To resume. The meal consisted of two kinds of beef, the cooked variety which was roasted black with peppers, and the raw stuff which they call brundo—it’s not bad at all when served with chutney, but I didn’t try it at the time. There was fruit for dessert, and the inevitable tej dispensed from long-necked flasks by the bouncing boobies brigade, and all the sweeter for that.
The two chamberlain chaps shared our nuncheon, as did two of the females, tawny languid ladies who weren’t domestics but more like companions to the mistress of the house, for they talked to her on equal terms, were well dressed and decked with costume jew ellery, and plainly thought no small beer of themselves. But then all Ab women do, with cause; the waitresses, whom I spent the time admiring because Uliba didn’t bother to translate the table talk for my benefit, showed no embarrassment at being looked at, the saucy little dears. Uliba, by the way, had discarded her tunic in favour of an exquisite saffron robe which looked like silk, worn toga-fashion with one bare shoulder and two huge hooped golden earrings under her braids.
Just as the meal was ending there was a commotion in the room below, with female voices raised in anger, and presently one of the maids brought up the ladder-stair a girl who was the peachiest thing I’d seen so far, even in that company. She was tawnier than most, but with a long lovely Egyptian face and huge eyes which at the moment were disfigured by weeping. In fact, she seemed torn between grief and rage, sobbing into her cupped hands one moment, shaking her fists and raging the next, to the scandal of the women attendants and the wrath of the elders, all of whom contributed to the row, so that it was bedlam until Uliba snapped them into silence.
She spoke sharply to the weeping girl, who answered sullenly at first, then furiously, stamping and giving Uliba what sounded like dog’s abuse, to which she responded with an icy anger which changed the beauty’s tune altogether, for she flung herself down by Uliba’s charpoy, wailing and smothering her feet with kisses. Uliba spoke to her quietly, and the wench rose, drying her eyes, but then suddenly rounded on me of all people, letting fly another stormy volley, at which Uliba lost her temper altogether, boxed her ears, and sent her squalling down the stair again. The ladies and elders withdrew, leaving the two of us alone while the pap-flashers cleared away the dishes.
I was all agog to know what had ailed the girl. Uliba was still snarling in Amharic as she disposed herself on her charpoy again, but then she began to laugh while her tej cup was refilled, and informed me that the hysteric had been Sarafa’s woman, now presumably a widow, and consequently madder than a cut snake.
“I told her he had stayed to front Yando’s fighters of his own free choice, and the insolent bitch swore that you should have stayed also, but she supposed that you had supplanted Sarafa in my bed, and so were precious to me!” She banged her cup down, angry and merry together. “Ha! And then, because it is not known whether Sarafa is dead or taken, she falls to pleading with me to bargain with Yando for his life. Bemout (* By my death!) Well she knows what price I’d have to pay, and when I refuse her she calls me a heartless whore that stole her man and left him to die because I had found a new lover! And this from a slave-girl, to me!”
I agreed that discipline below stairs had gone to the devil these days. “So she wasn’t Sarafa’s wife, then, just his bit o’ black velvet?”
“His concubine, once—as though that gave her the right to rail at me!” She soothed herself with a sip of tej. "I should have the little slut whipped! Or sold to the Egyptians!”
What struck me, of course, was that the grieving tart had assumed that I was Uliba’s latest mount. Natural enough, perhaps, but it prompted a disquieting thought. What with all the to-do of ambush and flight, I’d given no thought to the part I was meant to be playing, and hadn’t even had the chance to remove my whiskers or take the first steps in transforming myself into Khasim Tamwar.
“Does she know who I am—what I am? Do the rest of them, those two old files, or the women?”
“To them you are an Indian traveller. So I have told them, and why should they not believe it? They have never seen an Englishman before. It is when we go south, among the knowing folk, that your disguise must be complete.”
“And when will we go?”
“Perhaps the day after tomorrow, if there is no sign of Yando. That will give time to change the hair on your face while we rest and prepare for the journey.”
“Very good, sultana… Now, tell me, what precisely did you say to that noisy young woman when she accused me of being your lover?”
She regarded me with open amusement as she reclined on her charpoy, a very picture of sexual impudence in her silken robe with one shapely thigh and bare shoulder displayed, and if it hadn’t been for the maids chirruping among the dishes at the end of the room I’d have made a plunge at her. To no avail, judging by her reply.
“Why, I told her the truth—that you were no lover of mine. The brazen wretch swore that I lied, and when I said I had known you but a few hours, and on horseback, too, she cried, ‘Aye, but what of the future?’ I said that was in God’s hands, and she might sleep at my chamber door tonight if she wished, to be sure that no lover came creeping in to me.”
“That was dam’ considerate of you! But I tell you what, sultana, I’ve a notion worth two o’ that—why don’t she sleep at my chamber door, eh? Now, that would really convince her!”
She considered me for a long moment, the strong disdainful face impassive, and then a little imp began to play at the corner of the carved mouth and she swung her legs off the charpoy in one graceful movement and stood looking down at me.
“I told her the future was in God’s hands,” says she coolly. “It is also in mine.” And with that she stooped, brushed her lips on mine, and walked swiftly away, leaving me to the shrill giggles of the maids and the reflection that she was a teasing, provoking, wanton baggage adept at stoking what old Arnold called the flames of lust… and giving me a gentle hint that the fire brigade would be along shortly.
And it was, as I’d expected. I know women, you see, and long experience had taught me that when they start playing Delilah it’s a sure sign that they’re coming to the boil themselves. So it came as no surprise, after I’d said my prayers (you may guess their content) and was drowsing in happy anticipation on the charpoy in my peaceful chamber, listening to the distant creaks and murmurs of the sleeping castle, and the occasional cry of some night beast out yonder, that a soft footfall should approach my room, and a gentle draught stir the air as the door opened and softly closed again.
But I’m a wary bird, and my hand was on the Joslyn beneath my pillow, only to let go as a tall figure advanced silently into the shaft of moonlight from the high narrow window—a figure in a robe of saffron silk which slid to the floor without a sound, revealing a splendid golden body swaying slowly towards me, slim hands clasped over her breasts and then falling away to caress her hips as she passed from the moonbeam into the shadow, kneeling on the charpoy and leaning down over me, her expert fingers and those wonderful lips questing across my body.