The Triumph Of The Sun

He found the streets of Omdurman in turmoil. Heavily armed Ansar galloped down the narrow streets; wailing women were loading all their possessions on to donkey carts and camels; crowds hurried to the mosques to hear the imams preach the comforting word of Allah at this terrible time of defeat and despair. Osman scattered all before his horse, and rode on towards the mud-walled palace of the Mahdi

He found the Mahdi and Khalifa Abdullahi on the rooftop, under the reed sunscreen, attended by a dozen young women of the harem. He prostrated himself before the angareb on which the Mahdi sat cross-legged. He had agonized over his decision to ride for Omdurman and face the successor to the Prophet of Allah, rather than taking his aggagiers and disappearing into the eastern deserts of the Sudan. He knew that if he had taken that course the Mahdi would certainly have sent an army after him, but in his own territory he would prevail against even the largest and most skilfully led host. But to wage war on the Mahdi, the direct emissary of Allah on earth, would have meant the end of him as a Muslim. The risk of death he ran now was preferable to being declared by the Mahdi an unbeliever, and having the gates of Paradise closed to him through all eternity.

“There is only one God, and no other God but Allah,” he said softly, ‘and Muhammad, the Mahdi, is the successor to his Prophet here on earth.”

“Look in my face, Osman Atalan,” said the Mahdi. Osman looked up at him. He was smiling, the sweet smile that showed the small, wedge-shaped gap between his front teeth. Osman knew, with the cold hand of death laid upon his heart, that this did not mean he was forgiven. The Mahdi was certainly infuriated by his failure to stop the relief column. It was necessary only for him to raise his hand and Osman would suffer death or mutilation. Often the Mahdi would offer the condemned man his choice. On the long ride up from Metemma Osman had decided that if the choice were offered him he would choose beheading, rather than the amputation of his hands and feet.

“Will you pray with me, Osman Atalan?” the Mahdi asked.

Osman’s spirit quailed. This invitation was ominous, and often preceded the sentence of death. “With all my heart and the last breath of my body,” Osman responded.

“We will recite together the al-fatihah, the first sura of the Noble Koran.”

Osman adopted the appropriate first prostration position, and they recited in unison: “In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful,” then went on through the remaining four verses, ending, “You alone we worship, and you alone we ask for help, for each and everything.” When they had finished, the Mahdi sat back and said, “Osman Atalan, I placed great faith in you, and set a task for you.”

“You are the beat of my heart, and the breath in my lungs.” Osman thanked him.

“But you have failed me. You have allowed the infidel to triumph against you. You have delivered me up to mine enemy, and it is all finished.”

“Nay, my master. All is not finished. I have failed in this one thing, but not in all.”

“Explain your meaning.”

“Allah has told you that it will not be finished until a man brings you the head of Gordon Pasha. Allah told you that I, Osman Atalan, am that man.”

“You have not fulfilled that prophecy. Therefore you have failed your God as well as his prophet,” the Mahdi replied.

“The prophecy of God and Muhammad, the Mahdi, can never be brought to naught,” Osman replied quietly, feeling the breath of the dark angel upon his neck where the executioner’s blow would fall. “Your prophecy is a mighty rock in the river of time that cannot be washed away. I have returned to Omdurman to bring the prophecy to fruition.” He pointed across the river to the stark outline of Fort Mukran. “Gordon

Pasha still awaits his fate within those walls, and the time of Low Nile is upon us. I beseech you, give me your blessing, Holy One.”

The Mahdi sat silent and unmoving for a hundred of his rapid heartbeats while he thought swiftly. The Emir Osman was a clever man and an adroit tactician. To refuse his plea was to admit that he, Muhammad, the Mahdi, was fallible. At last he smiled and reached out to lay his hand on Osman’s head. “Go and do what is written. When you have fulfilled my prophecy, return to me here.”

An hour before midnight a small felucca lay in the eastern channel of the Victoria Nile. It was hove to against the night breeze and the current, with sail skilfully backed. Al-Noor sat beside Osman Atalan on the thwart. Both men watched the Khartoum bank. Tonight the rocket display was extravagant. Since the onset of darkness a continual succession of fireworks had soared into the sky and burst in cascades of multi-coloured sparks. The band was playing with renewed alacrity and verve, and at intervals they heard singing and laughter, carried faintly across the dark waters.

“Gordon Pasha has heard the news of Abu Klea,” al-Noor whispered. “He and his minions rejoice in their heathen hearts. Hourly they expect the steamers to appear from the south.”

It was long after midnight before the sounds of celebration slowly subsided, and Osman gave a quiet order to the boatman. He let the lateen sail fill, and they felt the ii way in closer to the shore below the walls of Khartoum. When they reached a point opposite the maid an al’Noor touched his master’s arm and pointed at the tiny beach, now exposed by the retreating waters. The wet mud glittered like ice in the starlight. Osman spoke a quiet word to the boatman, who tacked and sailed in closer still. Osman moved up to the bows and used one of the punt poles to take soundings of the sloping bottom as they crept along the beach. Then they sat quietly, listening for the sentries doing their rounds, or other hostile movements. They heard nothing except the hoot of an owl in the bell tower of the Catholic mission. There was lamplight within the upper floor of the British consular palace which faced on to the river, and once they saw shadowy movement beyond the window casement, but then all was still.

“After their victory, the infidel is lulled. Gordon Pasha is not as vigilant as he was before,” al-Noor whispered.

“We have discovered the beach on which we can land. We can return to Omdurman now to make our preparations,” Osman agreed. He gave a quiet command to the boatman, and they headed back across the river.

When Osman and al-Noor reached his double storeyed house in the south quarter, which lay between the Beit el Mai, the treasury, and the slave market, dawn was breaking and a dozen of his aggagiers were sitting in the courtyard being fed by the house slaves a breakfast of honey-roasted lamb and dhurra cakes with steaming pots of syrupy black Abyssinian coffee. “Noble lord, we arrived at dusk last night,” they told him.

“What kept you so long on the road?” he asked.

“We do not ride horses like al-Buq, who is the prince of all horses.”

“You are welcome.” Osman embraced them. “I have more work for your blades. We must retrieve the honour that was stripped from us by the infidel on the plains of Abu Klea.”

David Benbrook insisted that he should host a victory party to celebrate the battle of Abu Klea, and the imminent arrival of the relief column in the city. Because of the paucity of food and drink, Rebecca decided on an al fresco dinner, rather than a formal display of silver and crystal in the dining room. They sat on folding canvas campaign chairs on the terrace overlooking the maid an and listened to the military band, joining in with the better-known choruses. In the intervals, while the band regained their breath, they toasted the Queen, General Wolseley and, for the benefit of Consul Le Blanc, King Leopold.

After much inner communication with his conscience, David decided to bring up from the cellars the single case of Krug champagne that he had been hoarding all these months. “A little premature perhaps, but once they arrive we will probably be too busy to think about it.”

This was the first time that General Gordon had accepted one of Rebecca’s invitations to dinner and entertainment. He wore an immaculate dress uniform with a red fez. His boots were polished to a high gloss and the Egyptian Star of Ishmael glinted on his breast. He was in a relaxed, expansive mood, although Rebecca noticed the nervous tic below his eye. He nibbled a minute portion of the food on offer: green-cake, dhurra bread and cold roast bird of indeterminate species, which had been gunned down by the host. He chain-smoked his Turkish cigarettes, even when he stood to make a short speech. He assured the company that the steamers crammed with British troops were racing even at that hour up against the rapids of the Shabluka

Gorge and that he confidently expected them to reach the city by the following evening. He commended the other guests and the entire populace, of every colour and nationality, for their heroic resistance and sacrifice, and gave thanks to Almighty God that their efforts had not been in vain. Then he thanked the consul and his daughters for their hospitality and took his leave. The mood of the remaining guests was at once much lighter.

The twins were given special dispensation to delay their bedtime until midnight, and were allowed a sherry glass of the precious champagne. Saffron quaffed hers like a sailor on shore leave, but Amber took a minute sip and made a face. When Rebecca was looking the other way, she poured the rest into her twin’s glass, much to Saffron’s glee.

Amber was becoming increasingly quiet and wan as the evening progressed. She took no part in the singing, which Rebecca thought odd. Amber had a sweet, true voice and loved to sing. She refused when David asked her to dance the polka with him. “You are so quiet and subdued. Are you feeling unwell, my darling?”

“A little, Daddy, but I do love you so much.”

“Would you like to go up to bed? I will give you a dose of salts. That will fix it.”

“Oh, no. Goodness me, no! It is not that bad.” Amber forced a smile, and David looked worried but did not pursue the matter. He went off to dance with Saffron instead.

Consul Le Blanc also noticed Amber’s unusual behaviour. He came to sit beside her, held her hand in an avuncular manner and launched into a long, complicated joke, about a German, an Englishman and an Irishman. When he reached the climax he doubled over with laughter and tears ran down his pink cheeks. Although she saw nothing funny in the story Amber laughed dutifully, but then stood up and went to Rebecca, who was dancing with Ryder Courtney. Amber whispered in her elder sister’s ear, and Rebecca left Ryder, took the younger girl’s hand and hurried indoors with her. David saw them leave and he and Saffron followed. When they reached the foot of the staircase, Rebecca and Amber were on the first landing above them.

“Where are you going?” David called after them. “Is anything the matter?”

Still holding hands Rebecca and Amber turned to face him. Suddenly Amber groaned and doubled over. With an explosive rush of gas and liquid, her bowels started to empty. It poured out of her like a yellow waterfall, and went on and on, forming a deep, spreading puddle at her feet.

David was the first to recover his wits. “Cholera!” he said.

At that dread word Saffron thrust the fingers of both hands into her mouth and screamed.

“Stop that!” Rebecca ordered, but her own voice was almost a scream. She tried to lift Amber, but the yellow discharge was still spurting out of her and splattered down the front of Rebecca’s long satin evening dress.

Ryder had heard Saffron scream and ran in from the terrace. He took in the scene almost instantly. He dashed back to where they had dined and swept the heavy damask cloth off the long table, sending silver candlesticks and table ornaments crashing to the floor. He raced up the stairs.

Amber was still voiding copiously. It seemed impossible that such a small body could contain so much liquid. It was running down the staircase in a rivulet. Ryder shook out the damask like a cape, and enfolded her in it, lifted her as though she were a doll and ran with her up the stairs.

“Please put me down, Ryder,” Amber begged. “I will dirty your lovely new suit. I cannot stop myself. I am so ashamed.”

“You are a brave girl. There is nothing to be ashamed of,” Ryder told her. Rebecca was at his side. “Where is the bathroom?” he asked her.

“This way.” She ran ahead and threw open the door.

Ryder carried Amber in and laid her in the galvanized bath. “Get her soiled clothes off her and sponge her down with cool water,” he ordered. “She is burning up. Then force her to drink. Weak warm tea. Gallons of it. She must keep drinking. She has to replace every drop of the fluid she has lost.” He looked at David and Saffron in the doorway. “Call Nazeera to help you. She knows about this disease. I must go back to the this to fetch my medical chest. While I am gone, you must keep her drinking.”

Ryder raced through the streets. He was fortunate that for this one night General Gordon had relaxed the curfew so that all the populace might celebrate the relief of the city.

Bacheet had stowed the medical chest in its usual place under his bunk in the main cabin of the this. He rummaged through it swiftly, searching for what he needed to staunch Amber’s diarrhoea and replace the mineral salts that she had lost. He knew he had little time. Cholera is a swift killer. “The Death of the Dog,” they called it. It could kill a robust adult in hours, and Amber was a child. Already her body had been stripped of fluid. Soon every muscle and sinew would scream for liquid, terrible cramps would twist her, and she would die a desiccated husk.

For a dreadful moment he thought that the vital packets of dirty white powder were missing, then remembered that he had moved them to the lockers in the galley for safety. In the cholera-torn city they were worth more than diamonds. The powder was packed in a woven-sisal bag. There was enough to treat five or six cases. He had bought it at a usurious price from the abbot of a Coptic monastery deep in the gorge of the Blue Nile. The abbot had told him that the chalky powder was mined by his monks from a secret deposit tucked away in the mountains. Not only did it have a powerful binding effect on the bowels, it was also close in character and composition to those minerals purged from the human body by the disease. Ryder had been sceptical until Bacheet had been struck down with cholera, and Ryder had pulled him through with liberal doses of the powder.

He stuffed everything he needed in to an empty dhurra sack and ran back to the consulate. When he climbed the stairs to the bathroom he found that Amber was still in the bath. She was naked, and Rebecca and Nazeera were sponging her from the basin of warm soapy water that Saffron held. David hovered ineffectually in the background holding a tin mug of warm black tea. The stench of vomit and faeces still hung heavily in the room, but Ryder was careful not to show disgust.

“Has she vomited?”

“Yes,” replied David, ‘but only some of this tea. I don’t think she has anything else inside her.”

“How much has she drunk?” Ryder demanded, as he snatched the mug from the other man’s hand and poured a handful of the powder into it.

“Two mugs and a bit,” said David, proudly.

“Not enough,” Ryder snapped. “Not nearly enough.”

“She won’t take any more.”

“She will,” said Ryder. “If she can’t drink it, I will give it to her with an enema tube.” He carried the mug to the bath. “Amber, did you hear what I said?” She nodded. “You don’t like enemas, do you?” She shook her head vehemently, and her sodden curls dangled in her eyes. “Then drink!” He placed one hand behind her head and held the cup to her lips. She gulped it down painfully, then lay back gasping. Already wasted by prolonged starvation, her body was now dehydrated and skeletal. The change that had taken place in the hour he had been away was dramatic. Her legs were as thin as those of a bird, her ribs as distinct as the fingers of a hand. The skin on her sunken moon-pale belly seemed translucent so that he could see the network of blue veins under it.

Ryder poured another handful of powder into the mug, and filled it with warm tea from the kettle that stood close at hand. “Drink!” he ordered, and she choked it down.

She was panting weakly, and her eyes had sunk into plum-coloured sockets. “I have no clothes on. Please don’t look at me, Ryder.”

He stripped off his moleskin jacket and covered her. “I promise not to look at you if you promise to drink.” He refilled the mug and poured the powder into it. As she drank it, her belly bulged out like a balloon. The gases in it rumbled, but she did not void again. Ryder refilled the mug.

“I can’t drink any more. Please don’t make me,” she begged.

“Yes, you can. You made me a promise.”

She forced down that mug and another. Then there was a strong ammoniac odour and a yellow trickle of urine ran down the bottom of the bath to the plug-hole. “You’ve made me wet myself like a baby.” She was weeping softly with shame.

“Good girl,” he said. “That means you are making more water than you are losing. I am so proud of you.” He understood the trespasses he had already made on her modesty, so he stood up. “But I am going to let Rebecca and Saffy look after you now. Don’t forget your promise. You must keep drinking. I will wait outside.”

Before he left the bathroom he whispered to Rebecca, “I think we may have beaten it. She is out of immediate danger. But the cramps will begin soon. Call me at the first sign. We will have to massage her limbs or the pain will become unbearable.” From his sack he handed her the bottle of coconut oil he had brought from the this. “Tell Nazeera to take this down to the kitchen and warm it to blood heat, no more than that. I will stay close.”

The other dinner guests had left hours ago, and everything was quiet. Ryder and David settled down to wait on the top step at the head of the staircase. They chatted in a desultory fashion. They discussed the news of the relief column, and argued about when the steamers would arrive. David agreed with Chinese Gordon’s estimate, but Ryder did not: “Gordon is always conservative with the truth. He says whatever suits his purpose best. I will believe in the steamers when they tie up in the harbour. In the meantime I will keep up steam in the this.”

Out in the night an owl hooted mournfully, then again, and a third time. Restlessly David stood up and went to the window. He leant on the sill and looked down on the river

“When the midnight owl hoot thrice. To-wit-too-woo, with one breath, Then in a trice It heralds death.”

“That’s superstitious nonsense,” said Ryder, ‘and, what’s more, it does not scan.”

“You are probably right,” David admitted. “My nursemaid repeated it to me when I was five, but she was the wicked witch in person and loved to frighten us children.” Then he straightened up and peered down towards the riverbank. “There’s a boat out there, close in to the beach.”

Ryder went across to join him at the window. “Where?”

“There! No, it’s gone now. I swear it was a boat, a small felucca.”

“Probably a fisherman laying his nets.”

From the bathroom they heard Amber cry out in anguish. They rushed back to her. She was curled into a ball. The wasted muscles in her limbs were like whipcords as the spasms tightened them almost to snapping point. They lifted her out of the bath and laid her on the clean towels that Rebecca and Nazeera spread on the tiled floor.

Ryder rolled up his sleeves and knelt over her. Nazeera poured warm coconut oil into the cup of his hands and he began to massage Amber’s twisted legs. He could feel the ropes and knots under the skin. “Rebecca, take the other leg. Nazeera and Saffy, her arms,” he ordered. “Do it this way.” While they worked, David dribbled more of the tea mixture into their patient’s mouth. Rebecca watched Ryder’s hands as he worked. They were broad and powerful, but gentle. Under them Amber’s muscles gradually relaxed.

“It’s not over yet,” Ryder warned them. “There will be more. We must be ready to start again as the next spasms seize her.”

What depths there are tcthis man, Rebecca thought. What fascinating contradictions. Sometimes he is ruthlessly resourceful, at others he is filled with compassion and generosity of spirit. Would I not be foolish to let him go?

Before the hour was up the next cramps had locked Amber’s limbs so they fell to work on her again, and were forced to keep it up through the rest of the night. Just before daybreak, when all were reaching their own limits of exhaustion, Amber’s limbs gradually straightened and the knots softened and relaxed. Her head rolled to one side and she fell asleep.

“She has turned the corner,” Ryder whispered, ‘but we must still take care of her. You must make her drink the powder mixture again as soon as she wakes. She must eat also. Perhaps you might feed her a porridge of dhurra and green-cake. I wish we had something more substantial, like chicken broth, but that is the best we can do. She will be weak as a newborn infant for days, perhaps weeks. But she has not scoured since midnight, so I hope and believe that the germs, as Joseph Lister is pleased to call the wee beasties that cause the trouble, have been purged from her.” He picked up his damp, soiled jacket from the floor. “You know where to find me, Rebecca. If you send a message I will come at once.”

“I will see you to the door.” Rebecca stood up. As they went out into the passage, she took his arm. “You are a warlock, Ryder. You’ve worked magic for us. I don’t know how the Benbrook family can ever thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, just say a prayer for old Abbot Michael who robbed me of fifty Maria Theresa dollars for a bag of chalk.”

At the door she reached up and kissed him, but when she felt his loins stir, she pulled away. “You are a satyr as well as a warlock.” She managed a faint smile. “But not now. We shall attend to that business at the first opportunity. Perhaps tomorrow after the relief force arrives, when we are all safe from the evil Dervish.”

“I will hold myself on a short rein,” he promised, ‘but tell me, dearest Rebecca, have you given any further thought to my proposal?”

“I am sure you will agree, Ryder, that at this dire time in our lives, my first thoughts must be for Amber and the rest of my family, but each day my affection for you increases. When this dreadful business is over, I feel sure that we will have something of value to share, perhaps for the remainder of our days.”

“Then I shall live in hope.”

