‘He says they do not trade with strangers.’

  ‘We can become friends,’ Piay pressed.

  After another exchange, Myssa said, ‘He says they are at war. Their king fights for the lives of the people of this land. They trust no one.’

  Piay’s mind raced. He could feel all they were hoping for slipping away.

  ‘Tell him we may be able to help.’

  Piay felt Hannu flinch beside him. As Myssa spoke, Piay watched a flicker of interest cross the other man’s face.

  ‘He will convey your offer to the king,’ Myssa said. ‘They will return to this place at first light to give their response.’

  Piay bowed again. The one in the headdress offered a cold stare and led his men up the beach and into the trees.

  T

  he lamplight glinted in the eyes of Piay, Hannu and Myssa as they sat cross-legged. The warm night was filled with the sounds of the creaking ship and the lapping of the waves and the snoring of the sailors as they slept on their benches or in any space they could find across the deck.

  Piay looked from one to the other. ‘Tell me your thoughts.’

  Hannu tapped his ear. ‘Must have some water in there. It sounded like you were asking for guidance.’

  Piay sighed.

  Hannu turned to Myssa. ‘Which cannot be true. Because Master Piay has never asked for advice in his life. And when it is freely given, he chooses to ignore it.’

  Piay folded his arms. ‘If you have nothing to offer—’

  ‘I always have plenty to offer,’ Hannu replied. ‘If only you had ears to hear.’

  ‘Piay is growing wise,’ Myssa said, rubbing Bast’s head. ‘A wise man always listens to the wisdom of others before reaching his decision.’

  In times past Piay would have bristled at Hannu’s words, resenting the implication of weakness. But Myssa somehow had a way about her that soothed every situation.

  Hannu said. ‘My experience tells me it is never a good thing to push your way into other people’s fights. These things are always more complicated than they seem at first.’

  ‘And Hanbaal’s crew are not fighting men,’ Myssa said. ‘He will not want you risking their necks, just so you can lay claim to some elephants.’

  ‘You saw how the two sides fled when our ship arrived,’ Piay said. ‘It might be that we could frighten them into submission without unsheathing our blades.’

  Hannu shrugged. ‘Only if they don’t care what they’re fighting about. And if they didn’t care, they wouldn’t be fighting.’

  ‘What, then?’ Piay said. ‘We cannot leave. We need those elephants.’

  Myssa said, ‘Your master trained you in the many arts of peace and war, yes?’

  Piay nodded.

  ‘Then if you do not wish for war, perhaps peace is the right course.’

  Piay frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Bring the two sides together. Help them find some common ground to avoid this bloodshed.’

  ‘Hannu?’

  ‘She has something. But you must go into this with open eyes. This will be a delicate situation and much will be hidden from us. There is plenty that could go wrong and we must be prepared for that outcome.’

  ‘Still, I feel this is our best choice . . . perhaps our only choice.’ Piay paused, ‘Do you agree?’

  Hannu nodded. ‘I agree.’

  T

  he rain had come overnight, so hard and fast it seemed like it would never end. Still it fell. Piay breathed in the dank aroma of the sodden vegetation as he stood on the beach in the thin light of dawn. Hannu, Myssa and Jabilo waited behind him. No one spoke.

  Piay glimpsed movement in the shadows beneath the trees and the one in the headdress walked out with his band of warriors.

  He raised a hand, and then spoke.

  ‘He says we should go with him for an audience with the king,’ Myssa said.

  ‘Into the den of spears, then,’ Hannu muttered.

  T

  he forest steamed as the heat rose. Moisture dripped from silky emerald leaves. Frogs croaked and birds swooped among the high branches, releasing whooping cries.

  Piay, Hannu and Jabilo hung back as they trailed past pools of sunlight coming through the canopy, while Myssa eased her way into the confidences of the one with the headdress. She’d learned that his name was Omari and he was an advisor to the king, Chemue. He seemed to have little humour in him, though he warmed to Myssa’s easy manner.

