Nemesis, p.51
Nemesis,
p.51
Their eyes met.
Let me die. The words were written in every tear on his face.
‘No.’
It was my fault.
How can I make her understand?
He looked at the graves, then slowly tracked his gaze across the compound to the kitchen gate hanging open on its hinges.
‘It was not your fault. I opened the gate.’
But it was a mistake. You did not know what you had done.
A terrible thought.
Did you?
A sly look came into Sana’s eyes. She held his gaze with pitiless clarity; there was nowhere to hide from the monstrous thoughts that crashed through his mind like hammer blows, each driving the spike in further.
You left the gate unlocked deliberately.
She did not deny it.
You let the attackers in.
Her impassive face showed no emotion.
You let the family die.
Did she understand what he was trying to say? All strength had left him, and Sana no longer had to hold him back. He dropped to his knees in front of her.
Why? All I have ever done is protect you.
Her eyes narrowed with scorn. ‘You would have died in the desert if not for me. All the times you thought you saved me – I saved you. Who killed the Frenchman? Who found water in the desert? Who rescued you from the palace guards and the hyenas, and who guided you to the sea?’ She stood over him, glaring down mercilessly. ‘Look at me.’
Paul stayed where he lay.
‘I will not let you die now,’ Sana whispered, and in his grief he could no longer tell her voice from the bird-headed god’s. ‘You still have something to live for.’
He looked up at her, like a child staring at its mother.
What?
‘Revenge.’
In the dark depths of his torment, the word was like a glowing ember. A tiny spark, but enough to kindle hope in the ashes of his soul.
How?
Sana wrinkled her nose as if it were the most ridiculous question.
‘Find the man who did this. Kill him.’
Paul lifted a limp hand towards the lagoon and sketched a vague, all-encompassing gesture.
He has just sailed out of the bay. He could go anywhere in the world.
‘We have time. We can find him.’
Paul shook his head. His thoughts were a mosaic of pain, and Sana’s words simply added to the confusion. Constance; Abasi; now Mary: everyone he loved had died, while the cruel and violent – Bonaparte and Lefebvre, Goshu and Hugo – had gained power.
His mind went back to the temple in Egypt, that scorching hot day. He thought of the picture he had seen on the wall: the god with a pair of weighing scales, a human heart in one pan and a feather in the other.
The god was justice. The god was judgement. The god was Nemesis.
J’aura mon revanche.
He had daubed it on the wall in a fit of madness, not knowing where the words had come from. Now he realised it was not madness, but the god speaking through him. Not a helpless plea, but a promise.
Did Sana leave the gate open deliberately?
He would never ask her, and she would never say. But she had not wielded a sword or a gun. She had not murdered the family. She was not to blame, any more than Paul was. Only one man carried that guilt.
I will have my revenge.
The promise gave him strength. The cords that had been severed in his soul knotted themselves back together like scar tissue, thicker and stronger than before.
He had one name, no way of speaking it, and all the oceans of the earth to scour. Was it possible? He thought back over the past day, like a scavenger digging from scraps. Hugo had come from India. He had said his name was Constable, but Paul had a suspicion that the name Courtney would also help to find him. He had mentioned Calcutta.
Is that enough?
Paul could be patient. Another ship would call at Nativity Bay, maybe in a month or a year. He would be waiting when it came.
Endure anything, survive anything, become anything. He had the god’s promise. Justice comes to every man.
He rose to his feet. Sana stretched out her hand, and Paul took it. They went out through the gate together, into the immense unknown darkness beyond.
CALCUTTA, 1807
A
dam stared at the river. The sun was setting, painting the sky a delicate confection of pinks and golds. Behind him, the streets were coming alive after their mid-afternoon slumbers. Lamps were lit, drinks poured, and the cream of society emerged to take their pleasures.
He had not paid attention to the passing time: someone was bound to notice him soon. He had meant to hail a boatman to take him to one of the ships so he could sign on for the passage, but his legs refused to move. His body was tensed, as if waiting for something.
