“Bryna O’Toole.”
“How do you do, Bryna,” Pamela replied courteously. “I am happy to meet you, whatever the circumstances.”
“I am glad to meet you, Pamela,” the Creole girl responded inanely, “and you, Theresa.” She nodded to the other woman, who obviously took it as her due. Still propped on her elbow, she muttered more to herself than to her companions, “Surely there is a way out of this situation. Some law—”
“You are in the Islamic world now,” Theresa scoffed. “The law, the Sharià, is the Koran, and the Koran is the word of God. An infidel woman will find no deliverance in Muhammad’s law.”
Bryna addressed Pamela desperately. “Then what about...”
“Nejm Al Anwar,” the blonde supplied gloomily.
“Where will I find this Nejm Alsa Anwar? I must speak to him.”
“It will do you no good,” Theresa interjected. “The Aribi say he will sell all of us. I will die before I will be sold again.”
Theresa’s passionate declaration was lost as Bryna cried, “You understand Arabic?”
“Sí.” Theresa sniffed disdainfully. “One must to survive in this part of the world.”
“Could you translate for me when Nejm comes?”
“There is no need. French is the second language of the Ottoman empire, thanks to Napoleon and the Mother Church. Nejm speaks it.”
“Don’t worry,” Pamela insisted. “Lie down and rest a moment.” She gestured toward the insect-infested cushions.
“I think I would rather sit up.” Bryna frowned distastefully. Her skin crawled, but whether with real or imagined insects, she didn’t know.
“Nejm probably will not come here, anyway,” Theresa contributed bitterly. “The only one we are likely to see is the eunuch who brings our breakfast, such as it is.”
“Yes,” Pamela agreed woefully, “but it is better than being hungry. I get very hungry when I am upset. I’ve always had a good appetite, but now I feel as if I am starving almost all the time.”
“Does the eunuch speak French?” Bryna interrupted unsympathetically. Before she worried about her stomach, she must talk to someone who could correct the error that found her in the hands of a slave trader.
“He speaks a little,” Pamela answered, “but you’ll soon find out, for here he comes with our breakfast.”
Across the room, veils were hastily pulled into place as a black servant entered the room, bearing a kettle of couscous flavored with stringy bits of mutton. Above their face coverings, the Arab women’s dark eyes cast spiteful stares at the eunuch’s back as he threaded his way to the corner where the infidel women sat.
“Bonjour, Mubarak,” Pamela greeted him. The eunuch’s face lit with a smile.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Pamela,” he responded in a high, piping voice. His French was rough and heavily accented. “Look, I have brought food for your friend.” Squatting down beside Bryna’s pallet, he thrust a dish of food and a greasy doughnut called a sfenj toward her. Then he served the European women.
“Mubarak,” Bryna began tentatively, “I need your help. I must speak to Nejm Al Anwar and explain that I am not a slave. I am a free woman, an American.”
“But you are a slave, mademoiselle,” he said perplexedly. “My master paid a good price to your old master.”
“But he was not my master. He had no right to sell me.”
“Yet he did. So your fate is as Allah wills. Nejm Al Anwar is your sidi, your master, as well as mine.” Rising quickly to thwart further argument, the eunuch took the pot to the hungry Arabian women. He set it unceremoniously in the middle of the floor and withdrew, closing the door behind him. The dark-skinned women fell upon their breakfast ravenously, dipping their bowls into the steaming pot, then feeding themselves with their fingers.
“I do think it is a nasty custom,” Pamela complained, gingerly following suit, “but one must make do here. There are no knives and forks. But take care to use only your right hand if you wish to get along. The left is considered unclean.”
Bryna nibbled at the tasteless food, her stomach churning with every greasy mouthful, but she must eat. She must stay well if she was to survive.
In time Mubarak returned and paused to speak to the native women in Arabic. When he finished they resumed their wailing with renewed vigor. Wincing, he presented himself to Bryna, Pamela, and Theresa.
“So sorry to disturb you, young ladies, but my sidi Nejm orders you to make yourselves presentable for the souk,” he informed them apologetically.
“What is that?” Bryna questioned, dreading the answer.
“The bazaar,” Theresa answered before the slave could, “where we will be auctioned like live-stock. Is that not so, Mubarak?”
