Eventually, as the days passed and the Akar drew nearer their own land, leaving behind the city with its walls and its noise and its stench, the Calif ‘s spirits rose. He not only began enjoying hearing the stories of his men, but he told his own as well, elaborating with parental fondness on the courage of his younger brother in the palace escape until Achmed’s ears were red with embarrassed pleasure. The men listened in admiration as Khardan recounted with all due modesty the discovery and rescue of the Sultan’s daughter, enlivening the tale with shrill imitations of the eunuchs’ squeals that caused the men to roar with laughter.
The Sultan’s daughter was another cause for the rise in the Califs spirits. True to his word, Khardan treated her with the respect and reverence he would have accorded his own mother. He even offered her a horse of her own to ride—something completely unheard of—but she shyly refused, saying she knew nothing of the beasts and was terrified of them. She would continue to ride with him, if she wasn’t too great a burden.
Too great a burden! Khardan’s heart sang like the wind among the dunes as he galloped over the sands, the lovely creature clinging to him, her hands entwined about his chest, her head leaning against his back when she grew weary. He did not know by what art she managed it, but not even the strenuous ride diminished her beauty. He and the others smelled of sweat and horse; she smelled of rose and orange blossoms. She kept carefully veiled, her white body completely covered to protect her from the sun and from the eyes of men. She rarely lifted her blue eyes when in the presence of men but kept them lowered as was considered proper in a woman, her long, black lashes brushing her cheeks.
The modesty that bespoke the virgin was all the more enchanting to Khardan because of the closeness they experienced riding together. It was her fear of the horse—which seemed to her a great and powerful beast, so Meryem said—that made her sit so near Khardan. Tears glistened in her eyes. He must think her shameless! Wiping away those tears, Khardan assured her that he didn’t think her shameless at all. He barely knew she was with him. Meryem smiled sweetly and held him all the tighter. Khardan, feeling her warm and soft against his flesh, their bodies moving together in time to the rhythm of the horse’s motion, sometimes ached with a passion that it took all his self-command to conquer.
The Calif comforted himself with the thought that this pleasure would not be long deferred. Every time he looked into Meryem’s blue eyes, he saw love and admiration blooming there. When he reached the Tel, the first thing he would do would be to make the Sultan’s daughter his wife. Soon he would sleep in her arms, laying his head upon the trembling bosom that pressed so often against his back.
Thoughts of Zohra flew from his mind on the wings of this new passion, with only the briefest wonder at how she would react to the introduction of a new wife into the harem.
“Ah, well,” Khardan told himself, thinking of their final moments together in camp, “Zohra is tame now, at least. That last episode has frightened her into submission. I will do what I must to keep her happy and find true joy with another.” (Which only went to prove the Amir’s statement that, despite their bluster, the nomads were as naive as children.)
Meryem’s conversation enlivened the long, dark hours of the night ride across the desert. She told Khardan tales of life in the Sultan’s palace—tales that the Calif found incredible.
She spoke of the enclosed, marble baths where the wives and concubines went daily to bathe and play in the heated, perfumed water, always conscious—though they were never permitted to show it—of the small hole in the wall through which the Sultan watched, selecting his choice for the night.
She described the elaborate maze the Sultan had ordered specially built within the palace walls so that he could have the pleasure of chasing the selected favorite until he caught her and forced her to surrender. She told about the dinners during which the Sultan would invite the girls to dance. Stripping off their veils and their clothes, the women stepped lightly to music played by musicians whose eyes had been gouged out that they might not look upon the beautiful bodies moving gracefully before them.
Meryem spoke, too, of the secret passage through the garden wall; how those women not chosen by the Sultan used it to admit lovers into the garden, paying the blind beggar well to keep his mouth shut and conceal their transgressions, for it would be as much as their lives were worth if the eunuchs discovered them.
Khardan listened in amazement, his blood tingling in his veins. He asked if the Amir was indulging in the same style of life. Remembering the stem face, the rigid military posture, the Calif could not believe it of the man.
