by Wilbur Smith
•••
Penrod woke the next morning with a sudden craving for the pipe. It came with such force it seemed to drive the air from his body. Pietro was right. He needed to see Amber. He wanted to know if she still hated him, or if time had worn down her rage. If she was still beautiful. He asked himself if he would fall on his knees in front of her and beg her forgiveness. No. Forgiveness had to be earned and freely given, not wrung out of someone with tears. He would willingly acknowledge the wrong he had done, seducing her sister and concealing the fact, then he would walk away. He dressed with particular care and then, leaving a message for Nazzari that he had gone hunting and might spend the night camping in the hills, set out with a servant toward Courtney Camp.
The rains had turned the highlands into a series of pleasant pastures littered with purple and white flowers, and the thin air was gently perfumed with their scent. Penrod’s Amharic was enough to greet the farmers passing along the tracks, and they gave him directions for Courtney Camp that set him along the right path.
When he thought himself within a reasonable striking distance, he left his horse and told his servant to make camp for the night, then he walked the final mile or two along steadily rising ground until he found himself looking down into a wide valley. The distant sounds of the mine drifted up toward him, but from where he stood he could see only the family houses grouped around a church. He saw gardens and orchards thick with blossom, and on the hills above were plowed fields already pushing forth new growth.
He lifted his field glasses and swept them around in a slow arc, spotting another camp to the south, though it seemed sparsely occupied. No doubt that was where Amber had been caring for those driven from their land by hunger and disease.
A flash of gold caught his eye and he looked down into the camp. It was her. He knew it without needing to lift the glasses to his eyes. He watched her slim figure as she crossed the open square in front of the church and joined a woman, a native woman, who was grinding grain outside one of the huts. They were talking, laughing, it seemed. Amber turned and looked toward the river and Penrod lifted the glasses. Her face was in front of him again. He had seen it every day since they had parted, but in that image she had never aged, she had remained a child of sixteen. He had wondered how she would look now, but he had never expected this. She was more beautiful than he could have imagined. A young woman, confident and graceful, laughing easily with a friend. A man was coming toward her, a white man in a wide-brimmed slouch hat, but it was certainly not Ryder. Penrod would know his bull-like frame from any distance. This was a man more of his own build. She smiled at the stranger and Penrod felt his heart tighten like a fist. A sudden glimmer of light raced across the earth toward her. A child, a girl with Amber’s thick blonde hair. She bent down and swept the infant up in her arms, spinning her around, and even from this distance Penrod thought he could hear the girl’s delighted laughter.
Penrod lowered the glasses and walked back down the slope into the shade of a low sycamore. She had a child. Of course she had married and he was glad that she had done so. She deserved to be happy and he would not disturb her happiness with his presence. He had no claim on her and would never make one. He wished her only well. He examined his feelings and made his decision. If he ever saw another man touch her, he would kill him stone dead. Nothing he had gone through in the years since they had last met could change that, not even his wish that she be happy. So he must stay away.
He heard a metallic click and froze, listening.
“Hold, and state your business.”
He recognized the voice. He lifted his hands to shoulder level, then turned around.
“Courtney. A pleasure, as always.”
Ryder emerged from the high grass, pausing to gaze at Penrod for a long moment, then slinging his rifle over his shoulder as he approached. He hadn’t changed a great deal, Penrod noticed. His muscle had not run to fat; if anything he seemed stronger than he had in Cairo. His skin was burned to a permanent bronze and his thick, unruly hair was still black as pitch.
“Ballantyne. We were told you were dead.”
“You were misinformed.”
Ryder was only a yard away from him now, and Penrod felt himself being closely observed. Let Courtney look. Penrod had a few more lines about his eyes, but other than that he was content he would pass muster. His blond hair and thick mustache showed no signs of gray. His riding boots were polished to a fine gloss, and in spite of the ride, the dust and the heat, his uniform was smart as always. The last time the two men had seen each other was in the lobby of the Shepheard’s Hotel, bloody and hot with rage, panting among the shards of the shattered chandelier.
