Authors: Wilbur Smith
The human scavengers were also at work across the wide battlefield, women and their children in long dusty robes, their mouths and noses covered against the stench. Each carried a basket to hold
their gleanings of buttons, small coins, jewellery, daggers and the rings they tore from the skeletal fingers of the corpses.
‘Ten thousand enemy dead!’ Fasilides said triumphantly, and led them on a track that left the battlefield and skirted the walled town of Mitsiwa. ‘Nazet is too much a warrior
to have our army bottled up behind those walls,’ he said. ‘From those heights Nazet commands the terrain.’ He pointed ahead to the first folds and peaks of the highlands.
Beyond the town on the open ground below the bleak hills the victorious army of Emperor Iyasu was encamped. It was a sprawling city of leather tents and hastily built huts and lean-tos of stone
and thatch that stretched five leagues from the sea to the hills. The horses, camels and bullocks stood in great herds amongst the rude dwellings, and a cloud of shifting dust and blue smoke from
the fires of dried dung blotted out the blue of the sky. The ammoniacal stink of the animal lines, the smoke and the stench of rubbish dumps rotting in the sun, the dunghills and the latrine pits,
the ripe odour of carrion and unwashed humanity under the desert sun rivalled the effusions of the battlefield.
They passed squadrons of cavalry on magnificent chargers with trailing manes and proudly arched tail plumes. The riders were clad in weird armour and fanciful costume of rainbow colours. They
were armed with bow and lance and long-barrelled jezails with curved and jewelled butts.
The artillery parks were scattered over a league of sand and rock, and there were hundreds of cannon. Some of the colossal siege guns were shaped like dolphins and dragons on carriages drawn by
a hundred bullocks each. The ammunition wagons, loaded with kegs of blackpowder, were drawn up in massed squares.
Regiments of foot-soldiers marched and countermarched. They had added to their own diverse and exotic uniforms the plunder of the battlefield so that no two men were dressed alike. Their shields
and bucklers were square, round and oblong, made from brass, wood or rawhide. Their faces were hawklike and dark, and their beards were silver as beach sand, or sable as the wings of the carrion
crows that soared above the camp.
‘Sixty thousand men,’ said Fasilides. ‘With the Tabernacle and Nazet at their head, no enemy can stand before them.’
The whores and camp-followers who were not busy scavenging the battlefield were almost as numerous as the men. They tended the cooking fires or lolled in the sparse shade of the baggage wagons.
The Somali women were tall and mysteriously veiled, the Galla girls bare-breasted and bold-eyed. Some picked out Hal’s virile broad-shouldered figure and shouted unintelligible invitations to
him, making their meanings plain by the lewd gestures that accompanied them.
‘No, Gundwane,’ Aboli muttered in his ear. ‘Do not even think about it, for the Galla circumcise their women. Where you might expect a moist and oleaginous welcome, you would
find only a dry, scarred pit.’
So dense was this array of men, women and beasts that their progress was reduced to a walk. When the faithful recognized the Bishop, they flocked to him and fell to their knees in the path of
his horse to beg his blessing.
At last they forged their way out of this morass of humanity, and spurred up the steep track into the hills. Fasilides led them at a gallop, his robes swirling about his wiry figure and his
beard streaming out over his shoulder. At the crest he reined in his steed and pointed to the south. ‘There!’ he cried. ‘There is Adulis Bay, and there before the port of Zulla
lies the army of Islam.’ Hal shaded his eyes against the desert glare, and saw that the dun cloud of smoke and dust was shot through with sparks of reflected sunlight from the artillery
trains and the weapons of another vast army.
‘How many men does El Grang command in his legions?’
‘That was my mission when you found me – to find the answer to that question from our spies.’
‘How many, then?’ Hal persisted, and Fasilides laughed.
‘The answer to that question is for the ears of General Nazet alone,’ he said, and spurred his horse. They climbed higher along the rough track, and came up onto the next ridge.
‘There!’ Fasilides pointed ahead. ‘There stands the monastery of St Luke.’
It clung to a rugged hill top. The walls were high and their harsh square outline unrelieved by ornament, column or architrave. One of the Bishop’s outriders blew a blast on a ram’s
horn, and the single massive wooden gate swung open before them. They galloped through into the courtyard, and dismounted before the keep. Grooms ran forward to take their horses and lead them
away.
