Secret of the Sands

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘He is to be Turkish, you say. But he is very pale, is he not?’

  Mickey nods but dismisses the comment with a wave of his hand indicating that his headdress will have to provide cover. Wellsted will simply tie his kaffiya across his face and make a mask – a litham. It is not an uncommon manner of dress, particularly in the desert.

  ‘You wish him to appear an Anatolian warrior?’

  ‘No. Not a man of war. Definitely not. A trader,’ Mickey decides. ‘Comfortable, understated, not too wealthy but neither a pauper. Inconspicuous. The Turks are dangerous, Lieutenant, or their military men are. Ten years ago they razed Riyadh to the ground – a dispute over sovereignty. It is still held badly in some quarters. We will make you Turkish on account of your colouring, but it must be clear always that you are a Turkish trader not a soldier, do you see?’

  Wellsted nods. He is well aware that the Ottoman Empire is a well-built bully of a state which is outgrowing its borders like a muscle man bulges out of his clothes. The Turks’ territories extend to the Balkans in the west and well into Tunisia in northern Africa. Even though they have been booted northwards by the desert Arabs, they are bound to try their luck in the desert again and attempt to move the line of the border southwards and dominate the Peninsula once more, if they can.

  ‘I understand,’ he nods.

  The fat man’s cheeks gleam with sweat but he does not speak, only thinks for a moment about what Mickey has said and the white man’s response. He has been privy to a conversation about which he feels uncomfortable, as if the two men have been discussing matters of the harim or personal financial arrangements. He discards the information with a grunt and then heaves himself off the cushions and leaves the room. Mickey regards the tea glass before him and places it carefully back on the tray.

  ‘He is right,’ he says, ‘about your skin. You are very pale.’

  Wellsted shrugs. There is little he can do about his inability to pick up a tan. He has spent most of the last ten years on sailing ships, and if that hasn’t done the trick, nothing will. Instead, he turns his attention to the issues with which he will have to deal.

  ‘Do you believe, sir, that my life will be in danger from Kasim and Ibn Mohammed?’

  Mickey looks around as if Wellsted has made this comment in a crowded room and he is expecting it to draw attention. He leans in conspiratorially.

  ‘They won’t kill you. But they would let you die, I imagine.’

  ‘The oath of the caravan—’ Wellsted starts.

  Mickey stares at him with eyes so wide that the lieutenant stops mid-sentence. ‘The oath of the caravan applies, perhaps, to poor Bedu, or an oath between Muslim brothers, shall we say? Kasim and Ibn Mohammed owe you little. Less than that. Please, do not be naïve. They are only taking you on the sultan’s orders and it will be no shame to them if you die as long as they do not brandish the sword that kills you. Kasim and Ibn Mohammed have their uses but this is not how I would have chosen to rescue Dr Jessop and Lieutenant Jones. Please, make no mistake, Lieutenant, you mean as little to those men as a poor Catholic means to King William.’

  The lieutenant’s eyes narrow. ‘What?’ he says. ‘Whatever makes you say that?’

  ‘It is an expression one of my wives uses.’ Mickey almost blushes. ‘Is it not colloquial?’

  ‘No. Is your wife . . .?’

  ‘She is a white woman. British.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And not a believer as it happens,’ Mickey continues. ‘In my religion or her own.’

  Before Mickey can say any more, the fat man returns with a bundle of clothes and insists on Wellsted stripping to try them on. He motions his instructions and peers short-sightedly without reservation at the lieutenant’s legs, which are so white that he judges them almost blue. One robe after another is discarded until they come to a plain blue jubbah, which is slipped over a pair of loose, red trousers. Then Mickey demonstrates the correct manner to drape a white kaffiya and shows Wellsted how to holster his khandjar, which is visible to all and a Turkish knife, a small, razor-sharp, one-sided dagger, which is hidden within easy reach. The khandjar, however, is pure Arab. The curved blade is sheathed in an ornate casing as is the fashion, with silver filigree over the moulded leather.

  ‘It is beautiful.’ Wellsted handles the weapon.

  ‘You must learn to use it,’ Mickey shrugs.

