by Donald Tyson
I considered the situation. No doubt he and his relations would overcharge me, but I did not wish to waste time searching for bodyguards. If the bandits truly were so notorious, it might be best to take precautions against them.
“Very well. Lead me to your wife’s brothers. If I like their looks, I will hire them.”
He raised his hands with the palms up.
“Alas, they are not at home, but they will return at some time during the night.”
“I cannot wait here until the middle of the night. I need to rest before setting out from the city.”
“If you wish, I can hire them for you when they return home, and they will be waiting for you here with your horses when you and your servant are ready to begin your travels in the morning.”
He named an exorbitant price, as I expected. I was too impatient to be gone from that pestilential stable to haggle. My easy acceptance pleased him, and put him in a better humor. He agreed to stock saddle bags with grain and water for the horses, and when I mentioned beds he added two sleeping rugs without asking an additional fee. All would be ready at dawn, he assured me. I counted out the pieces of gold and silver, and from the corner of my eye saw the tip of his tongue dart over his fat lips.
Martala was eating flat bread and strips of goat meat grilled over glowing charcoal when I found her in the market square. I bought more of the same and sat with her on the lower step of the well, the glistening grease on our lips as we chewed. She was pleased with herself.
“So many ships are in the harbor, there is not a room to be had in any inn. A scribe took pity on me, imagining me to be a fellow scholar, and directed me to the house of his married sister, who is willing to let us use an outbuilding for the night.”
The vision of a rat and cockroach infested storage shed arose in my mind.
“What kind of outbuilding?”
“What do you care?” she asked. “It has four walls and a roof. And it was cheap.”
After we finished our meal, I returned to the stall of the leather merchant and bought two wallets that I had noticed earlier. They were not as capacious as packs carried on the back, but were made to be worn over one shoulder and wrap around the body, with a pocket in front at the chest and another pocket behind. The pockets had leather strings on their inner corners so that they could be tied together beneath the opposite arm to prevent the flat strap from slipping off the shoulder. We went around the market, filling one pocket of each wallet with hard black bread, salted strips of meat, and dried fruit for our journey.
Despite my misgivings, the outbuilding had a floor of boards, and even a bed of sorts. It had been newly made with clean white sheets. When I kicked the leather mattress bag with my toe, nothing squeaked or scurried away. The shed was located behind the house of the scribe’s sister, beneath a spreading cedar. The tree kept the sun from its tile roof during the day, so that when we entered it at twilight it was already cool.
Martala fell quickly into sleep. I lay listening to her deep breaths beside me, hands behind my head, the cotton sheet pleasant against my naked limbs. Faint light came through a wide gap above the door. The shed had no window. The breeze stirred the boughs of the cedar above the roof and made a soft rustle in the darkness. Somewhere in the midst of the tree an owl sounded its melancholy call. My thoughts began to drift.
Sashi came toward me through the darkness, her face serene and lovely, as it always was when I saw it in my mind. She smiled. Her lustrous hair was plaited elaborately on top of her head, her body clothed in transparent silk that opened at the waist. Red henna dyed the tips of her fingers bright crimson. Black henna darkened her palms and the soles of her feet. Tonight she had a ring of silver through the side of her nose. She did not always wear this ring. Silver bracelets enclosed her wrists and ankles.
There was no need to speak. She knew my thoughts. Her round thighs opened and straddled my waist, settling on my erect prick, as long and hard as ever it had been in life. She reached behind her head and drew out combs of tortoise shell, so that her hair fell in cascades down her shoulders, then leaned forward and draped it around my face, a scented veil of mystery. Her kiss drew out my breath with indescribable sweetness, so that I panted with my desire. My hips rose and fell in rolling rhythm. I found the tip of her tongue with mine and stifled a groan as my seed erupted. She drew her face away from mine, so that the world was filled only with her eyes.
A slight sound beside me made me turn my head in languid ease and peer into the darkness. My eyes had grown accustomed to the shadows. I saw Martala watching me with an expression of curiosity.
“Did you have a dream of love, Alhazred?” she whispered.
“Not a dream.”
Comprehension came into her eyes. She thought for a moment, and smiled.
“I am glad for you. The Goddess has given you this mercy because you have suffered so terribly.”
“Why would the Goddess show me mercy? I, who have given her nothing?”
“That is her way,” she replied with simple faith. “She gives help to those who suffer.”
Resting her cheek against my bare shoulder, she sighed and closed her eyes. In moments she was asleep. I soon followed her, and did not wake again until the first light of dawn glowed through the gap above the door.
We dressed and lashed the wallets into place over our cloaks. The weight made me give silent thanks that we would ride instead of walk. I was not accustomed to carry the provision of many days. While among the Black Spring Clan, I had carried my meat in my distended belly. It comforted me to have a secure place to put the scroll. I slid it in the front pocket of the wallet, along with the rag of white spiders, and lashed shut the flap.
True to his word, the stableman had the horses saddled and standing ready when we reached the yard. I saw with approval that the saddle bags bulged with grain, and that the water skins were full. Tightly rolled sleeping rugs nestled behind the saddles. The horses looked more promising in the chill light. They widened their eyes and trembled with eagerness to be off.
