Osman Atalan was gone from the city for almost ten days. When he returned he sent for Rebecca. He stood behind her shoulder as he directed her to draw a detailed map of the ground he had covered in his foray across the Abyssinian border. When she had completed it to his satisfaction, he dismissed her. Then he called her back from the door, “You will attend me after evening prayers. I want to discuss with you certain matters that interest me.”
When she found Nazeera in the harem, she whispered the news to her. “He wants me to go to him again this evening, Nazeera. What shall I do?”
Nazeera saw the colour in her cheeks. “I am sure you will think of something,” she said. “Now I will prepare your bath.” She poured a liberal measure of attar of roses and sandalwood essence into the pitchers of hot water, then rummaged through the chests to choose a robe fitting to the occasion from the wardrobe that the Mahdi had provided for Rebecca.
“You can see through it,” Amber protested, when Rebecca put it on. “With the lamp behind you it makes you seem nakedV She placed a powerful pejorative emphasis on the last word. “You will look like a belly-dancer!”
“I shall wear my woollen shawl over it, and keep myself covered throughout the dinner,” Rebecca reassured her.
As soon as they were alone in his quarters, the Khalif picked up the subject of their conversation of ten days previously, as though it had not been interrupted. “So this large water you call the ocean is alive. It moves backwards and forwards, and leaps up and down. Is that not what you told me?”
“Indeed, mighty Atalan, at times it is like a ravening beast with the strength of a thousand elephants. It can overwhelm ships fifty times larger than any that voyage on the Nile as though they were dried leaves.”
He looked into her eyes to discover if there was any truth at all in these improbable statements. All he found were points of light, like those in the depths of a sapphire. This diverted his train of thought and he took her chin and lifted it to gaze deeply into her eyes. His hands were strong and his fingers hard as bone from swordplay and from handling his hawks and horses.
He made her feel helpless and vulnerable. I must remember everything Nazeera has taught me. She felt her loins melt lubriciously. This might be the only opportunity he will ever give me.
“I shall send an expedition of a thousand of my most intrepid men to find this wild water and bring it back in large skins,” Osman announced. “I will pour it into the Nile to overwhelm the British steamers when next they sail upriver to attack us.”
She was touched by his naivety. Sometimes it was like talking to a small child. Not for the first time she felt an extraordinary tenderness towards him, which she had forcibly to suppress. This is no child. This is a shrewd, ruthless, arrogant tyrant. I am completely at his mercy. Why did that thought excite her, she wondered. But before she could decide the answer he made another disconcerting change of subject.
“But I have heard that their steamers are able to voyage on the land further and faster than the bravest horse. Is this true?”
“It is true, mighty Khalif. These carriages are different from the river steamers and are called steam locomotives.” It took her a few moments to rally her thoughts, and she described how she had journeyed from
London to Portsmouth in a single day, including a stop for refreshment. “That is a distance greater than from Metemma to Khartoum.” Her voice was husky and disturbed. He still held her chin, but now he stroked her cheek and touched a lock of her hair. She was surprised at the gentleness of his hard fingers, this savage warrior from the primal deserts.
“What unguent do you use to keep your skin and hair so soft?” he asked.
“This is how I was born.”
“It grows dark. Light the lamps so that I may see you more clearly.”
She remembered how Amber had disapproved of the transparency of the silk she wore. She slipped the light woollen shawl off her shoulder as she stood up, and tossed it over the table as she went to take a taper from the fire pot. She cupped the flame in her hands and carried it across to the lamp. It caught, then burnt brightly; the warm yellow light chased the shadows along the walls. She lingered there a little longer, trimming the wick until the flame was burning evenly. Her back was turned to him, but she was aware of the picture she made. I am acting like a harlot, she thought, then seemed to hear her father’s voice: “It’s an honourable profession. The oldest in the world.” She smiled in confusion as the ghost voice went on, delivering his often repeated advice to her: “Whatever you do, do it to the very best of your ability.” It was a blessing.
“I shall try, Daddy,” she replied inwardly, and at that she felt a touch. She had not heard Osman Atalan cross the room behind her. His hands on her shoulders were strong and steady. She smelt him. It was a good smell like a well-groomed horse or a cat. Muslim men of his rank bathed as many times in a day as an Englishman did in a month.
She stood submissively as his hands ran down from her shoulders, under her armpits, then reached in front of her to take her breasts. They filled each of his hands. He took her nipples and rolled them between his fingers, then pinched them until she gasped. The pressure was skilfully applied, just sufficient to startle and arouse her without inflicting pain. Then he pulled her back against him. It was some moments before she realized that he had shed his jibba and was now naked. Through the silk of her robe she could feel the hard muscular length of his body pressing against her back. Tentatively she pushed back with her buttocks, and found conclusive proof that he did not find her repellent. With Nazeera’s advice and instruction still sharp in her mind, Rebecca stood without moving as she appraised that which the Khalif was pressing against her. It seemed to be of similar shape to Nazeera’s hippo tusk, and it was certainly every bit as hard.
She turned slowly in his arms and looked down. It seems that I am to be blessed indeed, she thought. Like the ivory tusk, he was smooth and slightly curved. She touched him, then encompassed him with her hand. Her fingers were barely able to meet round his girth. She made the movements of her hand that Nazeera had demonstrated and felt him throb and leap in her grip.
“Great Khalif, in your manly attributes you are peerless and imperial.”
He took the word ‘imperial’ as a comparison to the Light of the World, Muhammad el Mahdi, who now sat at the right hand of Allah, and he was well pleased. “I am your stallion,” he said.
“And I am your filly, in awe of your strength and majesty. Treat me gently, I beg you, sweet lord.”
She continued to hold him. She expected him to pounce upon her as Ryder Courtney had done, but his restraint surprised, then titillated her. She kept her grip on him as he undressed her, and was still holding him as she fell back on his mattress. She attempted to direct him to her source, using both hands and coming up on her elbows so she could watch him disappear inside her. But he resisted her urging, and began to examine her as though she were indeed a thoroughbred filly, turning her this way and that, lifting each limb in turn, admiring and caressing them. It was at first flattering to be at the centre of his attention, but he was so unhurried and deliberate that she became impatient. She longed for the delicious sensation of being deeply invaded that she had last known with Ryder Courtney.
Still he lingered over her, taking his time so deliberately that she felt she must scream in her desperation. She had once owned a tabby cat named Butter. In her season Butter would yowl and sob to attract feline admirers. Rebecca understood that imperative now. How many thousand women has he known? she wondered. For him there is no urgency. He cares not at all that he is causing me such distress.
She tugged at him again with both hands. “I beg of you, great Atalan, lack of you is torture beyond my ability to endure. Please be merciful and end it now.”
“You asked me to treat you gently,” he reminded her, with a smile.
“I am a silly creature who does not know her own mind or nature. Forget what I have said, my lord. You know much better than I ever will what must be done. Make haste, I entreat you. I can wait no longer.” He did as she asked, and this time she could not forbear from screaming, louder and longer than Butter ever had. None of Osman Atalan’s other women had ever acknowledged his mastery in such a comprehensive vocal fashion. He was flattered and amused.
He did not dismiss her on rising, as was his habit, but kept her beside him as he ate his breakfast. Soon none of the other concubines he had brought with him from Omdurman were honoured by a summons to his private quarters. Rebecca took up almost permanent abode in them. She did not bore him, as the others were wont to do.
Once Osman Atalan had assembled all the expert first-hand information of the local guides and hunters and traders, he employed Rebecca’s artistic skills and penmanship to incorporate it into a large-scale map of the border
