He knew he was not being logical, or rational. For the first time in his life he didn’t want to be those things. He didn’t care. It was his heart that needed to see her. His heart had never been in control before. Always his head.
He watched Taka, who was but a speck now. At last she decided. She stopped circling and flew to the south, toward the Hoggar. He watched until she was gone.
He would go see Daia. He would talk to her, and tell her at least of his feelings for her. And then he would let her go, like Taka. At least he would have done it. The decision flushed him with pleasure.
And he would call a djemaa. It was his right; he would not be denied. There would be an accounting, before the assembled nobility of the Ihaggaren.
He knew the danger that lay down both roads. Perhaps his own death was at the end of each one. But he felt no fear. The agony of indecision was behind him. He knew what to do.
He would ride to In Salah for provisions, and then go south. He put the saddle on his mehari. For the first time in months he didn’t need to prepare Taka’s place.
* * *
In Salah was bustling with commerce. A great caravan had arrived from the southlands, with more than a thousand camels and five times that many slaves, all jostling for water and shade. Children played and explored the mysteries of the caravan. Brochettes of meat cooked over open fires. Traders slurped tea and haggled for goods and exchanged preposterous stories. Moussa moved through the noisy souk buying dates and flour and tea, greeting his friends among the merchants.
Mahdi and Tamrit were engaged in earnest discussion. Mahdi looked up and saw Moussa and his blood ran cold with hatred. He couldn’t kill him just yet, certainly not in the souk, but he couldn’t resist taunting him. Mahdi called to him. Moussa stopped and turned. He offered no greeting. Tamrit regarded him sullenly.
“So, Cousin,” Mahdi said. “I heard Attici found a Frenchman leading a small caravan of supplies to the dogs of Sheikh Flatters,” he laughed. “He was dressed as we dress, to escape detection, but Attici was not fooled.”
“I am certain the tale gave you great amusement,” Moussa replied, “as did the treachery that followed.”
“I draw satisfaction in Allah’s wrath in the matter of the infidel, if that is your meaning.”
“Does Allah countenance poison?”
“The blade of His vengeance is long and convoluted.”
“Much as your tongue. And the Shamba, and the Algerians? Did they too have to suffer Allah’s long blade? Were they not believers, like yourself?”
“Walk with the jackal,” Mahdi shrugged, “and you shall likely die with the jackal. It is a common enough outcome. And I see Attici was not wrong – it is truly a soft French heart that still beats in your chest.”
Moussa would not be aroused. “I have no interest in discussing this now. I will raise the matter with the amenokal and all the Ihaggaren, in djemaa. This is not finished for you, or for your jackal-killer Tamrit, or for Attici. There will be honor yet in this.”
He turned to leave.
Mahdi caught him gently by the shoulder. He spoke in a low voice.
“There is another thing,” he said. “Whatever our differences over the infidel, we are still cousins, after all. There is something you must know.”
Moussa waited.
“It is most indelicate, of course. I know I can count on your discretion, for her honor.” Mahdi waited a moment, drawing it out. “Daia is pregnant.” It struck Moussa like a blow.
“She and I should have been – well, more careful,” Mahdi went on. “We will be marrying quickly now, so that our child will be born within the hounds of marriage. I tell you this because Daia thinks highly of you. She would want you in Abalessa for the wedding.”
Moussa fought not to show his shock. He looked into the eyes that had despised him from boyhood. They were cold and unreadable. “Of course,” he mumbled.
Devastated, he turned away.
* * *
It was all a great lie, incredible effrontery, breach of etiquette – a perfect blow. Mahdi gloated over it. He saw its effect, which Moussa could not hide, and for delicious moments Mahdi savored the thrust. Moussa must never think it was his child inside her. Mahdi would not permit him that thought.
But then he began to brood. It was not enough. He had intended only to place the proper thoughts in Moussa’s mind, to remove her from his reach. He didn’t want Moussa anywhere near the wedding, anywhere near Daia. Yet he had promised Daia he would not raise his hand against him.
