by Wilbur Smith
The sergeant’s eyes glittered. “Agreed!”
He translated into Tigre for the rest of the squad and they gave a ragged cheer. They had about a mile to go. Immediately they surged forward, each man finding unsuspected reserves of energy in his limbs.
Penrod lifted his head and kicked out his legs, making his strides longer and faster. After a hundred yards he, the sergeant and one other had separated from the rest. Penrod swung his arms. The path between here and the parade ground was flat and wide; their feet kicked up explosions of dust from the earth. Penrod felt his lungs beginning to ache. A suspicion flitted across his mind.
“Ariam, anything less than your best . . .” he sucked in a lungful of hot, salted air, “and I’ll beat you bloody with my own hands.”
The sergeant put his head down and began to drive, hard.
Penrod could hear the cheers of the crowd now, cries of amazement and whistles. He lifted his head high, so his lungs could suck all the air they were able to, and his heart drummed an impossible rhythm in his chest. The pain shot through his entire body with renewed force. He knew his feet were bleeding, and his body was starved of oxygen. Every fiber of his being screamed at him for cessation, but he took a contrary pleasure in overruling his heart and lungs. It was just the sergeant and him now. He would breathe later.
Ahead of him he saw Marco Nazzari and Pietro Toselli. Once they had seen what was happening, they had found a length of ribbon from somewhere and stretched it out across the entrance to the parade ground. The crowd was on its feet, yelling out in a dozen languages. The sergeant started to pull slightly ahead, but Penrod had a crucial advantage. Forced to run over the desert sands, lashed to the halter of Osman Atalan’s stallion with his wrists bound and bloody, he knew exactly what his body could endure and survive. He threw himself on, ignoring his shrieking muscles and his bursting heart, and thrust his chest forward, reaching the ribbon a fraction of a second before the sergeant. He slowed to a jog and took long, even breaths.
The crowd poured forward to congratulate him. He felt Pietro thumping him between his shoulder blades and his right hand being pumped by innumerable strangers. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes and offered his hand to the sergeant, before they were separated by the throng of his admirers. Penrod allowed himself to be lifted onto the shoulders of some of the officers and carried to the center of the parade ground, where Signora Albertone was waiting with her husband and General Baratieri. She held a velvet case under her arm and looked miserable. Baratieri was grinning from ear to ear.
Once the officers had deposited Penrod in front of them, Baratieri held up his hands to quieten the crowd.
“The contest has been completed, and as Governor of Eritrea, it gives me great pleasure to announce that our English guest, Major Ballantyne, has won, and won convincingly! As a mark of his singular success, I am pleased to award him the rank of Honorary Major in our Native Eighth Battalion!”
The parade ground rang with laughter and applause, and Penrod made a low bow to the company.
“But,” Baratieri said loudly, raising his finger for silence again, “although the contest has been completed, the wager has not! Signora Albertone, you made a wager, the wager was witnessed and the wager was lost.”
The signora looked sick, and Penrod felt a flicker of compassion. She opened the case and Penrod and the crowd stared at the thick rope of pearls. It was worth a thousand pounds at the very least.
General Albertone looked almost as ill as his wife. The signora put the case in Penrod’s hands and he took it with a quiet thank you, then turned around slowly, holding it above his head to whoops and cheers, making his decision as he did. He could gain another advantage here. He turned back to General Albertone and his wife, then returned the case to her.
“I have no wish to take so fine an ornament from so fair a daughter of Italy,” he said loudly and clearly.
For a moment she did not understand him and looked in confusion at her husband. Then, with eyes cast down, she took back the case. The cheers became ecstatic.
“I am in your debt,” General Albertone said quietly.
“You are,” Penrod replied as quietly, “and I always collect my debts in the end, General.”
Penrod was lifted onto the shoulders of the other officers again and carried with much song and laughter all the way to the Greek café. In vain, he protested he wanted a bath. It was not allowed. They were determined to toast his victory first.
