‘You claim to have been awake?’ the Chief said with mock astonishment. ‘Ha! If you had been awake you would have seen my army by now. We have been approaching all morning.’
Tahar sat up to behold a massive caravan arriving at the oasis—a hundred men at least.
‘It appears that we have caught up with you, Tahar. I never thought we would.’
Tahar jumped to his feet, his eyes darting about the camp. Thankfully she was nowhere in sight. Tahar allowed himself a breath.
‘Well met, Chief Bandir, Guardian of Siwa Oasis and Leader of the Libu.’ Tahar struck the traditional Libu welcome pose, opening both his arms and bowing low.
It had been almost two cycles of the moon since Tahar had stolen Hathor and escaped the Libu Chief and his minions. There was nothing he could do now but hope for mercy.
‘Well met, Tahar the Traitor,’ the Chief said, satisfied with his cleverness.
He motioned to his men, who guided their donkeys into the shade beneath the long rock outcropping where Tahar and Hathor had been sleeping.
‘You look tired.’
‘Not tired—only resting,’ said Tahar.
He scanned the men’s faces and sighed with relief when he spotted Dakka, who still travelled with the entourage. By the Libu code, Dakka’s loyalty to his fellow tribesmen came before his loyalty to the Chief. Dakka and Tahar exchanged nods.
‘Nay, you are spent,’ the Chief continued. ‘The Big Sandy almost took you.’
The Chief spoke casually, but his one eye never rested. It darted about the camp, probing for answers to unspoken questions. Like Tahar, the Chief was a master observer. His camp in the Siwa Oasis was the largest and richest in all the Red Land. He claimed that it was fate that had catapulted him to his success, but Tahar knew better. Bandir’s riches had been gleaned by careful, keen observation of men and their behaviour. He manipulated men’s minds as thoroughly and evilly as the desert sun.
‘With respect, Chief, I never tire. In fact my trek across the Big Sandy seemed unusually short,’ Tahar lied. ‘Far too short. If only there were just a few more grains of sand to traverse.’
‘Hem...’ the Chief muttered.
Tahar watched the old man’s eye find Tahar’s horse, tied beneath the palms. He was searching for signs of the woman.
‘If you give her to me now I will not punish you,’ he stated. ‘In fact I will reward you. We have need of strong men like you on our mission.’
Bandir unfurled his purple headdress and Tahar caught the glint of gold around his neck.
‘But first I must drink.’
The Chief walked ceremoniously across camp to the small rock-framed well. It was tradition for the leader of a caravan to have the first drink from any well, and the men watched him patiently as he drank his fill.
It was an army of men. Many more had joined since Tahar had encountered Bandir and his dozen followers at the first oasis. Tahar counted five score donkeys at least, with two men for every one beast. And it was not just grain the donkeys carried. Upon the back of each animal was a large load covered by cloth. Tahar could not see what lay beneath, but he noticed the glint of gold protruding from several of the bundles.
Chief Bandir dipped his head into the well. He lifted it out in a spray of water and the men cheered. He returned to Tahar’s side as the parched raiders gathered at the well to drink.
‘We have survived the Big Sandy!’ the Chief exclaimed. ‘And I have only lost a half-dozen men.’
Such a high cost, thought Tahar. ‘But where do you journey with such an army?’ he asked.
‘We are to Nubia. To the land of riches.’
‘You have already become wealthier than any Nubian, I suspect,’ ventured Tahar. ‘I assume that is not natron upon the backs of your asses?’
‘It is not,’ said Bandir cautiously.
‘But there was no gold to be had at the raid—or did I leave too soon?’
‘Nay—not a bit of gold at the raid, nor any slaves to be claimed. Not even inside the tomb,’ Bandir said, spitting on the ground.
Tahar recalled the Khemetian workers who had sought refuge inside the Great Pyramid. They must have hidden themselves well—probably inside the secret tunnel that Hathor had described to him.
‘We followed the corridor downwards for hours, only to find a half-finished cellar under the ground. The Great Pyramid of Stone yielded nothing for the Libu. But why do you smile, Tahar?’
