Robert Silverberg - Lion Time in Timbuctoo

“No! Fools!” a voice cried out, and the echoes hammered at the ancient walls.

Little Father looked toward the foreign ambassadors. Sir Anthony stood out as though in a spotlight, his cheeks blazing, his eyes popping, his fingers exploring his lips as though he could not believe they had actually uttered that outcry.

There was complete confusion in the mosque. Everyone was rushing about, everyone was bellowing. But Little Father was quite calm. Carefully he set the cup down, untouched, at his feet. Ali Pasha came to his side at once.

“Round them up quickly,” he told the vizier. “The three ambassadors are persona non grata. They’re to leave Songhay by the next riverboat. Escort Mansa Suleiyman back to the Embassy of Mali and put armed guards around the building—for purely protective purposes, of course. And also the embassies of Ghana, Dahomey, Benin, and the rest, for good measure—and as window-dressing.”

“It will be done, majesty.”

“Very good.” He indicated the chalcedony cup. “As for this stuff, give it to a dog to drink, and let’s see what happens.”

Ali Pasha nodded and touched his forehead.

“And the lady Serene Glory, and her brother?”

“Take them into custody. If the dog dies, throw them both to the lions.”

“Your majesty—!”

“To the lions, Ali Pasha.”

“But you said—”

“To the lions, Ali Pasha.”

“I hear and obey, majesty.”

“You’d better.” Little Father grinned. He was Little Father no longer, he realized. “I like the way you say it: Majesty. You put just the right amount of awe into it.”

“Yes, majesty. Is there anything else, majesty?”

“I want an escort too, to take me to my palace. Say, fifty men. No, make it a hundred. Just in case there are any surprises waiting for us outside.”

“To your old palace, majesty?”

The question caught him unprepared. “No,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “Of course not. To my new palace. To the palace of the Emir.”

Selima came hesitantly forward into the throne room, which was one of the largest, most forbidding rooms she had ever entered. Not even the Sultan’s treasurehouse at the Topkapi Palace had any chamber to match this one for sheer dismal mustiness, for clutter, or for the eerie hodgepodge of its contents. She found the new Emir standing beneath a stuffed giraffe, examining an ivory globe twice the size of a man’s head that was mounted on an intricately carved spiral pedestal.

“You sent for me, your highness?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. It’s all calm outside there, now, I take it?”

“Very calm. Very calm.”

“Good. And the weather’s still cool?”

“Quite cool, your majesty.”

“But not raining again yet?”

“No, not raining.”

“Good.” Idly he fondled the globe. “The whole world is here, do you know that? Right under my hand. Here’s Africa, here’s Europe, here’s Russia. This is the Empire, here.” He brushed his hand across the globe from Istanbul to Madrid. “There’s still plenty of it, eh?” He spun the ivory sphere easily on its pedestal. “And this, the New World. Such emptiness there. The Incas down here in the southern continent, the Aztecs here in the middle, and a lot of nothing up here in the north. I once asked my father, do you know, if I could pay a visit to those empty lands. So cool there, I hear. So green, and almost empty. Just the red-skinned people, and not very many of them. Are they really red, do you think? I’ve never seen one.” He looked closely at her. “Have you ever thought of leaving Turkey, I wonder, and taking up a new life for yourself in those wild lands across the ocean?”

“Never, your majesty.”

She was trembling a little.

“You should think of it. We all should. Our countries are all too old. The land is tired. The air is tired. The rivers move slowly. We should go somewhere where things are fresh.” She made no reply. After a moment’s silence he said, “Do you love that tall gawky pink-faced Englishman, Selima?”

“Love?”

“Love, yes. Do you have any kind of fondness for him? Do you care for him at all? If love is too strong a word for you, would you say at least that you enjoy his company, that you see a certain charm in him, that—well, surely you understand what I’m saying.”

She seemed flustered. “I’m not sure that I do.”

“It appears to me that you feel attracted to him. God knows he feels attracted to you. He can’t go back to England, you realize. He’s compromised himself fifty different ways. Even after we patch up this conspiracy thing, and we certainly will, one way or another, the fact still remains that he’s guilty of treason. He has to go somewhere. He can’t stay here—the heat will kill him fast, if his own foolishness doesn’t. Are you starting to get my drift, Selima?”

Her eyes rose to meet his. Some of her old self-assurance was returning to them now.

“I think I am. And I think that I like it.”

“Very good,” he said. “I’ll give him to you, then. For a toy, if you like.” He clapped his hands. A functionary poked his head into the room.

“Send in the Englishman.”

Michael entered. He walked with the precarious stride of someone who has been decapitated but thinks there might be some chance of keeping his head on his shoulders if only he moves carefully enough. The only traces of sunburn that remained now were great peeling patches on his cheeks and forehead.

He looked toward the new Emir and murmured a barely audible courtly greeting. He seemed to have trouble looking in Selima’s direction.

“Sir?” Michael asked finally.

The Emir smiled warmly. “Has Sir Anthony left yet?”

“This morning, sir. I didn’t speak with him.”

“No. No, I imagine you wouldn’t care to. It’s a mess, isn’t it, Michael? You can’t really go home.”

“I understand that, sir.”

“But obviously you can’t stay here. This is no climate for the likes of you.”

“I suppose not, sir.”

The Emir nodded. He reached about behind him and lifted a book from a stand. “During my years as prince I had plenty of leisure to read. This is one of my favorites. Do you happen to know which book it is?”

“No, sir.”

“The collected plays of one of your great English writers, as a matter of fact. The greatest, so I’m told. Shakespeare’s his name. You know his work, do you?”

Michael blinked. “Of course, sir. Everyone knows—”

“Good. And you know his play Alexius and Khurrem , naturally?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Emir turned to Selima. “And do you?”

“Well—”

“It’s quite relevant to the case, I assure you. It takes place in Istanbul, not long after the Ottoman Conquest. Khurrem is a beautiful young woman from one of the high Turkish families. Alexius is an exiled Byzantine prince who has slipped back into the capital to try to rescue some of his family’s treasures from the grasp of the detested conqueror. He disguises himself as a Turk and meets Khurrem at a banquet, and of course they fall in love. It’s an impossible romance—a Turk and a Greek.” He opened the book. “Let me read a little. It’s amazing that an Englishman could write such eloquent Turkish poetry, isn’t it?”

The Emir glanced up. “‘Star-cross’d lovers.’ That’s what you are, you know.” He laughed. “It all ends terribly for poor Khurrem and Alexius, but that’s because they were such hasty children. With better planning they could have slipped away to the countryside and lived to a ripe old age, but Shakespeare tangles them up in a scheme of sleeping potions and crossed messages and they both die at the end, even though well-intentioned friends were trying to help them. But of course that’s drama for you. It’s a lovely play. I hope to be able to see it performed some day.”