‘I have something for you,’ he says.
Since her kidnap, the girl has received nothing that could be deemed a present. She feels wary. The master laughs. He’d love to see her festooned in silk, lace and diamonds, he thinks, but this gift is only a small thing.
‘It’s nothing dramatic,’ he says. ‘Here.’ He hands her a thin, cloth bag. ‘Only a sweet. I bought it from one of the stalls this evening.’
Zena sits up eagerly. She slips the plump jelly into her mouth and the taste of rose-water explodes. After weeks of unseasoned couscous, rice and bread interspersed with coffee and an occasional piece of meat, it feels almost magical to have this intensely sweet and delicate flavour. She makes an appreciative noise as it slips down her throat. Then she remembers she is supposed to be quiet and she giggles.
‘You seem happy.’
She nods. ‘I am.’ The admission surprises her. ‘Though I like Muscat better than Riyadh, the little of it I’ve seen, anyway.’
‘It is,’ the lieutenant comments, ‘a far more cosmopolitan place. I would expect nothing less from my Ethiopian princess.’
Zena starts. ‘I am your slave, sir,’ she points out. ‘I am not a princess.’
‘I will free you. I promise. Sometimes men call their girls “princess” where I come from, not as a title, you understand, but simply as a term of affection. Please, don’t worry. You must not like being owned, being a slave. Did you never want to run?’
‘They behead you if you run,’ she says simply. ‘An old sidi in Muscat told me so. Sometimes they cut off your legs.’
‘Not if you get away.’
‘I thought of it,’ she admits. ‘I thought of it many times. But I was too afraid.’
Wellsted nods. ‘I would run in your position. I think, if I got the chance, it would be the right thing to do.’
‘White men,’ Zena says, as everyone is always pointing out, ‘do not make good slaves.’
‘Well,’ he smiles, ‘perhaps that is why.’
There is a pause and they settle comfortably into the silence and watch the stars. Zena has never felt so close to anyone. Not even her grandmother. Yes, she thinks, loving the old lady felt different from this. His elbow brushes her shoulder as he moves and she feels the now familiar tingle rush through her body. But he does not do any more than that.
‘Master,’ Zena asks, for she is curious, ‘do you prefer men?’
Wellsted baulks. A lock of his hair escapes the kaffiya and flops over his eyes. ‘You mean, am I . . .?’
Zena’s eyes widen. The answer is clearly no. It is, all things given, to her mind a fair question. Still, the master seems shocked.
‘No, I don’t. I prefer women,’ he splutters.
His hand, gesticulating, lands on the crown of her head and he does not remove it. Wellsted is flustered and the girl seems so sure of herself – so cool about it. The truth is that for all the years he has on her, he has little practical experience in this kind of matter. In Bombay there are brothels aplenty. Many of the officers frequent them and enjoy an array of smooth, brown beauties for a shilling the night. For men who require the devotion of one woman the bibis are so plentiful that you can scoop them up like mackerel and install them in perfectly nice apartments where they wait, well-fed and patient upon your attention. Officers (mostly titled, with private monies and certainly intending to wed a respectable – and, most importantly, pale – society beauty back in London) have been known to indulge in a bibi or two, housed in separate quarters and still frequent the better bawdy houses. It has been remarked that the heat often brings on that sort of thing. To Wellsted this seemed always a waste of money and of time. Until now. How on earth could she ask him that question?
Zena does not pull away from her master’s touch. Instead, her body moves smoothly, like a fish in the water, closer to him. She rolls over and stares without flinching. Wellsted finds himself, without thinking, laying his hand on her belly, stroking her smooth skin, leaning in and touching her lips lightly with his own. Her mouth tastes sweet. His heart is pounding and when he kisses her it is as if the whole of Riyadh disappears – the wide sky, the hard surface of the roof, the date palms and the water wells. He cannot think. He can scarcely breathe. But he has no desire to either, he simply wants to keep kissing her.
Though she is trembling, Zena finds her rhythm. Her heart is pounding. She thinks, fleetingly, that this is nothing like kissing her master in Muscat. This is more like a dream where she is flying. She cannot stop any more than he can. She does not want to.