‘Ah,’ mused Tahar, thinking quickly, ‘I smile because clearly you did find treasure. How?’ Tahar nodded at the heavily burdened donkeys, trying to appear impressed.
‘Ah! Yes, indeed. Well, there are many other tombs in the ancient land of Khemet. You should know that.’
It took Tahar a moment to absorb the Chief’s meaning. ‘You raided another tomb?’
The Chief watched him steadily.
‘An occupied one?’
‘You put it so crudely,’ the Chief said.
Tahar did not believe in the divinity of dead Khemetian kings, but there was something unnerving about the prospect of raiding their occupied tombs.
‘Not crude, Chief—just bold,’ Tahar said, trying to conceal his disgust.
One of Bandir’s gold rings flashed in the sunlight. Upon it Tahar noticed the image of an arm holding a blade—the symbolic cartouche of the ancient King Zoser.
‘You admire my ring?’ said Bandir.
The man missed nothing.
‘Yes,’ Bandir continued, ‘to answer the question I can see behind your eyes, I stole it. Or, better yet, I took what I was due. It was how I paid my respects to the Murderer of the Libu.’
‘There is no need to say more,’ said Tahar. ‘I understand.’
‘I hope you do understand,’ said Bandir, eyeing Tahar closely. ‘It is justice for all the Libu that I seek.’
Justice? Exactly what kind of justice? Zoser had reigned over a hundred years ago, and stories of the ancient King grew more outlandish with each passing season. In one story Zoser overcame the Libu with an army of lions. In another Zoser conceded Khemetian grazing grounds to the Libu and took a Libu wife. Only scribes and priests knew the true history of Zoser’s reign.
‘Aye, justice,’ Tahar said. ‘But why do you go to Nubia?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ asked Bandir. ‘We shall need an army to take Memphis—strong men to scale the walls of Khufu’s palace and overcome his soldiers. I believe it will take a thousand men at least.’
‘And you think that the Nubian tribes will join you?’
‘For enough gold and grain, they will,’ said Bandir, motioning to the donkeys. ‘They have been wronged by the Khemetians, as we have been. Besides, the Khemetian King is weak. Now is the time to strike.’
‘It is a bold plan, my Chief,’ said Tahar. To make yourself into the new Khemetian king.
‘It takes bold men to seek justice. Will you not join us, Tahar of the Meshwesh?’
Tahar should have known such a question was coming. Bandir had withheld mention of Tahar’s tribal affiliation for a reason: he wished to wield it like a blade. Tahar owed the Libu of the Meshwesh region his loyalty and his life, and Bandir knew it. Now, like a good merchant, Bandir would exact his toll.
Tahar flashed Bandir a crocodile grin. ‘It would be an honour to join you, my Chief. Let us find our justice.’
Never in a thousand cycles of the sun would I join you on your bloody mission.
‘Good,’ said Bandir, and the two men embraced. ‘Now, tell me, soldier, where is the woman?’
Just then there was commotion at the well. Several of Bandir’s men were shouting and throwing rocks at the trees. There she was, perched like a bird in the palms, her face contorted in thinly concealed terror.
Bandir’s eyes narrowed upon Tahar. �
�Just as I thought.’
Before any of the men could scale the trees to reach her she managed to descend. Two men took her by the arms and led her to where Tahar and the Chief stood in the shade. Like a pack of hyenas, the men gathered all around her. Most had not seen a woman in many months, and they studied her exposed limbs with wide-eyed lust.
Tahar struggled to keep his breaths even as Bandir’s single eye raked across her body.
‘She is much improved since I last saw her,’ Bandir said. ‘There is meat on her bones. What does she call herself?’
‘Hathor,’ Tahar muttered.
‘Hathor?’ cried the Chief. ‘Hathor? Fie! If this woman’s name is Hathor then I am the Son of Ra!’
The agitated men erupted in laughter.
‘When may we worship at Hathor’s altar?’ one man shouted, and bawdy chuckles filled the air.
‘Does she give her love abundantly?’ another quipped, to riotous laughter.
