gratitude. “I am not worthy of such liberality. I shall name him Ata min Khalif, the Gift of the Khalif.”
The following day Penrod loaded his ivory tusk on to one of the packhorses and carried it down to the souk. For an hour he sat drinking coffee and haggling with a trader from Suakin. In the end he sold the tusk for two hundred and fifty Maria Theresa dollars.
When he had entered the souk he had passed the stall of a fat Persian. In pride of place among the merchant’s wares a sword was laid out on a sheepskin fleece. Now Penrod came back to him. He examined all his other stock, showing particular interest in a matched necklace and earrings of polished amber, and avoided glancing at the sword. He haggled the price of the amber jewellery, and drank so many more cups of coffee that his bladder ached. In the end he struck a bargain at three Maria Theresas for the necklace. He bid the Persian farewell, and was leaving his stall when his eye fell at last upon the sword. The Persian smiled: he had known all along where Penrod’s true interest lay.
The slim curved blade was of the finest Damascus steel, unembellished by gold engravings and inscriptions for the graceful wavy patterns in the metal, caused by the strip forgings, were sufficient ornamentation. This was not a pretty bauble but a true killing blade. With the bright edge Penrod shaved a patch of hair off his forearm, then flicked his wrist. The steel sang like a crystal glass. It cost him seventy-five Maria Theresas, the equivalent price-of two pretty Galla slave girls.
Three days later Osman Atalan held an audience in the great tent that had been set up at the edge of the city. Penrod waited his turn among the supplicants, then knelt before the Khalif. “What more do you require of me, Abadan Riji?” Osman asked, and his tone was sharp and brittle as flint.
“I beg the mighty and noble Atalan to accept the gift of one he has honoured with his benevolence.” He placed the roll of sheepskin at Osman’s feet.
Osman unwrapped it and smiled when he saw the lovely weapon. “This is a fine gift and one that I accept with pleasure.” He handed the sword back to Penrod. “Carry it for me. If you must use it, use it wisely.”
Between them they had reached a compromise. The slave was still a slave, but accoutred like a warrior.
Rebecca sat at the Khalif s feet each day, recording the proceeds in the audience hall. Every evening she was sent back to the zenana in the governor’s palace. At first his indifference was a relief to her, but after three days it irked her. Had she given him offence by falling asleep in his presence, or bored and annoyed him with garrulousness, she wondered. Or am I just unattractive to him? It really does not matter what he feels. Only what happens to Amber and Nazeera, and of course to me also. Endlessly she and Nazeera discussed this predicament, which involved them all so intricately and intimately. Their well-being and even their lives were in the Khalifs hands. From hating the thought of allowing Osman Atalan to touch her, Rebecca began to fear that he would not do so.
Nazeera held up to her the example of his fourth wife Zamatta. “She was unable to hold his interest. And so, even though she is a relative of the Khalifat Abdullahi, he sent her back to Omdurman as soon as she had a babe in her belly. She may never see him again, and will probably pass the entire remainder of her life locked in the zenana. Beware, al-Jamal. If he rejects you, you may not be so fortunate as Zamatta. He might sell you, or give you to some old emir or sheikh who smells like a goat. And Amber what will he do with her? The Khalifat likes children, young children. He would welcome her into his own harem, if Osman Atalan offered her to him. You must strive to please him. I shall teach you how, for I have some small experience in these matters.”
With these threats as an incentive Rebecca determined to pay full attention to Nazeera’s advice and instruction.
The following afternoon Nazeera returned from a visit to the souk, and displayed her purchase: the tusk from the lower jaw of a hippopotamus. “We shall use this as a tool of instruction,” she informed Rebecca. “There is much demand for toys such as this among the women of the harem and zenana who do not see their husbands from one feast of Ramadan to the next. They call them the jinn of the angareb. The Khalif Atalan has different tastes from those of the Divine Mahdi. Your mouth and sweet lips alone will not suffice. He will require more of you than the Mahdi ever did.” She held up the tusk. “The Khalif will be this shape, but if he is so large you will be blessed indeed.” Nazeera went on to demonstrate her artistry.