He puts his hand onto her thigh. Her skin is like silk. ‘Zena,’ he murmurs.
She answers by gently biting his shoulder. Her breathing is fast and she is murmuring – not real words, only noises.
‘Shhh, my dear,’ he coaxes her. ‘Do you know how? Have you ever?’
She kisses his cheek again and pulls the burquah over her head. Her body is beautiful. ‘Only with you,’ she assures him. ‘I want to only with you.’
Wellsted buries his face in her breasts before he moves his pale body on top of her dark one. Zena feels herself opening. She pushes against him and he swears he can feel the blood pulsing through her body as he slips inside her. God, it is heavenly. In English, he tells her he loves her. He’s known it for weeks, and uncomprehending, she wraps herself around him, a jumble of encompassing arms and legs. Who would have thought, it crosses her mind, that moving together, just moving together could be such a joy? No wonder women marry. No wonder men want to. No wonder. Wonder. Wonder.
‘You are everything,’ she breathes.
It is not until afterwards, when they both are sated, that he worries he might have done something awful, something damning and unkind. Zena is asleep now, her hand still cupping him beneath his jubbah. Senior officers in the mess bluster about their fellows who have gone jungly, as if it is the worst thing they can imagine. And yet it feels entirely natural. He’d be happy to stay here forever now. Perhaps, he thinks, he can arrange a suite of rooms for her wherever he is posted. He wants to look after this woman. He wants to be with her all the time. He reaches out and strokes the curly jumble of Zena’s hair and she murmurs, her voice heavy with sleep.
‘Master,’ she sighs.
And immediately he realises, with a sinking stomach, she does not even know his first name. The girl is still his property. The thought makes his gut turn. She could, in such circumstances, hardly turn him down. Does that make what they have just done, rape? No. No. She enjoyed him, he’s sure. But still, his conscience smarts. If she was free, he wonders, would she even want me? Did she consider this the payment she must make for his offer of freedom? He thinks, in panic, I have just taken a terrible liberty, a dreadful advantage like some old goat of a colonel grabbing a maidservant onto his knee. The idea rattles around his mind and it is very late when he falls finally into a fitful sleep.
In the morning when Wellsted wakes, she is already gone and the pang of loss that stings him is laced with confusion about what was right and what was wrong. He peers over the edge of the parapet and sees her at the fire, brewing coffee, her wrists held elegantly aloft as she pours. She is surrounded by the others and there will be no chance to talk at least until night falls again. Besides, he remembers, today is the day they have been moving towards for weeks. It’s the most important day of the whole trip. Today is the day they will liberate Jessop and Jones.
‘I must think on that,’ Wellsted tells himself. Surely nothing is more important.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Having endured four months of captivity, Dr Jessop has been trying to sleep during the day. He thought it was better to absent himself, or at least his consciousness, from the stifling goats’ wool tent when the sun was at its height. At the beginning, it is a fitful business, but after a few days he discovers his body easily becomes accustomed to the nocturnal habit. In fact, his body almost shuts down and he starts to sleep not only during the day, but for much of the night as well. Twice he almost doz
es through the dispersal of food and water. He is kicked awake roughly and the goatskin put to his lips before he has raised himself fully so that more of the foul water than usual slips down his chin and he does not have time for his stomach to turn before the rancid leftover scraps the man proffers are halfway down his throat.
Perhaps I am delirious, he thinks hopefully, though he knows the very fact he has thought it makes the diagnosis unlikely. Whatever is happening to his body, however, he is grateful for it. He is hopeful that it is a prelude, a steady step closer to the blessed relief of death. Perhaps he will pass in his sleep. He hopes it will be soon.
It is with surprise, then, that he is started awake by a rousing recitation of Joy to the World by Lieutenant Jones. Jones has taken to singing. It is, as far as Jessop can tell, some kind of escape for the poor soul and he chooses alternately, navy drinking songs (some with lyrics so lewd that the doctor, who received a first in anatomy, is unsure exactly to which part of the ladies’ body they refer, though obviously he understands the general gist) and the highlights of the Church of England hymnal. Sitting ramrod straight, Jones has gone for the godly choice today and is belting out the tune with his eyes bright, the tatters of his jubbah and the long locks of his filthy blonde hair swaying to the rhythm as he sings like a zealot on Christmas Day.