The eunuch glanced unhappily at Pamela. The dainty blonde’s face had blanched at the announcement, and she awaited his answer with tears brimming in her brown eyes.
“Oui,” Mubarak said at last, “you go to the auction house. But do not fear. It will be over before you know it.”
“I will not go. I will die first,” Theresa declared dramatically.
“Please do not speak of such things, mademoiselle,” the eunuch begged woefully. “The taking of one’s own life is harim...forbidden.”
“Well, if we must go to the souk, perhaps you could bring water so that we may wash,” Bryna suggested with wry practicality.
“Yes, some water would be nice.” Pamela roused herself from her black study. “At least we shall not go to our fates looking like slatterns.”
“Très bien,” Mubarak agreed, relieved by the attitude of the two women. He hurried to fetch a basin of warm water for them.
Gratefully they scrubbed the worst of the grime from their hands and faces, combed their hair with their fingers, and straightened their wrinkled dresses. As she did so, Bryna was pleased to discover her mother’s locket still concealed under her clothes. Her captor had not found it.
At last the door opened and Nejm Al Anwar himself appeared, wearing a dingy white turban and the red robe of the slave trader. Belted around his waist was a Turkish scimitar, its surface dull and tarnished but its edge honed and deadly looking.
Bryna scrutinized the Arab with interest as he slouched in the doorway, speaking to someone in the hallway outside. A quiet gasp came from Pamela when he entered, but neither she nor Theresa moved. Drawing a deep breath, the American girl went alone to speak to the gaunt, unkempt man.
“Are you Nejm Al Anwar?” Bryna asked politely in French as she neared him.
“Away, woman, I have no time for you now.” A forbidding frown on his face, Nejm looked over his shoulder to see who dared approach him. Ah, the American was awake. Stepping into the room, he walked around his latest purchase, his black eyes raking her from the tips of her bare toes to the crown of her dark head.
“Where are your shoes?” he demanded curtly.
“I...I have none,” she stammered, taken by surprise.
Gasim Al Auf, Allah blacken his face, was not satisfied to overcharge me, Nejm seethed. He also stole the slave’s shoes. The trader scowled at Bryna as if it were her fault.
“Please,” she entreated, “I must speak with you.”
“Silence!” Nejm roared, continuing his inspection. She was taller than he had thought, and by Allah, she had blue eyes, marking her as one who could cast spells. And what was worse, he realized those blue eyes held no real fear of him.
The infidel woman proved this shortcoming by addressing him firmly, “You must listen to me, monsieur. I am not a slave.”
“You are my slave,” he countered scornfully, turning to leave.
“Non, wait.” The girl plucked at his sleeve to prevent his departure, oblivious to the collective gasp that went up from the women, Arab and European, behind her.
Enraged, the man whirled, his expression ugly, his sword drawn. “It would be wise, kaffir, to remember slaves can be killed by their masters for disobedience.”
“I am not a slave,” Bryna rep
eated stubbornly, refusing to retreat. “My name is Bryna O’Toole. My father is Blaine O’Toole—”
Nejm slashed the air in front of her face viciously with his sword to silence her. Then, placing the point under her chin, he pricked her skin lightly and cursed, “Wallahi, deceiver, you most worthless of women, I do not care if your father is the Aga Kizlar to the kadin of the sultan himself. I tell you, you are my slave and you will obey me.”
Her chest heaving with fury, Bryna forced herself to stand still as a drop of blood trickled down her neck and spread in a tiny stain on the collar of her dress.
“Dispute me and I will cut out your tongue,” the Arab threatened ominously. “Many men prefer silence in their women.
“That is better.” He lowered the sword and stepped back “Come, you may be spared a trip to the souk. A buyer has come.” He beckoned Pamela and Theresa, who had watched the scene, horrified, from across the room. They came at once, weaving their way resignedly past the stunned and silent Arab women.
“Now follow me,” Nejm ordered. “Keep your heads bowed and show much respect, for this man is a marriage broker of Baghdad. He is a great man, a hajji who has made pilgrimages to both Mecca and Medina, those most holy of cities.”
