Chapter 11
Any doubts I might have had about the military bandobast of the Wollo Gallas were banished entirely in the next few hours when I conferred with their commanders. They were as expert and brisk in planning as their queen had been in negotiation, grasped Napier’s requirements at once, and knew exactly how to satisfy them. By the time we were done I was confident that whatever the hazards of taking Magdala, the Gallas would do their part to the letter.
There were four of them in the great airy apartment where Fasil, their general in chief, had his head-quarters. He was a mercenary, of the Amoro Galla tribe, notorious for their bravery, ferocity, and hatred of Christians, and didn’t he look it? He was a tall grizzled veteran whose hawk profile was marred by a dreadful sword-cut which had cleft both cheeks and the bridge of his nose; his style was all Guardee, sharp with authority and sparing with words. His two immediate subordinates were surprisingly young, hard-case stalwarts commanding infantry and cavalry respectively, full of bounce and confidence of which Fasil was sourly tolerant – not a bad sign. I don’t remember their names. Fourth man in was Masteeat’s son, Ahmed, a lively, handsome stripling who had inherited his mother’s lazy smile without her indolence, for he was restless with energy. He seemed to be Fasil’s a.d.c. In attendance there were half a dozen scribes taking notes.
What impressed me at first sight even more than the men was the great scale model, six feet by three, which occupied the centre of the room. It was an exact representation of Magdala and the country round, and beat any sand-table I’d ever seen. I doubt if any military academy of Europe or America could have shown better – and these were the primitive aborigines whom Punch depicted as nigger minstrels.
I made a sketch of it, and if you study it along with my description you’ll understand why I examined it with mounting alarm, for it was clear to me that if Theodore defended his amba like the professional soldier he was reputed to be, Napier’s command was looking disaster in the face.
Until now, you see, all I knew of Magdala was what the croakers said: that it was impregnable if resolutely defended – but that’s been an old soldier’s tale since Joshua’s day, and I’d been ready to believe that the shavea was exaggerated. I wasn’t prepared for that sand-table, if it was accurate. Fasil swore it was, to the inch, having been made by their best engineers and artists months earlier, when Masteeat had contemplated an attack on the place.
“And would have taken it, garrisoned by sheep as it is!” cries young Ahmed. “But Menelek and Gobayzy came snapping at our ankles like the dogs they are!”
“I could take it now, prince, if her majesty wishes,” brags the infantry wallah, with a cocky grin at me. “Why leave it for the British, who may not restore it to her majesty afterwards?”
“Since when are you a politician?” growls Fasil. “Keep to your trade and let your queen mind hers.”
“Oh, give him his way, lord general!” cries the cavalry chap. “Let’s see him pit his skill against Theodore’s!” He turned to me. “Given leave, my horsemen would have cut the Emperor’s rabble to pieces before they’d crossed the Bechelo!”
“Silence, fools!” growls Fasil. “Who are you to dare to reproach her majesty?” The lads protested that they’d meant no such thing, while I sought confirmation of the bad news.
“Theodore is in Magdala already?”
“He reached the amba three days ago, and camps his army on Islamgee, under the Magdala cliff,” says Fasil. “But his guns are not yet emplaced. When they and his great mortar have been sited, our scouts will bring us instant word, which we shall pass to your Dedjaz Napier; thus he will know which height Theodore will defend.” He leaned forward and tapped three features in the model with his pointer. “Fala … Selassie … Magdala …”
Look at my map and you’ll see them: three flat-topped peaks like the legs of an upturned stool, surrounded by mountains, a wilderness of rock and ravine worthy of Afghanistan. A saddle of land almost two miles long connects Fala and Selassie, and beyond lay the plain of Islamgee and Theodore’s army. I walked round the table, weighing it all, and saw that there was only one way for Napier to advance after he’d crossed the Bechelo. I ain’t being clever; any fool could ha’ seen it.
The road that Theodore had made to transport his artillery wound in a great loop from the Bechelo river through the Arogee plateau, and on to Magdala itself. But that wouldn’t do for Napier; it was too perilously close to the broken country bordering the Warki river, where the Abs would have all the advantage of ambush and surprise; the mere sight on the model of the beetling rocky sides of the Warki valley gave me the horrors; let ’em draw you in there and you’d never come out.
The only safe way was to take a long slant to the right and come to Arogee by the spurs running up through Afichu plateau; it might mean some stiff climbing for our troops, but they’d be in fairly open ground all the way, which would suit our infantry and gunners if Theodore were daft enough to offer pitched battle.
