Chapter 9
The Malidi's Lechery
Abu-Anga withdrew to attend the Malidi home. Grace was left in tears, cowering on the angareb, pondering her shame and pain and pleasure. Soon the harem filled again and began to re-echo as before with the chatter and laughter of the other women. At first they looked askance at Grace; but presently, forgetting all constraint, they paired off together according to their several preferences. A young Copt girl, a cunning, mischievous-looking child with sharp eyes, was posted as sentinel near the door, to give warning of the possible approach of the eunuch or the master.
Then the little game began,-first of all mere frolic, sounding kisses, playful slaps and furtive ticklings, accompanied by peals of laughter and deep, long-drawn sighs of wantonness. Eyes were already sparkling with expectation and the promise of pleasure, and when a great she-devil of a Dongola negress tumbled a pretty little Circassian on her back and threw herself head first upon her, screams of merriment greeted the exploit. The sentinel hushed the tumult with a warning gesture; and each couple set to work to follow the good example on their own account.
But one of them wanted Grace to share the amusement with her,-Meryem, the copper-colored Abyssinian, the woman of the statuesque outline and pure, classical profile. She now came and crouched at the foot of Grace's bed, took the Englishwoman's hand and smiled tenderly at her.
Lost in thought, Grace took no notice, and the Abyssinian plucking up confidence, gave her a kiss. In an instant the white girl sprung from the angareb and was flying to the opposite extremity of the room. The other let her go, in sheer astonishment, and stood there dumbfounded, a figure of utter surprise and crestfallen disappointment, so funny was the sight that, in spite of their preoccupation with what they were after themselves, the women one and all burst out laughing. Instantly however recovering their seriousness, they held a rapid consultation, in which they decided unanimously they must act together and bring this intruder to reason, mitigate the fastidiousness of this minx who looked askance at the good old customs of the harem.
They chased Grace round the room and soon caught her; then grasped by a dozen willing hands, enfolded in a dozen women's arms and imprisoned between their thighs, she was thrown on her back. She fought and struggled and bit, protesting at the top of her voice and threatening to tell the authorities every thing ... After a while she was released...
The girl returned to her own angareb, while all round her the women resumed their pranks, without giving a thought to her presence. Amongst them were black women and white, copper-colored and yellow, all young, nearly all pretty. Husband, father, had been killed by Abu-Anga's soldiers, and he had driven them before him with the whip like cattle into his harem. Now gay and indifferent, they had recourse to artifice to console each other for the scarcity of the male element, the enjoyment of these pleasures and the keenness of their naughty transports being doubled by their fear of discovery by the dreaded eunuch. Confusedly Grace saw a hundred wanton postures, and half heard the smack of kisses, the cries of passion and music of amorous sighs. She felt little or no disgust; provided they left her alone, she cared for nothing else. Her body was utterly weary and sore, still aching painfully from the blows she had received. Yet all the time her flesh was quivering and palpitating in hot, voluptuous dreams, and she both desired and feared Abu-Anga might come back.
Presently she began to remember the corrections her school-mistresses in England had administered. These punishments always took place before the assembled pupils, while the maid-servants were called in to help in the proceedings. They would take hold of the girl to be punished and tie her hands; then laying her, head forwards, on a desk and holding her in that position, they lifted up her petticoats, which they pinned to the shoulders of her frock, and took down her drawers. Then the Mistress came forward armed with the birch rod, the instrument of execution. But first she gave an address; in cold, lady-like accents she would reprimand the erring girl, tell her her faults, urge her to repentance and enlarge on the painfulness and shamefulness of the punishment. The poor child, whose nakedness was all this time exposed to the jeers of her companions, longed for the whipping to begin, and be done with. But the good dame was in no hurry, but went on choosing her words, rounding off her phrases, making her points, in a slow tone of much solemnity.
