Flashman on the March

  For a wild moment I wondered if my brief delusion of divine aid hadn’t been true after all, for now there was a good score of ministering angels racing into the firelight, half-naked women who howled like Harpies and slashed right and left at the Gallas. But only for a moment: angels don’t shout war cries or squeal with pain when they’re wounded, nor do they yell with delight while two of ’em hold an enemy down and a third rips him open. And they don’t peel like Big Side chargers, either; my spear-thrower had looked like a statue of Diana, but some of her companions were as broad as they were long and could have thrown chests with King Gezo’s Dahomey Amazons. They fought with appalling savagery, and the Gallas were hard put to it to hold them; for a few minutes the fight surged to and fro, and then more attackers came leaping out of the dark, the Gallas fell back as the little darlings swept into them in a final charge, hair flying and juggs bouncing, and as two more of my captors went down, hideously slashed, I knew there could be only one end to it.

  Goram knew it too, the swine, but where I would have turned and run, the spiteful brute was faithful unto death to his damned Uliba. He cut down one woman, parried a thrust from another, sprang back, shot a look of pure venom in my direction, barked an order, and leaped back into the fight. And to my horror, two of his ruffians broke away from the melee and snatched up my stretcher… but not to carry me out of harm’s way. No, not a bit of it. They threw me on the fire.

  As you may know, during my service in the Punjab I had the misfortune to be basted on a gridiron over a slow fire, and bloody disagreeable it was, leaving me singed and smoking but mercifully underdone. An open blaze is different; two or three seconds and I imagine you burst into flames unless your stretcher happens to be made of stout bullock hide, but even then it’s only a matter of time before you come all over of a heat, and your one hope is the arrival of the fire brigade, at speed.

  By God, I was lucky. I crashed into the heart of the blaze with a tremendous shower of sparks, and for a heartbeat there was no sensation before the flames began to lick at my feet, which overhung the stretcher, and I’d ha’ been horribly maimed at least if one of the angels (’cos that’s what she was even if she looked like a female gorilla) hadn’t thrust her spear beneath my stretcher and tipped me clear of the blaze with a tremendous heave which deposited me face down with a seared arse and back but no lasting damage.

  She and her mates turned me over, and one of ’em had the wit to pour the contents of a chaggle over me, for I was smouldering painfully, and when they pulled the gag out I woke the echoes with complaint and gratitude, mostly complaint, but they very civilly cut me loose from the stretcher, which was uncomfortably hot still, Gorilla Jane helped me to a drink, and they set me with my back to a boulder, where I could take stock of the astonishing scene.

  There wasn’t a Galla left standing. The onslaught of these amazing females had overwhelmed them in minutes, and by the excited yells and ghastly chopping sounds their wounded were being despatched, with my spear-hurling Diana supervising the slaughter. Her followers were a mixed bag, mostly young and as handsome as Ab women are, but one or two were older and pretty puggish; they were in various states of undress, despite the night chill, some in tunics of Uliba’s cut, others in skirts or trowsers, and a few of the younger vain misses flaunted themselves like Diana in flimsy head-dresses, cloaks, and loincloths, a most fetching rig. Every woman-jill of them was fully armed.

  Amazons, but very different from the Dahomey variety, who were under discipline and drilled like guardsmen. These were irreg ulars and, unlike Gezo’s Gorgons, they behaved like women; half of them were chattering round their own wounded with squeals of concern and comfort; one very young member of the bare-chest brigade was weeping buckets and pouring dust on her head while they covered the face of her dead comrade—and suddenly she was up and raving shrilly, plunging her spear again and again into a Galla corpse until she noticed a live target hard by: Uliba-Wark! She was bleeding from a dozen wounds, held spreadeagled with Diana apparently interrogating her, when the hysterical stabber ran in and planted her spear in Uliba’s body. In an instant the rest were hacking at her like things demented, while the stabber lay wailing and Diana shrugged and turned away, bored like.

  I was physically sick on the spot. The Lord knows I had cause to loathe and fear her for the ghastly revenge she had been about to take on me, and I’ll not pretend I was sorry to have her can celled out… but to see her slashed to pieces, that beautiful body that I’d held in my arms and loved to ecstasy, butchered by these creatures from the Pit, was more than I could bear. Just for an instant I had the vision of her, gleaming wet and naked, laughing on the black rock in Lake Tana, and I absolutely wept and moaned. Oh, I’m vile all right; we’d travelled well together until her death had become necessary to my survival, and I’d tried to murder her without compunction. Foul work indeed. But would I rather she was still living and doing what she’d been about to do? On the whole, no; but I still stopped my ears against the awful chopping sounds and eldritch laughter of the executioners.