He is projecting his voice particularly well this morning, Jessop thinks, though he does smell worse than usual. Such niceties are not to be quibbled over, and at the least, the lieutenant’s recitation is diverting. After a minute or two, the tent flap is pulled aside and the curious face of a small boy appears as Jones embarks on the third verse.
No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found,
Far as the curse is found,
Far as, far as, the curse is found.
Joy to the world, our Saviour’s come.
The boy starts to laugh and Jessop finds himself laughing too. It is, of course, damn ridiculous. It’s nowhere near Christmas, he’s sure of it. And then, in the full flow of the chorus, Jones stops very suddenly. His entire body tenses for a moment as if in spasm and then he slumps in an unnatural fashion, his whole weight on the rope bound at his wrist. Jessop knows it is a painful position to hold, even for a moment.
‘God damn it,’ the doctor strains at his bonds to try to reach out and check Jones’ pulse. But he knows already. The lieutenant has died. There is no logic in it. Jones has retained far more of his body weight, he has even been allowed out of the tent on a regular basis, he has undoubtedly been better fed and he is younger by five years, but there it is. Jessop curses once more and then lets out a moan. ‘I want to die,’ he spits furiously. ‘It’s not fair. I want to die.’ He makes a strangled sound as his voice breaks in sorrow, but he cannot cry, for he is far too dehydrated to be able to waste tears. If only he could do so, he thinks, it might tip him over the edge. Instead, incandescent at the injustice of what has happened, he rages. ‘Why?’ he shouts, jerking like a thin goat tethered by his master and trying to get away. ‘Why?’
It makes no sense.
The boy watches the doctor’s tantrum silently from a distance. He scratches his chin. Then he edges further into the tent and keeping well clear of Jessop’s frame he pokes the prone body of Lieutenant Jones.
‘He’s dead, you fool,’ Jessop rounds on the child. ‘Dead. Mat,’ he intones, surprised at how easily the Arabic comes to him.
A grin spreads across the boy’s face as he understands and then he pokes Jones’ corpse once more. Then, em boldened by curiosity, he pulls the lieutenant’s head back by its filthy, ragged mat of blonde hair. An expression of absolute peace is evident on Jones’ face. He looks beatific. Jessop screams with frustration and this last, desperate sound is clearly heard elsewhere in the camp. In a rush, the entrance flap is pulled back and one of the guards enters the tent. With one hand he grabs hold of the boy, clearly afraid that despite their enfeebled state and the fact they are tied to the stake, the white men have put the child in danger. With his free hand, the man strikes Dr Jessop hard across the face. Then his eyes fall on Jones’ corpse and, unaccountably, given that he has systematically been doling out starvation rations for weeks, he looks perturbed that the lieutenant has finally succumbed to the harsh treatment. There is a pause that hangs heavily on the still air.
‘Your friends are here,’ the boy says quietly from the other side of the tent.
It is almost a whisper. Jessop is not sure that he has heard correctly but nonetheless, his mind races. He strains at his bonds. ‘What do you mean?’ he asks, frantically. ‘My friends? What did you say? What do you mean? Tell me.’
But the boy is ushered out quickly before he can say any more. The guard stares at Jones’ body for a moment and then decides that removal of this corpse is not a priority. He doesn’t even untie the ropes before he dashes from the tent without so much as wasting his time looking at the doctor.
Jessop considers a moment. He listens carefully but he cannot tell what is going on. Still, he is sure what the boy said. It is a damn shame about Jones, he thinks. To have come so far and peg out just as something interesting seems about to happen is very bad luck, especially since all along it was Jones who expected a rescue party. He was the one who had had the faith. As the doctor strains with all his might against the bonds, he finds that, after all, his long-banished hope is easy enough to rekindle and he has the energy to rally. He has no idea of the identity of the friends to whom the boy referred but he cannot imagine them to be worse than his enemies, or for that matter, any circumstance in which his situation could appreciably worsen. So, as excitement flares in his empty stomach, he takes a deep breath and makes himself known.
‘Help! In here! In here!’ he shouts loudly, the rope already cutting into his thin wrists. It is the first struggle he has put up in weeks.
