The Cobra & the Concubine (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind)

by Bonnie Vanak

  That rage blazed in Jabari’s eyes when he spoke again. "I considered you my brother. I gave you a position of highest honor, to be falcon guard to Badra." The sheikh paused.

  "You know I love Badra like a sister. When you came and offered for her hand, I thought it a good match."

  "But Badra turned me down." Kenneth looked away.

  "I could not force her hand." Jabari laid his palms open on his knees. Kenneth remembered the gesture. It meant, What do you want from me? Memories arose: Badra’s refusal. Her velvet soft voice cutting him to the bone.

  "No, you could not force her hand," Kenneth agreed. "But you didn’t even encourage her to reconsider. No, you let me walk away with my grandfather back to England. Sometimes I wonder if you ever really considered me your true brother." Bitterness dripped from his words; silence hung in the tent.

  Jabari’s voice thundered. "You lie!" The sheikh took a deep breath and fisted his trembling hands. "Not my brother? Not my brother, Kenneth? No, not a blood brother, a brother much closer."

  Jabari glanced down at his side, at the jeweled wedding dagger strapped there. He removed the blade. In a swift move, it sailed through the air. The symbol of Hassid kinship landed inches from Kenneth’s boots.

  "I gave you this—the Hassid wedding dagger, handed down for hundreds of years through blood. You refused it. You denied me as your brother. Not I!"

  Kenneth studied the blade that had cut him off from the tribe that raised him, from the brother who loved him. In his own way, he had rejected Jabari as cruelly as Badra had rejected him. His heart twisted as he continued staring at the dagger. It pierced the carpet like a dividing line, reminding him of the ties he’d cut with his former brethren.

  Khamsin no longer.

  The sheikh could not ever forgive such a tremendous insult. But if he knew the reasons behind the refusal...

  "Jabari, why do you think I refused your dagger?"

  The sheikh lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, facing Kenneth with an air of dignified pride. "Because you turned your back on everything Egyptian. You were turning your back on me because, when you found out you would become a wealthy English duke, you were ashamed of us. Of me as your brother."

  "Ashamed of you?" Kenneth let loose a short bark of laughter. "My God, all this time ... you thought I was some high-handed English snob?"

  Ramses and Jabari stared at him as if he’d lost his wits. "What exactly is so amusing?" Ramses asked evenly.

  Kenneth gulped down a breath. "Everything. You thought I was ashamed. I was—but not of you. It took all my strength to board that ship and leave behind this life, everything I had known and honored and loved." He continued to laugh.

  Pure bewilderment crossed their faces. "Perhaps the desert heat has affected his brain," Ramses suggested.

  Swallowing his pride, Kenneth struggled to continue. "Do you know why I said what I did?" Not waiting for an answer, he forged on, knowing only the painful truth would heal the past. Kenneth summoned every inch of his strength.

  "I was ashamed, Jabari. But not of you. Ashamed to tell you how deeply I cared for Badra and how much her rejection hurt. You told me to keep the dagger for the day I would marry. How could I even think of marrying another? Badra was my life. For five years, I guarded her every step. I watched her every move, I cherished her. And she refused me. Your words mocked me. They were like that dagger, lacerating my heart."

  Pausing, he forced out the words he had not admitted to anyone. "I loved her."

  He continued, pouring out his confession to his foster brother. "If Elizabeth, the woman you love more than your own life, had spurned your marriage offer, and then I came to you and cheerfully handed you a symbol of marriage, what would you have done? Would you not have lashed out in anger? Wouldn’t you have boarded that ship and made certain you could never go back?"

  Ramses’ mouth shifted as his amber eyes widened. Both he and Jabari exchanged glances. The sheikh looked guilty as he rubbed his bearded chin.

  "Allah, I did not realize how deeply you cared. I thought your pursuit of her was mere determination, the same zeal you displayed with everything. Not something deeper and more meaningful," Jabari finally said.

  "It was," Kenneth replied. "And leaving was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. You were family. The desert was home. The idea of living as an English aristocrat terrified me. Hell, I didn’t even know if they had good horses there. If the English could ride."

  The sheikh relaxed noticeably, seemingly lost in thought. After a moment he asked, "Do you remember the riding test at your initiation?"

