Flashman on the March

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 chamber lain 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 our selves 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, flirta tious, 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 some where 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 overpower ing, 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, fur niture 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.