Enslaved By The Desert Trader

Chapter Three

There is nothing eternal but the Gods, Kiya told herself, watching the trader disappear into the thick willow and tamarisk foliage surrounding the oasis pool. She pressed her bonds across the jagged ribs of the date palm. Everything else is temporary.

The twine was made of unusual green fibres—not papyrus, something finer. Hemp, perhaps. It was exceptionally strong, but Kiya knew that even the strongest bonds could be broken. She had seen captive crocodiles do it with ease. If they could do it, why not Kiya?

What she could not do was become a slave. She had seen them on the streets of Memphis. They followed their owners like dogs, their shoulders slumped, their eyes cloudy and lifeless. Nay—she would rather die and become lost in the corridors of the Underworld than serve someone else in this one.

Not that the trader cared a fig about what she thought or felt. He had not wavered, even when she had told him about her starving family, of the souls who stood to perish if she did not return.

It had been a lie, of course. She did not have a starving family. She did not have anyone at all, in fact. But it didn’t matter: he had failed the test. He, like most of his profession, was soulless, completely without a ka. And his certainty of the coming flood was beyond arrogance. Only a seer or High Priest could ever know such a thing. Certainly not a trader.

She rubbed the twine against the rough palm ribs and soon tiny ribbons of smoke began to weave into the air. She intensified her effort, remembering his stinging words. Foolish and decadent, he had called her. Spoiled and superior. Was that what the Libu thought of the Khemetians? Was that how they justified their raids?

The trader had denied being a Libu, though he bore the Libu scar—a brutish, crescent-shaped gash beside his eye. And he wore the long purple robes of a Libu, though they did not suit him. His broad, deeply contoured chest stretched against the thin fabric, threatening to break the seams. And his strange, liquid blue eyes suggested unusual origins. He was quite attractive, in truth.

For a fiend.

Her hands burst apart. She quickly untied her feet and leapt into a run. The soft sand gave beneath her, revealing her footprints, but soon she spied a patch of hardpan. She headed towards it, not stopping until her footprints were no longer visible upon the naked ground. Then she stopped. She had an idea. Carefully, she began to walk backwards in the very same footprints she had made.

This he would not expect. He would follow her footprints east, towards the Great River. Meanwhile, she would be in hiding back at the oasis, where he would eventually return, defeated and exhausted, and quickly fall asleep. He would not even hear the gentle hoofbeats of his strange beast as she rode it off into the night.

By the Gods, she wished it were night already, and not so impossibly hot. The Sun God bored into her skull, melting her thoughts and sapping all that was left of her strength. As her head began to swim a memory flooded in... ‘Stay awake, Mother,’ young Kiya whispered, crouching by her mother’s side in the shadowy chamber. ‘We must try to escape.’

Evil men had breached the walls of the harem and invaded the concubines’ chambers. The panicked women and children had been running barefoot past the doorway of her mother’s chamber, seeking their escape beyond the harem walls.

‘Come with me, little one,’ a voice had urged.

It had been one of the escaping concubines. She had stopped in her mother’s doorway and held her hand out to Kiya.

‘Come now, we have little time.’ The woman had glanced at the empty vials that littered the floor beneath the bedframe. ‘You must leave your mother here. Already she has begun her journey.’

‘My daughter will sssstay with me!’ Kiya’s mother had slurred, rousing herself from her stupor. ‘Leave us to our fate!’ Her eyes had rolled back in her head. ‘Beware the three serpents, my daughter,’ she’d told Kiya, gripping her small arm. ‘Each will try to take your life.’

‘She is not in her right mind, dear,’ the woman in the doorway had said. ‘Come quickly!’

‘The third will succeed,’ her mother had continued. ‘Unless you become like—’

Her mother’s grip had been too strong—Kiya hadn’t been able to pull away. ‘Mama, please. We must flee. The bad men are coming!’

‘All men are bad, Kiya. Remember, they only wish to possess you, to enslave you.’

By the time Kiya’s mother had finally released Kiya’s arm the woman in the doorway had gone.

‘Conceal yourself under the bed,’ Kiya’s mother had instructed. She’d reached for the largest of the vials, uncorked the bottle, and drunk down its cloudy contents. ‘Do not fear, my beautiful little daughter. They will not find you. And they will not take me alive.’

Kiya had felt hot tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘Please do not go, Mama! Do not leave me alone.’

But Kiya’s mother had lain her head upon her wooden headrest for the last time and slipped soundlessly into her world of dreams.

‘Beware the three serpents,’ whispered her mother’s voice again now.

