“I’m not a virgin, Ilham,” Lillian said. “There will be nothing to see.”
“All women are virgins on their wedding night,” said Sahar as she removed a small vial from her sleeve. “Blood.” She picked up the edge of one of the carpets in the small corner of the tent. “You can pour it onto the sheet, no one will question it,” she added as she buried the vial in the sand.
Lillian felt her throat constrict and she was overcome by a wave of nausea. She swallowed down the bile that rose and pinched the bridge of her nose in an attempt to stave off the tears that suddenly filled her eyes to the brim.
“Don’t cry!” Ilham shouted, alarmed. “The charcoal around your eyes will smudge!”
“What if he loses? I can’t stand not knowing what is going on!” Lillian said, panic and fear evident in her voice.
“Here!” Iman said as she walked to the far end of the tent. Iman extracted a small, delicate knife from her robe. She pulled back a section of the red silk and used the sharp blade to cut several small slits into the black exterior wall of the tent. Lillian was the first to rush over, hoping to get a glimpse of the fight, a glimpse of her fate.
There he was, wearing his uniform. The jacket was unbelted, unbuttoned, and its edges flapped in the breeze. The morning sun lit him from the front, bathing him in light, and making his shock of almost white hair impossibly bright.
Jackson gazed out towards the tall dunes in the distance, the camp to his back. As the sun began to rise, he watched it. He breathed in deeply, feeling a strange sense of calm and realized that he had never felt more confident in his life. For a fleeting moment he wondered why, then he shrugged and turned towards camp, ready for what was to come.
In the last several minutes he had begun to hear the predictable sounds that signified the wakening of the tent city. He watched as a couple of servants carried a chair towards him, set it in the sand, and then erected a modest cover over it. Minutes later, they began to assemble a small tent about twenty meters from the harem. Supplies were quickly brought inside before turning their attention to creating what looked like a tunnel from the harem to the small tent.
Jackson tilted his head to the side. He held his hand up over his eyes in an attempt to shield them from the sun so that he could better see.
Jemal followed his gaze. “They are moving her into the smaller tent; the victor will go there to claim her.”
Jackson nodded.
“Did you get any sleep?” Jemal asked.
“No. I’ll sleep later. Let’s do this.”
Taking his sword from Jemal, Jackson counted off fifteen paces, walking away from the camp. He wrapped both hands around the handle of the sword, lifted it high above his head, and then with a roar he stabbed it, savagely into the sand. Jackson leaned for a moment on the hilt to force the blade in deeper, and fell to his knees before it. He wrapped both hands around the cold steel, leaned his forehead against the handle, and prayed.
“Are you ready, Lieutenant?” the prince asked.
“Ready,” said Jackson calmly. He steadily climbed to his feet, turned around and slowly walked five paces back towards the camp, towards his foe.
They were separated by about three meters, a sharp contrast of light and dark. Ahmed’s long, black robes hung loosely around him. His dark eyes were fierce with determination. Everything about the man, his posture, the way his jaw was set, conveyed a sense of purpose.
Confusion clouded Ahmed’s face. “Where is your weapon?”
“Weapons?” A cocky grin appeared on Jackson’s face as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “You didn’t say anything the other day about weapons. Do we really need weapons for this?” He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.
“I’ve had enough, Lieutenant. Get your weapon and get ready to lose,” said Ahmed, running his hand over the thick, curved blade of his scimitar.
Jackson looked pointedly towards the sword. “You know that Sigmund Freud would have a field day with you. Step on up.”
“You need a weapon!” Ahmed said, clearly frustrated.
“All right, if you insist. Let’s just get this over with, shall we?” Jackson reached behind his back and pulled out his Mauser C96 Broomhandle.
“You can’t use a gun!” Ahmed gasped, his eyes widening comically. “My lord, tell him he can’t use a gun!” Ahmed turned towards the prince.
“All right, Nancy, we’ll do it your way. No gun. No need to get your knickers twisted.” Jackson tossed the gun over to Jemal then rapidly advancing.