  The track wound past shrubs with spiky pink flowers ripe with the aroma of honey, where gold and black butterflies fluttered, and through a swamp that filled the air with the reek of rot. They came to a wall of finely packed stone that was almost twice Piay’s height. After the wooden huts of the Abantu, Piay felt surprised to see such a construction. The wall seemed ancient, the stones were weathered, and the trees clustered hard against it, almost as if it had pushed itself up out of the forest floor.

  Omari led them through a gate into a sprawling city of narrow streets, the roads puddled and rutted with flies droning above the sticky mud. Shacks made of wood with roofs of leaves jumbled near the walls, but there were buildings of stone, too.

  A mother with a baby at her breast stepped out of the house nearest the gate and stared at these strange visitors. Few travelled here from the lands around the Great Green, Piay presumed, and as they trudged through the mud, people ventured out to observe the new arrivals.

  Once they’d left this crowded area, they stepped into a formal square, at the centre of which was a roughly hewn statue of an elephant. Beyond that was a grander stone building with two wings reaching out.

  Two of the warriors waited at the entrance. Omari led the rest of the band under a shady portico into a smaller square with a pool at the centre. It was surrounded on every side by a covered walkway where the residents could stroll out of the heat of the sun.

  Omari beckoned for them to follow him into a shadowy building. Soon they found themselves in a room with a wooden high-backed throne at the centre. On it sat the king. Chemue was a big, muscular man with scars from what must have been past battles on his cheeks. He was draped in the spotted pale fur and he also wore a headdress, the fan of feathers even more extravagant than the one Omari wore.

  The king flexed his fingers and Myssa approached. As he spoke, he examined Piay and Hannu.

  Myssa nodded and turned to the others. ‘He knows I understand the tongue of these people and he is happy to use me as an intermediary in these discussions. The king wants to know what it is you wish to trade.’

  Piay stepped forwards.

  ‘Tell him spice, linen, papyrus . . . weapons. Our swordsmiths are the best in the world.’

  Chemue weighed this response.

  ‘And what do you want that you do not already have?’ Myssa asked on the king’s behalf.

  ‘Elephants. Trained elephants for war and men with the skill to ride them into battle. That is what this great kingdom is known for.’

  The king beckoned Omari to the throne and they bowed their heads together in conversation for some time.

  When they had finished their conversation, it was Omari who spoke. Myssa listened, then translated.

  ‘A war is tearing our land . . . our people . . . apart. The forest runs red with blood and even women and children are put to the spear. How many lives will be lost before this is over? We cannot talk of trade while there is fighting and death.’

  Piay nodded.

  ‘Who is at war?’ he asked.

  Myssa listened, then said, ‘The king is the rightful ruler of this land, a peaceful man beloved by his subjects. But his brother Temue has long coveted the throne and has promised riches to those who will join him in seizing power.’

  Warring brothers – a tale as old as time, Piay thought.

  ‘Tell them we will do what we can to help bring this war to an end,’ he said. ‘If we can put enough fear into Temue and his army, we may be able to bring them to talks to find some common ground. At the least, it will stop the fighting and the bloodshed.’

  After Omari had discussed the matter with the king, he offered his response.

  ‘If you help them, they will talk,’ Myssa said. ‘At this time they can say no more.’

  ‘They’re testing us,’ Piay said. ‘To see if they can trust us.’

  ‘And who can blame them?’ Hannu replied. ‘Too much at stake to be trusting.’

  ‘Tell them we will do what we can,’ Piay said to Myssa. ‘But ask them if we can see the war elephants. I want to learn what they have to offer.’

  P

  iay breathed in the suffocating musk of the great beasts long before Omari led them to a vast stone-walled pen on the far side of the city. After climbing steps to the top of the wall, Piay looked down on ten of the elephants, using their trunks to snatch up bunches of leaves that three men tossed among them. They thrust the leaves into their mouths and chewed lazily.

  ‘They look as good-natured as Bast,’ Myssa noted.

  ‘Aye,’ Hannu replied. ‘In my experience the most dangerous things do, until the time comes to reveal their true nature.’

