It seemed to be an endless succession of steps, curving back and forth so that no long view could be seen of where he was going. He just knew his course was rising and that there were no more places where he could see out and get his bearings. Following another curve to the left his feet registered that the slope was easing and he heard voices. Dragging his baggage now, Wake struggled to hear above the pounding of blood in his ears to determine what they were saying, for it seemed as if it was English. British English. It was at that point that he rounded a final corner and emerged from the stairs of the cliff, almost falling onto a cobblestone street. The man who had been speaking was right there and stopped as if a ghost had appeared.
“What the bloody hell!” exclaimed Lieutenant Peter Sharpe Allen of Her Britannic Majesty’s Royal Marines. To a man in naval blue beside him he muttered, “Well, I’ll be a vicar in hell if it ain’t my old friend, the Yank.”
Wake dropped his things and stood there, gasping for air as Allen continued. “What are you doing here, Peter? And why the deuce did you take that blasted suicidal cliff walk? Why not take the road?”
“What,” asked Wake after another breath, “ . . . road?”
“The one you’re standing on, old boy. The one with the easy slope that comes up from the village. Could’ve ridden on a cart, actually. Much easier route to the castle instead of having your heart burst by carrying your baggage two hundred and fifty feet damn near straight up. You Yanks always have to do things a bit differently, don’t you. Silly, really, if you ask me.”
Allen held out a hand and Wake shook it while the Marine introduced the other man as a temporary messenger for the British admiral. Wake nodded hello and asked Allen, “Are you staying at the castle this weekend too?”
“Yes. As an aide to the admiral. But I have to stay at a house nearby though. Not allowed to rest my head within the storied walls. I heard that you got a personal invitation to stay inside. Must be that boyish American charm. Brown’s pretty close with who he invites.”
The other officer said goodbye, leaving the two friends. Allen picked up the heavier bag and they started toward the castle towering above them just ahead.
“I can’t believe I didn’t see this road down at the village. That climb almost killed me,” Wake admitted.
“Well, I will restrain myself from commenting any further about your navigational skills, Lieutenant Peter Wake, of the United States Navy. I suppose a Marine can’t expect much from a sailor ashore, and the most important thing is that you’ve arrived.” Allen stopped at the portal of a rock-faced wall that surrounded the castle. A guard standing nonchalantly against the door said, “Buon giorno, signores,” and waved them inside.
Crossing a fruit orchard they entered a garden splotched with red and yellow roses among the greenery. Allen led Wake through a heavy double door and up into the thick walls of the castle itself, where they climbed circular stone stairs. Finally, they entered a cool foyer, floored with white marble and walled with striped yellow silk. A tall long-jawed and ancient dark face topped by a white turban stood before them. His slow deliberate words sounded like they came from a deep cave.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Allen. I have not had the pleasure of meeting your friend.” The turban bobbed in Wake’s direction. “Good afternoon, sir. I am Variam, major-domo of Castle Brown. Are you one of our guests this weekend?”
Wake stood there mute for a moment. The man was like someone out of a novel from the exotic East. He recovered his wits. “Yes, I’m a guest. Lieutenant Peter Wake. United States Navy. I’m here for the party. Consul General Brown invited me.”
“Ah yes, Lieutenant Wake. The Consul General is very pleased that you could come. He is a great admirer of your country and people. I am at your service, sir.”
Allen interjected. “Peter, Variam is a Sikh warrior from Lahore, in the Punjab.” Wake nodded politely at Variam, who was waiting at parade rest, but Allen could see his American friend didn’t understand and continued. “The Punjab is part of India, the crown jewel of the British Empire. Variam was a sergeant major, serving for thirty years in the Khalsa Army under the famous Runjeet Singh, until Singh died unfortunately back in the forties. Sikh warriors are very well respected in the British Empire. Variam’s name means ‘The Brave One’ and he can be an ally or an enemy.” Allen glanced at Variam playfully. “I hope he’ll be the former for us.”
Wake was impressed. Not by the recitation of historical facts, for he comprehended none of what Allen told him, but by the stalwart appearance of Variam. The man looked about sixty, but Wake’s quick math showed that he must be at least eighty years old.
“Lieutenant Allen is too kind, but I thank him for his explanation of my background. It will be a pleasure to be your servant, gentlemen. You are both warriors. We understand each other. It is the way of warriors.”
He reached over and effortlessly picked up both pieces of baggage, beckoning them to follow with a nod of his head. “Please come this way, gentlemen, and I will show you to your room, Lieutenant Wake.”
Wake faintly registered the Spanish Gothic motif of the first-floor hall, out from which spanned several small parlors and a paneled grand dining room. Ascending the stairs, he noticed they were thickly carpeted—unlike his cliff climb—and had the silly urge to go barefoot as he used to when a boy seaman years earlier. On the second level he was shown a small bedroom, furnished simply but comfortably. Variam announced that should Wake need anything, he had but to pull the bell-rope in the corner and it would
