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"I say!" declared the prime minister. "It's not the first timeyou've been knocked around, is it? I remember when you came backfrom Abyssinia with those dreadful wounds on your face. You seem tohave a nose for trouble, Burton."
"I think it's more a case of trouble having a nose for me,"muttered the adventurer.
"Hmm. Be that as it may, when I look back over your history Isee one disaster after another."
Palmerston leafed through a report on his desktop. The desk wasan extremely big, heavy affair of carved mahogany. Burton noticedwith amusement that, just below its lip, there ran around it ahorizontal band decoratively carved with scenes of a highly eroticnature.
There were not many items on the desk: a blotting pad, a silverpen in its holder, a letter rack, a carafe of water and a slenderglass, and, to the prime minister's left, a strange device of brassand glass which sporadically emitted a slight hiss and a puff ofvapour. Burton could make neither head nor tail of it, though hesaw that part of the mechanism-a glass tube about as thick as hiswrist-disappeared into the desk.
"You served under General Napier in the East India Army andundertook intelligence missions for him, I believe?"
"That's correct. I speak Hindustani, among other languages, andI make up well as a native. I suppose it made me a logicalchoice."
"How many languages do you speak?"
"Fluently? Twenty-four, so far, plus a few dialects."
"Good gracious! Remarkable!"
Palmerston pushed on through the pages. Burton found itastonishingand ominous-that so much had been written about him.
"Napier speaks highly of you. His successor, Pringle, doesnot."
"Pringle is a cretinous toad."
"Is he, indeed? Is he? Bless my soul, I shall have to be alittle more rigorous in my choice of appointments, then, shan'tl?"
Burton coughed lightly. "My apologies," he said. "I spoke out ofturn."
"According to these reports, speaking out of turn is another ofyour specialisms. Who was Colonel Corsellis?"
"Is, sir-he still lives. He was acting CO of the Corps when Imet him."
Palmerston tried to raise his brows but they remained motionlesson his taut face. He read aloud:
"Here lies the body of Colonel Corsellis,
The rest of the fellow, I fancy, in hell is."
The corner of Burton's mouth twitched. He'd forgotten thatyouthful doggerel.
"To be fair, he did ask me to write something about him."
"I'm sure he was delighted with the result," replied Palmerston,witheringly. His fingers tapped impatiently on the desk. He lookedat Burton thoughtfully. "You were on active service with the 18thBombay Native Infantry from '42 to '49. It appears to have beenseven years of recurring insubordination and frequent sickleave."
"All the men fell ill, sir. India, at that time, was notconducive to good health. As for the insubordination-I was young. Ihave no other excuse."
Palmerston nodded. "We all commit errors of judgement in ouryouth. For most of us, they are forgiven and relegated to the past,where they belong. You, however, seem to have a rather stubbornalbatross slung around your neck. I refer, of course, to yourmisjudged investigation in Karachi and the rumour that has attachedto it."
"You mean my report concerning male brothels?"
"Yes."
"General Napier was concerned that a great number of Britishtroops were visiting them. He asked me to find out exactly howcorrupting the establishments and the practices therein might be. Idid my job. I found out."
"You probed too far, according to Pringle."
"An interesting choice of words."
"His, Burton, not mine."
"Indeed. I have often thought that when a man selects one wordover another he often reveals far more of himself than heintended."
"And what, in your opinion, does Pringle reveal?"
"The man maliciously besmirched my reputation. He accused me ofindulging in the acts of depravity I was sent to investigate. Hishounding of me amounted to an irrational obsession which, Ibelieve, suggests but one thing."
"That being?"
"His ill-repressed desire to perform those very actshimself"
"That's quite an accusation."
"It's not an accusation, it's a supposition, and one made in aprivate interview. Compare that to the frenzied objections he made,in public, to my entirely imagined behaviour. His allegations havehaunted my career ever since. He almost ruined me."
Palmerston nodded and turned a page.
"You were subsequently passed over for a position as chiefinterpreter?"
"In favour of a man who spoke but one language aside from hisown, yes."
"That seems rather absurd."
"I'm pleased that someone finally recognises the fact."
"You sound bitter."
Burton didn't answer.
"So you left the East India Company army on medicalgrounds?"
"I was sick with malaria, dysentery, and ophthalmia."
"And syphilis," added Palmerston.
"Thank you for reminding me. The doctors didn't think I'd live.For that matter, neither did I."
"And your health now?"
"The malaria flares up now and again. A course of quinineusually quells it."
"Or a bottle of gin or two?"
"If necessary."
Another sheet of tightly written notes was turned aside.
"You returned to England in 1850 on sick leave, then preparedfor your now famous pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina."
"That's correct, Prime Minister. May I ask why we're reviewingmy history?"
Lord Palmerston cast him a baleful look. "All in good time,Burton."
The old man surveyed the next page, then, flicking a quickglance of embarrassment at the explorer, reached into a drawer andretrieved a pair of pince-nez spectacles, which he ruefully clippedto the bridge of his nose. Their lenses were of smoked blueglass.
He cleared his throat. "Why did you do it?"
"The pilgrimage? I was curious. Bored. Restless. I wanted tomake a name for myself."
"You certainly achieved that. You completed the entire journeyin disguise, as a native, speaking only Arabic?"
"Yes, as Abdullah the dervish. I wanted to be treated as one ofthe brethren, not as a guest. It has long been my view that anoutsider, in any culture, is offered but a fragment of the truth,and that carefully dressed for his consumption, to boot. I desiredauthenticity."
"And you killed a boy to avoid being exposed as anon-Muslim?"
"I am, it seems, accused of that crime on a daily basis. Onlylast night, the question was asked of me for the umpteenth time.Did I kill a boy? No, Prime Minister, I did not. I am not guilty ofmurder; not of a boy nor of a woman nor of a man nor even of adog."
"Are you capable?"
Burton sat back in his chair, surprised. This theme of murderarising again, so soon after the conversation at the Ca
"Am I capable of cold-blooded murder? I think not. Might I killin the heat of battle or in self-defence? Of course. I may havedone so in Berbera; in such circumstances it's impossible to knowthe outcome of your shots or the cuts of your sword."
"And what if you were in a position of authority and wererequired to send a man to his almost certain death?"
"I would fulfill my responsibilities."