“Do not argue,” Theresa murmured in warning behind Bryna. “I do not believe he would cut out your tongue, but I have heard the bastinado is painful indeed, a form of torture. They beat the soles of the feet with a rod, sometimes crippling the victim. You do not wish to be punished in such a manner.”
Swallowing defiant words, Bryna led the other women down the narrow corridor behind the slave trader. The rebellion quelled, Nejm strutted importantly at the head of the procession, resembling nothing so much as a bantam rooster, trailed by three disheveled, unwilling hens.
He stepped into the majlis, or reception room, and motioned the women to follow. They hesitated in the shadowy hallway and peered through the open door. Behind them, Mubarak spoke quietly and insistently in French, herding them into the room before taking his position in the doorway.
Although far from luxurious, the majlis was the most comfortable room in Nejm’s house. A few worn carpets decorated the floor and cheap, colorful cushions were tossed onto low, threadbare divans. Through the open grillwork over the windows, a solitary mimosa, flowering in the courtyard, could be seen. Ceramic pots filled with water were positioned in the corners of the room to cool it.
On the divan at the far end of the room sat the roundest man Bryna had ever seen. He lounged, sipping coffee, eating gazelle’s horn pastries and sweating profusely in the heat. A sleepy-eyed black boy stood behind him, lethargically wielding a huge ostrich feather fan. When the man spoke sharply over his shoulder, the lad immediately put more energy into his fanning, but his effort diminished as soon as his master turned his attention elsewhere.
“As salaam ’alaykum, Hajji Suleiman Ibn Hussein,” Nejm greeted his visitor respectfully.
“Wa ’alaykum as salaam, Nejm Al Anwar.” The fat man’s voice was sweet and surprisingly reedy for one so large.
“Welcome a hundred times,” Nejm intoned. “May Allah give you a happy day.”
“May your day be blessed and prosperous, though not too prosperous at my expense.” Suleiman wheezed at his own joke. He looked to where the women stood and asked, “They speak French?”
“Yes.”
“Come forward, my lovelies,” he instructed them kindly in French. As the women stepped forward, the potential buyer inspected the two dark-haired girls who stood nearest him. They were beautiful indeed, but even though their heads were bowed decorously, he saw too much pride in their manners.
Through the screen of her lowered eyelashes, Bryna regarded the corpulent man with equal interest. Suleiman Ibn Hussein was obviously a man of great wealth; his very bulk bespoke a life of plenty. Under his scarlet tarboosh with its meticulously wrapped white turban, his face, flushed from the heat, showed signs of indulgence. His eyes were almost lost in folds of fat, and over his triple chin his beard was combed to a neat point.
“Permit me to introduce myself,” Suleiman said. “I am Hajji Suleiman Ibn Hussein of Baghdad. My old friend Nejm Al Anwar, this most courteous of men—May Allah watch over him!—has arranged for this private display today, knowing how I despise crowded auction houses. They tend to be so uncivilized in the Mahgreb.” He smiled appreciatively as the procurer positioned himself behind his buyer to whisper bits of helpful information into his ear.
“Come closer now where I can see you. And you, frightened little hare, come out of hiding,” the obese man gently urged Pamela. “I know you are there behind the others.”
Reluctantly, the blond-haired girl slipped between Bryna and Theresa and stepped into the light.
“Mashallah,” Suleiman breathed when he saw the dainty British girl with her pale skin, honey-colored hair, and brown eyes. She was a houri, a woman such as those who await true believers in Paradise. The dark beauty of the others dimmed to his Eastern eyes as Pamela presented herself, her head bowed sorrowfully.
“You have done well this time, Nejm,” Suleiman purred in Arabic, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “I will take this pale-haired one. It is unfortunate, however, you have only one blonde and no redheads.”
“Unfortunate indeed. But the other two, Hajji, are they not also fair?” Nejm cajoled. “The one has the glow of fire in her hair if you look closely.”
Almost as an afterthought, the buyer glanced at the other girls again. They resembled each other slightly. He toyed with the idea of selling them as a pair. Both women had dark hair and both looked aristocratic, but there the similarities ended. The Spaniard was dainty, with olive skin and tousled curly locks. The American was tall, but she was graceful. Her skin was fair and the pink of the dress she wore lent its color to her cheeks. Her hair was dark, but in the light there were indeed glints of red. It was too bad about her eyes, he mused, but perhaps somewhere he could find a buyer who was not superstitious.