‘This way!’ Fasilides ordered, and strode through a narrow doorway into the warren of passageways and staircases beyond. Their boots clattered on the stone paving and echoed in the
corridors and smoky halls.
Abruptly they found themselves in a dark, cavernous chapel, whose domed ceiling was lost in the gloom high overhead. Hundreds of flickering candles and the glow from suspended incense burners
illuminated the hanging tapestries of saints and martyrs, the tattered banners of the monastic orders and the painted and bejewelled icons.
Fasilides knelt at the altar, on which stood a silver Coptic cross, six feet tall. Hal knelt beside him but Aboli stood behind them, his arms folded over his chest.
‘God of our fathers, Lord of hosts!’ the Bishop prayed, in Latin for Hal’s benefit. ‘We give thanks for your bounty and for the mighty victory over the pagan which you
have vouchsafed us. We commend this your servant, Henry Courtney, to your care. May he prosper in the service of the one true God, and may his arms prevail against the unbelievers.’
Hal had barely time to complete his genuflections and his amens before the Bishop was up and away again, leading him to a smaller shrine off the nave.
‘Wait here!’ he said. He went directly to the vividly coloured woollen wall-hanging behind the smaller altar and drew it aside to reveal a low, narrow doorway. Then he stooped
through the opening and disappeared.
When Hal looked around the shrine, he saw that it was more richly furnished than the bleak, gloomy chapel. The small altar was covered with foil of yellow metal that might have been brass but
which shone like pure gold in the candle-light. The cross was decorated with large coloured stones. Perhaps these were merely glass, but it seemed to Hal that they had the lustre of emerald, ruby
and diamond. The shelves that rose to the vaulted roof were loaded with offerings from wealthy and noble penitents and supplicants. Some must have stood untouched for centuries for they were
thickly coated with dust and cobwebs so that their true nature was hidden. Five monks in grubby, ragged habits knelt at prayer before the statue of a black-featured Virgin Mary with a little black
Jesus in her arms. They did not look up from their devotions at his intrusion.
Hal and Aboli stood together, leaning against a stone column at the back of the shrine, and time stretched out. The air was heavy and oppressive with incense and antiquity. The soft chanting of
the monks was hypnotic. Hal felt sleep coming over him in waves and it was an effort to fight it off and keep his eyes from closing.
Suddenly there came the patter of running feet from beyond the wall-hanging. Hal straightened as a small boy appeared from under the curtain and, with all the exuberance of a puppy, rushed into
the shrine. He skidded to a halt on the paving. He was four or five years of age, dressed in a plain white cotton shift and his feet were bare. His head was covered with shining black curls that
danced as he looked about the shrine eagerly. His eyes were dark, and as large as those of the saints pictured in the stylized portraits that hung on the stone walls behind him.
He saw Hal, ran to where he stood and stopped in front of him. He stared at Hal with such solemnity that Hal was enchanted by the pretty elf, and went down on one knee so that they could study
each other at the same level.
The boy said something in the language that Hal could now recognize as Geez. It was obviously a request but Hal could not even guess at the substance of it. ‘You too!’ Hal laughed,
but the child was serious and asked the question again. Hal shrugged, and the boy stamped his foot and asked the third time.
‘Yes!’ Hal nodded vigorously. The boy laughed delightedly and clapped his hands. Hal straightened up but the child opened his arms and gave a command that could mean only one thing.
‘You want to be picked up?’ Hal stooped and gathered him in his arms where the boy stared into his eyes then spoke again, pointing so passionately at Hal’s face that he almost
impaled one eye with his little finger.
‘I cannot understand what you’re saying, little one,’ Hal said gently.
Fasilides had come up silently behind him and now said solemnly, ‘His Most Christian Majesty, Iyasu, King of Kings, Ruler of Galla and Amhara, Defender of the Faith of Christ Crucified,
remarks that your eyes are of a strange green colour unlike any he has seen before.’
Hal stared into the angelic features of the imp he held in his arms. ‘This is the Prester John?’ he asked in awe.
‘Indeed,’ replied the bishop. ‘You have also promised to take him for a sail on your tall ship, which I have described to him.’
‘Would you inform the Emperor that I would be deeply honoured to have him as a guest aboard the
Golden Bough
?’
