sacking in which numerous blood-sucking insects had already set up home. They seemed to resent any human intrusion into their territory.
“To reward you for your service to me over the years, Yakub the Faithful, I shall allow you to sleep upon the bed while I make do with the floor. But tell me how much we can trust our host, this man Wad Hagma.”
“I think my uncle suspects who you are, for I told him once, long ago, that you were my lord. However, Wad Hagma is of my clan and blood. Although he has sworn the oath of Beia to the Mahdi, I believe he did so with his mouth only, not his heart. He would not betray us.”
“He has an evil cast in his eye, Yakub, but that seems to run in the family.”
By the time they had watered and fed the camels and penned them in to the kraal at the back of Wad Hagma’s caravanserai, darkness had fallen and they wandered into the sprawling warren of the holy city, seemingly without purpose but in reality to find some news of the Benbrook family. After dark Omdurman was still a holy city and under the Mahdi’s strict moral code. Nevertheless, they found a small number of dimly lit coffee shops. Some offered in the back rooms a hookah pipe and the company of a young, beautiful woman or, should their tastes lean in that direction, an even more beautiful boy.
“It has been my experience that in any foreign town the most reliable sources of information are always the women of pleasure.” Yakub volunteered his services.
“I know that your motives are praiseworthy, Yakub the virtuous. I am grateful for your self-sacrifice.”
“I lack only the few paltry coins required to perform this onerous task for you.”
Penrod pressed the room price into his hand, and ensconced himself in a dimly lit corner of the coffee shop from where he was able to eavesdrop on several conversations between the other clientele.
“I have heard that when Osman Atalan laid the head of Gordon Pasha at the feet of the Divine Mahdi the angel Gabriel appeared at his side and made the sign of sanctification over the head of the Mahdi,” said one.
“I heard it was two angels,” countered another.
“I heard it was two angels and the Messenger of Allah, the first Muhammad,” said a third.
“May he live at Allah’s right hand for ever,” said all three in unison.
So, Gordon is no more. Penrod sipped the viscous bitter coffee from the brass thimble, to cover his emotions. A brave man. He will be more at peace now than he ever was during his lifetime. A short while later, Yakub emerged from the back room looking pleased with himself. “She was not beautiful,” he confided in Penrod, ‘but she was friendly and industrious. She asked me to commend her efforts to her owner or he would beat her.”
“Yakub, saviour of ugly maidens, you did what was expected of you, did you not?” Penrod asked, and Yakub rolled one eye knowingly while the other remained focused on his master.
“Apart from that, what else did she tell you that might be of value to us?” Penrod could not refrain from smiling.
“She told me that early this afternoon, just after the infidel steamers were driven in confusion and ignominy back downriver by the ever-victorious Ansar of the Mahdi, may Allah love him for ever, a dhow brought five women captives across the river from Khartoum. They were in the charge of Ali Wad, an aggagier of the Jaalin who is well known hereabouts for his ferocity and his foul temper. Immediately on landing Ali Wad conveyed the captives to the zenana of Muhammad, the Mahdi, may Allah love him through eternity. The women have not been seen again, nor are they likely to be. The Mahdi keeps firm control of his property.”
“Did your obliging young friend notice if one of those captives had yellow hair?” Penrod asked.
“My friend, who is not particularly young, was less certain of that. The heads and faces of all the women were covered.”
“Then we must keep a watch on the palace of the Mahdi until we are certain that these women are who we hope they are,” Penrod told him.
“The women of the zenana are never permitted to leave their quarters,” Yakub pointed out. “Al-Jamal will never again be allowed to show herself beyond the gates.”
“Nevertheless you might learn something by watching patiently.”
