Flashman on the March

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