"Salam," Jamin greeted their shaykh, Marwan, in the Halifian language, leader of this family group of 30 or 40 related individuals. He was a hard man, with a beak of a nose that only accentuated the slash that ran across his cheek like a second mouth, an ancient scar given to him by none other than Jamin's father.
"And so the boy who would be chief comes back into our midst," Marwan's cold eyes bored into him with distrust. "And bearing gifts."
"Something special," Jamin held his hands in front of him to show they were empty. "Take a look."
"I could kill you and take it anyways," Marwan said. Once upon a time that comment would have been delivered with a sneer, but not now. They had been playing this dance for months and both knew the other understood the steps. With the mercenaries gone to eke out their existence until the rains came, Marwan needed only to impress his kin.
"You could," Jamin acknowledged. "But you won't."
"Tell me why?" Marwan asked.
"Because the people of the desert are not the honorless dogs my father would have us believe," Jamin said softly.
"Dogs need to eat," Marwan said.
"I have brought food," Jamin said.
"We have gold to buy all we need," Marwan said.
Jamin glanced down at the hungry looking children peering out from beneath the flaps of the flimsy tents. Marwan wore a colored robe of woven cloth, not the fringed kilt Assurian men wore, and it looked to be new. The other men wore robes of a peculiar design he had never seen before, a sign of wealth, but the baskets which should have been filled with grain from the ongoing harvest lay empty. No Ubaid would trade with these people, nor would the Uruk to their south. The goat herd which had, only months before, grown larger with infusions of Amorite gold, now looked ragged and hungry.
"You are in luck, then," Jamin said. "For gold is what I seek."
Marwan glanced back at the kinfolk standing ten paces behind him, bows and spears aimed at the enemy who had the audacity to travel into their midst. The bows were lowered, but the two spears remained pointed in his direction, their implication clear.
"How do I know there are not cobras in this jar?"
"It is said that the people of the desert move faster than any cobra," Jamin said. "And can charm the snake to sleep with a maiden's song."
Marwan laughed as though he found this funny, his grin exposing a snaggletooth lined with black rot. The men behind him laughed as well, although Jamin did not understand the joke. He knew better than to laugh along with them lest they think him a fool.
"Perhaps you know something of our people after all?" The shaykh relaxed, although what he had said that pleased the desert leader he had no clue. Marwan stepped up to the ceramic urn, a burden that weighed at least sixty shekels, and pulled his obsidian blade. "Any tricks, and my men will kill you."
Jamin nodded.
The shaykh knocked back the lid and leaped back, watchful for the cobra he truly expected, and then waited until he was certain no snake would emerge before stepping cautiously to see what was in the jar.
"What is this?" Marwan dipped one finger in the yellow liquid.
"Oil," Jamin said. "Pressed from the stalks of flax."
"Oil?" Marwan glanced back at the men who stood at his back. "This whole jar full?"
"You have something I need," Jamin pointed to the sack which jingled at Marwan's belt. "I have brought something you need to pay for it."
"This jar will fill our needs for an entire year," Marwan said.
In Assur, such a jar would barely meet the needs of a wealthy family such as his for a month, but the people of the desert lived simple lives, bringing no more than they could carry from grazing ground to pasture. Even by Halifian standards, though, the empty grain baskets cast outside the tents, lids off because there remained nothing left to eat, was desperate. The people of the desert might be clever raiders, but the people of the river knew how to stand together, like the levies they built to hold back the spring floods.
A fluttering of pride warmed his breast. The emotion was short-lived. His people wanted not him, but the false sense of security granted by the demon which had fallen from the sky. The hatred he had nurtured for seven long months, that dark thing which pursued him into his dreams with its bottomless black eyes, bubbled to the surface. His fist clenched in tempo with the twitching of his cheek, this anger he had nurtured his entire life, but had not found form until the winged demon had taken his stick.
Marwan had seen him react thus enough times to understand what he was after.