Early next morning Yakub joined the large group of worshippers and petitioners who were always gathered at the gates of the Mahdi’s palace, ready to prostrate themselves before him when the Chosen One went to the mosque to lead the ritual prayers and deliver his sermons, which were not his words but the very words of Allah. This day, as was his custom, the Mahdi emerged punctually for the first prayers of the day, but so great was the press of humanity around him that Yakub caught only a glimpse of his embroidered kufi skullcap as he passed. Yakub followed him to the mosque, and after the prayers returned in his train to the palace. He followed this routine five times a day for the next three days, without receiving any confirmation of the existence or whereabouts of the women. On the third afternoon, as had become his habit, he settled down to wait again in the sparse shade of an oleander bush from where he could keep one eye on the palace gates. He was beginning to nod off in the somnolent heat when there was a light touch on his sleeve and a woman’s voice entreated him, “Noble and beloved warrior of God, I have clean sweet water to quench your thirst, and freshly roasted as ida flavoured with chilli sauce as fiery as the flames of hell, all for the very reasonable price of five copper pice.”
“May you please God, sister, for your offer pleases me.” The woman poured from the waters king into an enamelled tin mug, and spread sauce on a round of dhurra bread. As she handed these to him she said, in a low voice muffled by the head cloth that covered her face, “O faithless one, you swore a mighty oath that you would remember me for ever but you have forgotten me already.”
“Nazeera!” He was amazed.
“Dimwitted one! For three days I have watched you flaunt yourself before the eyes of your enemies and now you compound your idiocy by shouting my name aloud for all to hear.”
“You are the light of my life,” he told her. “I shall give thanks every day that you are well. What of your charges? Al-Jamal and her two little sisters, are they with you in the palace? My lord seeks to know these things.”
“They are alive, but their father is dead. We cannot talk here. After the afternoon prayers I shall be at the camel market. Look for me there.” Nazeera drifted away to offer her water and bread to others who waited at the gates.
As she had promised, he found her at the well in the centre of the camel market. She was drawing water in a large earthenware pitcher. Two other women lifted it and placed it on her head, Nazeera balanced it with one hand and set off across the marketplace. Yakub followed her closely enough to hear what she was saying, but not so close as to make it obvious that they were together.
“Tell your master that al-Jamal and al-Zahra are in the palace. They have been taken by the Mahdi as his concubines. Saffron escaped on the steamer of al-Sakhawi. I watched her go on board. Their father was beheaded by the Ansar. I saw it done.” Under the weight of the pitcher Nazeera moved with a straight back and rolling hips. Yakub watched the lively play of her buttocks with interest. “What are your master’s intentions?” she wanted to know.
“I think that his purpose is to rescue al-Jamal and carry her off as his woman.”
“If he thinks to accomplish this alone, he is touched by the sun. They will be discovered and both of them will die. Come here again tomorrow at the same time. There is someone else you must meet,” she told him. “Now, walk away and do not show yourself at the palace gates again.”
He turned aside to examine a string of camels that was being offered for sale, but from the corner of his eye he watched her go. She is a clever woman and skilled in the art of pleasing a man. Tis a pity she does not confine her affections to just one of us, he mused.
The following day Yakub was at the camel market again at the same hour. It took him some time to find Nazeera. She had changed her costume to that of a Bedouin woman, and she was cooking at a charcoal brazier. He might not have recognized her had she not called to him: “Roasted locusts, lord, fresh from the desert. Sweet and juicy.” He took a seat on the stump of acacia wood that had been placed by the fire as a stool. Nazeera brought him a handful of locusts she had crisped on the brazier. “The one I spoke of is here,” she said softly.
He had taken little notice of the man who sat on the opposite side of the fire. Although he was dressed in a jibba and carried a sword he was too plump and well fed to be an aggagier. In place of a man’s beard his chin was adorned with only a few wisps of curly hair. Now Yakub looked at him with more attention, and then, with a thrill of jealous anger, he recognized him. “Bacheet, why are you not cheating honest men with your shoddy goods, or prodding their wives with your inconsequential member?” he said coldly.
“Ah, Yakub of the quick knife! How many throats have you ‘slit recently?” Bacheet’s tone was every bit as
