Читать книгу Golden Lion - Уилбур Смит, Wilbur Smith - Страница 12

When the Buzzard had first sailed north to seek his fortune in the service of the Arab invasion of Ethiopia, caring not a jot for the religious or political issues at stake but choosing the side he believed most likely to pay him best, he barely spoke a word of Arabic. He considered it an ugly tongue, one beneath his dignity. He soon realized, however, that his ignorance was a great disadvantage since men around him could converse without him having the first idea what they were saying. So he began to study the language. His endeavours had continued during his convalescence so that it was now no difficulty for him to comprehend the Maharajah Sadiq Khan Jahan when the latter said, ‘I must congratulate you, your lordship, on your remarkable recovery. I confess, I had not believed you would ever rise from your bed. But now just look at you.’

In his pomp, the Buzzard had been a master of sly condescension and insincere compliments and he was not inclined to believe that the haughty figure before him meant a single one of his honeyed words. The contrast between the Indian prince in his silk and gold-threaded finery, dripping with more jewels than a king’s mistress, and the Buzzard, a decrepit, one-armed Caliban, with his skin like pork crackling and a face uglier than any gargoyle ever sculpted was simply too great to be bridged by words. But the Buzzard was a beggar and could not afford to be a chooser, so he gave a little nod of his head and wheezed, ‘You’re too kind, your royal highness.’

And, in all truth, his recovery, however partial it might be, was indeed the product of an extraordinary effort of will. The Buzzard had lain in bed and made an inventory of his body, concentrating on those parts of it that still functioned at least moderately well. His legs had not been broken, and though they were covered with burns and scar tissue, the muscles beneath the ravaged skin seemed to be capable of supporting and moving his body. Likewise, though his left arm was no more, his right arm was still whole and his hand could still grasp, so he might yet hold a sword again one day. He had the sight of one eye and hearing in one ear. He could no longer chew properly and his digestion seemed to have become unduly sensitive so that he could only eat food that had already been broken down into a soft, mushy porridge. But it was enough that he could still eat at all, and if his food was nothing more than a bland, tasteless porridge, it hardly mattered, since his tongue seemed unable to distinguish flavour any more, no matter how much salt, sugar or spice was added.

Above all, however, the Buzzard’s mind was still sound. He had suffered terrible headaches and the pain in every part of his body – including, strangely, those that no longer existed – was unrelenting. Still he was able to think, and plan, and calculate, and hate.

It was that hatred above all that drove him on. It had forced him to keep getting up when at first, unused to the imbalance of his body, he kept falling. It drove him through gruelling physical activities, in particular the building up of his surviving arm’s strength by the repeated lifting of a sack of millet, procured from Jahan’s kitchens, when with every single breath he took the air cut through his throat and lungs like caustic acid.

The black, burning fire in the Buzzard’s soul seemed to fascinate Jahan. ‘Please, don’t let me interrupt you. Pray continue with your exertions,’ he said, and stepped right up to his guest, making no effort to disguise the mix of revulsion and fascination he felt in the presence of such a foul and monstrous distortion of a man.

The Buzzard felt Jahan’s lordly eye upon him and the urge to defy him drove him on. He lifted the sack, which he held in his hand by the neck, again and again, though his exhausted muscles and scorched chest begged him to stop. He was feeling faint, lathered in a film of pus and bloodstained sweat and on the point of collapse when there was a knock on the door and one of Jahan’s functionaries entered. The man was unable to conceal the shock on his face when he set eyes on the Buzzard, who was bent almost double, his one good hand resting on his knee and his back heaving up and down. But he re-gathered his composure and spoke to Jahan. ‘There is a man at the gate who insists that you wish to see him, your sublime excellency. He says his name is Ahmed and he is a leather worker. It seems he has finished the task you set for him. When I asked him to explain himself he refused, claiming that you had sworn him to secrecy.’

Jahan smiled. ‘That is indeed true. Send him in.’ Then he bestowed a particularly condescending smile upon the Buzzard, and said, ‘I have brought you a small gift, your lordship. Just a miserable thing, but I believe it may be of interest.’

William Grey, His Majesty’s Consul to the Sultanate of Zanzibar, stood in the line of supplicants waiting to plead their case outside Maharajah Sadiq Khan Jahan’s palace, cursing the bad luck and even worse judgement that had brought him to this intolerable situation. Through all his years in Zanzibar, Grey had been welcomed as an honoured guest by Jahan, as he was by far the most powerful, wealthy and influential members of Zanzibar society. For Grey was not only the representative of one of Europe’s greatest monarchs, he was also a convert to Islam, a change of faith that had brought him much favour and granted him access to places and people beyond the reach of any Christian. Then that conniving Scots rogue Angus Cochran, titled the Earl of Cumbrae, but more aptly nicknamed the Buzzard, had arrived in Zanzibar, closely followed by an arrogant young pup called Henry Courtney, whereupon the life of ease and privilege that Grey had constructed over many years had fallen apart in the matter of a few short months.