"We have no more men to send against your winged demon," Marwan said. "There are too few of us left to stand against him and the sanctions brought against us by the Ubaid chiefs have left us short of food."
"Six women were just taken from Qattara," Jamin said.
"That was not us," Marwan said. "What do you think we are? Magicians? Qattara is leagues from here."
Jamin had suspected that to be true. His trips out to treat with the shaykh of the rival Halifian tribe had yielded a few epic blunders, the biggest being to invite the vipers into his midst to rid his village of Mikhail, but his contact had yielded other information as well. Rather than being a coherent tribe, they were more like jackals, small family units that banded together when convenient, but usually surviving each family on its own, to live or die according to the whims of the all too infrequent rain.
"You would have taken them if you could," Jamin said.
"Yes," Marwan gestured towards the empty baskets. "A shaykh needs to feed his people. But this time, it was not us. It wasn't just you the Amorite slavers double-crossed during the last raid, but us as well."
Unlike the Assurian tribe, where his father's word was law, a shaykh's influence could only be counted on to the circle of his brothers and sons. You could treat with one Halifian, but it would not prevent his cousin from a different group of tents from coming against you despite assurances from their so-called leader. On the other hand, once you formed blood-ties to a shaykh, amongst that immediate group of tents, his word was law. Violation of that law would result in instant death.
Given his father's preference for the winged demon, Jamin found himself attracted by the Halifian code of honor which valued blood ties over the law. It was the way things should be in Assur.
"Come," Marwan gestured. "We are chewing over a problem and perhaps you can be of use to us?" The Halifian leader made a show of tossing his robe over one shoulder and walked back towards the largest tent, leaving the precious jar of flaxseed oil behind.
Jamin was not fooled by the show of bravado; to turn one's back upon one's enemy. It was another step in the intricate dance of contacts who lingered between the status of friend and enemy, to show he was not afraid. The spears aimed at him gripped tighter. Marwan's intense stare at his second-in-command's eyes, the hand casually resting under his tunic, showed he was ready to turn and bury an obsidian blade into his heart with a single nod from his trusted second.
Jamin stared up at the two dark-winged eagles, circling closer to the enemy encampment, watching every move. Messengers of the goddess the Ubaid called these raptors, but all he could think of was how closely their wings resembled those of the demon who had fallen from the sky.
'Spies,' Jamin hissed to the mated pair. 'Begone.'
As soon as he stepped forward, two men rushed to collect the prize. The rest followed, hands clenched at their belts, ready to stab him if he so much as twitched. He was surprised when Marwan stopped in front of his own tent.
"Inside," Marwan gestured.
Jamin glanced from one Halifian to another, certain it was a trick. The closest he had ever gotten to Marwan's tent was the outer fringe. From the grim expression on the other men's faces, it was no trick. Jamin gulped, cognizant of how alone he was whenever he came out to treat with his father's enemies. He had heard stories about what could happen in the tent of a desert shaykh.
The floor was carpeted with luxurious felt rugs, the topmost one a bright scarle
t that was rarer than rare, the more humble ones beneath layered to soften the rocks which made their way skyward from the desert sand. There were banners of the same woven cloth as the men's robes along with colorful pottery Halifians tended to avoid because the fragile urns did not adapt well to a nomadic lifestyle. New. Everything in this tent was less than six months old, material wealth purchased with gold reaped from the slave trade. Ubaid slaves, although Jamin knew they were not the only tribe being hit.
The other men arranged themselves in a circle in the carefully orchestrated seating arrangement of social rank, Marwan upon a plump cushion while the others picked seats around the fringe of the rug.
"There," Marwan pointed to a seat at his left-hand side. Jamin glanced at the man who had been ordered to move over, expecting to see a murderous glare at this usurpment, but the hawk-faced man bore laughter in his eyes. Whatever was going on, they found it funny.
Marwan clapped his hands twice. A flap at the back of the tent which divided the canopy in half opened and a woman glided out, covered from head to toe. Although her clothing was fine, she had that same, gaunt look the children had, the face of a woman who was not eating all she should. She approached Marwan with a flagon of water, her eyes cast low.