Osman Atalan picked out two thousand of his most trusted warriors for the final assault on Khartoum. He marched them out of Omdurman, making no effort to conceal his movements. From his roost on the parapets of Fort Mukran, Gordon Pasha would observe this exodus, and take it as another indication that the Mahdi was abandoning the city and fleeing with all his forces to El Obeid. Once his men were behind the Kerreri Hills, where they were concealed from the prying telescopes on the towers and minarets in Khartoum, Osman divided them into five battalions of roughly four hundred men. A large assembly of boats on the Omdurman bank would warn Gordon Pasha that something was afoot. If he attempted to take such a large force across the river in a single wave, it would overcrowd the tiny landing beach below the maid an and in the darkness create chaos and confusion. He decided to use only twenty boats for the crossing of the river, each vessel could carry twenty men safely. Once they had landed the first wave of four hundred men, the boats would return to the

Omdurman bank to take on board the following battalions. The first wave of attackers would get off the beaches as soon as they could, and leave the way clear for the next. Osman estimated that he would be able to transport his entire force across the Nile in little more than an hour.

He knew his men so well that he gave simple orders to the sheikhs he placed in charge of each battalion, orders that they would not forget in the passion of battle and the heady excitement of looting the city.

Dervish spies within the city had drawn detailed maps of the exact layout of Gordon Pasha’s de fences The Gatling guns were Osman’s prime targets. The memory of his last encounter with those weapons was etched deeply on his mind. He wanted no recurrence of that slaughter. The first battalion ashore would go straight for them, and put them out of action.

Once the guns had been captured or destroyed, they could roll up the fortifications along the waterfront, then wipe out the Egyptian troops in the barracks and the arsenal. Only then would it be safe to turn his men loose on the populace.

The previous night Muhammad, the first Prophet of Allah, had visited Muhammad, the Mahdi, his successor. He had brought a message directly from Allah. It was decreed that the faith and devotion of the Ansar should be rewarded. Once they had delivered to the Mahdi the head of Gordon Pasha, they must be allowed to sack the city of Khartoum. For ten days the sack would be allowed to run unchecked. After that the city would be burned and all the principal buildings, particularly the churches, missions and consulates, would be demolished. All traces of the infidel must be eradicated from the land of Sudan.

At nightfall Osman marched his two thousand back from the Kerreri Hills to Omdurman. Across the river in the city of Khartoum, Gordon’s nightly firework display and the recital of the military band were more subdued than they had been the previous evening. There was widespread disillusionment that the steamers had not yet arrived. When the rocket display fizzled out, and silence settled on the city, Osman led his first battalion down to the riverbank, where the twenty boats were moored. This small flotilla was an eclectic collection of feluccas and trading dhows. The crossing of the Nile through banks of river mist was conducted in an eerie silence. Osman was the first man to wade ashore. With al-Noor and a dozen of his trusty aggagiers close on his heels, he raced up the beach.

The surprise was total. The Egyptian sentries were sleeping complacently, in the certainty that dawn would show the steamers of the relief force anchored before the walls. There was no challenge, no shot or shouted warning, before Osman’s aggagiers were into the first line of trenches. Their broadswords rose and fell in a dreadfully familiar rhythm. Within minutes the trenches were clear. The dead and wounded Egyptian troops lay in heaps. Osman and his aggagiers left them and raced for the arsenal. They had not reached it before the second battalion landed on the beach behind them.

Suddenly a rifle shot clapped on the silence, then another. There were shouts, and a bugle sounded the call to arms. Erratic and isolated gunfire built into a thunderous fusillade, and the ripples and echoes spread across the city as the startled Egyptians blazed away at shadows or cravenly fired into the air. Down near the little beach an ombeya howled and a war drum boomed as another battalion landed and rushed through the breach into the city.

“There is only one God and Muhammad, the Mahdi, is his prophet.” The war chant was carried through the city, and suddenly the streets and alleys were alive with running, struggling figures. Their screams and entreaties rose in a babble of terror and anguish like voices from the pit of hell.

“Mercy in the Name of Allah!”

“Quarter! Give us quarter!”

“The Dervish are within! Run! Run or die!”

All Gordon’s famous forts and redoubts were sited to cover the river approaches. Taken in the rear they were swiftly overwhelmed. Osman’s aggagiers massacred the stunned defenders in their trenches or hounded them through the streets and alleyways, rabbits before the wolf pack.

David was at his desk, working on his journal. He had kept it up to date faithfully throughout the ten long months that the city had been under siege. He knew that it was an invaluable document. With the promise of relief so near, it could only be a matter of weeks before he and his girls were aboard a P&.O steamship on their way back to England. One of the first goals he had set himself on arrival was to work up his journal into a full-length manuscript. The public appetite for books of adventure and exploration in the Dark Continent seemed insatiable. Baker, Burton and Stanley had each made several thousands of pounds from their publications. Sam Baker had even received a knighthood from the Queen for his literary efforts. Surely David’s own first-hand memoirs of the valiant defence of the city would please many, and his account of the bravery and suffering of his three girls would tear at the heartstrings of every lady reader. He hoped he might have the book ready for the publishers within a month of reaching England. He dipped the nib of his pen in to the silver inkwell, and wiped off the excess carefully. Then he stared dreamily into the flame of the lamp on the corner of his desk.

It might bring in fifty thousand. The thought warmed him. Dare I hope for a hundred thousand? He shook his head. Too much by far, I would settle happily for ten thousand. That would help immeasurably with re-establishing ourselves. Oh! It will be so good to be home again!

His musings were interrupted by the sound of a rifle shot. It was not far off, somewhere down by the maid an He tossed down his pen, splattering the page with a blob of ink, and strode across his office to the window. Before he reached it there were more shots, a volley, a crackling storm of gunfire.

“My God! What is happening out there?” He threw open the window and stuck out his head. Close at hand a bugler played the shrill, urgent notes of ‘stand to arms’. Almost immediately there came a faint but triumphant chorus of Arab voices: “La il aha ill allah There is but one God!” For a brief moment he was rooted to the spot, too shocked to draw breath, then he gasped. “They are in! The Dervish have broken into the city!”

He ran back to the desk and swept up his journal. It was too heavy to carry so he crammed it into the safe that was concealed behind the panelling of the back wall. He slammed the steel door and tumbled the combination of the lock, then closed the panelling that concealed it. His ceremonial sword was hanging on the wall behind his desk. It was not a fighting weapon and Kc was no swordsman, but he buckled it round his waist. Then he took the Webley revolver from his desk drawer and thrust it into his pocket. There was nothing else of value in the room. He ran out into the lobby and up the stairs to the bedrooms.

Rebecca had moved Amber into her own room so that she could care for her during the night. Nazeera was sleeping on an angareb in the far corner. Both women were awake, standing indecisively in the middle of the room.

“Get your clothes on at once!” he ordered. “Dress Amber too. Don’t waste a moment.”

“What is happening, Daddy?” Rebecca was confused.

“I think the Dervish have broken in. We must run to Gordon’s headquarters. We should be safe there.”

“Amber cannot be moved. She is so weak it might kill her.”

“If the Dervish find her she will fare far worse,” he told her grimly. “Get her up. I will carry her.” He turned to Nazeera. “Run to Saffron’s room, quick as you can. Get her dressed. Bring her here. We must leave immediately.”

Within minutes they were ready. David carried Amber, and the other women followed at his heels as he went down the stairs. Before they reached the bottom, there came the crash of breaking glass and splintering wooden panels from the main doors, and savage shouts of Arab voices.

“Find the women!”

“Kill the infidel!”

“This way,” David snapped, and they ran into the back rooms. Behind them came another thunderous clap of sound as the front door was torn from its hinges and fell inwards. “Keep close to me!” David led them to the door into the courtyard. Gordon’s headquarters were on the far side. He lifted the locking bar and pushed it open a crack. He peered out cautiously. “The coast is clear, for the moment at least.”

“How is Amber bearing up?” Rebecca whispered anxiously.

“She is quiet,” David answered. Her body was as light as that of a captured bird. She did not move. She might already have been dead, but he could feel her heart beating under his hand, and once she whimpered softly.

Gordon’s headquarters were only a hundred paces or so across the courtyard. The main gate at the opposite end was bolted. There were open staircases on the side walls leading up to the second store, where General Gordon had his private rooms. There was no sign of any Egyptian troops.

“Where is Gordon?” David asked, in consternation. It did not seem there was any shelter for them even in the general’s stronghold. At that moment the main gates shook, and heavy blows resounded on the outside. A terrible chorus of Dervish war cries swelled the uproar. While David tried to make up his mind as to what he should do next, three Egyptian troopers emerged from the headquarters building and ran across the courtyard to the main gates. They were the first David had seen.

“Thank God! They are waking up at last!” he exclaimed, and was about to lead the women out through the door when, to his amazement, he saw the soldiers lifting the heavy locking bars. “The craven bastards are surrendering, and letting in the Dervish without a fight,” he barked.

Now the soldiers shouted, “We are faithful to the Divine Mahdi.”

“There is one God, and Muhammad, the Mahdi, is his prophet.”

“Enter, O ye faithful, and spare us, for we are your brothers in Allah.”

They swung open the gates and a horde of jibba-clad figures swarmed in. The first of the Dervish warriors chopped down the Egyptian traitors ruthlessly, and their bodies were trampled by the rush of hundreds of feet as the courtyard filled with the attackers. Many were carrying burning torches and the flickering yellow light of the flames lit up the horrific scene. David was about to shut and bolt the door before they were discovered, but at that moment a solitary figure appeared at the head of the stone staircase that overlooked the courtyard. Fascinated, David continued to peer through the chink.

General Charles Gordon was in full dress uniform. He prided himself on his ability to impress the savage and the barbarian. He had taken time to dress even when he heard the pandemonium in the streets. He wore his decorations but carried no weapon other than a light cane: he was fully aware of the danger of antagonizing the men he was trying to placate.

Calmly, the hypnotic gaze of those sapphire eyes glinting in the torchlight, he held up his hands to quell the uproar. To David this seemed futile but, astonishingly, an unnatural quiet descended on the courtyard. Gordon kept both arms raised, like a conductor controlling an unschooled orchestra. His voice was strong and unruffled, as he spoke good but heavily accented Arabic: “I wish to speak to your master, the Mahdi,” he announced.

The listeners stirred like a field of dhurra when a breeze sweeps through it, but nobody answered him. His voice was sharper and more masterful when he spoke next he had sensed he was taking control. “Who among you is your leader? Let him step forward.”

A tall, strikingly handsome figure stepped from the mob. He wore the green turban of an emir, and mounted the first step of the staircase. “I am the Emir Osman Atalan of the Beja, and these are my aggagiers.”

“I have heard of you,” Gordon said. “Come up to me.”

“Gordon Pasha, you will give no more orders to any son of Islam, for this is the last day of your life.”

“Utter no threats, Emir Atalan. The thought of death troubles me not at all.”

“Then come down these stairs and meet it like a man, and not a cringing infidel dog.”

For another few seconds Chinese Gordon stared down at him haughtily. Watching from the darkness of the doorway, David wondered what was going on in that cold, precise mind. Was there not, even now, a shadow of doubt or a flutter of fear? Gordon showed neither emotion as he started down the staircase. He stepped as precisely and confidently as if he were on a parade ground. He reached the step above Osman Atalan and stopped, facing him.

Osman studied his face, then said quietly, “Yes, Gordon Pasha. I see you are indeed a brave man.” And he thrust the full length of his blade through Gordon’s belly. In almost the same movement he drew it out again, and changed to a double-handed grip. The pale blue light in Gordon’s eyes flickered like a candle flame in the wind, his cold granite features seemed to fall in upon themselves like melting beeswax. He struggled to remain upright, but the flame of his turbulent life was flickering out. Slowly his legs gave way under him. Osman waited for him with the sword poised. Gordon sagged forward from the waist and Osman swung his sword two-handed, aiming unerringly at the base of his neck. The blade made a sharp snick as it parted the vertebrae and Gordon’s head fell away like the heavy fruit of the durian tree. It struck the stone stair with a solid thump, and rolled down to the courtyard. Osman stooped, took a handful of the thick curls and, ignoring the blood that splashed down the front of his jibba, held the head aloft to show it to his aggagiers. “This head is our gift to the Divine Mahdi. The prophecy is fulfilled. The will and the word of Allah govern all of creation.”

A single abrupt roar went up to the night sky: “God is great!” Then, in the silence that followed, Osman spoke again: “You have made a gift to Muhammad, the Mahdi. Now he returns a gift to you. For ten days this city, all its treasures and the people in it are yours to deal with as you wish.”

David waited to hear no more, and while the full attention of the Dervish was on their emir, he closed and bolted the door. He gathered the women about him, settled Amber’s head more comfortably against his shoulder and led them back through the scullery, past the pantries and the entrance to the wine cellars to the small door that led to the servants’ quarters. As they hurried along they could hear behind them the crash of breaking furniture. The women looked up fearfully at the sound of running footsteps from the floor above as the Dervish rampaged through the palace. David struggled briefly with the servants’ door before he could open it and lead them out into the night air.

They reached the entrance to the reeking sanitary lane that ran along the back wall of the palace. Along it stood stacks of the night-soil buckets. They had not been collected for months and the odour of excrement was overpowering. This was a place so unclean that any devout Muslim would avoid it assiduously so they could afford to pause for a few moments. While they regained their breath, they heard gunfire and shouting in the streets beyond the boundary wall, and in the palace they had just left.

“What shall we do now, Daddy?” Rebecca asked.

“I do not know,” David admitted. Amber groaned and he stroked her head. “They are all around us. There does not seem to be any avenue of escape.”

“Ryder Courtney has his steamer ready in the canal. But we must go quickly, or he will set sail without us.”

“Which road to reach him is safest?” David’s breathing was laboured.

“We must keep clear of the waterfront. The Dervish will certainly be looting the big houses along the corniche.”

“Yes of course. You are right.”

“We must go through the native quarter.”

“Lead the way!” he said.

Rebecca grabbed Saffron’s hand. “Nazeera take the other.”

The women ran down the narrow alley between the buckets. David , ploughed along heavily behind them. When they reached the far end of the lane Rebecca paused to make certain that the street ahead was empty. Then they ran to the next corner. Once more she checked the ground ahead. They went on like this, a stage at a time. Twice, Rebecca spotted groups of rampaging Dervish coming towards them, and was just quick enough to lead them down a side alley. Eventually they came out behind the rear of the Belgian consulate. Here they were forced to a halt to avoid another gang of Dervish, who were breaking into the building. They were using a pew from the Catholic cathedral as a battering ram. The tall carved doors gave way and the Dervish burst in.

Rebecca looked around for another escape route. Before she could find one the aggagiers dragged the portly figure of Consul Le Blanc through the shattered doors into the street. He was squealing like a piglet on its way to the abattoir. Although he fought and struggled, he was no match for the lean and sinewy warriors. They pinned him down on his back in the middle of the road, and ripped off his clothing. When he was naked one knelt beside him with a drawn dagger. He took a handful of Le Blanc’s hairy scrotum, and stretched it out as though it was india-rubber. With one stroke of the dagger he sliced it away, leaving a gaping hole in the base of the pale, pendulous belly. Roaring with laughter the men who held him forced Le Blanc’s jaws open with the handles of their daggers and stuffed his testicles into his mouth, gagging his shrieks. Then they completed the ritual mutilation by lopping off his hands and feet at wrists and ankles. When they were finished with him, they left him writhing on the ground, and rushed back into the consulate building to join the pillage. Le Blanc struggled up and sat like some grotesque statue of Buddha, clumsily trying to remove the flaccid sack of his scrotum from his mouth with his bleeding stumps.

“Sweet Jesus, how horrible!” Rebecca’s voice was husky with pity. “Poor Monsieur!” She started to go to his aid.

“Don’t! They will have you also.” David’s voice was choked not so much with pity, as with the brutal effort of running so far with Amber in his arms. “There is nothing we can do for him. We can try only to save ourselves. Becky darling, we must keep going. Don’t look back.”

They ducked down another alley, forced ever deeper into the warren of huts and hovels of the native quarter and further off the direct route to Ryder Courtney’s compound. After another few hundred yards David came up short, like an old stag run to a standstill by the hounds. His face was twisted with pain and sweat dripped from his chin.

“Daddy, are you all right?” Rebecca had turned back to him.

“Just a little winded,” he gasped. “Not as young as I once was. Just give me a moment to get my breath back.”

“Let me take Amber from you.”

“No! Little mite that she is, she is still too heavy for you. I will be all right in a few seconds.” He sank to the ground, still holding Amber tenderly to his chest. The other three women waited with him, but every time there was another outburst of gunfire or shouting they gazed around fearfully and huddled closer together. From the direction of the Belgian consulate, flames towered into the sky, and illuminated the surroundings with a yellow, flickering light. David heaved himself back to his feet, and stood swaying. “We can go on now,” he said.

“Please, let me take Amber.”

“Don’t be silly, Becky. I am perfectly all right. Go on!”

She peered closely at his face. It was pale and shining with sweat, but she knew that to argue with him would be a dangerous waste of time. She took his arm to steady him and they went on, but their pace was slower now.

After another short distance David had to stop again. “How far to where the this is moored now?”

“Not far,” she lied. “Just beyond that little mosque at the end of the road. You can do it.”

“Of course I can.” He staggered forward again. Then, from behind, they heard a shout and the baying of Arab voices. They looked back. There was another pack of Dervish down the road behind them, at least two dozen, brandishing their weapons and hooting with wild excitement as they saw the women.

Rebecca dragged David to the corner of the nearest building. For a moment they were out of sight of their pursuers. David leant heavily against the wall. “I can’t go any further.” He handed Amber to Rebecca. “Take her!” he ordered. “Take the others with you and run. I will hold them here while you get away.”

“I cannot leave you,” said Rebecca, staunchly. Her father tried to argue but she ignored him and turned to Nazeera. “Take Saffron and run. Don’t look back! Run for the boat.”

“I’ll stay with you, Becky,” Saffron cried.

“If you love me, you will do as I say,” Rebecca told her.

“I love you, but ’

“Go!” Rebecca insisted.

“Please, Saffy, do as she says.” David’s voice was rough with pain. “For my sake.”

Saffron hesitated only a moment longer. “I will always love you, Daddy, and Becky and Amber,” she said, and grabbed Nazeera’s hand. The two dived down the alley. David and Rebecca turned back to face the Dervish as they poured round the corner. Their jib has and the blades of their swords were wet with blood, their faces were mad with blood lust. David drew his sword. He pushed Rebecca and Amber behind him to protect them.

The Dervish formed a half-circle facing him, just out of reach of his sword. One darted forward and feinted at his head. When David slashed back at him he shouted with laughter and jumped away. David tottered unsteadily after him. The others joined in the sport. They baited him, just out of reach of his blade, forcing him to turn from one side to the other.

While the others kept him in play, one circled and came up behind Rebecca. He seized her round the waist with one arm, and with the other hand pulled up her skirts. She was naked below the waist and the other Arabs roared with approval, as their comrade butted his hips against her buttocks in a copulatory display. Rebecca shrieked with outrage and tried to break away but she was hampered with Amber in her arms. David staggered back to try to protect them.

The Dervish released Rebecca. “We will all mount her like that and she will bear us twenty fine Muslim sons.” He laughed and leered.

David was maddened by the pain in his chest and the taunts they shouted at him. He charged again and again, but they were swift and nimble. Blinded by his own sweat, and crippled by the pain that was building swiftly in his chest, the sword slipped from his hand at last and he sank to his knees in the dirt. His face was swollen and contorted, his mouth was open and he gulped like a stranded fish. One of the aggagiers stepped up behind him and, with a surgeon’s skill, sliced off one of his ears. Blood poured down his shirt but David did not seem to feel the pain.

Rebecca was still holding Amber, but she rushed to her father and knelt beside him. She placed an arm round his shoulders. “Please!” she said in Arabic. “He is my father. Please spare him.” The blood from David’s wound sprinkled them both.

The Dervish laughed. “Please spare him!” they mimicked her. One grabbed a handful of her hair, and dragged her away. He threw her full length in the dust.

She sat up, holding Amber in her lap. She was weeping wildly. “Leave him alone!” she sobbed.