It was an hour later that it came to him, a master stroke that solved many problems at once. He was having tea with Tamrit.
“Moussa will be trouble, in the djemaa,” Mahdi was saying. “Already I have heard Attici say that the amenokal was furious about the efeleleh.”
“Bah! The amenokal means nothing. His spine wobbles like a stream of camel piss. His teeth have gone soft. What can he do, anyway? He will complain about Attici, and write to the Turks for help against the French. Attici’s time will come, and the French will not.”
“Still, it would be well if Moussa were out of the way.”
Tamrit shrugged, indifferent to the matter. “Perhaps. But we must concern ourselves with more important issues. Bou Amama expects us both in Timimoun. We are to meet with the pasha. He is nearly prepared to raise the jihad against the French in the north. He proposes small raids against their settlements in the tell. We will raise another force farther east and do the same. In this we will be joined by Arabs and Shamba alike. This will spread like the simoom over the whole of the Sahara. The infidel will be swept away in a storm of blood.”
“We will need money for a jihad,” Mahdi said.
“We need nothing but willing men.”
“Willing men need weapons.”
“Willing men are weapons.”
“Of course. But armed with the new French rifles they can acquit themselves even better in the holy war.”
“It is true. But there is no money. Bou Amama has nothing. Jubar Pasha has promised to support me, but the only real wealth he possesses is a silver tongue, which he uses to spin lies and empty promises. He begs the sultan of Morocco for crumbs from his table and the sultan gives him nothing. It is one thing to dream of jihad, another to pay for it. I do not need their money. I am ready to begin without it.”
As Tamrit spoke, Mahdi was watching Babouche, the caravan master who was taking tea across the courtyard. Babouche was well known on the caravan routes. He was a ruthless man, corrupt and wealthy.
And that was when it came to Mahdi.
“But there is a way to pay,” he said slowly.
“I’m listening.”
“Moussa is the way.”
“What about him? He has nothing but corrupt blood.”
“Ah, yes, corrupt blood. Precisely. The blood of his family. His father was a French nobleman whose wealth was said to be uncountable. The family still lives there. I have heard my aunt Serena speak of it.”
Tamrit nodded grimly. “I know only too well of Serena and the family deVries. So?”
Mahdi indicated the caravan master. “Babouche is always glad for more cargo. We could give him a slave for transport to the north. Babouche could sell him in Timimoun. Jubar Pasha pays well for healthy men, if not for jihads. His foggaras devour them like so many insects.” The foggaras were a massive system of subterranean irrigation tunnels, dug by slaves.
Tamrit grunted. “So we sell him for a pittance to die in the water works. What has that to do with France? How does it pay for jihad?”
“Has not Jubar Pasha agreed to support you?”
“Yes, as if feathers might support a stone.”
“It is in our power to give him the means. He is well connected, we are not. He has dealings with the devil in Algiers. He can arrange to ransom Moussa to his French family. Certainly they will pay. It is a backward French custom that the son holds the father’s rank. Moussa is thus entitled to the wealth of his father. The f
amily will have no choice. After they send the ransom we will kill him, if the foggaras haven’t claimed him already. Think of it, Tamrit! Jubar Pasha fills his treasury. We have our jihad. Moussa provides no trouble in the djemaa. He will never know of our involvement. Besides, after he is dead, it will not matter what he knows.” And, Mahdi did not add, Moussa is forever removed from Daia.
Tamrit mulled it over. A smile grew beneath his litham.
“To use the infidel’s own money against the infidel.” He liked it. “There is merit in the plan, Mahdi. You are truly worthy of the Senussi.”
* * *
Babouche had been warned to send six men or more to take him. The very idea was beneath contempt. The caravan master respected the Tuareg for their arrogance but not their strength. His men were Ouled Sidi Sheikh. Even a crippled one could subdue a lone Targui.
