Congo, Katanga and Zanzibar, February 1896
András Weisz had grown up thinking of hell as a place of fire and brimstone, where demons tormented the damned souls who were roasting on the coals. He knew differently now. Hell was a jungle where the tropical heat entered one’s very bones, and where men did things more unspeakable than demons could imagine. Hell was the Congo, and people had made it so.
Before the war, the concessionaires had come and made the Congolese into slaves. Now, war was added to forced labor. Villages were prizes to be fought over; the villagers were forced to harvest rubber and timber, drafted as porters for the armies, made to give over their crops to the hungry soldiers. Retreating armies might force villagers on death-marches, or even kill them outright, to deny their labor to the enemy. And that was what happened to the men; the women and girls suffered worse.
There were some who foreswore such tactics, but they were few and far between. For the Congolese, there was little to choose between the rest: European officers, rubber barons, district governors and African kinglets building vest-pocket empires all were the same, and the mercenaries, if anything, more so.
Was it any wonder, then, that those who could, fled to the few corners of the Congo where there was no fighting, and those who were too far to flee, rose up? Any prophet who promised an end to the horror could get a following. In all likelihood, he would only succeed in getting his followers massacred, and adding the survivors to the refugees who sought any safety that might be had in this cursed land.
Some, even, had sought safety with Weisz’ men. His army no longer looked anything like the ragtag band that had escaped from a Turkish prison camp the year before. No more than half of the prisoners were still with him; the others were dead of sickness, killed in battle, left at whatever town they’d been in when they’d decided they could take no more, or wandered off to try for home on their own. In their place were the Magyarabs and a motley collection of recruits and camp followers: men and women from all the peoples of Ubangi-Shari and the Congo, their children and possessions trailing behind them. Without quite knowing it, Weisz had become another warlord, the commander of another army on the move through the Congo basin.
And warlords needed guns, food, and most of all allies, if they planned to make it through alive. That was why, here at Boyoma, Weisz had an appointment with a prophet.
“Come with me,” said the man at Weisz’ side. He was dressed in the black and white robes of a judge – one of the governing council, elected by some means nobody could fathom from the people who shared the prophet’s faith. He led Weisz and his two lieutenants - László Tóth and Nagy the Magyarab – past huts and market-stalls to a walled compound. There was a single hut within, no bigger than those outside, and a grassy field where audiences were held; on a stool in that field sat the man Weisz had come to see.
Samuel the Lamanite, he was called: one of the prophets who
hadn’t got his flock massacred, and had managed to hold his country against all comers. The French had been the first to give him guns, so Weisz supposed he’d once been a friend, but things didn’t work that way in the Congo any more. He’d changed sides three or four times, like all the African warlords had; he took weapons from both now, and fought for himself.
Now he rose from the stool, leaning on a wooden staff; he was robed in white, with a cap of the kind that Muslims wore. He regarded Weisz for a moment, his eyes fixed on a point far to the rear, and the Hungarian officer felt that the prophet was somehow looking through him.
“Good morning, Nephite,” he said.
Weisz had expected that. He’d heard that Samuel’s faith came from America, of all places, with bits and pieces of Islam added on, and that the Nephites were a race from his holy book. They were ancient Americans, or Israelites, or something of both, but to Samuel, they were white men.
“Have you repented?”
Often, Weisz thought, but he sensed that the question was more serious than that. “Repented of what?”
“Of seeking all the days of your life for that which you cannot obtain. Of seeking happiness in doing iniquity. Do you deny that the Nephites are cursed? Do you deny that a curse has come upon this land because of their wickedness and their abominations?”
Weisz remembered what he’d seen in these past months of marching through the Congo. “No,” he said. “I can’t deny that.”
“Then repent, Nephite! I know your men haven’t done what the other Nephites have done. Nephites were created righteous; they, like the Lamanites, were made to be good and godly, but they, like the Lamanites, have fallen. Repent, and walk in the way of the Lord.”
The Hungarian felt himself on very unfamiliar territory; he was an indifferent Jew himself, and both religious passion and the rhetoric of salvation were foreign to him. He wanted desperately to steer the conversation to more practical ground. “How may I do that? By fighting for you?”
“That will be a start,” Samuel said, and to Weisz’ surprise, he laughed out loud. “Yes, an army of Nephites to bring my scattered children home.”
“What enemy will we fight, then?” That was the tricky question: Weisz might be a mercenary by necessity, but he was loyal to the Habsburg Emperor, and would not fight against that Emperor’s allies.
“You will fight oppression! You will fight irreligion!” Now Weisz had a moment’s unease. In the early days of his rebellion, Samuel had driven out those who did not adopt his faith. He’d done so for only a short while before recoiling at the cruelty, but had he changed his mind again? Were the Hungarians being recruited to burn crops and raze villages?
But it wasn’t that. “There are people of my faith all over this land,” the prophet continued. “They are oppressed; they are beaten; they are enslaved. I must gather them. I must send parties to find them, and to guide them home.”
That had its risks too – Weisz would have to split up his force and give up the safety that lay in numbers – but it was neither treason nor atrocity. It was… at least worth considering.
“And if we do this,” he said, “what would our payment be?”
