Empires of Sand

by Empires of Sand (retail) (epub)

  “The amulets care for me, sire, not for you. You will not wear them. Oh-oh-oh, how I implore you to wear them. But until you will, I shall feed the spirits for you.”

  On a cold morning long ago in a balloon over France Moussa had given up the only amulet he ever wore. So much had happened because of it, so much evil and pain. He knew it was his fault his father was dead. If he hadn’t pleaded with him to take the detour to St. Paul’s to recover the amulet they’d have been gone long before the police arrived at the Gare. Serena scolded him when he said it, but he knew it was true. The worst things that had happened in his life had happened because of that amulet. Sister Godrick used it for torture, and his father died for it. He didn’t need the amulet and he didn’t need God. He had thrown it from the balloon, watching as it fell lazily down until it disappeared in a cloud, carrying with it the weight of his father’s soul. Now the taleb, the holy man, came to camp and brought new amulets, and collected fees for which he dispensed baraka, the blessings and guarantees of healthy livestock and successful caravans. The taleb with his mystical power reminded Moussa of the bishops and priests, all of them with their hands out and their lips moving with empty promises, thundering the righteousness of their Gods, and accepting the grateful offerings of frightened souls. Now Moussa was the only man of the Kel Rela who wore no amulets. Lufti worried greatly for his master’s baraka and so saw to the feeding and care of the spirits on his behalf.

  “Very well, Lufti. Just see that you don’t give them the last of our food.”

  “Of course not, sire.”

  * * *

  “Master, I have a request of you.”

  Lufti had been brewing tea, clearing his throat and fidgeting and shoving the coals around in the little fire on which their teapot bubbled. With growing amusement Moussa had watched him working up to it, and had been tempted to tell him to just come out with it; but it wasn’t right to push. Lufti would get to it in his own time.

  Moussa nodded. “Of course.”

  “Forgive me for being so blunt, sire, but there is a woman… ” Again he paused. “Well, sire, when we return with the camels I would very much, oh so very much like your consent to …He cleared his throat again. “Sire, if it would be your pleasure to grant me, ah, this—”

  “What is it, Lufti?”

  “Marry.” Lufti blurted it out. “Marry her, sire, I would like so very much to become her husband.” “What are you talking about? Marry whom?”

  “Oh yes, sorry, it is Chaddy, who is of the ehen of Mano Biska.”

  “Chaddy!” Moussa knew her vaguely. A pretty woman with a bright smile. “Marry her? Why, of course, Lufti. If it is your wish.”

  “It is not my place to do as I wish, sire. It is my place to do as you wish.”

  “My wish is your wish, then, in the matter of this woman.”

  Lufti bubbled at that. “Sire, you are too kind. May Allah’s blessings be upon you, as always. The bridewealth payment, sire, is four goats.” He thought a moment, then upped the ante. “Five goats.”

  It was Moussa’s responsibility to pay for the bride of his slave, and then to provide for them and their family. “Five it shall be,” Moussa said.

  “And a sheep, master. Uhmmm, three sheep.”

  Moussa smiled. “Anything else?”

  “No, sire, nothing more. Five goats and five sheep. That is all, absolutely all. And five lengths of cotton. Nothing else. To pay more would be a crime. Six lengths would be better. She is only a slave like myself, after all, but she will be a most valuable addition to your ehen.” Again Moussa nodded his assent. Lufti fairly danced with delight, spilling their tea into the coals. The liquid hissed and a cloud of steam rose from the fire. “Aiyee, sire, so sorry. It’s only that I was busy thinking—”

  “Your thoughts seem costly, Lufti. Something else?”

  Lufti’s sacred duty was the protection of Moussa’s property, to see that nothing was wasted or ill-spent. But in the matter of his own bride there was conflict. “It is just that Mastan of the ehen of Zatab Mel intends to ask Chaddy to be his own. I do not wish trouble. I only wish to conclude this matter in my favor. A camel, sire, would be—”

  “Too much,” Moussa said firmly.

  “Exactly,” Lufti said quickly. “Far too much, just as I was thinking. But a tirik? That would be perfect.”