At this moment he considers the pain to be edifying. If anything, it makes him feel more alive. As he pauses for breath, he is more than somewhat surprised that he doesn’t want to die after all. He’ll take any chance of help. He’ll grasp at the very thread of life if it’s offered. How wonderful.
‘I am Dr Jessop of the ship Palinurus! I am a subject of His Majesty and I require assistance. Help me! For God’s sake! Help!’
The good doctor does not stop shouting when the guard returns.
‘I’m here!’ he screams, ignoring the man. The jailor eyes him as if the Nazarene is a recalcitrant camel and then he hits the prisoner on the jaw with such force that the doctor passes out immediately, slumped beside his fellow officer’s corpse.
‘They will not hear you,’ the man snarls, the hatred oozing from his voice, and he rubs his hand.
It hurt to administer the blow, but he could not have the prisoner shouting like that. The emir would be furious. The ruler has become more tetchy than usual the last day or two – ever since he heard the slavers’ caravan was almost at Riyadh. The guard walks back into the blazing sunshine and wonders what will happen today, for never before have they received visitors of such renown as the two famous slavers. Now the caravan has arrived, the camp is buzzing with rumours of people who are both whiter and blacker than usual and all the news they can wring from the visitors (albeit three months out of date) from Muscat.
Chapter Thirty-Three
As the slavers’ party approaches the emir’s encampment, the scattered tents are coming to life. When there is shelter, it is the custom to rest in the middle of the day though that time is now passing and shortly the whole camp will emerge to drink coffee, play games, talk and, of course, inspect the visitors more thoroughly. Emerging from the tent flaps new faces eagerly search the caravan for points of interest and land on the inevitable – Wellsted’s blue eyes, the famous slavers and Zena’s dark skin evidenced only by what is visible around her eyes, hands and feet. A child points.
Zena turns inwards, towards the
camel. ‘They can hardly see any of me,’ she murmurs, expecting that the creature will understand better than anyone. For a moment she thinks of her nakedness on the roof the night before. ‘Perhaps,’ she mouths, ‘we will have to fly.’
There is certainly a sense among the men that this is the most dangerous part of the mission. Kasim came up to her that morning and, out of the blue, assigned her a khandjar. He has scarcely spoken to her the whole journey and all the way she has masked her loathing successfully.
‘We may need you to use this,’ he says.
She nods silently and stows the knife in the sleeve of her burquah. It is completely plain, unlike the heavily adorned weapons that Kasim and Ibn Mohammed holster at their waists, or even Wellsted’s middle-of-the-road specimen. Zena does not care about the fripperies of her knife’s decoration, for, she tells herself, if necessary it will do the job just as well as if it was encrusted in emeralds. Now her fingers find it and she holds the horned handle for comfort. Though she has never before been armed, she has watched Wellsted sparring with Kasim for practice all the way from the south, and she is sure she has some idea of what to do with the blade, should the need arise. It is a good feeling. Yesterday, she thinks, was an amazing day and full of surprises. She chooses the word for how she feels carefully: she is transformed. She cannot stop thinking about what happened on the roof. It is madness, she thinks. A wonderful madness.
Since they rode out that morning, Wellsted has caught her eye several times. On such occasions she smiles spontaneously and he grins back. Nothing has changed, of course. The white man owns her – he can do as he pleases and if it pleases Zena too, so much the better. She is pragmatic. She feels strangely whole though and also powerful. Yes, powerful – that’s the word. She is glad that she waited so long to do that midnight dance. She is glad her first master did not demand it of her in Muscat and now she thinks on it, she is even glad that the slavers came to her village when they did. Any longer and her father almost certainly would have married her off. A girl of fourteen or fifteen is considered a spinster, never mind one who has seen a full seventeen summers. But to wait for Wellsted was right. She likes him. Like seems too small a word for it. Enjoy is perhaps better. Love. Love is best of all. It is the first time in a long while that her daydreams have not included the fantasy of managing to get away. She is simply too busy thinking of what they did the night before and letting it take her over completely. She feels that she is on the cusp of something truly liberating. Under the circumstances, it is an odd sensation.
Secret of the Sands Page 22