Strange to say, the girl, feverish with waiting, lying there with her naked skin exposed to the air and in a constrained position, actually felt an impulse of naughty thoughts stirring pleasantly within her. But by this time the Mistress had finished her harangue, and proceeded to apply the rod, the birch twigs stinging and wealing the flesh, till the blood began to spurt. The other girls had left off laughing now; pale and their teeth clenched, they listened to the victim's cries and watched her convulsive struggles. One and all were excited, the sight of pain rousing a confused sense of gratification mingled with terror. Then they saw the blood flow, they felt a curious tingling in a certain place, while even the victim herself found her pangs mitigated by undefined, yet pleasurable, cravings, which presently, when the punishment was over, would culminate in a fit of languorous reverie. The girl would have dreams of young men, with proud looks and gallant bearing, but who to pleasure her, would grow soft and submissive swains, full of tenderness and gentle humility.
Grace smiled a sad little smile at the recollection of these childish sensations.
How utterly puerile, appeared that birch rod wielded by a feeble woman's hand, now she had felt the tremendous kourbash, its heavy, pliant lash aimed by the Eunuch's practiced arm mangling the tender flesh and kindling a fire of fierce, feverish desire in the very focus of sensual pleasure. Moreover shame tormented her, the bitter shame of her abject nakedness before those men, those vile negroes she had so despised, the humiliation of a punishment inflicted before the eyes of the lover she thought she had tamed so completely to her will.
All these thoughts flashed through her brain, but the dominant note was love of Abu-Anga, the puissant but gentle hero who had won her admiration by his virile energy,-an adoring love that was half fear, an ardent longing that was half terror. When the master returned to his harem, and once more threw the handkerchief to Grace, she opened wide her arms to him with many a fond, wheedling word and gesture. She became a perfect slave, a "saraya," a concubine of concubines, complacent to every wish, docile to every caprice of her lord and master, but she consistently repelled the advances of the women, and kept herself rigorously to herself. Meantime all about her, the other inhabitants of the harem, passive and resigned, dragged about in Abu-Anga's train, packed on camel back with the rest of the baggage, accustomed to scenes of pillage and murder, enjoyed the delights of peace and charmed the long hours of waiting and indolence with artificial indulgences, their pleasures only heightened by the dread of discovery.
Outside a gust of mad folly breathed over the camp of the Dervishes. Even the Malidi, while still preaching indifference to the good things of this world and exhorting his people to austerity and chastity, gave himself up to the pleasures of the flesh. Now was the culminating point of his power. In his Beit-el-Maal was a pit, where were heaped pell-mell the heads of his enemies, which the sun had tanned like mummies. Among the black, grinning faces the pale features of the chivalrous Gordon and the unfortunate General Hicks were conspicuous. European prisoners, heavily ironed, groaned pitifully for a crust of bread, while Aisha, the great Dinka negress, dressed as a man and brandishing a naked sabre, passed up and down in front of the captives, now and again mocking them in her deep, harsh voice.
Smallpox having broken out, the Malidi proclaimed that God was angry with those who had kept back loot instead of carrying it to the Beit-el-Maal, and was punishing them with a well merited death. Demolishing Khartoum, he had the material transported to the other bank of the Nile, where he beautified and enlarged Omdurman and made it into his capital. Little by little he had acquired a taste for luxury, a barbarous, yet refined luxury. It was now the sacred month of Ramadan, and while the days were devoted to fasting and prayer, the instant the sun had disappeared, there ensued a wild scene of feasting, with debauchery to follow. All who contravened these rites were punished with death. So far the Mosque was nothing more than a vast zariba, an enclosure open to the sky, formed of thorny cactus and mimosa trunks. Thousands of Dervishes crowded under the blazing sun into the enormous square, where they pushed and fought to secure a place near the "mihrab," or prayer niche, where the Malidi was to officiate.
But while the people stand eagerly awaiting his appearance at the Mosque, the Malidi is tasting all the delights of his harem. Its court is crammed with women, from little
Turkish girls not eight years old, with frail, slender limbs, to enormous Dinka women, tall and sturdy, with the arms of Hercules. The harem contains women by hundreds, all trained to give the master pleasure. But these are merely slaves, spoils of war, the "ghenima," the despised band of concubines. These the Malidi caresses, and is fondled by them in turn; they are his instruments, his tool of pleasure.