  Moussa sighed. A saddle was not so much, but his new daughter-in-law was getting very expensive. “Very well. But that shall be the end of it.” He felt awkward, as he always did when dealing with Lufti as master to slave. He had never expected to be responsible for another human being, not in this way; and certainly not for a man who was ten years his senior – or was it fifteen, or twenty? – Moussa had never seen his face, and couldn’t tell for sure, but he did know Lufti to be a man who knew far more about the Sahara than he could ever hope to know.

  When Moussa was just fourteen, he had traveled to Ideles with the amenokal. Lufti belonged to a nobleman who treated him indifferently. The man kept him in clothes and quarters that were less than he could afford, and far less than Lufti deserved. Lufti had been called upon to serve tea to the distinguished guests. All eyes had been riveted on the amenokal except the slave’s. He raised the teapot high in the air to delicately pour the ritual glasses, and discreetly observed the young Kel Rela who as yet wore no veil. The boy had an obviously gentle manner and his face was kind. Moussa was a curiosity, discussed among slaves and vassals and nobles alike long before he arrived in camp, the son of the French barbarian balloonman and Serena, sister of the amenokal. Lufti looked to see whether the boy had six toes on each foot, as the rumor about barbarians had it, but was relieved to see that his Tuareg blood had prevailed to give him only five. The boy seemed normal in other ways. Lufti made the impulsive decision to cut off the tip of the ear of the young master’s camel, which was hobbled outside the tent. By Tuareg law his action could be compensated in only one way: The slave doing the damage became the property of the injured nobleman.

  The injury was discovered, and Moussa had a slave.

  “I don’t want him,” he said simply to the amenokal and to the slave’s former owner, when his new property was announced. His objection had nothing to do with Lufti. His life was difficult enough without adding the burden of another human being. From what he had seen slaves were hard work. They were as children, to be cared and provided for. Moussa was too young for children.

  “You have no choice in the matter, Moussa,” the amenokal said brusquely. “He is yours. It is the law.”

  “Then it is a bad law, Lord,” Moussa said. “I don’t need a slave.”

  “You have no veil and cannot write properly in our language and already you feel fit to judge the law.” El Hadj Akhmed sighed. “It is an honor to receive a slave in such a manner. Now he belongs to you. It is finished.”

  “Very well,” Moussa nodded. “If he is mine then I set him free. At once.”

  “I forbid this foolishness!” the amenokal thundered. “You shall wait until you have at least eighteen years before rewriting the laws of man and the Ihaggaren. Then – but not before – commit whatever madness gives you pleasure. Now hold your tongue. He is your vassal.” With that the boy became liege lord of the slave man.

  Lufti was carefree and easygoing, proud of his position as a buzu, an outdoor slave. He had more status than that of common iklan, who tended to menial matters of the household. Lufti viewed himself not as slave so much as Kel Ahaggar, a man of the Hoggar. He wore the veil, and lived in his master’s tent, and traversed the desert on his master’s errands. There was the prospect of manumission one day, when he might become imrad, a vassal who could own livestock – and yes, even own slaves. But there was no hurry. Lufti was content. He had the best master in all the Hoggar, even if his master himself didn’t know it yet. Moussa expected little of him, and even seemed grateful when he did those things that were his place to do.

  Tuareg nobles were not born to do work. They were born kings of the d
esert. Born to lead, to command, to fight. They played games and composed poetry and raced camels and lived off the labors of their vassals. A true nobleman would let a fire go out before stirring himself to its rescue. But to the horror of his peers, Moussa would toss camel dung on a fire as quickly as not to keep it burning. He often brewed his own tea, sometimes even brewing it for Lufti. Moussa treated him like an equal and seemed to find nothing unusual in it. The other slaves shook their heads privately, embarrassed for the dignity of Master Moussa. Lufti fretted over it until he could hold his tongue no longer. It was his duty to help teach his master, after all, for it was not the boy’s fault that his blood was tainted with European defects.

  “The head is the head and the tail is the tail,” he had finally told him in exasperation one day. “You should accept the end to which you are born, sire, and leave me to mine.”