Startled, Kiya looked all around her. There was not a single soul in sight.

‘Each will try to take your life,’ the voice resounded.

Kiya looked up at the sky, half expecting to see her mother’s face staring down at her. There was nothing. She looked to the ground, as if at any moment a serpent might materialise upon her foot.

‘The third will succeed, unless you become like...’

Like what?

Kiya slapped herself on the cheek. The skin on her head had begun to boil and her mouth was dry, as if full of fibres. She knew that if she did not get out of the sun soon she would quickly lose her will to do it. Abandoning her plan, she broke into a run, heading as fast as she could back to the oasis, where the trader was nowhere to be seen. Heedless of anything but her own smouldering skin and desperate thirst, she dived into the oasis pool and let the cool water caress her. She drank her fill, then disappeared into the depths.

When she finally emerged for a breath she heard men’s voices, nearing the pool. They were speaking in a deep, guttural tongue that she recognised immediately. Libu.

Her heart hammered as she cowered into a shady stand of flute reeds growing in the water on the far bank. She found the longest of the reeds and snapped it in half, then sank down against the bank, breathing slowly through the natural straw.

In moments a group of men arrived at the pool’s edge. Their blurred figures were difficult to see through the water, but Kiya noticed their purple headdresses and the long copper blades that hung from their belts. The men spoke excitedly—joyfully, even. As their donkeys bent to drink, Kiya could see the animals’ saddlebags bulging with grain.

Khemetian grain.

Kiya felt her heart pinch with hatred. They were Libu raiders, for certain. Their joy was the Khemetians’ doom. All the workers—the thousands of peaceful farmers whom Kiya had joined in service to the King—would now return to their homes empty-handed because of these evil men. Many of the Khemetian farmers would not return home at all.

Kiya struggled to keep her breaths even and swore she would have her revenge. The Sun God would soon be on his nightly voyage to the Underworld and the murderous villains would be to bed. The Moon God would rise, and Kiya would execute her escape plan anew.

Curses on the trader, for she no longer needed him. She had a band of Libu to plunder from instead. Besides, if her captor were any kind of trader he would have quickly understood the threat they represented to his grain. He and his strange, oversized donkey were probably halfway across the Big Sandy by now.

Chapter Four

But she was mistaken.

He slid down noiselessly into the water next to Kiya. He might have been a stranger, for he wore nothing upon his head, nor any distinguishing clothing. His chest was bare, and strands of his long yellow-brown hair floated languidly around his face like threads of smoke. Kiya knew him only by the two cerulean eyes staring out at her. Their colour was incomprehensibly blue, their gaze so deep and steady they might have belonged to a statue of an ancient god.

His arm slipped behind her back and she felt his hand grip her waist. Gently, he floated her body in front of his and pulled her against him. She could feel the hard, rippling contours of his stomach against her back as he nestled them against the bank.

Kiya did not know what to do. If she fought him she would reveal them both. What had he told her? That he no longer claimed to be Libu. If that was so, then perhaps he was in as much danger as she.

She held her breath as he took the hollow reed from her fingers and pressed it to his own lips, drawing in a deep breath then returning it to her mouth. They passed the breathing reed back and forth in this manner as the Libu men began to retreat from the bank one by one. His arm surrounded her waist and kept her body pressed tightly against his, making her feel oddly safe.

Soon she began to feel something else as well. A growing firmness where her backside pressed against his hips. Neither his loose-fitting pants nor her voluminous wrap could conceal it in their folds. That.

At the advanced age of twenty-three, Kiya would have never guessed herself capable of stirring a man’s desire. Indeed, she had worked quite hard throughout her life to achieve the opposite effect. Did this man who wished to sell her in fact desire her? Or was this simply what happened when that part of a man came into contact with a woman’s body? Surely it was the latter, for Kiya was not the kind of woman men desired. Fie—she was not the kind of woman men could usually even detect was a woman.

Kiya gazed up through the water. The Libu raiders were dispersing. She counted only two lingering on the far bank. A large insect glided across the surface of the water above them and a water snake swam languidly past. Meanwhile, the trader’s growing desire had found its resting place in the cleft of her backside.

It was the first time in her life that she had been this close to a man. She might have moved to the side, but the sensation was not altogether unpleasant. As a test, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to feel him there. That was what happened when a man took a woman, was it not?

She pictured the act, for she had heard the tomb workers discuss it in detail, and had seen it depicted in the reliefs carved upon the gates of Hathor’s temple. In this case he would not be above her, as the reliefs often depicted. He might lift her by the waist, for example, and then settle her upon him, pushing himself into her. But how could that be? How could she possibly contain him? For a moment an unfamiliar pain akin to hunger shot through her, then it was gone.