"Golshan," Marwan waved her off. "I want Aturdokht to do it."
The woman froze. Her eyes darted up to her husband, but she did not dare contradict him. With a curt bow, she backed into the sequestered side of the tent, where Jamin could hear the whispers of children. It occurred to him that, had that been Ninsianna, she would have thrown the water into his face.
"Your wife?" Jamin asked.
"One of many," Marwan grinned, exposing his rotted teeth. "A man can never have too many wives."
Harsh whispers erupted from behind the curtain, the sound of women arguing. One voice rose louder than the others, though not so loud he could translate her words.
"Aturdokht!" Marwan ordered in a voice that was not quite shouting, but bore the weight of authority. "Our guest seeks sustenance. You will serve him."
The men seated on either side of him sniggered. Whatever the joke was, everyone was in on it except for him.
The curtain parted. The beauty who stepped from behind the curtain paused just long enough to toss the head wrap the people of the desert wore to keep the sun from their heads to cover her face as though she were walking into a sandstorm, but not before Jamin caught a look of lips so lush and red it caused him to take a sharp intake of breath.
'This one is favored…' The thought intruded into his mind, urging him to pay attention.
He looked closer. The submission of the veil was a lie. He could see it by the haughty way the woman carried herself and the murderous glare of her hazel eyes. Although not quite the warmth of lust, she piqued his interest. It had been a long time since he had noticed any woman except for Ninsianna.
"Aturdokht," Marwan laughed. "Is that any way to treat our honored guest?"
The other Halifians gave each other knowing looks, their eyes crinkled in suppressed laughter.
"Your water, Father," the beauty hissed. Father? She was Marwan's daughter?
Jamin had seen this woman once before, from a distance. She'd had a babe in her arms and was older than Ninsianna, perhaps his age of twenty-six summers? Which of these men was her husband? He could not tell which she bore an affinity to as she seemed to hold them all in equal disdain.
"Jamin visits from our neighbors to the east," Marwan said to his daughter. "One day he shall be chief of the river people."
"Not if that bastard lives," Aturdokht hissed. Green-flecked hazel eyes flashed with hatred. Although she had the same beak-like nose as her father, it was smaller, dainty, her skin the color of a woman who took pains to stay out of the desert sun. Even with her mouth hidden beneath her scarf, she was beautiful, the kind of woman desert folk hid from unwelcome eyes so some raider would not come back in the middle of the night to kidnap her. Why were they exposing her to him now?
"You will serve our guest with respect, daughter," Marwan growled. "Or find yourself strapped to a pole for the next three days."
An inkling of what this was about began to dawn on him. Despite the insult, he could not help but be amused. Many times he had dreamed of breaking Ninsianna of her disobedience, but the Halifian's had the art of teaching their women submission down to an art form. Aturdokht's expression was murderous as she filled Jamin's cup with precious water. He expected her to dump it into his lap, but she did not. She stepped back and glared at him as though he were refuse shatted out by a village dog.
"We were just discussing my daughter's fate," Marwan said. The other Halifians chuckled. "She lost her husband in the last raid. Under the law, she must marry his closest brother, but alas, he had no brother, so she and her fatherless daughter were sent back to be a burden on my tent."
"Murdered by his people!" Aturdokht shrieked. Her long, slender hand jutted out of her robe like a spear, pointed straight at Jamin. "On his behalf! He tricked us into that ambush!"
The cold-eyed stares of the men seated in the circle indicated Aturdokht was not the only person to feel this way. Jamin's breath grew still as his field of vision expanded to take in the slightest movement in case one of them moved against him.
"Alas," Marwan said. "Much as I would like to blame our guest for our people's downfall, we all fell prey to Amorite promises of gold for the winged one's head. Every man in this room answered greed's call and paid the price, including your husband.
"You dare command me to marry one of them?" Aturdokht's hand flung out accusingly towards her own men. "You are all to blame for Roshan's death!"