A figure was walking along the embankment towards him. He did not see it clearly, but the gait or the shape of the face struck a familiar chord in him. He turned away in case he was recognised.
It was too late. The figure stopped and stared.
‘Adam Courtney? Can it be?’
He had spent three days in Calcutta fearing he would be recognised. Yet now that it had happened, the sound of the voice brought only unabashed joy. He turned, a smile spreading over his face. Lizzie March stood there, a parasol cocked over her shoulder, looking at him with an expression that shifted from delight to bewilderment to anger.
‘The wandering adventurer. The hero who chose revenge over love. Have you won your battles, slayed your dragons?’
‘Miss March.’
He started to raise his hat to her, but she was more forward.
‘You held my heart in your hands and then you left me. I have every right to hate you.’
She smiled, displaying a self-possession that unnerved Adam.
Is she angry with me or not?
She moved towards him, came up close and studied his face, as if the journeys he had made were etched on his skin, the stories he could tell reflected in the glistening of his eyes.
‘I thought I would never see you again,’ she said.
He longed to touch her. Of course it was improper, he reminded himself.
‘Nor I you, Mrs . . .?’
She laughed. ‘You do not need to be so correct. I am still plain old Lizzie March.’
‘Your husband . . .? The dashing major?’
‘The marriage did not happen.’
Adam felt a tremor in the pit of his stomach. ‘What happened? Surely no man in his right mind would have jilted you?’
‘You are very gallant.’ Lizzie stuck out her tongue at him. ‘Has it crossed your mind that perhaps I jilted him?’
‘But . . .’ Adam tried to process this turn of events. ‘What about your mother?’
Lizzie looked as if she despaired of him.
‘I decided I would not live my life according to what she had arranged for me. If I must be poor and disreputable, that is my choice.’
‘How have you lived?’
‘I have taken work as a governess.’
She flicked her hand as if to say it does not matter, and Adam felt he had suddenly become the most boring, flat-footed conversationalist imaginable. What had happened to the easy laughter they had enjoyed on the Mornington?
‘Have you had no other suitors since?’
Single English women in Calcutta were like flowers in a desert. There was no shortage of thrusting young men looking to pluck them.
‘Not a day has gone by that I have not had a proposal of marriage. Sometimes three before breakfast.’ Lizzie’s eyes danced with mischief. ‘You may be sure I have left quite a trail of broken hearts across all Bengal.’
‘But why—’
‘Because despite your impulsiveness, your single-mindedness, there is only one man I love, and every minute since you left I have prayed that you would come back here. Silly, I grant you, but I know my own mind.’ She twirled the parasol. ‘I tried to find you, but you had disappeared. Months later, I heard that a man named Hugo Courtney had been killed in a distant province. I feared it might be you, under a different name – though, of course, Hugo Courtney was so well known here I knew it could not be you. Still, I wondered . . .’
‘Hugo Courtney was my cousin. I was with him when he died.’
‘So you got what you wanted.’ She stiffened, pulling back. ‘The revenge you sought.’
‘No.’
Even remembering it made him feel dazed. He continually puzzled over that extraordinary day in Holkar. Had he done right? Honoured his father? Found justice for his family? He had questioned his choices a thousand times, never finding an answer. Always, his thoughts came back to the beggar who had killed Hugo, his blue eyes staring at Adam like some ancient god of judgement.
‘I had my chance for revenge. I could not take it. I do not know if that makes me a hero or a villain.’
Lizzie went quiet. She stared at him, scanning his face to try and understand his riddles.
‘I think you did the right thing.’
‘It is a long story.’
‘That is what you said the night we met,’ she reminded him.
‘You said I was fortunate you had plenty of time to listen.’
‘I still have time.’
They gazed at each other, and suddenly Adam realised he must say what was in his heart or lose the chance entirely.
