Penrod drew the tail of his turban closer over his mouth and nose so that only his eyes showed, and edged aside his camel to pass the group at a safe distance. As they drew level with them they saw the horsemen staring across at them. They were animatedly discussing the two strangers.
“Damn Ryder Courtney for his taste in camel flesh.” For the first time since leaving Khartoum, Penrod bemoaned the quality of their mounts. They were magnificent creatures, more befitting a khalifa or a powerful emir than a lowly tribesman. Even in this vast assembly they stood out as thoroughbreds. Yakub urged his camel forward at a faster clip, and Penrod cautioned him sharply: “Gently, fearless Yakub. Their eyes are upon you. When the mice nan the cat pounces.”
Yakub reined in, and they continued at more leisurely pace, but this did not deter the aggagiers. Two broke away from the group and rode across to them.
“They are of the Beja,” Yakub said hoarsely. “They mean us no good.”
“Steady, glib and cunning Yakub. You must deceive them with your ready tongue.”
The leading aggagier came up and reined his bay mare down to a walk. “The blessings of Allah and His Victorious Mahdi upon you, strangers. What is your tribe and who is your emir?”
“May Allah and the Mahdi, grace upon him, always smile upon you,” Yakub responded, in a clear untroubled voice. “I am Hogal al-Kadir of the Jaalin, and we ride under the banner of the Emir Salida.”
“I am al-Noor, of the Beja tribe. My master is the famed Emir Osman Atalan, upon whom be all the blessings of Allah.”
“He is a mighty man, beloved of Allah and the Ever Victorious Mahdi, may he live long and prosper.” Penrod touched his heart and his forehead, “I am Suleimani Iffara, a Persian of Jeddah.” Some Persians had fair hair and pale eyes, and Penrod had adopted that nationality to explain his features. It would also account for the slight nuances and inflections in his speech.
“You are a long way from Jeddah, Suleimani Iffara.” Al-Noor rode closer and stared at him thoughtfully.
“The Divine Mahdi has declared jihad against the Turk and the Frank,” Penrod replied. “All true believers must hearken to his summons and make haste to join up with him, no matter how hard and long the journey.”
“You are welcome to our array, but if you travel under the banner of Emir Salida, you must ride harder to catch up with him.”
“We are solicitous of the camels,” Yakub explained, ‘but on your advice we will move faster.”
“They are indeed magnificent beasts,” al-Noor agreed, but he was staring at Penrod and not at his mount. He could see only his eyes, but they were the eyes of a jinnee and disconcertingly familiar. Yet it would be a deadly offence to order him to unveil his features. “My master Osman Atalan has sent me to enquire if you wish to sell any. He would pay you a good price in gold coin.”
“I have the utmost respect for your mighty master,” Penrod replied, ‘but rather would I sell my firstborn son.”
“I have said before and I say again that they are magnificent creatures. My master will be saddened by your reply.” Al-Noor lifted his reins to turn away, then paused, “There is aught about you, Suleimani Iffara, your eyes or your voice, that is familiar. Have we met before?”
Penrod shrugged. “Perhaps in the mosque of Omdurman.”
“Perhaps,” al-Noor said dubiously, ‘but if I have seen you before I will remember. My memory is good.”
“We go on ahead to find our commander,” Yakub intervened. “May the sons of Islam triumph in the battle that looms ahead.”
Al-Noor turned to him. “I pray that your words may carry to the ear of God. Victory is sweet, but death is the ultimate purpose of life. It is the key to Paradise. If the victory is denied to us, may Allah grant us glorious martyrdom.” He touched his heart in farewell salute. “Go with the blessings of Allah.” He galloped away to rejoin his squadron.
“The Emir Atalan,” Yakub whispered in awe. “We ride in the same company as your most deadly enemy. This is the same as carrying a cobra in your bosom.”
“Al-Noor has granted us permission to leave his banner,” Penrod reminded him. “Let us make all haste to obey.”
