by Wilbur Smith
‘Our man is there,’ Aboli contradicted him, ‘but the slave-masters were watching us. I could not point him out.’
The slaves were led to their stalls around the square and each was chained to his post. The masters took their seats in the shade, wealthy men, complacent, richly dressed, attended by their personal slaves who brewed coffee for them and lit the hookahs. Eyes hooded and sly, they watched Tom and Aboli as they made a slow circuit of the market.
Aboli stopped at the first stall and examined one of the slaves, a big man and a warrior by his looks. The slave-master pulled open his mouth to show his teeth, as though he were a horse, and palpated his muscles. ‘Not more than twenty years of age, effendi,’ the Arab said. ‘Look at these arms – strong as a bullock. There is another thirty years’ hard work in him.’
Aboli spoke to the slave in one of the dialects of the forests, but the man stared back at him like a dumb animal. Aboli shook his head, and they passed on to the next stall, to repeat the routine.
Tom realized he was slowly working his way towards the man he had already selected. He looked ahead, trying to guess which he was, and then, with sudden certainty, he recognized him.
He was naked except for a brief loincloth, a small man, with a thin wiry body. There was no fat or soft flesh on him. His hair was a thick, unkempt bush, like that of a wild animal, but his eyes were bright and piercing.
Gradually Tom and Aboli approached the group in which he was tethered, and Tom was careful to feign disinterest in the one they had chosen. They inspected another man and a young girl, then, much to the slave-master’s chagrin, made as if to move on. As if in afterthought, Aboli turned back to the little man. ‘Show me his hands,’ he demanded of the slave-master, who nodded to his assistant. Between them, they grabbed the slave’s wrists, and the chains clanked as they forced him to extend his hands for Aboli’s scrutiny. ‘Turn them over,’ Aboli ordered, and they turned them palm uppermost. Aboli concealed his satisfaction. The first two fingers of both the man’s hands were calloused to the extent of being almost deformed. ‘This is our man,’ he said to Tom in English, but his inflection made it sound like a rejection. Tom shook his head as if confirming his rejection. They turned away, leaving the disappointed slave-master staring after them.
‘What is it about his hands?’ Tom asked, without looking back. ‘What is it that has marked them that way?’
‘The bowstring,’ Aboli said curtly.
‘Both hands?’ Tom stopped with surprise.
‘He is an elephant hunter,’ Aboli explained, ‘but keep walking and I will explain it to you. The elephant bow is so stiff that no man can draw it from the shoulder. The hunter creeps close – that close.’ He pointed out a wall ten paces away. ‘Then he lies on his back, both feet on the stock of the bow. He lays the tip of the arrow between his big toes and he draws with both hands on the string. Over the years of hunting the bowstring marks his fingers like that.’
Tom had difficulty visualizing a bow of that power. ‘It must be a formidable weapon, this bow.’
‘It can shoot an arrow clean through the body of an ox, from shoulder to shoulder, and go on to kill a man standing on the other side,’ Aboli said. ‘That man is one of the small intrepid brotherhood who live by hunting the great beasts.’
They completed their leisurely round of the market, then casually returned to where the little man stood. ‘He is double chained, at ankles and wrists,’ Aboli pointed out in English. ‘And look at his back.’ Tom saw the half-healed scars that criss-crossed the dark skin. ‘They have beaten him savagely, trying to break him to their will, but you can see by his eyes that they have not succeeded.’
Aboli circled the little man slowly, peering at his muscular frame, and said something to him in a language Tom did not understand. There was no reaction from the slave. Tom watched his eyes and saw that they were sullen and uncomprehending. Aboli spoke two words in another of the forest dialects. There was still no sign from the little man that he understood.
Tom knew that, besides his mother tongue, the language Aboli had taught him when he was a child, Aboli spoke at least a dozen other lesser dialects of the far interior. Now, he switched again. This time the little man started and turned his head to stare at Aboli in confusion and amazement. He replied with a single word. ‘Fundi!’
‘That is his name,’ Aboli explained to Tom, still in English. ‘He is of the Lozi. A fierce warrior tribe. His name means the Adept.’ Aboli smiled. ‘He probably merits it.’
