“Would your dedjaz’s generosity give us the spoiling of Magdala?” Her women gasped eagerly, the bodyguard burst out laughing, and before Portly could explode I said that I couldn’t answer for the dedjaz, but whatever the spoil of Magdala might be, she could count on getting equivalent value, and meanwhile, the sooner I was restored to my army…
“Perhaps he will not be able to take Magdala.” The bodyguard spoke for the first time. “It is the strongest amba in Habesh.”
“He’ll take it, soldier,” says I. “Have no doubt of that.”
“With the help of the Galla warriors of Queen Masteeat?” bawls Portly, taking me flat aback, although I tried desperately to cover it.
“Galla warriors—these people?” I gestured at the bodies. “I don’t understand… why should the British seek anyone’s help? We have no need of it… and I know nothing of this queen—”
“You lie!” cries Portly. “All Habesh knows by now that the British seek alliance with the Wollo Galla, and who are you to be ignorant?” He shot out a fat finger. “You have been sent by your dedjaz to win the Gallas with silver and a crown for Masteeat! So why, then… should they wish you dead?”
When in doubt, play the bewildered loony. That I was blown upon to the far end of Kingdom Come was plain… Uliba had been right, Yando’s gang had guessed who I was and spread the word. But I daren’t admit anything, to unknown accusers, in a country where everybody knew the far end of a fart before it had even erupted. So I babbled.
“I don’t know what you mean! My dear sir, how should I know why these foul villains wanted to kill me? As to winning anyone with silver…” I threw up my hands. “Please, if you’ll only escort me to my army, you’ll receive a mighty reward for my return, I assure you.” I continued in this vein while he stood glaring, and then Diana, who’d been eyeing me like an Arcadian nymph mis trustful of a satyr of doubtful repute, put in her confounded oar again.
“If we feed him into the fire, little by little, he will speak,” says she, but Portly seemed undecided, for he turned away, and after a word with his bodyguard, told Diana curtly to muster the women and prepare to march. She gave a disappointed grunt and issued brisk orders for them to fall in as soon as they’d finished despoiling and mutilating the dead—you can guess what that meant, and I was happy to avert my eyes from that bloodied ground and dese crated bodies—and Uliba’s among them!—and those barbarian sluts, some of ’em mere slips of girls, chattering and laughing as they went about their grisly work.
“Are you sick, farangi? Why do you look away? Does the sight of blood distress you?” I looked up to find the bodyguard leaning on his spear; Portly was off on a frolic of his own, seemingly. “Nay, surely not; you have seen your own blood run from a wound.” He pointed to the star-shaped scar on my hand. “A bullet did that.”
“A clean wound is one thing, soldier,” says I, and nodded towards the Ladies’ De-ballocking Circle. “That is another.”
“Aye, true,” says he. “Yet it is what the Gallas would have done to you… while you still lived. Do the British not believe in retri bution, then, eye for eye, burning for burning?”
Diana crowed with laughter. “We do not take their eyes!” She added nauseating particulars, and I wondered if I’d ever found a beauty so detestable.
“We believe in it,” I told the bodyguard. “That don’t mean I have to watch your disgusting bitches!” It came out as a high-pitched snarl; reaction was overtaking me after the horrors I’d seen and near experienced, and I was on the brink of spewing again.
“Perhaps he is cold with fear at the sight of fighting women!” jeers Diana. “We can unman men before the fight as well as after!” She seated herself on a rock, stretching her legs and folding her arms across her presents for a good boy. “So they fear us, which is why our Lord Toowodros has made special choice of us, and sends us forth to raid and ambush and strike terror in the hearts of his enemies. Is your heart stricken, ras of the British?”
The jibe was wasted; only one word mattered. “Your Lord Toowodros? Who the hell is he, then?” Even as I spoke, I knew the answer, and the bodyguard confirmed it, shaking his head at my ignorance.
“Why, the Emperor! The King of Kings, monarch of Habesh, and by the power of God the conqueror that will be of Egypt and Jerusalem! You know him as Theodore.”
I could only stare at them in utter consternation. Theodore’s people—the last folk on God’s earth I wanted to see. I ain’t often at a dead nonplus, but I was then, for this was the fear that had been in my mind for weeks—of falling into the hands of the mad tyrant who inflicted unspeakable tortures on his victims, who’d beaten missionaries and lashed their servants to death, who’d stretched Consul Cameron on the rack… and, my God, who knew, from what Portly had said, of my mission to Masteeat to enlist the Gallas against him… Portly? Could he be Theodore in person? For all I knew he might—but surely not, in a night skirmish away from Magdala, where he was supposed to be preparing to fight or run? No, impossible, but I was bound to ask…
Diana clapped a hand over her mouth at the question, and the bodyguard laughed outright.
“Do the soldiers of the English queen know so little of their quarry that they think such a fat little hippo as Damash could be the great Emperor—the Lion of Judah? Did he look like a warrior king, a veteran of thirty years in arms?” He glanced at Diana. “Ya, Miriam, what would Gobayzy or Menelek say to Damash as Emperor?”
“Ask rather what Theodore would say to a fool who mistook Damash for the King of Kings,” says she. “How would he punish such an insult?”
“Who knows the mind of kings? They are beyond the ken of common folk.” He put his head on one side, regarding me. “But I should not account this one a fool, as you do. Did you not hear him answer Damash, saying much, but telling nothing?” He leaned towards me, nursing his spear, his eyes intent on mine. “Perhaps Damash is right, and he is the kind of man the Dedjaz Napier would have sent to Masteeat—a man of a long head, skilled in dissimu lation and never aiming where he looks.” He smiled. “You are that man, are you not, Ras Flashman?” Then he was solemn again. “When you come to stand before Toowodros, do not try to deceive him. He loves truth, above all things, and rewards those who deal fairly with him.”
“And takes the hands and feet of those who lie, and feeds the rest alive to the birds and beasts,” taunts Miriam-Diana.
“Peace, you hyena in woman’s shape!” He nodded to me. “I advise as a friend, Englishman. Remember my words.” He was turning away.
My mouth was dry with alarm, but I forced my voice to be steady.
“I’d be a fool if I forgot them… your majesty.”
Miriam-Diana threw back her head with a yell and gave her thigh a ringing slap. “He knew you! By the power of God, he knew you!” She was grinning with delight. “They are not such blind fools, the English!”
The bodyguard who ruled Abyssinia had turned back abruptly, but the solemn look was gone, and his voice was suddenly harsh.
“How did you know me? What did he see?” He looked from me to her, and struck his breast in anger. “What is there here that denotes a king? This is a common soldier!” He shook his spear and slapped himself again, taking two abrupt steps towards me. I gave back, for in a mere moment his earnest, almost friendly manner had given way to shouting rage; it was as though another man had got into his skin, and Miriam was on her feet as though to intervene.
“How did you know me?” he demanded, and jabbed a finger at me. “Have a care! Do not pretend that you saw royalty in my looks and speech, that you could not mistake the descendant of Solomon and Sheba, of Constantine and Alexander! I despise that kind of lie, that courtly flattery! Do not offend me with it!”