In the main cave, the air was so thick and warm and moist that it lay
upon the company like a wet woollen blanket. In the uneven light of
the fires it was impossible to see from one end to the other of the
cavernous room, with its rough earthen wall and columns. The restless
body of guests and servants flitted through the smoky gloom like
wraiths. Every once in a while there would be the terrified bellows of
an ox from the wadi outside. the main entrance of the cave. The
bellows would cease abruptly as the blackman swung his long two-handled
sword and the carcass fell with a thud that seemed to reverberate
through the cavern. A vast shout of approval greeted the fall of the
beast, and a dozen eager assistants flayed the hide, hacked the flesh
into bloody strips and piled them on to huge platters of baked clay.
The servants staggered into the cave, bearing the laden platters of
steaming, quivering meat. The guests fell upon it, men and women
alike, snatching up the bleeding flesh, taking an end between their
teeth, pulling it tight with one hand and hacking free a bite-sized
piece with a knife grasped in the other. The flashing blade passed a
mere fraction from the end of the diner's nose and warm blood trickled
unheeded down the chin, as the lump was swallowed with a single
convulsive heave of the throat.
Each mouthful was washed down into the belly with a swig of the fiery
Ethiopian tej - a brew made from wild honey, a liquid the colour of
golden amber, with the impact of a charging buffalo bull.
Gareth Swales sat between the old Ras and Lij Mikhael in the place of
honour, while Jake and Vicky were a dozen places farther away amongst
the lesser notables. In deference to the appetite and tastes of
foreigners, they were offered, in place of raw beef, an endless
succession of bubbling pots containing the fiery casseroles of beef,
lamb, chicken and game that are known under the inclusive title of
wat.
These highly spiced, peppery but delicious concoctions were spooned out
on to thin sheets of unleavened bread and rolled into a cigar shape
before eating.
Lij Mikhael warned his guests against the tea and instead offered
Bollinger champagne, wrapped in wet sacking to lower its temperature.
There was also pinch bottle Haig, London Dry Gin, and a vast array of
liqueurs Grand Marnier, yellow and green Chartreuse,
Dam Benedictine, and the rest. These incongruous beverages in the
desert reminded the guests that their host was wealthy beyond the
normal concept of wealth, the lord of vast estates and, under the
Emperor, the master of many thousands of human beings.
The Ras sat at the head of the feast, with a war bonnet of lion's mane
covering his bald pate. It made a startling, but rather moth-eaten wig
for it was forty years since the Ras had slain the lion, and the
ravages of time were apparent.
Now the Ras cackled with laughter as he rolled a sheet of the
unleavened bread, filled with steaming wat, into the shape and size of
a Havana cigar and thrust it, dripping juice, into Gareth Swales's
unprepared mouth.