  Kenneth chuckled. "A warrior had to ride his mare through a series of intricate moves." He’d had a different experience.

  Ramses grinned slyly. "How we pulled you aside and told you that the real test was a test of manhood?"

  Ramses and Jabari had ushered him into the mud brick home of the village whore, an experienced woman known to initiate young warriors. They’d told him his riding test was how long he could last with the woman. He’d lost his virginity that day.

  "You bragged to Father you were the only warrior who could stay on for a full fifteen minutes," Jabari recalled.

  "And he said, ‘My son, you must learn to ride longer. To be a warrior means riding hours upon end. You may get sore, but it is your duty. Show your mount you are the master. Be gentle but firm. Stroke her nose to gentle her. Do not dismount if she shows signs of wanting to throw you. Hang on with your knees and ride her until she tires,’" Kenneth reminisced.

  "So you went back, determined to do as he said!" Jabari howled with laughter.

  Kenneth grinned. "She hit me when I stroked her nose but I hung on tight as he instructed."

  "I heard she could not walk for a week—but had a smile on her face for equally as long. You should have married her instead of chasing Badra." Ramses laughed, then abruptly stopped.

  Jabari rubbed his bearded chin. "So, Khepri, tell us what you wanted to discuss."

  Khepri. As if he’d formally restored the ties between them. The use of the Khamsin name indicated the sheikh’s acceptance. A calming peace settled over Kenneth. He drew in a breath, glad for it, for what he was about to tell them would hurt. More.

  "It’s a matter of tomb robbery." Kenneth paused for effect, noting the men’s startled looks. Ramses appeared angry. Jabari’s thunderstruck expression was almost comical.

  "I’m here investigating thefts from the tomb at Dashur, the excavation I’ve been sponsoring. A priceless gold artifact vanished from there shortly after its discovery."

  Ramses growled and settled one hand on his scimitar hilt. More than any other Khamsin warrior, he despised tomb robbers.

  But Jabari’s face filled with disquiet. "You are not here to share information, Khepri. Why do you tell us this?"

  Kenneth reached into his waistcoat and withdrew the lone piece of evidence found in the tomb. The torn strip of indigo dangled from his fingers like a noose. A sharp intake of breath escaped the sheikh. Ramses looked stricken and swore softly.

  "It is no Khamsin who does this evil," the guardian denied. "Someone is laying the blame at our feet."

  "This means nothing," the sheikh agreed, even as his bronzed cheeks paled. "Elizabeth, Rashid and Badra were at the excavation with me. Perhaps Elizabeth tore her garment."

  "Perhaps. Or perhaps someone fascinated by artifacts wanted a closer examination than accorded in the tomb. And stole it."

  "You dare accuse Jabari of thievery?" Ramses exclaimed.

  "No. Rashid."

  Dismay tightened Jabari’s face. "Are you certain?" the sheikh asked.

  "I found the item in question in Rashid’s bag when he was staying with your father-in-law."

  There was silence. Then: "And what will you do? Turn him over to English authorities?" Grief touched Jabari’s face.

  "No. I will preserve Khamsin honor and not shame the tribe that raised me. I could have ordered Rashid’s arrest. It would have created a public sensation in
the newspapers. I did not." He drew in a laboring breath. "I came to you instead."

  The sheikh looked visibly relieved. "How may we help?"

  "I’m certain Rashid is working with smugglers. He’ll probably use Badra to gain access to the dig. He’s used her before. Don’t act surprised if she requests to join the excavation, probably as an artist. I’m heading there now to catch Rashid. Once I do, I’ll turn him over to you to punish as you see fit."

  The three men fell silent, knowing tribal law. Rashid would be banished, stripped of his scimitar, dagger and indigo, and shunned forever.

  "So be it," Jabari said slowly. "I trust you will do what you must and I hope you are wrong. Very wrong."

  "I as well." But Kenneth knew Rashid was guilty.

  As they stood, the sheikh clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I hope you will stay with us, at least for the evening."

  "I would be honored," he replied formally.

  He blinked at the sunlight as they emerged from the tent. "And how is your son, Jabari?"

  As if in answer, there came a loud hooting sound. Kenneth turned his head as a brown-skinned boy, wheat-colored hair flying in the breeze, raced by on chubby legs.