Suddenly Iyasu wriggled down from Hal’s arms, seized his hand and dragged him towards the concealed doorway. Beyond the opening they went down a long passageway lit with torches in iron
brackets on the stone walls. At the end of the passage were two armed guards, but the Emperor squeaked an order and they stood aside and saluted His tiny Majesty. Iyasu led Hal into a long
chamber.
Narrow embrasures were set high up in the walls, and through these the brilliant desert sunlight beamed down in solid golden shafts. A long table ran the length of the chamber, and seated at it
were five men. They stood up and bowed deeply to Iyasu, then looked keenly at Hal.
They were all warriors – that much was clear from their bearing and their attire: they wore chain-mail and cuirass, and some had steel helmets on their heads, and tunics over the armour,
which were emblazoned with crosses or other heraldic devices.
At the far end of the table stood the youngest and most simply dressed yet the most impressive and commanding of all. Hal’s eye was drawn immediately to this slim, graceful figure.
Iyasu drew Hal impatiently towards him, chattering in Geez, and the warrior watched them with a steady, frank gaze. Although he gave the illusion of height, he was in fact a head shorter than
Hal. A shaft of sunlight from one of the high embrasures backlit him, surrounding him with a golden aura in which the dust motes danced and swirled.
‘Are you General Nazet?’ Hal asked in Latin, and the General nodded. Around his head was a huge bush of crisp curls, like a dark crown or a halo. He wore a white tunic over the shirt
of chain-mail, but even under that bulky covering his waist was narrow and his back straight and supple.
‘I am indeed General Nazet.’ His voice was low and husky, yet strangely musical to the ear. Hal realized with a shock how young he was. His skin was flawless, the dark translucent
amber of gum arabic. No trace of beard or moustache marred his sleek jawline or the proud curl of his full lips. His nose was straight and narrow, the nostrils finely chiselled.
‘I am Henry Courtney,’ said Hal, ‘the English Captain of the
Golden Bough
.’
‘Bishop Fasilides has told me this,’ said the General. ‘Perhaps you would prefer to speak your own language.’ Nazet switched into English. ‘I must admit that my
Latin is not as fluent as yours, Captain.’
Hal gaped at him, for the moment at a loss, and Nazet smiled. ‘My father was ambassador to the palace of the Doge in Venice. I spent much of my childhood in your northern latitudes and
learned the languages of diplomacy, French, Italian and English.’
‘You astound me, General,’ Hal admitted, and while he gathered his wits, he noticed that Nazet’s eyes were the colour of honey and his lashes long, thick and curled as those of
a girl. He had never felt sexually attracted to another male before. Now, however, as he looked on those regal features and fine golden skin, and stared into those lustrous eyes, he became aware of
a pressure in his chest that made it difficult for him to draw the next breath.
‘Please be seated, Captain.’ Nazet indicated the stool beside him. They sat so close together that he could smell the odour of the other man’s body. Nazet wore no perfume, and
it was a natural, warm, musky smell that Hal found himself savouring deeply. Guiltily, he acknowledged how unnatural was this sinful attraction he felt, and drew back from the General as far as the
hard, low stool would allow him.
The Emperor scrambled into General Nazet’s lap and patted his smooth golden cheek, gabbling something in a high, childish voice at which the General laughed softly and replied in Geez,
without taking his eyes off Hal’s face.
‘Fasilides tells me that you have come to Ethiopia to offer your services in the cause of the Most Christian Emperor.’
‘That is so. I have come to petition His Majesty to grant me a Letter of Marque, so that I may employ my ship against the enemies of Christ.’
‘You have arrived at a most propitious time.’ Nazet nodded. ‘Has Fasilides told you of the defeat that our navy suffered at Adulis Bay?’
‘He has also told me of your magnificent victory at Mitsiwa.’
Nazet showed no false pride at the compliment. ‘The one counterbalances the other,’ he said. ‘If El Grang commands the sea, he can bring in endless reinforcements and stores
from Arabia and the territory of the Mogul to replenish his wasted army. Already he has made good all the losses I inflicted upon him at Mitsiwa. I am waiting for reinforcements to arrive from the
mountains, so I am not ready to attack him again where he lies at Zulla. Every day he is fed from the sea and grows stronger.’