But just to be safe he sent four. They surprised Moussa in the darkest part of the night, but he hadn’t been asleep. Two of them died quickly, the third more slowly. But the fourth presented his prisoner to Babouche as ordered. The caravan was well to the north of In Salah by then. Babouche had no desire to be seen transporting a Tuareg captive near his own country. The devils were hard enough on his trade as it was.
The Targui had been beaten severely but he was not bowed. He stood defiantly before the caravan master, his hands bound behind his back.
“I am told you are the demon himself with a blade,” Babouche said. “Let us see what madness lurks beneath the veil.” With the tip of his dagger he raised the blood-encrusted cloth. Moussa spat in his face.
Babouche struggled to control himself. He had been warned that this cargo held special value to Jubar Pasha. His own reward depended on delivery in reasonable shape, and money was more precious than vengeance. Nevertheless, he could brook no trouble on the road.
“We must suck the venom from this Targui scorpion. Beat him again.”
Later Moussa was dragged to the rear of the caravan and awakened with blows to his feet. The prisoner would walk alone, behind the camels and the Negroes from the southlands.
“Let him walk in the honored place of the Tuareg, deep in the dung of thousands,” Babouche ordered. “Chain him neck and foot. Tightly, so the movement of the feet pulls the neck. No water for a day, no food for two. He is not to sleep or sit down. We will see how his spirit fares.”
* * *
Before leaving In Salah, Mahdi sat with pen and paper. There was a piece of unfinished business. He started the letter several times, then crumpled it up and threw it away. The fourth draft satisfied him.
Beautiful Daia—
Much as it pains me I cannot yet return to you.
I have urgent business to attend with Tamrit in the north. I will make the greatest haste possible, and will return as quickly as Allah permits. Thoughts of our wedding fill my heart.
I have grievous news. I did not want you to hear it from a traveler, or a stranger. Moussa has been slain. Brigands from the Ouled Sidi Sheikh fell upon him as he traveled near In Salah. We were not near enough to help him. He fought well but they were many. I saw his body with my own eyes, and buried him after we sent the Ouled Sidi Sheikh to their maker.
It is true Moussa and I were not close. Yet I share your sorrow because I know your grief.
My heart is with you.
Mahdi
A productive day. First he had taken her from Moussa. Then he had taken Moussa from them all.
He gave the note to Attici, who promised to deliver it personally.
* * *
Jubar, Pasha of Timmoun, Lord of Lords, Defender of the Faith, Keeper of the Seal, Lion of Tuat, sat in his reception hall surrounded by his court. His world was one of considerable comfort. His clothing was silk and bright cotton and richly embroidered, his turban laced with gold thread. His boots were of the softest Moroccan leather, rich and red and finely brushed. He wore a belt of silver from which jeweled weapons hung in ornate scabbards. Servants poured tea for his guests from a rich silver service.
Jubar Pasha regarded the Targui standing in chains at the other end of the Great Hall. Babouche sat next to the pasha. On the other side sat Tamrit, wearing the robes and turban of the Ouled Sidi Sheikh. As he moved through the murky world of the Senussi, Tamrit had learned to wear many guises. Moussa had never seen his face, which had always been covered by the veil of the Tuareg. So long as he kept his voice low Tamrit knew Serena’s son would never realize he was there.
“What manner of man is this, then? Is he French or Tuareg?” asked the pasha.
“He is neither, Great One. Or should I say he is both? He is but a half-breed.”
“You are safe despising him in either event,” Babouche said. “Or in killing him. His insolence knows no bounds. It was very costly to me to bring him to you.”
“The incompetence of your agents is of no concern to me,” the pasha replied. “If his life has been costly to you, his death would be costly to me. I trust you do not prefer such an outcome?”
“Of course not,” Babouche said quickly. “I only meant—”
“You only meant to wring more money from your trouble.”
“I seek only a fair price, Great One.”