  "Ah, yes, my son. Tarik thinks he is a horse."

  Tarik galloped circles around the trio. Stark naked.

  "Poo!" he shrieked.

  Jabari looked resigned. "We are trying to teach him English and Arabic. Arabic he has handled better than English. The only English word he knows is ‘poo.’"

  At Kenneth’s inquiring look, Jabari sighed, looking more like a beleaguered father than an arrogant, proud sheikh. "He learned the word after Badra taught him to say it for the other matter of equal concern to us."

  "Reading?"

  "Using the latrine. Tarik uses the word for everything."

  Kenneth laughed as the toddler raced around them, screaming. "Where is his clothing?" he asked.

  "He threw it down the latrine again."

  Ramses laughed uproariously, holding his sides. Jabari scowled. "Just you wait, my friend, until it is your turn. You have twins. Twice the trouble. I will be the one laughing then."

  Kenneth glanced down at the sheikh’s son. He squatted, propping his chin onto a fist. "Hello, Tarik," he said in Arabic.

  The child ground to an abrupt halt and stared, his large, dark eyes holding Kenneth’s. Desert wind blew his hair. He stuck a finger in his mouth and stared.

  Kenneth held out a hand. Sunlight caught the gleam of his ducal onyx ring, making it gleam. Noticing Tarik’s fascinated stare, he slid it from his finger and held it up.

  "Pretty?" he suggested in Arabic.

  The toddler took the ring with a wondering look in his eyes. Behind him, he heard Jabari say, "Khepri, I do not think that is wise ..."

  "Poo!" shrieked Tarik. He tore away from them, Kenneth’s ring in hand, heading straight for the latrines in the distance. Ramses galloped after him and swung Tarik up into his arms. He grinned as he handed Jabari back his son and Kenneth his ring.

  "Your ring was headed for a most foul burial, my friend. And do not think for a minute I would have retrieved it."

  Kenneth glanced at the symbol of his duchy and pocketed it. "Safer here," he murmured.

  In truth it felt too heavy for his finger, too foreign. Like many things these days.

  Chapter Twelve

  Much later, Kenneth came to dinner at the sheikh’s tent.

  In a move perfected over the years, he gracefully sat on the carpet. He felt odd in English dress in this desert tent, but familiar surroundings eased his displacement: desert wind blowing across the sands, the sharp scent of cooking fires, the soft laughter of women. Hunger assaulted him as Elizabeth and Katherine set dish after dish on a small raised dais.

  Jabari quirked an eyebrow at him as Kenneth stared at the platters. Roast lamb rolled in rice. Small savory pastries. Stacks of flat bread and yogurt sauce. Garlic. He could smell the fragrances wafting up from the dishes. After a year of heavy beef dishes swimming in rich cream sauces, he found his appetite returning.

  "We thought you’d enjoy a few of your favorites," the sheikh commented.

  A few. Kenneth’s gaze met his, and he saw the former affection resting there. A lump rose in his throat. This, more than mere words, demonstrated all Jabari did not say.

  Welcome back. Welcome home.

  Kenneth hid his emotions as the sheikh broke off some flat bread, dipped it into the sauce and handed it to him, serving the guest first as was customary. Kenneth ate and sighed with pleasure.

  Tarik sat in his mother’s lap, looking wide-eyed at the food. Sitting sandwiched between Ramses and Katherine were two babies about a year old, a girl and boy identical in their ebony hair and brilliant green eyes. Fatima and Asad, their twins.

  Elizabeth took a wedge of flat bread smeared with yogurt and gave it to Tarik. The child examined it with the seriousness of an archaeologist studying a pyramid, then threw it into his father’s face. White goo dripped from Jabari’s black beard.

  "Poo!" Tarik said happily.

  "Ah, yes. My son. The future leader of our people," Jabari said dryly, wiping his face with a clean cloth.

  Tarik blew through his lips, and Elizabeth smirked.

  "Here, let me. I remember what your father did to me. He kept telling me in Arabic to eat, and that was the first Arabic word I learned." Kenneth reached for the child. The toddler felt warm and soft in his arms as he adjusted Tarik on his knees. He felt a brief stab of longing for a baby of his own with large chocolate eyes, just like Badra’s. He took a small piece of flat bread and scooped up a bit of rice.

