by Wilbur Smith
The formalities over and his accommodation arranged, Penrod strolled through the streets, watching the people and tasting the mood of the city like a connoisseur tastes wine. The sun cast a silvery brilliance over the whole scene. Arabs bargained noisily with ebony-skinned traders from the interior. Women with tightly braided hair, their wrists and ankles tinkling with delicate silver bangles and bracelets, teased the stallholders and called greetings back and forth in Arabic, Amharic and Italian. White officers walked through the market, their arms threaded through those of local women, and each woman who had an officer on her arm also had a servant running behind her with a brightly colored fringed parasol. One particular beauty saw him looking at her and raised her delicate eyebrows in inquiry. He gave a microscopic, regretful shake of the head and she returned an equally small shrug with a lazy smile. It was an entire flirtation in the space of ten yards. So the inhabitants, he felt, were ready to take advantage of the new arrivals, and live in a peaceable manner with them, here at least.
Penrod heard his name called, and saw a group of Italian officers sitting under the awning of a nearby café. He joined them and found that one of them, a Captain Toselli, was sharing his digs. As he sat down, the waiter heard him being hailed as an Englishman, and the ragtag orchestra in the interior of the café launched into a brave attempt at the British national anthem.
The officers laughed and with good humor toasted Penrod’s queen and country, before explaining that the band performed this courtesy for all new arrivals, though the Italian national anthem was now their specialty.
“So you have met Baratieri?” Toselli asked. He was slightly below medium height and with such thick, black hair and long eyelashes that he looked almost feminine, but he had an energy to him like that of a gun dog.
“I have met him,” Penrod replied. “Although we exchanged little more than pleasantries.”
Toselli nodded rapidly. “He is a man of vision. This country has such potential. It will make Italy rich!”
The other men around the table groaned, but Toselli dismissed them with a wave of his hand and only spoke more loudly.
“It has! These fellows are idiots. Ignore them. I tell you, the land here is excellent.” He kissed his fingertips, as if praising a fine dinner. “The soil of Italy is exhausted, we have farmed it for five thousand years, but here is a place our peasants can come and grow such food, such vines! The wines of Eritrea will be the envy of the world. The French will go and drown themselves in the English Channel in despair!”
That, at least, got a cheer from his fellow officers.
“And the goods that come from the interior! Civet, musk, the best coffee in creation, and it all arrives here so bountiful and cheap. For the price of a cup in Rome, you may buy enough green beans to load a camel.”
Penrod was given a glass and he took it with a nod of thanks and drank. The wine was cheap and rough, but had a sort of earthy honesty to it.
“Toselli,” he said, “are you by any chance Pietro Toselli? The author of Pro Africa Italia?”
The officers cheered and Pietro swept his arms widely, as if to gather in the applause.
“You have read it?”
“I have. My friend Lucio gave it to me. You are a passionate advocate.”
“I am,” Pietro said with great pride. “And do you have any questions, Major, having read my humble offering?”
“Only one,” Penrod said. “What do the natives think of your plans?”
Pietro beamed. “They are delighted we are here! They have grown tired of all their little kings and warlords fighting over their farms. We bring stability, civilization.”
An older officer, the same rank as Toselli, but twice his age, grunted. Penrod looked sideways at him, wondering if it was incompetence or lack of connections that had stopped him advancing in the military. He was unshaven and his skin and eyes had the unhealthy tinge of the disappointed drunkard.
“You are a fool, Toselli. You only meet recruits who want your one and a half lira a day, market traders, or women who want to pick your pocket,” he said.
“I speak to many, many people, Marco,” Toselli replied with comic indignation, then added over his shoulder to Penrod, “this is Marco Nazzari, our resident naysayer.”