Tom accepted the slave-master’s invitation to drink a cup of coffee, the essential accompaniment to any civilized session of bargaining. Within a very short time, Tom sensed that the slave-master was eager to rid himself of his small but truculent merchandise, and he was able to press the advantage. After an hour of haggling, the slave-master threw up his hands in despair. ‘My children will starve. You have ruined me with your intransigence. You leave me a pauper, but take him! Take him and my very blood and bones with him.’
When they had Fundi, the Adept, on board the Swallow, Tom called for the blacksmith and had the chains knocked off his ankles and wrists. The little man rubbed the galled flesh and stared at them in astonishment. Then his eyes turned westward to the shadowy outline of the land from which he had been torn so cruelly.
‘Yes.’ Aboli read his thoughts. ‘You can try to escape and flee back to your home. But can you swim that far?’ He pointed across the forbidding blue expanse of water. ‘Out there are sharks to greet you, larger than the greatest crocodiles you have ever seen, with teeth longer and sharper than the point of your arrows. If they do not eat you, then I will catch you and beat you so that you will think the blows of the Arabs were but the timid touch of a young virgin. Then I will chain you again like an animal.’
Fundi glared at him defiantly, but Aboli went on, ‘Or, if you are wise, you will tell us about the land from which you have come, then lead us back there without chains, walking ahead of us like a warrior once more, a slayer of great elephants, free and proud.’
Fundi went on staring at him, but despite himself his expression changed, and his dark eyes widened. ‘How do you know that I am a slayer of elephants? How do you speak the language of the Lozi? Why do you offer me my freedom again? Why do you wish to journey to the land of my fathers?’
‘All these things I will explain to you,’ Aboli promised. ‘But for now think only that we are not your enemies. Here, there is food for you.’
Fundi was half starved, and he gorged himself on the bowl of rice and goat stew that Aboli placed before him. Gradually the food in his belly and Aboli’s gentle questions lulled him, and he answered through a mouthful of half-chewed meat.
Aboli translated for Tom. ‘He does not know how far it is, for he does not count distance as we do. But his land is distant, many months of travel. He says he lives beside a great river.’
It took time for Fundi to tell them all his story, but over the days that followed he filled in the details, and intrigued them with his description of lakes and mighty plains, of mountains crowned with shining white, like the heads of old men.
‘Snow-capped mountains?’ Tom was perplexed. ‘Surely it is not possible in these tropical climes.’
He told them of immense herds of strange beasts, some of them larger than the hump-backed Zebu cattle of the Arabs, black and monstrous with sickle-shaped horns that could rip the guts out of a black-maned lion with a single thrust.
‘Elephant?’ Tom asked. ‘Ivory?’
Fundi’s eyes shone when he spoke of the mighty beasts. ‘They are my goats,’ he boasted to Aboli, and showed him the callouses on his fingers. ‘My name is Fundi, the great slayer of elephants.’ He held up both his hands with his fingers spread, and ten times closed them into double fists then flashed them again. ‘This is how many elephants have fallen to my bow, shot through the heart by my arrows, every one of them a mighty bull with teeth longer than this.’ He stood on tiptoe and stretched his arm up as high as he could rea
ch.
‘Are there still many elephant in his land?’ Tom asked. ‘Or has the mighty hunter, Fundi, killed them all?’
When Aboli put the question to him Fundi laughed, and his face became impish. ‘Can you count the blades of grass on the great plains? How many fish are there in the lakes? What is the number of duck in the flocks that shade the sky in the season of the big rains? That is how many elephant there are in the land of the Lozi.’
Tom’s excitement fed upon these intriguing tales, and he lay awake at night in his hard, narrow bunk, dreaming of the wild land the little man described to them. It was not only the promise of wealth and profit; he wanted to see these wonders with his own eyes, and pursue the mighty beasts, see the white-capped mountains and voyage on the wide, sweet waters of the lakes.
Then the wild flights of his imagination were checked by thoughts of Dorian and Sarah, and his commitment to them: Sarah has already promised that she will come with me wherever I travel. She is not like other girls. She is like me. She has adventure in her blood. But what of Dorian?
