they had only to come on guard to present a glittering palisade of steel to prevent Penrod carrying his charge home. Al-Noor darted forward, not to oppose Penrod head on but cutting in behind him. He seized the dragging leg chain and hauled back on it, whipping Penrod’s feet from under him. As he hit the ground the waiting aggagiers rushed forward.
“No!” shouted Osman. “Do not kill him! Hold him fast, but do not kill him!” Al-Noor released his grip on the leg shackles and grabbed the loop of chain that held Penrod’s wrists. He jerked this viciously against the half-healed shoulder. Penrod gritted his teeth to prevent himself crying out but the sword fell from his hands. Al-Noor snatched it away.
“In God’s glorious Name!” Osman Atalan laughed. “You give me great entertainment, Abd! I know now that you can fight, but tomorrow I shall see how well you run. By evening I doubt you will have the stomach for more of your games. Within a week you will be pleading for me to kill you.”
Then Osman Atalan looked down from the dais at al-Noor. “You I can always trust. You are always ready to serve. You are my right hand. Take my Abd to his cell, but have him ready at dawn. We are going out to hunt the gazelle.”
News travelled swiftly in the zemma. Within hours it was known by all, including AH Wad and the guards, that the Mahdi had expressed himself pleased with the infidel woman, al-Jamal. Rebecca’s status was enhanced immeasurably. The guards treated her as though she was already a senior wife, not a low-ranking concubine. She was given three female house slaves to attend her. The other women of the Mahdi, both wives and concubines, called greetings and blessings to her as she passed, and they carried petitions and supplications to her hut, begging her to bring them to the notice of the Mahdi. The rations that were sent to her from the kitchens changed in character and quantity: large fresh fish straight from the river, calabashes of soured milk, bowls of wild desert honey still in the comb, the tender est cuts of mutton, legs of venison, live chickens and eggs, all in such amounts that Rebecca was able to feed some of the sick children of the lowest-ranking concubines who were in real need of nourishment.
This new status was passed on to the others in her household. Nazeera was now greeted with the title Ammi, or Auntie. The guards saluted her when she passed through the gates. Because it was known that Amber was the sister of one of the Mahdi’s favourites, she, too, was granted special privileges. She was a child and had not seen her first moon, so none of the guards raised any objection when she accompanied Nazeera on her forays beyond the gates of the zenana.
That particular morning, Nazeera and Amber left the zenana early to go down to the market on the riverbank to meet the farmers as they brought in their fresh crops from the country. Figs and pomegranates were in season, and Nazeera was determined to have the first selection of the day’s offerings. As they passed the large edifice of the Beit el Mai there was a disturbance down the street ahead of them. A crowd had gathered, the war drums boomed and the ivory horns sounded.
“What is it, Nazeera?”
“I don’t know everything,” Nazeera replied testily. “Why do you always ask me?”
“Because you do know everything.” Amber jumped up to see over the heads of the crowd. “Oh! Look! It is the banner of the Emir Atalan. Let’s hurry or we shall miss him.” She ran ahead and Nazeera broke into a trot to keep up with her. Amber ducked between the legs of the crowd until she had reached the front rank. Nazeera forged her way in behind her, ignoring the protests of those she shoved aside.
“Here he comes,” the crowd chanted. “Hail, mighty emir of the Beja! Hail, victor of Khartoum and slayer of Gordon Pasha!” With his banner-bearer riding ahead and four of his most trusted aggagiers flanking him, Osman Atalan was up on the great black stallion, al-Buq. As this entourage swept past Nazeera and Amber they saw that a man ran at the emir’s stirrup. He wore a short sleeveless shift and a loincloth. On his head was a plain turban, but his legs and feet were bare.
“That’s a white man!” exclaimed Nazeera, and around her the crowd laughed and applauded.
“He is the infidel spy, the henchman of Gordon Pasha.”
“He is the one they once called Abadan Riji, the One Who Never Turns Back.”