The older man shook his large head and laid his meaty hands flat on the table. “I was with Baldesseri when he blundered into Tigray. I tell you, you could feel it. You know when you take a seat on some unbroken horse, some great, beautiful beast, and even if it’s standing quiet for you, you can feel it, feel it in your bones that it hates you, that it’s only waiting for its chance to throw you to the ground and dash your brains out, if it can? That’s what it felt like every day we were on the far side of the Mareb River. Your askari are good fellows, but they’re from here, near the coast, where traders have been coming and going for a thousand years. Half of them are Muslim and half of them speak Arabic. However, up in the highlands,” he nodded toward the interior, “they don’t want anything we’re selling, apart from rifles, and they’ve bought plenty of those already.”
Penrod decided it was probably Nazzari’s tendency to speak his own mind that had slowed his progression through the ranks. But that meant he would likely be an excellent source of information. Penrod made a mental note of his name.
Pietro shrugged elaborately. “All we have to trouble us in Tigray is Alula, the old bandit, and we’ve forced a peace with him. I’d say we have to worry about the dervish too, but now we have Major Ballantyne with us, and he can tell us how to defeat them.” He turned away from the older man and stared wide-eyed at Penrod. “You were at the battle of Abu Klea, were you not? Will you not describe the action?”
Penrod was happy to oblige. The tabletop became a plan of the wadi, and the carafes and glasses became the Desert Column forming a square under sniper fire from dervish salt cellars, until the square was ambushed by a massive force of Mahdist forks.
Penrod described the action well, rattling off quick replies to the questions that came in a flood from the men around the table. By the time he reached his account of the final attack, where the dervish broke into the square before being driven out by the troops in the rear, most of the patrons of the café were listening intently and craning over the shoulders of the men in uniform to watch the final stages of the battle.
Penrod provided a dramatic finish, sweeping the dervish off the table, and the officers and observers cheered and the scratch orchestra broke into an encore of “God Save the Queen.”
•••
The following morning, after a very dull dinner at Baratieri’s residence, where a woman, wife of a General Albertone, dripping in pearls and ignorance, lectured him extensively about the beautiful simplicity of the African soul, Penrod was awake early and had already breakfasted when Marco Nazzari called on him.
“I am seeing new recruits today,” Nazzari told him. “I thought it might be interesting for you to see how we manage them. I’d be very grateful for your thoughts.”
Penrod was glad he had stood Nazzari a few drinks the previous evening.
They rode together to a dusty training ground on the edge of Massowah. Perhaps a hundred men and boys, barefoot and dressed in the loose tunics and trousers of the region, were standing in the sun, applying to join one of the native battalions. Penrod was surprised to see so many and said so.
“Oh, we have suffered bad rains in the last year or two, and a cattle plague,” Nazzari said. “Many of the farmers have lost everything and hope to regain the fortunes of their families by serving us. We let them live with their families and the pay is enough that if they are sober and careful after a year or two with us, they can then afford some land and animals.”
Nazzari strode along the lines of recruits, his back straight and his expression stern, stopping whenever a recruit seemed too young or too old, or too wasted with disease or hunger to be worth the trouble. The men he dismissed did not show their disappointment or attempt to argue, only turned and wal
ked away into their uncertain futures.
Once Nazzari had thinned the field to about half the original number, he nodded to his askari sergeant, a bright-eyed man of about Penrod’s age wearing the battalion sash over his white tunic and trousers.
The sergeant saluted, spoke a few swift, sharp sentences to the remaining men, then set off out of the camp at a steady jog. The men followed him.
“Where is he taking them?” Penrod asked.
“Sergeant Ariam will lead them up the slopes to the north, then in a wide zigzag back here. He will go as far as he needs to until only some twenty remain. Those will be our recruits for today,” Marco said. He spoke with satisfaction. He might be skeptical about Pietro Toselli’s ambitions for the colony, but he was obviously proud of the native soldiers.
“And how far is that?”
“Twenty miles, perhaps, depending on the heat of the day.”