The fat man eyed Martala up and down with a knowing leer.
“My wife’s brothers are waiting. I will call them out.”
He raised his voice in a shout that made the gray gelding snort and shy away from him. He gave the reins an impatient jerk without looking at the horse. I decided to take the gelding for my mount. I had ridden many high-spirited horses from the royal stables at Sana’a. The smaller and more docile mare was better suited to the girl.
With murmurs and rough banter, the brothers led their horses out the open door of the stable. As they saw me, they fell silent. Misgiving stirred in my heart. They were an unpromising band. Their horses had the road-weary look of animals ridden too many miles in too few years. Their tunics were faded and travel-stained, the fur ragged around their leather helmets. Three wore vests of chain mail, and the other, who appeared to be the eldest, a tarnished bronze breastplate. All bore swords and poniards at their broad belts, the scabbards raw from use.
The man in the breastplate passed the reins of his horse to one of his companions and came forward, meeting my eyes. His face held no emotion. A scar ran through the corner of his lower lip, evidently caused by a blade. He was bearded, as were the others except for the youngest, who cast his eyes over Martala as a man will look at a women, even though she was clothed as a youth.
“This is Hassan, my wife’s eldest brother. He will keep you safe on your journey.”
“I have protected many travelers,” Hassan said in a deep voice. “Not one has died from a bandit’s blade.”
I considered my misgivings. Now was the time to make other arrangements, if they were to be made. We could wait almost a week and depart with the next caravan, or we could go alone, and take our chances with bandits. I reflected that anyone who performed the job of professional bodyguard for hire was apt to look unco
uth and menacing. It seemed unlikely that these four could continue to get work if they were as unreliable as they appeared. All this passed through my mind in an instant.
“Very well, we will trust ourselves to your care,” I told him.
He nodded and turned away. Taking back the reins of his horse, he swung into the saddle. The others followed his example wordlessly.
“You are in skilled hands, my lord,” the stableman said with a smile that showed discolored teeth.
I glanced at Martala. She raised her eyebrows slightly and I shrugged. Mounting the gelding, I watched her swing herself lightly onto the back of the tan mare.
Hassan led the way from the dung-strewn yard into the street, moving at a slow walk toward the gate that would put us outside the walls of the city and on the long road east. A brother rode beside him. The other two fell into step at our rear, the beardless young man taking his place behind Martala.
The Syrian Gates were less impressive than I expected, from their fabled reputation. One pass between rocky hills is much like another. The sea fell behind us, and we wound our way beside hanging cliffs and across stony ridges. After the lushness of Egypt the land seemed barren. The road itself was passable, in most places broad enough for two laden camels to walk abreast. Hassan set an easy pace. Perhaps he thought we were not accustomed to long days in the saddle and wanted to avoid exhausting us. I was thankful for his prudence. Even though I was skilled on horseback, I had ridden for sport alone in Yemen, and my legs and buttocks began to complain before the sun reached the zenith.
Twice we paused to water our horses and rest our legs. As the sun sank low to the hills at our backs, casting our shadows before us across the uneven road, we reached a slope of dusty pebbles beside a great boulder larger than a house that had been used many times in the past as a stopping site. The charcoal of numerous ancient cooking fires spotted the ground within crude circles of loose stones. No doubt the caravans stopped here. The enormous stone gave shelter from the night wind, and from the stealthy approach of ghouls or wild beasts, allowing an easy watch to be set.
I had chosen the food that would go into our wallets with care. It was all of a type that required no preparation, and might be eaten from the saddle. Hot food is better than cold, but cold food is better than none. I did not wish to be encumbered with wood for cooking fires. Since our guards had brought no pack animal laden with sticks, I thought they meant to eat the same kind of meal, but to my surprise the young man with eyes for Martala drew forth a brass cooking lamp from his pack and used his tinderbox to light its wicks. Upon this he set a copper pot which he filled with water, and proceeded to add salted meat and dried vegetables and herbs to make a kind of thick stew.
While we unsaddled our horses and gave them water and grain, the pot bubbled. The odor that arose was seductive to an empty stomach. Martala crouched on her haunches beside her sleeping mat, gnawing with her eyeteeth on a strip of salted meat that was as hard as uncured leather. She gazed wistfully at the brothers as they held out bowls to receive the steaming stew.
“We should have brought such a lamp,” she murmured to me in Coptic.
“It is too heavy. Look at all the oil it burns. Why not carry a bread oven, and have fresh loaves each morning?”
From her expression, I saw that she was not convinced by my argument. She would make a poor ghoul.
The youngest brother cast a sidelong glance at her. Smiling, he got up from his place beside the stove and approached her. He extended his wooden bowl in offering, nodding his head.
“Eat, eat,” he said in Greek. “We have more than enough.”
Martala glanced at me. I nodded. Eagerly, she took the bowl and tipped it to her lips. A bright smile illuminated her face. As an afterthought, the young man, who looked only a year or two older than Martala, turned to me.
“Let me fill a bowl for you, lord. We will eat together.”