They stirred up the camels with the goad, and pushed them into a trot. As they pulled away Penrod looked across at the distant group of aggagiers. Now that he knew what to look for he recognized the elegant figure of Osman Atalan in a bone-white jibba with gaily coloured patches that caught the eye like jewels. On his lovely pale mare he was riding a few lengths ahead of the rest of his band. He was staring at Penrod, and even at that distance his gaze was disturbing.
Behind his master, al-Noor drew his rifle from its boot under his knee and pointed it to the sky. Penrod saw the spurt of blue powder smoke a few seconds before the report reached his ears. He lifted his own rifle and returned this feu du joie. Then they rode on.
They were challenged several times during the rest of the day. The quality of their camels and their obvious haste marked them out even among this huge gathering of animals and men. Each time they asked for the red banner of Emir Salida of the Jaalin, they were told, “He leads the vanguard,” and they were pointed ahead. Penrod pushed on rapidly: ever since the meeting with al-Noor he had felt uneasy.
They paused in their journey only once more. One of the petty traders who followed the armies called to them as they passed. They turned aside to inspect his wares. He had rounds of dhurra bread, roasted in camel’s milk butter and sesame seeds. He showed them also dried dates and apricots, and goat’s milk cheese, whose high aroma started their saliva. They filled their food bags, and Penrod paid the exorbitant prices with Maria Theresa dollars.
When they rode on the merchant watched them until they were well out of earshot, then called his son who handled the pack donkeys. “I know that man well. He marched with Hicks Pasha to El Obeid, at the start of the war of jihad. I sold him a gold inlaid dagger, and he bargained shrewdly. I would never mistake him for another. He is an infidel and a Frankish effendi. His name is Abadan Riji. Go, my son, to the mighty Emir Osman Atalan, and tell him all these things. Tell him that an enemy marches in the ranks of the warriors of Allah.”
The sun was sinking towards the western horizon and the elongated shadows cast by their camels flitted across the orange yellow dunes when at last Penrod made out the streaming red banner of Emir Salida through the dust clouds ahead.
“This is the front rank of the army,” Yakub agreed. He rode close to Penrod’s right hand so that he did not have to raise his voice: other riders were within earshot. “Many of these men are Jaalin. I have recognized two who carry a blood feud against me. They are of the family who drove me out of my tribe, and made me an outcast. If they confront me I will be honour-bound to kill them.”
“Then let us part company with them.”
The Nile was only a mile distant on their left hand. The whole army had been following the course of the river since they had joined it at Berber. At this late hour of the day many other travellers were turning aside to water their animals on the riverbank. They were too intent on their own affairs to remark the presence of the two strangers among them. Nevertheless Penrod contrived to keep well clear of them.
The grazing closer to the riverbank was dense and luscious. The grass reached as high as the knees of their camels. Suddenly there was an explosion of wings from under the front pads of Yakub’s mount, and a covey of quail rocketed into the air. These were the Syrian Blue variety of their breed, larger than the common quail and highly prized for the pot. Yakub swivelled in his saddle and, with a whipping motion of his right hand, threw the heavy camel goad he carried. It cartwheeled through the air and smacked into one of the birds. In a burst of blue, gold and chestnut feathers the quail tumbled to earth.
“Behold! Yakub, the mighty hunter,” he exulted.
The rest of the covey swung across the nose of Penrod’s camel and he made his throw. The goad clipped the head off the leading cock bird, and spun on with almost no deflection. It thumped into a plump young hen and snapped her near wing. She came down heavily and scuttled away through the tall grass.
Penrod jumped from the camel’s back and chased her. She jinked and fluttered up, but he snatched her out of the air. Holding her by the head he flicked his wrist and broke her neck. He retrieved his goad and the cock’s carcass, then ran back to his mount and swung up into the saddle. “Behold! Suleimani Iffara, the humble traveller from Jeddah, who would never boast of his prowess.”
“Then I will not embarrass him by speaking of it,” Yakub agreed ruefully.
So they came down to the river. Hundreds of horses and camels were spread out along the bank, drinking.