  They had all misunderstood Moussa, however. His stubbornness had been refined in the schoolyards of France. The more the nobles jeered and the more the slaves chattered the more intractable he became. He put a sharp end to it with Lufti: “I am not so concerned with heads and tails and such things,” he had told him. “But if it suits you, I give you leave to cut the ear off another man’s mehari.” At that Lufti’s blood had chilled. He never said another word about the matter, and came to accept his eccentric master and to bless his good fortune. He kept a sharp eye out for other slaves who might say by day how unseemly was his master’s behavior, but try by night to cut the ear off one of his camels. One could not be too careful, Lufti knew, with unscrupulous slaves.

  And every so often, he permitted his master to brew the tea.

  They were a good team, the Ihaggaren and the buzu, as they hunted the Shamba: Moussa the reluctant leader, pushing, nervous, alert; Lufti, the desert wizard, the reader of signs who could find food almost anywhere among the rocks, knowing which plants were edible and which would kill them, and knowing where to find the water holes, and how to read the evidence of their quarry’s passage. The master watched and listened.

  Moussa pushed hard, driving until well after dark when the night was pitch and the camels began to stumble, then bowing to Lufti’s gentle suggestion that perhaps they had ridden enough and should rest. Once, riding in the predawn hours, Moussa had nodded off, and his mehari had begun to wander off on its own. “Master!” Lufti had called gently, as Moussa jolted awake. “This is the way of the Shamba. And that,” he said, pointing at Moussa’s path, “surely that is the way to hell.” And he clapped and giggled, and Moussa had to thank his good fortune at having such a companion.

  When they emerged from the Hoggar onto the plain of the Amadror, Lufti examined dung and pawed at tracks and studied the way the rocks were turned. His eyes noticed everything. “There are three of them, traveling in two groups. Two ride in front. One is behind, a day at least.”

  “Only three?” Moussa was surprised. He had expected more.

  “Yaya, surely three. Is three not enough, sire?”

  “It is enough.”

  A day later Lufti announced they were making up time, moving faster than the Shamba and their herd. It was to be expected for two men against a herd. Besides, no men on earth could travel as the Tuareg traveled, with little food or water or rest. Moussa sat comfortably in his light riding saddle. When the horizon had no limit and the heat rode him like a mighty blanket he permitted himself to slip into periods of trancelike dreams, the only sound the wind and the shuff-skuff of his mehari’s hooves. He rocked gently to and fro in the saddle and lost himself in thoughts of her, of Daia; and he felt himself stirring down there again, and he wondered what it would be like to be with a woman, that way.

  And then his pleasant reverie was shattered by images of the cut throats of camels slaughtered by the Shamba. He scolded himself for drifting. They killed Sala, he reminded himself sternly. They tried to kill my mother.

  “They will make for the wells of Tan-tan,” Lufti predicted, examining the ground. “They can go no farther than that without killing what they have stolen. The wells are not fruitful. They will be delayed at least a night. We will come upon them there.”

  Moussa nodded.

  “May I ask, sire, your plan of attack? Your plan to slay the Shamba?” Lufti’s eyes were eager through the slit of his veil, his faith in his master complete.

  Moussa thought about that. “I don’t have one yet,” he replied honestly.

  Lufti did not believe it for a moment, and Moussa felt rather than saw the grin blossoming beneath the slave’s veil. Then Lufti laughed and slapped his knee, as though it were the greatest joke in the world. “It is quite right, sire, not to share it with me. I am certain it is a fine plan. When Allah wills it I know you shall tell me, so that I might assist you.” He prodded his mehari. “Bok bok,” he said to it, humming happily to himself as the camel began to move.

  Moussa paused awhile before following. His pulse ran faster and his mind was in turmoil. It caught at his throat and constricted his chest.

  The wells of Tan-tan were before them, and he had no plan.

  * * *

  The landscape changed and became more uneven, its windswept face scarred by small wadis carved by ancient rains from the dead flat of the Amadror. Boulders were scattered about, huge chunks of rock oddly out of place, strewn almost casually as if dropped by the gods, and forgotten.

