she had been too immersed in the game of survival for herself and Amber that she had played out with the Mahdi. Of course, since she had been in the zenana she had heard the other women discussing his reputation as a warrior. Since his final victory over Gordon Pasha, Osman was now the senior commander of the Dervish army. In power and influence with the Mahdi he ranked only below the Khalifa Abdullahi.
Now she was able to watch him from the corner of her eye and found him interesting. She had not realized that an Arab man could be so handsome. His skin did not have the usual dingy umber tone and his beard was lustrous and wavy. His eyes were dark, but sharp and alert with stars of light in their depths, like jewels of polished black coral. In contrast his teeth were very white and even. It seemed to Rebecca that he was in a jubilant mood, waiting for the first opportunity to deliver some important tidings to the others.
The Mahdi must also have sensed his eagerness, for at last he turned his smile upon him. “We have spoken of the south, but tell me now what news you have from the north of my domains. What do you hear of the infidels who have invaded my borders?”
“Mighty Mahdi, the news is good. Within the last hour a carrier-pigeon has arrived from Metemma. The last infidel crusaders who dared to march on your cities and attempt to rescue Gordon Pasha have fled from your sacred lands like a pack of mangy hyenas before the wrath of a great black-maned lion. They have abandoned the steamers that brought them to Khartoum, and which you and your ever-victorious army damaged and drove away. They have fled back past Wadi Haifa into Egypt. They have been vanquished, and will never again set foot upon your territories. All of Sudan is indisputably yours and, at your command, your ever-victorious army stands ready to bring more vast territory under your sway, and to spread your divine words and teachings to all the world. May Allah always love and cherish you.”
“All thanks is due to Allah, who promised me these things,” said the Mahdi. “He has told me many times that Islam will flourish in Sudan for a thousand years, and all the monarchs and rulers of the world will relinquish their infidel ways and become my vassals, trusting in my benevolence and placing their faith in the one true God and his Prophet.”
“Praise be to God in his infinite power and wisdom,” said the others fervently.
The news of the withdrawal of the British army from the Sudan was devastating to Rebecca. Despite the fall of Khartoum and the repulse of the British river steamers, she had cherished a tiny flame of hope that one day soon British soldiers would march into Omdurman and they would be freed. That flame was cruelly snuffed out. She and Amber would never escape this smiling monster who now owned them, body and soul. She tried to fight back the dark despair that threatened to overwhelm her.
I must endure, she told herself, not only for my own sake but for Amber’s. No matter the price I am forced to pay, no matter the obscene and unnatural practices forced upon me, I must survive.
With a start she realized that the Mahdi was speaking to her. Although she felt dizzy with grief she gathered her courage and gave him her full attention.
“I wish to send a letter to your ruler,” he told her, “You will write it for me. What material do you need?” Rebecca was startled by this demand. She had expected to be roughly handled and treated as a harlot, not as a secretary. But she gathered her wits and told him her requirements. The Mahdi struck the brass gong beside the bed. A vizier scurried up the stairs and prostrated himself before his master. He listened to the orders he was given and backed away down the stairs, chanting the Mahdi’s praises. In a short while he returned with three house slaves carrying a writing cabinet that had been looted from the Belgian consulate. They placed it front of Rebecca, and because the sun was setting and the daylight fading, they placed four oil lamps around her to light her work.
“Write in your own language the words I will tell you. What is your queen’s name? I have heard that your country is ruled by a woman.”
“She is Queen Victoria.”
The Mahdi paused to compose his thoughts and then he dictated: ‘“Victoria of England, know you that it is I, Muhammad, the Mahdi, the messenger of God who speaks to you. Foolishly you have sent your crusader armies against my might, for you did not know that I am under the divine protection of Allah, and therefore must always triumph in battle. Your armies have been vanquished and scattered like chaff on the winds. Your powers in this world have been destroyed. Therefore I declare you to be my slave and my vassal.” He paused again, and told Rebecca, “Be certain that you write only what I tell you. If you add anything else I will have you thrashed.”
“I understand your words. I am your creature, and I would never presume to disobey your lightest wish.”
“Then write this to your queen. “You have acted in ignorance. You did not know that my words and thoughts are the words of God Himself. You know nothing of the True Faith. You do not understand that Allah is one God alone, and that Muhammad, the Mahdi, is his true Prophet. Unless you make full recompense for your sins you will boil for ever in the waters of hell. Give thanks that Allah is compassion’ ate, for he has told me that if you come immediately to Omdurman and prostrate yourself before me, if you place yourself and all your armies and all your peoples under my thrall, if you lay all your wealth and substance at my feet, if you renounce your false gods and bear witness that Allah is one and that I am his prophet, then you shall be forgiven. I will take you to wife, and you will give me many fine sons. I will spread my wings of protection over you. Allah will set aside a place for you in Paradise. If you defy this summons your nation will be cast down, and you will burn for all of eternity in the fires of hell. It is I, Muhammad, the Mahdi, who orders these things. They are not my words, but the words that God has placed in my mouth.”
The Mahdi sat back, pleased with his composition, and made the chopping sign with his right hand to show that he had finished.
“This is a masterpiece that you have created,” said Khalifa Abdullahi. “It gives voice to the power and majesty of God. Your words should be embroidered on your banner for all the world to read, and to believe.”
“It is plain that these are the very words of Allah delivered through your mouth,” agreed Osman Atalan, gravely. “I give thanks eternally that I have been privileged to hear them spoken aloud.”
If it ever becomes known that I wrote this traitorous nonsense, Rebecca thought, I will be locked in the Tower of London for the rest of my days. She did not look up from the page but, trusting that no other person in Omdurman could read English, she added a final sentence of her own: “Written under extreme duress by Rebecca
Benbrook, the daughter of the British Consul David Benbrook who was murdered along with General Gordon by the Dervish. God save the Queen.” It was worth the risk, not only to excuse herself but to send a message to the civilized world of her predicament.
She sanded the page and handed it to the Mahdi, with lowered eyes. “Holy One, is this as you wished?” she whispered humbly. He took it from her and she watched his eyes move up the page from the lower right-hand corner to the top left, in the inverse direction. With a rush of relief she realized he was trying to read the Roman letters as though they were Arabic script. He would never be able to decipher what she had written. She was certain he would not admit this and show it to another person for translation.
“It is as I wished.” He nodded, and she had to stifle an instinctive sigh of relief. He handed the sheet of paper to Kalifa Abdullahi. “Seal this missive and make sure that it is delivered with all despatch to the Khedive in Cairo. He will send it onwards to this queen, whom I will take as my wife.” He made a gesture of dismissal. “Now you may leave me, as I wish to disport myself with this woman.”
They rose, made obeisance and backed away to the staircase.
With a sharp surge of fear Rebecca found herself alone with God’s prophet. She knew that her hands were trembling and she clenched them into fists to keep them still.
“Come closer!” he ordered, and she rose from her seat at the writing cabinet and went to kneel before him. He stroked her hair and his touch was surprisingly gentle. “Are you an albino?” he asked. “Or are there many women in your country with hair this colour, and eyes as blue as the cloudless sky?”
“In my country I am one of many,” she assured him. “I am truly sorry if it does not please you.”
“It pleases me well.” In front of him as he sat on the angareb her eyes were at the same level as his waist. Beneath the brilliant white cloth of his jibba she saw his body stir: the extraordinary masculine tumescence that she still found incomprehensible a distinct creature with a life of its own.
His tam my is waking up, she thought, and almost giggled at the absurdity of the prophet of God with a tam my between his legs, just like other men less divine. She realized how close she was to succumbing to hysteria and, with an effort, she controlled herself.