Rebecca would never have dreamt that some of the behaviour Nazeera described between man and woman was possible, and she found herself becoming more interested in the subject than the cold contemplation of survival required. She thought about it a great deal at night before she slept, and if Amber had not been lying beside her on the same angareb she might have indulged in some preliminary experimentation with the ivory toy.
However, it seemed that Osman Atalan had lost interest in her even before he had pursued their relationship to its full potential. Eventually he finished questioning the last of the witnesses. He was about to leave the audience hall without having acknowledged her, when unexpectedly he turned to one of his viziers. “This evening the concubine al-Jamal will serve my evening meal. See to it.”
Although she kept her eyes downcast Rebecca felt a lift of intense relief, tempered by a stirring of trepidation. I must play the game that Nazeera has taught me to arouse his carnal passions, and make our lives secure, she thought, then tried to suppress the flutter of excitement in the pit of her stomach. It seemed, however, that this particular evening the Khalif’s passions were more conversational than concupiscent. He gave her little opportunity to try out her freshly acquired knowledge.
“I know that in your country the ruler is a woman,” he said, before he had finished eating.
“Yes. Victoria is our queen.”
“Does she rule firmly and are her laws strong?”
“She does not make the laws. The laws are made by Parliament.”
“Ah!” said the Khalif knowingly. “So Parliament is her husband, and he makes the laws. That is clever of him. He must be cunning and wise. I knew that a man must be behind it all. I should like to write a letter to Lord Parliament.”
“Parliament is not a single man. It is an assembly of the people.”
“The common people make the laws? Do you mean the cooks and grooms, the carpenters and masons, the beggars, fellahin and grave-diggers? Anyone of this riffraff can make a law? Surely this is not possible.”
Rebecca struggled for half of the rest of the night to explain an electoral system of government and the democratic process. When finally she succeeded Osman was appalled. “How can warriors like those Englishmen I have fought allow this obscenity to exist?” He was silent for a while as he paced the floor. Then he stopped in front of her, and his tone was diffident, as though he feared her answer. “Women also have this thing you call a vote?”
“Women do not have a voice. No woman may cast a vote,” she replied.
Osman placed his fists on his hips and laughed triumphantly. “Ha! Now at least I can still respect my enemies. At least your men keep control of their wives. But tell me, please. You say your ruler is a woman. Does she not have a voice, a vote?”
“I - I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“You Franks!” He clutched his head theatrically. “Are you mad? Or is it me alone?”
Rebecca found that she was beginning to enjoy herself. Like a pack of hunting dogs, their discussion ranged over wide territory and started some extraordinary game. This was like the unrestricted and open-ended discussions in which her father had indulged her. Beyond the open windows the cocks crowed at dawn while she was still trying to explain to him that the Atlantic Ocean was wider than the Nile or even, in God’s Name, Lake Tana. When he sent her back to the harem unmolested, her relief was tempered by a strange feeling of inadequacy.
Before she joined Amber on the mattress she held up the oil lamp and studied herself in the small mirror. Most men find me appealing, she reminded herself, and thought of Ryder Courtney and Penrod Ballantyne. So why does this savage treat me like another man? she wondered.
The next morning she watched with Amber and the rest of the women from the terrace of the harem as Osman Atalan rode out at the head of a band of his aggagiers on a hawking expedition along the eastern border.
“Look!” cried Amber. “There is Captain Ballantyne. They say that the Khalif gave him that horse. On him the jibba looks as dashing as a cavalry dolman. He is so handsome, would you not agree, Becky?”
Rebecca had barely noticed Penrod but she made a noncommittal sound while she followed with her eyes the elegant, exotic figure at the head of the cavalcade of horsemen. He is as fierce and dangerous as the falcon on his wrist, she thought.