"Yes, Uncle," Kai said humbly, struggling for the breath to speak.
Malik's fierce expression softened. "Aside from that effeminate insanity, you are doing well." He smacked Kai's left thigh hard enough to make Sophia wince. "That concludes our lesson for today."
Kai rolled up to sitting. "I fear I will never learn."
"Hah! So speaks the prodigy." Malik extended his hand and hauled Kai to his feet. "Keep a secret." He put his arm around Kai's shoulder, pulling him close. "You began this path with only half a heart, but always had the seed of genius. Your brother gives me his heart and mind and body, without reservation. He will never be more than excellent."
Kai's eyes went wide. "Truly? But I am no match for Ali."
"So you think. And so long as you think that, it will be true. Also, so long as you waste your practice time pirouetting for pretty slaves."
Kai cast a glance at Sophia. She took the cue, produced her prettiest blush, and turned away.
"And she is a pretty thing," she heard Malik continue. "Tell me . . . is she for sale?"
Fatima's heart-shaped face grew taut. Brows furrowed, eyes spitting daggers but mouth drawn into a thin, genteel line, she rose and left the room, slamming the door behind her. Good, Sophia thought. His wife doesn't like me, and wouldn't want me in the household. A young man like Kai will he easier to bend than an experienced warrior.
Malik laughed.
Kai was confused. "I don't think—" he began.
Malik slapped Kai's shoulders again. "Oh, I was merely teasing Fatima." Sophia wasn't certain whether Kai's uncle was serious or not, but Malik's voice dropped a bit, became slightly conspiratorial. "But. . . would she be? A man might be tempted to make an excellent offer."
"No, Uncle."
Thank heaven.
Malik shrugged. "Very well, young Kai. Hai!"
Without further warning, Malik snatched a spear from the wall and hurled it at his nephew. Gods she thought, shocked. Kai is dead!
Kai twisted to the side, and the lethal dart missed him by a digit, burying itself in the wall behind him.
Kai blinked, then grinned, stunned by the excellence of his own reactions. Confusion and pride warred in his face. At last he bowed to his uncle and mentor, right hand over his heart.
The sun was waning but still strong as Kai and Sophia crossed Malik's moat and headed south toward home. Distant eastern mountains caught the last of the light, sparkling with quartz and mica.
Kai guided Djinna without thought, his mind far away, nerves still tingling with the last three hours' lessons. True, his uncle had been operating at mere practice intensity, but still Kai had managed to touch him three times. Unheard of!
Virtually mirroring his thoughts, Sophia said, "You were very good."
Kai was still dazed. "Uncle says I may be his best student. Ever."
“I’m sure its true.”
Kai yawned and stretched, feeling the weight of fatigue in his arms and legs. Once he had hated that sensation. Now he welcomed it as a herald of greater strength and skill. "Once, on this very road," he said, yawning again, "I fought off five bandits!" Well, it wasn't actually this road, but country roads looked much alike.
Sophia made an appropriately impressed sound, and Kai began to elaborate. "Left and right! They cut and thrust, but I was too quick . . . they wounded me, here." He pointed to his left shoulder.
Sophia brushed his shoulder with her hand. "I remember," she said, and lowered her eyes as they rode on. Indeed she did. She had brushed that scar with lips and tongue a hundred times, and the very thought of it made his blood race. She was not black, though far darker and more beautiful than the fishbelly-pale slave women. And yet. . . she was still other, exotic, in a magical, tantalizing manner. Never had he suspected the existence of a woman like this! Truly, she had mastered the arts of love as had Malik the arts of war.
"Five men, all by yourself," she purred. Even her accent was exotic. He had learned that her father was from Andulus, her mother from Greece, and the blood mingled in her veins to produce an extraordinary creature. "You must be very brave."
Kai's chest swelled. He knew that tone of her voice, and could hardly wait to get her alone in his room. First she would bathe him, and then . . .
He leaned back in the saddle, humming, thinking back on that glorious and pivotal night. Then he remembered Aidan. He frowned a bit, and decided to be fair. "Yes, well . . . I did have a little help."
