I know now that I must have come over the middle of the falls, where the force of the river drives the torrent well out from the cliff, so that I’d been thrown clear of the rocky base and landed in deep water; if I’d taken the plunge from the eastern lip, where the current is slacker and the water pours directly down the cliff-face, I’d have been mangled on the rocks or drowned in the eddy for certain. Even so, I’d fallen from the height of Nelson’s Column, and you need nine lives to survive that.
No one believes it,37 of course, including the small boy and his sister who found me dead to the wide on the rocky shore, and their fisher-folk parents who nursed me through a bout of fever – malaria, by the feel of it – that left me weak as a baby. As for the junior officer commanding the file of Galla soldiers who arrived when word of my presence had spread beyond the little village, he laughed to scorn the notion that anyone could live through the Silver Smoke, even if he was a Hindu heretic and therefore doubtless a sorcerer in league with Shaitan.
“For you are Khasim Tamwar, are you not?” says this handsome young savage, smiling courteously as he squatted down beside my pallet in that peasant’s hut. “Horse-trader out of India, seeking audience with our most illustrious queen, Masteeat the Looking Glass?”
And how the devil should he know that? Had I babbled in my fever – or could word have preceded us from the monastery at Azez? He smiled at my astonishment, the cocky subaltern to the life, for all that his classic features were as black as my boot and his braided hair was smeared with butter dripping on to his bare shoulders.
“It is our business to know who comes and goes along the Abai, and when a foreigner speaking Arabic comes from the north, who should it be but the expected traveller from … Hyderabad, or some such name?”
“Expected, you say? But how –?”
“No doubt her majesty will tell you,” says he coolly. “And you would be wise not to insult her with talk of leaping over waterfalls. She is a kind and loving ruler, but she has a short way with liars … Are you fit to travel?”
I was, more or less, so after I’d thanked the peasants and dashed them a few of the dollars which, with my Joslyn, had been bestowed in my sash and so survived the fall, we set off through the jungly forest which encloses the Abai beneath the Tisisat. From an eminence about a mile south I was able to get a full view of that extraordinary wonder of the natural world, all six hundred yards of it from the broken cataracts at its western end to the splendid horseshoe on the east. Aye, the devil certainly looks after his own, thinks I, while my Galla escorts sneered and nudged each other and muttered “Walker!” in Amharic.
They were a formidable crew, the very sort of men I’d have expected from my acquaintance with the female of the species, Uliba-Wark: big, likely youngsters, not one under six feet, active as cats, muscled like wrestlers, and African only in colour. Speedy had said that of all the countless Galla tribes, the Wollos were the pick, and I could believe him and thank God they were Theodore’s sworn enemies, for if they’d opposed us I doubt if one of Napier’s army would ever have got back to the coast. They’re warriors from their cradles, expert fighters, splendid horsemen, and would rather cut throats than eat dinner. Fortunately for their neighbours, the fifty or sixty families of the nation are never done feuding among themselves, for if ever they united they could sweep north Africa from the Red Sea to the Sahara. They must be the most independent folk on earth; those of their tribes who are republican acknowledge no law and pay taxes to no one, and even the Wollos, who recognised Masteeat as their queen, served in her army as volunteers without obligation.
There were a dozen in my escort, all well mounted and dressed accordingly with trowsers not unlike Pathan pyjamys under their robes, but barefoot and without head-dresses. They were armed with sickle-swords and those disgusting ballock-festooned lances, but no muskets or pistols. Their subaltern, whose name was Wedaju, explained that while Abs generally were familiar with firearms brought in centuries ago by the Portuguese, the Gallas, being crusty traditionalists who enjoyed slaughter at close quarters, were only now beginning to adopt them. Our conversation arose from the envious interest he showed in my Joslyn, asking if he might examine it; the fact that he didn’t simply take it suggested that he regarded me as a guest rather than a prisoner, which set me wondering again how he’d known who I was. But I didn’t ask: I’d find out eventually, and it was enough for the moment that I was being civilly treated.
