“I know Greek, the language of the Christians and most of the Berber tongues. Latin, I have not had time to learn yet…or a teacher.”
It was such an obvious opening that Sydney hesitated. If she offered to teach him, would that anger him? He had reacted oddly to her most innocent statements. She closed the book and pressed her lips together.
Nothing ventured… she whispered in her mind. “If you would consent to a woman teaching you, I would be pleased to do so, in return for the assistance you have given me.”
Alim stared at her. “And now you bargain. Truly, you are an oddity among women. I am starting to believe you really were a leader of men in your world.”
“If my offer is displeasing, I will withdraw it,” she said and picked up the books.
He gripped her wrist, halting the movement. “No. I will accept the offer.”
Sydney let the book drop to the carpet once more. “Perhaps you should let everyone think you make me teach you.”
He looked amused. “I have no intention of telling anyone a thing about this matter.”
“Especially not your brother?” she asked.
His face darkened.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I take that back.”
Alim considered her for a moment. “Are you hungry? Do you want wine? Or water?”
She thought of the state of water that came out of most wells and shuddered, even though her throat was parched. She touched it as she considered. Wine would not quench her thirst, either.
“Perhaps, some water, if it is poured through a cloth, first?”
“All the water is boiled,” he said, getting to his feet. “We are not savages.”
That’ll teach you, Sydney told herself.
Alim slipped out of the tent and she occupied herself with flipping through the third book, which seemed to be stories about Britain. Then she realized with another jolt of surprise that the book was Historia Brittonum, by Nennius. This was a copy of the book that had sent them travelling back to Anglo-Saxon England, four years ago on her personal timeline and nearly two hundred years ago from where she was sitting right now.
Alim returned with a small bowl and a cup with a handle, that he carried carefully. Sydney realized he was making a huge concession by serving her himself. He was the brother of the troop’s general and was above such menial tasks. Although, he didn’t want anyone to know about their arrangement. Having a woman deliver the food would expose him.
He held out the bowl. “Cheese,” he said.
Her stomach rumbled emptily.
“Mint tea,” he said, holding out the cup. “It will help your throat,” he added.
Her throat closed down almost painfully at the thought of soothing tea against it and she reached for the cup and took it carefully by the handle. The cup was hot and the scent was divine. She sniffed appreciatively, then carefully sipped.
The first mouthful hurt going down. The next was much easier.
Alim sat cross-legged next to the closed tent flap and arranged the Hippocrates text in front of him, so the sunlight pouring through the opening fell on the page. “Let us begin,” he told her.
“Now?” she asked, startled.
He just looked at her.
Sydney got to her feet, moving slowly, aware that Alim was measuring her movements with the gaze of the doctor he would become. She picked up the bowl of cheese and the tea, lifted the chemise out of the way of her feet, careful to not expose her ankles, and settled on the rug in front of him. She placed the bowl and tea down again and crossed her legs, too. She arranged the chemise over her knees so her thighs were not outlined and the hem covered her feet, especially the soles.
“First, drink more tea,” he said.
She obeyed, enjoying the taste. Then she put the cup down and looked at the open book. With a smile, she turned it around and flipped to the front of the book, which was the back of the book in Arabic terms. “You said you speak Greek. Can you read it?”
“Of course.”
“Then the Greek alphabet is known to you.”
“Alpha, beta, gamma, delta, epsilon, zeta,” he said and shrugged.
“The Roman alphabet, that Latin is written in, is very similar,” she said and pointed to the first “A” she could find. “That is the letter ‘A’.”
“A,” he repeated, looking at it. “It does look similar. Is this beta, then?” He pointed.
“Yes,” she said, pleased. Alex was a fast learner. His curiosity pushed him to absorb lessons quickly. That would help, now.
The lesson went on. First, she went through the alphabet, then simple combinations of letters. Then to the first page of text and the words there. As she spoke, she sipped the tea and ate the cheese.
The sliver of sunlight on the carpet lengthened.
They were both absorbed in reading the text, with Sydney listening as Alim painfully spoke aloud the unfamiliar language, working to get the pronunciation right. He found it frustrating, because for an Arabic speaker, Latin was a difficult language. Sydney wished she could explain to him how much tougher English was to learn, only that language did not exist yet.
The squalling of a baby raised Alim’s head. He turned it, listening, a smile on his face. “The child is born,” he murmured.
Then a scream sounded. And another. Shouts were mixed with them.
Sydney caught her breath. “That doesn’t sound good.”
Alim jumped to his feet, brushed the tent flap aside and left.
Sydney didn’t need to be told to stay where she was. The less she was seen, the less she would remind anyone that she was in the camp, a problem to be dealt with. Besides, she had nothing to wear. The chemise was her only garment.
The screaming went on. It evolved into cries of lament. There were words in them, only Sydney couldn’t distinguish the words from inside the tent. There was a lot of shouting, too, most of it male.
Gradually the alarm faded. There were still many voices talking loudly. The initial hysteria had gone. Faintly, she could hear sobbing.
Sydney walked about the tent, unable to just sit and wait. What was happening out there? Alim had been gone a long time.