"Whose?"
"My friend Aidan."
Sophia laughed derisively. "I have seen him. I am sure it is you who saved him."
Kai laughed and squared his shoulders.
Within another hour, Sophia sighted Dar Kush's front gates. Kai had been digging, hurrying Djinna along the last quarter hour, and she was not at all surprised when he said: "I'm afraid I drank too much juice before I left Malik's."
"Shall I see that the horses are fed and watered?"
"You've saved my life." He jumped down, trotting toward the house, and relief.
"It is my pleasure." She laughed. Again, her offering kept him from ordering. He wanted to forget that she was a slave and bound to obey his wishes. Deep in his heart he wanted to believe she was enamored of him, and a slave only to his zakr. Malik would never make that mistake, and the mere thought of his calloused hands sobered her.
Sophia walked the mounts to the barn, humming to herself and swaying her hips to the music. She liked the barn, its dark shadows and deep, rich aromas. There had been horses in Andulus, and when she allowed herself to stray back to those memories, thoughts of riding with her father and mother were some of the best—
" 'It is my pleasure,' " Aidan said mockingly.
Sophia hadn't seen him there in the shadows, and her hand flew to her bosom. "Oh! You surprised me."
Aidan was combing the horses, cleaning their coats to a high sheen. He had doffed his shirt. She noted that his body was as muscular as Kai's. Perhaps a bit thicker through the torso. Kai was as lean as a whip. Aidan, well . . . Aidan resembled one of the animals he groomed.
"Did you and Kai have a good ride?"
The double entendre lingered in the air between them. Sophia half-lidded her eyes, but pretended not to notice. Animal, Aidan might resemble, but a splendid animal, whose eyes held hers in a most disconcerting fashion. His face was both sad and mocking, his smile lines deeply grooved. "Very pleasant," she said. "He is an excellent horseman."
"Ah-hah. And you?"
"I enjoy the sport," she said, and handed him the reins.
"I'm sure," Aidan said, and led Djinna to her stall. His pants rode low about his hips, and the muscles in his lower back bunched and flexed with every step. "I am allowed to exercise the mounts. Perhaps we can ride together one day."
Such impertinence! Sophia balled her fists and set them on her generous hips. "I think not," she said. "If you have such an urge, I suggest you ride by yourself."
And with that, she turned and strode away. The nerve! But despite, or because of, the fact that she was certain the upstart was watching, she put a little extra swing into her walk. Just so that he would know what he was missing.
Chapter Twenty-nine
28 Jumaada thaany 1288
(September 14, 1871)
A day came when Wakil Abu Ali decided it was time to orchestrate yet another change in the life of his younger son. So, gathering his household together, he told them to make preparations for a trip of several days to the kraal of Cetshwayo, elder half brother of Shaka Zulu.
A caravan was mounted: horses, wagons and carts, and an unadorned carriage for Abu Ali and his family, accompanied by six servants, attendants, cooks, and two beautiful mares just entering season.
The Wakil and his children rode on horseback or in the carriage, depending on their energy and inclination. Elenya, now sixteen, wore her hair in tight, thin braids, with bangled golden earrings cascading to her shoulders, golden links across her scalp-line, gold nose ring linked to a mesh cap of wrought gol
d and silver that dangled over her cheeks and eyes in the Afar fashion, forming a veil that provided modesty and proclaimed her station at a single glance. She rode her jet-black mount like a princess. Soon it would be time for her to travel to Alexandria, perhaps attend the university at Al-Ahzar and be presented at court for marriage.
"Mating season is a wonderful time, Kai," said Abu Ali to his son, who rode beside him.
Kai started, almost as if the Wakil was reading his mind. "Yes, Father," he said.
Abu Ali seemed in a whimsical mood. "One must make certain that the stock is properly combined. Such arrangements are often made years in advance, and are for the mutual benefit of both lines."
Kai raised an eyebrow. "We are speaking of horses, are we not?"
