“Nay!”
“Then tell me, what do you want?”
“We want nothing but to be left alone. We are en route to Zanzibar.”
“Why, then, did you set upon us?”
“I tell you, we did not.”
Burton saw the Prussian turn to some of his men. They talked among themselves, holding their weapons at the ready and not taking their eyes from the Arabs, some of whom were crowded around the end of the westernmost path, while others crouched behind the native huts.
Moments later, the Prussian called: “Prove to us that you are speaking the truth. Lay down your weapons!”
“And allow you to slaughter us?”
“I told you-we are not the aggressor!”
“Then you lay down your guns and withdraw those-those-plant abominations!”
Again, the Prussian consulted with his men.
He turned back to the slavers. “I will only concede to-”
Suddenly, one of the slavers-swathed in his robes and with his head wrapped in a
Immediately, they jerked up their rifles and sent a hail of bullets into the man. He was knocked off his feet, sent twisting through the air, and hit the ground, where he rolled then lay still.
The battle exploded back into life, and, on both sides, man after man went down.
A stray bullet ripped into the tall grass, narrowly missing Burton. He turned to make sure Honesty was unharmed but the Scotland Yard man had, at some point, silently moved away.
“Message to Isabel Arundell,” Burton said to Pox. “Your company is requested. Message ends.”
As the parakeet flew off, one of the plant vehicles writhed past Burton's position and laid into a group of slavers. Its spine-covered tendrils whipped out, yanked men off their feet, and ripped them apart. Some tried to flee but were shot down as the Prussians began to gain control of the clearing. One group of about twenty Arabs had secured itself behind a large stack of firewood in the
Pox returned: “Message from Isabel Arundell. We had problems getting the buttock-wobbling horses through the bloody swamp but are now regrouping at the bottom of the hill. We'll be with you in a stench-filled moment. Message ends.”
One of the mobile plants crashed into the barrier behind which the slavers were sheltering and lashed out at them, tearing their clothes and flaying their skin. Screaming with terror, they hacked at it with their scimitars, which, in fact, turned out to be a more efficient way to tackle the monster than shooting at it.
An Arab climbed onto the woodpile and jumped from it into the centre of the bloom, bringing his blade swinging down onto the head of the man sitting there. The plant shuddered and lay still.
The cavalry arrived.
The Daughters of Al-Manat, eighty strong and all mounted, came thundering into the village, emerging in single file from the eastern path. With matchlocks cracking, they attacked the remaining Prussians. Spears were thrust into the plant vehicles and burning brands thrown onto them.
Those few slavers who remained alive took the opportunity to flee and plunged away down the path, disappearing into dark shadow, for now the sky was a deep purple and the sun had almost set.
The last Prussian fell with a bullet in his throat.
The Daughters of Al-Manat had been savage-ruthless in their massacre of the enemy who, at Mzizima, had killed thirty or so of their number. Now they reined in their horses and waited while Sir Richard Francis Burton and the others emerged from the vegetation.
Krishnamurthy was holding his forearm tightly and blood was dribbling between his fingers. Isabella Mayson's right ear had bled profusely and her clothes were stained red. Swinburne, Trounce, and Sister Raghavendra were uninjured. They were all wet through and covered with dirt and insects.
“Well done,” Burton told them.
“Where's Tom?” Trounce asked.
“Probably dragging Herbert out of the bushes-his spring wound down. Sadhvi, would you see to Isabella and Maneesh's wounds?”
While the nurse got to work, Burton indicated to Trounce the area where Spencer had been left, then paced over to Isabel Arundell, who was sitting on her horse quietly conversing with her Amazons.
“That was brutal,” he observed.
She looked down at him. “I lost a lot of good women at Mzizima and on the way here. Revenge seemed… appropriate.”
He regarded her, moistened his lips, and said, “You're not the Isabel I met twelve years ago.”
“Time changes people, Dick.”
“Hardens them?”
“Perhaps that is necessary in some cases. Are we to philosophise while slaves remain in shackles or shall we go and liberate them?”
“Wait here a moment.”
He left her and approached Swinburne.
“Algy, I want you and Maneesh to leg it along to the other clearing. Bring the villagers, Said, and our porters back here. They can help move the bodies out to the fields. They'll need to start work digging a pit for a mass grave.”
He returned to Isabel. She indicated a riderless horse, which he mounted. Holding burning brands to light the way, they led a party of ten of the Daughters out of the glade and along the path to the fields. Burton felt sickened by the slaughter he'd witnessed but he knew it was the only option. On the one hand, the Prussians would certainly have killed him and his party, but on the other, he couldn't allow the villagers to fall into the hands of Tippu Tip.
They rode out of the forest and approached the caravan. Five Arabs were guarding it.
“He who raises a weapon shall be shot instantly!” Burton called.
One of the guards bent and placed his matchlock on the ground. The others saw him do it and followed suit.
Burton and Isabel stopped, dismounted, and walked over to them.
“Where is el Murgebi, the man they call Tippu Tip?” Burton asked, in Arabic.
One of the men pointed to a nearby tent. Burton turned to Isabel's Amazons and said, “Take these men and make a chain gang of them. Then get to work liberating the slaves.”
The women looked for confirmation from Isabel. She gave them a nod, then she and Burton strode over to the tent, pushed aside its flap, and stepped in.
By the light of three oil lamps, they saw colourful rugs on the ground, a low table holding platters of food, and piles of cushions upon which sat a small half-African, half-Arabian individual. His teeth were gold, and though he appeared less than thirty years old, his beard was white. He raised his turbaned head and they noted that a milky film covered his eyes. He was blind.
“Who enters?” he asked in a reedy voice.
“Thy enemy,” Burton replied.
“Ah. Wilt thou take a sweet mint tea with me? I have been listening to the noise of battle. An exhausting business, is it not? Refreshment would be welcome, I expect.”
“No, Tippu Tip, I will not drink with thee. Stand up, please.”
“Am I to be executed?”
“No. There has been enough death this night.”
“Then what?”
“Come.”