With a shaking hand David reached into the pocket of his jacket and drew out the Webley. He waved it in vague circles. “Stand back or I shall fire.”

The aggagier who had cut off his ear stepped in again, and with another quick, controlled cut lopped off David’s outstretched hand at the wrist. “Spare us, O mighty infidel, for we are in great terror of you,” he jeered. David stared at his severed wrist from which spurted a jet of arterial blood.

Rebecca cried out, “Oh, what have they done to you?”

David clutched the stump to his chest with the other hand, then bowed his head over it, in an attitude of devout prayer. The Arab swordsman stepped up to him again and lightly touched the back of his neck with the blade, measuring the distance for a clean blow. Rebecca shrieked with despair as he lifted the sword, then swung back into the stroke. It cut through David’s neck without sound or check, and his head dropped free of his shoulders. His headless body collapsed and his legs kicked in a brief convulsive jig.

The Arab picked up the head, holding it by a handful of its grey hair. He came to where Rebecca crouched and thrust her father’s head into her face. “If he is your father, then kiss him farewell before he goes down to boil in the waters of hell through all eternity.”

Although Rebecca was sobbing hysterically she tried to cover Amber’s eyes with one hand and keep her face averted. But Amber twisted back, and screamed as she looked into her father’s face. The tip of David’s tongue protruded between slack lips, and his eyes were open, but blank and sightless.

At last the Dervish lost interest in such mild sport. He threw aside the head, and wiped his bloody hands on Rebecca’s bodice. Then, through the cloth, he pinched and twisted her nipples, laughing when she cried out at the pain. “Take them!” he ordered. “Take these two filthy infidel whores to the pen. They will be taught to serve the needs and pleasures of their new masters.”

They pulled Rebecca to her feet, still with Amber in her arms, and dragged her away towards the waterfront.

Saffron crouched in the angle of one of the ruined shacks. Nazeera was beside her as they stared back down the alley and watched the Dervish tormenting her father and Rebecca. Saffron was too shocked to speak or weep. When the executioner stepped up to David and held the sword over him she covered her mouth with both hands to prevent herself uttering a sound that might betray them but she could not tear her gaze away from the harrowing sight. When the Dervish made the fatal stroke and her father’s corpse fell forward, Saffron was at last released from the spell. She began to sob silently.

She watched them tormenting Amber with their father’s head, and could not control her tears. When at last they dragged Rebecca and Amber towards the waterfront, Saffron jumped to her feet and took Nazeera’s hand. The two ran on towards Ryder Courtney’s compound.

Dawn was breaking when they reached it, and the light was growing stronger. The gates of the outer compound stood wide and the buildings were deserted. The Dervish had not yet spread out from the centre of the town as far as this. They ran on across the inner courtyard. Saffron paused long enough to peer through the open door of the blockhouse. It was empty, stripped of every item of value. “We are too late! Ryder has gone!” she cried to Nazeera. With a despairing heart she ran on towards the canal gates. They were closed but unbarred. It required their combined efforts to push them open. Saffron was the first through. Then she stopped abruptly. The Intrepid this’s mooring was empty, and the steamer was gone.

“Where are you, Ryder? Where have you gone? Why have you left me?” She gasped for breath and fought back the dark waves of panic. Once she had gathered herself, she turned and raced along the canal towpath towards its juncture with the Blue Nile. She had not covered more than half the way to the first bend in the canal before she smelt the woodsmoke from the this’s funnel. “He can’t be too far ahead,” she told herself, and her spirits soared. She pulled quickly ahead of Nazeera, who was struggling to keep pace with her. When she reached the first bend in the canal and came round it she screamed at the top of her voice, “Wait for me! I am coming. Wait for me, Ryder!” The this was two hundred yards ahead. She was puffing away down the channel towards the open river. Saffron summoned every last ounce of strength, and raced after it. The little steamer was not yet under full power, but was easing her way carefully down the shallow, winding canal. With this last burst of speed Saffron began to overhaul it.

“Wait! Ryder, wait!” In the glowing sparks from the smoke stack she could just make out Ryder’s dark figure in the angle of his bridge, but he was looking ahead. The pumping steam cylinders drowned her voice.

“Ryder!” she screamed. “Oh, please, look round.” Then she saved her breath and ran with all her heart. Ahead of her the this reached the entrance to the river, and increased her speed, pulling out into the stream of the Nile current. Saffron came up short on the edge of the bank. She cried out again, danced up and down and waved both hands over her head. The this drew away rapidly into the softly swirling banks of silver mist that hung low on the water. Saffron dropped her arms and stood still. Nazeera came up beside her and the two hugged each other in despair. Suddenly a rifle shot rang out on the towpath behind them. They spun round and saw four Dervish running towards them. One halted and levelled his rifle. He fired another shot. The bullet kicked dust from the towpath at their feet and ricocheted across the river. Saffron turned back towards the rapidly departing shape of the this.

The rifle shot had alerted Ryder and he was staring back at them. Saffron was lifted on a new wave of hope: she shrieked again and waved her arms. Then Ryder was bringing the little steamer round in a tight circle, and heading towards them. She looked back at the Dervish. All four were running towards her in a bunch. She saw at once that they would be upon her before the this could reach the entrance to the canal.

“Come!” she called to Nazeera. “We must swim.”

“No!” Nazeera shook her head. “Al-Sakhawi will take care of you. I must go back to look after my other girls.” Saffron would have argued, even though the pursuers were closing in swiftly, but Nazeera forestalled her protests and ducked off the towpath. She disappeared into the swamp reeds that grew along the verge.

“Nazeera!” Saffron shouted after her, but the yells of the Dervish were louder still. She pulled off her shoes, tucked up her skirts and ran to the edge of the canal. She drew a deep breath and dived in. When her head broke the surface she launched out towards the approaching steamer in a determined dog-paddle.

“Good girl!” She heard Ryder’s voice and kicked wildly with both legs, pulling at the water with her cupped hands. Behind her she heard another shot and a bullet kicked up a fountain that showered her head and ran into her eyes.

“Come on, Saffy.” Ryder was leaning over the side of the steamer, ready to grab her. “Keep swimming.” At last she felt the current catch her and push her faster. Then she saw his face above her and reached up to him.

“Got you!” Ryder said. With a single heave he plucked her out of the river, as though she was a drowning kitten, and swung her up on to the deck. Then he shouted to Bacheet, “Take her out again.”

Bacheet spun the wheel and the deck canted over into the turn. Once more they headed out into midstream. The Dervish was still firing at them from the towpath, but swiftly the river mist closed around them, and although the bullets still splashed about them or pinged off the steel superstructure the man had lost sight of them. At last the gunfire petered out.

What happened to you, Saffy?” Ryder carried her down the deck to the cabin. “Where are the others? Where are Rebecca and Amber, and your father?”

She tried to stop herself blubbering at his questions and put her arms round his neck, “It’s just too horrid to say, Ryder. Terrible things have happened. The very worst things ever.”

He sat her on his bunk in the cabin. Her distress touched him and he wanted to give her a few moments to recover. He handed her a dry but grubby towel. “Very well. We’ll get you tidied up first. Then you can tell me about it.” He pulled a faded blue shirt off the clothes-line above the bunk. “Hang your dress up there. Put this shirt on when you’re dry, and come to the bridge. We can talk up there.”

The tails of his shirt reached below her knees. It served well enough as a loose shift. She found one of Ryder’s neckties in the drawer under the bunk, and tied it round her waist as a belt. She used his tortoiseshell comb to tidy her damp hair, then twisted it into a single pigtail. A few minutes later, she went up to the bridge. Her eyes were pink and swollen with grief. “They have killed my father,” she said hopelessly, and ran to Ryder.

He caught her up and hugged her hard. “It can’t be true. Are you sure, Saffy?”

“I saw it. They cut off his head, just like they did to General Gordon.

Then they took Rebecca and Amber away.” She fought back another sob. “Oh, I hate them. Why are they so cruel?”

Ryder lifted her up and sat her on the coaming of the engine-room hatch. He kept one arm round her. “Tell me everything, Saffy, every detail.”

Jock McCrump heard her voice and came up from the boiler room. He and Ryder listened in silence to her account. By the time she had finished, the top rim of the sun was showing above the horizon, and the river mist was burning off. The city was slowly revealed in all its stark detail. Ryder counted eight burning buildings, including the Belgian consulate. Thick smoke drifted across the river.

Then he turned his telescope on the square silhouette of Mukran Fort. The flags had been pulled down and the flagstaff was as bare as a gallows. Slowly he panned his lens across the rest of the city. Crowds of the faithful were dancing through the streets, and crowding the corniche in their brightly patched jib has There were outbursts of gunfire, black powder smoke spurting into the air, salvoes of feude joie from the victors. Many were carrying bundles of loot. Others were rounding up the survivors of the attack. Ryder picked out small groups of women prisoners being herded towards the Customs House.

“What colour dress was Rebecca wearing?” he asked Saffron, without lowering the glass. He did not wish to look upon her anguish.

“Blue bodice, with yellow skirts.” Although he stared until his eye ached, he could not pick out a blue and yellow dress, or a head of golden hair among the captive women. But they were far off, and the smoke from the burning buildings and the dust from all the wild activity ashore confused the scene.

“Where will they take the women, Bacheet?” he demanded.

“They will pen them up like heifers in the cattle market until first the Mahdi, then the khalifa and the emirs have time to look them over and take their pick.”

“Rebecca and Amber?” he asked. “What will happen to them?”

“With their yellow hair and white skin they are a great prize,” Bacheet answered. “They will certainly be selected by the Mahdi. They will go to him as prime concubines.”

Ryder lowered the telescope. He felt sick. He thought of Rebecca, whom he loved and had hoped to make his wife, reduced to a plaything for that murderous fanatic. The thought was too painful to bear, and he forced it to the back of his mind. Instead he thought of sweet little Amber, whom he had nursed and saved from cholera. He had a vivid image of her pale childish body, the same body he had massaged back to life, being mounted and violated, sweet flesh torn and alien seed flooding her immature loins. He felt vomit rising to the back of his throat.

“Take us in closer to the shore,” he ordered Bacheet. “I must see where they are so I can plan a rescue.”

“Only Allah can save them now,” said Bacheet softly. Saffron overheard, and fresh tears oozed down her cheeks.

“Damn you, Bacheet, do as I say,” Ryder snarled.

Bacheet turned across the current and they eased in towards the city waterfront. At first they attracted little attention from the shore. The Dervish were too preoccupied with the sack of the city. An occasional shot was fired in their direction, but that was all. They steamed downstream as far as the confluence of the two great rivers, then turned back, cruising in close to the Khartoum waterfront. Suddenly there was the boom of a cannon shot, and a Krupps shell burst the surface ahead of the bows. The spray flew back across the deck. Ryder saw the gun smoke on the harbour wall. The Dervish had turned the captured guns on them. Another Krupps in the redoubt below the maid an came into action and the shell screeched over the bridge and burst in the middle of the river.

“We are not doing much good here, except giving them artillery practice.” Ryder glanced at Bacheet. “Turn back into midstream and head on upriver. We’ll find a quiet place to anchor until we can gather more news and find out what they have done with Rebecca and Amber. Then I can plan more sensibly for their rescue.”

For miles up the Blue Nile both banks were deserted. Ryder headed for the Lagoon of the Little Fish in which he had trans hipped the cargo of dhurra from Ras Hailu’s dhow, When he reached it he anchored in a stand of papyrus, which hid the this from curious eyes on the shore.

As soon as they had made everything onboard shipshape, he called Bacheet to the engine room where they could talk without being overheard by the rest of the crew. He wasted no time but put it to Bacheet straight and unadorned.

“Do you think you would be able to go back among the Dervish and discover what has become of al-Jamal and al-Zahra without arousing the suspicions of the Ansar?”

Bacheet pursed his lips and puffed out his cheeks, which made him look like a ground squirrel. “I am as they are. Why should they suspect me?”

“Are you willing to do it?”

“I am not a coward, but neither am I a rash man. Why would I be willing to do something as stupid as that? No, al-Sakhawi. I would not be willing. I would be extremely reluctant.” He tugged unhappily at his beard. “I will leave at once.”

“Good,” Ryder said. “I will wait for you here, unless I am discovered, in which case I will wait for you at the confluence of the Sarwad river. You will go into the city and, if necessary, cross to Omdurman. When you have news for me, you will return to give it to me here.”

Bacheet sighed theatrically and went to his own tiny berth in the forecastle. When he emerged he was dressed in a Dervish jibba. Ryder refrained from asking where he had obtained it. Bacheet dropped over the side of the this and waded to dry ground. He set off along the bank towards Khartoum.

On the waterfront Nazeera mingled unobtrusively with the milling crowds. There were as many Dervish women as men in the throng, and she was no different from them in her black ankle-length robes and the head cloth covering half of her face. The other women had come across from Omdurman as soon as they had heard that the city had been taken. They had come for the excitement of the triumphal celebrations, the loot, and for the thrill of the executions and torture that must surely follow the victory. The wealthy citizens of Khartoum would be forced to reveal the hiding-places of their valuables, their gold, jewellery and coin. Obtaining information was a skill that the Dervish women had learnt from their own mothers and honed to a high art.

Nazeera was part of the jostling, cavorting, ululating river of humanity that flowed along the corniche above the river. Ahead the crowd parted to allow a line of chained Egyptian soldiers through. They had been stripped of their tunics, then beaten until their bare backs looked as though they had been savaged by angry lions. The blood from the whip weals soaked their breeches and dripped down their legs. As they shuffled past on their way to the beach, the women rushed forward to beat them again with any weapon that came to hand. The Dervish guards chuckled indulgently at the women’s antics, and when a prisoner fell under the blows they prodded him to his feet again with a sword point.

Although Nazeera was desperate to find where her charges had been taken, she was trapped in the mass of women. She could see down on to the beach where lines of rickety gallows of roughly trimmed poles were being hastily erected. Those that had been completed were already buckling under the weight of the bodies that dangled from them, and more captives were being dragged forward with nooses round their necks. In groups they were prodded by the executioners on to’ the angarebs placed as steps beneath the gallows. When the nooses had been fastened to the crosspiece the angareb was pulled away and the victims were left swinging and kicking in the air.

This was slow work, and further along the beach another gang of executioners was hastening the business with the sword. They forced their victims to kneel in long lines with their hands tied behind their backs, their necks stretched forward. Then two headsmen started at opposite ends of the line and moved slowly towards each other, lopping off heads as they went. The watchers shouted as each head fell into the mud. When one of the executioners, his sword-arm tiring from the work, missed his stroke and only partially severed his victim’s neck they clapped and hooted derisively.

At last Nazeera extricated herself from the press of bodies and made her way towards the British consular palace. The gates were open and unguarded. She slipped through them into the grounds. The palace was extensively damaged, window-panes smashed and doors torn off. Most of the furniture had been thrown out of the upper-floor windows. She went stealthily to the front terrace, and found more devastation. Terrified that she might run into a looter she crept in through the french windows and made her way through the wreckage to David Benbrook’s study. Papers and documents were strewn across the room.

However, the oak panelling on the walls was intact. She went quickly to one panel and pressed the hidden spring built into the carving of the architrave. With a soft click it jumped back to reveal the door of the large safe. Her father had allowed Rebecca to keep her jewellery there, and Rebecca had taught Nazeera how to tumble the combination so that she could fetch and return the pieces she needed. The combination numbers were Rebecca’s birthdate. Now Nazeera fed them into the lock, turned the handle and swung open the door.

On the top shelf lay David’s leather bound journal. The lower shelves were filled with family valuables, including the jewellery that Rebecca had inherited from her mother. It was all packed into matching red-leather wallets. There were also a number of canvas money-bags, which held over a hundred pounds in gold and silver coins. It was too dangerous to carry all of this with her. Nazeera returned all of the jewellery and most of the cash to the safe, then relocked the door and closed the secret panel. This would be her secret bank when she needed money. She placed a few small coins in her sleeve pocket for immediate use, then lifted her robe and strapped a canvas bag with more round her waist, then smoothed her shapeless skirts over it.

She left the study and climbed the stairs to the second floor. She went to Rebecca’s bedroom, and stopped involuntarily in the doorway as she saw the extent of the damage. The looters had smashed every stick of furniture, and scattered books and clothing across the floor. She went in and searched through the mess.

She was almost in despair when at last she spotted the sisal bag lying under the overturned bed. The drawstring had burst open and much of the cholera remedy had spilled out. Nazeera squatted, scooped it up and poured it back into the bag. When she had salvaged as much as she could, she knotted the drawstring securely and tied it round her neck so that it hung down inside her robe. She gathered up a few other feminine trifles that might be useful and hid them about her person.

She went back downstairs, and stole out of the palace. She left the gardens through the small gate at the end of the terrace and lost herself in the Dervish victory celebrations. It did not take her long to discover where the women prisoners had been taken: the news was being shouted in the streets and people were flocking to the Customs House. Many had climbed up the walls and were clustered at the windows to peer in at the captives. Nazeera tucked up her skirts and scrambled up one of the buttresses until she reached the highest row of barred windows. She elbowed two small urchins out of her way. When they protested she unleashed a torrent of abuse that sent them scampering off. Then she gripped the bars and pressed her face to the square opening.

It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dim light inside. The Egyptian women prisoners were the wives and daughters of Gordon Pasha’s officers, who were probably now lying headless on the river beach or dangling from the gallows. The women were squatting in miserable groups, with their children huddled around them. Many were spattered with the dried blood of their murdered menfolk. Among them were a few white women, the nuns from the Catholic mission, an Austrian lady doctor, the wives of the few Occidental traders and travellers who had been trapped in the city.

Then Nazeera’s heart bounded: she had spotted Rebecca sitting on the stone floor with her back against the wall and Amber on her lap. She was bedraggled and filthy with dust and soot. Her hair was lank and matted with sweat. Her father’s blood had dried in black stains down the front of her yellow skirt. Her feet were bare and dusty, scratched and bruised. She sat aloof from the others, trying to fight off the waves of despair that threatened to overwhelm her. Nazeera recognized the stoic expression that concealed her courageous spirit, and was proud of her.

“Jamal!” Nazeera called to her, but her voice did not carry. The other women and their brats were making a fearful racket. They were weeping and wailing for their murdered menfolk, praying aloud for succour, entreating their captors for mercy. Above all else they were calling for water.

“Water! In the Name of Allah, give us water. Our children are dying. Give us water!”

“Jamal, my beautiful one!” Nazeera screamed to her, but Rebecca did not look up. She went on rocking Amber in her arms.

Nazeera broke a chip of plaster from the rotten windowsill, and threw it down through the bars. It struck the ground just short of where Rebecca was sitting, but skidded across the stone flags and hit her ankle. She lifted her head and looked around.

“Jamal, my little girl!”

Rebecca raised her eyes. She stared at the head in the window high above her, and her eyes flew wide in recognition. She looked around her quickly, to make certain that the Dervish guards at the doors had noticed nothing. Then she stood up and crossed the floor slowly, carrying Amber, until she stood directly under the high window. She looked up again, and mouthed a single word: “Mayya! Water!” She lifted Amber’s face and touched her chapped, swollen lips. “Water!” she said again.

Nazeera nodded and climbed down the wall. She pushed her way through the crowds, searching frantically until she found the old woman with the donkey she had noticed earlier. The animal was so heavily laden with waterskins and bags of dhurra bread that its legs splayed outwards. The old woman was doing a thriving business with the hungry and thirsty crowds along the waterfront.

“I wish to buy food and one of your skins, old mother.”

“I still have a little bread and dried meat to sell, and for three pice you may drink your fill, but I will never sell one of my waterskins,” said the woman firmly. She changed her mind when Nazeera showed her a silver dollar.