  His own khandjar is so encrusted in decoration that it is difficult to believe it can be used for killing, though in Mickey’s comfortable Muscat life there is little need for violence and his knife is, in truth, entirely ceremonial. By contrast, Wellsted’s weapon is quite restrained in design. Mickey says nothing about it though he feels vaguely paternal as he buckles it over the lieutenant’s belly, for it is a father’s duty to give his son his first khandjar. Then he carefully demonstrates where to fasten the two worn leather belts that the fat man hands to him, smooth as His Lordship’s valet.

  ‘This way you can carry a skin of water easily,’ he explains.

  Last of all, the fat man brings thin, leather shoes and helps Wellsted to step into them. Mickey is delighted, moving a stray fold of fabric to one side as he peers at the details.

  ‘Like this,’ he insists. ‘Like this. It is foreign but not too foreign. Good. I think perhaps you might even be a noble Turkish man. An effendi. We shall call you Kalil Aga Effendi. You will have to grow a beard, of course,’ he muses, surveying the result carefully as the fat man pulls Wellsted’s naval uniform into an untidy pile and hands it over, swapping the uniform with Mickey for payment – a small goatskin pouch with its hair completely worn away. The sound of clinking metal demonstrates that the purse contains coins but, it seems to Wellsted, unusual for an Arabian deal, that the amount has not been discussed.

  ‘Kalil Aga Effendi,’ Wellsted repeats.

  ‘Yes. Looking like this you will pass,’ Mickey pronounces, slipping a thin band of tarnished gold onto Wellsted’s index finger as a finishing touch. ‘You look like a Turk, from a distance at least.’

  Wellsted gazes down at his robes. ‘The man who owned these . . .?’ he wonders out loud.

  The fat man shrugs his shoulders. ‘Dead,’ he pronounces. ‘He died of the fever last week and his slaves sold everything.’

  ‘I see.’ Wellsted does not feel uneasy.

  ‘You can ride a camel already?’ Mickey checks.

  ‘Yes. The first time I rode a camel,’ Wellsted starts good-humouredly on his campfire story which has stood him in good stead, but Mickey stops him short, waving off the fat man’s offer of the customary parting frankincense as he makes for the door.

  ‘That is fine,’ he commands. ‘Come now, Lieutenant.’

  He bows curtly to the fat man, who looks relieved not to have to endure the ritual of perfuming his guests before their departure. Then Mickey leads the way back down the staircase.

  As they wind through the dusty, cobblestone alleyways back towards his office, Mickey picks up his pace. ‘Come,’ he says. ‘They will be provisioning themselves – but it will not be long before they summon you. We must hasten to my office. Come. Come.’

  ‘Rashid,’ he calls as they enter the doorway. ‘Bring me Rashid! Climb the stairs, Lieutenant Wellsted. We are running out of precious moments. It is my duty to make you ready – to give you the very best chance of survival. Rashid! My assistant will show you the most important thing.’

  Wellsted brightens. ‘And what is that?’ he enquires curiously.

  Mickey looks at him askance and then reaches into one of the cubby holes behind his desk. He tosses a small rug in the lieutenant’s direction. Wellsted sees it is of a Turkish design – red with a traditional, intricate gold and black pattern. Mickey motions for him to lay the carpet on the ground.

  ‘Why, you must learn how to pray, sir. You must be part of the brotherhood. You will perform wudu, you will understand the direction of Makkah. This prayer mat will be your own mosque in the desert. How could you be one of us, how could yo
u be Turkish or a nobleman without it? You must learn immediately how to pray.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Zena watches the fuss from her window and she is glad the slavers are leaving town. At Ibn Mohammed’s compound more than a dozen thoroughbred camels are gathered, some for riding and some which will serve as pack animals. The riding camels are tethered in the shade while the supplies are loaded onto their cousins. The doors to the courtyard are open and the expedition’s activities spill onto the street.