She judged that more than an hour had gone by when Alim slipped through the opening. Outside, the day was heading toward sunset.
A second figure slid between the tent flaps just behind him. It was a woman, covered from head to foot in loose, pale layers, with only her dark, expressive eyes showing. She carried a bundle of cloth that she dropped to the carpet.
Alim was holding his hands out from his sides. “Hurry,” he told the woman. “Pour water, first. Then we must get her ready.”
The woman moved over to the packs and bags and opened one. She withdrew a small bowl, that she placed on the carpet. Then she picked up the jug sitting on a tray next to the pile of cushions. It sloshed heavily. Water.
Alim crouched next to the bowl, holding his hands over the bowl. That placed them in the beam of sunlight coming through the opening in the tent.
His hands were covered in blood and gore.
Sydney wrapped her arms around her middle, despite the ache it set up. She held in all her questions. The sense of urgency about the pair was strong. If she tripped them up with useless questions, they would resent her. If she kept her eyes and ears open, though, she might be able to piece the puzzle together.
As the woman carefully and slowly poured the water, Alim washed his hands. There was more blood on his clothes, too.
When he was satisfied that his hands were clean enough, the woman picked up the bowl of red-stained water and took it out of the tent.
Alim stripped off his bloody tunic, leaving him in the long undershirt and trousers and boots. He turned the tunic inside out and shoved it into one of the packs on the ground. From another pack he withdrew a fresh tunic – this one blue, with square-patterned embroidery on the edges. He put it on quickly, wound the sash back around his waist and tied it with swift movements. He bent again, picked
up a knife in a scabbard and shoved it through the sash.
Sydney swallowed.
The woman came back carrying the empty bowl, which she pushed back into the bag she had extracted it from. Then she pulled off her veil and overdress and dropped them to the floor. She was a beautiful woman, as all the women Sydney had seen so far seemed to be, with big dark eyes and luxurious black hair, creamy coffee-colored skin and full lips.
Her eyes were the same shape as Alim’s. So was her chin, only finer and more delicate.
Alim waved toward her. “This is my sister, Saffiyah. She has clothes for you and will dress you. Rashid has ordered the camp broken. We head out at sunset.” He looked at Saffiyah. “Move quickly.”
She nodded. Sydney realized she had not smiled since removing the veil, nor had shown any real emotion. Alim was also tense, in a way Sydney recognized. He was holding something in, containing it with heroic effort.
Alim ducked under the flap and was gone again.
Saffiyah picked up the bundle of clothes and came toward her. “You know our language?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“We must hurry. Rashid is not in the mood to be delayed and you cannot move about in front of the men dressed in that way. Take it off.”
As Saffiyah spoke, she separated the bundle. There seemed to be many items of different colors and types of fabric.
Sydney pulled off the chemise without argument. Saffiyah handed her a pair of pants that tied at the ankles.
Harem pants, Sydney realized, biting back the need to smile. Well, they were a cliché for a reason. She put them on and clutched at the top of them, for there was no drawstring and elastic was several hundred years in the future.
Saffiyah wrapped a silver chain around Sydney’s hips and tied it off. It made the pants low-rise, but surprisingly secure. The soft material clung to her thighs and hips.
The next garment was a band of fabric that tied about her breasts. A breast band. A short jacket-style top went over it, leaving her belly bare. Dazedly, Sydney realized she was wearing a belly dancing costume—an authentic one. A soft, open-fronted and long jacket went over all the layers. It had high splits in the side-seams and worn embroidery along the edges.
Saffiyah stood back to consider her. “You do not look so strange now,” she decided.
Sydney figured that was a good thing.
“Now, for outside,” Saffiyah said, picking up another garment. There were a few left lying at her feet. This one was a long, bright green cloth, with gold fringing on the ends. Saffiyah hesitated. “Your hair. It should not hang like that. The sand will get in it. Ticks. Ugh.” She shuddered.
Sydney brought the heavy multi-tied tail of her hair over her shoulder. “I could wind it up on my head?”
Saffiyah nodded. “I have a clip to hold it.” She reached into a pocket on her own long jacket and pulled out a silver clip that looked similar to the ones modern hairdressers used, except this one was pretty, with filigree and a red stone in the middle.
Sydney wound her hair into a coil on the top of her head and clipped it. Then Saffiyah coiled the green cloth over and around her head and tucked in the end. The beginning of it, with the fringe, hung by her face. Sydney felt out the shape of it with her hands. It was a type of turban.
“It looks funny, with your eyes,” Saffiyah said. “Yet you cannot go without it. Now…” She picked up the largest garment, a shapeless, oversized, floor length tunic that went over everything. Sydney held out her arms and looked down at herself. She was completely covered, with only her hands, feet, and face showing. Saffiyah hid the bottom of her face behind a soft while veil that rested over her nose and hooked into the turban. Then she picked up the voluminous hood of the overgarment and settled it over the turban and her face.
Sydney wriggled her nose, getting used to the touch of the fabric on her face. “Doesn’t it get hot beneath all these layers?”
Saffiyah held out ankle-length boots. Sydney took them and put them on.
