We then approached the city gate and sat there, as is the custom, till invited to enter. Presently we were ordered to the palace by a chamberlain, a man with loud and angry voice and eyes.
At the entrance of the palace we dismounted by command, and we were told to run across the court, which I refused to do. We were then placed under a tree in one corner of the yard and to the right of the palace. The latter is a huge, windowless barn of rough stone and red clay, without other insignia but a thin coat of whitewash over the doorway.
Presently we were beckoned in and told to doff our slippers. A curtain was raised, and we stood in the presence of the then Amir of Harar, Sultan Ahmed bin Sultan Abibaki.
The sight was savage, if not imposing. The hall of audience was a dark room, eighty to ninety feet long, and its whitewashed walls were hung with rusty fetters and bright matchlocks. At the further end, on
a common East Indian cane sofa, sat a small yellow personage—the great man. He wore a flowing robe of crimson cloth edged with snowy fur, and a narrow white turban twisted round a tall conical cap of red velvet. Ranged in double ranks perpendicular to the presence and nearest to the chief were his favourites and courtiers, with right arms bared after the fashion of Abyssinia. Prolonging these parallel lines towards the door were Galla warriors, wild men with bushy wigs. Shining rings of zinc on their arms, wrists, and ankles formed their principal attire. They stood motionless as statues; not an eye moved, and each right hand held up a spear with an enormous head of metal, the heel being planted in the ground.
I entered with a loud “As ’salem alaykum”—“Peace be upon ye!”—and the normal answer was returned. A pair of chamberlains then led me forward to bow over the chief’s hand. He directed me to sit on a mat opposite to him, and with lowering brow and inquisitive glance he asked what might be my business in Harar. It was the crisis. I introduced myself as an Englishman from Aden coming to report that certain changes had taken place there, in the hope that the “cordial intent” might endure between the kingdoms of Harar and England.
The Amir smiled graciously. I must admit that the smile was a relief to me. It was a joy to my attendants, who sat on the ground behind their master, grey-brown with emotion, and mentally inquiring, “What next?”
The audience over, we were sent to one of the Amir’s houses, distant about one hundred paces from the palace. Here cakes of sour maize (fuba), soaked in curdled milk, and lumps of beef plenteously powdered with pepper, awaited us. Then we were directed to call upon Gerad Mohammed, Grand Vizier of Harar. He received us well, and we retired to rest not dissatisfied with the afternoon’s work. We had eaten the chief’s bread and salt.
During my ten days’ stay at Harar I carefully observed the place and its people. The city was walled and pierced with five large gates, flanked by towers, but was ignorant of cannon. The streets—narrow lanes strewed with rocks and rubbish—were formed by houses built of granite and sandstone from the adjacent mountains. The best abodes were double storied, long and flat roofed, with holes for windows placed jealously high up, and the doors were composed of a single plank. The women, I need hardly say, had separate apartments. The city abounded in mosques—plain buildings without minarets—and the graveyards were stuffed with tombs—oblongs formed by slabs placed edgeways in the ground.
The people, numbering about eight thousand souls, had a bad name among their neighbours. The Somali say that Harar is a “paradise inhabited by asses”; and “hard as the heart of Harar” is a byword. The junior members of the royal family were imprisoned till wanted for the throne. Amongst the men I did not see a handsome face or hear one