“No,” Meryem replied. “Qannadi has no heart. He sees beauty in nothing but war and bloodshed. Oh, he has his harem, his wives. But he keeps them for the power of the magic they bring him. The seraglio is a witches’ coven, not a place of love. The women speak only of magic, of their skills in that art, not in the art of loving. They go to the baths to bathe, not to show themselves. I even heard that the Amir ordered the spy hole closed up. There are no more intimate dinners. The Amir sent the musicians to play for his soldiers. The garden might be filled with the lovers of his wives, for all the Amir cares.”
Realizing she was speaking more bitterly than might seem right for a Sultan’s daughter, Meryem hastily changed the subject.
“That was how I managed to escape detection for so long. When the soldiers of the Amir seized the palace, they easily caught my father. His bodyguards fled—the cowards—and left him to his cruel fate. There are secret hiding places built into the palace, with a tunnel that runs below ground to the soldiers’ barracks. The Sultan did not have time to avail himself of this; the Amir made certain of that, sending his troops in to capture the palace before they had even conquered the city. I was able to hide myself in one of these secret places, however. It was little larger than a closet. I stayed there for I don’t know how long, crouched in the darkness, thirsting and starving, but too scared to leave. I heard the screams”—she shivered—”and I knew what was happening out there. Later I overheard the eunuchs talking about my father’s death.”
Her voice broke. With a great effort she managed to control her tears and continue with her story.
“At last I knew I must leave the closet or die there. I crept out. My plan was to hide myself among the numerous concubines of the Amir. I would be safe, I hoped, unless he sent for me. My plan worked, at least so I imagined. I told the other girls and the eunuchs that I was new, a present from one of the grandees. I thought I had fooled them, but as it turned out, they knew me all along. The Amir, it seems, thought I was part of a plot of one of the nobles to overthrow him and so he had me watched. I waited for my opportunity to escape, and when you created the commotion in the divan, I thought I had my chance.
“I hurried to the garden, intending to slip out the hole in the wall. But the eunuchs caught me and beat me, trying to make me reveal the name of the man for whom I worked. They were going to drag me back to the Amir’s torture chambers when you saved me.”
She hugged Khardan close, her body shivering with her emotion. The Calif did what he could to comfort her, although what comfort he could offer was of necessity limited by the fact that they were riding horseback at the head of a troop of his men. This was, perhaps, just as well, or his resolution to wait and make the girl his wife might have vanished there in the night in the desert sand.
To take his mind off the aching of desire, he gruffly asked another question, this one about the Imam. Meryem readily answered, although it was some time before the infatuated Khardan could fully attend to what she was saying.
“—a result of the Imam’s teaching, for he believes that passions of the body, while necessary to . . . to”—Meryem flushed prettily—”produce children, take the mind away from the worship of Quar.
“If you can believe the eunuchs,” she whispered in Khardan’s ear, embarrassed to discuss the matter aloud, “the Imam is said never to have slept with a woman. That is something Yamina w
ould very much like to change, if you credit gossip.”
Khardan recalled the holy zeal he’d seen burning in the priest’s liquid eyes and could well believe this to be true. But the subject of Yamina brought another question to his mind.
“The magic of the horse,” he asked Meryem, “is that true magic or was it a trick such as one performs for gullible children?”
“It is true magic!” Meryem said, her voice tinged with awe. “And that is not the greatest of Yamina’s powers.”
“Are you yourself this. . . skilled in the art of magic?” Khardan asked abruptly and somewhat uneasily.
“Oh, no!” Meryem replied glibly, guessing at the nomad’s fear. “I have the usual women’s talents, of course. But magic was not considered important in my father’s court, nor was it considered seemly that I—as his daughter—should be taught such a common art.” She spoke haughtily, and Khardan nodded in grave approval. “Certainly I am far from being as powerful as Yamina. She can enchant the weapons of the Amir’s soldiers so that they never miss their target—”
“She must have slipped up on that one,” interrupted Khardan with a grin, thinking of the inept guards who had tried to stop them at the palace.
