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  Rimbaud shrugged. "Living is dangerous, monsieur. When we die, then we shall be safe."

  Gordon looked at the enigmatic merchant. There was something about the man that inspired trust. Perhaps it was his quiet, almost laconic attitude. Whatever caused it, Gordon hoped that the trust he put in Rimbaud wasn't misplaced.

  "All right," he finally said. "I leave it to you. Go the way you feel would be best. But be careful. And deliver this message only to Alexander von Shrakenberg. He has promised to be waiting—with a legion—for word from me at Aswan, at the end of the railroad line. If you don't find him there, you must find him where ever he is, as soon as you can. Oh—and, if you will, as a favor to me, take these letters for my sister and post them at the first opportunity."

  Rimbaud accepted both packets, the one containing a signed copy of the Mahdist treaty, the other containing the letters Gordon had written to his sister Augusta over the last several days. They disappeared into his voluminous, disreputable robes.

  "That I will, monsieur." He made as if to go, then paused. "May I offer an observation of my own, monsieur?"

  "Certainly," Gordon said, somewhat surprised. Rimbaud had never before made free with advice.

  He fixed Gordon with his curious burning gaze. His eyes had clearly seen a lot in life, and this experience shone in them as he addressed Gordon. "The Mahdi is but a man like all of us. Follow him if you will. Love him if you must. But do not worship him. If you do, you will be lost. Comprendez vous?"

  "Y-yes," Gordon said, a little startled by the man's words. Before he could say more, though, Rimbaud turned, and climbed down into the waiting dhow. Gordon watched him go, contemplating his extraordinary advice. It was almost as if the Frenchman had followed Gordon's own private mental processes, almost as if he could directly interpret the words and looks that had passed between him and the Mahdi. How could Rimbaud know his own unexpressed thoughts and desires?

  Not that he could ever really love the Mahdi, in the physical sense. That was surely impossible. It was not natural. It was a sin. True, it was a sin he had carried with him since his thirteenth year when he'd been forced into such a relationship with a teacher at his preparatory school. Not forced in a physical sense, but overwhelmed by an older and more powerful personality, a personality he had loved, had worshiped . . .

  Since then Gordon had wished fervently that he was a eunuch so he'd never be tortured by such terrible desires again. He had felt them since, but had never given in. His iron will and determination had prevented him from again slipping into sin. But—

  Don't even think about it, Gordon told himself. Don't even think about it. There was much yet he had to do. There was much to occupy himself with.

  He gave a final wave to Rimbaud as the dhow slipped downstream. Gordon couldn't be sure but it seemed as if Rimbaud also waved a farewell. After the dhow faded from sight, he turned away from the river and went up the rickety pier to the muddy path beyond.

  A faceless tribesman jostled him in the darkness, and Gordon felt a sharp, bitter sting across his ribcage. Instantly, without conscious thought, he drew the jambiyah he always carried at his waist and slashed outward.

  He felt the blade bite flesh and the Arab sprang back with a curse, his hand flying to his cheek where Gordon's dagger had slashed him from the corner of his mouth to the corner of his eye.

  There were others on and around the pier, but the knife work was so fast, so quiet, that they had no time to react even if they realized what was happening.

  Cursing, the Arab crouched low and came in again. Gordon stood his ground, surprising him. While it had been some time since Gordon had had blood on his own hands, his physical courage had never dimmed. The tribesman lunged, but Gordon blocked most of the blow's force with a strength that surprised his foe. The tribesman was even more surprised by the speed and accuracy of Gordon's counterthrust as it lodged deep in his throat.

  "Damn!" Gordon stepped back, avoiding most of the spray that geysered from his assailant's throat. The tribesman fell. "Damn it all, anyway!"

  By now those standing nearby knew that something odd was happening. A crowd quickly gathered around Gordon, and helped him up the river bank and to the Mahdi's tent. They rushed him in, calling for a doctor, and laid him on soft cushions in a quiet alcove.

  Gordon was breathing heavily, shallowly. He felt hot and cold, sweating and shivering at the same time. He knew his wounds weren't particularly bad, not even the stomach wound, but wondered why they were affecting him so severely.