“The dark ones are strong and healthy,” Nejm pressed. “They will bear many sons and bring a fine bride price.”
“I do not know.” Suleiman sighed expressively, reaching for a sweet. “In Arabia are many dark-haired women,”
“But none so fair,” the slave trader argued.
“I suppose,” the fat man replied doubtfully. “But at least Arabian women are obedient daughters of Islam. These two—”
“Will hear and obey your every order, my lord,” Nejm finished his sentence eagerly. “They, too, will be Moslem as soon as they have made their shahada, their professions of faith.”
“I do not know,” Suleiman repeated dubiously, watching the slave trader’s tense reaction out of the corner of one hooded eye. “Have they any blemishes, beyond the unfortunate color of that one’s eyes?” He nodded toward Bryna, noting that her blue eyes watched their exchange with intelligence.
“None, sidi, they are perfect,” Nejm assured him, although he had not inspected their bodies.
“They are virgins?”
“Of course.” The trader assumed an air of injured dignity. “Do you wish them to disrobe?”
Suleiman waved his hand in negligent refusal. White women were at a premium and greatly desired in the harems of Arabia. As quickly as he reached Jidda, he could easily sell any of these, sight unseen.
“Then you wish to buy them?” Nejm asked eagerly, but his potential purchaser remained noncommittal. The slave trader coaxed and bargained and finally, in frustration, threatened to withdraw his offer to sell any of the women. But even as he herded them toward the door, waving his arms behind them and shouting, Suleiman seemed unmoved.
“Wait,” the Turk called as if he had made a sudden decision. “Perhaps I could take the Spaniard off your hands, if that is the only way you will let me buy the blonde.”
“No, Hajji, all three or none,” Nejm insisted boldly, thoroughly enjoying the haggling.
“Then you must send them all back to Mubarak.” Suleiman sighed.
His sides quaked gleefully under his caftan as he watched the other man’s face fall.
“Oh, Suleiman, Beloved of Allah, I fear he has relieved you of your wits if you will pass up such delicate blossoms of womanhood,” the trader lamented, gesturing extravagantly toward the women.
“He has not deprived me of my wits completely, for I will not buy any women without bargaining first, Nejm. Let us speak of their worth. But I warn you, if I must take all three to have the one, I expect a good price from you.”
“Wallahi,” Nejm cried as if affronted, “I have never been anything but fair to you.”
“What do you suppose they are saying?” Pamela found the courage to whisper to Bryna.
“I think they are striking a bargain,” Bryna answered, drawing herself up, “and they are much mistaken if they think I am going to stand by quietly and be sold.”
“Remember the bastinado,” Theresa muttered in her ear.
“Oui, remember the bastinado,” Mubarak advised from behind the women. Stepping into the room unobtrusively, he grasped Bryna’s arm so tightly that she nearly cried out in pain. Holding her in place, he whispered urgently, “I do this for your own protection, mademoiselle, for I tell you, you will regret it if you shame my master.”
“Silence, women!” Nejm bellowed. “Mubarak, take them back to the harem.” Rubbing his hands in anticipation of the second round of dickering, the trader returned to his customer.
CHAPTER 5
“Balek! Make way!” Suleiman’s little slave shouted. Holding the stirrup of his master’s donkey, he trotted alongside, urging the crowd out of their path. The party made slow progress as the massive Turk swayed from side to side on his donkey, his ample girth overhanging either side of the tiny saddle, threatening in many spots to brush the walls along the narrow streets.
Behind him, Bryna, Pamela, and Theresa followed on foot, sweltering in stiff black haiks and yashmaks. They were flanked by Suleiman’s guards, four armed Nubian eunuchs, and marched through the streets at a brisk clip.
Bryna tried to keep up, the men’s sandals Mubarak had finally located to fit her flapping in the dust. Hoping for a miracle, she looked around desperately, her vision impaired by the heavy veil she wore. If only she could spy her father’s face in the crowd, she would call out to him, she could escape.
The Bride Price Page 6