The key to the whole puzzle was plainly Fala. If Theodore put guns there he’d be able to bombard our advance over Arogee, but our gunners could give him shot for shot, and once Fala was taken the way to the Islamgee plain and Magdala would be open. And then … it would be a question of “so far so good” and put up a prayer.
You may remember pictures of Theodore’s great amba; the illustrated papers were full of them in ’68. It’s what they call a volcanic plug, a sheer cylinder of rock over three hundred feet high, with only one precipitous way up guarded by gates and ramparts. If Theodore was ready to fight to a finish and his gunners stood to it, Napier might never take that ghastly height. And his army, cut off and out of supply, would die at the end of nowhere.
Well, that wasn’t my indaba. My task was to see that the Gallas did their stuff, and I’m bound to say they seemed eager enough. Fifty thou’ and undisputed sovereignty over the Galla confederacy might be the prize to Masteeat, but unless I misread the looks of her commanders they asked nothing better than a chance to adorn their spear-points with Theodore’s courting tackle.
“Where’s Dedjaz Napier, d’you know?” I asked.
“Three days ago he was over the Takazy, at Santara, a week’s march from Magdala,” says Fasil. “By now he will be close to Bethor, perhaps at the Jedda ravine. God providing, they should be across the Bechelo in … three days? Perhaps four.”
“Oh, three, surely!” cries young Ahmed. “If he knows we are with him, he must come like the wind!”
“Even the wind must rest, prince,” says Cavalry. “They have come far and fast.”
“And they lay three days at Santara so that the main force might close up with the advance guard,” says Infantry.
“But they are none but fighting men now!” protests Ahmed. “They have left their slaves behind, and will march at speed with only their guns to carry!” To a Galla, all camp-followers were slaves, apparently. He appealed to me. “They will make all haste?”
“If they’re well provisioned,” says I.
“Your men will come to the Bechelo with full bellies,” says Fasil. “The Dalanta folk will see to it, out of hatred of Theodore.”
“And love of my mother!” insists Ahmed.
“Indeed, highness,” says Fasil tactfully, and Cavalry and Infantry made loyal noises.
“Hear, hear,” says I, and asked Fasil precisely how he would set about bottling Theodore. He traced an arc with his pointer south of Magdala.
“Two thousand scouts are already in place, and presently we will have a screen of cavalry from Guna to Lake Haik. Wherever he goes, it will not be southward.”
It looked a hell of a long arc, more than a hundred miles. “Your cavalry’ll be spread mighty thin, then.”
“Not so thin,” says he. “There will be twenty thousand riders.”
If I stared, d’you wonder? That was three times the force that Theodore could muster, ten times as many as Napier would use to storm Magdala. No wonder Cavalry had said he could have cut Theodore to ribbons, and Infantry had boasted of taking the amba with his foot-soldiers. He spoke up now, nodding confidently to me.
“The cavalry will be a reserve, of course; they will not be needed. I shall have three regiments of spearmen deployed between them and the amba, should Theodore attempt to break out.”
“Then you will have the chance to match tactics with Theodore!” cries Cavalry, winking at me. “A battle of the giants … but have no fear, foot-soldier, we shall be there.”
“So you will,” grins Infantry. “Behind us, out of harm’s way.”
“But close enough to hear cries for help …”
Not the way generals in civilised armies talk to each other as a rule, especially before their chief, but among experts outer forms of discipline don’t matter too much; the Gallas didn’t need to stand on ceremony. There was no bitterness in the young men’s rivalry; they were laughing at each other, Ahmed was grinning, and Fasil had the kind of authority that doesn’t depend on military etiquette. Listening to them, I knew that they’d do their part; it remained for Napier to attend to his, and he’d need all the prime intelligence I could give him. I questioned Fasil and his lieutenants on every particular: where exactly the infantry would be placed, their precise numbers (eight thousand all told), how long they’d be able to stay in the field, how they’d communicate, what were the lines of retreat from Magdala – all the small change, in fact, and as I noted it I was musing on how best to present it with a view to gaining the most credit.
There was no question of taking my news to Napier in person: he expected me to command the Galla encirclement of Magdala, bless him, and with Theodore’s ruffians infesting the northern approaches I’d not have ventured forth for a pension anyway. So I wrote a brief and suitably modest report to say that I’d arrived at Masteeat’s court, that she was an eager ally, the Wollos were fallen in and numbered off and could be counted on to stop Theodore’s southern bolthole, that he was camped on Islamgee with about seven thousand troops, but until his guns were placed we couldn’t tell whether he’d defend Magdala, offer battle, or cut and run. To be continued in our next, the weather remains fine, and please reply by the bearer of this despatch – and make him a present of a revolver.