  Then he thought, "Poison," and tried to rise, but couldn't. He tried to call for paper. He wanted to, he had to write to his sister, to tell her . . . tell her . . .

  He couldn't remember what he had to tell her. He lay back among the cushions, totally unaware of the chaos which raged around him.

  vi.

  Gordon woke to darkness.

  He was not in a tent, but in a dark room in a building, exactly where, he didn't know. A woman sat by his side, dozing, and as he woke he sat up, and felt the pull of barely-knit flesh across his stomach.

  The woman woke at the sound of his involuntary groan. She was young and probably beautiful, though he could hardly tell for the darkness and the veil and robes she wore. In any event, her voice was young and her hands gentle and tender as she lightly touched his chest and urged him back down upon the soft bed.

  "Where—" Gordon croaked, his mouth dry and voice rusty from disuse.

  The woman made soft noises of disapproval and reached for a carafe beside the bed. She held it to his lips and he eagerly gulped sweet, diluted wine, ignoring the rivulets that dribbled down his chin.

  "Where am I?" he tried again. This time his voice worked reasonably well.

  "Shh!" The woman said. "Lay back and rest. I shall bring him."

  And she was gone before Gordon could stop her.

  Gordon sat up as best he could against the fluffy cushions, and looked around. He was obviously in a dark bedchamber. It was night, and warm. Of course. City sounds and smells came from the grilled window, as did some light from a half-full moon. So much for his surroundings. As for himself—he was naked, covered by a sheet damp from his sweat. His chest was half wrapped in bandages where the knife blade had raked his ribcage. Another bandage was wrapped about his stomach where the blade had sunk in an inch or two. He probed carefully, pushing lightly with his forefinger, and winced. It was still sore. But—he was alive and feeling reasonably well if somewhat weak and more than a little disoriented.

  "Praise be to Allah!"

  The Mahdi stood at the entrance to the room. He gestured to the bodyguards who accompanied him to wait outside and closed the door.

  "We thought we had lost you so soon after first knowing you—but praise be to Allah—and your own great strength—that neither the blade nor the poison on it could end your life!"

  The Mahdi stopped at the foot of the bed and gazed down on Gordon with his intense, piercing eyes.

  "As you yourself did to the man who struck you."

  "Who was he?" Gordon asked. He looked back up at the Mahdi. He felt that he should pull the sheet up to cover himself, but for some reason couldn't. The Mahdi moved closer, around the edge of the bed.

  He shrugged shoulders clad in an immaculate white robe.

  "Who knows? An assassin sent by an old enemy, perhaps. You still have many enemies in this country, Gordon Pasha." The Mahdi sat down on the edge of the bed. Gordon could feel the heat radiating from the body pressing against his upper thigh, covered only by the thin sheet. "A man is measured by the strength of his enemies."

  They looked at each other for a long moment. Gordon felt an unaccountable rush of heat flush his entire body.

  "Where—where are we?"

  "Ah." The Mahdi gestured around them. "My palace in El Obeid. We thought it would be best to bring you here from the camp. Your wounds . . ."

  His fine, strong-looking hand reached out slowly, almost as if of its own accord, and touched Gordon's band
aged chest, gently. Gordon flinched at the touch, but did not move away from it.

  "You've slept for three days," the Mahdi continued in that same dreamy, far-away voice. The touch became a caress, moving down his chest. Suddenly, the Mahdi sighed and took his hand away. "It's a pity," he finally said. "You no longer have the suppleness, the skin, the softness of a youth. A pity."

  "Yes," Gordon said, quietly. He looked away, queerly hurt in a way he couldn't even think about, let alone define.

  The Mahdi stood, his voice suddenly brisk, businesslike.

  "It's well that you've awakened. We have . . ." he paused, searching for the correct word, " . . . visitors."

  "Oh." Gordon still did not look at him, fiercely willing himself not to cry. He didn't know why he wanted to.

  "Yes. A Draka legion has surrounded the city."

  This was something he could think about. Focus his mind on.

  "Who commands it?" he asked in a strong voice. It couldn't be von Shrakenberg's legion. They couldn't have arrived so quickly from Aswan.

