Flashman on the March fp-12 Read online

“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 block head, 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 cur tained 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 under done 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 Fallakal 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 occa sion 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 Dedjaz (* General, an abbreviation of Dedjazmach.) 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 empow ered 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.”

  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 negoti ation, 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 sub ordinates 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, hand some 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 descrip tion you’ll understand why I examined it with mounting alarm, for it was clear to me that if Theodore defended his amba
like the pro fessional 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 shave (* Rumour.) 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.