With the small waters king slung over her shoulder, Nazeera hurried back to the front entrance of the Customs House. There were five guards at the main door. They stood with drawn swords, holding the curious throng at a respectful distance. Nazeera saw at a glance that they were all men of her tribe, the Beja. Then, with a twinge of excitement, she recognized one. He was of the same clan and had been circumcised at the same time as her dead husband. They had ridden beneath the banner of the Emir Osman Atalan, before the rise of the Mahdi when their world had been sane and sensible, not yet maddened by the new fanaticism.

She sidled closer to the doors, but the man she knew made a threatening gesture with his sword, warning her to come no closer.

“AH Wad!” Nazeera called in a low tone. “My husband rode with you on the famous raid to Gondar when you slew fifty-five Christian Abyssinians and captured two hundred and fifty fine camels.”

He lowered the sword and stared at her in astonishment. “What is your husband’s name, woman!” he demanded.

“His name was Taher Sherif, and he was killed by the Jaalin at Tushkit Wells. You were with him the day he died.”

“Then you are the Nazeera who was once reckoned beautiful.” His stern expression relaxed.

Her old feelings of affection for him stirred. “When we were all young together,” she agreed, and lowered the head cloth so he could see her face. “It seems to me, AH Wad, that you have become a man of great power. One who could still light the flame in any woman’s belly.”

He laughed. “Nazeera of the silvery tongue. The years have changed you little. What is it you seek from me now?” She told him and his smile faded. The scowl reappeared. “You ask me to risk my life.”

“As my husband gave his life for you… and as, once, his young widow risked more than her life for your pleasure. Have you forgotten?”

“I have not. AH Wad does not forget his friends. Come with me.”

He led her in through the main door, and the guards within deferred to him respectfully. She followed him, and Rebecca ran to her. They embraced ecstatically and tearfully. Even in her extremity Amber recognized her and whispered to her, “I love you, Nazeera. Do you still love me?”

“With all my heart, Zahra. I have brought water and food.” She led them to a corner of the hall and they huddled close together. Nazeera mixed some of the powder with water in the mug she had brought from the palace. She held it to Amber’s lips. She drank greedily.

While this was going on AH Wad glowered at the other prisoners. “These three women,” he indicated Nazeera and her charges, ‘are under my protection. Interfere with them at your peril, for I am a man of ugly moods. It gives me great pleasure to beat women with this kurbash.” He showed them the wicked hippo-hide whip. “I love to hear them squeal.”

They cringed away from him fearfully. Then he stooped and whispered in Nazeera’s ear. She cast down her eyes and giggled coquettishly. AH Wad stalked back to his post at the door, grinning and stroking his beard.

The water revived Amber miraculously. “What has happened to my sister?” she whispered, “Where is Saffy?”

“She is safe with al-Sakhawi,” Nazeera assured her. “I saw her go on board his steamer before I returned to you.” At this wonderful news Rebecca was too overcome with relief to speak. Instead she threw her arms round Nazeera and hugged her.

“You must stop weeping now, Jamal,” Nazeera told her sternly. “We must all be clever, strong and careful, if we are to survive the difficult days that lie ahead.”

“Now that you are back with us, and I know Saffy is safe, I can face whatever comes. What will the Dervish do with us?”

Nazeera did not answer at once but glanced significantly at Amber. “First you must eat and drink to remain strong. Then we shall talk.”

She gave them a little of the dhurra bread. Amber managed a few mouthfuls, and kept them down. Nazeera nodded with satisfaction, and took her on to her own lap to allow Rebecca a chance to eat and rest. She stroked Amber’s hair and crooned softly to her. The child fell asleep almost at once. “She will be well again within days. Young ones have the most resilience.”

“What will happen to us?” Rebecca repeated her question.

Nazeera pursed her lips as she considered how much she should say. As much of the truth as is good for her, she decided. “You and all these women are part of the spoils of war, as much as horses and camels.” Rebecca glanced at the sorry creatures around her, and felt momentary pity for them, until she remembered that she and Amber were in the same predicament. “The Dervisji will use them as they wish. The old and ugly will become house and kitchen slaves. The young and nubile will be used as concubines. You are young and surpassingly beautiful. Your hair and pale skin will intrigue all men.”

Rebecca shuddered. She had never imagined what it might be like to fall under the power of a man of different race. Now the thought sickened her. “Will they draw lots for us?” She had read in Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire that that was what soldiers did.

“No. The Dervish leaders will select those they want. The Mahdi will choose first, then the others in order of their rank and power. The Mahdi will choose you, there is no doubt of that. And it is good. He is the best for us, far better than any of the others.”

“Tell me why. Explain this to me. How can you know what he is like in his zenanaV

“He already has over three hundred wives and concubines, and his women talk. It is widely known where his tastes lie, what he likes to do with his women.”

Rebecca looked puzzled, “Don’t all men do the same thing, like ’

She broke off, but Nazeera finished the question for her: “You mean the same as Abadan Riji and al-Sakhawi have done to you?”

Rebecca blushed scarlet. “I forbid you to speak to me like that ever again.”

“I shall try to remember,” Nazeera replied, with a twinkle in her eye, ‘but the answer to your question is that some men want different things from their women.”

Rebecca thought about that, then lowered her eyes shyly. “Different things. What is the different thing that the Mahdi wants? What will he do to me?”

Nazeera glanced down at Amber to make sure she was asleep, then leant closer to Rebecca, cupped her hand to her ear and whispered. Rebecca jerked back. “My mouth!” she gasped. “That is the most disgusting thing I have ever heard.”

“Nay, silly girl. Think a moment. With a man you do not love, or one you hate, it is quicker, easier and less uncomfortable. You do not lose your precious maidenhead, or if you have already done so, nobody is any the wiser. Even more important, there are no undesired consequences.”

“I can see that with certain men this might be preferable.” Then another thought struck her, and her expression changed again. She looked intrigued. “What is it like … to do that to a man or let him do it to you?”

“First, remember this. With the Mahdi you obey him in all things with every semblance of pleasure and joy. Only one thing is vitally important. With the Mahdi you must never display repugnance. He is divine, but in these matters he is as vain as all other men. Unlike other men, however, he has in his hands the power of life and death, and he does not hesitate to employ it on all who displease him. Thus the next thing to bear closely in mind is not to gag or spit. To reject and expel his essence would be a mortal insult to him.”

“But, Nazeera, what if I do not like the taste? What if I cannot help myself?”

“Swallow quickly and have done. In all events you will grow accustomed to it. We women learn and adjust very quickly.”

Rebecca nodded. Already the idea was not so shocking. “What else must I remember?”

“There is no doubt in my mind that the Mahdi will choose you. You must greet him as the Chosen of God and the successor to His Prophet. You must tell him what a deep joy and honour it is to meet him at last. You can add whatever else you wish that he is the light of your eyes and the breath of your lungs. He will believe this. Then you must tell him that al-Zahra is your orphan sister. The holy law places a duty on him to protect and care for the orphan, so she will not be parted from you. There are quotations from the holy writings about orphans that you must learn by rote so that you are able to repeat them to him. I will teach them to you.” Rebecca nodded, and Nazeera went on, “There is one other thing more important than all else. You must do or say nothing that might cause the Mahdi to pass you by. Show no anger, or resentment or disrespect. If he should reject you, the next choice will fall to his Khalifa Abdullahi.”

“Would that be worse?”

“Abdullahi is the cruel lest most wicked man in Islam. Better we should all perish than he take you or al-Zahra as his concubine.”

Rebecca shivered. “Teach me the quotations.”

She was a quick learner and, before Amber woke, Nazeera was satisfied that she would acquit herself properly in the presence of the prophet of God.

Osman Atalan returned across the Nile from the city he had conquered. He came in glory at the head of the flotilla of boats that had carried his army to Khartoum. Every man, woman and child who could walk, toddle or totter came down to the riverbank to greet him. The war drums boomed and thumped and ombeyas blared. One groom held his weapons, his lance, spears and broadsword. Another groom held his warhorse al-Buq for him, fully caparisoned, with his rifle in the scabbard behind the saddle.

When Osman stepped ashore from the dhow he was preceded by al-Noor who carried over one shoulder a leather dhurra bag, whose bottom was stained a dark wine colour. The crowds shouted when they saw it, for they guessed the contents. They shouted again at the sight of Osman, so tall and noble in his gleaming white jibba decorated with the brightly coloured patches.

Osman mounted al-Buq and processed through the town. The crowds lined both sides of the narrow, winding streets, and the road was strewn with palm fronds. The children ran ahead of his horse and the women lifted their infants high so that they could look upon the hero of Islam and tell their own children that they had seen him. Brave men and mighty warriors tried to touch his foot as he swept past, and the women ululated and called his name.

At the Mahdi’s palace, Osman dismounted and took the stained dhurra bag from al’Noor. He climbed the outside staircase to the flat-roof terrace where the prophet of Allah sat cross-legged on his angareb. He made a sign to the young women who attended him, and they prostrated themselves quickly before him, then moved gracefully backwards, leaving the terrace to the two men.

Osman went to the Mahdi and placed the sack before him. He knelt to kiss his hands and feet. “You are the light and the joy of our world. May Allah always smile upon you, who are his chosen one.”

The Mahdi touched his forehead. “May you always please God, as you have pleased His humble prophet.” Then he took Osman’s hand and raised him up. “How went the battle?”

“With your presence watching over us and your face before us, it went well.”

“What of my enemy and the enemy of Allah, the crusader, Gordon Pasha?”

“Your enemy is dead and his soul boils eternally in the waters of hell. The day you had foreseen has arrived, and those things you had prophesied have come to pass.”

“All that you tell me, Osman Atalan, pleases God. Your words are as honey on your lips and sweet music in my ears. But have you brought me proof that what you say is true?”

“I have brought you proof that no man may doubt, proof that will resound in the heart of every son of the Prophet throughout all Islam.” Osman stooped, gripped the corner seams of the dhurra bag and lifted it. The contents rolled out on to the mud floor. “Behold the head of Gordon Pasha.”

The Mahdi leant forward with his elbows on his thighs and stared at the head. He was no longer smiling. His expression was cold and impassive, but there was such a glow in his eyes that struck fear even into Osman Atalan’s valiant heart. The silence went on, and the Mahdi did not move for a long time. Then at last he looked up again at Osman. “You have pleased Allah and his prophet. You shall have great reward. See that this head is placed on a spike at the gates of the great mosque that all the faithful may look upon it and fear the power of Allah and his righteous servant, Muhammad, the Mahdi.”

“It shall be done, master.” For the first time Osman used the title “Rabb’, which was more than ‘master’. It meant “Lord of all things’. “Rabb’ was also one of the ninety-nine beautiful names of Allah. Had his praise exceeded the limits of flattery? Was this not blasphemy? Osman was immediately stricken by his own presumption. He bowed his head and waited for the Mahdi to rebuke him.

He need not have feared. His instinct had been flawless. The serene smile blossomed once more on the Mahdi’s beloved face. He held out his hand to Osman. “Take me to the city you have won for the glory of Allah. Show me the spoils of this great victory that brings the jihad to its full flowering. Take me across the river Nile and show to me all that you have achieved in my name.”

Osman took his hand and brought him to his feet. They went down to the riverbank and embarked in the dhow that was waiting for them. They crossed the flow and went ashore in the harbour of Khartoum. When he walked along the corniche to the governor’s palace the crowds spread before him bolts of looted silk, fine linen and wool so that the Mahdi need not soil his feet in the dust and filth of the captured city. The chorus of prayer and praise that went up from the prostrating crowds was deafening.

In the governor’s audience hall the Mahdi took his place beside Khalifa Abdullahi, who was working with four black-robed kadi, the Islamic judges. They were questioning the wealthy citizens of Khartoum who had been brought before them in chains. They were asked to reveal where they had hidden their treasures. This was a protracted process, for it was not enough simply to reveal all one’s wealth at the outset. The Khalifa Abdullahi and his kadi had to ensure that the victims were holding back nothing. The full answers were extracted with fire and water. The branding irons were heated in charcoal braziers and when the tips glowed red they were used to burn the texts of appropriate sura from the Koran into the naked bellies and backs of the victims. Their agonized shrieks echoed from the high ceilings.

“Let your cries be heard as praise and prayers to Allah,” the Mahdi told them. “Let your riches be offerings that you render to His glory.”

When there was no space left on their blistered skin for further religious texts to be inscribed, the red-hot irons were applied to their genitals. At last they were carried to the water fountain in the middle of the atrium of the palace. There they were strapped to a stool and tipped backwards over the wall of the fountain until their heads were below the surface of the water. When they lost consciousness, they were tipped forward, mucus streaming from their mouths and noses. They revived, and were immersed again. Before they expired the judges were well satisfied that they had revealed all their secrets.

Abdullahi led his master to the governor’s robing room, which they were using as a temporary treasury, and showed him all that they had collected so far. There were bags and chests of coin, piles of plate and chalices of silver and gold; some were even carved from pure rock crystal or amethyst and encrusted with precious and semi-precious stones. There were heaps of silk and fine wool in bolts, satins embroidered with gold thread, more chests of jewellery, fantastic creations from Asia, India and Africa, earrings, necklaces, collars and brooches set with fiery diamonds, emeralds and sapphires. There were even statuettes in images of the old gods, fashioned thousands of years previously and plundered from the tombs of the ancients. The Mahdi frowned angrily when he saw these. “They are an abomination in the sight of God, and every true Muslim.” His usually mild tones thundered through the halls so that even the khalifa trembled. “Take them hence, smash them into a hundred pieces and throw the fragments into the river.”

While many men scrambled to obey his order, the Mahdi turned to Osman and smiled again. “I think only what Allah wishes me to think. My words are not my own words. They are the very word of God.”

“Would the blessed Mahdi care to see the women prisoners? If any please him, he might take them into his zenana.” The khalifa sought to placate him.

“May Allah be pleased with you, Abdullahi,” said the Mahdi, ‘but first I wish some refreshment. Then we shall pray, and only thereafter will we go to view the new women.”

Abdullahi had prepared a pavilion in the governor’s garden at a spot that overlooked the river and the beach beside the harbour on which the gallows had been erected. Under a tent of plaited reed matting, which was suspended on bamboo poles and open on all sides to allow a cooling breeze to blow through, they reclined on splendid rugs of the finest wool and pillows of silk. From clay pitchers that allowed the liquid to permeate through and cool the rest of the contents, they sipped the Mahdi’s favourite beverage of date syrup and ground ginger. In the meantime they watched, with mild interest, the execution of Gordon’s men. Some of the victims were cut down from the scaffold while they still writhed in the noose and thrown into the river, hands bound behind their backs.

“It is a pity that so many are of Islam,” said Osman, ‘but they are also Turks, and they opposed your jihad.”

“For that they have paid the price, but in as much as they were of the true faith let them find peace,” said the Mahdi, and extended the forefinger of his right hand in blessing. Then he stood up and led them towards the Customs House.

When they entered the main hall the captured women had been lined up against the far wall. They prostrated themselves as the Mahdi entered and sang his praises.

The guards had erected a dais at the opposite side of the hall to where the women knelt. This was covered with Persian carpets. The Mahdi took his seat upon them, then motioned for his khalifa to sit at his right hand and the Emir Osman Atalan to sit on his left. “Let them bring the captives forward, one at a time.”

AH Wad, who was in charge of the women, presented them in inverse order of their appeal to masculine taste. The old and ugly to start with, and the younger and prettier to follow. The Mahdi dismissed the first twenty or so, who interested him not at all, with a curt gesture of his left hand. Then AH Wad led forward a young Galla girl. The Mahdi made a sign with his right hand. AH Wad lifted her robe over her head and she was naked. The three great men leant forward to examine her. The Mahdi made a circular movement with his right hand, and the girl revolved before them to display all her charms, which were considerable.

“She is, of course, too thin,” the Mahdi said at last. “She will have eaten little in the last ten months, but she will plump up prettily. She is pleasing, but she has a bold eye and will be difficult. She is of the kind that causes trouble in the zenana.” He made the left-hand sign of rejection, then smiled at his khalifa. “If you decide she is worth the trouble, you may take her, and I wish you joy of her.”

“If she makes trouble in my harem, she will have stripes on her lustrous buttocks to show for it.” The Khalifa Abdullahi flicked her with his fly whisk on the threatened area of her anatomy. At the sting she squeaked and slotted in the air like a gazelle ewe. Abdullahi made the right-hand sign of acceptance and the girl was led away. The selection went on at a leisurely pace, the men discussing the females in explicit detail.

The daughter of a Persian trader caught their particular attention. They all agreed that her features were unattractively bony and angular, but the hair of her head was red. There was some discussion about its authenticity, which the Mahdi settled by having AH Wad remove her garments. The gorgeous ruddy tone of her dense, curling nether bush dispelled their doubts.

“There is every hope that she will bear red-headed sons,” said the Mahdi. The first Prophet Muhammad, of whom he was the successor, had possessed red hair. Thus she was highly valuable as a breeder. He would give her to one of his emirs as a mark of his divine favour. It would reinforce the emir’s loyalty and strengthen the bonds between them. He made the right-hand sign.

Then AH Wad led forward Rebecca Benbrook. Nazeera had covered her head with a light shawl. Amber had just enough strength to totter at her elder sister’s side, clinging to her hand for comfort and support.

“Who is the child?” demanded Khalifa Abdullahi. “Is she the woman’s daughter?”

“Nay, mighty khalifa,” AH Wad replied, as Nazeera had coached him. “It is her little sister. Both girls are virgins and orphans.”

The men looked interested. A maidenhead was of great value, and bestowed a magical and beneficial influence on the man who ruptured it. Then, as Nazeera had told him, AH Wad drew off the shawl that covered Rebecca’s head. The Mahdi drew a sharp breath, and both the khalifa and Osman Atalan sat straighter as they stared in astonishment at her hair, which Nazeera had combed out carefully. A beam of sunlight through one of the high windows transformed it into a crown of gold. The Mahdi beckoned Rebecca to come closer. She knelt before him. He leant towards her and fingered a lock. “It is soft as the wing of a sunbird,” he murmured in awe.

Rebecca had been careful not to look directly into his face, which would have been a gesture of disrespect. With her eyes still lowered, she whispered huskily, “I have heard all men speak of your grace and of your holy state. I have longed for sight of your beautiful face, as a traveller in the great desert longs for his first glimpse of Mother Nile.”

His eyes opened a little wider. He placed one finger beneath her chin and lifted her face. She saw at once that what she had said had pleased him. “You speak good Arabic,” he said.

“The holy tongue,” she agreed. “The language of the faithful.”

“How old are you, child? Are you virgin, as AH Wad has told us? Have you ever known a man?”

“I pray that you might be my first and my last,” she lied, without a tremor, knowing just how much depended on his choice. She had been watching the khalifa during the selection of the other women and sensed that all Nazeera had told her was true: he was as slippery as a slime-eel and as venomous as a scorpion. She thought that it would be better to be dead than to belong to him.

When he whispered to the Mahdi his voice was oily and unctuous. “Exalted One, let us have sight of this one’s body,” he suggested. “Is the bush of her loins of the same colour and texture as the hair on her head? Are her breasts white as camels’ milk? Are the lips of her quimmy pink as the petals of a desert rose? Let us discover all these sweet secrets.”

“Those sights are for my eyes alone to gaze upon. This one pleases me. I will keep her for myself.” With his right hand he made the sign of acceptance over Rebecca’s head.