Ryder put out his hand and Penrod shook it.
“We were also told you brought down the Duke of Kendal, before your supposed death. That man caused us a great deal of hurt, so I thank you for that. Unless we were misinformed about that too?”
“I am just rejoining my servant. Would you have a cup of coffee with me and a cigar?”
“Like that, is it?” Ryder said. “Well, I can respect a man keeping such business to himself. I’ll take the coffee and the cigar.”
They walked across the plateau and into the next gully where Penrod’s servant had made camp. Seeing another white man approach with his master, he set up another camp stool for him and before long Penrod and Courtney were drinking their coffee and drawing on a pair of very fine cigars as the air cooled.
“What brings you here, Ballantyne?” Ryder said, looking about him. “I’d say your kit and your servant come out of Massowah. Are you working with the Italians?”
Penrod crossed his legs and blew out a cloud of smoke and explained, briefly, his diplomatic mission in Eritrea.
“I have news of Rebecca,” Ryder said when he had finished. “Would you like to hear it?”
“Yes.”
“First wife of Osman Atalan and mother to two children. Treated with respect by his people.”
“I have heard the same,” Penrod said. “I hope she has found some peace, but the British will retake Sudan eventually and when they do I shall find her husband and kill him.”
“I understand,” Ryder replied.
They both studied the landscape in front of them in silence.
“So tell me what you think, Courtney,” Penrod said at last. “The Italians are convinced that it will be a simple business to take over Tigray and force Menelik to accept a protectorate over Ethiopia.”
Ryder grunted. “The only people who can think that are the ones who have never met him.”
Penrod raised an eyebrow. “You think they are wrong? The victory at Coatit was straightforward. The Ethiopian fighters are many, I admit that, but they could not withstand the discipline of European troops, or the askari troops the Italians have trained.”
Ryder examined the glowing end of his cigar. “You and I have had our disagreements in the past, Penrod. But I know you’re not a fool. The battle at Coatit was a skirmish with a local ruler. If the Italians force a claim on any more territory, they will be dealing with the emperor himself. The askari are good, but you haven’t enough of them. The emperor’s troops are just as fast, just as disciplined, just as well armed. And he has a lot more of them.”
Penrod looked skeptical. “As well armed? Half of Mengesha’s men at Coatit had only spears and swords.”
“Menelik wasn’t going to provide his rival with the best of his weaponry. Not yet. Last time I was in Addis I saw crates of new rifles in the storehouses they hadn’t even bothered opening yet. The French and the Russians are happy to supply Menelik when the Italians decide they do not wish to do so. Italian aggression will unite the country. Then Menelik will share his stockpile with Mengesha and Alula.”
“The Italian informants are telling them that Menelik cannot raise more than thirty thousand men.”
Ryder laughed. “The Italians should believe nothing they do not see with their own eyes. Intrigue is a national sport here, and they are
masters at it.” Then he grew more serious. “And one thing every Ethiopian agrees on is that you can never trust a white man. They chant a song. ‘From the sting of the black snake, one can recover, but the bite of the white snake is deadly.’ They will not only betray the Italians because of the power and prestige of Menelik, they will do it joyfully as a patriotic duty.”
“I have heard that rhyme before.”
“It is fast becoming a national proverb. My people are left alone here because we are under Menelik’s protection. No other white man will be safe in Tigray soon.”
“How many men do you think Menelik could muster?” Penrod asked.
“Against the Italians?” Ryder scratched his chin. “A hundred thousand at least.”
Penrod whistled. “That seems unlikely.”
Ryder felt a burst of irritation, but sipped his coffee. “You may believe me or not as you see fit. The Italians will find out sooner or later, then they must make peace and get out of Tigray.”
Penrod blew out an even stream of smoke. “No. They would lose too much face in Europe and at home. It is a question of national pride.”