Penrod watched the body of men moving swiftly away along a narrow path into the misted highlands. He felt a twinge of envy. When he had been a captive of Osman Atalan, he had been forced to run alongside his tormentor’s horse. What had begun as torture had become a pleasure.
“I almost envy them,” he said.
Nazzari looked at him with a frown, but said nothing.
They discussed questions of training and discipline until Sergeant Ariam led the remaining men back into the parade ground three hours later. Nazzari officially recruited them into the Italian army and sent them to the quartermaster for their uniforms.
Penrod spent the rest of the day making some judicious friendships in the marketplace. The Arab speakers were delighted to hear their language spoken so fluently by a white man and Penrod was sure one or two of them might prove useful as sources of information.
It wasn’t until much later that Penrod found his remark about envying the askari recruits had spread like wildfire through the whites of the colony. General Albertone’s wife had publicly declared she would give her famous pearls to the Englishman if he could keep up with the recruits and repeated her declaration so often, the general was forced to seek out Penrod in the Greek café. The officers leaped to attention. Albertone waved them back into their seats and bowed to Penrod.
“I apologize for my wife’s challenge, Major Ballantyne. I’m sure your comment was only an idle one. I shall happily explain to her that the remark was made in jest. We Italians love to boast too.”
The table had grown very quiet. Penrod studied the man with careful interest. He already knew that Albertone was not popular with his officers, and thought that Baratieri did not much appreciate his patrician attitudes either. To cut the general down to size a little, under the guise of a friendly sporting wager, might win Penrod some new friends and encourage others to share their opinions with him more openly. He was sure many of the senior Italian officers would be delighted to see that self-satisfied smile removed from the general’s face.
“Not at all. I am delighted to accept the wager,” Penrod said. “Shall we say tomorrow morning?”
The general stopped smiling, but agreed and left to ironic cheers. Penrod stayed late in the café and spent freely.
The whole of the white population of the town was in attendance when Penrod arrived at the parade ground the next morning, and a large proportion of the natives and traders had come to see the fun also. Penrod was amused to overhear the odds being laid against him in Arabic as he passed through the crowd. Pietro had nominated himself as Penrod’s second and strode in front of him, ostentatiously clearing the way for the “crazy Englishman who wants to die running with the askari,” as he put it. No wonder the odds being given were not in Penrod’s favor. He spotted the owner of the Greek café in the crowd and beckoned him over.
“Friend, place a wager for me.” He pulled out the gold half-hunter Amber had given him and put it in the man’s hand. “Use that as my stake, but take great care of it.”
“You wish me to wager you will live?” the man said, then whistled as he saw the quality of the watch.
“That I will finish among the recruits,” Penrod replied abruptly. “And remember, not a scratch on it when I return.”
The café owner looked dubious but agreed, and Penrod thanked him before retiring into the barracks to change from his uniform into borrowed knee breeches, a short-sleeved vest and tennis shoes donated by the officers who shared his digs.
He was out on the ground again in time to see Nazzari doing the first winnowing of that day’s recruits. He watched for a minute, then frowned and approached.
“Nazzari, what are you doing?”
Nazarri drew his heavy brows together and puffed out his cheeks. “My duty, Major Ballantyne.”
“No, you are not,” Penrod said simply. “That last man you sent away is in the prime of life and this fellow—” he nodded to one of the recruits Nazzari had selected for the run—“must be at least sixty. Captain Nazzari, this is no act of friendship. I insist you select the men who are to run exactly as you would on any other day.”
“Oh, very well,” Nazzari said with a scowl. “But you will be dead or humiliated by the end of the day if I do.”
Penrod looked behind him at General Albertone and his wife. They looked sleek and confident in the morning light and were standing with Baratieri, who appeared more troubled. No doubt he was worrying about Penrod’s fate and what Lucio might have to say about it. He cast occasional irritated looks at Albertone, and Penrod was confident his assessment of the relationship between the two men had been correct.
