Ill and dispirited, Bryna lay in a cramped cabin aboard the sambuk. Her eyes closed tightly, she listened to the confusion and clamor of voices from just outside the door to the cabin. Typical of Red Sea vessels, the boat was packed to bursting. Groups of people clustered on deck, even cooking and sleeping there. For a price, Suleiman had managed to secure two berths in the overcrowded women’s cabin for Bryna and Pamela.
“Haj-al sala, come to prayer. Devotion is better than sleep,” called the imam. The din died down, and soon Bryna heard male voices as they prayed in unison.
The sound was as constant at sea as it had been in the desert. Heaving a deep sigh, Bryna opened her eyes and saw Pamela leaning over her.
“Good morning,” the English girl greeted her coolly. “How do you feel?”
“Fine, merci. Just disappointed.” Bryna sipped thankfully from a cup Pamela offered.
“Well, I was half out of my mind with worry,” Pamela declared reprovingly. “You gave us such a fright, you know. Whatever were you thinking, putting out alone to sea in a tiny boat? When you were rescued, Suleiman said it was a wonder you were not taken by Yanbo pirates. Then who knows what your fate might have been?”
“Who knows now?” the American girl asked flatly. “What kind of punishment does Suleiman have in mind for me? Do you know?”
“He says the experience was punishment enough. He says now that you know there is no escape, you will be a better slave.”
“There must be a way,” Bryna muttered mostly to herself.
“Oh, you will not escape again and leave me behind, will you? Promise me you won’t. I do not want to be alone in this godforsaken part of the world.” Pamela laid her head down on the bunk beside Bryna and began to weep bitterly.
“No, I will not leave you behind the next time.” Filled with remorse, Bryna stroked the other girl’s head. “When we escape, we will go together,” she assured her, knowing she had just given up any hope of flight.
“Thank you.” Lifting her tearstained face, Pamela smiled wanly at Bryna. “I must find you some food. I imagine you are starving. I know I am.”
Speedily she went to speak to Turki, who was posted just outside the cabin door, leaving Bryna to her despair.
A few days later the sambuk moored at Jidda, the main military depot of the Ottoman empire in Arabia. It was difficult to see from the single porthole of their tiny cabin, so the women had only a vague impression of sun-washed walls, rugged fortifications, and batteries, all backed by purple mountains, the Hijaz, in the distance.
They waited for Suleiman as their cabin-mates departed one by one, summoned by their men. At last the slave trader appeared. It was the first time Bryna had seen him since the morning of the rescue. He said nothing of it, but his limpid eyes were reproachful.
“Prepare yourselves to go ashore, my doves.” He gestured extravagantly. “It is a lovely spring day, and we will walk the short distance to our lodgings.”
Resignedly Bryna and Pamela pulled their burqus into place and followed him onto deck. Far from a lovely day, the heat of the Tihama, the coastal plain, shrouded them like a wet, steaming blanket. Suleiman’s party descended the gangplank into a sea of shouting, sweating humanity. Bryna even forgot her rancor temporarily as her fascinated eyes tried to take in every detail. She had never seen so many people at one time.
As the burial place of Eve, the mother of all, Jidda was considered a holy place. Today the city was flooded with thousands of pilgrims. Suleiman’s party had arrived at the end of the month of Dhul Qa’da, when travelers from throughout the world gathered to prepare for hajj, the journey to Mecca and Medina, the holiest cities of Islam. For centuries the chief industry of Jidda had been the landing, moving, and shelter of pilgrims. The expense of hajj was great, and Jidda was a wealthy city.
In the teeming throng at the waterfront, the girl saw for the first time the green turbans of the descendants of the Prophet. Here beggars, left destitute from earlier hajjs, shouted loudly to newcomers for baksheesh. Well-dressed young Arabs loudly boasted of their skill as delils, or guides, to the holy cities. Porters, their faces marked with three scars on each cheek, which showed they had been born in Jidda or Mecca, led Egyptians, Moors, and Syrians through the crowd. Desert Bedu wandered by, and swarthy Turkish and Egyptian soldiers shouldered their way arrogantly through the horde, ignoring the scowls of the Arabs they jostled.