  Ibn Mohammed inspects what the men are doing. He kicks one of the bearers hard, then he hits the man in the face for some mistake. The slave falls to the ground but does not fight the rain of punches and Ibn Mohammed gets bored and walks away. Watching from the shade, insouci ant, Kasim loiters, while another slave grooms his horse. The little monkey climbs the litter that will be hoisted onto one of the baggage camels, jumps to the ground and then starts climbing again. Kasim orders the animal be taken away – the monkey will not be going on the trip.

  Three Bedu wait silently nearby with a still and endless patience that draws Zena’s eyes to them, while Ibn Mohammed moves quickly, checking ropes and inspecting the goatskins, two wicker cages of chickens, an over-stuffed sack of flour and two huge boughs of dates that will keep the party supplied between oases. All the while, Ibn Mohammed causes ructions in his wake, the bearers each nervous he will target them next, keeping their heads down and refusing to meet his eye.

  Zena thinks that the weeks have worked some kind of magic. She is not afraid of these men any more. Now she merely loathes them and everything they stand for. She watches the compound carefully though she isn’t sure why. There is, she keeps telling herself, nothing she can do. She licks the final smears from the plate of pudding she has eaten for breakfast and settles down on the cushions. It is good to feel her body filling out again. This morning there is a little roll of fat around her hips. She leans back and kicks her legs in the air so she can feel it wobble. Then she laughs. She is no longer the terrified child who arrived, half-starved, jumpy and desperate.

  Every evening, she dances and laughs with the master. Whether he brings back one of his slave boys or not, he still lingers at her side, orders her to perform and talks a little of his day which, it turns out, comprises of an endless round of social calls interspersed with some shopping and a game or two of shesh besh of which he is clearly fond. In contrast to her daytimes, the evenings are frantic. Two days ago the master ordered drums for his room, which one of the slave boys plays with great skill. The way he pounds the rhythm reminds Zena of the drums of celebration in her village. Now and again, the master rises to dance to the cadence, though he has no natural elegance. Still, he grabs one of the silk scarves and whirls it over his head, trying to copy the sinuous movements of her hips, though he cannot. At least it makes him laugh. When he has done, he watches her dancing alone and then sometimes they kiss but it never goes any further. Kissing Zena makes the master downhearted so she cheers him with stories of the hills near Bussaba and the cosmopolitan traders she met when she lived there. He likes her descriptions of the men’s clothes and asks about their individual tastes – some will not eat pig and some will not eat any animal. Each god makes myriad demands of its believers and Zena and her grandmother always complied with the travellers’ requests, or rather those of their individual deities. The master is fascinated.

  ‘So the men who wear ostrich feathers – what do they believe?’ he asks. ‘And the ones with orange turbans – will they never cut their hair?’

  Zena tries to explain the tenets of Animism or the Sikh refusal to shave. Her knowledge, in truth, is sketchy and she makes things up where she has to, but it keeps him amused between the drums and the dancing. Sometimes she rubs his feet with thick, scented oil, which appeared one day in a brass phial on one of the low tables. They think of everything.

  If he desires one of his boys, he dismisses Zena and she sleeps on the cool tiles outside his door, but if the master is alone she lies next to him on the bed. It is more comfortable, of course, but difficult to settle. He drapes his arm around her and passes out immediately, snoring so loudly that Zena only dozes in and out of consciousness beside him. There is, of course, plenty of time for sleeping during the day and on the days after she spends the night in his bed the food that is sent from the kitchen is better. She thinks to herself that it is difficult now to imagine what it feels like to be hungry when her belly is full. The slaves bring everything she needs before she has to think of it for herself. Still, she’d give a day’s food to be free to venture out and explore the city she can see from her window. Or, the thought occurs to her, a week’s food to choose for herself who she would like to kiss.

  She shifts on the low, wooden divan, distracted by this notion. She tries not to dwell on it, despite herself. Daydreaming of how things could be better only means feeling more discontented with the way things are. Zena does not jump up when the door opens. The sidis come and go throughout the day and she scarcely notices them now. She turns comfortably onto her side and closes her eyes. There is a pause of absolute silence and then the slave girl’s repose is disturbed by the loud crack of clapping. Zena opens her eyes and peers over the back of the padded bench where she is horrified to see the Abyssinian who bought her all those weeks ago. He has his hands on his hips and a stern expression on his face. The man has never visited the room in all the time Zena has been in residence. Something has clearly come to pass and immediately she jumps up to make her salaams.