“Trust me, Nazzari,” he said.
•••
The runners set out to loud, if rather ironic, cheers, the recruits and Sergeant Ariam going barefoot as usual. Most of the potential new recruits seemed more amused by Penrod’s company than anything else; white men, in their experience, did not run. One young man with thickly muscled legs, who ran with an angry hunch, tried to barge him as the path narrowed on the first gradual climb. Penrod sidestepped him, then half a mile later caught the man on a corner, shouldering him into an awkward stumble. He dropped out soon afterward and the other recruits paid Penrod no further attention, concentrating on their own endurance.
For the first three miles, climbing steadily from the dry plain around the port and into the hills, Penrod’s muscles began to ache. It did not concern him overmuch. He was used to pain and trusted that it would soon fade as his body began to understand what he needed from it. He was right. After another twenty minutes the cramps and soreness passed and he began to enjoy himself. He lifted his head and drew the air steadily into his lungs, letting his chest expand. Two or three more of the potential recruits had already given up, but the rest seemed to be quite comfortable. Sergeant Ariam looked behind him and obviously came to the same conclusion, for he increased his pace. Penrod remembered what it was to run like this and he relaxed even as he picked up speed. The breathing of the man next to him became ragged and gasping. As the path turned, Penrod glanced back toward the parade ground. They had perhaps gone six miles now, curving higher in slow arcs. The port lay far below them, a scattering of stone next to the jewel brightness of the Red Sea. The sergeant took a narrow path heading north, and for a while Penrod had to watch the ground in front of him to avoid missing his footing.
“Effendi, effendi . . .” One of the other runners was calling to him. “You speak the language of the Prophet, peace be upon him, is that so?”
“I do,” Penrod said.
“What do they call you in our language?”
“He who never turns back.”
The man laughed richly and translated the name into Amharic for the other runners nearby. The pack had thinned. Some hundred yards behind them a group of stragglers were slowing to a despairing walk. It was an excellent way to discover which of the men were suited to long marches, Penrod thought, looking to his right and left. The men running with him now possessed the endurance and steady fortitude that were the attributes of an ideal soldier. He wondered how his desert warrio
rs would take to the idea of running in this way. Not well, he thought. They were horsemen, riders. To run like this would be a humiliation. Penrod felt a sudden rush of pleasure. They were wrong. He felt a purity and purpose in the exercise and he reveled in it.
•••
At twelve miles the route took them on a slow curve back toward the port. The sergeant had kept up a punishing pace, but Penrod’s breathing was still deep and regular. He shook out his arms and stretched out his shoulders. By now only a few more than thirty runners remained, and several of them were struggling. Penrod felt a dream-like calm. He thought of Agatha and Amber, of Farouk and his books of Rumi’s and Dante’s poetry. He let favorite verses drift through his head and his body found the rhythm of the lines.
The sergeant glanced over his shoulder and nodded to himself. Penrod came out of his daze and saw he had already won his bet for only twenty recruits were left. Now the sergeant had done his duty and whittled down the pack to the proper number, he had no need to push these men to exhaustion. He slowed a little and Penrod felt a stab of disappointment. The parade ground was in sight. The man who had spoken to him in Arabic was still beside him. He was looking a little gray, but was facing this last mile or two with dogged determination.
“Translate for me,” Penrod said. “I want to speak to the sergeant, but I do not speak Tigre.” He was pleased to know he had breath enough for the words.
“I can speak Arabic also, sir,” Sergeant Ariam replied, dropping back a little to run at Penrod’s side. Penrod’s friend looked glad he could keep his own breath for his running.
“These men have all succeeded, yes?” Penrod said, snatching his words as he exhaled. “Whatever happens, you will take them into the native battalion?”
“We shall.”
“Then can I make all of you men an offer? I want a race. I’ll pay ten lire to anyone who gives me one, and a hundred lire to anyone who beats me. If the sergeant agrees.”