Anxious to escape the crush, Suleiman made swift arrangements for his baggage to be taken to his lodging, then he led his entourage single file away from the docks. The huge bazaar ran the length of the city wall, parallel to the waterfront. On the other side of the souk, the group passed into broad streets, wider than most in the Arab world. Jidda was a graceful old city, its affluence obvious to those who passed through it.
Suleiman’s small procession came finally to a residential section, a disorganized jumble of four- and five-story houses lining streets and alleyways. The houses were lovely, white-walled structures with lattice-screened balconies, arched doors, and gates into private gardens. Unlike the ones in most Eastern cities, the homes in Jidda were graced by huge, bowed windows that faced onto the sunny street. The facade of each house was a work of art, its windows and doors framed by exquisitely carved casings.
The slave trader stopped in front of the large house with rich teak doors where he often lodged on visits to Jidda. He lifted the brass-ring knocker and dropped it. Instantly a servant appeared, and the visitors were admitted to a pleasant courtyard.
The man of the house was not at home, so his veiled wife greeted Suleiman shyly and showed his party to a comfortable apartment that filled one wing of the sizable house. Suleiman established the women there and, after resting, went to a coffeehouse to make his presence known in the city.
Hajji Suleiman Ibn Hussein was famous throughout Arabia for his lavish but discreet private sales. They were to be anticipated in a land where such events were often the chief method of marking time. Suleiman invited only the elite and sold only the rarest and most exquisite. This sale, though small, would be one of his finest, he decided.
Bryna and Pamela were blissfully ignorant of the marriage broker’s plans. Relieved the worst of their grueling journey was behind them, the exhausted girls spent their days enjoying the comforts of a real house and tried not to think of the future.
It seemed to Bryna that she would never again get enough water—to drink, to bathe in, to cool herself. She hoped never to see another desert. As for Pamela, she was content to eat heartily of the tasty offerings presented by the landlord’s wife. She did not even voice her constant hope for rescue.
After the women had rested for several days, Suleiman brought them each a set of new clothes and a shy maid to assist them.
“We are to have guests, and you must look your best,” he explained lamely in the face of Bryna’s accusing stare.
The girl took one look at the diaphanous trousers with their embroidered bands at the waist and ankles, at the short blouse, delicate sandals, and sheer, flowing ghata, or head covering, and knew that these were garments for the harem. She seethed, cursing herself as much as Suleiman. She and Pamela were about to meet their fate—their kismet, as the slave trader had put it—and they had done little more in the past few days than eat, sleep, and bathe, recuperating from the effects of the desert.
Her mind began to work rapidly. If they could escape the house, they could vanish into the mass of pilgrims. If she could secure a yashmak and a haik for Pamela so no one could see her fair skin...If she could steal a boy’s clothing for herself again...If they could find a boat captain who spoke French...If they could reach Cairo ...
As if he were reading her mind, Suleiman cautioned, “Do not think you can flee, Bryna bint Blaine. My guards watch all doors of the household. You will not escape again. They will not again be so careless as they were at the Red Sea.”
That evening the maid helped the women dress. Pamela was clad in ethereal blue with silver embroidery. B
ryna’s clothing was rose, its embroidery peppered with silvery crystal beads.
In the harem the women could hear when the guests began to arrive for the sale. Bryna paced, the beads on her costume clicking with each step. Her nerves were taut and tightened more with each sound of male laughter floating in from the majlis as the men were made comfortable and Turki served refreshments.
“What will happen to us, Bryna?” Pamela asked, nervously popping a grape into her mouth. “Do you think Suleiman will sell us together? I cannot believe he would separate us. He actually seems rather fond of us, in his way...” Her prattle trailed off when Suleiman, clad in his finest Turkish attire, summoned them.
He ordered them to affix their filmy veils and follow him to the hall, where he positioned them in front of a grill through which they could see the majlis without being seen themselves.