“God Save the Queen” was sung with enthusiasm and variable accuracy at twice the usual volume, and Penrod found that the owner’s store of champagne had been raided and dispensed in his honor. It was not Krug, but it was certainly refreshing after his run. When the first flush of celebration was done, the owner approached and handed Penrod his watch, along with a thick leather pouch.
Penrod opened it and raised his eyebrows. “This is a great deal more than I expected.”
The Greek tapped the side of his nose. “Ahh, when I saw you in that last half mile, I could not help myself: I bet double or quits you would win.”
When Penrod had staked his watch on his success, he had been perfectly confident—he knew that he would be able to keep up with the recruits—but the idea he might have lost it in that final race made his blood freeze momentarily in his veins. It did not matter how long it had been since he had laid eyes on Amber Benbrook; as long as he held the watch he felt as if some tie still existed that bound them together, a bond that neither time nor distance could destroy. The watch was somehow a witness to him becoming a better man. The idea he could have lost it thanks to the good-natured bravado of the café owner made the world spin sickly for a second. No sign of this appeared on Penrod’s face. He looked into the beaming visage of the Greek, then lifted his champagne glass and toasted him heartily.
Amber developed a routine. Early each morning she would visit the refugee camp, and soon the inmates grew accustomed to the sight of Amber and Hagos walking down the slope toward them just as the fires were being lit for the morning meal. Amber had stolen some of the canvas they had bought in Addis to make a halter for Hagos—a careful construction with adjustable straps to allow for her rapid growth. The lioness hated it, but she hated letting Amber out of her sight even more and so she submitted. Some hundred yards from the edge of the camp, Hagos would allow the halter to be fitted over her muscular shoulders, affecting a weary disdain for the process, and permit herself to be tethered to a nearby tree trunk. She managed to convey the impression she had been planning to stop here anyway.
Amber then joined Marta and Tadesse, and spent an hour or two talking to the refugees about their homes, their recovery and their plans for the future. She checked supplies, made notes and gave instructions, then returned to Hagos and took the lioness hunting with her, north and west of the camp where she knew she had a good chance of finding game, but with no risk of stumbling on people. Not that Hagos would have hurt them; she was used to human company and did not see them as food. Occasionally a new arrival at the refugee camp would panic and protest at the sight of a grown lioness taking her ease so nearby, but one of the older residents would explain and point out both the halter and the fact that the eccentric ferengi who kept the animal as a pet was the one who was busy saving their lives and the lives of their children.
Stories of Amber spread across Tigray as refugees found the strength to move on. She was fast becoming the new and exotic patron saint of the hungry and dispossessed. They called her the lion lady. She built Hagos a playground of ropes and log swings in the clearing by the cabin and watched her for hours, instinctively stalking the swinging shadows, pouncing on them with a shake of her hindquarters and sharpening her claws on the bark of the trees. Amber paid for local farmers to bring her goats to feed the growing lioness, but made sure they were slaughtered and prepared in the camp, so Hagos never learned to associate the penned and bleating animals with the excellent meat provided for her dinner. Amber wanted to be sure Hagos never thought of goats a
nd cattle as prey. The lioness needed to accept animals came in two sorts: the humans and beasts of the camp among whom she lived peaceably, and then the game she and Amber brought down on their hunts. Eventually Amber changed her strategy: if Hagos failed to stalk and kill an animal on the hunt, she got no food in the evening, and Amber, careful not to provoke her with cooking smells, did not eat either. When her hunt was successful, they dined together. It took some time, and some hungry days when Amber kept well away from the camp, but in the end, it worked.
•••
Late one morning, when Hagos was almost full-grown, Amber and the lioness were relaxing in their own fashions after a successful hunt. Hagos buried her face into the torn belly of the antelope and began to eat with a satisfied purr.
“You have horrible table manners,” Amber said as she watched the lioness rip into her kill, her muzzle already red with blood. Hagos ignored her.