He thought of Dorian as he had not in all the years since they had parted. In his mind’s eye he saw him as he had been on that fateful night when he had climbed to the window of his cell on Flor de la Mar, a little helpless child.
It took an effort to break his mind out of the rut in which it had travelled so long. What will he be like now? Has he been changed by the hardships he has been forced to suffer? Is he still my little brother, or a different man from the boy I once knew? he wondered, alarmed at the thought of a stranger having taken Dorian’s place. One thing I am sure of: he will never have changed as Guy has. There will still be the fire in him. He will want to come with me on this new adventure. The bond between us must still be strong. I am certain of it.
It seemed as though he had thrown down his gauntlet at the feet of the gods of chance, for the answer he sought came sooner than he expected. In the dawn light of the following morning a dirty little bum-boat rowed across from the stone quay of the harbour to where the Swallow lay at her moorings. When the boatman was still half a pistol shot from the ship’s side, he stood on the thwart and hailed them. ‘Effendi, I have a paper for you from the English consul!’ He held the document aloft and brandished it.
‘Come alongside!’ Ned Tyler gave him permission.
In his cabin Tom heard the shouts and had a strange premonition that something portentous was about to overtake him. In his shirtsleeves he hurried up on deck, just in time to snatch the letter out of the boatman’s hands.
He saw that the address on the folded sheet was in Guy’s handwriting. It had changed little since they had practised together under Master Walsh. The missive was addressed to Captain Thomas Courtney, aboard the Swallow, Zanzibar Roads.
When Tom tore it open hurriedly, the message it contained was terse: ‘The Sultan has commanded both of us to an audience at noon this day. I shall meet you at the gate to the fort ten minutes before the hour. G.C.’
Predictably, Guy was precisely punctual. When he rode up with his syce in attendance his greeting was cool. He merely nodded, dismounted and tossed the reins to his servant. Then he glanced in Tom’s direction. ‘I would not have troubled you, sir,’ he said, distantly, not meeting Tom’s eyes, ‘but His Excellency insisted that you be present at this audience.’ He drew his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat, glanced at it, then strode in through the gates without looking back.
The vizier greeted them with expressions of the greatest respect, bowing and smiling ingratiatingly, and backing away before them into the presence of the Sultan where he prostrated himself.
Guy bowed but not too low, conscious of his dignity as representative of His Majesty, and offered polite greetings. Tom followed his example. Then his gaze went to the man who sat at the Sultan’s right hand: he looked well fed and his robe was of the finest quality. The hilt of his dagger was of gold and rhino horn. He was a high-ranking and dignified personage, of obvious importance, for even the Sultan deferred to him. He was studying Tom with more than ordinary interest, as though he knew who he was and had heard reports of him.
‘I call down the blessings of Allah on you,’ the Sultan said, and gestured to the cushions placed ready to receive them. Guy sat awkwardly, finding it difficult to manage his sword while he did so. Tom had spent many hours with the merchants in the markets and was accustomed to this position. He placed the scabbard of the Neptune sword across his lap.
‘I am honoured to welcome to my court the holy mullah of the mosque of Prince Abd Muhammad al-Malik, the brother of the Caliph of Oman.’ The Sultan inclined his head towards the man who sat beside him. Tom stiffened and felt his breathing come faster at the name of the Prince, the man who had bought Dorian from the corsair. He stared at the mullah, as the Sultan went on, ‘This is the holy al-Allama. He has come from the Prince.’
Both Tom and Guy stared at him. Al-Allama made a graceful gesture. His hands were small and smooth, like a girl’s. ‘May you find favour in the sight of God and His Prophet,’ he said, and they bowed in acknowledgement.
‘I trust that you have had a pleasant voyage, and when you left your home all was well in your household,’ Tom said.
The mullah replied, ‘I thank you for your concern. The kaskazi bore us kindly, and Allah smiled upon our enterprise.’ Al-Allama smiled. ‘I must congratulate you on the excellence of your Arabic. You speak the sacred language as if born to it.’