It had all begun with the Buzzard pestering Grey to use his influence to obtain him a commission to fight for the Sultan of Oman against the Emperor of Ethiopia. The piratical Scot planned on growing rich in war booty taken from the Christians and was happy to pay the very reasonable fee Grey charged for his services. To give the Buzzard his due, he had kept his word. The moment the Letter of Marque was placed in his hands he set sail for the Horn of Africa and set to work on the task for which he had been commissioned.

Five weeks later, young Courtney arrived, apparently eager to join the struggle against Ethiopia and, like the Buzzard, he also purchased a Letter of Marque. Not surprisingly, Courtney was eager to hear all he could about the war and had been fascinated to discover that the Earl of Cumbrae was also playing his part. Grey had not given Courtney’s interest in the earl a second thought. Why should he? The Muslim cause was about to receive a second heavily armed warship, with which it would exert total control over all the waters between Arabia and the coast of Africa. As the man who had helped procure the ships, Grey would be held in greater esteem than ever.

In the event, however, Courtney had weighed anchor and chased after the Scotsman without so much as a by your leave, sneaking away like an ungrateful, deceitful, two-faced traitor and fighting for the Ethiopian emperor and his general Nazet. It transpired that his real intent all along had been the pursuit of vengeance against the Buzzard, whom he held responsible for his own father’s death. A short while later news had reached Zanzibar that Courtney had found the Scotsman and engaged him in battle. The story went that the Buzzard, fighting till the last, had been burnt alive and gone down with his ship, the Gull of Moray.

In the old days, Grey would have been able to confirm the veracity of this account and uncover a great deal more information to which the common herd were not privy. But this was no longer possible, for Courtney had taken to harassing, capturing and sinking Arab vessels up and down the Red Sea, to the consternation of the men who owned the stricken vessels and could no longer profit from their cargoes. These men now held Grey at least partially responsible for their losses and shunned him accordingly.

Every door in Zanzibar, or at least every door that mattered, had been slammed in his face and Grey now knew no more than the lowliest guttersnipe or coffee-shop gossip. All he could do was keep coming here, to the maharajah’s palace, in the hope that one day his serene, magnificent and merciful highness Sadiq Khan Jahan would show compassion for his plight and allow him to plead his case. Grey looked ahead of him in the queue and saw Osman, a procurer of women and small boys with whom he had once done regular business. But he’d not laid hands on one of Osman’s pretty little fancies, male or female, in months. Osman – a mere flesh-peddler! – had given him a regretful shrug and said he could no longer be seen to do business with a man of Grey’s reputation.

Grey seethed as he watched Osman gossiping with one of the guards at the gate. The press of people, the clamour of their pleading voices and the smell of their unwashed bodies combined to form an unbearable assault on his senses. Grey had long lived in the tropics and affected Arab dress as well as religion, for long flowing robes were more comfortable by far than the heavy coats of thick wool that most Englishmen insisted on wearing, as if entirely indifferent to their geographical and climatic circumstances. Nonetheless, he was perspiring like a pig on a spit and his temperature rose still higher when he saw a leather-peddler he knew, Ahmed by name, given the sign to enter the palace. Ahmed was carrying a large box, similar to the ones ladies used to convey their headgear. Grey paid it no mind.

A few minutes later, another of the palace functionaries appeared at the gate and had a word with one of the guards. At once three men were despatched into the crowd, beating men and women out of the way with long wooden staffs as they forced their way through the mob. With a start Grey realized that they were heading directly for him. He panicked and tried to get away but the sheer press of bodies was so heavy that he could not force his way through and suddenly he was not only sweating like a pig but squealing like one too as he was grabbed by the arms and half-dragged, half-carried up to the gates and then through them before being deposited unceremoniously on the ornately tiled floor.

Grey rose to his feet to find the same official who had summoned Ahmed standing close by. ‘If you will come this way, effendi, His Excellency, in his great wisdom and mercy, wishes to speak to you.’

As he followed the official along a cool, shaded cloister, through which he could see the waters of a fountain glittering in the noonday sun, Grey realized that the three guards who had been sent to fetch him were following close behind. They no longer carried their staffs, but each bore a wickedly curved scimitar tucked into his scarlet waistband.

It struck Consul Grey that the invitation to an audience with the maharajah might not turn out to be quite the blessing he’d been hoping for.