When Ahmed turned to face Jackson, a strong right cross to the jaw, followed by a swift and powerful roundhouse kick, greeted him. The unanticipated assault caught him off guard and he stumbled, catching his foot in his robes and falling onto the sand, his scimitar inches away.
“See, that’s the problem with weapons, you have to reach for them.”
Ahmed rolled towards the scimitar. As his fist curved around the base of the handle, Jackson kicked him again, this time in the stomach. But Ahmed absorbed the blow. He climbed to his feet swinging his heavy blade in a wide arc, forcing Jackson to retreat. The tip of its cutting edge grazed the British soldier across his chest. Ahmed smiled, a sense of satisfaction and confidence washing over him as he saw dots of bright red blood start to seep through the white cotton of Jackson’s torn shirt.
Jackson stepped away, removed his coat, and then casually rolled up his sleeves. He seemed oblivious to his injury, despite the rapidly growing bloodstain on his shirt. Ahmed rushed towards him, a feral yell emanating from him as he knocked Jackson to the ground.
Jackson lay there unmoving. Ahmed stood over him, astride his hips, and rested the razor-sharp blade of the scimitar across his throat.
“Somehow, I knew you’d insist on being on top,” said Jackson with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows.
“You joke even now? The slightest amount of pressure is all it would take, Lieutenant.”
“You can’t have her. It’s not going to happen.” Jackson punctuated his words with the cold steel of a sharp blade. Its point pressing into Ahmed’s testicles, at the base of his scrotum.
Ahmed’s eyes opened in alarm. He swallowed hard, “You wouldn’t.”
Jackson smiled. “You have no idea what lengths I would go to, mate, to keep her.”
“I have clearly won. Forfeit!”
“Um, let me think for a minute. No!”
Ahmed pushed down a bit harder on the blade. Jackson watched as beads of sweat began to form on his opponent’s forehead.
“You don’t have the stones,” said Jackson. “You could kill me, yeah. But you won’t, because you fear Abdulla,” Jackson said. Then he glanced towards Ahmed’s groin. “And you would have to face the humiliation of being a eunuch, not that it isn’t a respectable profession, mind you. Just wouldn’t be my first career choice.”
“You are mad!” Ahmed whispered.
“Here’s the plan. You back away, we throw down our weapons and we fight. I’ll win, of course, but you’ll escape intact. You get to keep all your parts. It’s a good deal. You should take it.”
“Do you forfeit, Lieutenant?” the prince, who now stood above them, asked.
“No,” Jackson said, adding pressure to the blade that he held in his hand. Ahmed stepped away, suddenly, tossing his scimitar aside. A collective gasp traveled through the crowd.
Jackson climbed to his feet and threw his knife. He watched as it spun, handle over blade, in the direction of the prince’s chair.
“Present, my lord,” Jackson announced as the blade imbedded itself in the back of the chair the prince had previously occupied. “A thank you from myself and my new bride. It’s served me well in many battles. Now, it will serve you well.”
The prince folded his arms across his chest and looked over towards his chair. “You forfeit, Ahmed?”
“No,” Ahmed responded.
“Right then!” Jackson released a right uppercut to the Arab’s jaw quickly follo
wed by a left cross. He heard the bone crack as his fist connected with Ahmed’s nose and then watched as his adversary stumbled backwards a few feet. But Jackson didn’t stop, not for a second. As Ahmed instinctively reached for his nose to stave off the flow of blood, he left his torso wide open. Jackson ran towards him, leapt up into the air, twisted his body, and landed a powerful kick into Ahmed’s mid-section.
Ahmed flew backwards, the wind knocked out of him. Jackson landed, facing away from him, in a crouch. Jackson looked back over his shoulder, his face speckled with his enemy’s blood. He narrowed his eyes as he turned around and slowly stood. Jackson stalked towards the fallen man, like a tiger on a hunt, his stride graceful, powerful, and assured. He reached down, ripped off the cloth covering the Arab’s head, grabbed a fistful of hair, and yanked, forcing Ahmed to look him in the eye.