My first concern was plainly Queen Masteeat, and how to present Napier’s proposal. One complication at least had been removed: whether Uliba-Wark was still in flight from Theodore’s cavalry or had been collared by them, she was no longer in a position to embarrass my mission by trying to usurp her sister’s throne, thank God. Fine woman in her way, good jancada and capital primitive ride, but she could have been an almighty nuisance, and I was well shot of her. I’d make my pitch to Masteeat in my own way, deploying the Flashy charm and the promise of fifty thou’ in Maria Theresas, and see how her majesty played the bowling. And if and when the Wollo Gallas marched forth to besiege Magdala, I’d contrive to keep my safe strategic distance from the action.
Our way lay through forest which thinned out after a few miles into pleasant wooded plain, with low hills on our flank, each with a sentry on its summit. Presently we came on pickets camped out in the groves, passing us through most professional, watchword and all, every man on his feet and jumping to their guard commanders’ orders. So we came into their camp proper, a great spread of tents and huts not unlike a Red Indian village, but clean and orderly, and although there were women and children by the hundred, there was no confusion or stink. Everywhere there were Galla warriors, mounted and infantry, plainly at ease but not loafing or lolling; this was a disciplined host, thousands strong and in no way encumbered by their families. No one would ever take this crew by surprise, and I knew just by their look that they’d be able to break camp and be off at an hour’s notice. My opinion of Queen Masteeat and her followers was rising swiftly; the most formidable African queen since Cleopatra, Speedy had said, and if her travelling cantonment were anything to judge by, he was right.38
Our arrival caused a stir, scores of white-robed armed men closing in on us and a couple of seniors in red-fringed shamas calling out to Wedaju in a language I didn’t understand. He’d spoken Arabic to me, none too fluently, but what I was hearing now was the Gallas’ own tongue, which isn’t Amharic or anything like it. Fortunately the Galla aristocracy speak Arabic well; one of the seniors, having cross-examined Wedaju, called out to me:
“Where are your horses, trader?”
I said I was here to buy not to sell, and he cocked his grizzled head and grinned, with his hand on his hilt.
“And you carry purchase money with you through Habesh in time of war? Truly, you are bold travellers who come from Hindustan!”
Those who understood shouted with laughter, watching to see what I made of this jest with just a hint of threat behind it. Wedaju was about to intervene, but I got in first.
“I carry money enough. I carry this also –” And I conjured the Joslyn out of my sash, spun it on my finger, did the border shift, presented it to the senior butt first, and as he reached for it wide-eyed I spun it again to cover him. The watching crowd gave a huge yell of surprise, and then fairly roared. My senior clapped his hands with delight, and in a moment I was surrounded by grinning black faces – if there’s one thing the Wollo Gallas like, it’s ready wit and impudence, and that silly little incident won me an admiring public before I’d been in their camp five minutes. Style, you see … and I tipped my metaphorical hat in memory of dear old Lou Maxwell who’d taught me how to spin a gun in Las Vegas all those years ago.39
In the centre of the camp, within a stockade, was a group of permanent buildings: typical Ab dwellings of various sizes, dominated by a great two-storey structure with a conical thatched roof and upper and lower verandahs, which I guessed was the royal residence. Wedaju conducted me to one of the lesser buildings where a dignified old file in red-bordered shama and turban, sporting a fine white beard and bearing a red-shafted spear of office, ran a cold eye over me; they conversed in Galla, and at last the chamberlain, as I took him to be, made a stately departure, and Wedaju held out his hand and demanded my Joslyn.
“You are to go into the Queen’s presence,” says he. “Have no fear, I shall keep it for you, and doubtless it will be returned when her majesty has spoken with you.” He paused, weighing the piece in his hand. “That feint you used out yonder – would you show it to me? Some day I shall have such a weapon as this, and it would be good to know …”
I showed him, and he practised, chortling, and was expert in no time. “Thank you, friend!” cries he, and I decided that one of my calculated good deeds wouldn’t hurt.