  Having known Uliba, I dare say I shouldn’t have been aston ished to encounter Ab fighting women, but no advance warning could have prepared me for these terrifying bitches. Who the blazes could they be, whose side were they on, and what had I to hope from them? They’d rescued me, no doubt on the ground that anyone whom their enemies wanted to castrate and roast alive must have something to be said for him, but that didn’t make ’em bosom pals.

  Speaking of which, I couldn’t help admiring Diana’s as she strode across in my direction. She knew it, too, sweeping back the tails of her cloak and striking a pose, a hand on her pistol butt. Blue eyes, bigod, piercing bright in a lovely face that was no darker than tawny, peacock proud and sassy with it… and now came an even greater shock, for she was standing aside to make way for two who were following her, and they were men. I hadn’t seen either in the fight or its aftermath, but from the deference Diana showed, one of them at least must be a big gun indeed.

  He was small and portly and black as your boot, rolling along on stubby legs and standing arms akimbo to survey me. He was bald, with a fringe of woolly white hair, and wore the red-fringed shama of consequence. His companion looked like a bodyguard, for he wore a steel back and breast and carried spear and sword, a tall, likely Adonis, middling dark and moved like a dancer, taking station at Portly’s shoulder. All three regarded me in silence for a moment, and then Portly opened the bowling, most disconcertingly.

  “I know what you are, but not who you are!” He spoke in Amharic, with authority. “So tell me your name, and what you have done that these Galla savages should wish to slay you.”

  I answered in Arabic, taken aback but head up. “I’m English. My name is Flashman. I’m a colonel… a ras, a chief in the British Army advancing on Magdala. May I ask who you are?”

  There was a gasp from Diana and some of the women who pre sumably understood Arabic. They’d suspended the agreeable task of polishing off the enemy wounded at Portly’s arrival, and crowded in to listen. Diana dropped to one knee to study me more closely—gad, she was a little satin stunner, and I bestowed my most courtly smile on her, which she received with a startled look followed by a dis dainful toss of the head and tits. Portly was equally unimpressed.

  “I know what a colonel is, and who I am can wait!” snaps he. “So how came a British officer in the hands of the Galla?” He stamped impatiently. “And why should they seek your death?”

  This was dangerous ground, and I must hedge until I’d found out who Portly and these dreadful women were. But for his presence I’d have taken them for bandits, like the female dacoits of India; he was obviously someone of official importance—could he be an agent of some petty ruler like Menelek or Gobayzy of whom I’d heard so much—or even of Masteeat’s rival, the despised Warkite? All I knew for certain was that the women enjoyed killing Gallas, and weren’t likely to be well disposed to anyone whose task it was to enlist them as allies. So I assumed my g
allant-pathetic expression and asked Diana if I might have a reviving sip of tej and some food, just a morsel would do, to revive me after my ordeal.

  Portly made an Ab noise which would translate as “Bah!” but Diana, dear girl, snapped her fingers and Gorilla Jane hastened to offer a flask and wallet of toasted beef. I thought quickly as I imbibed and chewed, decided I’d best not try Portly’s patience by asking a second time who he was, and resolved, since the truth wouldn’t do, to follow the golden rule by sticking as close to it as possible.

  I’d been scouting ahead of Napier’s advance, I said, and had been ambushed by these people—Gallas, had he called them? But thank heaven he and his splendid ladies had turned up, and if he would be so obliging as to return me to my army, the British dedjaz, who was noted for his generosity, would reward them with dollars and all kinds of good things: food, drink, weapons… and of course clothes, silks and satins and ornaments…

  The women showed eager interest, but Portly gave another furious stamp. “Do I look like a fool? You dare talk to me of dollars and silks as though I were a fellaheen beggar or a bedawi, and evade my question!” He drew breath, and Diana surprised me by putting in her oar unexpected, with a curl-of-the-lip smile.