“Then a lot of brave men will die,” Ryder answered, his dislike of military posturing overwhelming him. “Italy has done what even Menelik could not. She has united Ethiopia against her. Will you stay and fight alongside the Italians?”
“I shall,” Penrod replied and made no further comment.
Neither of them spoke for a while. In the past Penrod would have deliberately goaded him, but he resisted the temptation. Ryder had a good sense of this country after his years of residence and Penrod had taken careful note of his opinion.
“I saw Amber, and the child,” he said.
Ryder understood at once. Penrod had seen Amber with Penelope, and had assumed the girl was hers. He considered. He could tell Penrod the truth, and bring him to the camp. Word would quickly reach Ras Alula and Menelik that Ryder had received him, and they might well conclude Ryder was trying to make some underhand deal with the Italians. Amber had grieved deeply when she thought Penrod was dead; what good would it do her to let her know he was alive now just as he was about to ride against Menelik with his Italian friends? Let Penrod think Penelope was Amber’s if that sent him back to the Italians and left her in peace.
He kept his voice even. “Amber is well. You saw the camp on the opposite escarpment, and the orchards?”
“I did.”
“All her work. She has saved a great many lives in these past years.”
Penrod did not speak, and Ryder tipped the ash off his cigar.
“Penrod, you and I will never be friends, but Amber was fond of you at one time, so for her sake, I’ll give you this advice: go back to Massowah; go back to Cairo. To fight with the Italians in this country is suicide.”
Ryder glanced sideways at the rigid line of Penrod’s jaw. He didn’t expect he’d persuade the man to leave the Italians to their fate, but for his sister-in-law’s sake, he made one last attempt.
“Amber found a lion cub when it was weak and young,” he continued. “She fed it, cared for it, taught it to hunt. But she is not a fool. She has released it, not tried to keep it on a silver chain. She recognizes its strength.”
“I think you have picked up this nation’s love of riddles,” Penrod said with a drawl. “You draw some parallel, I suspect. Are you saying that the Italians thought they could treat Menelik as a pet?”
Ryder let the smoke of the cigar trickle deliciously between his lips. “So it seems to me. Look at this country, Penrod.” He swept his arm out over the horizon. “It is vast, proud. The idea that Italy can claim control over it with a few thousand men is nonsense. It is as if Menelik sent a dozen Ethiopians into St. James’s Park and claimed to be governor of England. It is ridiculous, and insulting.”
Penrod said nothing, even though he had given the same opinion to Rome and London on various occasions.
“If you had your way, Courtney, no army would ever leave its own shores.”
“That is true. Are you married yet, Penrod?”
“I am not.” He cleared his throat. “You have built something remarkable here, Courtney.”
Ryder drained his coffee cup and stood up. “Almost, Penrod. I have almost built something remarkable. And now every evening I pray to God the greed of your Italian friends will not destroy it just when it is beginning to work. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Courtney. And good luck,” Penrod replied, and turned his attention back to the horizon.
The day after Ryder met Penrod in the uplands, he was lying with Saffron in the sleepy haze that followed the heat of their lovemaking, when she lifted herself up on her elbow and looked at him with her most stern expression.
“Ryder, what are you thinking? I know something is bothering you, and I think it is time you told me, don’t you?”
He lay back on the blankets and stared up into the thick thatch of the roof while Saffron sat up properly, pulling her shift over her shoulders and tying up her hair, then he sat up and reached for his shirt.
“I met an old acquaintance of ours while I was hunting yesterday,” he eventually said.
She was tying her skirt at her waist, gradually changing again from his lover to his wife, the mother of his children.
“Someone from Ato Asfaw’s village?”
“No. Penrod Ballantyne.”
She spun around toward him, her hand over her mouth. “Oh, my Lord! Penrod is alive? Why did you not bring him to camp? Have you told Amber? I must find her at once.”