“If all speeds well with the Queen, you shall have such a pistol,” I told him, and he was still exclaiming his gratitude when the chamberlain returned with two turbaned guardsmen and led the way out, Flashy being ushered in his wake. The guardsmen thrashed aside the crowd who’d been craning their necks at the doorway to see the funny foreigner, and with Wedaju at my elbow we crossed to the big two-storey building, passed in between more turbaned sentries, and waited in a large dim hall while the chamberlain went ahead through a great bead curtain which was presently held aside by two of the loveliest handmaidens you could ever hope to see, true Galla girls with cool damn-you-me-lad expressions and figures to match. The chamberlain’s voice called out from within, Wedaju prodded me forward, and I strode into the presence of Masteeat the Looking Glass, Queen of Wollo Galla, and with luck guardian angel of Her Britannic Majesty’s army in Abyssinia.
You never know what to expect on encountering royalty. I’ve seen ’em stark naked except for wings of peacock feathers (Empress of China), giggling drunk in the embrace of a wrestler (Maharani of the Punjab), voluptuously wrapped in wet silk (Queen of Madagascar), wafting to and fro on a swing (Rani of Jhansi), and tramping along looking like an out-of-work charwoman (our own gracious monarch). But I’ve never seen the like of the court of the Queen of Galla.
Her majesty was at luncheon, which she ate surrounded by lions, four huge maned brutes grouped about the great couch where she lounged on cushions, an arm over the neck of one of the beasts while with her free hand she helped herself to dainties from trays presented by two more fair attendants. Another lion was nuzzling her shoulder from behind, and the remaining two crouched at her feet, one with its head against her knee – for all the world like four great tabbies toadying for scraps, which she fed them from time to time, dainty fingers popping tidbits into jaws I’d not have approached for a pension.
And if that were not enough to bring me to a dead stop, there was something else: seated on a low stool a little way from the couch, regarding me with venomous dislike, was Uliba-Wark.
A split second, and then she was off the stool like a striking snake, whipping the knife from her boot as she launched herself at me, screaming vengeance, and it would have been Flashy R.I.P., Abyssinia 1868, if Wedaju hadn’t thrust me aside, caught her wrist as the knife descended, thrown her on her back, and pinned her, all in one lightning movement. She was hollering blue murder as he disarmed her, the old chamberlain was collapsing in an apparent fit, my escorting guardsmen were hastening to put themselves between the commotion and the throne, the apartment seemed to be full of squealing handmaidens … and Queen Masteeat gently slapped the muzzle of a lion which had arisen, growling, at the disturbance. Beyond that she didn’t blink an eyelid, waiting until Uliba’s shrieks had subsided, and applying herself to a chicken leg in the meantime.
“Fair, fat, and forty” was how Speedy had described her. She must have been a stunner as a girl, but sloth and gluttony had plumped out the comely face, and if “fat” was a trifle unkind she still looked as though it might take two strong men to raise her commanding form from its cushioned bed. It was clad in a splendid robe of shimmering blue silk, with one fleshy polished shoulder and arm bare, and if there was plenty of her it all appeared to be complete and in working order. Elspeth would have called her sonsy, signifying bonny and buxom. As a commoner she’d have been a fine figure of a woman; being royalty, she was stately, regal, imposing, statuesque, or any other courtly grovel you please, and a perfectly acceptable piece of mattress-fodder – supposing she had the energy.
For a more lethargic lady I’d seldom seen. The full, good-natured face, as light as creamy coffee between the long oiled braids, was placid, and the large, slightly protruding eyes were almost sleepy as she considered me, toying with the mane of her blasted man-eater. Seeing her so at ease among her cushions, pondering which dish to tackle next, it struck me that if she was as shrewd and ruthless as I’d been told, she knew how to conceal it. Even her voice, when she addressed Uliba, was gentle and bored.
“Is this the man? The horse-trader of India? Tell me in a word, but do not name him.”
Uliba said it was, at the top of her voice, with unprintable additions, as she writhed in Wedaju’s grasp. “And I shall kill the bastard! The filthy villain would have cast me to death, I who had guided and guarded him! He shall die! As I am a woman, I swear it!”