“He is the prisoner of the emir.”
“Osman Atalan will teach him new tricks. Not only will he learn to turn back, but he will be taught to turn in small circles.”
Amber shrieked with excitement, “Nazeera! It is Captain Ballantyne!”
Even over the noise of the crowd Penrod heard Amber call his name. He turned his head and looked directly at her. She waved frantically at him but the cavalcade carried him away. Before he was gone Amber saw that there was a rope round his neck, the other end of which was tied to one of the emir’s stirrups.
“Where are they taking him?” Amber wailed. “Are they going to kill him?”
“No!” Nazeera placed an arm round her to calm her. “He is far too valuable to them. But now we must go back and tell your sister what we have seen.” They hurried to the zenana, but when they reached the hut they found that Rebecca was gone.
Nazeera immediately taxed the house slaves. “Where is your mistress?”
“AH Wad came to fetch her. He has taken her to the quarters of the Mahdi.”
“It is too early in the day for the Mahdi to begin taking his manly pleasures,” Nazeera protested.
“He is sick. Wad AH says he is sick unto death. He is struck down by the cholera. They know that al-Jamal saved her little sister al-Zahra and many others from the disease. He wishes her to do the same for the Holy One.”
As the news of the Mahdi’s illness swept through the zenana a high tide of wailing, lamentation and prayer followed it.
As they reached the edge of the desert Osman reined in al-Buq lightly and at the same time urged him forward with his knees. It was the signal for the stallion to break into a triple gait, the smooth, flowing action so easy on both horse and rider. It is not a natural pace, and a horse has to be schooled to learn it. The emir’s outriders followed his example and tripled away at a pace faster than a trot but not as fast as a canter.
At the end of the rope Penrod had to stretch out to keep up with them. They swung southwards, parallel to the river, and the heat of the day started to build up. They rode on as far as the village of Al Malaka, where the headman and the village elders all hastened out to greet the emir. They implored him to grant them the honour of providing him with refreshment. If Osman had been truly on the chase he would never have wasted time on such indulgences, but he knew that if the captive did not rest and drink he would die. His clothing was drenched with sweat and his feet were bloody from the prick of thorns and flint cuts.
While he sat under the tree in the centre of the village and discussed the possibility of finding game in the vicinity, Osman noted with satisfaction that al’Noor had understood his true purpose and was allowing Penrod to sit and drink from the waterskins. When Osman stood at last and ordered his party to mount up, Penrod seemed to have regained much of his strength. He had pulled his left arm out of the sling, although it was not yet completely healed: it unbalanced him, and hampered the swing of his shoulders as he ran.
They rode on and paused an hour later while Osman glassed the desert ahead for any sign of gazelle. In the meantime al-Noor let Penrod drink again, then allowed him to squat on his haunches, his head between his knees as he gasped for breath. Too soon Osman ordered the advance. For the rest of that day they described a wide circle through sand dunes, over gravelly plains and across ridges of limestone, pausing occasionally to drink from the waterskins.
An hour before sunset they returned to Omdurman. The horses had slowed to a walk and Penrod staggered along behind them at the end of his rope. More than once he was jerked off his feet and dragged in the dirt. When this happened al’Noor backed his horse until he was able to struggle up. When they rode through the gates and dismounted in the courtyard Penrod was swaying on his torn, bloody feet. He was dazed with exhaustion, and it required all his remaining strength merely to remain upright.
Osman called to him: “You-disappoint me, Abd. I looked for you to find the gazelle herds for us but you were more happy rolling in the dust and looking for dung beetles.”
The other hunters shouted with delight at the jest, and al-Noor suggested, “Dung beetle is a better name for him than Abd.”
“So be it, then,” Osman agreed. “From henceforth he shall be known as Jiz, the slave who became a dung beetle.”
As Osman turned towards his own quarters a slave prostrated himself in front of him. “Mighty Emir, and