‘I never want to be parted from you in all my life,’ he blurted. For the first time since he had landed at Nativity Bay, his heart felt whole again. ‘If you will have me.’
Waiting for her to reply felt like the longest moment of his life – though it lasted mere seconds.
‘If fate has brought us back together, it must be for a reason.’
She leaned up and kissed him, her lips gentle and forgiving.
Afterwards, they walked together down the ghats along the Hooghly. The ships in the channel tugged their anchor cables as the current pulled them downstream, longing for the river mouth and the open ocean where they belonged. Adam smiled.
‘We have a long voyage ahead of us.’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Wilbur Smith was born in Central Africa in 1933. He became a full-time writer in 1964 following the success of When the Lion Feeds, and has since published over fifty global bestsellers, including the Courtney Series, the Ballantyne Series, the Egyptian Series, the Hector Cross Series and many successful standalone novels, all meticulously researched on his numerous expeditions worldwide. An international phenomenon, his readership built up over fifty-five years of writing, establishing him as one of the most successful and impressive brand authors in the world.
The establishment of the Wilbur & Niso Smith Foundation in 2015 cemented Wilbur’s passion for empowering writers, promoting literacy and advancing adventure writing as a genre. The foundation’s flagship programme is the Wilbur Smith Adventure Writing Prize.
Wilbur Smith died peacefully at home in 2021 with his wife, Niso, by his side, leaving behind him a rich treasure-trove of novels and stories that will delight readers for years to come.
For all the latest information on Wilbur Smith’s writing visit www.wilbursmithbooks.com or facebook.com/WilburSmith.
Tom Harper is the author of thirteen thrillers and historical adventures including The Orpheus Descent, Black River and Lost Temple. Research for his novels has taken him all over the world, from the high Arctic to the heart of the Amazon jungle. He lives with his family in York. For more information about Tom’s books, visit www.tom-harper.co.uk.
Also by Wilbur Smith
Non-Fiction
On Leopard Rock: A Life of Adventures
The Courtney Series
When the Lion Feeds
The Sound of Thunder
A Sparrow Falls
The Burning Shore
Power of the Sword
Rage
A Time to Die
Golden Fox
Birds of Prey
Monsoon
Blue Horizon
The Triumph of the Sun
Assegai
Golden Lion
War Cry
The Tiger’s Prey
Courtney’s War
King of Kings
Ghost Fire
Legacy of War
Storm Tide
The Ballantyne Series
A Falcon Flies
Men of Men
The Angels Weep
The Leopard Hunts in Darkness
The Triumph of the Sun
King of Kings
Call of the Raven
The Egyptian Series
River God
The Seventh Scroll
Warlock
The Quest
Desert God
Pharaoh
The New Kingdom
Hector Cross
Those in Peril
Vicious Circle
Predator
Standalones
The Dark of the Sun
Shout at the Devil
Gold Mine
The Diamond Hunters
The Sunbird
Eagle in the Sky
The Eye of the Tiger
Cry Wolf
Hungry as the Sea
Wild Justice
Elephant Song
DISCOVER THE BIRDS OF PREY SEQUENCE IN WILBUR SMITH’S EPIC COURTNEY SERIES
BIRDS OF PREY
MONSOON
BLUE HORIZON
The earliest sequence in the Courtney family adventures starts in 1667, amidst the conflict surrounding the Dutch East India Company. In these action-packed books we follow three generations of Courtney’s throughout the decades and across the seas to the stunning cliffs of Nativity Bay in South Africa.
The conclusion to the series, Blue Horizon, lays the foundation for the next generation of adventures in Ghost Fire and Storm Tide.
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First published in the UK in 2023 by Zaffre
This ebook edition published in 2023 by
ZAFFRE
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Copyright © Orion Mintaka, 2023
Jacket design © Bonnier Books UK
Jacket illustrations © Steve Stone
The moral right of Wilbur Smith to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-80418-015-0
Hardback ISBN: 978-1-80418-013-6
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Wilbur Smith, Nemesis