He has four lawful wives, and among the four one in especial who gives orders to the others. This is Aisha, whom the people call "Om el Muminin,"-the mother of True Believers. She had been his faithful companion in his days of indigence, when a poor wandering Dervish, the Malidi entertained no suspicion as yet of his future greatness. This old Negress is the chief fountain of favor to all aspirants for place and power. Round the inner enclosure of the harem runs an outer space, and near the entrance there is always an eager crowd, Dervishes and men of the Ansar, waiting for the Malidi to appear, in anxious anticipation of his blessing.
Inside the harem the Master is stretched full length on a magnificent Kurdistan carpet, his head resting on a heap of cushions covered in embroidered silk; he is dressed in a shirt of fine linen and wide Turkish trousers, a silken "tekia" covering his shaven head. Thirty women, at the lowest computation, crowd round him, some to fan him and keep off the flies, for which purpose they wave great feathers about his face, others to tickle the soles of his feet and palms of his hands softly. Little by little the Malidi slips from a gentle doze into deep sleep, when Aisha pushes and shakes him, finally waking him to tell him the people await only his presence to begin their prayers. The women raise and support him, while sandals of red morocco are brought and put on his feet. Then they take off his fine shirt and silken tekia, and Aisha dresses him in his Dervish costume,-a dirty djibbeh surmounted by a foul, muddy turban.
Slowly and solemnly he moves to the Mosque, the passers-by throwing themselves on the earth and devoutly kissing his footprints. Presently, the service ended; the Malidi returns to the inner rooms of his harem, donning once more his sumptuous garments. There he enjoys the pleasures of the table, and among the swarm of women dancing attendance upon him, appreciates the refined delights and rarely tasted sensations of an elaborate sensuality. But the very facility of these enjoyments makes his mind more and more capricious, his body more and more jaded. He seeks satisfaction in abnormal pleasures, resorts to aphrodisiacs to revive his fainting nerves and people his brain with wanton imaginings. Punishments abound; for the smallest fault, women and children are stripped naked and whipped in his presence. It charms him to hear their cries of pain, and the sight of blood flowing tickles and revivifies his appetites.
Sometimes, when he is tired of a slave-woman, he chooses from the Ansar four strong men. Then, in a closely barred tokul, he shuts himself up with the four soldiers and the poor creature to be tortured. They tear off her clothing, and though terror has already paralyzed her and made the incapable of resistance, they would have her still more submissive to their will and pleasure; they laugh and swear, jeer and threaten her, promising the most atrocious punishments. The Malidi excites them to every excess, and in obedience to the Master's wishes, they exaggerate their natural brutality, turning the wretched woman this way and that, and playing all sorts of abominable pranks with her poor panting body. They buffet her savagely with the palms of their hands on her cheeks, the soft parts of the arms, the inside of the thighs. The victim weeps and implores, dragging herself to the feet of her tormentors. This is the signal for them to require all sorts of ridiculous postures and unnatural attitudes of pleasure. But do what she will, they say she is awkward and must be punished. Torture and the lash alternate with love. Finally, with quivering flesh, bruised and swollen under the blows and rough caresses of the soldiers, mad with pain and intoxicated with lust, the woman is dismissed to the Beit-el-Maal, till the Malidi sees fit to have her sold or otherwise disposed of.
The other Emirs copy their Master; peace saps their vigor, and they seek in the joys of the harem a solace for their enforced inaction. But through it all Abu-Anga remains faithful to Grace, scorning his other women and slighting his lawful wives. His attitude now is that of a master, and at once vigorous and gentle, captivates the girl's heart. She shows herself fond and submissive, prodigal in wheedling wiles and soft caresses. Nevertheless an underlying disquietude possess" her; an element she cannot precisely define is wanting to complete her satisfaction. Certainly the notion of tasting the Kourbash again offers small attractions,-and yet she finds a strange joy in recalling the memory of the anguish endured.