Jackson kneed his opponent in the chest, breaking a rib. Then he cocked his right fist back, let go of Ahmed’s head, and landed one final blow, knocking the man out and to the ground.
He wiped his arm across his forehead then inspected the sleeve of his shirt. It was spattered with blood. He quickly removed the shirt and used it to wipe the remaining blood from his face. Then, walking towards Jemal, he dabbed at the slice across his chest.
“Jacket,” he demanded.
Jemal handed him his coat. “You won!”
“Well, yeah. That was the plan, right?”
“Yes, but—but, you actually won!”
“Thanks for the show of confidence!” Jackson playfully hit Jemal on the shoulder. “Now, as much as I would love to hang around and chat, there is some place I’m supposed to be. And I want a bath.” he shouted over his shoulder towards the prince. “I want a bath with hot water.”
“Make it so,” the prince said to Jemal, with a casual wave of his hand. Rising, he walked over to Jackson. “You are quite talented, Lieutenant, a fierce fighter!”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“You really think we can capture Aqaba?”
“Yes, my lord, I do.” Jackson said it with utter confidence. “But not tonight. Tonight my talents are already spoken for.”
“Lillian!” He heard a woman call her name. Lillian had bolted from the tent, a vision shrouded in sheer red silk. She rushed towards him, the edges of her veil catching on the breeze and billowing about, before lifting it from her head, and carrying it away. Lillian’s feet kicked up the sand as she flew across the short expanse of desert and into Jackson’s waiting arms.
Lillian had barely been aware of the shouts of warning from the other women when she’d fled the tent. She didn’t care. All she knew was that she needed to be with him; feel him. She knew the second he saw her. His face lit up with a smile that melted her heart and fueled her passion. She flew at him, wrapping her arms around his neck.
He lifted her off the ground and swung her around. “I’m going to get blood all over you.”
“I don’t care,” Lillian said, close to tears. “What were you doing out there letting him hold that sword to your neck?”
“Gee, honey, thanks for fighting to protect my virtue and saving me from the horrid fate of having to spend the rest of my life with tall, dark, and beaten to a bloody pulp over there!”
“Oh my God, you’re hurt.” She stepped closer to him, her anger dissipating.
“I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse.”
Lillian tentatively brushed her fingertips over his cut.
“Thank you. I owe you a huge debt of gratitude.”
“You owe me nothing, Lillian, nothing.” He reached out and grasped her hand, lifting it to his mouth he kissed it.
“I need to clean these wounds so that they don’t get infected. Jemal is going to fix a bath. I want you to know that when we are alone, in private, you are free to do as you wish.” Jackson looked back towards the on-lookers below and laced his fingers through hers. “But as far as they are concerned, you are mine, got it?”
“Yes, I’ve got it. Jackson, you look tired.”
“Didn’t sleep a bloody wink last night.”
“Bath first, sleep second.”
They walked hand and hand back to the tent. As soon as they lifted the red curtain the women of the harem greeted them.
Sahar ran up to Lillian, wrapped her arms around her in a hug and whispered, “Don’t forget the blood.”
“We must get back,” Ilham announced.
“See? Everything worked out!” Rand reached for Tahra and the two of them walked out of the tent, hand-in-hand.
As Sahar released Lillian from her grasp Iman walked over to Jackson and brazenly raked her eyes over his naked chest.
“Come, Iman,” Sahar called to her.
“If you ever get bored…” Iman touched his bare chest.
“Tempting as that offer sounds, pet, my dance-card is full, I’m afraid.” Jackson wrapped his arm around Lillian’s waist, pulled her in close and began swaying in time to imaginary music.
Iman shrugged. Then took her leave.
Jackson spun Lillian around. “I’m afraid I’m gonna be too busy dancing with my wife, all night, every night.”
“Is this real?” she asked, searching his eyes.
“Do you want it to be?”
“I want you.”
“You have me.” Jackson lowered his mouth to hers in a tender kiss. “I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.”
Before he could move in for a second kiss he heard the unmistakable sound of someone clearing his throat outside the tent.
“Come in, Jemal,” Jackson said.