Amber drank from her canteen, then stretched out her legs and leaned on her elbows to enjoy the sun. Something caught her eye. A flash of reflected light to the west. She wondered if it was Bill again, searching for more exotic birds, and felt a familiar shiver of dislike. She suspected he was following her on her hunting trips with Hagos, but when she had mentioned seeing him, Saffron had told her he shared a passion for the local flora and fauna with Ryder, and now that work on the second seam was proceeding smoothly, he had begun to wander further afield in search of new animals and plants. Yes, there he was in a patch of withered thorn bushes, pale skeletons of themselves among the knee-high grass. She wondered again if he had come out looking for her, and hoped he had missed seeing Hagos and the kill. Perhaps he would move on before she had to acknowledge his presence.
She slid back further on her elbows so the tall pale grass would shield her, still looking in his direction and willing him to leave. Then she realized he was talking to someone. A man was with him in the copse of thorns, an Abyssinian, but not a man Amber recognized. She squinted, trying to see more clearly as a breeze stirred the stalks around her. The Abyssinian wore a rather dirty shamma edged with green and carried a rifle over his shoulders. After a few minutes of conversation, he bowed and moved away. Bill remained where he was for a while, then left also, walking in the other direction with easy, confident strides.
•••
When Amber and Hagos returned to her camp at the top of the cliff later that afternoon, they found Tadesse waiting for them. He was sitting cross-legged in the shade, but as he heard them approach he stood up and stepped into the sunlight.
He visited Amber several times a week to discuss the arrangements for the refugees and offer her his tally of deaths and survivals, arrivals and departures. Hagos padded across to the tent, took up her usual position outside it by Amber’s chair and began to groom herself with her long, curling tongue. Amber and Tadesse exchanged greetings and Amber invited the young man to take a seat beside her. He did so cautiously, keeping an eye on Hagos. The lioness paused to watch him sit, then blinked her yellow eyes and returned to her grooming.
Three orphans were currently in the camp: two girls and a boy for whom they needed to find foster parents. Some family or another nearby always wanted an extra boy to work in the fields and tend the animals, but girls were more difficult. It was a case of finding a family that would be glad to have an extra pair of hands in the home, but would not treat the child as a slave. One of the girls provided a particularly difficult problem. She had a squint, and had said nothing since she arrived in the camp. Amber was inclined to think that she was still too stunned with the horrors of her journey to talk, but she was gaining the reputation of an idiot.
“Someone will help her. I’m sure with kindness she will recover.”
“Perhaps, Miss Amber.” He rested his head in his hands and sighed. “For now, no one is taking care of her. I am afraid she will be taken by bandits if we do not find her a place of safety soon.”
“Bandits?” Amber said. The tone of her voice disturbed Hagos, who lifted her head and made a low warning sound in her throat. Tadesse said nothing, until Amber had leaned down and stroked the lioness’s head with her knuckles and scratched her muzzle. Hagos huffed approvingly.
“I have heard stories in the camp,” Tadesse said. “Shifta between here and Axum taking children from the parties coming here for help. They will make the boys fight, I suppose, and the girls will be their slaves.”
“Why have I not heard of this?” Amber said, but she spoke calmly, not wanting Hagos to grow agitated again.
“The people are afraid. They do not want to be blamed for not defending the children,” he replied with a sad smile.
“I would not blame them. They hardly have the strength to reach us. How could they fight off bandits? But do you think they are in danger even in the camp?”
“They are coming closer, and the camp is getting larger. I think we should move the supplies down the escarpment. No bandit would dare attack Courtney Camp itself, and we might move the families with children into the center of the rest.” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “But I fear they will not all move. They want their privacy, even here.”
“Do what you can, Tadesse,” Amber said.
•••
The following morning Amber arrived at the camp at her usual time, slipped Hagos’s halter on and went down to join the others. She had meant to talk to Tadesse about the orphan girl with the squint, but soon got caught up in the latest tragedies and victories of the refugees. A new family had arrived just after dawn. The two elder children looked strong, but the mother and her youngest were both struggling to breathe. Amber arranged for someone to help the older children and left the father keeping vigil over his wife and the baby. He watched with such intensity, refusing all attempts to make him rest. He fed his wife by hand and—it seemed to Amber—was spending every last ounce of his remaining strength in willing them to live.