I showed him the strip of dried goat meat I was chewing.
“Will this add to the pot?”
He smiled and nodded. Taking our offerings, he cut them up with his knife and dropped them into the steaming pot, then ladled out a bowl for me while his brothers watched in silence. They did not object, but neither did they voice approval.
As darkness fell around us, Hassan and two of his brothers lay upon their sleeping mats, leaving a bearded man to sit watchfully gazing across the barren hills to the south. From his place he could see a stretch of the road extending east and west, while the towering side of the great stone acted as a wall to guard his back. I settled on my rug beside Martala, reflecting to myself that this armed watcher and his companions were a luxury, it was true, but a luxury I could well afford. Feeling easier in my mind than I had felt all day, I drifted into a deep and pleasant slumber.
How many times the watch was changed during the night, I could only guess, since I did not wake until bright daylight. The brothers were already stirring about their horses, saddling them and lashing on their saddle packs and mats. Martala tossed me a piece of black bread from where she sat cross-legged. Apparently no oil was wasted on a morning meal. The cooking stove had not been lit, but was already packed away on the rump of the horse belonging to the young brother.
I ate, pissed, and saddled my horse. Nor did I forget to reinforce my glamour when I found a moment of privacy. We set off eastward along the road without ceremony, not a word having been spoken to us by Hassan. He could scarcely be called a cheerful companion. Had it not been for the shy smiles cast by the youth at Martala, there would have been no cheer at all. She derived quiet mirth from his attentions, but she kept her amusement hidden save for the occasional wink she cast my way when his head turned.
As we rode, the land remained hilly, but the hills flattened and the space between them grew ever wider. It would not be many days before we left the coastal mountains behind us and entered onto the flat lands. It was not a true desert. Plants grew from cracks between stones. For me, there was only one true desert and nothing grew there. By comparison, this land was a lush garden. I could have lived upon its riches with ease, were I stripped naked and deprived of water and food. Even so, the constant jog of the new water skin beneath my cloak was a comfort.
We passed a well. Our guards stopped to fill a skin from its leather bucket. To my keen sense of smell, the water seemed poor, but it must be drinkable or the ruler of this land would have ordered the well filled in with stones. Perhaps boiling removed its brackish flavor.
It was late afternoon when we heard the first cry. It came from beyond the hills that lined the road to the north. It was harsh and drawn out, but a human voice.
I glanced at Martala to see whether she had heard it over the clank of the bridles and the rattle of pebbles beneath the hooves of our mounts, then at Hassan, who turned in his saddle without stopping his horse. His scarred mouth was grave.
“Bandits,” he said.
Chapter 36
Another shout sounded, followed by a faint clash of steel. The noises echoed between the hills, making it difficult to perceive their origin. Hassan reined to a halt and stood in his stirrups, scanning the stone ridges on either side of the road. I could see no movement at their crests. He rode a few paces away and motioned for his brothers to follow. They bent their heads over the necks of their gathered horses and murmured amongst themselves. Hassan cast a glance back at me, then gestured toward the northern side of the road. The two bearded men in chain mail rode away at a canter without another word.
“I have sent them into the hills to determine the number of the bandits,” Hassan told me when he and the young man returned. “We will ride on.”
“Will the bandits attack?” Martala asked.
He smiled at her, the scar on his lower lip twisting his mouth into a grimace.
“Attack is certain. They would not have alerted us to their presence otherwise. When we
learn their number, we will know whether to stand and fight, or flee.”
“Why would the bandits want us to know about them?” I asked. “Why not attack us in the night while we lie asleep?”
Hassan shrugged his broad shoulders.
“It is their way. They hope to terrify us, so that we will do something foolish.”
Before I could speak, he jerked the head of his horse around and set off along the road at a brisk walk. We let our mounts fall into step behind him, and the youth took up his customary place behind Martala.
The hills drew close on either side, so that in places outcroppings of rock overhung the road where it skirted their bases. Countless ravines and gullies offered concealment for armed men to lie in wait. It was ideal for an ambush. I wondered that Hassan could ride into it with such a display of unconcern. He was braver than I would have believed, certainly braver than me. I felt invisible eyes on my back every step of the way. Whether they were real or only in my imagination, they made the skin over my spine crawl.
We had not ridden more than a quarter of an hour by the clock when the babble of a man’s voice floated to us on the still air. His indistinguishable words, if they were words at all, gave way to broken sobs and short cries that the stony hills threw in all directions. Hassan raised his hand and halted to listen, his face hardset. The voice fell silent, and a moment later we heard a scream that was abruptly cut off by a harsh gurgle. Martala’s eyes went wide, but not so wide as the eyes of the smooth-faced youth behind her. I had heard such a sound before, and knew it for the gurgle of blood in a slit throat.
A different voice began to beg for mercy, its shrillness mounting, until it too became a death scream.
“They killed Habib and Kesof,” the boy cried out.
He turned his horse and started to spur it up a gully on the north side of the road when Hassan, riding with surprising quickness for so big a man, cut off his path and grabbed the reins from his hand. He struck his younger brother brutally in the mouth with his open hand.