  “Would your dedjaz’s generosity give us the spoiling of Magdala?” Her women gasped eagerly, the bodyguard burst out laughing, and before Portly could explode I said that I couldn’t answer for the dedjaz, but whatever the spoil of Magdala might be, she could count on getting equivalent value, and meanwhile, the sooner I was restored to my army…

  “Perhaps he will not be able to take Magdala.” The bodyguard spoke for the first time. “It is the strongest amba in Habesh.”

  “He’ll take it, soldier,” says I. “Have no doubt of that.”

  “With the help of the Galla warriors of Queen Masteeat?” bawls Portly, taking me flat aback, although I tried desperately to cover it.

  “Galla warriors—these people?” I gestured at the bodies. “I don’t understand… why should the British seek anyone’s help? We have no need of it… and I know nothing of this queen—”

  “You lie!” cries Portly. “All Habesh knows by now that the British seek alliance with the Wollo Galla, and who are you to be ignorant?” He shot out a fat finger. “You have been sent by your dedjaz to win the Gallas with silver and a crown for Masteeat! So why, then… should they wish you dead?”

  When in doubt, play the bewildered loony. That I was blown upon to the far end of Kingdom Come was plain… Uliba had been right, Yando’s gang had guessed who I was and spread the word. But I daren’t admit anything, to unknown accusers, in a country where everybody knew the far end of a fart before it had even erupted. So I babbled.

  “I don’t know what you mean! My dear sir, how should I know why these foul villains wanted to kill me? As to winning anyone with silver…” I threw up my hands. “Please, if you’ll only escort me to my army, you’ll receive a mighty reward for my return, I assure you.” I continued in this vein while he stood glaring, and then Diana, who’d been eyeing me like an Arcadian nymph mis trustful of a satyr of doubtful repute, put in her confounded oar again.

  “If we feed him into the fire, little by little, he will speak,” says she, but Portly seemed undecided, for he turned away, and after a word with his bodyguard, told Diana curtly to muster the women and prepare to march. She gave a disappointed grunt and issued brisk orders for them to fall in as soon as they’d finished despoiling and mutilating the dead—you can guess what that meant, and I was happy to avert my eyes from that bloodied ground and dese crated bodies—and Uliba’s among them!—and those barbarian sluts, some of ’em mere slips of girls, chattering and laughing as they went about their grisly work.

  “Are you sick, farangi? Why do you look away? Does the sight of blood distress you?” I looked up to find the bodyguard leaning on his spear; Portly was off on a frolic of his own, seemingly. “Nay, surely not; you have seen your own blood run from a wound.” He pointed to the star-shaped scar on my hand. “A bullet did that.”

  “A clean wound is one thing, soldier,” says I, and nodded towards the Ladies’ De-ballocking Circle. “That is another.”

  “Aye, true,” says he. “Yet it is what the Gallas would have done to you… while you still lived. Do the British not believe in retri bution, then, eye for eye, burning for burning?”

  Diana crowed with laughter. “We do not take their eyes!” She added nauseating particulars, and I wondered if I’d ever found a beauty so detestable.

  “We believe in it,” I told the bodyguard. “That don’t mean I have to watch your disgusting bitches!” It came out as a high-pitched snarl; reaction was overtaking me after the horrors I’d seen and near experienced, and I was on the brink of spewing again.

  “Perhaps he is cold with fear at the sight of fighting women!” jeers Diana. “We can unman men before the fight as well as after!” She seated herself on a rock, stretching her legs and folding her arms across her presents for a good boy. “So they fear us, which is why our Lord Toowodros has made special choice of us, and sends us forth to raid and ambush and strike terror in the hearts of his enemies. Is your heart stricken, ras of the British?”

  The jibe was wasted; only one word mattered. “Your Lord Toowodros? Who the hell is he, then?” Even as I spoke, I knew the answer, and the bodyguard confirmed it, shaking his head at my ignorance.

  “Why, the Emperor! The King of Kings, monarch of Habesh, and by the power of God the conqueror that will be of Egypt and Jerusalem! You know him as Theodore.”

  I could only stare at them in utter consternation. Theodore’s people—the last folk on God’s earth I wanted to see. I ain’t often at a dead nonplus, but I was then, for this was the fear that had been in my mind for weeks—of falling into the hands of the mad tyrant who inflicted unspeakable tortures on his victims, who’d beaten missionaries and lashed their servants to death, who’d stretched Consul Cameron on the rack… and, my God, who knew, from what Portly had said, of my mission to Masteeat to enlist the Gallas against him… Portly? Could he be Theodore in person? For all I knew he might—but surely not, in a night skirmish away from Magdala, where he was supposed to be preparing to fight or run? No, impossible, but I was bound to ask…

  Diana clapped a hand over her mouth at the question, and the bodyguard laughed outright.