  "A merarch named Quantrill. He has asked to meet with me."

  Quantrill. Again. Perhaps at last they'd come face-to-face. "I wouldn't much trust him."

  The Mahdi smiled. It was heart-breakingly beautiful.

  "I don't. It would help if you attended and showed him the documents I have signed."

  "Of course," Gordon said. He sat up with hardly any pain. "As you desire."

  The Mahdi was already leaving the room, calling for servants to clothe Gordon for the meeting.

  * * *

  May 2, 1883

  El Obeid

  My Dearest Augusta:

  I find myself now in El Obeid, a city (without much to recommend it) in the heart of the Kordofan province of what used to be the Sudan, which is, de facto, the capitol of the Mahdi's little empire.

  I confess that I am weary. I had a little accident a couple of days ago, nothing serious, I assure you, and am well recovered even as I write these words. It is not that which causes my weariness.

  I scarce know what to say or how to explain it. I am tired of a battle I have fought all my life, a battle thought long won which, actually, I came extremely close to losing. Yet—in the ensuing victory I feel no joy. Only continuing loss.

  It is all very confusing. I must pull myself together. I've just come from mediating a face-to-face confrontation between the Mahdi and Merarch Quantrill of the Draka Security Directorate. Quantrill has surrounded El Obeid with a Draka legion that he commands. Yet, he says that he accepts the Mahdi's offer of alliance, as enumerated in the documents drawn up by Alexander von Shrakenberg and signed by the Mahdi. He has even accepted the offer to attend a banquet in the city in honor of him and his staff.

  Yet, I do not trust him. Quantrill is a swine. He is without honor. Still, tonight might be a perfect opportunity to probe his mind and attempt to catch a hint of his plans, whatever they are. I'm sure that ultimately he's up to no good.

  I am sorry my dear sister. I usually don't burden you with my problems like this. Attribute it to my weariness. Still, writing these lines has done me some good. It has helped to clear my mind as to what I must do. Now I shall go post this and (as unreliable as the mail service is) pray that it reaches you eventually.

  Please, pray for me, your sinning brother, as I pray for you and our family every day.

  Your loving Brother,

  C.

  vii.

  Gordon went out into the night, alone. Despite his recent wounds and weakness, he felt like walking. He felt like more than that, actually, but he couldn't get on a camel and head off into the clear, clean desert to be alone with thoughts that he scarcely could admit to himself. But he simply couldn't stand the thought of being confined any longer. The narrow, winding streets of El Obeid, so much like those of Khartoum, were little better than his closed-in room. He had to get out and be alone and prepare himself for the dinner in honor of Quantrill and his staff. But he couldn't focus his mind.

  A hot wind blew like a blast from an open fire. It was unpleasant, of course, but no way near as unpleasant as the flames of Hell, which ultimately he knew was his due.

  He was a sodomite. Pure and simple. He was a sinner and when he died he would burn in Hell. Pure and simple.

  Almost it was a relief to admit it to himself. Of course he had known it. He had known it for years and years, back to his days at boarding school, but somehow he had never admitted it to himself. He had certainly never acted on the realization. It had been thirty-seven years since he had touched another with love. He had thought the Mahdi . . .

  But, no, of course not. He was fifty, now, hardly in his prime. Old and useless . . .

  "Gordon. Fancy seeing you here."

  Gordon stopped, startled. He had been wandering with his head down, lost in thought, unaware of his surroundings.

  Make that old and stupid, he told himself. Somewhere Agag snickered.

  It took Gordon a moment before he recognize the man standing before him in the dark. He was a European in civilian dress. No—he was American. It was Desmond.

  "Desmond? What're you doing here? You should be at the Mahdi's palace. The dinner."

  Desmond nodded. "I'll make it to the nigger's in time for the festivities. I hope. I have to take care of something first."

  Gordon knew. Desmond's right hand was in his bulging pants' pocket, no doubt resting on the grip of a pistol. Gordon smiled.

  "I see." Curiously, his depression immediately lightened. Nothing like an assassination attempt, he thought, to focus your mind. "Something you should have handled yourself, a while ago."