“And as I am a queen, I shall have you whipped till you weep if you raise your voice in my presence again,” says Masteeat mildly. “It would not be the first time … remember?”
“I remember!” snaps Uliba, and glared at me. “As I shall remember you also, dog! And I shall have my way in the end, dear sister! When the time comes this jackal shall be paid a traitor’s wages!”
“That shall be as God wills.” Masteeat indicated the stool. “Sit, child, and be still. You who aspire to a throne should try to behave like a queen. What he did or did not do is for another day. We have greater matters before us now.”
Like what goody to guzzle next, apparently, for she was busy at the dishes even as she chided Uliba, sounding like a patient teacher with a naughty pupil, and I guessed this was a scene they’d played many times in Uliba’s childhood, and that it drove her wild. She wrenched free of Wedaju, stood blazing silently for a moment, and then stalked back to her stool. Masteeat selected what looked like a large underdone steak, took a hearty bite, chewed reflectively, and directed her handmaiden to take a tray to me, indicating that I should help myself.
I didn’t know, then, that this was a considerable honour in Ab court circles. I made a quick survey of the raw beef and roasts, surrounded by cakes and desserts, chose some skewered meat, and bowed civilly in majesty’s direction, but she was busy engulfing the last of her steak. Having belched delicately, she wiped her lips with the hem of that beautiful dress, began to spoon a pudding into herself, and signed to the handmaiden, who clapped sharply to call the room to attention. The old chamberlain, having clambered to his feet, bowed and tottered out, followed by the guards and Wedaju, who I was glad to see was taking Uliba’s knife with him.
And then, before my wondering eyes, Masteeat laid aside her empty bowl, and clicked her tongue. At this three of the lions rose with a reluctant lethargy to match their mistress’s, and padded out, followed by the bowing handmaidens, leaving the fourth lion, evidently a royal favourite, blinking at the Queen’s feet and purring like a motor engine.
So there we were, Flashy and the sister-queens, and I’ll not waste time rehearsing my bewildered thoughts. All that seemed certain was that if Uliba had attempted a coup, it had misfired, but her elder didn’t seem much put out, and was giving courteous attention at last to her visitor.
“You have earned a welcome by your patience,” says she, “but first I must know your true name.”
“Sir Harry Flashman, ma’am,” says I, shoulders back, chin up. “Colonel, British Army, with messages from Sir Robert Napier, general officer commanding Her Britannic Majesty’s forces in Abyssinia.”
She nodded acknowledgment and glanced at Uliba. “So you were telling the truth. You did well to whisper it in my ear alone.”
“Pah!” snaps Uliba. “At last you believe me! The Queen is gracious!”
“Be thankful for that,” says Masteeat. “And for the Queen’s mercy.”
“I ask no mercy from you!” Uliba was on her feet again. “I never have, and I never will!”
“You have never had to,” says Masteeat, stroking her lion’s mane. “The baby of the family must always be indulged and excused and forgiven, whatever her fault. Because she is the baby, and knows well how to trade on it.”
Uliba let out a squeal like a steam whistle, fists clenched, stamping. “You lie! I never made excuse, or pleaded kinship! I have shown a bare face and fought for what should be mine! I am no hypocrite, like you who talk of the Queen’s mercy! What mercy have you shown to my friends, my faithful ones? To Zaneh, and Adilu, and Abite, you cruel heartless woman?” And I’d not have believed it if I hadn’t seen it: she burst into tears and stood there, knuckling her eyes.
“What you would have done if they had plotted against your throne. But I was less cruel than you would have been. They died quickly – even Zaneh, who betrayed your plot to me weeks ago, hoping for favour. He should have suffered as a double traitor – and you should have known better than to trust a discarded lover … oh, stare, girl, do you think I know nothing?” She sounded weary. “I may not punish you for treason, but I could slap you for stupidity.”