“Some of the most important men in Arabia are here tonight,” Suleiman boasted to his charges. “Many important sheiks seek wives. There is Abu Ali Al Rashid, and Ibn Hasan, and look!” The slave trader’s fat face reddened apoplectically. “There is Nassar bin Hamza, the nephew of Sheik Sharif Al Selim, one of the richest men in all Arabia. The Selims are sayyids, descendants of the Prophet himself. Alhamdillah! What a wondrous gathering is this!”
Peeping through the grill, Bryna shuddered when she saw the young man Suleiman indicated. He was a soft, pudgy fellow wearing a rich aba and a silk kaffiyeh. The aghal that held his head covering in place was wrapped with golden cord.
At first glance Nassar bin Hamza’s round face might be considered handsome in an effeminate way, but if one looked closely, his countenance was cruel and repellent. His murky brown eyes were narrow, his nose hooked slightly. The mouth above the pointed beard was small, mean, and thin-lipped.
“Come, my doves, it is time to greet our guests.” Suleiman grasped each woman by an elbow and led them to the door of the majlis. When they appeared, all conversation in the room stopped and the potential buyers looked at them expectantly.
Bryna never remembered clearly the details of that dreadful night. Dimly she was aware that Suleiman welcomed his guests while gripping the women’s arms painfully in his nervousness. She did not remember walking to the small platform at the front of the majlis. Somehow she was there and all eyes were focused upon her with the penetrating, hawklike stares of the rugged men.
Drawing on her limited Arabic, Bryna tried but could not understand all that was said as Suleiman described each veiled woman in detail, praising them as superior candidates for marriage. He answered numerous questions, producing documents to prove they were virgins. At last he drew the women forward and removed their veils.
“Mashallah,” came the collective murmur. There was no other sound in the room as all eyes were drawn to Pamela’s fair coloring.
Before Suleiman could say another word, Nassar spoke lazily from his divan. “You may as well set your price for the one with hair of gold, Suleiman. I must have her. I will better the offer of any man in the house.”
For an instant an expression of annoyance flashed across Suleiman’s face, replaced just as quickly by an obsequious smile. He had planned to sell Bryna first to allow the anticipation to build for the sale of the blonde. Insh’allah, Nassar bin Hamza was a man who knew how to get what he wanted, even if it took away the joy of bidding for it.
“You wish to buy her outright? Do I hear any objections?” The slave trader’s gaze swept the assembly, but as he had imagined, no one protested. A few men grumbled under their breath, but no one could afford to outbid the powerful house of Al Selim, neither monetarily nor politically. The fair one was beyond their grasp. So be it.
“Very well, bin Hamza,” Suleiman agreed reluctantly. Gently he pushed Pamela behind him, where she could no longer distract the bidders. Eager to escape the probing eyes, she did not question him. And her Arabic was still so poor, the girl did not realize she had been sold.
“What am I offered for this one?” Suleiman called, gesturing to Bryna.
Bidding was brisk and lively, until finally the American girl was sold to Sheik Al Rashid as a gift to his youngest son. The stern-faced old man rose and claimed his purchase, taking Bryna by the arm to lead her from the platform.
Comprehension dawned in Pamela’s brown eyes. Emitting a frightened screech, she clung desperately to her friend. Small Turki attached himself to Pamela, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her from Bryna, but the wailing girl would not relinquish her hold. Suleiman looked on helplessly as the four ranged like stair steps across the dais, with the tall Bedouin at the head and Turki as the bottom. In his corner, Nassar laughed aloud as the incensed desert chieftain looked to the marriage broker for assistance.
“Pamela bint Harold,” Suleiman scolded the weeping girl in French, “release Bryna bint Blaine at once. She must go where Allah decrees. And you must not displease your new master.”
“I must go with Bryna.” The English girl sobbed piteously. “Bryna, don’t let him take you away. You promised.”
Impatiently the sheik pulled Pamela from his newly acquired slave and thrust her toward Suleiman. The force of his movement threw Pamela and Turki off balance, and they careened backward into Suleiman. All three tumbled onto the divan at the far side of the dais.