  "Eat," he said sternly in English, and repeated the word. Tarik opened his mouth. Kenneth popped the food inside. The toddler chewed the rice solemnly. Kenneth gave a smug grin. "Just have to show him who is in charge," he advised.

  Tarik’s parents exchanged amused glances. Then their son spat out the rice, spraying chewed grains all over Kenneth’s face.

  "Eat!" he burbled in English.

  Jabari and Elizabeth looked delighted. "Tarik learned a new English word! Thank you, Kenneth," Elizabeth said.

  "You’re most welcome," Kenneth replied, wiping away the sticky rice plastered to his cheeks.

  Tarik scampered off his lap and swaggered over to the twins, who were chewing on slices of flat bread. Tarik stopped before Fatima, snatching the bread from her hands. With his father’s aplomb, he plopped to the carpet and began eating it. A frown formed on Elizabeth’s brow, but Jabari held up a hand.

  "Wait," he said quietly. "I want to see what they will do."

  The adults waited, watching the children. Fatima regarded Tarik with wide, unblinking green eyes, then babbled something unintelligible to her brother. Her little fist shot out, snaring a thick lock of Tarik’s wheat-colored hair. She gave a hard yank.

  Tarik dropped the bread, howling, holding his hair, but the baby girl held it fast. Her brother Asad picked up the bread, gurgled and smacked Tarik with it, then handed it back to his sister. Tarik looked so woebegone and stunned, Kenneth laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks.

  "What a pair of little warriors you have, Ramses!"

  Ramses smiled proudly. "They take after their mother."

  Then they piled questions on Kenneth, inquiring about his new life, which he answered as diplomatically as possible. Kenneth felt a terrible nostalgia for what they had all once shared.

  To his shock, he watched Jabari and Ramses clear away the meal, the proud sheikh and his guardian bringing dishes over to soak in a large basin. Katherine gave Elizabeth a rueful smile.

  "Does he do the washing as well?" Kenneth asked.

  Elizabeth responded, "The nights I put Tarik to bed, he washes. Jabari says washing dishes is much easier on the ears. Dishes don’t scream."

  A while later, when the women had returned to their tents to settle the children, Kenneth sat with Ramses and Jabari. The three studied the stars studding the night sky.

  Kenneth gla
nced at the two men he’d considered brothers, the two he’d grown closer to than anyone else in the world. They had fought together, shed blood together, bonded as warriors in battle and the heat of death. How he wished he could recapture everything with them. Here, the responsibilities of being a duke slid off him like an old skin. Here, he could relax.

  Jabari laid his palms upon his knees, face up. Ramses exchanged glances with him.

  "Khepri? Do you wish to truly be bonded to us, Khepri? As a brother? Will you accept the blood-brother ceremony?"

  The sheikh’s formal tone hammered home the seriousness of the question. Kenneth did not hesitate. He gave a solemn nod.

  "So be it."

  Bare-chested, clad only in indigo trousers, the trio sat on the pebbled sand at the Khamsin ceremonial grounds. Firelight cast ominous shadows on their faces, which were striped with ash from burnt wood—the ceremonial facial tattoos that warriors donned the night prior to riding into battle.

  Kenneth braced himself and stared into the fire as Jabari took the ceremonial dagger and cleaned it. The sheikh raised it to the thick muscles of Kenneth’s left arm.

  "Are you certain?" he asked.

  Kenneth swung his head around to regard him, unblinking, spine straight and proud. "I’ve never been more certain in my life. I want to be your blood brother."

  "Very well."

  They settled their palms upon their knees and the sheikh uttered words in a deep, somber voice.

  "Blood to blood, brother to brother, the ankh, the symbol of life, binds us together for life. May courage flow through our veins; stout be our hearts and strong be our bond to each other. Even if we lie weak and shattered upon the point of death, our blood flows in each other’s veins, our link of brotherhood remains strong forever."

  Kenneth gritted his teeth hard as the knife dug into his flesh. He steeled himself against the pain, breathing evenly as Ramses had taught him in boyhood, to center himself. When it was finished, the sheikh wiped his arm with a cleansing cloth and passed the knife, shimmering with Kenneth’s blood, to Ramses.