Ahmed wanted me to repeat the flowery part of my message to Napier, but I wasn’t having that, and insisted Wedaju should do it to make sure he had it pat. The lad was shocking nervous before his sovereign, but got it out slow and halting after a few false starts. Masteeat listened with solemn attention, stifling an occasional yawn, and once her silver wand slipped from her drowsy hand and was retrieved by Infantry a split second ahead of Cavalry. I only hoped Wedaju would get done while she could still see and sit upright, but when he’d finished she astonished me by extending an imperious hand to him and saying, slowly but clearly:
“And tell the English dedjaz also that the Queen of Galla calls the blessing of God on him and his brave soldiers, and bids them have a care, so that they come safely to their journey’s end and into the presence of their loving friend, Masteeat, who has them in her heart.” Along with their fifty thousand jemmy o’ goblins, thinks cynical Flashy, but when she added, smiling all fondly maternal on Wedaju, “And you, gallant warrior, fare well through all dangers, and know that you take with you the prayers of a grateful and loving queen,” I wasn’t a bit surprised to see him drop to his knees and press her hand to his forehead and lips, while Infantry and Cavalry fell over each other to join him, Ahmed almost shed a tear of filial devotion, and even grizzled old Fasil looked moist and noble.
If she’d been a beauty in the mould of Yehonala or Lakshmibai, or even as handsome as Uliba-Wark, their adoration (for that’s what it was, no error) would have been in order, but she was a hearty piece of middle-aged Eve’s flesh of no remarkable allure—that she appealed to me was by the way; I’m a connoisseur of feminine beauty but no discrimination worth a dam, and anyway I’m perversely partial to royal rattle. And yet, she had that quality which I can’t describe but which attracts where mere perfection of form and feature are no more exciting than a marble statue.
I guess it’s charm, and she spread it over her soldiers like Circe’s spell. I suppose she charmed me—and I don’t mean only randy-like, but happy captivation. Aye, that must have been it, for I find myself smiling still whenever I think back on her, while Uliba has faded into the shadows.
I came away from that audience a relieved and thankful man, glad to have a moment at last for rest and reflection. Things could hardly have come out better, however hellish they had been since I’d left Napier’s camp weeks ago. My worst fears had been realised along the way: the skirmish with Yando’s gang, that appalling dangle in the steel cage, the palpitating escape from the Soudani bandits at Gondar, the clash with Theodore’s riders, my plunge over Abyssinia’s Niagara, the shock of Uliba’s reappearance and most uncalled-for assault… but here I was again, none the worse bar a bruise or two, duty done in securing the Galla alliance and despatching the glad news to Napier, and no great anxieties ahead that I could see.
True, I’d have to arrange matters so that I could appear to be commanding the Galla operations while keeping clear of the action, but that ain’t difficult when you’ve had years of practice. I’m a prime hand at playing Lionheart without doing a blessed thing (what dear old Tom Hughes called “shouts and great action"), and I could occupy myself splendidly at Galla H.Q., keeping the threads of administration together, don’t you know, taking an overall view until I deemed it safe to join the last rally.
Meanwhile I could think of worse billets than the court of good Queen Masteeat. Safe, well stocked and furnished, friendly… of course it went without saying that I’d have to do my extra-diplomatic duty by her majesty, but that would be no hardship—and if you wonder how I was so sure of her, I can only say that I had felt her mouth under mine and read the message in her lazy smile. Besides, in Ab society, which as I’ve told you is probably the most immoral on earth (Cheltenham ain’t in it), rogering the hostess is almost obligatory, part of the etiquette, like leaving cards, and not at all out of the way in a country where it’s considered a mortal insult to praise a woman’s chastity, since it implies that she’s not attractive enough to be galloped. Say no more.
But while I knew ’twould be only a matter of time before Masteeat and I had our wicked way with each other, I could never have foreseen the circumstances; indeed, had I been forewarned, I’d not have believed it. I’m neither inexperienced nor a prude; I have known, and been party to, abandoned behaviour, and have even joined in the occasional orgy, but I can take oath that I have never known the like of the reception and feast that the old chamber lain had described as “an entertainment".
It was he who led me all unsuspecting to the dining chamber of the royal residence in which the other guests, about a dozen, were already assembled. The long low dining table was surrounded by cushioned stools set in pairs, one for each couple, and at the head was a spread of cushions for the Queen, who had not yet arrived, and her guest of honour. Fasil, Cavalry, and Infantry were on hand, each with a beauty in tow, the two lads being accompanied by a pair of Masteeat’s handmaidens, and Fasil by a quite breathtaking creature of about his own age who may well have been his wife; she had those delicately perfect features you see on some Scandinavian women—and was jet black. The other three couples I don’t remember, except that the women were typically Ab, which is to say peaches. There were no servants at all; we helped our selves to the tej from flagons on the sideboard, and stood about gossiping for all the world like a Belgravia bunfight. Fasil and his juniors talked shop, as soldiers always do, and showed a surprising knowledge of such diverse matters as the Sepoy Mutiny and the war in America, but presently they were set aside by Fasil’s black Venus and the handmaidens, and blowed if I wasn’t cross-examined about London fashions, hairstyles, and the like. Some of their inquiries would ha’ made me blush if I hadn’t been revelling in the attentions of three such ravishing inquisitors, bright-eyed, flirta tious, breathing perfume with each gentle laugh.
It struck me that Masteeat must be uncommon tolerant to allow herself to be so outshone, and then I remembered reading some where that our old Queen Bess had surrounded herself with the prettiest of pippins, no doubt knowing that there was only one woman who’d be looked at. That was certainly the case when the Queen of Galla made her entrance, stately and smiling sleepily, and somehow contriving to put all the bowing beauties in the shade.
And, dammit, she wasn’t even sober yet, to judge from her swaying gait, careless gestures, and ringing laugh. They’d put her in very fair trim, though, with a gold circlet as a sort of coronet, and gold thread cunningly worked into her braids; she had gold chain earrings depending to her broad bare shoulders, and a gold collar clasped about her throat. Her dress was white and of some clinging gauzy stuff cleverly cut to disguise a waist and hips which were undoubtedly overblown and to display a bosom whose development matched her shoulders admirably. She carried a gold wand this time, and the effect of her carriage and manner was overpower ing, no other word for it.