He felt the girl’s body tense. Imagining she must be reliving once again those few terrible moments of her capture, he turned and gave her a reassuring smile. She had an answering smile ready for him behind the veil, but it vanished the moment he looked away from her again, and he did not notice her biting her red lips in anger at herself for having used them too freely. The Calif must not guess that the soldiers had missed on purpose!
There was no more talk between them that night. Meryem— resting her head against Khardan’s strong back—pretended to sleep. Guiding his horse across the sands as carefully as possible, keeping a sharp watch for any irregularity in the path that might cause the horse to slip and thus jostle the girl and waken her, Khardan let his mind roam among the stories he had heard as he might have roamed among the many rooms of the Sultan’s palace. The sun rose, a ball of fire burning in the pale blue sky. Khardan did not see it. He was lost in a sweet dream of blind musicians, playing at his command.
After days of hard riding the Akar reached the foothills where the tribesmen of Sheykh Jaafar al Widjar received them with sullen hospitality. Having ascertained that the horses given the sheepherders were being well cared for, Khardan accepted the freshly butchered carcasses of several sheep in return, and refusing the grudgingly offered three days of guest hospitality, the spahis continued their ride.
Another day and a night of hard riding brought them to the Tel, brought them home.
Chapter 9
Every man, woman, and child of both tribes camped around the Tel turned out to meet the spahis, wbo could be detected some distance away by the cloud of dust they raised. Standing at the edge of the camp, his eyes peering into the late afternoon sun, Majiid thought the dust cloud looked bigger than it should. His brow creased in worry. He’d had the uncomfortable feeling for days that something was wrong. He had summoned Sond, intending to send him to find Khardan and make certain he was safe, only to discover that the djinn had vanished. This unusual disappearance on the part of the immortal added to Majiid’s nagging worries. Something had gone awry; Majiid knew it.
Now, seeing the dust cloud, he knew what it was. They were bringing back the horses. The sale had fallen through.
The spahis made a fine entrance into camp. Showing off their riding skills, they drew their horses up in a line before Majiid, and led by Khardan, each man had his horse kneel to the Sheykh. Despite his misgivings, Majiid’s heart swelled with pride. He could not resist a triumphant glance at Jaafar. Let your sheepherders do this!
Majiid discovered Jaafar staring not at the horsemen but at the horses that they had brought back with them, and now it was Jaafar’s turn to look at Majiid with raised eyebrows. Scowling, Majiid turned away. Hurrying over to talk to Khardan and determine what had gone wrong, the Sheykh’s gaze went balefully to the Sultan’s daughter. Women! Majiid had the instinctive feeling that this female was going to be the root of the trouble.
Other eyes saw the Sultan’s daughter; other eyes frowned at the sight. Dressed in her finest gown, her black hair brushed until it glistened like a raven’s wing, her body perfumed with jasmine, Zohra had been about to step from her tent and greet her husband when she caught a glimpse of the heavily veiled woman riding behind him. Who was she? What was he doing with her? Stepping back quickly into the shadows of her tent, Zohra watched the meeting between father and son, listening carefully to all that was said.
Jumping down from his horse, Khardan embraced his father.
“Welcome home, my son!” Majiid clasped his arms around Khardan, true emotion apparent in the slight quiver of his voice.
Around them rose a hubbub of voices, the other tribesmen joyfully greeting friends and family, pulling booty from the khurjin and distributing it to laughing wives and children. Looking at the spoils, Majiid glanced questioningly at his son. “It appears your trip was successful?”
Khardan shook his head, his face grave and serious. “What happened?”
“Yes, tell us, Calif, why you failed to sell the horses,” said Jaafar loudly to Majiid’s extreme irritation.