The sight made her feel rather hollow and alone, and it wasn’t until she had rejoined Hagos and walked half a mile from the camp that she remembered the orphan.
“Damn,” she said aloud and stopped. Hagos turned her beautiful head toward her mistress and twitched the black tuft of her tail as Amber turned around to retrace her steps.
“Please, Hagos?” she said. The lioness shook her head and sneezed, then followed. When Amber re-tethered her, she crouched down in the dust and Hagos, in a forgiving mood, put her great paws on Amber’s shoulders and pushed her head into Amber’s chest. Amber lost her balance and fell back under the lioness’s weight. She laughed, scratching the lion’s neck and pulling at her muzzle. Knowing that she had been forgiven for delaying the hunt, she scrambled upright and was just about to head off in search of Tadesse when she noticed they were not alone. The orphan girl herself was standing a little way off, biting the side of her thumb and swinging from side to side as she watched Amber and Hagos at play.
“Do not touch the lion,” Amber said to her.
The girl looked at her as if she thought she was quite mad, which, Amber had to admit, was probably fair. She was wondering if she should say more when she heard the crack of a rifle shot below her. She looked down into the camp. Some sort of confrontation was going on at the edge of the flat ground at the bottom of the slope nearest to her. Three men, all strangers and all armed. Two were holding refugee children by their wrists and pulling them away. The third was still holding his rifle, and Amber could see a man sprawled out on the grass. One of the children was reaching for him and shouting, “Papa, Papa!”
“Stay here!” Amber shouted to the little girl, and ran down the slope.
Some of the refugees were taking flight, gathering up their children and fleeing the armed men, but others were rushing over from the kitchen tent to help.
The men had not expected an attack from this direction.
Amber grabbed on to one of the children, a little girl, and wrenched her from the grip of the bandit holding her, her outrage and his surprise giving her a s
udden, brief advantage.
“How dare you!” she screamed.
The rifleman shifted his grip and swung upward with the butt of his gun, catching Amber on the jaw and sending her flying backward. She landed heavily next to the boy’s murdered father. She saw his eyes, empty and lifeless, staring into hers and seeing nothing. The other man tried to grab the girl again, but she was too quick for him, racing full pelt toward her weeping mother.
The rifleman was reloading. Amber tried to get up but the blow had stunned her and she was too slow. She saw his face as he raised his gun; she saw the green border on his shamma.
“No!” It was Bill’s voice.
The bandit hesitated, then his eyes hardened and Amber saw his finger squeezing the trigger. She tried to scramble backward, but her hands slipped in the blood of the murdered man. All she could hear was the sound of weeping, Tadesse shouting and the hysterical shouts of the little boy still held captive.
Then she saw Hagos. The lioness was bounding toward them in great fluid leaps. The bandit with the boy shouted out a warning and the gunman turned. Hagos leaped into the air as he fired, but his shot went wide. Hagos twisted her head mid-air and went straight for his throat, her huge white teeth clamping into his neck. He screamed and tried to reach for her eyes as she snarled and shook him. When she released him, a fountain of blood erupted from the wound in his neck. Then she reared back, growling deep in her throat, and with a swipe of her paw sliced open his belly.
His two followers turned and ran, leaving the boy to fall weeping at his father’s side. His mother swooped down and picked him up. He kicked and shouted, but she would not let him go again, carrying him with grim determination away from the blood and the lion.
Hagos’s victim was still screaming, a gurgling, choking cry. Hagos grunted, then bent her great head and tore out his throat. The body went limp and Hagos dragged it a short distance away.
Tadesse and Bill had reached Amber now, but when they put out their hands for her, Hagos looked up from the corpse and roared. Tadesse took Bill by the arm and pulled him away.