One day, Abu-Anga took his brother Fadl-el-Maula to see his harem, and sent the Eunuch to fetch Grace, who trembling and agitated could scarcely repress a cry ... The negro's looks seem to her sly and his bearing at once cunning and cruel, and she instantly recognizes the Emir, the brutal soldier who had ravished her in the sack of Khartoum. The whole scene comes back again,-James held captive by the savages, while she is straggling in the arms of Fadl-el-Maula. Poor James!. . . But now it is Abu-Anga she loves, her lion-hearted master, so gentle and so strong! ... She presses timidly to her tyrant's side, fearfully watching what her ravisher will do. He too remembers her, for a smile parts his thick lips, and a gleam of mischief lights up his great eyes. But Abu-Anga is speaking:
"She is the only woman I love ... I cannot tell yet what I mean to do ... Perhaps I may divorce my lawful wife, and marry this white woman!"
"What recklessness! Think what the Malidi would say!"
"I consider I have done him services enough for him to approve my acts, be they what they may ... Now remember what I am going to say; forget not my words. The fortune of war is precarious. If I am killed, you will keep the Law ... You understand my meaning? You will announce this woman to be my widow, and you will marry her."
"This is foolish talk! You will see us all in our graves; you are invulnerable."
"Whose talk is vain and foolish now? ... Before Azrael, the Angel of Death, we are all equal ... Tell me, have you any repugnance to the woman, that you hesitate?"
"Repugnance,-no! ... Well! as you insist, it shall be so; I swear I will do your will. Nay! to make my task easier, to avoid all claims from your other wives, would it not be well, think you, to repeat my oath upon the Koran, in presence of the Cadi?"
"Let us go see to it at once!"
Grace was left shuddering with fear, filled with apprehension and sick disgust. But soon she reflected that Abu-Anga was vigorous and strong, not at all the sort of man to die easily. Never, she was convinced she would never be at Fadl-el-Maula's mercy.
But as Abu-Anga had said, all men are equal before the Angel of Death. The Malidi fell sick. Little by little he had grown enormously fat, and his heart beat weakly and uncertainly. The quacks whom he had round him as his body physicians diagnosed fatty degeneration of that organ; but the truth was he was being slowly poisoned. For some time past he had been infatuated with a European captive, wife of the Austrian tailor, who together with all her sons had been killed by the Malidists before her eyes during the sack of Khartoum.
How had this woman contrived to procure a supply of arsenic, and keep it undetected? How did she manage to mix the poison successfully with the sweetmeats the Master stuffed himself with? With her Italian guile, she knew how to set about the thing cautiously and mysteriously. With a smile on her lips, she was working the tyrant's death, administering the drug in small but constantly repeated doses. At first the Malidi had never seemed so well. His breathing was deep and free, his appetite excellent, while he held himself erect and all his body felt light and active. Every vital function was intensified, and never had he felt himself in such vein for love. He thought it was due to some virtue in the fair Venetian, some charm she possessed superior to those of other women. He redoubled his caresses; she increased the dose of poison.
Soon his vitals were eaten away; he vomited constantly and his brain was on fire. The heart especially was terribly affected, and he declared he felt it shrinking within him hour to hour. He died in the mortuary hut he had had constructed, conjuring those about his bedside to remain faithful to the Khalif Abdullahi, his successor. The body was washed and wrapped in a winding-sheet. The women wailed and lamented, the Venetian in particular raising heart-broken cries, tearing her hair and in every way making an admirably acted pretence of the deepest grief.
At the very foot of the angareb, his couch of death, the Malidi's uncle, Abmed-ouad Suleiman, dug the grave, assisted by the three Khalifs. Without a long-drawn tumult of groans and lamentations rose to heaven,-the people bewailing their lost Leader, their departed Prophet. The corpse was sprinkled with perfumes and lowered into the grave, on which each mourner cast his shovelful of earth, murmuring. "Ya Rahman! Ya Rahim!" (Merciful God! Gracious God!)