had leisure, he read the volume of Rumi that Farouk had left him and watched his fellows go about the colony. He was sitting with the volume on his lap one afternoon when Farouk found him. Seeing who it was, Penrod made to stand, but Farouk waved him back and sat next to him on the sandy soil. They were shaded by a young palm tree, and the occasional breezes were heavy with the scent of jasmine. It was the first time Farouk had sought his company since the day Penrod had emerged from the hospital building.

  For a few minutes they sat in silence. Some of the children were playing cricket, as far as their disabilities would allow. Once or twice they appealed to Penrod for advice or a decision. He gave both lightly and they thanked him, called him “uncle,” and returned to their game. Farouk noticed his reading and for a while they discussed some of the teachings in the book, then Farouk shrugged and looked back at the boys playing their games.

  “Not all wisdom is contained in them, however, Penrod.” He spoke in English and Penrod replied in the same language. The words felt strange on his tongue; it had been so long since he had spoken anything but Arabic.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know the parable of the talents, I think. You are still a young man. Might the time come when you should leave this place and make use of your skills in the wider world again?”

  The idea seemed odd to Penrod.
“It might, but I have no wish to leave.”

  Farouk patted his knee comfortingly. “You are welcome to stay with us until you die of old age, my friend, but I think you should consider that parable.”

  “Perhaps my talents are best left buried,” Penrod said. “My skills seem to be for death.”

  Farouk seemed to consider. “I think there is more to you than that, Penrod. You are a leader of men, and a man of great intelligence. The kings and prime ministers who control the fates of people such as myself, people such as these children, need men like you to guide and advise them, and yes, at times fight for them. I am a man of peace, but that does not mean I despise men ready to fight for their people. But enough of that, I have a great favor to ask you. I have been treating an American lady in Cairo. She is now quite recovered and has made a generous contribution to the colony. I think we may build two or three more family homes and a barracks for some of the children who arrive here alone. I would like you to supervise the building. Will you do that for me?”

  “I will do whatever you ask, Farouk.”

  “Very good,” Farouk said and got to his feet again. “Come and see me in my office in the morning and we shall discuss it.”

  He put his hands in his pockets and sauntered back to the office building, leaving Penrod to stare at the pages in front of him, seeing nothing.

  •••

  The construction work took a month. Every day Penrod instructed the crew and, stripped to his waist, worked alongside them mixing lime cement, shifting the great stone blocks of the barracks into place and supervising the workers. He felt himself growing stronger from the physical labor, and found, as Farouk had suggested, that his ability to lead men was undiminished.

  As they were finishing the tiling work on the roof of the barracks, the fierce sun beating down on their backs, absorbed with the repetitive nature of the work, Penrod wiped the sweat from the corner of his eye and felt again that shock of lightness, a joy deeper than pleasure. It lasted longer this time. He felt it fill him, warming his limbs. He closed his eyes for a moment and realized he was offering up a prayer of thanks, and though he did not know to whom he was praying, he felt his words were heard.

  The construction was not without its challenges. They had hired workmen from the city, and though most were willing and knew their trades, Penrod was suspicious of one and kept a close watch on him.

  When the buildings were complete they held a celebration at the colony. Fires were lit, songs were sung and the children put on a play teasing the older members of the colony. A little girl dressed as Cleopatra scolded the others about bandages and ointments, one boy whitened his face with flour and leaped about the stage carrying empty cartons that represented stone blocks with debonair ease, while his friends dragged theirs about very slowly and groaned. Penrod laughed and applauded with the rest, and it was late when he left the company and began to make his way across the yard to his cell.

  He heard something. A shout cut off. It came from the back of the offices. He jogged around the corner and one of the children from the play barreled into him. Penrod caught hold of him.

  “What is it, son?”

  “Men—they are trying to break into Papa Farouk’s office.”

  A cloud shifted away from the moon and Penrod caught a glimpse of the boy’s face, wide-eyed and tearful.

  “Go, get the others,” Penrod said, and the boy dashed toward the dining hall.

  Penrod moved quietly to the edge of the building. An old crutch was leaning up against the corner, a single rod with a padded crosspiece, but strong enough to bear the weight of a man. He picked it up, tore off the padded crosspiece and tossed it aside, and, weighing the shaft in his hands, turned the corner.

  Three men, and he could tell from the shape and bulk of him that one was the worker he had distrusted. So they had taken the opportunity provided by the party to break in and try to rifle through the cash box. They were already clambering out of the office window again. Penrod glanced toward the wall of the compound. It was only twenty feet behind them and a rope hung over it. No doubt some conspirator was waiting on the road beyond. Penrod thought of what Farouk had said, how at times a man with talents such as his own was necessary in the world.

  He had no time to wait for help from the others. Penrod put his lips together and began to whistle—it was a tune from his youth, something about lochs and fair maidens. He strolled out into the middle of the space between the office and the wall, where the moonlight would catch him.

