Cry Wolf

wraiths. Every once in a while there would be the terrified bellows of

an ox from the wadi outside. the main entrance of the cave. The

bellows would cease abruptly as the blackman swung his long two-handled

sword and the carcass fell with a thud that seemed to reverberate

through the cavern. A vast shout of approval greeted the fall of the

beast, and a dozen eager assistants flayed the hide, hacked the flesh

into bloody strips and piled them on to huge platters of baked clay.

The servants staggered into the cave, bearing the laden platters of

steaming, quivering meat. The guests fell upon it, men and women

alike, snatching up the bleeding flesh, taking an end between their

teeth, pulling it tight with one hand and hacking free a bite-sized

piece with a knife grasped in the other. The flashing blade passed a

mere fraction from the end of the diner's nose and warm blood trickled

unheeded down the chin, as the lump was swallowed with a single

convulsive heave of the throat.

Each mouthful was washed down into the belly with a swig of the fiery

Ethiopian tej - a brew made from wild honey, a liquid the colour of

golden amber, with the impact of a charging buffalo bull.

Gareth Swales sat between the old Ras and Lij Mikhael in the place of

honour, while Jake and Vicky were a dozen places farther away amongst

the lesser notables. In deference to the appetite and tastes of

foreigners, they were offered, in place of raw beef, an endless

succession of bubbling pots containing the fiery casseroles of beef,

lamb, chicken and game that are known under the inclusive title of

wat.

These highly spiced, peppery but delicious concoctions were spooned out

on to thin sheets of unleavened bread and rolled into a cigar shape

before eating.

Lij Mikhael warned his guests against the tea and instead offered

Bollinger champagne, wrapped in wet sacking to lower its temperature.

There was also pinch bottle Haig, London Dry Gin, and a vast array of

liqueurs Grand Marnier, yellow and green Chartreuse,

Dam Benedictine, and the rest. These incongruous beverages in the

desert reminded the guests that their host was wealthy beyond the

normal concept of wealth, the lord of vast estates and, under the

Emperor, the master of many thousands of human beings.

The Ras sat at the head of the feast, with a war bo

covering his bald pate. It made a startling, but rather moth-eaten wig

for it was forty years since the Ras had slain the lion, and the

ravages of time were apparent.

Now the Ras cackled with laughter as he rolled a sheet of the

unleavened bread, filled with steaming wat, into the shape and size of

a Havana cigar and thrust it, dripping juice, into Gareth Swales's

unprepared mouth.

You must swallow it without using your hands," Lij Mikhael explained

hastily. "It is a game my father enjoys." Gareth's eyes bulged, his

face turned crimson with lack of air and the bite of chilli sauce.

Gulping and gasping and chewing manfully, he struggled to ingest the

huge offering.

The Ras hooted merrily, drooling a little saliva from the toothless

mouth, his entire face a network of moving wrinkles as he encouraged

Gareth with cries of "How do you do? How do you do?" At last with his

dignity in shreds, red-faced, sweating and panting laboriously, the

roll of bread disappeared down Gareth's straining throat. The Ras

folded him once more in that brotherly embrace, and

Lij Mikhael poured another goblet full of Bollinger for him.

However, Gareth, who did not enjoy being the butt of anyone's joke,

freed himself from the Ras, pushed the glass" aside and waved one of

the servants to him. From the reeking bloody platter he selected a

strip of raw beef almost as thick as his wrist and as long as his

forearm. Without warning, he thrust one end of it into the Ras's

gaping toothless mouth.

"Suck on that, you old bastard," he shouted, and the Ras stared at him

with startled rheumy bloodshot eyes. Then, although he was unable to

smile because of the long red strip that hung from his lips like some

huge swollen tongue, the Ras's eyes turned to slits in a mask of happy

wrinkles.

His jaw seemed to unhinge like a python swallowing a goat.

He gulped and an inch of the meat shot into his M(Uthl he gulped again

and another inch disappeared. Gareth stared at him as gulp succeeded

gulp and swiftly the morsel dwindled in size. Within seconds the Ras's

mouth was empty, and he snatched up a bowl of tej and drank half a pint

of the heady liquor, wiped blood and tej from his chin with the skirt

of his sham ma belched like an air-locked geyser, then with a falsetto

cackle-of merriment hit Gareth a resounding crack between the shoulder

blades. In the Ras's view, they were now comrades of the soul both

English aristocrats, renowned warriors, and each had eaten from the

other's hand.

Gregorius Maryam had anticipated exactly what his grandfather's

reaction to his white guests would be. He knew that Gareth's

nationality and undoubted aristocratic background would overshadow all

else in the Ras's estimation.

However, the young prince's feelings for Jake Barton had become close

to adulation and he did not intend that his hero should be ignored. He

chose the one subject which he knew would engage his grandfather's full

attention. He slipped u

and when he returned, he carried Jake's stiff crackling lion skin that

had by now completely dried out in the hot, dry desert wind.

Although he held it high above his head, the tail brushed the ground on

one side and the nose on the other. The Ras, one arm still around

Gareth's shoulder, looked up with interest and fired a string of

questions at his grandson, as the boy spread the huge tawny skin before

him.

The replies made the old man so excited that he leaped to his feet and

grabbed his grandson by one arm, shaking him agitatedly as he demanded

details and Gregorius replied with as much animation, his eyes shining

as he mimed the charge of the lion, and the act of hurling the bottle

and the crushing of its skull.

Comparative silence had fallen over the smoky, dimlit cavern, and

hundreds of guests craned forward to hear the details of the hunt. In

that silence, the Ras walked down to where Jake sat. Stepping, without

looking, into various bowls of food and kicking over a jug of tea, he

reached the big curly-headed American and lifted him to his feet.

"How do you do?" he asked, with great emotion, tears of admiration in

his eyes for the man who could kill a lion with his bare hands.

Forty years before, the Ras had broken four broad-bladed spears before

he had put a blade in the heart of his own lion.

"Never better, friend," Jake grunted, clumsy with embarrassment,

and the Ras embraced him fiercely before leading him back to the head

of the board.

Irritably the Ras kicked one of his younger sons in the ribs,

forcing him to vacate the seat on his right hand where he now placed

Jake.

Jake looked across at Vicky and rolled his eyes helplessly as the

Ras began to ladle steaming wat on to a huge white round of bread and

roll it into a torpedo that would have daunted a battle cruiser. Jake

took a deep breath and opened his mouth wide, as the Ras lifted the

dainty morsel the way an executioner lifts his sword.