  ‘Ask how they train these beasts,’ Piay said to Myssa.

  Omari jabbed a finger towards the three men feeding the elephants.

  ‘Those are the elephant riders, the keepers, the trainers,’ Myssa translated. ‘They are called Tumisi in this tongue and they are revered like . . .’ She struggled to find the words and then said, ‘Like our priests? Only a few families are Tumisi. The Tumiso is given an elephant when he is a boy and he is taught to train it by his family. They use only a hook, a long pole, and a short pole, though how they achieve so much with so little, Omari will not say. These are the secrets they keep and that knowledge is then passed from father to son. And over time, the boy and the elephant become . . . friends . . . perhaps brothers? They are joined together for life.’

  Piay, frustrated, said, ‘Then they cannot teach us to train our own elephants . . . and this is why we failed when we were with the Abantu.’

  Myssa nodded. ‘It takes time, it seems. A lifetime.’

  Hannu grunted. ‘Then we’ll need these Tumisi to come with us. Will these people spare them if they are so rare and skilled?’

  ‘We’ll find a way,’ Piay said.

  Omari grinned – the first time his stone face had cracked. Myssa translated his words.

  ‘He says you cannot imagine the power of the elephant until you see them in battle. Here they are calm. But when they charge an enemy, the ranks fall apart as if they were made of ash. Only terror comes from facing the elephant.’

  T

  he wind whipped across the deck and the lines sang. Hanbaal narrowed his eyes, his white robes swirling around him.

  ‘Tell me again this will not cost me my ship or my crew.’

  ‘You need have no worries,’ Piay stressed. ‘If the gods are kind, this will be done in no time, with no harm to anyone.’

  The slaver looked from Piay to Hannu and then out to the edge of the bay, where Chemue’s spies had warned that an attack would soon be materialising.

  ‘If there is any damage done to my vessel or my crew, I will require full recompense.’

  As Hanbaal stalked away across the deck to prepare his crew, Piay beckoned to Jabilo.

  ‘You are ready?’

  The Abantu warrior grinned. ‘Ready, big man.’

  Piay turned back to the bay and watched the rolling waves. After what seemed like an age, the first of the log-boats eased around the rocky outcropping to the south. Soon a multitude of the Temue vessels flooded in, paddles dipping as the rowers tried to seize the element of surprise, eight men in each. This time, under Piay’s guidance, Chemue had not prepared a defence. The beach was deserted, the log-boats of Chemue’s clan dragged up on the sand. To those new arrivals, the path seemed clear to the city where their hated enemy waited.

  Piay raised his right hand. Hanbaal roared an order for the anchor to be raised and his oarsmen to begin their strokes. The drummer thumped his skins and the ship eased forwards, gathering speed.

  Piay watched confusion turn to fear on the faces of those in the nearest log-boats. They had mounted an attack two days ago, and on that occasion Hanbaal’s vessel had remained anchored and aloof from the strife.

  The ship thrummed across the waves as it bore down on the log-boats. They were in formation, too tightly packed to manoeuvre. Some who could see disaster bearing down on them paddled faster, shifting their line.

  One log-boat slammed into another. The first boat rolled, plunging the occupants into the water. The second log-boat careered into a third, setting off collision after collision until the navy milled in a confusion of upturned log-boats and flailing rowers.

  Hanbaal’s ship did not stop. The slaver yelled an order to the helmsman and the line of the vessel shifted to ensure it stayed in deeper water. Piay’s plan was working well.

  The ship ploughed into the outer edge of the log-boats. The small vessels shattered, overturned. Others plunged down as they were swamped. Yelling in terror, men leaped into the sea, attempting to swim to safety.

  Jabilo hung over the rail and yelled, time and again, until his throat must have burned. Piay didn’t understand the words, but he knew what he was saying: ‘Ten more ships wait behind us. We are coming to destroy you. Surrender. Surrender.’

  To add to his show, many of Hanbaal’s crew rushed to the rail and thrust their swords into the air, roaring a battle cry.

  Piay watched the boats at the rear of the tiny fleet turn and flee the way they had come. The mere size of Hanbaal’s vessel had been more destructive than any pitched battle.