Marwan's subtle nod indicated he expected Jamin to go along.
"The winged demon is the culprit," Marwan said. "We went in unprepared. Next time, we shall smite this demon that fell from the heavens and give our guest back his village."
"How do I know you will leave?" Jamin chose his words carefully. "Once you have collected your bounty?"
"We won't leave," Marwan grinned. "But I think you will not mind."
"Assur is my village!" Anger boiled in Jamin's veins, but it was not anger at Marwan, who had never been any less than forthright. The Halifians felt Assurian land was their land. In his grandfather's generation, it had been thus until the Ubaid evicted them from their pastures. Jamin's anger was the same that Aturdokht felt, the anger of one whose place in the world had been turned upside down.
His black eyes met Aturdokht's hazel green ones. Just for a moment, he saw a hatred that matched his own. She wanted Mikhail dead every bit as much as he did, only her husband was no longer alive. He, at least, still had hope of wooing Ninsianna back once the winged demon was dead and gone.
He realized the room had grown quiet.
"What are you asking me to do?" Jamin asked. He suspected he already knew.
"You once told me that after the winged demon was gone," Marwan said, "you would prevail upon your father to trade fairly with the people of the desert. Does that offer still hold?"
"Why?"
Marwan gestured to the gaunt faces of his men, the even gaunter ones of the wide-eyed children who peeked beneath the flaps of the divider between the rooms.
"Each year the rains come later in the autumn, and every spring the desert dries down a sooner. Lands our herds grazed in the seasons of my youth no longer produce grass. Perhaps my bones grow old, but it seems that each year the desert grows hotter, the streams contain less water. Traders from the south say the Pars Sea has dried down, that what was once open water is now little more than a swamp."
"The shaman says it is so." Jamin remembered conversations between his father and Immanu about hostilities with the Uruk tribe to their south.
"What good is gold if I cannot buy food to feed my family?" Marwan asked. "Roshan's tribe gave us passage through their grazing lands to the waters of the west when the desert grew too dry to water our herds. Now … his parents blame us for his death and Aturdokht bore t
heir son no heir. They have sent her packing to dishonor us and barred us entry to their lands."
There was silence in the room.
"How do you know I will keep my promise?" Jamin asked. He noted the rapid rise and fall of Aturdokht's chest as she forced herself not to lunge for his throat as he could see she wanted to do in her green-flecked eyes.
"Amongst our people," Marwan said. "Such alliances are kept through ties of blood. Once we have worked together to rid your village of the pestilence in its midst, you shall give us a blood tie in exchange for our promise to return only once per year, when the desert grows so dry we need water for our flocks."
Jamin could hear the blood rushing through his ears as his heartbeat grew louder and Marwan's voice far away. She was beautiful, Aturdokht, so beautiful that even as a widow with an unwanted daughter, men would vie for her hand. But she was not the woman he wanted. He could almost feel Ninsianna's hands upon his broken flesh, whispering prayers as she tended the gore-wound to his belly and kept him alive when he should have died.
Even now, after all that had happened, an emotion that could not make up its mind whether to express itself as rage or grief welled up in his chest. This was an alliance his father would approve of … if he could convince the fool the winged demon was a threat, but that feeling of sorrow he had hidden beneath his rage ever since Ninsianna had betrayed him prevented him from speaking.
"A man can never have too many wives," Marwan said softly, sensing the cause of his hesitation. "I will fight any man, but who is there to fight when the gods themselves deny your flocks the rain?"
It was not gold the people of the desert wanted. What good was wealth when your neighbors refused to trade for food? Marwan proposed a truce, made binding by the death of the winged demon and the blood relation of a marriage.
He looked up at Aturdokht and recognized the sorrow she used her anger to hide. He had told a lie to bed Shahla when it was Ninsianna he wanted, a decision he now sorely regretted. He would not dishonor Marwan's daughter thus.
"There is … someone … else. You deserve better."
Sword of the Gods: Prince of Tyre (Sword of the Gods Saga) Page 11