  “Do the soldiers of the English queen know so little of their quarry that they think such a fat little hippo as Damash could be the great Emperor—the Lion of Judah? Did he look like a warrior king, a veteran of thirty years in arms?” He glanced at Diana. “Ya, Miriam, what would Gobayzy or Menelek say to Damash as Emperor?”

  “Ask rather what Theodore would say to a fool who mistook Damash for the King of Kings,” says she. “How would he punish such an insult?”

  “Who knows the mind of kings? They are beyond the ken of common folk.” He put his head on one side, regarding me. “But I should not account this one a fool, as you do. Did you not hear him answer Damash, saying much, but telling nothing?” He leaned towards me, nursing his spear, his eyes intent on mine. “Perhaps Damash is right, and he is the kind of man the Dedjaz Napier would have sent to Masteeat—a man of a long head, skilled in dissimu lation and never aiming where he looks.” He smiled. “You are that man, are you not, Ras Flashman?” Then he was solemn again. “When you come to stand before Toowodros, do not try to deceive him. He loves truth, above all things, and rewards those who deal fairly with him.”

  “And takes the hands and feet of those who lie, and feeds the rest alive to the birds and beasts,” taunts Miriam-Diana.

  “Peace, you hyena in woman’s shape!” He nodded to me. “I advise as a friend, Englishman. Remember my words.” He was turning away.

  My mouth was dry with alarm, but I forced my voice to be steady.

  “I’d be a fool if I forgot them… your majesty.”

  Miriam-Diana threw back her head with a yell and gave her thigh a ringing slap. “He knew you! By the po
wer of God, he knew you!” She was grinning with delight. “They are not such blind fools, the English!”

  The bodyguard who ruled Abyssinia had turned back abruptly, but the solemn look was gone, and his voice was suddenly harsh.

  “How did you know me? What did he see?” He looked from me to her, and struck his breast in anger. “What is there here that denotes a king? This is a common soldier!” He shook his spear and slapped himself again, taking two abrupt steps towards me. I gave back, for in a mere moment his earnest, almost friendly manner had given way to shouting rage; it was as though another man had got into his skin, and Miriam was on her feet as though to intervene.

  “How did you know me?” he demanded, and jabbed a finger at me. “Have a care! Do not pretend that you saw royalty in my looks and speech, that you could not mistake the descendant of Solomon and Sheba, of Constantine and Alexander! I despise that kind of lie, that courtly flattery! Do not offend me with it!”

  Since that was precisely what I’d been about to do, I was briefly at a loss. I’d twigged early enough that he was no common spear-carrier; there’s no lack of Abs with handsome figureheads, with fine aquiline noses for looking down, but he had spoken with that calm assurance that you don’t find in the private soldier, and I’d marked him down as an Abyssinian gentleman-ranker, so to speak. But there had been something else.

  “You spoke of your companion… Damash?… as a fat little hippo. Common men do not talk so of superiors who wear the red-fringed shama. That made me wonder.” I climbed to my feet. “But when you cry ‘Peace, hyena!’ to one who commands the Emperor’s fighting women and wears a silver shield on her arm [41]… then I do more than wonder. And whether you despise courtly flattery or no, I have stood before the face of many kings and queens in my time, and know the look… not at once, perhaps, but at last.”

  There’s no doubt about it, I’m good at dealing with barmy savages. They scare the bile out of me, and perhaps terror lends wings to my wits, for when I think of the monsters I’ve conversed with and come away with a whole skin, more or less… Mangas Colorado, Ranavalona, General Sang-kol-in-sen, Crazy Horse, Dr Arnold, God knows who else… well, it took more than luck, I can tell you. You must know when to grovel and scream for mercy, but also when to take ’em aback with impudence or argument or pure bamboozle. To find myself in the presence of Mad King Theodore was enough to turn my bowels to buttermilk, but having seen him quiet and crazy in quick time, and realised that he was intelligent well above par, like many madmen, I knew that straight talk and a firm front to cover my quaking guts were my best bet… oh God, I hoped so, and tried not to quiver as I waited, watching him.