“I am overcome with joy and gratitude that you have found me pleasing, Great and Holy One.” Rebecca bowed her head. “But what of my little sister? I pray that you will take her under your protection as well’

The Mahdi glanced down at Amber, who shrank from him and clung to Rebecca’s dusty, bloodstained skirt. She stared back at him in trepidation and he saw how young she was, how weak and sickly she appeared. Her eyes were sunk into bruised-looking cavities, and she had barely the strength to stand upright. The Mahdi knew that a child in her condition would be a nuisance and the cause of disruption in his household. He was not lubriciously attracted to children, either male or female, as he knew his khalifa was. Let him have this wretched creature. He was about to make the left-hand gesture of rejection, when Rebecca forestalled him. Nazeera had coached her in what she must say. She spoke up again, clearly this time.

“The saint Abu Shuraih has reported the direct words of the Prophet Muhammad, the messenger of Allah, may Allah love him eternally, who said, “I declare inviolate the rights of the weak ones, the orphans and the women.” He said also, “Allah provides for you only in as much as you protect the orphans among you.”

The Mahdi lowered his left hand, and looked at her thoughtfully. Then he smiled again, but there was something unfathomable in his eyes. He made the right-hand sign of acceptance over Amber and said to Ali Wad, “I place these women in your charge. See that no harm befalls them. Convey them to my harem.”

Ali Wad and ten of his men escorted Rebecca, Amber and the other women chosen by the Mahdi to the harbour. Without drawing attention to herself, Nazeera followed them. When they were placed on board a large trading dhow to be carried across the Nile to Omdurman, she went on board with them, and when one of the crew questioned her presence Ali Wad snarled at him so belligerently that he scurried away to attend to the hoisting of the lateen sail. From then on Nazeera was accepted as the servant to al-Jamal and al-Zahra, the concubines of the Mahdi. The three squatted together in the bows of the dhow.

While Nazeera made Amber drink again from the waters king Rebecca asked fretfully, “What am I going to do, Nazeera? I can never allow myself to become the chattel of a brown man, a native who is not a Christian.” The full extent of her predicament began to dawn on her. “I think I would rather die than have that happen to me.”

“Your sense of propriety is noble, Jamal, but I am brown and a native also,” Nazeera replied. “Also, I am not a Christian. If you have become so fastidious, then perhaps it would be better if you sent me away.”

“Oh, Nazeera, we love you.” Rebecca was immediately contrite.

“Listen to me, Jamal.” Nazeera took Rebecca’s arm and forced her to look into her eyes. “The branch breaks that will not bend with the wind. You are a limber young branch. You must learn to bend.”

Rebecca felt as though she were being crushed beneath a great weight. Wherever her mind turned it encountered only sorrow, regret and fear. She thought of her father, and touched the black stains of his blood on her bodice. She knew that the terrible moments of his beheading were engraved on her memory for the rest of her life. The sorrow was almost unsupportable. She thought of Saffron and knew she would never see her again. She held Amber close to her heart, but wondered if she would survive the disease that had already damaged her fragile body. She thought of the future that awaited them all, and gaped before her, like the black, insatiable maw of a monster.

There is no escape for any of us. As she thought it, there was an urgent shout from one of the crew. She looked about her as though she had been rudely awakened from a nightmare. The dhow had reached the middle of the river, and was sailing along on the light breeze. Now the entire crew was agitated. They crowded the weather rail, and gabbled at each other, pointing downstream.

A cannon boomed out across the water, then another. Soon every one of the Dervish guns were blazing away from both banks. Rebecca handed Amber to Nazeera and jumped to her feet. She gazed in the direction in which everybody was staring and her spirits lifted. All her dark fears and uncertainties fell away. Close at hand she saw the Union Flag of Great Britain flying bravely in the bright sunlight.

Quickly Rebecca pulled Amber to her feet, held her close and pointed downriver. Less than half a mile away a squadron of ships was steaming towards them down the middle of the channel. Their decks were crowded with British soldiers.

“They are coming to rescue us, Amber. Oh, look.” She turned Amber’s head. “Is it not the finest sight you have ever seen? The relief column has arrived.” Now, for the first time, she allowed herself to succumb to her tears. “We are safe, darling Amber. We are going to be safe.”

Penrod Ballantyne kept at a safe distance from the river as they rode the last few miles along the eastern bank of the Nile towards the smoke-hazed city of Khartoum on the horizon. Every mile they covered confirmed what was already a certainty in his mind. The flags on the tower of Mukran Fort were gone. Chinese Gordon had been overwhelmed. The city had fallen. The relief column was too late to save them.

He tried to arrive at some decision as to what he should do now. Every one of his calculations up to this point had depended on the survival of the city. Nowt there seemed to be no reason or logic in going on. He had seen a city captured and sacked by the Dervish. By the time he arrived the only living things inside the walls of Khartoum would be the crows and vultures.

But something drew him onwards. He tried to convince himself that this course of action was dictated by the fact that the doors behind him were shut. He had compounded the charge of insubordination that hung over him by disobeying Sir Charles Wilson’s direct orders to stay in the camp at Metemma. There seemed little merit in turning back now to face the court-martial with which Sir Charles Wilson would welcome his return.

“On the other hand, what merit is there in going forward?” he asked himself. There were others who might still be alive and in need of his assistance: General Gordon and David Benbrook, the twins and Rebecca. At last he was honest with himself. Rebecca Benbrook had loomed large in his consciousness ever since he had ridden away from Khartoum. She was probably the true reason he was there. He knew he must find out what had become of her, or for the rest of his life her memory would haunt him.

Suddenly he reined in his camel and cocked his head towards the river. The sound of gunfire was close and clear. It mounted swiftly from a few random shots to a full artillery barrage. “What is it?” he called to Yakub, who rode close behind him. “What are they shooting at now?”

There was a scattered grove of thorn acacia and palms growing along the bank, obscuring their view of the river. Penrod turned his camel and urged it into a gallop. They rode through the intervening belt of trees and came out abruptly on the bank of the Nile. A forlorn and desperate sight lay before him. The steamers of Wilson’s division were struggling upstream towards the city of Khartoum, whose skyline was clearly visible before them. From their mastheads they flew the red, white and blue Union Flag. Their decks were crammed with troops, but Penrod knew that between them they could not carry more than two or three hundred men. Most of the faces he could see through the lens of his telescope were those of Nubian infantrymen. There was a cluster of white officers on the bridge of the leading steamer. They all had their telescopes raised and were peering upstream. Even at this distance Penrod could pick out the tall, awkward figure of Wilson, his craggy features hidden by his large pith helmet.

“Too late, Charles the Timid,” Penrod whispered bitterly. “If you had done the right thing, as General Stewart and your officers urged, you might have been in time to tip the scales of Fate and save the lives of those unfortunates who waited ten months for you to come.”

The Dervish shot began falling more heavily around the little vessels,

and hordes of Arab cavalry came galloping down the banks from the direction of Omdurman and Khartoum to intercept the flotilla. The Dervish riders fired from the saddle as they kept pace with Wilson’s steamers.

“We must join them!” Penrod shouted to Yakub, and they raced forward to mingle with the Dervish. It was the perfect cover for them. They were soon lost in the dust and confusion of the Arab squadrons. Penrod and Yakub fired as enthusiastically as all the riders around them, but they aimed low so that their bullets whacked harmlessly into the river.

The surface of the water all around the two steamers was lashed by musketry, and the leaping fountains of spray kicked up by the Krupps guns. The white hulls were quickly pockmarked by the bullets that hammered against the steel plate. The thinner steel of the funnels was riddled with holes. Suddenly there was a louder explosion and a cloud of silver steam flew high into the sky above the second vessel. The Dervish riding around Penrod howled triumphantly, and brandished their weapons.

“One of the Krupps has hit her cleanly in the boiler,” Penrod lamented. “By all the gods of war, this day belongs to the Mahdi.”

With steam still erupting from her, the stricken vessel swung helplessly across the stream and began to drop back downriver. Almost immediately Wilson’s leading vessel slowed and turned back to render assistance, and the rest of the squadron followed him round.

The Arab riders with Penrod shouted threats and derision at the two vessels: “You cannot prevail against the forces of Allah!”

“Allah is One! The Mahdi is his chosen prophet. He is omnipotent against the infidel.”

“Return to Satan who is your father! Return to hell, which is your home!”

Penrod shouted with them, and exhibited the same jubilation, firing his rifle into the air, but inwardly his anger and contempt for Wilson seethed. What a fine excuse to break off your determined attack and betake your craven buttocks back to a comfortable chair on the veranda of the Gheziera Club in Cairo. I doubt, Sir Charles, that we shall be seeing much more of you in these latitudes.

In the hope that the crippled vessel would be carried on to the bank, hundreds of Dervish riders followed the squadron downstream, keeping up a rattling fusillade. The crews struggled to pass a towline between them. As the steamers drifted in towards the opposite bank, and out of rifle range, many riders gave up the chase and turned back towards Omdurman. Penrod moved along with them and his presence was unremarked in the effusive mood of victory and triumph. It took almost an hour to reach Omdurman. This gave him plenty of opportunity to listen in on many shouted conversations, all of which were discussions of the devastatingly successful night attack on Khartoum, led by the Emir Osman Atalan, and the subsequent sack and looting. At one point he overheard some discussing the captured white women whom they had taken to the Customs House in Khartoum.

They must be talking about Rebecca and the twins. His hopes were resuscitated. Apart from them there were hardly any white women remaining in Khartoum, except the nuns and the Austrian doctor from the leper colony. Please, God, let it be Rebecca they are speaking about. Even if that means she is a prisoner at least she has survived.”

Among the long, haphazard ranks of riders Penrod and Yakub rode into Omdurman. Yakub knew of a small caravanserai on the edge of the desert, which was run by an old man of the Jaalin tribe, a distant relative to whom he referred as Uncle. This man had often given him shelter and shielded him from the blood feud with the other powerful members of their tribe. Although he looked curiously at Penrod he asked no questions and placed at their disposal a filthy cell with one tiny high window. The only furniture was a rickety angareb covered with coarse sacking in which numerous blood-sucking insects had already set up home. They seemed to resent any human intrusion into their territory.

“To reward you for your service to me over the years, Yakub the Faithful, I shall allow you to sleep upon the bed while I make do with the floor. But tell me how much we can trust our host, this man Wad Hagma.”

“I think my uncle suspects who you are, for I told him once, long ago, that you were my lord. However, Wad Hagma is of my clan and blood. Although he has sworn the oath of Beia to the Mahdi, I believe he did so with his mouth only, not his heart. He would not betray us.”

“He has an evil cast in his eye, Yakub, but that seems to run in the family.”

By the time they had watered and fed the camels and penned them in to the kraal at the back of Wad Hagma’s caravanserai, darkness had fallen and they wandered into the sprawling warren of the holy city, seemingly without purpose but in reality to find some news of the Benbrook family. After dark Omdurman was still a holy city and under the Mahdi’s strict moral code. Nevertheless, they found a small number of dimly lit coffee shops. Some offered in the back rooms a hookah pipe and the company of a young, beautiful woman or, should their tastes lean in that direction, an even more beautiful boy.

“It has been my experience that in any foreign town the most reliable sources of information are always the women of pleasure.” Yakub volunteered his services.

“I know that your motives are praiseworthy, Yakub the virtuous. I am grateful for your self-sacrifice.”

“I lack only the few paltry coins required to perform this onerous task for you.”

Penrod pressed the room price into his hand, and ensconced himself in a dimly lit corner of the coffee shop from where he was able to eavesdrop on several conversations between the other clientele.

“I have heard that when Osman Atalan laid the head of Gordon Pasha at the feet of the Divine Mahdi the angel Gabriel appeared at his side and made the sign of sanctification over the head of the Mahdi,” said one.

“I heard it was two angels,” countered another.

“I heard it was two angels and the Messenger of Allah, the first Muhammad,” said a third.

“May he live at Allah’s right hand for ever,” said all three in unison.

So, Gordon is no more. Penrod sipped the viscous bitter coffee from the brass thimble, to cover his emotions. A brave man. He will be more at peace now than he ever was during his lifetime. A short while later, Yakub emerged from the back room looking pleased with himself. “She was not beautiful,” he confided in Penrod, ‘but she was friendly and industrious. She asked me to commend her efforts to her owner or he would beat her.”

“Yakub, saviour of ugly maidens, you did what was expected of you, did you not?” Penrod asked, and Yakub rolled one eye knowingly while the other remained focused on his master.

“Apart from that, what else did she tell you that might be of value to us?” Penrod could not refrain from smiling.

“She told me that early this afternoon, just after the infidel steamers were driven in confusion and ignominy back downriver by the ever-victorious Ansar of the Mahdi, may Allah love him for ever, a dhow brought five women captives across the river from Khartoum. They were in the charge of Ali Wad, an aggagier of the Jaalin who is well known hereabouts for his ferocity and his foul temper. Immediately on landing Ali Wad conveyed the captives to the zenana of Muhammad, the Mahdi, may Allah love him through eternity. The women have not been seen again, nor are they likely to be. The Mahdi keeps firm control of his property.”

“Did your obliging young friend notice if one of those captives had yellow hair?” Penrod asked.

“My friend, who is not particularly young, was less certain of that. The heads and faces of all the women were covered.”

“Then we must keep a watch on the palace of the Mahdi until we are certain that these women are who we hope they are,” Penrod told him.

“The women of the zenana are never permitted to leave their quarters,” Yakub pointed out. “Al-Jamal will never again be allowed to show herself beyond the gates.”

“Nevertheless you might learn something by watching patiently.”

Early next morning Yakub joined the large group of worshippers and petitioners who were always gathered at the gates of the Mahdi’s palace, ready to prostrate themselves before him when the Chosen One went to the mosque to lead the ritual prayers and deliver his sermons, which were not his words but the very words of Allah. This day, as was his custom, the Mahdi emerged punctually for the first prayers of the day, but so great was the press of humanity around him that Yakub caught only a glimpse of his embroidered kufi skullcap as he passed. Yakub followed him to the mosque, and after the prayers returned in his train to the palace. He followed this routine five times a day for the next three days, without receiving any confirmation of the existence or whereabouts of the women. On the third afternoon, as had become his habit, he settled down to wait again in the sparse shade of an oleander bush from where he could keep one eye on the palace gates. He was beginning to nod off in the somnolent heat when there was a light touch on his sleeve and a woman’s voice entreated him, “Noble and beloved warrior of God, I have clean sweet water to quench your thirst, and freshly roasted as ida flavoured with chilli sauce as fiery as the flames of hell, all for the very reasonable price of five copper pice.”

“May you please God, sister, for your offer pleases me.” The woman poured from the waters king into an enamelled tin mug, and spread sauce on a round of dhurra bread. As she handed these to him she said, in a low voice muffled by the head cloth that covered her face, “O faithless one, you swore a mighty oath that you would remember me for ever but you have forgotten me already.”

“Nazeera!” He was amazed.

“Dimwitted one! For three days I have watched you flaunt yourself before the eyes of your enemies and now you compound your idiocy by shouting my name aloud for all to hear.”

“You are the light of my life,” he told her. “I shall give thanks every day that you are well. What of your charges? Al-Jamal and her two little sisters, are they with you in the palace? My lord seeks to know these things.”

“They are alive, but their father is dead. We cannot talk here. After the afternoon prayers I shall be at the camel market. Look for me there.” Nazeera drifted away to offer her water and bread to others who waited at the gates.

As she had promised, he found her at the well in the centre of the camel market. She was drawing water in a large earthenware pitcher. Two other women lifted it and placed it on her head, Nazeera balanced it with one hand and set off across the marketplace. Yakub followed her closely enough to hear what she was saying, but not so close as to make it obvious that they were together.

“Tell your master that al-Jamal and al-Zahra are in the palace. They have been taken by the Mahdi as his concubines. Saffron escaped on the steamer of al-Sakhawi. I watched her go on board. Their father was beheaded by the Ansar. I saw it done.” Under the weight of the pitcher Nazeera moved with a straight back and rolling hips. Yakub watched the lively play of her buttocks with interest. “What are your master’s intentions?” she wanted to know.

“I think that his purpose is to rescue al-Jamal and carry her off as his woman.”

“If he thinks to accomplish this alone, he is touched by the sun. They will be discovered and both of them will die. Come here again tomorrow at the same time. There is someone else you must meet,” she told him. “Now, walk away and do not show yourself at the palace gates again.”

He turned aside to examine a string of camels that was being offered for sale, but from the corner of his eye he watched her go. She is a clever woman and skilled in the art of pleasing a man. Tis a pity she does not confine her affections to just one of us, he mused.

The following day Yakub was at the camel market again at the same hour. It took him some time to find Nazeera. She had changed her costume to that of a Bedouin woman, and she was cooking at a charcoal brazier. He might not have recognized her had she not called to him: “Roasted locusts, lord, fresh from the desert. Sweet and juicy.” He took a seat on the stump of acacia wood that had been placed by the fire as a stool. Nazeera brought him a handful of locusts she had crisped on the brazier. “The one I spoke of is here,” she said softly.

He had taken little notice of the man who sat on the opposite side of the fire. Although he was dressed in a jibba and carried a sword he was too plump and well fed to be an aggagier. In place of a man’s beard his chin was adorned with only a few wisps of curly hair. Now Yakub looked at him with more attention, and then, with a thrill of jealous anger, he recognized him. “Bacheet, why are you not cheating honest men with your shoddy goods, or prodding their wives with your inconsequential member?” he said coldly.

“Ah, Yakub of the quick knife! How many throats have you ‘slit recently?” Bacheet’s tone was every bit as chilled.

“From where I sit yours looks soft enough to tempt me.”

“Stop this childish squabbling,” said Nazeera sternly, although she found it more than a little flattering that she could still be at the centre of such rivalry for her waning charms. “We have important things to discuss. Bacheet, tell him what you have already told me.”

“My master, al-Sakhawi, and I escaped from Khartoum on his steamer, the night that the Dervish attacked and captured the city. We found the girl-child, Filfil, and took her with us. Once we were clear of the city, we moored the steamer in the Lagoon of the Little Fish. My master sent me back here to seek out al-Jamal. However, he can tarry no longer at the lagoon. The Dervish are diligently searching both banks of the river for him, and within a short while they will surely find him. He is forced to flee further up the Blue Nile into the kingdom of the Emperor John of Abyssinia where he is known and respected as a trader. When he is secure there he will be able to make careful plans for the rescue of al-Jamal and al-Zahra. My master is not yet aware that you and your master are here in Omdurman, but when I bring him this news I know that he will wish to join his efforts with your master’s to achieve the rescue of the two white women.”

“Your master is called al-Sakhawi for his generosity and liberality. It is rumoured that his courage surpasses that of a buffalo bull, although no man has ever seen him fight. Now you tell me that this renowned warrior intends to run away and leave two helpless women to their fate. On the other hand, I know that Abadan Riji will remain here in Omdurman until he has procured their escape from the blood-drenched clutches of the Mahdi,” Yakub said scornfully.

“Ha, Yakub, how edifying to hear you talk of blood-drenched clutches,” said Bacheet smoothly. He stood up to his full height and sucked in his belly. “The yapping of a puppy must not be mistaken for the baying of the hound,” he said mysteriously. “If Abadan Riji wishes the assistance of al-Sakhawi in arranging the rescue of al-Jamal, he may desire to send a message to my master. He can do so through Ras Hailu, an Abyssinian grain trader from Gondar whose dhows trade regularly downriver to Omdurman. Ras Hailu is a trusted friend and partner of my master. I will not waste more breath and time in arguing with you. Stay with God.”

Bacheet turned his back on Yakub and stalked away.

“You are like a small boy, Yakub. Why do I allow you to waste my time and breath?” Nazeera asked the sky. “Bacheet was speaking good sense. It will need more than reckless courage to lift my girls from the zenana of the Mahdi, and to carry them thousands of leagues across the desert to safety. You will need money to place as bribes within the palace, more money to buy camels and provisions, still more money to arrange relays along your escape road. Does your master have that much money? I think not. Al-Sakhawi does, and he also has the patience and brains that your master lacks. Yet in your arrogance and conceit you turn away the offer of assistance that will certainly make the difference between success and failure in your master’s enterprise.”