  ‘That one!’

  Hannu pointed over the rail at one of the log-boat rowers struggling to stay afloat in the water churning around the ship’s keel. Three sailors tossed hide ropes into the turbulent sea until they had snagged the drowning man. Bracing themselves, they dragged him up the side of the ship and over the rail.

  The rescued man collapsed on to the boards. When he raised his head, he trembled as he looked along the blades of the sailors who had captured him. Before the prisoner could panic, Jabilo squatted beside him and rested a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. Jabilo grinned, his words coming low and fast. It was a version of the message he had yelled to the fleeing log-boats in a tongue those warriors understood, a message that Piay with Myssa had taught him: ‘We are merciful. We will spare your life. But you must tell your leader there is no hope left in this fight, for our force is too strong for you and we have allied with Chemue.’

  Jabilo would tell the man to carry this message back to the rebel leader Temue, the king’s brother, and urge him to meet with Chemue to find some common ground for peace. Piay hoped this would be enough.

  Hanbaal yelled again and his men rushed to their benches, grasping their oars and heaving into perfectly timed strokes to pursue the surviving log-boats around the bay.

  The men from the capsized log-boats clawed out of the water on to the broad beach. They barely had time to stagger to their feet when Chemue’s army rushed out of the trees, screeching. The survivors of the confrontation on the water had nowhere to go, no weapons to defend themselves.

  Chemue’s men fell on them like vultures on a corpse in the desert, stabbing and tearing with their spears. The screams of the dying echoed across the bay. Those fleeing would be left in no doubt of the terrible costs of this defeat.

  As the surf reddened, Piay looked away from the carnage. This was not his war, though he had now left his mark upon it. These were not his friends, nor his enemies, yet his actions had ended lives as surely as had his failings in the field that night beside the Nile. He felt queasy at the recognition that life was never as simple as he had once imagined.

  Hanbaal’s ship pursued the fleeing log-boats across the next bay and two beyond. By then the rowers were weakening from the strain of attempting to stay ahead. A few stood to loose arrows, but the shafts plunged harmlessly into the sea or rattled off the hull. Finally the log-boats swept in to shore.

  As Hanbaal ordered the anchor to be lowered once again, Piay watched the escaping warriors race up the beach and into the trees, where Temue no doubt had his camp.

  Piay glanced at Hannu. ‘Now all we can do is wait.’

  T

  he moon hung over the water, limning the ship’s mast with pale fire. From it, a silver road rolled out across the water and over the beach to where Piay crouched beside a tree festooned with pendulous yellow flowers. He whispered a prayer to Khonsu. All their plans turned on what was about to unfold, a plan as reckless as any Piay had attempted. This time he had convinced the others that they had little choice.

  Hannu squatted beside him with Jabilo, both keeping watch in the dark of the forest to make sure they would not be discovered. They’d left the safety of the ship to hide here when dusk fell.

  Piay nudged Hannu and his assistant looked round. The rowing boat was beginning its journey to shore, the spray from the oars glinting in the light. Piay could make out the silhouettes of two figures on board – the oarsman and the captive they had pulled from the sea. Despite Jabilo’s words, he had been terrified that he would be executed for his part in the battle. Now, perhaps, he would be starting to feel some hope.

  Once the rowing boat neared the shore, the captive threw himself into the water and raced up the beach. Piay could almost sense his jubilation.

  As he bounded across the sand and vanished into the trees, Piay murmured ‘Now.’

  Jabilo darted away through the trees and Piay and Hannu scrambled to keep up. The young warrior was strong and fast, but also an excellent scout. If anyone could track the freed man through that forest, it was Jabilo.

  The ghosts of the baobab trees blurred by on either side and moonlight shafted into pools of shimmering white among the shadows. Piay fixed his attention on Jabilo’s pale soles as he raced ahead.

  Finally Piay glimpsed firelight through the vegetation. Jabilo slowed his pace as they neared the camp, and they crawled among a tangled mass of tree roots to observe.