“Your bath, Lieutenant. May we bring it in? The water may take a bit of time to heat.”
“Hot water?” Lillian pushed back the flap of the tent and waved in Jemal. “Come in! Come in!”
Jemal held his hand up, indicating that the two men holding the bath should wait. He walked into the tent and up to Jackson. “She speaks!”
“You noticed that, did you?” Jackson asked with a quick glance over towards Lillian.
Lillian looked momentarily panicked. He pulled Jemal further into the tent and said in a hushed voice, “Best not to call attention to it. That first night she spent with me, she mumbled a few words. The next night, she said a bit more. She’s coming out of it Jemal, a bit more every day. And I’m going to help her heal. I just need a little time, not a lot, a little.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I want to postpone the wedding feast,” Jackson said quietly. “She’s been through a lot. I want to let her rest, ease her into this. She’s still fragile. I want you to explain to Abdulla—”
“Oh, no! No! Not me,” Jemal replied. “You tell him.”
Jackson turned and walked over to Lillian. He caressed the side of her cheek, leaned forward and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll be right back, darling.” Then he softly whispered, “Going to lay some groundwork.”
Before Lillian could respond Jackson walked out of the tent, Jemal on his heels.
“You really mean to speak with the prince about this?”
“Yeah!” Jackson looked the man squarely in the eye. “And you’re going to get me in.”
Jemal nodded, then walked off ahead. Within a few minutes he returned. “He will see you.”
Jackson walked through the tent’s entrance. Abdulla was reclining against a saddle. “Surprised to see you, Lieutenant.”
“My lord,” Jackson began, “there is something I thought you should know.”
Abdulla sat up, his attention piqued. “And that would be?”
“Hessa. She is American. That first night, she cried out in her sleep. I suspected then. That second night it happened again. She woke screaming, crying. She spoke, my lord.”
“What did she say?” Abdulla climbed to his feet.
“It had been a dream, about Wadi Turras, but it wasn’t the first time. The first time she had the dream was the night before it happened. She thought nothing of it at the time, thought it was just a horrible n
ightmare. The following day she went to explore the caves about the camp, as she had planned. But it happened, my lord, it happened. It frightened her beyond belief. There was guilt, of course. She let it all spill out to me in the darkness, along with her tears. Then come morning, again she said nothing.”
“She had a vision?”
“I think so. Maybe. I don’t know,” Jackson answered.
“I knew it! I knew there was something special about her.”
Jackson nodded. “Thing is, I think she had another dream, just last night.”
“Another dream? What happened?”
“I don’t know, she was too afraid to talk about it, but I’ll find out.”
“Do you need help, getting her to talk?”
“No. I just need a little time.”
Abdulla smiled. “You’re fond of her. Very well, do it your way.”
“I want to put off the wedding feast until tomorrow night. We’re both tired. We need time. I don’t want to insult anyone, my lord, it’s just that—”
“Go, Lieutenant. Sleep. Spend time with your new wife. Tomorrow night we will all celebrate.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Jackson bowed, and then backed away towards the entrance of the tent.
“Lieutenant?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Keep me informed.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Chapter Six
Lillian had been alone for nearly an hour. Her anxiety was beginning to rise as she continued to pace back and forth within the small confines of the tent. She felt trapped. Had Jackson abandoned her? Had something happened to him? She wondered if she should go in search of him. She was grateful when a couple of the prince’s servants interrupted her thoughts.
They entered the tent, carrying buckets of steaming water. One of them handed her a bottle of bright purple liquid. She recognized it from the previous night. It belonged to Ilham. Lillian opened the cap and held the bottle under her nose. She smiled serenely as she poured a generous amount of the lavender infusion into the tub.
Jemal entered just as they finished pouring in the last of the water. “I see that the bath is ready.” He tossed Jackson’s satchel onto the floor of the tent. “The lieutenant’s things. This will be your tent from now on. Fatima is gathering your belongings and preparing some food for you. The lieutenant will return momentarily.” He bowed.
The Soldier & The Spy Page 6