“If al-Sakhawi is a man of such merit and virtue, why do you not marry your beloved al-Jamal to him, rather than to my master, Abadan Riji?” Yakub demanded angrily.

“That is the first sensible thing you have said all day,” Nazeera agreed.

“Are you against us? Will you not help us to free these women? Knowing how much I love you, Nazeera, will you turn me away in favour of that beardless creature, Bacheet?” Yakub assumed a piteous expression.

“I am newly arrived in Omdurman. I know very few people in this city. I have no way to enter upon the pathways of power and influence. There is little in which I can help you. One thing only is certain. I will not risk the lives of the two girls I love to some wild and reckless scheme. If you want me to give you what help I can, you must work out a plan that has more chance of success than of failure. It must be a plan that above all, takes into account their safety.” Nazeera began to pack up her pots and dishes. “It must be a plan in which I can place my trust. When you have made such a plan, you can find me here every sacred Friday morning.”

“Nazeera, will you tell al-Jamal that my master is here in Omdurman, and that soon he will rescue her?”

“Why would I kindle false hope in her heart, which has already been broken by her captivity, the death of her father, the loss of her little sister Fifil, and the sickness of her other sister al-Zahra?”

“But my master loves her and will lay down his own life for her, Nazeera.”

“As he also loves the woman Bakhita and fifty others like her. I do not care if he lays down his life for her, but I will not let her lay down her life for him. Have you never seen a woman stoned to death for adultery, Yakub? That is what will happen to al-Jamal if your plans fail. The Mahdi is a man without mercy.” She tied a cloth round her dishes and lifted it on to her head. “Come to me again only when you have something sensible to discuss with me.” Nazeera walked away, balancing the parcel gracefully on her head.

How much money do you have?” asked Yakub’s putative uncle, Wad Hagma. Penrod looked into his guileless eyes and replied with a question. “How much will you need?”

Wad Hagma pursed his lips while he considered. ‘I will have to bribe my friends in the Mahdi’s palace to clear the way and they are important men whom I cannot insult with a paltry sum. Then I will have to find and pay for the extra camels to carry so many people. I must provide fodder and provisions along the road, pay the guards at the border. All this will cost a great deal, but of course I will take nothing for my own trouble. Yakub is like a son to me, and his friends are my friends also.”

Of course, he does this willingly and without thought of his own rewards.” Yakub endorsed his uncle’s altruistic intentions. They were sitting together by the small fire in the soot-blackened lean-to kitchen of the caravanserai, and eating the stew of mutton, wild onions and chilli. Considering the insalubrious surroundings in which it had been cooked and the-venerable age of the flyblown ingredients, the dish was tastier than Penrod had expected.

‘I am grateful to Wad Hagma for his assistance, but my question was, how much does he need?” It was only as a last resort that Penrod had agreed to enlist the assistance of the uncle in his plans. Yakub had convinced him that Wad Hagma knew many of the Mahdi’s entourage and members of his palace household. With his uncle to help them, Yakub had considered it unnecessary to bring to his master’s attention the offer of assistance conveyed by Bacheet on behalf of his own master, al-Sakhawi. In any case, his animosity towards Bacheet was so deep that he could not bring himself to do anything that might redound to his rival’s credit or profit. He had refrained from mentioning to Penrod his meeting with Bacheet.

“It will not be less than fifty English sovereigns,” Wad Hagma said, in a tone of deep regret, watching Penrod’s reaction.

“That is a small fortune!” Penrod protested.

Wad Hagma was encouraged to be dealing with a man who considered fifty sovereigns only a small fortune, rather than an extremely large one, so he immediately raised the bidding. “Alas, it could be a great deal more,” he said lugubriously. “However, the fate of these poor females has touched my heart and Yakub is dearer to me than any son. You are a mighty man and famous. I will do my best for you. In God’s Name I swear this!”

“In God’s Name!” Yakub agreed automatically.

“I will give you ten pounds now,” said Penrod, ‘and more when you show your intent in deeds rather than in fine words.”

“You will see that the promises of Wad Hagma are like the mountain of Great Ararat, on which the ark of Noah came to rest.”

“Yakub will bring the money to you tomorrow.” Penrod did not want to reveal where he kept his purse. They finished the meal and wiped the last drops of gravy from the bottom of the dishes with scraps of dhurra bread. Penrod thanked the uncle and wished him goodnight, then he signed to Yakub to follow him. They walked out into the desert.

“There are already too many people in Omdurman who know who we are. It will be unsafe to stay any longer in your uncle’s house. From now onwards we will sleep every night at a different place. Nobody must be able to follow our movements. We must see but never be seen.”

It was some months after she had been confined in the zenana before the Mahdi took any further notice of Rebecca. Then he sent her and Amber new wardrobes of clothing. Amber received three simple cotton dresses and light sandals. Rebecca was sent apparel of a more elaborate but modest design, as befitted a concubine of Allah’s prophet.

The clothes were a welcome distraction from the boredom of the harem. By this time Amber had recovered sufficiently from her illness to take an active interest, and they tried on the dresses and showed them off to Nazeera and to each other.

The zenana was an enclosure the size of a small village. There was only one gate in the ten-foot-high wall of mud-brick that surrounded the hundreds of thatched huts that housed all the Mahdi’s wives and concubines, the slaves and servants who attended them. The women were fed from the communal kitchen, but it was a monotonous diet of dhurra and river fish fried in ghee, clarified butter, and blindingly hot chilli. With so many mouths to feed, the Mahdi obviously believed that some economies were called for.

Those women who had a little money of their own could buy additional provisions and delicacies from the female vendors who were allowed within the walls of the zenana for a few hours each morning. From her hoard of coins Nazeera bought legs of mutton, thick cuts of beef, calabashes of soured milk, and onions, pumpkins, dates and cabbage. They cooked these in the small fenced yard behind the thatched hut that AH Wad had had his men build for them. On this nourishing diet their bony bodies, the legacy of the long siege, filled out, the colour returned to their cheeks and the sparkle to their eyes. Twice during this time Nazeera had returned secretly at night to the ruins of the British consular palace across the river in the abandoned city of Khartoum. On the first visit she had brought back not only money but David Benbrook’s journal.

Rebecca had spent days reading it. It was almost as though she was listening to his voice again, except that on these pages he was expressing ideas and feelings she had not heard before. Between the sheets she discovered her father’s last will and testament, signed ten days before his death and witnessed by General Charles Gordon. His estate was to be divided in equal shares between his three daughters, but kept in trust by his lawyer in Lincolns Inn, a gentleman named Sebastian Hardy, until they reached the age of twenty-one. Newbury was as remote as the moon, and the chance of any of them returning there was so slim that she paid scant heed to the document and placed it back between the pages of the journal.

She read on through her father’s closely written but elegant script, often smiling and nodding, sometimes laughing or weeping. When she reached the end she found that several hundred pages remained empty in the thick book. She detefmined to continue with his account of family joys and tragedies. When next Nazeera crossed the river Rebecca asked her to find her father’s writing materials.

Nazeera returned with pens, spare nibs and five bottles of best-quality Indian ink. She brought also more money and some small luxuries that had been overlooked by the looters. Among these items was a large looking-glass in a tortoiseshell frame.

“See how beautiful you are, Becky.” Amber held up the mirror so they could both admire the long dress of silk and silver thread that the Mahdi had sent her. “Will I ever look like you?”

“You are already far more beautiful than I am, and you will grow more so every day.”

Amber reversed the mirror and studied her own face. “My ears are too big, and my nose too flat. My chest looks like a boy’s.”

“That will change, believe me.” Rebecca hugged her. “Oh, it’s so good to have you well again.” With the resilience of the young, Amber had put most of the recent horrors behind her. Rebecca had allowed her to read their father’s journal. This had helped her recovery, and alleviated the terrible mourning she had undergone for him and Saffron. Now she was able to reminisce about the happy times they had all spent together. She was also taking a more active interest in their alien surroundings and the circumstances in which they now found themselves. Using her natural charm and attractive personality she struck up acquaintances with some of the other women and children of the zenana. With the money that Nazeera brought home, there was enough for her to take small gifts to the most needy of the other women. She was soon a favourite in the zenana with many new friends and playmates.

Even Ali Wad softened under her warm, sunny influence. This forbidding warrior had renewed the intimate friendship with Nazeera that they had once enjoyed. On many occasions recently Nazeera had left their hut immediately after they had eaten the evening meal, and only returned at dawn. Amber explained her nocturnal absences to Rebecca. “You see, poor Ali Wad has a bad back. He was unhorsed in battle. Now Nazeera has to straighten his back for him to stop the pain. She is the only one who knows how to do it.”

Rebecca alleviated her boredom by attempting to bring some order into the social and domestic chaos she found all around them. First, she concerned herself with the lack of hygiene that prevailed in the zenana. Most of the women were from the desert and had never been forced to live in such crowded conditions before. All rubbish was simply tossed outside the doors of the huts, to be scavenged by crows, rats, ants and stray dogs. There were no latrines and everybody answered the call of nature wherever they happened to be when they received it. To navigate the labyrinth of pathways between the huts required nimble footwork to dodge the odoriferous brown mounds that dotted open ground. For Rebecca the final provocation was coming upon two small naked boys competing to see which could urinate across the opening of the single well that supplied water to the entire zenana. Neither competitor was able to reach the far side and their puny streams tinkled into the depths of the well.

Rebecca, with the backing of Nazeera, prevailed on Ali Wad to set his men to dig communal earth latrines and deep pits in which the rubbish could be burned and buried, and to make sure that the women used them. Then she and Nazeera visited the mothers whose offspring were wasting away with dysentery and the occasional bout of cholera. Rebecca had remembered the name of the monastery from which Ryder had obtained the cholera powder, and Nazeera persuaded Ali Wad to send three of his men to Abyssinia to fetch fresh supplies of the medicine. Until they returned, the women used what remained of Ryder

Courtney’s gift sparingly and judiciously to save the lives of some infants. This earned them the reputation of infallibility as physicians. The women obeyed when they ordered them to boil the well water before they gave it to the children or drank it themselves. Their efforts were soon rewarded, and the epidemic of dysentery abated.

All of this kept Rebecca’s mind from the threat that hung over them. They lived close to death. The smell of bloating human bodies wafted over the enclosure and their nostrils soon accepted this as commonplace. In the zenana Rebecca and Nazeera prevailed upon AH Wad to enforce the Islamic custom: the bodies of the cholera victims and those who died of other illness were removed by his men and buried the same day. However, they had no control over the execution ground, which was separated from the zenana by only the boundary wall.

A line of eucalyptus trees grew along the back wall of the zenana. The children and even some of the women climbed into the branches whenever the braying of the ombeya horns announced another execution. From this viewpoint they overlooked the gallows and the beheading ground. One morning Rebecca even caught Amber in the branches, watching in white-faced and wide-eyed fascination as a young woman was stoned to death not more than fifty paces from where she was perched. She dragged Amber back to their hut, and threatened to thrash her if she ever found her climbing the trees again.

Yet her first thought when Rebecca awoke each morning was the dread that this day the summons from the Mahdi to attend him in his private quarters of the palace would be delivered. The arrival of the gift of clothing made the threat more poignant.

She did not have long to wait. Four days later AH Wad came to inform her of her first private audience with the Chosen One. Nazeera delayed the inevitable by pleading that her charge was stricken by her moon sickness. This excuse could work only once, however, and AH Wad returned a week later. He warned them that he would come back later to fetch Rebecca.

In the small screened yard at the back of their hut Nazeera undressed Rebecca, stood her naked on a reed mat and poured pitchers of heated water over her head. It was perfumed with myrrh and sandalwood that she had bought in the market. It was well known that the Mahdi detested unclean odours. Then she dried her and anointed her with attar of lotus flowers and dressed her in one of her new robes. At last AH Wad came to escort her to the presence of the Chosen One.

Nothing was as Rebecca had expected. There was no grand furnishing or tapestries, no marble tiles upon the floor, no tinkling water fountains. Instead she found herself on an open roof terrace furnished only with a few quite ordinary angarebs and a scattering of Persian rugs and cushions. Instead of the mighty Mahdi alone, three men were reclining on the angarebs. She was taken aback and uncertain of what was expected of her, but the Mahdi beckoned to her. “Come, al-Jamal. Sit here.” He indicated the pile of cushions at the foot of his bed. Then he went on talking to the other men. They were discussing the activities of the Dervish slavers along the upper reaches of the Nile, and how this trade could be increased tenfold now that Gordon Pasha and his strange Frankish aversion to the trade was no more.

Although she hung her head demurely, as Nazeera had cautioned her to do, Rebecca was able to study the other two men through her half closed lashes. The Khalifa Abdullahi frightened her, though she could barely admit it to herself. He had the cold and implacable presence of a venomous snake; an image of the sleek, glittering mamba came to her mind. She shivered and looked to the third man.

This was the first opportunity she had had to study the Emir Osman Atalan closely. During their first meeting she had been too immersed in the game of survival for herself and Amber that she had played out with the Mahdi. Of course, since she had been in the zenana she had heard the other women discussing his reputation as a warrior. Since his final victory over Gordon Pasha, Osman was now the senior commander of the Dervish army. In power and influence with the Mahdi he ranked only below the Khalifa Abdullahi.

Now she was able to watch him from the corner of her eye and found him interesting. She had not realized that an Arab man could be so handsome. His skin did not have the usual dingy umber tone and his beard was lustrous and wavy. His eyes were dark, but sharp and alert with stars of light in their depths, like jewels of polished black coral. In contrast his teeth were very white and even. It seemed to Rebecca that he was in a jubilant mood, waiting for the first opportunity to deliver some important tidings to the others.

The Mahdi must also have sensed his eagerness, for at last he turned his smile upon him. “We have spoken of the south, but tell me now what news you have from the north of my domains. What do you hear of the infidels who have invaded my borders?”

“Mighty Mahdi, the news is good. Within the last hour a carrier-pigeon has arrived from Metemma. The last infidel crusaders who dared to march on your cities and attempt to rescue Gordon Pasha have fled from your sacred lands like a pack of mangy hyenas before the wrath of a great black-maned lion. They have abandoned the steamers that brought them to Khartoum, and which you and your ever-victorious army damaged and drove away. They have fled back past Wadi Haifa into Egypt. They have been vanquished, and will never again set foot upon your territories. All of Sudan is indisputably yours and, at your command, your ever-victorious army stands ready to bring more vast territory under your sway, and to spread your divine words and teachings to all the world. May Allah always love and cherish you.”

“All thanks is due to Allah, who promised me these things,” said the Mahdi. “He has told me many times that Islam will flourish in Sudan for a thousand years, and all the monarchs and rulers of the world will relinquish their infidel ways and become my vassals, trusting in my benevolence and placing their faith in the one true God and his Prophet.”

“Praise be to God in his infinite power and wisdom,” said the others fervently.

The news of the withdrawal of the British army from the Sudan was devastating to Rebecca. Despite the fall of Khartoum and the repulse of the British river steamers, she had cherished a tiny flame of hope that one day soon British soldiers would march into Omdurman and they would be freed. That flame was cruelly snuffed out. She and Amber would never escape this smiling monster who now owned them, body and soul. She tried to fight back the dark despair that threatened to overwhelm her.

I must endure, she told herself, not only for my own sake but for Amber’s. No matter the price I am forced to pay, no matter the obscene and unnatural practices forced upon me, I must survive.

With a start she realized that the Mahdi was speaking to her. Although she felt dizzy with grief she gathered her courage and gave him her full attention.

“I wish to send a letter to your ruler,” he told her, “You will write it for me. What material do you need?” Rebecca was startled by this demand. She had expected to be roughly handled and treated as a harlot, not as a secretary. But she gathered her wits and told him her requirements. The Mahdi struck the brass gong beside the bed. A vizier scurried up the stairs and prostrated himself before his master. He listened to the orders he was given and backed away down the stairs, chanting the Mahdi’s praises. In a short while he returned with three house slaves carrying a writing cabinet that had been looted from the Belgian consulate. They placed it front of Rebecca, and because the sun was setting and the daylight fading, they placed four oil lamps around her to light her work.

“Write in your own language the words I will tell you. What is your queen’s name? I have heard that your country is ruled by a woman.”

“She is Queen Victoria.”

The Mahdi paused to compose his thoughts and then he dictated: ‘“Victoria of England, know you that it is I, Muhammad, the Mahdi, the messenger of God who speaks to you. Foolishly you have sent your crusader armies against my might, for you did not know that I am under the divine protection of Allah, and therefore must always triumph in battle. Your armies have been vanquished and scattered like chaff on the winds. Your powers in this world have been destroyed. Therefore I declare you to be my slave and my vassal.” He paused again, and told Rebecca, “Be certain that you write only what I tell you. If you add anything else I will have you thrashed.”

“I understand your words. I am your creature, and I would never presume to disobey your lightest wish.”

“Then write this to your queen. “You have acted in ignorance. You did not know that my words and thoughts are the words of God Himself. You know nothing of the True Faith. You do not understand that Allah is one God alone, and that Muhammad, the Mahdi, is his true Prophet. Unless you make full recompense for your sins you will boil for ever in the waters of hell. Give thanks that Allah is compassion’ ate, for he has told me that if you come immediately to Omdurman and prostrate yourself before me, if you place yourself and all your armies and all your peoples under my thrall, if you lay all your wealth and substance at my feet, if you renounce your false gods and bear witness that Allah is one and that I am his prophet, then you shall be forgiven. I will take you to wife, and you will give me many fine sons. I will spread my wings of protection over you. Allah will set aside a place for you in Paradise. If you defy this summons your nation will be cast down, and you will burn for all of eternity in the fires of hell. It is I, Muhammad, the Mahdi, who orders these things. They are not my words, but the words that God has placed in my mouth.”

The Mahdi sat back, pleased with his composition, and made the chopping sign with his right hand to show that he had finished.

“This is a masterpiece that you have created,” said Khalifa Abdullahi. “It gives voice to the power and majesty of God. Your words should be embroidered on your banner for all the world to read, and to believe.”

“It is plain that these are the very words of Allah delivered through your mouth,” agreed Osman Atalan, gravely. “I give thanks eternally that I have been privileged to hear them spoken aloud.”

If it ever becomes known that I wrote this traitorous nonsense, Rebecca thought, I will be locked in the Tower of London for the rest of my days. She did not look up from the page but, trusting that no other person in Omdurman could read English, she added a final sentence of her own: “Written under extreme duress by Rebecca

Benbrook, the daughter of the British Consul David Benbrook who was murdered along with General Gordon by the Dervish. God save the Queen.” It was worth the risk, not only to excuse herself but to send a message to the civilized world of her predicament.

She sanded the page and handed it to the Mahdi, with lowered eyes. “Holy One, is this as you wished?” she whispered humbly. He took it from her and she watched his eyes move up the page from the lower right-hand corner to the top left, in the inverse direction. With a rush of relief she realized he was trying to read the Roman letters as though they were Arabic script. He would never be able to decipher what she had written. She was certain he would not admit this and show it to another person for translation.

“It is as I wished.” He nodded, and she had to stifle an instinctive sigh of relief. He handed the sheet of paper to Kalifa Abdullahi. “Seal this missive and make sure that it is delivered with all despatch to the Khedive in Cairo. He will send it onwards to this queen, whom I will take as my wife.” He made a gesture of dismissal. “Now you may leave me, as I wish to disport myself with this woman.”

They rose, made obeisance and backed away to the staircase.

With a sharp surge of fear Rebecca found herself alone with God’s prophet. She knew that her hands were trembling and she clenched them into fists to keep them still.

