I doubt if I’ve ever been sent into the deep field with a more definite object and less instruction on how to attain it, but now that we were under way, sitting round a camp-fire a mile or so from Mai Dehar, I felt encouraged by the way Uliba-Wark had taken things in her stride: one moment I’d been wrapping the money-belt of two hundred dollars under my sash, being bidden God speed by Napier and having my hand mangled by Speedy—and the next we were out in the chill dark, her two Ab escorts hasting ahead up the hill, dim shadows disappearing over the crest behind the camp. She hadn’t even motioned me to follow, just a glance to make sure I was keeping pace with her. In a moment we’d passed beyond the glow of the camp, and I’d lost her in the gloom until a slim hand closed on mine, leading me at a swift walk—and that guidance, steady and sure, had confirmed what I’d said to Napier: she knew her business.
She’d picked her way over the broken ground without a check, to this little hollow in the lee of a cliff where a fire burned, and the escorts were waiting with four picketed horses. They had food and drink ready on a wooden platter, and with only Napier’s sandwiches inside me I was sharp set. There was a curried pasty which Uliba-Wark divided among the four of us, and some delicious little balls like the bittebolle they serve in Holland, only these weren’t meat but, as I discovered on inquiry, powdered locusts bound with fat. It was too late by then, so I calmed my stomach with some of the liquor they call tej, which is a fermentation of honey and barley, guaranteed to put you under the table if you ain’t careful, but capital in moderation.
As we ate I studied the escorts, and a formidable pair they were, tall, splendidly built, black as night but not negroid with their long heads and chins and straight noses. They bore the curved swords and spears common to all Ab warriors, and one had a short bow and quiver of darts, but their shamas carried the red border which marked them as of the better class, and one wore the silver gauntlets which I later discovered were emblems of knighthood. Even so, he spoke only when Uliba-Wark addressed him, in Amharic, replying with respect, and saluting her gravely when the meal was done and she sent them out of earshot so that she could make her appraisal of my appearance, as I’ve told you, and then discuss our next move.
“Presently we shall ride to my husband’s citadel, which we must reach before dawn. We rest here only because there are things I should tell you without delay. First, if harm should befall, or we should be separated on our journey, you must ride straight for Lake Tana. It is two hundred miles from here, due south-west—you have a compass? Good. There you will follow the east bank of the lake as far as Baheerdar where the Abai (* The Blue Nile.) river leaves the lake. Wait there until I come or send word.”
“Hold on—what should separate us? How many of us will there be?”
“The four of us… then only you and I. We are to be secret, remember?”
“Yes, I know, but… you spoke of harm. Is it likely… before we reach wherever Queen Masteeat is, I mean?”
If I sounded anxious, well, I was. It seemed to amuse her.
“Habesh is a perilous place at any time, and more so for me. They must have told you that Gobayzy of Lasta holds my husband prisoner—and he would gladly hold me also. His armed bands are in our way south, and I have other enemies… and some who would be friends, aye, closer friends than I would wish, eager to replace my absent lord.” She was laughing, bigod. “Oh, I am not a safe companion, farangil But I know the way to Queen Masteeat, and the Basha Fallaka could trust no one else. So… do you fear to travel with me?”
I do like saucy bitches, and they didn’t come saucier than this one, lounging in the firelight which turned her naked limbs to gold, knowing precisely the effect she was having on me. And a moment ago she’d been telling me not to flirt. So I gave her my Flashiest leer.
“I might ask you the same question, sultana. I can be a danger ous companion, too—especially for a defenceless female without a man to protect her. D’you miss your husband, by the way?”
The black eyes widened—and so did the lazy smile. “I do not miss him at all,” murmurs she, with a little chuckle. “But do you truly think I am defenceless?”
One of the things that has always enchanted me about African women with an appetite is that they don’t waste time before indulging it. Where their European sisters have to be jollied into the supine position, often over weeks like my fat fraulein, ladies of colour tend to make straight for the mutton—I think of Ranavalona of Madagascar who had me fornicating under water within a few minutes of our meeting, Black Aphrodite in the buffalo wallow, and dear Mrs Popplewell who couldn’t wait to get the door shut, hardly. And here was this elegant barbarian giving an invitation if ever I heard one—and she’d even got her escorts out of the way.
“It depends who’s attacking you,” says I, and leaning close to her I took that voluptuous lower lip between both of mine, very gently at first, and then, as her mouth stirred, interested-like, my better nature asserted itself and I was about to apply the Flashman half-nelson (buttock in one hand, tit in t’sother) when she drew her head back from mine, without undue haste, surveyed me calmly for a moment, then took my face between her hands, and kissed me lightly, with a touch of her tongue along my lips.
“What is the name of the place on Lake Tana where you are to wait for me?” she asked. “You have forgotten. A little dalliance, a wanton kiss, and it has gone from your mind like chaff in the wind—”
“Baheerdar,” says I, “where the Abai river leaves the east bank of Lake Tana,” and would have gone for her in earnest, but she burst out laughing and slid from my grasp, catching my wrists in hands surprisingly strong. “No, enough! This is not the place, or the occasion, and we have long miles to travel before dawn.” To my astonishment she held out a hand, inviting me to shake it. “I should have known better than to doubt one who has the trust of the Basha Fallaka and the wise old soldier who smiles.”
She was smiling herself now without mockery, and it’s how I think of her still, the proud Ethiopian head with its laughing eyes, and the lovely oiled limbs shining in the firelight. “Perhaps we shall be dangerous for each other,” says she. “But I think we shall travel well together.”
I know when to let it be, so I accepted her handshake and asked if she had any further instructions for me. She thought for a moment, and the laughter went out of her eyes. “One thing more. I know you have been at war since before I was born, and are a seasoned soldier accustomed to command. But you do not know Habesh. I do, and on our journey my word must be law. If there is danger of a sudden, and I command, you obey at once, without question. Is it so?”
I knew from her look that she was half expecting an argument, so I didn’t give her one, but nodded grave-faced and touched my brow in acknowledgment. “In your own words, Uliba-Wark… I think we shall travel well together.” She liked that, as I meant she should.
It was close on midnight, and the chill of the late evening was turning to bitter cold as we made ready for the road. The two escorts had materialised from the dark without being summoned so far as I could see, and they saddled the horses and doused the fire. The knightly one spoke to Uliba in Amharic, pointing off into the dark, evidently suggesting a line of march. They conversed for a minute, she shook her head, and he gave a little shrug as though to say “Well, please yourself, but…” and signed to his mate to take the lead. So we left the little hollow, Uliba riding second, myself third, and the knight in the rear. It was slow going at first, in pitch dark ness over uneven stony ground, but after an hour the moon rose, and Uliba had us moving at a steady canter.