Samuel’s eyes lit up briefly; Weisz suspected he could bargain as well as anyone, were it not beneath him to do so. “The judges will decide. But I can tell you that you will be fed and sheltered for the next stage of your journey, and that your names will be blessed in all the places where mine is known…”
Bunkeya was taken. The Portuguese flag was raised high above the
boma that had lately been King Msiri’s, and the conquering armies feasted among its houses and storerooms. Drunk soldiers leaped and danced by the campfires, adorned with the contents of Msiri’s treasury, singing hymns of victory in a dozen languages.
Brigadier Nuno Teixeira wandered among the troops, unable to savor the victory quite as they did. Yes, the lands Portugal ruled would now extend across Africa. Yes, he would be military governor of the conquered provinces, a post of honor and quite possibly one that would make him rich. Yes, Msiri, once Portugal’s ally and now its greatest African enemy, was now a refugee, fled with what remained of his army to become a soldier of fortune in the Congo. But the colonel couldn’t forget how much this war had also proved Portugal’s weakness.
Over there was the camp of Prince Azzan bin Thuwaini of Oman, who Teixeira’s man Freitas had promised the throne of Yeke in exchange for his army. Next to it, those of Msiri’s vassal chiefs, who’d made Teixeira bid against Msiri for their allegiance, and who’d had to be paid in guns and gold to come over to his side. Across the compound, the Shona and Boers of Mutapa, who fought for Portugal only after having beaten it in battle and exacted their price. How few of the soldiers celebrating this victory were doing so in Portuguese!
And of course, the Portuguese had been helpless to stop Dietmar Köhler, the warlord of South Kivu, from arming Msiri, lest they anger the North German Confederation by making war on him.
This will not be a Portuguese empire, Teixeira realized.
It will be Portuguese and Omani and Swahili and Shona and a dozen others besides. We will be overlords, but no more than that.
He looked up at the stars for a moment, and then brought his eyes back down to the campfires. One of them was Freitas’, and the colonel would have something good to drink. He nearly always did.
Prince Ali found no joy in being back at the palace. He’d vowed to return only as Sultan, and he wasn’t that; instead, he was one supplicant among many, waiting for a gaggle of petty nobles to decide his fate. He supposed that, having failed to win the throne on the battlefield, he had no other choice, but it still rankled. Oh, how it rankled.
Three months in Zanzibar, trading for votes. Three months of humbling himself before Swahili landlords, Indian merchant-princes, European adventurers and African vassal kings, three months of listening to what they demanded – demanded! – if they were to support his suit for the throne. Three months of fearing the treachery of his fellow princes and hoping he would not be outbid.
And now, he feared even worse.
The parliament had debated incessantly during those months, but it had never taken a vote on the succession; no prince had been sure enough of his support to call for one. The armies, all but a few, had been taken off the field, but within the palace walls, an even fiercer battle had raged, and there was no victor.
Today, rumor had it, all that would change: a vote would be taken, and someone would be elected. And if so, Prince Ali’s hopes of becoming Sultan were doomed, because he knew very well that
he didn’t have a majority.
His heart pounded as he tried to pay attention. The Yao king was speaking, and his voice carried much weight: many Yao had attained noble rank in the Omani Empire, and they would vote with their king. What did it mean, if the Yao were taking the fore? They’d stayed neutral thus far, because everyone knew that their patron was…
Oh, no.
“For a year and more, this great land has been torn by war,” said the old king in his sonorous voice. “For a year and more, the princes have contended for the martyred Sultan’s throne. And in doing so, all they have proved is that none of them are worthy of it!”
The king’s voice suddenly became sharp, carrying over the rising tumult in the hall. “What prince worthy of the name would tear the country apart in order to rule it? Who is worthy of being Sultan if he climbs to the throne over the bones of widows? Should we have a ruler who thinks nothing of his sworn oaths, who would betray our country’s laws and undermine our English allies while they fight for their lives? Should we have a king who has shown he will disobey any of God’s commandments if only it will give him an advantage over his brothers?”
Prince Ali looked around desperately, hoping that the assembled nobles would recoil at the Yao king’s words, but the shouts from the floor were mostly cries of agreement. Even some of the princes were giving their assent. What had been offered to them, and why had no one offered it to
him?
“There is another prince in the kingdom!” The Yao king’s voice rolled on inexorably. “There is a man who the great Sultan saw fit to elevate to princely rank, not because of his birth but because of his merit. And he is the man who, for the past year, has been the only prince who has fought to keep the land together rather than destroy it! He is a brave soldier, a wise statesman, a man of God, and a teacher who is rightly guided! The man is…”
But the king did not have to name his candidate. “Tippu Tip!” came a voice from the floor. “Tippu Tip!” shouted a hundred more. “Tippu Tip! Tippu Tip!” called the shopkeeper-nobles and Swahili half-breeds, ecstatic at the chance to elect one of their own as their overlord.
He’s been planning it all this time, Prince Ali realized.
There’s no way this could be an accident. And he’s made sure that we’re all here in Zanzibar, away from our armies, when it happened. I thought I was clever when I didn’t take oath to be bound by this parliament’s vote, but here and now, that gains me nothing.
A small corner of Ali’s mind told him that he couldn’t really expect any better. Tippu Tip would likely be less vengeful than one of his brothers or cousins, and he would never have been able to win the throne on the battlefield. He would still be a prince, and there were many worse things than that.
But it rankled. Oh, how it rankled.