“Come closer!” he ordered, and she rose from her seat at the writing cabinet and went to kneel before him. He stroked her hair and his touch was surprisingly gentle. “Are you an albino?” he asked. “Or are there many women in your country with hair this colour, and eyes as blue as the cloudless sky?”

“In my country I am one of many,” she assured him. “I am truly sorry if it does not please you.”

“It pleases me well.” In front of him as he sat on the angareb her eyes were at the same level as his waist. Beneath the brilliant white cloth of his jibba she saw his body stir: the extraordinary masculine tumescence that she still found incomprehensible a distinct creature with a life of its own.

His tam my is waking up, she thought, and almost giggled at the absurdity of the prophet of God with a tam my between his legs, just like other men less divine. She realized how close she was to succumbing to hysteria and, with an effort, she controlled herself.

“I can see the lamplight through your flesh.” The Mahdi took her earlobe between his fingers and turned it to catch the beam of the lamp, admiring the pink luminosity of light that shone through. She blushed with embarrassment and he remarked the change immediately. “You are like a little chameleon. Your skin changes colour in tune with your moods. That is remarkable, but enticing.” He took her earlobe between his teeth and bit it, hard enough to make her gasp but not enough to break the skin or draw blood. Then he sucked on the lobe, like an infant at the breast. She was unprepared for her body’s reaction. Despite herself she felt the heightened sensitivity of her nipples rubbing against the silk of her bodice.

“Ah!” He noticed her inadvertent response, and smiled. “All women are different, but also the same.” He cupped one of her breasts in his hand and pinched the engorging nipple. She gasped again. He sat back on his haunches and unfastened the front of her bodice. He seemed in no hurry. Like a skilled groom with a nervous filly, he moved with gentle deliberation so as not to startle her.

She realized he was highly skilled in the amorous arts. Well, he has had much practice, hundreds of concubines. She set herself to remain aloof and unmoved by his expertise. But when he lifted out one of her breasts from the opening of her bodice, and bit her nipple as he had her earlobe, with a tender sharpness that forced another gasp from her lips, she found her good resolution wavering. She tried to ignore the ripples of pleasure that radiated from her nipple through her body. When she started to pull away he held her with a light pressure of his teeth. The pleasant sensation was piqued by guilt and the conviction that what was happening was sinful. Not for the first time in her short life she realized that sin, as much as sanctity, held its own peculiar attraction. I do not want this to happen, she thought, but I am helpless to prevent it.

His mouth wandered over her breast, his lips kneading and plucking at her flesh, his tongue slithering and probing. She felt her sex melting, and the shame receded. She began to itch with a strange impatience. She needed something more to happen but she was not sure what.

“Stand up!” he said, and for a moment she did not understand the words. “Stand up!” he ordered, more sharply. She rose slowly to her feet. Her bodice was still open and one breast bulged free. He smiled up at her as she stood over him, his smile sweet and almost saintly.

“Disrobe!” he ordered. She hesitated, and his smile faded. “At once!” he said. “Do as I tell you.”

She slipped the robe off her shoulders, and let it drop as far as her waist. He looked at her, and his eyes seemed to caress her skin. A light rash of goose pimples rose round her nipples. He reached out and drew the fingernail of his right forefinger over it, scratching the skin lightly. Her knees felt as though they might give way under her. Although she had known all along that this must happen, she felt her shame return powerfully. She was an English woman and a Christian. He was an Arab and a Muslim. It flew in the face of all her training and beliefs.

“Disrobe!” he repeated. Her dilemma was insoluble, until her father’s words, which she had so recently read in his journal, returned to her: “One must always bear in mind that this is a savage and pagan country. We should not seek to judge these peoples by the standards that apply at home. Behaviour that would be considered outlandish and even criminal in England is commonplace and normal here. We should never forget this, and make allowance for it.”

Daddy wrote that for me! she thought. She hung her head demurely. “No man has ever laid eyes on what lies beneath this silk.” Shyly she touched the swelling of her own pudenda beneath the cloth. “But if you will remove my covering I will know that it is the Hand of Allah and not of a common man that does so. Then will I rejoice.”

Unwittingly she had hit upon the perfect response. She had abrogated the responsibility to him. She had placed herself in his power, and she could see that in doing so she had pleased him inordinately.

He reached out again and slipped the dress down over the bulge of her hips. As it fell round her ankles, Rebecca cupped her hands over her Mount of Venus. He did not protest at this last demonstration of modesty. It was what he expected of a true virgin, but he said softly, “Turn.” She revolved slowly and felt one of his fingers trace the curve of her buttock where it met the back of her thigh.

“So soft, so white, but touched with pink, like a cloud at dawn with the first ray of sunrise upon it.” With the touch and pressure of his finger he guided her, inducing-her to lean over with straight legs until her forehead almost touched her knees. She felt his warm breath on the back of her legs as he brought his face closer to examine her. Again his finger insisted and she moved her feet wider apart. She could feel his gaze, directed deeply into her most secret places. He was seeing things that no other person, nurse, parent, lover or herself, had ever laid eyes upon. In this respect she was truly a virgin. She knew she should resent this minute examination of her body, but she was too far gone, too deeply under his influence. He was possessing her with his dark, hypnotic gaze.

“Three things in this world are insatiable,” the Mahdi murmured. “The desert, the grave and the quimmy of a beautiful woman.” He turned her back to face him again, and gently removed her hands, which still covered her mount. He touched her pubes. “Surely this is not hair but spun thread of gold. It is silk and gossamer and soft morning sunlight.”

His admiration was so manifest and poetically expressed that she welcomed rather than resented his touch as he gently parted the outer lips of her sex. Of her own accord and without his further guidance she moved her feet apart.

“You must never pluck yourself here,” he said. “I grant you special dispensation not to do so. This silk is too beautiful and precious to be discarded.”

The Mahdi took her hands, drew her down beside him on the angareb and laid her on her back. He lifted her knees and knelt between them. He lowered his face, and she was amazed as she realized what he was about to do to her. Nazeera had not warned her of this. She had believed that it would be the other way about.

What happened next exceeded her furthest imaginings. His skill was sure, his instinct faultless. She felt as though she were being devoured. As though she were dying and being reborn. In the end she cried out as if in mortal anguish and fell back on the angareb. She was bathed in perspiration and trembling. She was deprived of the powers of thought or movement. She seemed to have become merely a receptacle of overpowering bodily sensations. It seemed to last for an age, before at last the spasms and contractions deep within her stilled and she heard his whisper. Although his lips were at her ear, it seemed to come from far away. “Like the desert and the grave.” He laughed softly. She lay for a long time, rousing herself only when she felt him begin to caress her again. When she opened her eyes she discovered to her mild surprise, that, like her, he was naked. She sat up and leant on one elbow looking down on him. He was lying on his back. After what he had done to her, all sense of modesty and shame had been expunged. She found herself examining him with almost as much attention as he had lavished on her. The first thing that struck her was that he was almost devoid of hair. His body was soft and almost feminine, not hard and muscled like Penrod’s or Ryder’s. Her eyes went down to his tam my Although it stuck up stiffly, it was small, smooth and unmarred by ropes of blue veins. The circumcised head was bare and glossy. It looked childlike and innocent. It evoked an almost maternal feeling in her.

“It’s so pretty!” she exclaimed, and was immediately frightened that he would find the description effeminate and derogatory, that he might take it as an insult to his masculinity. She need not have worried. Once again her instinct had been correct. He smiled at her. Then she remembered Nazeera’s advice: “Master and Lord, would it give you offence if I presumed to do to you as you were gracious enough to do to me? For me it would be an undreamed-of honour.” He smiled until the gap between his front teeth was fully exposed.

At first she was clumsy and uncertain. He seemed to regard this as more evidence of her virginity. He started to direct her. When she was doing what pleased him, he encouraged her with murmurs and whispers and stroked her head. When she became over-enthusiastic, he restrained her with a light touch. She became absorbed in the task, and her reward was a gratifying sense of power and control over him, however fleeting it might be. Gradually he urged her to increase the tempo of her movements, until suddenly he gave her complete and undeniable proof that she had pleased him. For a moment she was at a loss as to what to do next. Then she remembered that Nazeera had advised her to swallow quickly and have done..

Like a barbellate catfish in the muddy waters of the Nile, Penrod Ballantyne allowed himself to be absorbed into the teeming byways, alleys and hovels of Omdurman. He became invisible. He changed his costume and appearance almost daily, becoming a camel herdsman, a humble beggar or a nodding, drooling idiot almost at will. Yet he knew that he could not remain in the town indefinitely without drawing attention to himself. So, for weeks on end he left the sprawling city. Once he found employment as a drover with a camel dealer taking his beasts downriver to trade them in the small villages along the banks. On another he joined the crew of a trading dhow, plying up the Blue Nile to the Abyssinian border.

When he returned to Omdurman he made it a rule never to sleep twice in the same place. On the warning of Yakub he did not attempt to make direct contact with Nazeera or anyone else who knew his true identity. He communicated with Wad Hagma only through Yakub.

The preparations for Rebecca’s rescue were long drawn-out, seemingly interminable. Wad Hagma encountered many obstacles, all of which could only be surmounted with money and patience. Every time Yakub brought a message to Penrod it was for more cash to buy camels, hire guides or bribe guards and petty officials. Gradually the contents of Penrod’s once-heavy money belt were whittled down. Weeks became months, and he fretted and fumed. Many times he considered making his own arrangements for a lightning raid to snatch the captives and run with them for the Egyptian border. But by now he knew just how futile that would be. The zenana of the Mahdi was impenetrable without inside help, and daily the Dervish were exerting more control and restrictions on strangers entering or leaving Omdurman. Alone Penrod was able to move around with relative freedom, but with a party of women it would be almost impossible unless the way had been carefully prepared.

At last he discovered a small cave in a limestone outcrop in the desert a few miles beyond the town. This had once been the haunt of a religious hermit. The old man had been dead for some years, but the spot had such an unhealthy reputation among the local people that Penrod felt reasonably secure in taking it over. There was a tiny water seep at the back of the cave, just sufficient for the needs of one or two persons, and for the small herd of goats he purchased from a shepherd he met on the road. Penrod used the animals to support his disguise as a desert herder. From the cave back to Omdurman was a journey on foot of a mere two or three hours. Thus he was always in contact with Yakub, who rode out at night to bring him a little food and the latest news from his uncle.

Often Yakub stayed in the cave for a few days, and Penrod was glad of his company. He was unable to carry openly the European sword that Ryder Hardinge had given him at Metemma. It would attract too much attention. He buried it in the desert from where he would be able to retrieve it, and perhaps one day return it to Major Hardinge’s wife. He instructed Yakub to find him a Sudanese broadsword, then practised and exercised each day with it.

Whenever Yakub visited him they sparred in the wadi at the front of the cave where they were hidden from the eyes of a casual traveller or a wandering shepherd. Such was his skill that after half the day at practice Yakub disengaged their blades with the sweat dripping from his chin. “Enough, Abadan Riji!” he cried. “I swear, in the Name of God, that no man in this land can prevail against your blade. You have become a paragon of the long steel.”

They rested in the low mouth of the cave, and Penrod asked, “What word from your uncle?” He knew the news could not be good: if it had been Yakub would have given it to him immediately on his arrival.

“There was a vizier of the Mahdi with whom my uncle had come to an understanding and everything was at last in readiness. Three days ago the vizier fell foul of his master on another matter. He had stolen money from the treasury. On the Mahdi’s orders he was arrested and beheaded.” Yakub made a gesture of helplessness, then saw his master’s face darken with rage. “But do not despair. There is another man more reliable who is in direct charge of the zenana. He is willing.”

“Let me guess,” said Penrod. “Your uncle needs only fifty pounds more.”

“Nay, my lord.” Yakub was hurt by the suggestion. “He needs a mere thirty to seal the matter.”

“I will give him fifteen, and if all is not in readiness by this new moon at the latest, I will come to Omdurman to have further speech with him. When I arrive I will be carrying the long steel in my right hand.”

Yakub thought about this seriously for a while then replied, just as seriously, “It comes to me that my uncle will probably agree to your offer.”

Yakub’s instincts proved correct. Four days later he returned to the hermit’s cave. When he was still some way off he waved cheerfully and as soon as he was within hail he shouted, “Effendi, all is in readiness.”

As he came to where Penrod was waiting he slid down from the saddle of his camel, and embraced his master. “My uncle, so honest and trustworthy, has arranged everything as he promised. Al-Jamal, her little sister, and Nazeera will be waiting behind the old mosque at the river end of the execution ground three midnights hence. You should return to Omdurman earlier that day. It is best if you come alone and on foot, driving the goats before you in all innocence. I will meet you and the three women at the try sting place. I will bring six strong fresh camels all provisioned with waterskins, fodder and food. Then I, Yakub the intrepid, will guide you to the first meeting place with the next relay of camels. There will be five changes of animals along the road to the Egyptian border, so we will be able to ride like the wind. We will be gone before the Mahdi knows that his concubines are missing from the harem.”

They sat in the shade of the cave and went over every detail of the plans that Wad Hagma had laid out for Yakub. “Thus you will see, Abadan Riji, that all your money has been spent wisely, and that there was no reason to distrust my beloved uncle, who is a saint and a prince among men.”

Three days later, Penrod gathered up his few meagre possessions, slipped the sword in its scabbard down the back of his robe, wrapped the turban round his head and face, whistled up his goats and ambled off towards the river and the city. Yakub had give him a flute carved from a bamboo shoot, and over the months Penrod had taught himself to play it. The goats had become accustomed to him and they followed him obediently, bleating appreciatively whenever he struck up a tune.

He wanted to arrive on the outskirts of Omdurman an hour or so before sunset, but he was a little premature. Half a mile short of the first buildings he turned the goats loose to graze on the dried-out thorn scrub and settled down to wait beside the track. Although he wrapped himself in his robe and pretended to doze, he was wide awake. An old man leading a string of six donkeys loaded with firewood passed him.

Penrod continued to feign sleep, and after calling an uncertain greeting the old man walked on.

A short while later Penrod heard singing accompanied by the tapping of finger drums. He recognized the traditional country wedding songs, and then a large party of guests came along the road from the nearest village only a short distance to the south of the city. In their midst walked the bride. She was covered from head to foot with veils and the tinkling jewellery of gold and silver coins that formed part of her dowry. The guests and her male relatives were singing and clapping, and despite the Mahdi’s restrictions on these ceremonies, they were dancing, laughing and shouting ribald advice to her. When they saw Penrod squatting on the roadside they called to him, “Come on, old man. Leave your flea-bitten animals and join the fun.”

“There will be more food than you can eat, and perhaps even a sip of arak. Something you have not tasted for many years.” The man displayed a small waters king with a conspiratorial smirk.

Penrod answered them in a quavering unsteady voice: “I was married once myself, and I do not wish to see another innocent fellow take that same hard road.”

They roared with laughter.

“What a waggish old rascal you are.”

“You can give wise counsel to our doomed cousin in how best to appease a demanding woman.”

Then Penrod noticed that all the guests had the broad, overdeveloped shoulders of swordsmen, and despite their humble attire their swagger and strutting self-confidence was more that of aggagiers than cringing country oafs. He glanced down at the bare feet of the bride, all that was visible of her, and saw that they were broad and flat, not painted with henna, and that the toenails were ragged and broken.

Not the feet of a young virgin, Penrod thought. He reached over his shoulder and took a grip on the hilt of the sword concealed down the back of his robe. As his blade rasped from the scabbard he sprang to his feet, but the wedding guests had surrounded him. Penrod saw that they, too, had drawn weapons as they rushed at him from every direction. With surprise he realized that they were not edged blades but heavy clubs. He had little time to think about it before they were on him in a pack.

He killed the first with a straight thrust at the throat, but before he could disengage and recover, a blow from behind smashed into his shoulder and he felt the bone break. Still, he parried one-handed the next blow at his head. Then another hit him in the small of the back,

aimed at his kidneys, and his legs started to give way. He stayed upright just long enough to send a deep thrust into the chest of the man who had broken his shoulder. Then a great iron door slammed shut in the centre of his skull and darkness descended upon him like an ocean wave driven by the storm.

When Penrod regained consciousness he was uncertain where he was and what had happened to him. Close by where he lay, he heard a woman moaning and groaning in labour.

Why does not the stupid bitch hold her mouth, and have her brat elsewhere? he wondered. She should show some respect for my aching head. It must have been cheap liquor I drank last night. Then, suddenly, the pain ripped through the roof of his skull and he realized that the groans were issuing from his own dried-out mouth. He forced his eyes open against the pain and saw that he was lying on a mud floor in an evil-smelling room. He tried to raise his hand to touch his damaged head, but his arm would not respond. Instead a new shaft of agony tore through his shoulder. He tried to use the other hand for the job, but there was a clink, and he found that his wrists were fastened together with chains. He rolled over painfully and cautiously on to his good side.

Good is a relative term, he thought groggily. Every muscle and sinew of his body throbbed with agony. Somehow he pushed himself into a sitting position. He had to wait a moment for the blinding agony in his head, caused by the movement, to clear. Then he was able to assess his situation.

The chains on his wrists and ankles were slaving irons, the ubiquitous utensils of the trade across the country. His leg shackles were anchored to an iron stake driven into the middle of the dirt floor. The chain was short enough to prevent him reaching either the door or the single high window. The cell reeked of excrement and vomit, of which traces were scattered around him in a circle at the limit of the chain.

He heard a soft rustle nearby and looked down. A large grey rat was feeding on the few rounds of dhurra bread that had been left on the filthy floor at his side. He flicked the chain at it, and it fled, squeaking. Next to the bread was an earthenware pitcher, which made him realize how thirsty he was. He tried to swallow but there was no saliva in his mouth and his throat was parched. He reached for the pitcher, which was gratifyingly heavy. Before he drank he sniffed the contents suspiciously. He decided it was filled with river water and he could smell the woodsmoke from the fire over which it had boiled. He drank and then drank again.

I think I might yet survive, he decided wryly, and blinked back the pain in his head. He heard more movement and glanced up at the window. Someone was watching him through the bars, but the head disappeared immediately. He drank again, and felt a little better.

The door to the cell opened behind him and two men stepped in. They wore jib has and turbans, and their swords were unsheathed.

“Who are you?” Penrod demanded. “Who is your master?”

“You will ask no questions,” said one. “You will say nothing until ordered to do so.”

Another man followed them. He was older and greybearded, and he carried all the accoutrements of a traditional eastern doctor.

“Peace be upon you. May you please Allah,” Penrod greeted him. The doctor shook his head curtly, and made no reply. He set aside his bag, and came to stand over him. He palpated the large swelling on Penrod’s head, obviously feeling for any fracture. He seemed satisfied and moved on. Almost at once he noticed that Penrod was favouring his left side. He took hold of the elbow and tried to lift the arm. The pain was excruciating. Penrod managed to prevent himself crying out. He did not want to give the two interested guards that satisfaction, but his features contorted and sweat broke out across his forehead. The Arab doctor lowered the arm, and ran a hand over his biceps. When he pressed hard fingers into the site of the broken bone, Penrod gasped despite his resolution. The doctor nodded. He cut away the sleeve of Penrod’s galabiyya and strapped the shoulder with linen bandages. Then he folded and tied a sling to support the arm. The relief from pain was immediate.

“The blessing of Allah and his Prophet be upon you,” Penrod said, and the doctor smiled briefly.

From a small alabaster flask he poured a dark, treacly liquid into a horn cup, and gave it to Penrod. He drank it, and the taste was gall-bitter. Without having spoken a word the doctor repacked his bag and left. He returned the next day, and the four days that followed. On each visit the guards refilled the water pitcher and left a bowl of food: scraps of bread and sun-dried fish. During these visits neither the guards nor the doctor spoke; they did not acknowledge Penrod’s greetings and blessings.