His father and brother laughed. Kai tried to take his mind off the obvious truth: that at long last, "arrangements" for his future were being made.
Kai trusted his father without reservation, but the fact that someone other than himself was choosing his life partner was absolutely unnerving. He tried to concentrate on the countryside, a mix of low trees and scrub brush, irrigated farmland, and cactus patches. This was exciting: He had been to Djibouti harbor, of course, had ridden across every cubit of his father's holdings, and traveled to several neighboring estates. But unlike Ali, Kai had not been to New Alexandria or Azania. In all his nineteen years, Kai had never been more than a hundred miles or so from home, and the taste of adventure was sweet indeed.
Abu Ali's family was in the lead, supply wagons and livestock rolling the road behind them. Aidan drove the main wagon, his hands sure on the reins. He was quiet and watchful, and just a little cautious.
Sophia sat on the seat beside him, keeping a careful distance, although he knew she was aware of him. She was a spoiled, pampered thing who thought she had Kai on a string. And since she arrived his relationship with the Wakil's son had diminished from its former nightly ramble to occasional hunting and gaming trips. That was fine: in time all fleshly fires died. Things would return to normal. Meanwhile he, Aidan, had lost no privilege at all.
According to Kai, Abu Ali had tried to discourage Sophia's presence on the trip, but had at last relented. Aidan guessed that the coming marriage would thin Sophia's influence, and so was inclined to temporarily indulge his younger boy’s carnal appetites.
"And when you marry, boy?" Aidan had once heard the Wakil ask.
"It depends on the contract," Kai had insisted. "Perhaps I won't need to send her away at all."
Probably true. The Wakil had had but a single wife, but many of these blacks had three or more, if they could afford them—and if the first wife permitted the expansion.
Abu Ali had laughed knowingly. "You sound like I did, boy," he said. "Many a man has dreamed of multiple beds, only to be stripped of his illusions at the marriage table."
They were rolling along through a bountiful golden teff field. Slaves were raking and hoeing between the sun-baked rows, singing a song that drifted up to the road:
"Darkness bangin’ in the sky in the morn,
Moonlight dyin' as the sun is reborn—
Crops are swayin in an island of green
Hemp and teff and corn in between—"
And then a familiar refrain:
"Cut her low, swing her 'round
Iron wire, tightly hound
Thresh the teff by the morning lark,
Lie in her arms in the still of dark.
Laddie are ya workin'?"
Aidan watched bleakly as Abu Ali and his sons took up the refrain, enjoying the muscular rhythm and drive of the song, nodding in approval as the field workers timed their motions to the refrain.
"A very musical people," Ali said.
"In all truth, yes," his father said. "Our composer Al-Hadiz wrote a recent piece building upon a white composer named . . ." Abu Ali squinted. "Amadeus. Mozart, I think. Wrote some perfectly respectable songs eighty years ago or so. Found patronage in Alexandria, I believe."
"Even monkeys can do tricks," Ali said dismissively.
"Al-Hadiz said that it was more than a trick, that Mozart's work was equal to that of Jeffari—"
"Impossible!"
"Or even Mubutu himself. His early work, at least."
Ali shook his head. "Listen to them," he said, and another chorus drifted up from the field. To Aidan's ear it was a mournful song, a song of loss and pain, and it was hard to believe that his proud, educated masters could not hear the fury behind the sweetly twining melody.
"Storm clouds gather as the hands to the field
Raindrops scatter as the land's made to yield.
Body separate from its fine golden head
Stalk and sheaf and chaff for a bed—
Cut her low, swing her 'round
Iron wire, tightly bound
Thresh the teff by the morning lark,
Lie in her arms in the still of dark,
Laddie are ya workin'?"
"Listen to that," Ali said. "Their rhyme is crude, and the rhythm is barely fit for scythe swinging."
"It's a work song," the Wakil said patiently. "We may find, in time, that these people are capable of much more."
"Father," Ali said. "Sometimes you astound me."
"A wise man," said Abu Ali, "strives to be both astounding and astounded at least once a day." And they laughed and rode up toward the head of the column.