‘It is the name she gives,’ said Tahar. His hands were beginning to tremble.
‘I am certain she gives more than just a name,’ Bandir said, winking at Tahar.
Tahar’s throat tightened.
The Chief studied the thick, shiny black hair that carpeted her head like a hat. ‘She is indeed more womanly,’ Bandir stated, taking stock of her backside.
Tahar thought he noticed Hathor’s lower lip quake.
‘Where did you think you were going with such a fine captive?’ asked Bandir.
‘We make for Abu,’ Tahar said.
‘Ah! The sacred Khemetian Isle. Your purpose?’
‘The woman wishes to make an offering to the God of the Flood,’ Tahar lied.
‘She does indeed,’ said Bandir, motioning to Hathor. ‘Woman, come closer,’ he said in Khemetian.
Tahar wanted to tell her to have no fear. He wanted to say he would protect her. Nay—he would give his very life to keep her safe. He wanted to tell her that he would scoop her from these evil men’s clutches and deliver her to the life she wanted—whatever life that was. He loved her. By the Gods, he loved her—and with a ferocity he did not recognise or understand.
He wished to slit the Chief’s throat and steal all his gold and ride off with her into the desert.
But that was impossible—for the Chief’s army of minions hovered, watching his every move and awaiting her every breath.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The woman took several steps towards the Chief and a flirtatious grin spread across his face. ‘You see?’ he looked around at his men. ‘That is the effect I have on women.’
The men howled.
‘Gods, you are beautiful,’ said Bandir. He put his hand on Hathor’s chin and lifted it. ‘Now I see why you are called Hathor.’
Tahar could no longer think. He could no longer see. If the Chief kept his hands on her skin one moment longer Tahar feared he would smash that wicked grin from the Chief’s face and stick an arrow in his middle. It was only after many moments that Tahar realised Bandir was speaking again, and placing something shiny around Tahar’s neck.
‘Forged in the mines of Meroe, honed by the craftsmen of Napata, and stored for safekeeping in the tomb of Zoser the Great—ah, I mean the Terrible,’ Bandir pronounced.
Tahar touched the heavy chain that had been hung around his neck. It was made of thick gold. He had seen such a chain once before, hanging about the neck of a travelling prince.
‘This gift I present as a token of my gratitude,’ Bandir said, ‘for allowing me to take Hathor as my wife.’
If Tahar had believed in gods he might have thought they were laughing at him now, for they had just given him everything he had always wanted. The only problem was that he didn’t want it any more.
‘I could just take her, of course,’ Bandir added, ‘but you are a soldier in my army now, and you have protected her virtue well. I am assuming she is healthy, and sufficiently skilled at performing a woman’s duty?’
‘Hathor is a virgin.’
Bandir stumbled backwards exaggeratedly, and his men laughed. Righting himself, the Chief lifted another gold necklace from around his neck and placed it around Tahar’s.
‘There you are, brother—enough gold to buy ten asses, a field of wheat or a very large boat. After you help us defeat the Khemetians you will never need to ply the trade routes again.’
Tahar stole a glance at Hathor. She stared at the ground with stony eyes. Though she could not understand the language the men spoke, she could surely guess what was taking place.
Bandir addressed his men. ‘Tonight shall be our wedding night!’ The Chief raised his arms and smiled while his men cheered. He stepped before Tahar and opened his arms. ‘Congratulate me, soldier!’
The dagger Tahar kept on a belt beneath his robe seemed to burn against his skin, but there were simply too many men for him to attempt to use it. There was nothing Tahar could do but accept the Chief’s embrace.
The old man whispered in Tahar’s ear: ‘She looks good enough to eat. Tonight, I feast.’
Tahar burst into a fit of coughs, struggling to swallow his rage. He managed to bow to the Chief, as was the custom.
The crowd of men exploded in a storm of whistles and shouts as the Chief bowed back. Then the wretched old man wrapped his arm around the woman’s waist and pulled her close.
‘Look at me, brothers,’ he shouted. ‘I am wed!’