In a few words Khardan repeated his story. Aware that others were listening, he kept it brief, saving the details and his own private concerns for a later talk in his father’s tent. It was not difficult for the Sheykh to hear his son’s unspoken words, however, and a sidelong glance at Jaafar’s darkening face showed him that the sharp mind of the Hrana had picked them up. Zohra, standing unnoticed within the shadows of her tent, heard them, too.
“Well, well,” Majiid said with forced gaiety, slapping Khardan on his shoulders and embracing him again. “It must have been a glorious victory! I wish I had been there! My son, defying the Amir! My men, looting the city of Kich!” The Sheykh laughed boisterously. The spahis who heard his words exchanged glances of pride. “And are these some of the treasures of the city you have brought back with you?” Majiid asked, strolling over to the horses where sat the two women Khardan had freed.
Handling her as carefully as if she were made of fragile porcelain, Khardan grasped Meryem around her waist and lifted her down from the saddle. He led her by the hand to the Sheykh.
“Father, this is Meryem, daughter of the late Sultan of Kich.”
Falling on her knees in the sand, Meryem prostrated herself before Majiid. “Honored father of my savior. Your son, risked his life to save me, unworthy orphan of cruelly murdered parents. I was discovered, hiding in the palace. The Amir would have tortured me, then killed me as they did my father, but your son rescued me and carried me from the city.”
Raising her head, Meryem looked at the Sheykh earnestly, clasping her white hands together. “I cannot repay his kindness in wealth. I can repay it only by becoming his slave, and this I will gladly do, if you will accept a pitiful beggar such as myself into your tribe.”
Touched by this pretty speech, enchanted by its deliverer, Majiid glanced up at Khardan. He saw his son’s eyes aflame with a passion that any man must have felt. Although the Sheykh could not see the woman, veiled as she was, he caught a glimpse of the golden hair glistening in the sun. He saw the blue eyes sparkling with grateful tears and could witness the grace of the slender figure hidden by the folds of the chador. Majiid was, therefore, not surprised when Khardan, leaning down, gently raised up Meryem to stand beside him.
“Not a slave, Father,” Khardan said, his voice husky, “but my wife. I pledged her my honor that she would be treated with all respect in this camp, and therefore, since she no longer has a father or mother of her own, I ask that you take her into your dwelling as your own daughter, my father, until such time as arrangements can be made for our wedding.”
Black eyes, hidden in the shadows, flashed in anger. Feeling half-suffocated, Zohra drove her nails into the flesh of her palms and struggled to compose hersel
f. “What do I care?” she demanded, gasping for breath over the terrible pain in her chest. “What does it matter to me? Nothing! He is nothing to me! Nothing!”
Growing calmer with this remembrance, repeating the words to herself, Zohra was able, after a few moments, to continue to watch and listen.
Majiid had welcomed his newest daughter and turned her over to his wives, who gathered around the girl, murmuring sympathetically over her cruel fate. Khardan’s mother led the Sultan’s daughter by the hand to her own tent. The Calif watched proudly, his eyes burning with a love visible to everyone in the camp.
“And what of this one?” Majiid questioned, looking at the silent woman shrouded in black.
The slave had not moved from her place on Saiyad’s horse. She did not look around her. Neither interest, curiosity, nor fear was visible in the eyes above the black veil. Their gaze held only that same hopeless despair.
In a grim and angry voice Khardan told his father of the slave market and how he had rescued the woman as she was about to be auctioned off. The Calif told his exciting tale about outriding the goums, but he kept quiet about the cruel-eyed man in the white palanquin. Khardan had not mentioned him to anyone, nor did he intend to, having a sort of superstitious dread that—like a demon of Sul—speaking of the man might somehow Summon him.
“Saiyad has offered to take the woman into his harem,” Khardan added. “This is a noble gesture on Saiyad’s part, Father, since the woman is dowerless.”
Majiid glanced questioningly at the spahi. Saiyad, coming forward, bowed to the Sheykh to indicate that Khardan spoke the desire of his heart. Majiid turned to his son. “The woman’s life is in your hands, Calif, since you are her savior. Is this your will?”
The Will of the Wanderer Page 30