Prologue
Mozambique, 1861
“Corruptio optima pessima. The corruption of the best is the worst.”Ancient Latin saying
Pedroadjustedtherifleover his shoulder. River fog, insidious and thick, crept over the tents. The north wind bowed the campfires, spreading the scent of burned straw and humid wood. When the breeze hushed, the teardrop flame stilled. Exhaling, he pressed the trigger. A yelp and a string of colorful curses rose above the cicada's call. Gabriel's candle burst, plunging his cousin's bivouac into darkness.
Fernando, the Duke of Braganza, whistled, a grin splitting his chubby cheeks. "Officer Gabriel will not like that you snuffed another of his candles, sir."
Pedro's lips quirked. "It will teach him to go to sleep instead of drawing the entire night."
They needed to march at first light to lead the tribe under their protection to safety, and at the rate Gabriel consumed paper, Pedro would have to write his letters on brick. How would the Marshal receive such a weighty dispatch? At least his cousin obeyed curfew. If only his brother had the same discipline. Cris had missed drills this morning. Again.
"Can I conclude the bulletin, sir?" Fernando grimaced at his ink-stained hand and glared at the leaking pen.
Pedro cocked the rifle's action and recharged the cartridge. "Without our demands for provision? Tell the Marshal I cannot wage war here unless he sends horses, aguardente, uniforms, flour, and gunpowder."
A soldier survived three days without water, seventy without rations, but only five seconds without powder.
Fernando's smile wavered, and his gaze strayed to their meager wine supply. The Portuguese queen had sent the boy to Mozambique's cantonments to conclude his military education. Since he had become Pedro's aide-de-camp, the reality of the African colonies had claimed several of the youths' pounds, and Pedro wondered how long it would take to claim his wide-eyed idealism.
"Include three caskets of port and whatever books the Marshal can fit in the frigate."
"Thank you." Fernando grinned and wrote eagerly.
"Greetings, Almoster." The Viscount of Beira poked his powdered head inside the tent. "I would knock, except there is no door."
How had his father's secretary found their position? He was supposed to stay in Mozambique's capital, where he could not report Pedro's doings to the hawkish Prime Minister's eyes. Pedro hid his surprise under a blank facade and lifted his chin, the only cordiality he could force himself to show the old sycophant.
Beira tiptoed inside Pedro's quarters as if afraid to taint his ancient hussar uniform. The last time his bearskin had seen action had probably been in the civil war, and even then, from above the fence, ready to jump at whatever side was winning.
"Never say Father sent you just to celebrate my birthday." If the Duke of Titano thought to keep maneuvering Pedro from his lofty seat as Prime Minister in Lisbon, he would soon know the error of his ways. Pedro's twenty-first birthday had freed his mother's inheritance, severing his father's last hold over him.
"Yes, yes, how could he not?" Beira tapped the box he carried as if only then noticing it. He placed it atop Pedro's makeshift table and opened the lid. "A magnificent chess set. The Prime Minister bought it in St. Petersburg."
Pedro inspected the contents. Besides the chess set, veiled by tissue paper, was his father's whip. Pedro stared at the ivory handle and twisted thong, and bile rose to his mouth. He shut the lid, telling himself he had risen above his father's lessons. "It is hard to play the game in bivouacs. Not enough light."
"I'm sure your majesty provides adequate funds to deploy his troops comfortably. In fact, if you protected Portuguese interests in the capital, instead of escorting some negroes down the river—"
Pedro gritted his teeth. "When I arrived, the East African colonies were a disgrace to his majesty's coffers. If he so wishes, the Duke of Titano can take the credit for my improvements. Unless the Prime Minister is against progress here..."
Beira sucked in an affronted breath. "Progress? You court-martialed Mozambique's governor."
"He acted under the influence of slave traders."
"You expelled the priest."
"I arrested him for a public commotion." Pedro lifted his brows. "Inside the brothel."
Beira sighed, dropping his shoulders. "Look, your father applauds your enlightened endeavors. As always, your fervor and nobility... amuses him. Creating a primary school, a hospital, even a civil code? But this is Africa, not Europe. Your mission was to curb rebellions against the crown and safeguard the gold miners' interests."
If it depended on the Duke of Titano, Pedro would employ all resources to patrol the ivory and gold routes instead of curbing lawless slave traders from terrorizing villages.
A gunshot report drowned the secretary's long-winded arguments. Pulse speeding, Pedro flung away the tent's canvas screen. A line of torches lit the black mountains behind the Zambezi River, and Swahili war cries pierced the night.
"The Chikunda," Fernando mumbled, waving the dispatch like a peace flag.
The bands of enslaved warriors oppressed villages from Mozambique to Luanda, raiding the tribes for slaves to feed their masters' ships. Pedro cursed under his breath. How had they found their location?