“It is said you are a devout Muslim,” Jubar Pasha said.
“All men will swear it who know me, Lord.”
“Then your gift of this man to me shall be a fitting symbol of your devotion. This prisoner is beyond commerce. The price he fetches will further a holy cause. Surely you would not seek personal gain in the face of such a prospect?”
“But sire, I am a merchant—”
“Second, you are a merchant. First, you are a Muslim,” Jubar Pasha interrupted. “I am certain your generosity will be as well remembered in paradise as it will be by my own treasurer,” he said. He waved his hand dismissively.
Babouche could only scowl. Jubar Pasha was a valued client.
The pasha turned to Tamrit.
“I desire no trouble with the Hoggar Tuareg over this man,” he said. “I have had enough trouble with the savages.” He seemed indifferent to Tamrit’s own identity as a Targui. “They rarely venture this far north, but they have plagued my caravans going to and from the southlands. If only I could count the riches they have cost me…” He waved his hand in exasperation. “He is noble among them, you say. They can be disagreeable about such things.”
“There will be no trouble,” Tamrit assured him in a low voice. “He is not well loved among them, and they think him dead.”
“As undoubtedly he will be, soon enough.”
“Quite so, Great One, when it suits our purpose. But for now we must use him as another lance in the French boil.”
Jubar Pasha nodded. “I have given thought to your proposal. There is a man who could do this. Only one. El Hussein. He too is a half-breed. He speaks French. He has traveled to their coastal cities. He has that priceless trader’s gift of cutting a person’s throat while making his victim feel only pleasure.” The pasha smiled thinly. “He has the added qualification of being my brother-in-law. He can be trusted.”
“An excellent choice.”
“Alas, at the moment he is my ambassador in the court of the sultan in Marrakech. I have made a formal request that the sultan annex all the oases of the Tuat, including this one. I do not expect his return for some months.”
“But Lord, delay is not beneficial to either of us. Surely there is another—?”
“It is your own adventure with Sheikh Flatters that has made such an overture necessary. Would you have me delay while the French lion awakens to eat us whole?”
“Of course not. But the jihad—”
“Is a part of the greater whole, but only a part. Your holy war can only harass them and make martyrs. Only the power of the sultan is sufficient to stop them. I cannot stand against them alone. There are no alliances among the oases of the Tuat, only raids and counterraids among men who should be brothers, while the French lion picks us off one by one, like lambs.”
“You underestimate the power of the jihad,” Tamrit said darkly.
“I underestimate nothing. Your treatment of Sheikh Flatters is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it might help to raise the one great sword of Islam against the French, and divert us from fighting among ourselves. A curse because it will hurry the French beast, who will be eager for vengeance. We must act in concert across a broad front. Your jihad must continue, as the sultan must take us under his wing. The one man to bring about both is El Hussein. He will be required to handle delicate negotiations. He will then be entrusted – if you are correct as to the value of our hostage – with vast sums of money. I would not place such confidence in many men.” Jubar Pasha was under no illusion about El Hussein. His brother-in-law would, of course, steal part of the ransom. But El Hussein had always been able to control his greed and had the good sense to steal only part. Another man might steal it all, just as he himself might decide to keep it for himself rather than share it with the Senussi.
“Very well, if it is your wish then so shall it be. It is important that the prisoner be kept alive, Great One. Proof that he lives may be necessary before a ransom is paid.”
“There is a fine line between life and death. The master of the foggaras can keep him just this side of that line. I will give the instruction. He will be worked in the upper fields, where death is not such a close companion.”
“It is also important that he not escape.”
Jubar Pasha laughed heartily at that. “Escape? What man leaves perdition to find hell? We are surrounded by the great desert. No prisoner of the foggaras has ever escaped for long. Now enough talk,” the pasha said. More tea was poured and served with biscuits laced with honey. At length the pasha waved the prisoner forward. Moussa’s chains dragged on the stone floor.
Empires of Sand Page 66