I asked Fasil for Wedaju as my messenger because he could be trusted to reply intelligently to the sort of questions Napier would ask, and he was the kind of young hero who’d get there, through Hell and high water. He was summoned, and in the presence of Fasil and Co. I added the verbal messages that couldn’t be written in case they fell into Theodore’s hands: the number and rough disposition of the Galla force, the escape routes which Fasil thought Theodore would most likely take, and most importantly, the lie of the land – this I did by having Wedaju study the sand-table, and satisfy me that he could make a sketch of it from memory for Napier’s benefit. I demonstrated what I thought the best route from the Bechelo to Arogee, to which Fasil and his lads gave their approval. Some commanders don’t care for suggestions from below, but I knew Bob Napier would weigh mine and follow them unless he saw good reason not to.
Finally, and principally for young Ahmed’s benefit, I told Wedaju to assure Napier that the Queen of Wollo Galla had pledged her alliance in the most cordial terms, and shown me every courtesy and consideration, and we could congratulate ourselves on having the support of such an illustrious and enlightened ruler and her fine soldiery. Diplomatic butter, no more, but Ahmed took it large, clasping my hand and vowing that I must repeat it to Mama instanter, so that she could respond with similar compliments and greetings to the British dedjaz. And it was right, says he, that we should take the opportunity to inform her majesty that all was in train for the bottling of Theodore, so let us seek her approval as a loyal council should.
I could see that Fasil felt that the less opportunity royalty got to interfere, the better, but you don’t argue with a prince of the blood, even if he is your galloper, so off the five of us trooped to her majesty’s private apartments, with Wedaju in tow. There we were informed by her doddering chamberlain that her majesty was unable to grant us audience at present, as she had been resting and was now being attired by her ladies for the evening’s entertainment (from which I deduced that the tej had finally caught up with her and she was being revived and rendered fit for public view). What entertainment, demands Ahmed, and was told, with an obsequious smirk at me, that there was to be a grand reception and feast in honour of the British baldaraba.b Capital, says Ahmed, now get out of my way, and such is the politeness of princes that a moment later we were making our bows in the presence, while her handmaidens, caught unawares, tried gamely to disguise her majesty’s condition. As I’d suspected, she’d plainly had to be roused from the arms of Bacchus, and was visibly glazed of eye and unsteady on the seat before her dressing-table, with a wench either side to lend unobtrusive support, and her handmaiden-in-chief trying to impart a little dignity by slipping a silver wand into the royal grasp. But she played up well; her head was regally erect, and she greeted us with careful courtesy.
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 randylike, 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 chamberlain 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 ourselves 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, flirtatious, 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 somewhere 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 overpowering, no other word for it.
When the company had finished its obeisance, she held her arm for me to take, and led the way to the head of the table, where she took her seat among the cushions, indicating that I should join her. She reclined on one elbow, but I decided to sit, as being less awkward and more in keeping with the company, who had their little stools. More tej was poured, Masteeat led the company in pledging me, Queen Victoria, Napier, and the British Army, in that order, each toast requiring a full goblet, no heel-taps. We ain’t going to eat a great deal, thinks I; they’ll be too tight to pick up the grub. But I was dead wrong.
You know what dining out I’d done thus far; rough browsing mostly and not too formal even at Uliba’s citadel and the monastery. But I’d never been to a Lord Mayor’s Banquet, if you know what I mean, and that was what I was treated to, Habesh style. It’s quite alarming.
You sit there, drinking toasts, wondering when the soup’s going to arrive, when suddenly the most appalling din breaks out just beyond the door, a full-throated bellowing, peal after peal of some huge body in mortal pain thrashing about to the accompaniment of yelling voices, shrieks of command and cries of desperation, furniture crashing, the bellowing rising to a crescendo – and the guests applauding and your hostess imbibing another pint of tej, smacking her lips in anticipation.
And then servants scurry in, and there is planked down in front of you a plate containing a twelve-pound beefsteak, raw, red, and bleeding, and as I live and breathe, it has steam rising from it, which perhaps ain’t surprising since thirty seconds before it was part of the living animal which is bawling in agony outside. I’d had raw beef before, in transparently thin slices, cold, and not too bad, but as I gazed at this smoking horror I thought, no, the devil with etiquette, protocol, and diplomatic niceties, I ain’t touching it, whatever offence I give. Down the table they were buffing in like mad cannibals, even those elegant beauties, with gore trickling down their lovely chins and being wiped with dainty fingers. I daren’t look at Masteeat for fear of what I’d see; the mere sound of her champing made me come all over faint.