  Bashaga watched them coming from his perch atop one of the boulders. He had spotted them almost an hour earlier from atop his own mount, two figures moving quickly along the plain, nearly lost in the shimmering waves of heat, their tall silhouettes wavering ghostlike as they approached.

  By God, the devils move quickly! He knew he could not outrun them. He would have to make a stand. Quickly he chose his ground and set about laying his trap, whipping the camels until he had them out of sight. He climbed up on one of the boulders. He primed his flintlock, carefully arranging his spare powder and balls in a pile on a cloth. He would get off one shot, then scoot backward and reload. It was a good defensive position. The Tuareg could never reach him with their blades. He could reload and fire at will until he had them. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and peered down the length of the barrel at the approaching enemy. He was ready, Insh’allah, to spill their loathsome blood.

  Moussa was riding in front, Lufti well behind when the gun roared. Moussa heard the ball whiz past his ear and ducked instinctively, nearly falling off his camel. Wildly he looked around for the source of the shot, tugging at his own rifle to free it from its sling on his tirik. He saw a movement atop one of the rocks and slid from his mehari.

  Bashaga cursed his luck when he saw he had missed. He got to his knees and scurried back on the rock to reload. His attention was split and he realized in horror that he was too close to the edge, which sloped and then dropped sharply off. He let go of the rifle, which clattered down the side of the rock, and his fingers scrabbled desperately to get a grip. With a yelp he fell over the side. He landed with a heavy thud and screamed out in pain.

  Moussa raced forward, rifle in one hand, heavy sword unsheathed in the other. He heard the moaning. Slowly, expecting a trick, he edged around the rock. Bashaga was sprawled on his back, his left leg twisted under him, clearly broken. A jagged shard of bone protruded through the skin. Bashaga looked up in fear and hatred as he saw the veiled monster approaching. With an effort that made him gasp, he grabbed the dagger from his robe and hurled it. Moussa ducked and the knife thudded harmlessly to the ground. Now Bashaga was unarmed. Allah, take me quickly, he prayed to himself. Tears of pain streaked his cheeks. Moussa straightened up as he viewed the broken man before him. He kicked away the flintlock.

  Lufti appeared timidly from behind the rock. When the shot was fired he had jumped from his mount and taken its reins and those of Moussa’s mehari and had led them to cover. Now he spied the Shamba on the ground, helpless, and his eyes lit up. “Hamdullilah, master!” he cried, certain Moussa was responsible for the man’s condition. “A fine job!”<
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  Bashaga tried to make out his executioner’s face, but could see nothing of Moussa save the hated eyes behind the veil. Nothing more. He cowered and cried.

  “You must finish him, master,” Lufti said.

  Moussa had dreamed of this moment since he was a child. He had listened to the tales of the Tuareg warriors and the stories told by Gascon and had seen himself in a thousand scenes of battle: proud, victorious. He had beaten a hundred foes in the hot terror of close combat, their heads obliging his blade by tumbling from their shoulders.

  But there was to have been a fight, not just a clumsy fall. Stupid luck had made him master of this man who whimpered like a child and had no weapon. Yet luck was better than skill, even if it didn’t taste as good. Seize every advantage, take any edge. Kill him now with one blow. Blooded at last, his sword would finally begin to build its legend. It was easy.

  Prisoners were never taken in the desert. Never.

  Moussa handed his rifle to Lufti and took his heavy killing sword in both hands. His brain flooded with endless visions of Shamba cruelty and treachery. This is the scourge of the desert. The dread enemy. A thief, a killer. A man who helped attack my mother. Maybe it is he who killed Sala.

  A thousand reasons for a man to die.

  Give them no quarter, the amenokal had said. They will give you none.

  He raised his sword, the razor-sharp blade glinting in the sun. His muscles trembled under its weight. He judged the angle, to be sure of a clean blow. Lufti watched expectantly, memorizing every detail to repeat to all the buzu. The desert was quiet but for the babbling and crying of the condemned man. Moussa stared at him, at his gray whiskers and chubby cheeks and dirty turban and the bulging eyes of terror. And then he sighed, and lowered his sword.