Uliba went on sobbing, and Masteeat frowned at me as though becoming aware that the family squabble was being earwigged by this foreigner. I was spellbound: Uliba racked by sobs of penitence or rage, you couldn’t tell which, looking all forlorn and fetching in her scanty tunic, and the languid matron reclining on her cushions, a study in fatigued perplexity. At last she sighed, pushed the lion aside, and extended a hand towards Uliba.
“Oh, come here, little one! Stop this foolish weeping; you have nothing to weep for!” Uliba gave a mighty gulp, scowled, and tossed her head. “Come, I say!” And damme if Uliba didn’t dash the tears from her eyes and move with halting steps to the couch. Masteeat took her hand and pulled her gently to her knees, putting an arm about her shoulders.
“What am I to do with you, daughter of tribulation, sister of strife? You are too big to put across my knee these days … and if I did, you would rage and break things … and later hang your head and beg forgiveness. Perhaps even make me another gift in amends …?”
She twitched the blue silk robe aside, revealing a massive but beautifully turned leg (ran in the family, no doubt) shod with a golden sandal and bearing two ankle-chains, one of the silver bells popular with Galla ladies, the other of cheap little coloured beads.
Uliba stared and sniffed. “You kept it! All these years …”
“Since your sixth birthday, when you flew into a passion because you were not given a pony, and father had you beaten, and you broke my crystal cup in your tantrum,” says Masteeat. “And howled with remorse, and presently brought me this anklet as a peace offering.”
“I made it with beads stolen from Warkite’s gown of state … the bitch!” sniffs Uliba, adding sulkily: “I wonder your majesty wears such a tawdry thing!”
Masteeat leaned forward to finger the anklet, and said in that tired, gentle voice: “I have no jewel so precious as that brought to me by a sad, sorry little girl long ago. And if she tries to take my throne, still she is that little girl … and so I must love her always.”
Uliba gave a wail that combined frustrated rage with that howl of remorse Masteeat had mentioned, and buried her face, while her sister went on in the same gentle, chiding tone.
“But what’s to be done with her? Our father Abushir raised her as though she were a true daughter, and she repays his dead spirit by trying to overthrow me, her own sister and rightful Queen, not once but twice, and is forgiven. Then we find her a husband, whom she shames with lovers, and Gobayzy of Lasta takes him prisoner and hopes to compel her to surrender her sweet self as ransom, the pretty antelope … more fool Gobayzy!” She stroked Uliba’s braids. “Meanwhile she rebels for a third time … and fails … and weeps. Oh, a sad tangle …”
During these sisterly exchanges I’d been ignored except by the lion, which had ambled up to rub his great head against my ribs – that’s how tall he stood – until Masteeat clicked her tongue, at which he trotted out obediently. Meanwhile she continued to pet her “pretty antelope”, the murderous virago who’d tried to dethrone her and was being coddled like a prodigal daughter … no, I can’t fathom women.
“Yet Gobayzy might suit you,” murmurs Masteeat. “He’s a blockhead, and goes in fear of me, and would rejoice to have my baby sister as his queen –”
“As one of his hareem whores, you mean!” sniffs Uliba. “Kings don’t take a concubine’s brat as their consort!”
Masteeat slapped her wrist. “Your mother was a gracious and lovely lady whom our father would have made his queen if he could. You should be proud to be her daughter.”
“I am proud!” flares Uliba, and started to blub again.
“Good. Then dry your tears, and if Gobayzy is not to your taste we’ll say no more of him. There are other panthers in the wood, as who knows better than you.” She glanced at me, and whispered to Uliba with a sly smile that suggested she wasn’t asking my size in collars. Uliba glared at me and snapped a reply in the Galla tongue, to Masteeat’s amusement.
“And still you seek revenge on him? Perverse wretch!”
It seemed a good moment to make my peace with Uliba, but I’d barely assumed an ingratiating grin and started to explain that I’d been trying to save her, truly, when she was on her feet again, spitting hate.
“He lies, the misbegotten bastard! He would have spurned me to my death to save his dirty skin! As I’m a woman, it’s true!”