“You do not care for the brundo?” She laughed, took a hearty draught of tej, and called a servant to remove my bloody lump of carcase and replace it with a whole roast chicken. “Our friend Speedy, the great Basha Fallaka, shuddered like a girl when the beast was tethered and carved. That is why it was done outside today, so that your delicate senses might not be disturbed!” She struck me lightly on the arm, joshing, so I had to look at her, but either she’d wiped herself or swallowed the steak whole, for the chubby laughing face was clean and shining. “So, eat with good appetite!”
I can’t say I did, for the beast was still bellowing piteously outside, and some of the guests were calling for second helpings of the poor brute. And after that, when the roast meats and fowls and fish and stews and curries were served, the voracity with which the company punished each succeeding course quite put me off. God knows my generation were good trenchermen, but they weren’t fit to guzzle in Ethiopian company; it was wolf, wolf, wolf with an unrestrained vengeance, and those exquisite females, like so many tawny goddesses in their fine silks and gauzes, laid in as hard as the men. Talk about having hollow legs – and they drank pint for pint, too, taking their cue from her majesty, who bade fair to outstrip her potations of the afternoon.
It was, as you can imagine, a noisy business all round, and by the time the desserts and fruits were reached it was like being in a farmyard at feeding time. It didn’t stop them talking, mind; the din of conversation rose as the drink went down, and Masteeat found time between her gargantuan mouthfuls of food and gulps of liquor to call down amiable curses on the head of Uliba-Wark, who had defied a royal command to attend the feast and flounced off in dudgeon when rebuked.
“She becomes tiresome,” says Masteeat, and heaved a mighty yawn; the tej was coming home to roost at last, and her speech was thick and slow. “I begin to think that what I said half in jest I should decree in earnest … send her to Gobayzy.” She lowered another gobletful. “A penance for both of them.”
Fasil, who was sitting first down the table, shook his head. “Would your majesty know a moment’s peace if your half-sister were Gobayzy’s queen, with his army at her command?”
“To make another attempt against me?” laughs Masteeat. “Not so, old soldier, Gobayzy would have none of it. He fears the Galla too much … most of all the Galla Queen.” At which Cavalry and Infantry roared applause, and drank to her, with the others joining in.
“And yet,” says Fasil, when the shouting had died, “Gobayzy’s uncle visited the Dedjaz Napier at Santara. What for, if not to stand first with the British … in your majesty’s room?”
“By God, it is the truth!” cries Infantry. “Did I not say there is no knowing how the British might dispose of Magdala when it is taken!” He scowled half-drunkenly at me. “If Gobayzy worms his way into their confidence, might it not be given to him?” At this there was an uproar of opinion, stilled when Masteeat spoke with tipsy deliberation.
“No.” She set down her goblet carefully, and refilled it, more or less, with an unsteady hand. “No. Gobayzy’s a … a worm, you say … Well, what can he give the British? His army of … of worms?” She chuckled. “Worms who crawl away at the sight of our spears! No. The British dedjaz has chosen already …” She threw out an arm across my shoulders. “Chosen already, I say! Has he not?” She leaned towards me, and I prepared to catch her, but she kept her balance. “Has he not?” she repeated, and giggled, enveloping me in tej fumes. The great black eyes were half-closed, the smiling lips were moist and parted, and her braids were brushing my face. “Has he not?” she said a third time, her voice a drowsy murmur, and I glanced at Fasil, but he had turned away to his black charmer, and no one else was paying us any heed.
“Has he not?” for the fourth time, drunk as David’s sow, but not too far gone to kiss me gently, playing her tongue along my lips, whispering. “Oh … beautiful! More beautiful than Basha Fallaka … Are you all so beautiful, you English …?”
“Just a few of us, ma’am,” says I, and she gave a whoop of laughter and heaved her bulk away, knocking over her goblet, which I gallantly rescued and refilled, after a fashion, for I was feeling the worse for wear myself, what with too much booze and the rising clamour and laughter … for now the party was becoming lively, and if you don’t believe what I’m about to tell you, I can’t help it.
Young Cavalry and his bint had evidently had their fill of meat and drink, and were starting to satisfy another appetite, pawing and fondling with increasing passion, and slipping off their stools on to a mattress which some obliging menial must have laid behind their places. Gad’s me life, thinks I, not before the savoury, surely, but there was no doubt about it, they were setting to partners in earnest, and Fasil, seated next to them, had unwound a fold of his shama and was holding it up to shield the performers from the public gaze, the damned spoilsport – and blow me if Cavalry’s other neighbour wasn’t doing likewise, providing a complete screen!