He took hold of her wrists and pulled her down to sit on the bed beside him and told her exactly what Penrod had said, watching the play of emotions across her face. She seemed thoughtful and quiet, but as soon as he released his grip, her hand flew up and she struck him, quick as a snake with the flat of her hand.
“You let him believe she was married!”
She raised her hand again, but this time he caught her and pulled her to him.
“Saffron! Listen to me! I could not have Penrod, who is attached to the Italian general staff, in this camp,” he hissed. “Not just at the moment we are about to achieve the levels of production we swore to Menelik we’d reach and gain our security here!” She frowned and tried to pull away, but he held on to her. “How can we go to Addis and expect Menelik to take our word if we’ve been entertaining an ally of the Italians in our camp? For God’s sake, Saffy, Penrod Ballantyne has caused your sister nothing but pain, and if he stays with the Italians he’s as good as dead anyway. I did what was best.”
“You did what was best for you, Ryder! You know Amber has not forgotten him. You cannot sacrifice her chance of happiness for the sake of this place!”
Ryder stared into her flashing eyes. “What about our sacrifice? What about Rusty’s sacrifice? What about Amber’s? Would you have me risk everything for the sake of a sentimental reunion? He thinks she is married; she thinks he is dead. Let it be!”
Her breathing began to slow and she lowered her head for a moment. “You are right. We have all sacrificed a great deal.” Saffron was shaking. “Have we saved the mine, Ryder?”
He released her hands, trying to judge the deep emphasis in her voice. “If . . . If we can take the final shipment of ingots to Addis the moment the rains ease, and defend the camp until Ethiopia is at peace again, then yes, we will have saved the mine.”
She stared at him, her eyes shining in the shadows. “Then that is what we shall do. And then we will leave.”
“Leave?” Ryder said in a dangerous bark, moving away from her.
She followed him and put her hands on his shoulders. He could still feel the tremble of nerves in her fingertips.
“I know you, Ryder Courtney. The moment our capital and the mine is secure, you will need another challenge. Why wait? And I want to take Amber back to Cairo. If Penrod survives, and has become worthy of her, then we will give them our blessing. If he does not live, the best chance Amber has to be happy again is still there, not h
ere. We owe it to her. You know we do.”
Ryder watched her for a long moment before he spoke. “I will fight till my last breath to save this place, Saffron. But if we manage that miracle, I will put Patch in charge and take you and Amber back to Cairo.”
“Thank you,” she said as he pulled her into his arms.
•••
Saffron told Amber an hour later that Penrod was alive, and that Ryder had seen him. The news seemed to strike her like a physical blow and for a full minute she could not utter a word. Saffron stroked her shoulder.
“I was so angry with Ryder, Amber. But he didn’t want a known friend of the Italians coming into camp, and Penrod thought you were married, so—”
“Saffy, stop! Just explain it all to me again.”
She did, whispering every detail she could remember to her sister and holding her close, wishing she could take some of the pain and confusion from her.
“I wonder if he has changed, Saffy?” Amber said at last.
“Why do you say that, my sweet?”
“He came all that way, then left so he might not disturb me when he thought I was married. But when we were in Cairo last time, he flaunted his affair with Lady Agatha all over town.”
“I suppose that is possible,” Saffron said softly. “Do you still love him that much, Amber?”
Amber wiped her eyes. “I think I do, Saffy. Even after all these years. I’ve tried very hard not to.”
Amber knew with an absolute certainty the moment Penrod had been watching her. She had been outside the church talking to Marta, and little Penelope, who, despite her parents’ darker coloring, had inherited the Benbrook blond mane, had run over to her. Bill had been in the square too and they had spoken briefly as she was holding Penelope in her arms. As she held her little niece she had felt a sensation of light and warmth, then suddenly darkness. She turned instinctively up to look at the escarpment above the camp, but it was already empty. The feeling of loss had followed her like a ghost all evening. She struggled to understand her own feelings. She was angry with Ryder, angry with Penrod for not simply walking down to the camp and speaking to her, but at the same time she felt something else. Hope.