“As I’m a woman, you make my head ache,” sighs Masteeat. “Enough! Your tale may be true or not … hold your tongue, child! And hear my royal command. You will seek vengeance no further. Great matters are not to be risked for the spite of a reckless girl – and a rebel. You will submit, and show the Colonel Flashman effendi the honour and respect due to the Queen’s guest. Now, give him the kiss of good faith before you go.”
I’d not have credited it that the Uliba I’d known, the savage who’d gloated over Yando’s death, the cool hand who’d kept her head in the Gondar pit, the fighting fury who’d downed Theodore’s riders, could have been turned into a weeping, fretful, penitent child by the firm authority of an elder sister. But I’d seen it, mirabile dictu, anything was possible, and now she hesitated only a raging second before bowing curtly to Masteeat, marching up to me, and planting icy lips for an instant on my cheek. It was like being kissed by a cobra, with an accompanying hiss.
“I know what I know!” Then she was past me through the curtained archway, and Masteeat chuckled.
“Not the most passionate embrace she has given you, I dare say … Look beyond the curtain, effendi … she is one who loves to eavesdrop. No? God be thanked, peace at last! Come, give me your hand.”
I helped her to rise, which she did with surprising ease and grace, considering her proportions. Face to face she was a bare half-head below my height, and I was aware of a bodily strength at odds with her indolence; the bare shoulder and arm were smoothly muscled and her grip was strong. For a moment the fine black eyes surveyed me and the plump jolly face was smiling – expectantly, I’ll swear, and I thought, here goes, and bowed over her hand, kissing it warmly and at length up towards the elbow – and she burst out laughing, a regular barmaid’s guffaw, so I said, “By your majesty’s leave”, stepped inside her guard, and put my mouth gently on hers.
Risky diplomacy, you’ll say, but that knowing smile had told me she’d be all for it. The full lips were wide and welcoming, and for a delightful moment she treated me as though I were her underdone steak. Then she stepped back, giving me a playful push and another slantendicular smile, and without a word poured us two goblets of tej from a well-laden buffet at the wall. We drank, and she piled into the snacks and sweetmeats, urging me with her mouth full to keep her company, so I picked a bit, marvelling, for she’d shifted a hearty helping but a few moments ago, and here she was cleaning up a plate of raw beef and a large bowl of mixed fruit, wiping the juice from her chin with her sleeve, heaving a contented sigh, and recharging our goblets. Then without preamble, she asked:
“Did you truly kick the little fool over the Great Silver Smoke? I’d not blame you, for she’s a torment and a pest of hell, as well as a great liar. So one can never be sure. No matter.” She leaned her ample rump on the buffet. “Why did your general choose her to guide you to me?”
I said I believed Speedy had suggested her, and she clapped her hands in delight. “The Basha Fallaka! Oh, what a beautiful man is that! I would have made his fortune, but he would not fight my lion.” She sighed and giggled. “Oh, but I was young and wanton then … and very drunk! How is he, the rogue? Did he guess, I wonder, that Uliba would attempt my throne again?”
I said cautiously that Napier had mentioned her ambitions, but neither he nor Speedy had taken them too seriously.
“Unlike some besotted clowns in Galla who admire her body and fine airs,” scoffs Masteeat. “She has a way with men, as you know, and she is strong and brave and reckless – oh, a heroine, my little sister! If only her judgment of men looked higher than their loins. She thinks that a few lovers in high places can conjure a revolution out of the air, and all Galla will enthrone her by acclaim!” She shook her head and drank. “I knew a month ago that when your general sent her south she would use the occasion to seek out Zaneh and Abite, who had pledged her their regiments. So when she came to the rendezvous she found not them but Wedaju waiting. And now I am plagued with a thrice-rebellious sister, and Zaneh and Abite and a score of others pay with their lives.”
For a moment she was solemn as she refilled her goblet, then she brightened.