  •••

  Three minutes later, when Farouk, the silk merchant and a great number of other members of the colony rushed out to his aid, Penrod was still whistling the same old tune. At his feet lay three men. One was unconscious. A second one with a knife still clutched in his hand was dead. The third one was lying on his back, groaning at the unsympathetic sky.

  Part III

  November 1889

  The rains ended just as the last of the first one hundred ingots was stamped at Courtney Mine. Ryder, Saffron and Amber left for Addis at once, and on the morning they arrived in the capital, Ryder presented his treasure to the emperor’s steward. He felt a bone-deep thrill of satisfaction as the ingots were counted and recounted before being placed into teak chests, ribbed with metal bands. The emperor’s seal was set in wax over their locks.

  Menelik’s steward presented Ryder with a small chest of Maria Theresa dollars, and explained his master had instructed him that if Courtney could produce the silver as agreed, he should be paid the market price at once, minus the tax they had negotiated. The steward also provided him with a sheaf of papers, heavy with seals, guaranteeing him safe transit for his silver for the next five years.

  Saffron and Amber were waiting for him when he rejoined them in the compound they had been assigned, but he showed them the papers and the dollars with a frown.

  “Aren’t you pleased, Ryder?” Saffron had said, arranging the folds of the dress she had made for the coronation ceremony around her. She had refused to stay at the mine in spite of the advanced stage of her pregnancy, and looking at her now, aglow with pride and excitement, Ryder was glad she had come.

  “Yes. But we must get that second seam opened and working if we are to continue.”

  Without Rusty’s notebook, the sudden leap in production would not have been possible and it would need to leap upward again if they were to reach the goals Menelik had set. Opening up the new seam Dan had discovered would be key, but to do that they needed more men, and a mining engineer to lead them.

  Saffron threaded her arm through her sister’s. “But today we can enjoy the coronation, can’t we, darling? It is not every day one sees an emperor crowned, is it?”

  Ryder bowed to the two sisters with a flourish, which made them both giggle.

  “Yes, Saffy. Today we celebrate.”

  •••

  Menelik’s coronation was a spectacular pageant, a demonstration of power and authority unprecedented in Africa, and Amber recorded every detail in her notebook. The waiting congregation in the new cathedral shone in silks and gold. The women wore their hair high and woven with silver braid. The Ethiopian noblemen wore short purple capes fastened with elaborate silver clasps, and collars and headdresses fashioned from the manes of lions.

  A scattering of other Europeans was visible in the crowd, some in the uniforms of the Italian or Russian diplomatic service; others, like Ryder, wore civilian dress. Amber stole a glance at her brother-in-law. Considering he spent most of his life in rough working clothes, he looked remarkably at ease in a frock coat. Saffron had arranged the tailoring, of course, so it fitted perfectly across his broad shoulders.

  Outside the walls of the cathedral, a huge mass of men, women and children watched the invited guests arrive as they waited for Menelik and his Empress Taitu. Verses of praise for Menelik were picked up and repeated across the crowd, calls and responses that made them burst into fits of laughter or applause, which echoed against the cathedral walls
and flowed down the slopes of Mount Entoto in a joyful chorus.

  The emperor’s procession began with a dozen priests dressed in pure white, calling down blessings on the new King of Kings. Behind them came a menagerie of camels, horses and elephants, chained lions and leopards, bears, muzzled and walking upright alongside their keepers, then a dozen horsemen, princes of the territories of Ethiopia in all their pomp and splendor.

  Menelik wore robes of dazzling white and was carried through his people on an open litter lined with silk. His empress followed on her own litter borne by the women of her household. Bringing up the rear were the massed ranks of Menelik’s personal bodyguard, the most elite warriors of the nation. Each man carried a richly decorated shield, chased with complex repeating designs in silver and brass, and the sunlight blazed from the leaf-shaped points of their spears and the decorated hilts of the curved shotels hanging at their hips. Every one of them had a shining new Italian rifle hanging on his shoulder.

  The voices of the priests reached those inside the cathedral and the archbishop of the Ethiopian Church stood at the door to receive the coronation party. Servants ran forward to take the heads of the horses while the princes dismounted and then the animals were led away. The songs of the people outside reached new ecstatic crescendos as the congregation came to its feet to welcome Menelik and his wife.

  Amber drank it all in, overwhelmed by the splendor of it all. As he passed, she could have sworn Menelik caught her eye and winked.

  •••

  After the ceremony, the new city of Addis Ababa erupted in one gigantic party. Menelik ordered a dozen oxen roasted whole and great vats of tulla were offered to the people. The bread that had been brought to him as a traditional offering was given back to the crowds and, as the sky darkened, bonfires were lit and the music grew louder. Everything smelled of roasting meat, woodsmoke and gunpowder as guns and rifles fired, volley after volley, in honor of the new rulers. The people danced and feasted, and the children ran wild, looking for treats from their laughing elders.