But if they’d cut off the sight, they couldn’t shut out the sound. Even above the drunken babble of talk, gasps and grunts and rhythmic pounding were audible, followed at last by a prolonged ecstatic wailing that reminded me of little Fraulein Thingamajig on the voyage to Trieste. Well done, Cavalry, that’s your sort, thinks I, and looked to see the company, and Masteeat if she still had her senses, express their indignation at such unseemly behaviour – but no one was paying the least attention until Fasil and t’other chap resumed their shamas and the happy couple emerged, the bint in some disorder and Cavalry looking as though he’d just been ridden down by the Heavy Brigade. Then, as God’s my witness, the whole company raised their glasses in salutation as the lovers resumed their stools.
And then the other diners followed suit, in turn. Whether they observed some order of precedence, like Bishops going into dinner before Rear Admirals, I can’t say, but I think not, since Fasil and his consort were next to bat, and he must have been senior to Cavalry, surely. I was caught out, because Cavalry undid his shama to give ’em privacy, and nodded and frowned in my direction – and of course I was the nearest chap, and since I didn’t wear a shama I could only hold up a cushion, which wasn’t really adequate. Being fairly foxed, I started to apologise to Fasil, but quickly averted my gaze, thinking that’s a position I haven’t seen before, but ex Africa semper aliquid novi,c as Charity Spring would have said.
Then Infantry and his charmer were at it, and of course the inevitable happened: the others got impatient, and started out of turn, and all order was abandoned. Only the most perfunctory attempts were made to shield the jolly amorists, and the place shook like a New Orleans brothel in Holy Week. The Abs have two claims to distinction: they’re the noisiest eaters and fornicators on earth, and their queen is up there with the leaders. I’d been too intent on the scandalous scene to pay her much heed, and now when I looked she was reclining on one elbow, regarding me glassily over the rim of her tej goblet; whether she could see me or not I wasn’t sure until she reached out a hand to stroke my cheek, and (of all things) chucked me under the chin, gurgling with laughter and lurching closer.
“Has … he … not …?” she mumbled drowsily – by jove, she’d lapped the gutter, but d’you know, it was a rum thing, the drunker she got the more I fancied her. I’ve said she was no great beauty, but there was something damned fetching about the plump polished cheeks between the shining braids, the moist lips trembling in a vacuous smile, the satin skin of her arms and shoulders, the hard juggs thrusting themselves into my grasp, and the wild abandon with which she suddenly revived, clamping her mouth on mine, clawing at my rump, howling and writhing fit to wreck the furniture … and I think some considerate chaps must have noticed, for I’ve a recollection of being secluded by their shamas.
I hope we were, anyway … not that I imagine anyone would have paid us the slightest heed in the surrounding happy pandemonium, but one has to think of propriety and the good name of the service, especially among native peoples, however trying conditions may sometimes be. As I said to Speedicut, it’s hell in the diplomatic.
Elspeth maintains that one of the jolliest things about what she calls houghmagandie is the sweet exchanges of conversation afterwards. What they would have been like with Queen Masteeat of Galla, I cannot say, for she fell asleep at the end of our little frolic, and had to be carried insensible to bed by the more sober of her handmaidens, snoring like a volcano. My stars, but she was a glutton for mutton, and I was a well-ruined ambassador as I picked my way clear of the wreckage of that dining-chamber – would you credit it, Infantry and Cavalry were still going strong, with Fasil’s woman, too, while he was tucking into a helping of brundo, fed to him by his subordinates’ laughing lovebirds. No one’s ever going to believe this, thinks I; hang it all, Nero himself would have taken one look and cried “Oh, chuck it!” But that’s Ab society for you; other folk have dinner parties, but in Habesh they’re dinner orgies.40
I’ve no very clear recollection of making my way to the apartment in the palace set aside for me, but I know I suffered a most ghastly bout of “spinning pillow” and had to hang over the side of the bed with the floor racing up to me and receding, time and again, before I finally settled, lying there in the dark wondering how much of Queen Masteeat I could take. She was no refined amorist, that one, strong as a bullock, randy as a stoat, and the roughest ride I could remember since Ranavalona of Madagascar – another Black Pearl of Africa, but before I could make philosophic review of this coincidence, my attention was distracted by a gentle pricking of some sharp point under my right ear, and a soft voice whispering:
“Lie still, friend, and prosper … for the moment. Speak … and you’ll be talking to Shaitan.”
a Rumour.
b Agent, representative.
c “Out of Africa there is always something new” – Pliny the Elder.