of horsemen. They could offer him no help and would gallop away before he reached them. Even to climb into one of the tall trees that grew nearby would be of no avail. Standing on its back legs the bull could reach even to the top branches to pull him down, or it could knock over the whole tree almost effortlessly. He thought of the ravine they had crossed a short distance back. It was so narrow and deep that he might crawl down into it beyond the bull’s reach. He whirled and ran. Faintly he heard the ribald shouts of the aggagiers.
“Run, Dung Beetle! Spread your wings and fly.”
“Pray to your Christian God, infidel!”
“Behold, the fields of Paradise lie before you.”
He heard the elephant crashing through the scrub behind him. Then he saw the opening of the ravine a hundred paces ahead. He was at the top of his own speed, his tempered, hardened legs driving so hard that the elephant was overhauling him only gradually. But he knew in his heart that it would catch him.
Then he heard pounding hoofs close behind him. He could not help glancing back. The bull was towering over him like a dark cliff, already uncoiling its trunk to swipe him down. The blow would smash bone.
Once he was on the ground the bull would kneel on him, crushing him against the hard earth until every bone in his body was smashed, then stabbing those long ivory shafts repeatedly through what remained of his body.
He tore away his gaze and looked ahead. Still the sound of hoofs crescendoed. Without slackening his run Penrod braced himself for the shattering blow that must surely come. Then the hoofs were alongside him, and he saw movement from the corner of his eye. The black bulk of al-Buq was overtaking him. Osman was leaning forward over his withers and pumping the reins. He had kicked his foot out of the near side stirrup, and the empty iron bumped against al-Buq’s flank.
“Come up, Abd Jiz!” Osman invited him. “I have not finished with you yet.”
With his right hand Penrod snatched the stirrup leather and twisted it round his wrist. Instantly he was jerked off his feet, and he allowed himself to be carried away by the racing stallion. As he swung on the end of the leather he looked back. The bull was still at full charge behind them, but losing ground to the stallion. At last he abandoned the chase and, still squealing with rage, turned aside into the kit tar thorn. As he ran off he ripped down branches from the trees in his path in frustration and hurled them high into the air. He vanished over the crest of the hill.
Osman reined in al-Buq, and Penrod released the stirrup leather. He still held the hilt of the sword in his left hand. Osman threw his leg over the stallion’s neck and dropped to the ground, landing like a cat in front of him. The other aggagiers were widely scattered and for the moment the two were alone. Osman held out his right hand. “You have no further need of that steel,” he said quietly.
Penrod glanced down at the sword. “It grieves me to give it up.” He reversed the weapon and slapped the hilt into Osman’s right hand.
“In God’s Name, you are a brave man, and an even wiser one,” Osman said, and brought out his left hand from behind his back. In it he held a fully cocked pistol. He thumbed the hammer and let it drop to half-cock, just as al-Noor rode up.
Al-Noor also jumped down and spontaneously embraced Penrod. “Two true strokes,” he applauded him. “No man could have done it cleaner.”
They did not have time to wait for the tusks to rot free so they chopped them out. It took until noon the next day to remove the long cone-shaped nerve from the cavity in the base of each. It was painstaking work: a slip of the blade would mar the ivory and reduce drastically its monetary and aesthetic value.
They loaded them on to the packhorses, and when they rode into the main encampment the drummers beat loud and the horns blared. The women, even the Khalif’s wife and his concubines, came out to watch. The men fired their rifles in the air, then crowded around the packhorse to marvel at the size of the tusks.
“This must have been the father and grandfather of many great bulls,” they told each other. Then they asked Osman Atalan, “Tell us, we beg you, exalted Khalif, which hunter brought down this mighty beast?”
“The one who was once known as Abd Jiz, but who has now become the aggagier Abadan Riji.”
From then on no man ever called Penrod Abd Jiz again. That derogatory name was lost and forgotten.
“Command us, Supreme One. What must we do with these tusks?”