“The outside layer protects you,” Saffiyah said. “From the sun, so you do not turn into an over-ripe date that your man will not like. It will protect you from the gazes of strange men, too. Men cannot control their thoughts around women and it drives them to crude acts. This hides you away from strangers, so they will not bother you. Inside your shield, you can be as free as you wish.”
Sydney had not thought of the Muslim woman’s veil as something of value and use to her, before. Given the modern objectification of women, the rising rate of rapes and sex crimes, Saffiyah had a point about staying hidden.
“Only, how can a man know he will appreciate your beauty, if he cannot see you?” Sydney asked.
“His sister will tell him.” Saffiyah shrugged. “Among women, among men you trust, you can take off the shield and still be safe.”
Safe. That was a loaded word. She had not been safe among the women in Rashid’s tent. Yet she had not trusted those women, nor had they trusted her.
Saffiyah put on her own “shield”—a similar overtunic, turban, veil and hood.
“Saffiyah, why were the women crying?” Sydney asked. “Why are you sad?”
Saffiyah tucked her veil into place. “Gamala…” She let out a sigh. “Rashid is angry because Gamala gave him a daughter.”
Sydney steeled herself against judging these people. Daughters had been valueless in many cultures, including hers. “Did Rashid…did he hurt Gamala because the baby was a girl?”
Saffiyah looked at her. Her big, dark eyes welled with tears. “He killed her,” she whispered.
Horror gripped her. Sydney didn’t know what to say. Her reaction was grounded in twenty-first century ethics and she had experienced odd, unexpected responses to even her mild statements. She held her lips together, while dull anger thudded in her head and her ears.
Alim threw back the tent flap, then the other one. Around them, the tent sagged. Someone had loosened the ropes.
“Hurry,” he told both of them. “The line is forming.”
Outside, Sydney could hear the sounds of effort and industry. The frantic scramble to decamp. The bleating of goats and the bass rumble of camels. Horses snorting.
Even around this tent, she could hear the mutter of men working together to disassemble it. There was a tense note to the murmurs. Rashid’s actions and his fury-driven demand that they leave before sunset was taxing his people’s resources, yet they were working to obey.
Alim picked up the coil of rope that had bound Sydney’s wrists before. He came over to her. “Hold out your hands,” he said shortly, as Saffiyah slipped out of the collapsing tent.
Her heart sinking, Sydney held them out.
Alim tied them quickly, tested the knot, then tugged her out of the tent. His gray stallion was already saddled, the merry yellow tassels along the reins and halter glowing in the last of the daylight.
He mounted and tied the end of the rope to the harness.
Sydney stared at the rope around her wrists, her heart squeezing and her breath coming fast.
This, and Rashid’s murder, were reminders that she was a stranger in this place. She was distrusted, her morals questioned, her appearance disparaged. Even Alim, with whom she thought she had established at least a small connection, clearly considered her to be less than a slave—a creature to be towed behind his horse.
Alim clicked his tongue and the horse stepped forward, forcing Sydney to follow. Around them the tents had all but gone. The colorful cloth that made them was rolled up and tied to the backs of camels. Packs and bags were hung from their sides, carrying the interiors of the tents.
Women were being boosted up onto the backs of camels and onto horses behind the men. Some of them had their own horses. Every animal carried packs and bags as well as humans, except for Alim’s. It gave Sydney a sense of his position in the troop. He wasn’t just Rashid’s younger brother. He was a privileged, high ranking officer in his own right—to the point where he did not have to bother with packing
his belongings or stowing his tent, or carrying any of it. Others did that service for him.
Just ahead was a long line of horses and camels, all standing and waiting for the rest of the camp to be dismantled. At the very front of it, Rashid sat on a magnificent black horse, glaring back at the ranks impatiently.
Sydney’s throat tightened at the sight of him. She was suddenly glad of the shielding veil and hood, which hid her reaction.
As they walked along the line of waiting people and beasts, Sydney heard whispered comments, most of them from men.
“That’s the English whore!”
“She is Alim’s now?”
“Has Rashid rid himself of her already?”
“Too loose, that one. One can tire of even the most gifted prostitute.”
Sydney dismissed the comments, until she heard one that made her stumble.
“Alim is crazy to take her! Rashid will cut out his heart, just as he cut out Gamala’s.”
Chapter Ten
Brody didn’t speak as he worked alongside Alex, applying the icepacks against Sydney’s body in systematic rotation to avoid over-chilling the flesh beneath. Alex was grateful for his silence. His own thoughts were loud enough and harsh enough, as it was.
The bruises had started appearing on Sydney a few hours ago. They were turning a deep black now. It was the number of them that worried him. They were all over her torso and legs. The range of ways she might have acquired them was troubling. Even rolling among kicking horses wouldn’t deliver this degree of bruising.
The bruises stopped at her collar bone. None had appeared on her face, yet. Had she been able to protect her head, then? A careful examination of her head showed no cuts or scrapes or bruising.
Deliberately, he went through all the possible treatments for severe bruising. They were few. The pain-killer he had given her through the IV was powerful, although not the strongest in the cabinet. The stronger ones contained codeine. Codeine would make her loopy and might put her in further danger.
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