Aidan merely watched. Some of the field workers were close enough to the road to meet his eye, and there were tiny, subtle nods passed between them, greetings. Questions: Who are these black folks? And who are you and where do you go?
He would have loved to stop and speak with them, trade stories: How did you come here? Where are you from?
And more importantly: Have you ever met a woman named Nessa . . . ?
"They work hard," Sophia said, jarring him from his thoughts.
Aidan felt an almost unreasonable irritation. This woman nettled him. Perhaps it was the fact that they were too damned similar. She was a whore, certainly, but then, so was he. Each of them sold an illusion to the blacks in exchange for favors. Her illusion was passion, his was friendship. Hell, perhaps Sophia was better than he: in some ways her status might have saved some Irish girl from a similar fate. No matter which way he thought of her, she unsettled him mightily. "Certainly less agreeable work than yours," he replied, instantly regretting the comment.
Sophia stiffened, then smiled sweetly. "I see few calluses on your hands." Then her eyes widened. "Oh! My error—your right is quite calloused. And I see more added in your future." Then she settled a small, satisfied smile on her face and watched the road.
In spite of himself, Aidan had to laugh.
A day later, still half a day from the Zulu holdings, the party of nine reached a sign reading WELCOME TO ABABA, POP. 730. Ababa's architecture was a mixture of Egyptian and Abyssinian styles, turreted castles and adobe domes. The most common building materials were brick, rock, and molded clay. Half the buildings stood two stories or higher.
Sophia hadn't seen a town in months, and was eager to be in even so mean a place as this. Her trip across the Atlantic had been alternately terrifying and exhilarating, the landing in the harbor a bit of a disappointment after the wonders of Alexandria. Abu Ali's estate was incredible, but she had been there for three months now, and her curiosity reached beyond its fences.
She had to learn this world, and her visit to the miserable town of Ababa was a beginning.
The streets were hoof-packed dirt, crowded with horses and camels. Pedestrians strode clay sidewalks rising a few digits from the ground. Slaves, masters of noble birth, and many black commoners mixed on the streets. The thing that she noted most quickly was that the slaves were shabbily clothed, filthy, often pock-marked, thin, and gap-toothed, as if waging a constant battle with starvation. They also kept their eyes down, rarely smiled except nervously, and seemed more . . . servile than Dar Kush's servants. They moved as if lost in dream, shuffling at a sluggish pac
e. They seemed to have had the life and light flogged out of them.
These openmouthed knuckle draggers were beyond pathetic. They were barely human, and the thought that she could end up as one of them made her dizzy and nauseated.
Skin tones were not limited merely to black and white. Natives of dark, ruddy skin and proud bearing walked the streets and seemed to be trading freely. Sophia had seen Turks and Hindus in Alexandria and recognized them. Hindus were almost as dark as the Africans, but with limp hair and more Frankish features. Still, when a dark-skinned, turbaned Hindu walked the clay, white slaves stepped off into the dirt to allow him passage.
A merchant leading a pair of camels blocked their way for a moment, and as the ungainly creatures moped past Sophia saw a sidewalk drama commence. A tall, thin, arrogant black man brushed haughtily against a pitiful young slave boy arranging fruit in the front of a produce stand. The black man lost balance and was forced off the clay into the gutter. "Pigbelly bastard!" he screamed, and grabbed the boy by the arm, yanking him down into the dirt. He jerked a small whip from his belt and began to lash the cowering boy. The sudden explosion of violence ripped Sophia from her reverie. She had seen whippings before—had even suffered them herself. But the randomness as well as the focused, mindless rage vented on the lad made her shrivel.
"No, please—! I sorry. Din't mean no harm—"
Again and again the riding crop lashed down. Sophia watched as if it were all a dream, the whip rising and falling, rising and falling, the red beginning to creep through the frayed and tattered remnants of the boy's white shirt. People on the street stopped and stared, and even the wizened store owner was cowering. Clearly the whip wielder was a local power of some importance, someone used to having things his own way, and no one wanted to interfere with his pleasures.
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