“I shall keep one in my tent to remind me of this day’s sport. The other belongs to the aggagier who slew it.”
Early the following morning when Osman Atalan emerged from his tent he greeted his waiting aggagiers and discussed with them the usual business of the day, the route he intended to follow and the purpose and object of the day’s ride. Penrod squatted nearby with the horses, taking no part until Osman called to him, “Your style of dress brings your companions into disrepute.”
Penrod stood up in surprise and looked down at his shift. Although he had washed it whenever an opportunity presented itself, it was stained and worn. He had no needle or thread with which to mend it, and the cloth was ripped by thorn and branch, worn threadbare with hard use. “I have become accustomed to this uniform. It suits me well enough, great Atalan.”
“It suits me not at all,” said Osman, and clapped his hands. One of the house slaves came scurrying forward. He carried a folded garment. “Give it to Abadan Riji,” Osman ordered him, and he knelt before Penrod and proffered the bundle.
Penrod took it from him and shook it out. He saw that it was a clean, unworn jibba and with it were a pair of sandals of tanned camel hide.
“Put them on,” said Osman.
Penrod saw at once that the jibba was plain, not decorated with the ritual multi-coloured patches that had such powerful political and religious significance and constituted a Dervish uniform. He would not have donned the jibba if it had. He stripped off his rags and slipped it over his head. It fitted him remarkably well, as did the sandals. Somebody had observed his size shrewdly.
“That pleases me better,” said Osman, and swung up easily into al-Buq’s saddle. Penrod moved up to his usual position at the stirrup, but
Osman shook his head. “An aggagier is a horseman.” He clapped again, and a groom led a saddled horse from behind the tent. It was a sturdy roan gelding that Penrod had noticed in the herd of spare horses.
“Mount up!” Osman ordered him, and he went into the saddle, then followed the group of riders into the forest. Penrod was conscious of his inferior rank in the band, so he kept well back.
Over the first few miles he assessed the roan under him. The horse had a comfortable gait and showed no vices. He would not be particularly fast. He could never outrun any of the other aggagiers. If Penrod ever tried to escape, they would run him down quickly enough.
No great beauty, but a hard pounder with good temperament, he decided. It felt good to have a horse between his knees again. They rode on towards the blue mountains and the Abyssinian border. They were heading now directly for Gallabat, the last Dervish stronghold before the border. Though the mountains seemed close, they were still ten days’ ride ahead. Gradually they left the wilderness behind. There were no more signs of elephant or of the other great game animals. Soon they were passing through fields of dhurra and other cultivation and many small Sudanese villages. Then they started to climb through the foothills of the central massif.
When they off-saddled to recite the midday prayers, Osman Atalan always left the others and spread his carpet in a shaded place that overlooked the next green valley. After he had prayed he would usually eat alone, but that day he called Penrod, and indicated that he should sit facing him on the Persian carpet. “Break bread with me,” he invited. Al-Noor set out between them a dish of unleavened dhurra cakes and as ida and another dish of cold smoked antelope meat. He had hastily cut the throats of the animals before they died from the lance wounds that had brought them down so the flesh was hal al There was a smaller dish filled with coarse salt. Osman gave thanks to Allah and asked for His blessing on the food. Then he selected a morsel of smoked meat and, with his right hand, dipped it in to the salt. He leant forward and held it to Penrod’s lips.
Penrod hesitated. He was faced with a crucial decision. If he accepted food and salt from Osman’s hand it would constitute a pact between them. In the tradition of the tribes it would be equivalent to a parole. If thereafter he tried to escape, or if he committed any warlike or aggressive act against Osman, he would break his word of honour.
Swiftly he made his decision. I am a Christian, not a Muslim. Also, I am not a Beja. For me this is not a binding oath. He accepted the offering, chewed and swallowed, then picked out a scrap of venison,
salted it and offered it to Osman. The Khalif ate it and nodded his thanks.