The bitter potions that the doctor gave him sedated Penrod, and reduced the pain and swelling in his head and shoulder. After he had completed his examination on the fifth day the doctor looked pleased with himself. He readjusted the sling, but when Penrod asked for another dose of the medicine, he shook his head emphatically. When he left the cell, Penrod heard him speaking in a low voice to the guards. He could not catch the words.

By the following morning the effects of the drug had worn off, and his mind was clear and sharp. The arm was tender only when he tried to lift it. He tested himself for any concussion he might have suffered from the head blow, closing first one eye and then the other while he focused on the bars of the window. There was no distortion or any double vision. Then he began to exercise the injured arm, starting first by simply clenching his fist and bending the elbow. Gradually he was able to raise the elbow to the horizontal.

The visits from the taciturn doctor ceased. He took this as a favourable sign. Only his guards made brief visits to leave water and a little food. This left him much time to consider his predicament. He examined the locks on his shackles. They were crude but functional. The mechanism had been developed and refined over the centuries. Without a key or a pick he wasted no more time upon them. Next he turned his mind to deducing where he was. Through the lop-sided window he could see only a tiny section of open sky. He was forced to draw his conclusions from sounds and smells. He knew he was still in Omdurman: not only could he smell the stink of the uncollected rubbish and the dung heaps but in the evenings he caught a softer sweeter whiff of the waters of the river, and could even hear the faint calls of the dhow captains as they tacked and altered sail. Five times a day he heard the wailing cries of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer from the half-built tower of the new mosque, “Hasten to your own good! Hasten to prayer! Allah is great! There is no God but Allah.”

From these clues he pinpointed his position with a certain precision. He was about three hundred yards from the mosque, and half that distance from the riverbank. He was due east of the execution ground and therefore approximately the same distance from the Mahdi’s palace and harem. He could judge the direction of the prevailing wind from the occasional small high cloud that sailed past the window. When it was blowing the stench of rotting corpses from the execution ground was strong. This gave him a rough sense of triangulation. With a sinking sensation in his gut, he decided that he must be in the compound of the Beja tribesmen beside the Beit el Mai, the stronghold of his old enemy Osman Atalan. Next he had to consider how this had happened.

His first thought was that Yakub had betrayed him. He wrestled with this theory for days, but could not persuade himself to accept it. I have trusted my life too many times to that squint-eyed rascal to doubt him now, he thought. If Yakub has sold me to the Dervish, there is no God.

He used the shackle of his chain to scratch a crude calendar in the mud floor. With it he was able to keep track of the days. He had counted fifty-two days before they came to fetch him.

The two guards unlocked the chains from the iron stake. They left his legs and arms shackled. There was sufficient slack in this chain to enable him to shuffle along, but not to run.

They led him out into a small courtyard and through another door into a larger enclosure, around whose walls were seated a hundred or more Beja warriors. Their spears and lances rested against the wall behind them, and their sheathed swords were laid across their laps. They studied Penrod with avid interest. He recognized some of their faces from previous encounters. Then his eyes jumped to the familiar figure seated alone on a raised platform against the far wall. Even among this assembly of fighting men, Osman Atalan was the focus of attention.

The guards urged him forward and, with the chains hampering him, he shambled across the courtyard. When he stood before Osman a guard snarled in his ear, “Down on your knees, infidel! Show respect to the emir of the Beja.”

Penrod drew himself to attention. “Osman Atalan knows better than to order me to my knees,” he said softly, and held the emir’s eyes coolly.

“Down!” repeated the guard, and drove the hilt of his spear into Penrod’s kidney with such force that his legs collapsed under him and he fell in a heap of limbs and chains. With a supreme effort he kept his head up and his eyes locked on Osman’s.

“Head down!” said the guard, and lifted the shaft of the spear to club him again.

“Enough!” said Osman, and the guard stepped back. “Welcome to my home, Abadan Riji.” He touched his lips and then his heart. “From our first encounter on the field of El Obeid I knew there was a bond between us that could not easily be sundered.”

“Only the death of one of us can do that,” Penrod agreed.

“Should I settle that immediately?” Osman mused aloud, and nodded at the man who sat immediately below his dais. “What think you, al-Noor?”

Al-Noor gave full consideration to the question before he replied. “Mighty lord, it would be prudent to scotch the cobra before he stings you again.”

“Will you do this favour for me?” Osman asked, and with one movement al-Noor rose to his feet and stood over the kneeling prisoner with the blade of his sword poised over Penrod’s neck.

“It needs but the movement of your little finger, great Atalan, and I shall prune his godless head like a rotten fruit.”

Osman watched Penrod’s face for any sign of fear, but his gaze never wavered. “How say you, Abadan Riji? Shall we end it here?” Penrod tried to shrug, but his injured shoulder curtailed the gesture, “I care not, Emir of the Beja. All men owe God a life. If it is not now, then it will be later.” He smiled easily. “But have done with this childish game. We both know well that an emir of the Beja could never let his blood enemy die in chains without a sword in his hand.”

Osman laughed with genuine delight. “We were minted from the same metal, you and I.” He motioned to al-Noor to go back to his seat. “First we must find a more suitable name for you than Abadan Riji. I shall call you Abd, for slave you now are.”

“Perhaps not for much longer,” Penrod suggested.

“Perhaps,” Osman agreed. “We shall see. But until that time you are Abd, my foot slave. You will sit at my feet, and you will run beside my horse when I ride abroad. Do you not wish to know who brought you to this low station? Shall I give you the name of your betrayer?” For a moment Penrod was too startled to think of a reply, and could only nod stiffly. Osman called to the men guarding the gate to the courtyard, “Bring in the informer to collect the reward he was promised.”

They stood aside and a familiar figure sidled through the gate to stand gazing about him nervously. Then Wad Hagma recognized Osman Atalan. He threw himself upon the ground and crawled towards him, chanting his praises and protesting his allegiance, devotion and loyalty. It took him a while to traverse the yard for he stopped every few yards to beat his forehead painfully on the earth. The aggagiers guffawed and called encouragement to him.

“Let not your great belly drag in the dust.”

“Have faith! Your long pilgrimage is almost ended.”

At last Wad Hagma reached the foot of the dais, and prostrated himself full length with arms and legs splayed out flat against the dusty ground like a starfish.

“You have rendered me great service,” said Osman.

“My heart overflows with joy at these words, mighty Emir. I rejoice that I have been able to deliver your enemy to you.”

“How much was the fee on which we agreed?”

“Exalted lord, you were liberal enough to mention a price of five hundred Maria Theresa dollars.”

“You have earned it.” Osman tossed down a purse so heavy it raised a small cloud of dust as it struck the ground.

Wad Hagma hugged it to his chest, and grinned like an idiot. “All praise to you, invincible Emir. May Allah always smile upon you!” He stood up, head bowed in deep respect. “May I be dismissed from your presence? Like the sun, your glory dazzles my eyes.”

“Nay, you must not leave us so soon.” Osman’s tone changed. “I wish to know what emotions you felt when you placed slavers’ chains upon a brave warrior. Tell me, my fat little hosteller, how does the sly and treacherous baboon feel when it leads the great elephant bull into the pitfall?”

An expression of alarm crossed Wad Hagma’s face. “This is no elephant, mighty Emir.” He gestured at Penrod. “This is a rabid dog. This is a cowardly infidel. This is a vessel of such ungodly shape that it deserves to be shattered.”

“In God’s Name, Wad Hagma, I see that you are an orator and a poet. I ask only one more service of you. Kill this rabid dog for me! Shatter this misshapen pot so that the world of Islam will be a better place!” Wad Hagma stared at him with utter consternation. “Al-Noor, give the courageous tavern-keeper your sword.”

Al-Noor placed the broadsword in Wad Hagma’s hand and he looked hesitantly at Penrod. Carefully he placed the bag of Maria Theresa dollars on the ground, and straightened. He took a step forward, and Penrod came to his feet. Wad Hagma jumped back.

“Come now! He is chained and the bone in his arm is broken,” said Osman. “The rabid dog has no teeth. He is harmless. Kill him.” Wad Hagma looked around the courtyard, as if for release, and the aggagiers called to him, “Do you hear the emir’s words, or are you deaf?”

“Do you understand his orders, or are you dull-witted?”

“Come, brave talker, let us see brave deeds to match your words.”

“Kill the infidel dog.”

Wad Hagma lowered the sword, and looked at the ground. Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, in the hope that he had lulled his victim, he let out a blood-chilling shriek and rushed straight at Penrod with the sword held high in both hands. Penrod stood unmoving as Wad Hagma slashed double-handed at his head. At the last moment he lifted his hands and caught the descending blade on his chain. Such was the shock as it hit the steel links that Wad Hagma’s untrained hands and arms were numbed to the elbows. His grip opened involuntarily and the sword spun from his hands. He backed away, rubbing his wrists.

“In God’s Holy Name!” Osman applauded him. “What a fierce stroke! We have misjudged you. You are at heart a warrior. Now, pick up the sword and try again.”

“Mighty Emir! Great and noble Atalan! Have mercy on me. I shall return the reward.” He picked up the bag of coins and ran to place it at

Osman’s feet. “There! It is yours. Please let me go! O mighty and compassionate lord, have mercy on me.”

“Pick up the sword and carry out my orders,” said Osman, and there was more menace in his tone than if he had shouted.

“Obey the Emir Atalan!” chanted the aggagiers. Wad Hagma whirled round and raced back to where the sword lay. He stooped to pick it up, but as his hand closed on the hilt Penrod stepped on the blade.

Wad Hagma tugged at it ineffectually. “Get off!” he whined. “Let me go! I meant nobody any harm.” Then he dropped his shoulder and lunged at Penrod with all his weight, trying to push him backwards off the sword. Penrod swung the loop of chain. It whipped across the side of Wad Hagma’s jaw. He howled and sprang backwards, clutching the injury. With a loop of chain swinging threateningly Penrod followed him. He turned and scuttled across the yard towards the doorway, but . when he reached it a pair of aggagiers blocked his way with crossed swords. Wad Hagma gave up, and turned back to face Penrod as he stalked after him, swinging the loop of chain.

“No!” Wad Hagma’s voice was blurred, and the side of his face distorted. The chain had broken his jaw. “I meant you no harm. I needed the money. I have wives and many children …” He tried to avoid Penrod by circling along the wall, but the seated aggagiers pricked him forward with the points of their swords and roared with laughter when he hopped like a rabbit at the sting. Suddenly he darted away again, back to where the sword lay. As he reached it and stooped to seize the hilt, Penrod stepped up behind him and dropped the loop of chain over his head. With a quick twist of his wrists he settled the links snugly under Wad Hagma’s chin and round his throat. As Wad Hagma’s fingertips touched the sword hilt Penrod applied pressure on the chain and pulled him up until he was dancing on tiptoe, pawing at the chain with both hands, mewing like a kitten.

“Pray!” Penrod whispered to him. “Pray to Allah for forgiveness. This is your last chance before you stand before him.” He twisted the chain slowly and closed off Wad Hagma’s windpipe, so that he could neither whimper nor whine.

“Farewell, Wad Hagma. Take comfort from the knowledge that for you nothing matters any longer. You are no longer of this world.”

The watching aggagiers drummed their sword blades on their leather shields in a mounting crescendo. Wad Hagma’s dance became more agitated. His toes no longer touched the ground. He kicked at the air. His damaged face swelled and turned dark puce. Then there was a sharp crack, like the breaking of a dry twig. All the aggagiers shouted together as Wad Hagma’s limbs stiffened, his entire body sagged and he hung from the chain round his throat. Penrod lowered him to the ground and walked back towards Osman Atalan. The aggagiers were in uproar, shouting and laughing, some mimicking Wad Hagma’s death throes. Even Osman was smiling with amusement.

Penrod reached the spot where the sword lay, swept it up in a single movement and rushed straight at Osman, the long blade pointed at the emir’s heart. Another shout went up, from every man in the yard, this time of wild surmise and alarm. Penrod had twenty paces to cover to reach the dais and the courtyard exploded into movement. A dozen of the aggagiers nearest to the dais leapt forward. Their swords were already unsheathed, and they had only to come on guard to present a glittering palisade of steel to prevent Penrod carrying his charge home. Al-Noor darted forward, not to oppose Penrod head on but cutting in behind him. He seized the dragging leg chain and hauled back on it, whipping Penrod’s feet from under him. As he hit the ground the waiting aggagiers rushed forward.

“No!” shouted Osman. “Do not kill him! Hold him fast, but do not kill him!” Al-Noor released his grip on the leg shackles and grabbed the loop of chain that held Penrod’s wrists. He jerked this viciously against the half-healed shoulder. Penrod gritted his teeth to prevent himself crying out but the sword fell from his hands. Al-Noor snatched it away.

“In God’s glorious Name!” Osman Atalan laughed. “You give me great entertainment, Abd! I know now that you can fight, but tomorrow I shall see how well you run. By evening I doubt you will have the stomach for more of your games. Within a week you will be pleading for me to kill you.”

Then Osman Atalan looked down from the dais at al-Noor. “You I can always trust. You are always ready to serve. You are my right hand. Take my Abd to his cell, but have him ready at dawn. We are going out to hunt the gazelle.”

News travelled swiftly in the zemma. Within hours it was known by all, including AH Wad and the guards, that the Mahdi had expressed himself pleased with the infidel woman, al-Jamal. Rebecca’s status was enhanced immeasurably. The guards treated her as though she was already a senior wife, not a low-ranking concubine. She was given three female house slaves to attend her. The other women of the Mahdi, both wives and concubines, called greetings and blessings to her as she passed, and they carried petitions and supplications to her hut, begging her to bring them to the notice of the Mahdi. The rations that were sent to her from the kitchens changed in character and quantity: large fresh fish straight from the river, calabashes of soured milk, bowls of wild desert honey still in the comb, the tender est cuts of mutton, legs of venison, live chickens and eggs, all in such amounts that Rebecca was able to feed some of the sick children of the lowest-ranking concubines who were in real need of nourishment.

This new status was passed on to the others in her household. Nazeera was now greeted with the title Ammi, or Auntie. The guards saluted her when she passed through the gates. Because it was known that Amber was the sister of one of the Mahdi’s favourites, she, too, was granted special privileges. She was a child and had not seen her first moon, so none of the guards raised any objection when she accompanied Nazeera on her forays beyond the gates of the zenana.

That particular morning, Nazeera and Amber left the zenana early to go down to the market on the riverbank to meet the farmers as they brought in their fresh crops from the country. Figs and pomegranates were in season, and Nazeera was determined to have the first selection of the day’s offerings. As they passed the large edifice of the Beit el Mai there was a disturbance down the street ahead of them. A crowd had gathered, the war drums boomed and the ivory horns sounded.

“What is it, Nazeera?”

“I don’t know everything,” Nazeera replied testily. “Why do you always ask me?”

“Because you do know everything.” Amber jumped up to see over the heads of the crowd. “Oh! Look! It is the banner of the Emir Atalan. Let’s hurry or we shall miss him.” She ran ahead and Nazeera broke into a trot to keep up with her. Amber ducked between the legs of the crowd until she had reached the front rank. Nazeera forged her way in behind her, ignoring the protests of those she shoved aside.

“Here he comes,” the crowd chanted. “Hail, mighty emir of the Beja! Hail, victor of Khartoum and slayer of Gordon Pasha!” With his banner-bearer riding ahead and four of his most trusted aggagiers flanking him, Osman Atalan was up on the great black stallion, al-Buq. As this entourage swept past Nazeera and Amber they saw that a man ran at the emir’s stirrup. He wore a short sleeveless shift and a loincloth. On his head was a plain turban, but his legs and feet were bare.

“That’s a white man!” exclaimed Nazeera, and around her the crowd laughed and applauded.

“He is the infidel spy, the henchman of Gordon Pasha.”

“He is the one they once called Abadan Riji, the One Who Never Turns Back.”

“He is the prisoner of the emir.”

“Osman Atalan will teach him new tricks. Not only will he learn to turn back, but he will be taught to turn in small circles.”

Amber shrieked with excitement, “Nazeera! It is Captain Ballantyne!”

Even over the noise of the crowd Penrod heard Amber call his name. He turned his head and looked directly at her. She waved frantically at him but the cavalcade carried him away. Before he was gone Amber saw that there was a rope round his neck, the other end of which was tied to one of the emir’s stirrups.

“Where are they taking him?” Amber wailed. “Are they going to kill him?”

“No!” Nazeera placed an arm round her to calm her. “He is far too valuable to them. But now we must go back and tell your sister what we have seen.” They hurried to the zenana, but when they reached the hut they found that Rebecca was gone.

Nazeera immediately taxed the house slaves. “Where is your mistress?”

“AH Wad came to fetch her. He has taken her to the quarters of the Mahdi.”

“It is too early in the day for the Mahdi to begin taking his manly pleasures,” Nazeera protested.

“He is sick. Wad AH says he is sick unto death. He is struck down by the cholera. They know that al-Jamal saved her little sister al-Zahra and many others from the disease. He wishes her to do the same for the Holy One.”

As the news of the Mahdi’s illness swept through the zenana a high tide of wailing, lamentation and prayer followed it.

As they reached the edge of the desert Osman reined in al-Buq lightly and at the same time urged him forward with his knees. It was the signal for the stallion to break into a triple gait, the smooth, flowing action so easy on both horse and rider. It is not a natural pace, and a horse has to be schooled to learn it. The emir’s outriders followed his example and tripled away at a pace faster than a trot but not as fast as a canter.

At the end of the rope Penrod had to stretch out to keep up with them. They swung southwards, parallel to the river, and the heat of the day started to build up. They rode on as far as the village of Al Malaka, where the headman and the village elders all hastened out to greet the emir. They implored him to grant them the honour of providing him with refreshment. If Osman had been truly on the chase he would never have wasted time on such indulgences, but he knew that if the captive did not rest and drink he would die. His clothing was drenched with sweat and his feet were bloody from the prick of thorns and flint cuts.

While he sat under the tree in the centre of the village and discussed the possibility of finding game in the vicinity, Osman noted with satisfaction that al’Noor had understood his true purpose and was allowing Penrod to sit and drink from the waterskins. When Osman stood at last and ordered his party to mount up, Penrod seemed to have regained much of his strength. He had pulled his left arm out of the sling, although it was not yet completely healed: it unbalanced him, and hampered the swing of his shoulders as he ran.

They rode on and paused an hour later while Osman glassed the desert ahead for any sign of gazelle. In the meantime al-Noor let Penrod drink again, then allowed him to squat on his haunches, his head between his knees as he gasped for breath. Too soon Osman ordered the advance. For the rest of that day they described a wide circle through sand dunes, over gravelly plains and across ridges of limestone, pausing occasionally to drink from the waterskins.

An hour before sunset they returned to Omdurman. The horses had slowed to a walk and Penrod staggered along behind them at the end of his rope. More than once he was jerked off his feet and dragged in the dirt. When this happened al’Noor backed his horse until he was able to struggle up. When they rode through the gates and dismounted in the courtyard Penrod was swaying on his torn, bloody feet. He was dazed with exhaustion, and it required all his remaining strength merely to remain upright.

Osman called to him: “You-disappoint me, Abd. I looked for you to find the gazelle herds for us but you were more happy rolling in the dust and looking for dung beetles.”

The other hunters shouted with delight at the jest, and al-Noor suggested, “Dung beetle is a better name for him than Abd.”

“So be it, then,” Osman agreed. “From henceforth he shall be known as Jiz, the slave who became a dung beetle.”

As Osman turned towards his own quarters a slave prostrated himself in front of him. “Mighty Emir, and beloved of Allah and his true Prophet, the Divine Mahdi has been taken gravely ill. He has sent word for you to go to him at once.”