The compliments passed back and forth, but Tom found the long, complicated ritual of greetings and well-wishes hard to endure. This man came with news of Dorian: there could be no other reason for this audience. He studied al-Allama’s face, trying to divine the nature of his tidings by the little signs, the twist of his lips, the inflection of his voice, and the expression in his eyes, but the mullah’s face was bland, his manner urbane.
‘Your trading in the markets of Zanzibar has been profitable?’ the mullah asked. ‘The Prophet approved of the honest merchant.’
‘My main reason for visiting the domains of your Caliph was not to indulge in trade,’ Tom told him, relieved to have an opening to address his real concerns. ‘I come on a mission of compassion. I seek a dear one who is lost to me and my family.’
‘My lord, the Prince al-Malik, has heard of your quest, and has received the petition you have addressed to him,’ al-Allama replied. His tone was still expressionless, his face inscrutable.
‘I have heard that your lord is a mighty man, but filled with compassion for the weak and that he is strong for justice and the law.’
‘Prince Abd Muhammad al-Malik is all these things. That is the reason why he has sent me in person to deal with your concerns, rather than sending a message that could not express the depth of his feelings for your loss.’
Tom felt a chill on his skin, even in the closed room and the hot incense-laden air. The mullah’s choice of words was ominous. He felt Guy stir beside him, but he did not look at him. He waited for the mullah to speak again, dreading what he had to say. But al-Allama sipped delicately at his coffee, and looked down at his lap.
At last Tom was forced to press him, ‘I have waited three years to have word of my brother. I beg you not to prolong my suffering.’
The mullah set down his cup and wiped his lips on the folded cloth that a slave handed him. ‘My lord prince bids me speak thus.’ He paused again as if gathering his thoughts. ‘It is true that, some years ago, I purchased a young Frankish boy. He was named al-Amhara for his hair, which was a marvellous shade of red.’
Tom released a long, hissing sigh of relief. They had admitted it. There was to be no denial and subterfuge to battle against. Dorian was in the hands of the Mussulman Prince. ‘Your words have lifted a great stone from my soul, a stone that threatened to crush the life out of me,’ he said, and his voice was choked. He thought he might lose control and break down. Such weakness would be a terrible loss of prestige, and invite the scorn of all those present. He took a deep breath and lifte
d his chin to meet the mullah’s eyes. ‘What terms has your Prince set for the return of my brother to the bosom of his family?’
The mullah did not answer at once, but stroked and smoothed his beard, rearranging the perfumed braids on his chest.
‘My lord ordered me to speak thus. “I, Abd Muhammad al-Malik, took the boy al-Amhara under my protection, paying a princely ransom for him, in order to protect him from the men who had captured him, and to ensure that no further hardship was inflicted upon him.”’
‘Your Prince is a mighty man and merciful,’ Tom said, but he wanted to shout, ‘Where is he? Where is my brother? What price do you want for his release?’
‘My lord the Prince found the boy to be comely and well favoured. He took him to his heart, and to show his favour and shield him from all evil he declared al-Amhara his adopted son.’
Tom started to rise from the cushion, his face clearly displaying his alarm. ‘His son?’ he demanded, and foresaw the terrible obstacle that this had placed in his path.
‘Yes, his own son. He treated him like a prince. I was given the task of educating the boy, and I also found him worthy of love.’ Al-Allama dropped his eyes and for the first time showed emotion.
‘I rejoice that my brother has found such favour in high places,’ Tom said. ‘But he is my brother. I have the right of blood. The Prophet of God has said that the tie of blood is as steel and cannot be sundered.’
‘Your knowledge of the Holy Words of Islam does you credit,’ the mullah said. ‘My lord the Prince acknowledges your right of blood and offers you the payment of blood money for your loss.’ Al-Allama summoned a servant who came forward carrying a small ebony chest inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl. He knelt in front of the two white men, placed the box on the tiles and opened the lid.
Tom had not moved, and now he did not even look down at the contents of the chest. However, Guy leaned forward and stared at the golden coins that filled the box to overflowing.
‘Fifty thousand rupees,’ said al-Allama. ‘A thousand of your English pounds. A sum that takes into account that al-Amhara was a prince of the royal house of Oman.’