“Still, the Basha Fallaka chose well. She guarded and guided you, and when her silly plot came to nothing she kept faith with you and your people – aye, even though she believed you had betrayed her.” She was smiling with real admiration. “Do you know, when Wedaju brought her prisoner to me, and she had stamped and raged and gloried in her treason and cursed her conspirators for fools and cowards … why, then she demanded private audience, and told me of your mission. Aye, she is a heroine indeed, when she is not playing the idiot. She keeps her word – which is why I believe her when she vows to take my throne.” She tossed her head, swirling her braids, and eyed me. “You wonder why I tolerate her, do you not?”
I said tactfully that her majesty was a marvel of patience, and loved her sister dearly. Masteeat shrugged and refilled our goblets.
“So she thinks. Oh, I have a sisterly affection for her – but not enough to stop me sending her to the stranglers if there was no other way. That startles you? You supposed my endearments sincere?” She smiled coolly over the rim of her cup. “A little, perhaps … but their true purpose was to play on her girlish emotions, for she’s a romantic, our Uliba-Wark, with a tender heart for kittens and little birds and the fond sister who told her bed-time stories. The same Uliba who can gloat over the torture of an enemy …” I thought of Yando hanging terrified “… weeps great tears over this –” She drew her robe aside to display the bead anklet. “Lord God, the time my women spent searching for the wretched thing! It served my purpose, as did my embraces. While her shame and remorse last, she will not attempt my throne again, believe me.” Seeing my expression, she burst out laughing, refilled her goblet, crammed a handful of sweets into her mouth, washed them down with one great gulp, hiccoughed, picked up the tej flask and a dish of dainties and made her stately way, swaying slightly, back to her couch, apologising with an elegant flutter of her fingers for keeping me standing, and begging me to take Uliba’s stool.
I wondered had I ever seen her like. Every inch a queen, with the table manners of a starving navvy; tyrant of the toughest savages in Africa and indulgent to the point of lunacy of her wildcat sister; using lions as lapdogs and plainly ready to enjoy amorous jollity with a chap she’d known a bare five minutes; uninhibited, merry, gluttonous, imperious, sentimental and cynical by turns – and unless I was badly in error, as astute and formidable as any crowned female I’d ever met, and they’re nobody’s fools, these royal ladies. As she proceeded to prove, lolling in cushioned comfort with enough lush inside her to float a frigate.
“But enough of Uliba-Wark. She tells me your Dedjaza Napier seeks an alliance against Theodore, but she knew nothing of any price. Now, I am sure that he will have named a sum; and equally sure that he will have urged you to make as cheap a bargain as the silly woman will accept.” She took a long swig, mocking me with an eye like a velvet fish-hook. “But I am surest of all that you are too gallant a gentleman to take advantage of a poor African lady.”
What could I do but smile in turn, and resolve then and there to pay her the whole kitboodle, as she was sure I would, the crafty trollop. She knew my style, and I knew hers, and ’twasn’t my money anyway.
“Since your majesty is graciously pleased to signify your assent to Sir Robert’s proposal,” says I, all ambassador-like, “I am empowered to promise fifty thousand dollars in Austrian silver of 1780 minting …” It was a pleasure to see the light of pure greed mantle that jolly face “… provided that your majesty’s forces invest Magdala and prevent the Emperor’s escape.” I bowed, sitting down. “I have the honour to await your majesty’s reply.”
“And when will the money be paid?”
“When Sir Robert has the honour of paying his respects to your majesty in person.”
She gave me her old-fashioned look. “Which means when Theodore is dead or captured, but not before.”
“That, ma’am,” says I, “is exactly what it means. But you need have no fear. Sir Robert’s a man of his word. And so am I.”
“Oh, I am very sure of that. Very well; it is promised, it is done.” She extended an imperious hand, and again I hastened to help her rise, but this time I drew her plumpness smoothly to me, and was about to clamp her buttocks and make a meal of her, but she held her face away, looking mischievous. “And until the silver is in my treasury, I hold a hostage, do I not?” She flirted her lips across mine. “Now, you must take counsel with my commanders.”
a General, an abbreviation of Dedjazmach.