  ‘Ah!’ he says with a sneer. ‘So I have caught your attention at last.’

  The Abyssinian motions her to turn so he can inspect her, taking his time to do so. His eyes move across her skin carefully as if he is checking her for damage.

  ‘Take off the jewellery,’ he orders.

  ‘Why?’ Zena asks.

  It is an innocent question but the man only claps his hands in fury and points at her as if he might have her beaten for her insolence.

  ‘Do it, girl! Who do you think you are?’

  Slowly, Zena removes the bangles, the ankle chain with its tiny bells and a ring. With some difficulty she pulls free the string of beads that have been woven into her hair and the seed pearls that fall from her earlobes like tiny raindrops. She carefully deposits the tangle of finery on the colourful cushions where she has been sitting and no longer meets his eyes. The Abyssinian is not fond of her like the master is, and she realises that she has behaved inappropriately. The slave master inspects her once more until, seemingly satisfied, he turns to leave the room.

  ‘Come,’ he orders, motioning with his finger.

  Zena does not ask where they are going.

  Outside the room, two house slaves are waiting – both male. They fall into line and wordlessly follow the Abyssinian through the shady hallways. As her bare feet slap against the smooth tiles, she wonders if she is going to be bathed or if the master has decided to move rooms or perhaps even give her a small room with a bed of her own. During her sojourn in the master’s quarters she has never explored any further than the tiles outside his door. The house is as labyrinthine as she remembers it and it occurs to her that it is odd she has never ventured down these corridors for herself. Like a tame bird, she has stayed where she was put despite the door of her cage being left open, and all her dreams of escaping the household. Now, from behind one closed door she hears two women laughing and behind another the sound of a string instrument played poorly, as if by a child. Three sidis pass, carrying trays of food decorated with gemlike green grapes and slivers of orange. Zena can no longer smell a meal before she sees it but she does wonder whose breakfast the lavish achettes contain.

  The master never talks of his relations, other than to sneer at his father’s marital intentions for him. Now Zena realises that there must be fifty people living in this vast house and that is not counting the slaves. It’s a large family – wives and children, all in separate rooms around the compound. She wonders suddenly what the other
women are like and if, unlike her, they move freely, even visit each other during the day. Each household has its own rules on such matters. I might explore later, she thinks as she anxiously turns her head, trying to take it all in – and to memorise the path back to the only place she belongs now – her master’s chamber.

  At last, they descend the stairs and come into the courtyard where she first entered the house several weeks ago. A thin Nubian in a vivid green jubbah and a red embroidered cap, stands in the shade of a palm, sipping a glass cup of coffee. The Abyssinian bows.

  ‘Here she is,’ he says.

  Zena feels suddenly uneasy. What is this man doing here? The hairs on the back of her neck prickle, her fingers are numb and her heart is pounding. She senses something is wrong and pulls away as one of the slaves tethers her smoothly with a rope. Her stomach is turning over and her hands are shaking and sweating at once.

  ‘What is happening? What have I done?’ she pleads quietly, her eyes wide as she whispers to the slaves, her breath sweet and milky.

  No one answers, no one will meet her gaze or even pay her the least attention as the rope is tied tightly around her wrist and a veil of sheer silk to cover her for modesty’s sake, is placed over her head. It is as if she is as inconsequential as she is invisible – everyone else here seems to know what to do and none of them say a word.

  ‘He has spoiled this one, she is very indulged,’ the Abyssinian says to the Nubian, ‘but she is beautiful and her Arabic is excellent. I am sure she will fall into line with some proper handling.’

  ‘She dances?’ the Nubian enquires as he surveys her carefully, bending down to get a proper look and pulling the veil aside.

  ‘I believe so.’

  The Nubian nods, as if striking a bargain. ‘You are right about her beauty. My master has instructed me to say that your master honours him. In settling his debt so generously, he settles it with honour. Subhan Allah.’ Glorious is Allah.