The men converged upon the Chief and his bride, shouting their congratulations, and Tahar felt his body grow cold. If it was the last thing he did in his cursed life it would be to free the woman he loved.
Chapter Twenty-Four
She did not need to understand the Libu tongue to know what had transpired. Tahar, who claimed to have renounced the Libu, had embraced their Chief like an old friend. Moreover, he seemed to have struck a deal. The two men had bowed to each other in the way of traders, and it was clear that something terrible had been agreed upon—a demon’s bargain that had seen two gold necklaces around Tahar’s neck and the Chief’s wiry arm about her waist.
So he had finally done it. Tahar had traded her. And to a Libu Chief, no less. He had sold the right to wed her and bed her for the price of stolen gold from a murderer. She had been right about Tahar after all—he had no soul, no heavenly ka. He was lower than the meanest rat in the deepest pile of fish bones in the dustiest corner of Memphis.
‘This should fit you nicely,’ said the Chief now, holding up a richly embroidered skirt. He studied her with his single roving eye. The spacious tent had been erected especially for this, his wedding night. ‘I would like you to wear it without your wrap, so that I may admire your fine breasts.’
A golden lamp flickered in the corner of the small space, and she saw that two thick carpets lay side by side on the ground.
How could she have been so blind to Tahar’s true character? How could she have eschewed the several opportunities she had had to escape? The day they had encountered the archers, for example. She could have simply kept running. Or inside the cave. He’d left her alone there for quite a while, apparently believing her too injured to flee.
But she hadn’t been too injured. She could have easily slipped out of the cave in his absence and disappeared among the cliffs. Instead she had stayed with him, telling herself that she was biding her time for a ‘better’ opportunity. Telling herself she was only using him for his survival skills. Telling herself that she might somehow convince him to do the right thing.
It had all been a fantasy—a wistful tale filled in with details she had conjured in her fanciful mind. He had recognised that fantasy and carved himself into it. He was an imposter—just like her. All along Tahar had just been pretending to be honourable. He was like the Libu Chief...although the Chief did not even pretend.
She had watch
ed his wrinkled face twist with contempt as he had pronounced the name of King Zoser. Clearly his caravan carried more than just Khemetian grain—it carried gold: Zoser’s gold. Her stomach turned as she imagined the Chief—her new husband—raiding Zoser’s sacred tomb.
‘Do you like the skirt?’ Bandir asked.
‘Aye, My Lord, it is beautiful,’ Kiya said, pretending to admire the garment. From which of Zoser’s dead wives did you steal it?
And why was the Chief not returning to his homeland with Zoser’s loot? Libu grazing grounds lay to the west, yet the caravan was headed in the same direction as Tahar—south. Did the Chief intend to conquer the Nubians, then? To slay more souls in his mindless quest for riches?
Kiya had believed that Tahar had detached himself from these murderers. She had even begun to think him noble. When they had been crossing the dunes his voice had broken through the chaos of her addled mind and he had asked her for forgiveness.
He had also saved her life.
But Tahar was not a noble man—nay. He was not special, as she had begun to believe him to be. The Chief had made him an incredibly generous offer—two gold necklaces!—and, like most men in his situation, Tahar had not refused them. He had never intended to let her go. She had always been just his means to an end.
Stay away from men... They only mean to possess you, to enslave you.
She felt tears filling the wells of her eyes as she let her addax-skin dress fall to the ground.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Perhaps it had been the sight of her naked flesh that had persuaded him. Or perhaps something smaller than that. The way she had cocked her head at him or the way she had sighed demurely when his breath had begun to quicken. Bandir was a man, after all, and Kiya had certainly had some practice playing roles. Whatever it had been, the Chief had trusted her feigned desire for him enough to allow her to ‘purify herself’ at the well.
She wrapped his headdress about her naked body and explained that she wouldn’t be long. Then she exited the tent and walked in the direction of the well. Scattered about the camp were a hundred men lying upon mats, most of them already asleep. She hiked up her covering, pretending to be in a hurry to relieve herself, then slipped behind a bush near the well.
Enslaved by the Desert Trader Page 12