  "Oh, I quite agree," Desmond said. "Quantrill's orders, of course, but they were my men. They failed though. Never send a nigger or a wog to do a man's work."

  "Mind telling me one thing?" Gordon asked.

  "What's that?"

  "Why?"

  Desmond grinned at him. "Well, it's simple, isn't it? You're the go-between. You're the proof, as it were. Without you, there's no evidence that the Mahdi accepted the plan of that traitorous swine von Shrakenberg."

  Gordon smiled. "Except for the documents that the Mahdi signed."

  "Oh, those." Desmond waved it away. "Those will be destroyed tonight. Along with the Mahdi and the rest of his scum."

  "What?"

  "Of course. The Mahdi, you see, is the key to this whole thing. Without him, the revolt falls to bits. Without his leadership his savages become, well, worthless savages again." Desmond glanced down to consult a watch he took with his left hand from the pocket on his vest. "The dinner will start any moment now. Of course, under a flag of truce the Draka officers won't be asked to give up their sidearms. Their repeating pistols. Some have smuggled in small packets of explosives as well. They'll kill the Mahdi and wipe out his staff easily. I'm sorry to miss it. It'll be rare sport."

  "Sport?" Gordon said through gritted teeth. "Under a flag of truce?"

  Desmond shrugged. "Why not? They're only niggers. Oh, sure, there's some white men on the Mahdi's staff, but that's what they get, you see." He smiled at Gordon. "The sounds of gunfire at the palace will be the signal for the general assault on the city. Steam-draggers will batter down the gates. Quantrill's elite legion will swarm in and wipe out the unsuspecting niggers. Easy as pie." Desmond smiled again. "And I'll take care of you."

  Gordon's fury increased. He couldn't believe the filthy treachery in Desmond's calm words. Actually—he could. The plan reeked of Quantrill. It was just like him to slaughter unarmed hosts while under a white flag. He would think it clever.

  There was the sudden clatter of gunfire from the direction of the Mahdi's palace. Gordon closed his eyes.

  "Ah," Desmond said. "There's the signal—"

  "One more thing," Gordon asked, his eyes still closed.

  "What's that?" Desmond asked, a hint of impatience in his voice.

  "Have you killed many men from close up?"

  Desmond frowned. "No. Why?"

&
nbsp; Gordon's eyes flew open. Boiling with rage he launched himself at the Draka, hand dropping for the jambiyah sheathed at his side. Desmond drew backward as he yanked the pistol from his pocket. But the handgun's hammer snagged on the pocket lining. He pulled harder and it tore free. He lifted the weapon to fire, but Gordon was on him.

  They collided, falling backward with Gordon on top, his blade drawn. He stuck it in Desmond's stomach and slashed sideways. His face was inches from Desmond's and the Draka's expression was fear and pain, mingled equally.

  "A knife is better for that kind of thing," Gordon told him as he gutted him. Gordon jumped to his feet, ignoring the blood which soaked the front of his clothes. His only thought was to get to the Mahdi. Quantrill, of course, was right. The Mahdi was the key to the whole thing. Without the Mahdi, the revolt wouldn't last another month. But even if he destroyed the copy of the treaty he and the Mahdi had signed, there was the other copy Gordon had sent off with Rimbaud. The Draka would learn of Quantrill's treachery through that document.

  But would they care? Gordon guessed that the Draka, pragmatic to the end, would care only if Quantrill failed to end the Mahdi's threat.

  Gordon must do all he could to see that the Mahdi survived this vile treachery. All he could. He ran toward the palace. Already El Obeid was in chaos. The gunfire around the palace had died out. That wasn't a good sign. The legion had begin its assault. He could hear their vehicles smashing through the city gates.

  God grant him his wish to be in time—

  The palace's dining room was full of death. There were corpses everywhere. Most were native, but there were some Draka-uniformed bodies as well. He searched the room but couldn't find the Mahdi, alive or dead, so there was still hope. Perhaps, Gordon thought, they had taken him prisoner.

  The rest of the palace was chaotic. Soldiers and servants were fleeing, some looting before the Draka could arrive. There were no Draka officers to be seen—and then Gordon heard sounds coming from the garden behind the palace.