Nassar roared, bent double with laughter. He rose and stepped toward the platform, wiping tears of mirth from his cheeks. “A moment, Abu Ali,” he said, detaining the sheik. “It would seem my fair Inglayzi does not wish to be parted from the tall one. Let me purchase her from you at a profit, then all will be happy.”
“How much profit?” Abu Ali asked suspiciously.
One hundred riyals?” Nassar suggested with hardly a thought of his dwindling inheritance.
“By the Prophet, my son Ali would receive great joy from this woman,” the older man argued. “Look at her. She is a houri who will bear many sons. This is a woman of great value.”
“All right, I will give two hundred riyals for her.” Nassar glanced in Bryna’s direction and shrugged carelessly.
“A man can always get gold. A Bedu would rather have camels,” Abu Ali suggested craftily. “The riding camels of Al Selim are the best in Arabia.”
“Very well, I have three riding camels and ten pack camels with me in Jidda. I will give you the riding camels and you may choose two from among the others.”
“Six,” Abu Ali countered.
“Four and no more.”
“For the sake of your uncle, I will take five pack camels.”
“Four and no more,” Nassar repeated.
The desert chieftain considered a moment. “Take her,” he grunted. He released Bryna abruptly, amazed at the other man’s extravagance. “A man can get a wife another time, but seven Al Selim camels...”
Nassar took Bryna’s arm and pushed her to the divan, where Pamela lay weeping, her tousled blond head buried in satin pillows.
“Hush, Pamela.” she whispered with a wry smile, “we are going to be together. I think he just traded some camels for me.”
Seemingly watching the disgruntled would-be bidders depart, Nassar was gratified to note out of the corner of his eye that the blonde ceased her wailing and mopped away her tears at a word from the other woman. The dark-haired one might be useful, and she was not unpleasant to look upon. He cared nothing for superstition. Even with her blue eyes, she was valuable. Perhaps the loss of his uncle’s camels had not been in vain.
Suleiman waddled over to join Nassar, and soon the two men were haggling over a price for Pamela. They finally settled on an amount that provided a healthy profit to the marriage broker.
The fat slave trader summoned Turki, who appeared carrying two bundles that contained all the clothing Suleiman had bought for the women since their purchase in Tangier.
“Farewell, my doves,” the marriage broker said almost sadly. “Take these things with my blessings and the blessing of Allah. May he protect you on your journey.”
“Come,” Nassar or
dered arrogantly in French, the language with which Suleiman had communicated with them. “Do not linger. I am your sidi now.” He was their master, he thought with a thrill of pleasure, and without a command of the language these women would be completely dependent upon him. He liked that idea. He would instruct his slaves not to speak to the women at all on the way home. Let them ask him if they needed something.
As the girls departed, escorted by Nassar’s small army of servants, Bryna glanced back at Suleiman. His sorrow at their parting was already forgotten. He sat cross-legged on the platform of the deserted majlis, gleefully counting his money. She had just been sold for a third time, she thought bleakly, and she liked it no better than before. How were her father or Derek ever to find her?
Nassar’s good mood deteriorated rapidly as his party approached the home of his host, an old family friend. He began to pout, ordering his servants about curtly. He wanted to enjoy his new possessions, but he knew he could not tonight. Once they arrived at the villa, the girls would be whisked away to the harem with the other females of the household. Then he would be expected to sit up until all hours of the night, discussing the Koran and the Hadith, the traditions of the Prophet. Being a descendant of Muhammad was indeed burdensome at times.
Insh’allah... for tonight, Nassar thought petulantly. But tomorrow they would leave for Taif, his family’s summer home. Then he would do as he pleased. No one would dare stop him. His lips twisted into a smile of lecherous anticipation.
Immediately after prayers the next morning, Nassar went to the market to buy horses for the journey. His party left Jidda soon after the midday call to devotions. They mounted and rode away over the protests of his host, who had wished to impress Sharif Al Selim through his nephew. The young man would not even consider lengthening his visit, so under the blazing noonday sun, when most people were at rest, his train of horses and pack camels left the city through the exquisite Bab al Mecca.
The Bride Price Page 10