No, there it was again.

To further the test, she pushed gently against his firmness, giving resistance, and thought she could feel him grow firmer still. Was this the power of a woman? Was this the fantastic faculty that the storytellers sang of in the taverns? And was this the beginning of the act that the young men sketched in the alleyways of Memphis, chuckling conspiratorially?

If it was, then she might be interested. Perhaps.

But not with a murderer. And never as a slave.

The trader’s hands pulled her against him more tightly. She knew she needed to escape his grasp, for her body was starting to move against her will. But escape was impossible, for there was still one Libu raider left at the pool. He was standing motionless at the water’s edge.

He appeared to be looking right at them.

Kiya froze. The man could not see them. They were underwater, in shadow, and concealed by a patch of reeds. Her heart pounded so hard that she imagined it creating a ripple. Tahar, too, seemed to have noticed, for he squeezed her gently. Hold still, his hands told her.

The Libu man walked to their side of the pool and stood above the stand of reeds. He pulled his long sword from its sheath and began poking it into the water. The sword probed to the left of Kiya, then to the right. Kiya held her breath.

Chapter Five

The sword’s penetration into her arm was not deep, but Tahar watched as it shattered her senses. Pierced as the woman was, even the mightiest of warriors would not have been able to stifle a cry, and as they floated to the surface he knew he could not prevent her coming scream—the scream of a woman.

‘Ah!’ she cried in pain.

‘Hazah!’ Tahar yelled, covering her voice with his own.

He grabbed the Libu man’s ankle and pulled him into the pool. Amidst the splash of water Tahar pulled her close. ‘Swallow your agony,’ he whispered frantically. ‘And keep your mouth shut. He must not know that you are a woman.’

The Libu man surfaced. ‘Villain!’ he shouted at Tahar.

Tahar eased the woman behind him. ‘You have discovered me, brother,’ he said, splashing water at his tribesman playfully. ‘You were the only one who even came close!’ He could feel the warmth of the woman’s blood draining into the water all around him. ‘Dakka, you scoundrel,’ Tahar continued lightly. ‘You’ve damaged my slave.’

‘I did not see him,’ Dakka spluttered, casting a quick glance over Tahar’s shoulder. ‘And you’ve made me release my sword.’ The young man scanned the surface of the pool.

‘Well, go and fetch it, man,’ chided Tahar, ‘before the Khemetian Pool God consumes it!’

Dakka scowled, then drew a deep breath and plunged into the depths.

Tahar turned to the woman. ‘You are my slave now. Do you hear? You are again a young man.’ Tahar pulled at the part of her headdress that she had spooled over her head and wrapped it around her wound. ‘Let the men see your bald head. Keep your eyes down and do not speak. Do everything I command.’

Dakka resurfaced, his gleaming copper sword held high. ‘It needed a good cleaning anyway,’ he stated. ‘Khemetian blood makes an ugly stain.’

Ugly indeed, thought Tahar. The woman remained in the pool while the two men hoisted themselves up the bank and embraced. ‘You ride with a large party?’ asked Tahar.

‘Nay, there are but a dozen or so. Some from the Libu tribes of Garamantia, the rest the Libu of the Sardana region, including the Chief. The only Libu from the Meshwesh region is myself—and now you, brother. But where is your...beast?’ Dakka’s eyes searched the perimeter of the pool.

‘It is called a horse, Dakka,’ Tahar said with feigned annoyance. ‘How many times must I remind you? It is tethered in the shade of the acacia bushes yonder.’ Tahar pointed vaguely beyond the pool, watching out of the corner of his eye as the woman strained to pull herself from the water.

‘Since when do you own a slave?’ Dakka pressed.

‘Since this morning, of course.’ Now cease your questioning.

Dakka’s gaze settled upon the woman’s sopping figure. Thankfully Tahar’s ample headdress concealed her breasts and thighs well. At length, the young man smiled. ‘Then well done, brother, for you are one of very few to obtain one.’ Dakka unwrapped his headdress and his long dark hair fell around his shoulders.

‘Oh?’

‘We sought to collect slaves after we’d finished with the guards, but by then the tomb workers had all disappeared.’ Dakka squeezed his hair and twisted it into a bun.

‘They escaped into the tomb, doubtless,’ said Tahar, shaking his own shoulder-length hair and placing it behind his ears. ‘I have often wondered what lies within that mountain of stone.’

‘Surely riches beyond our dreams,’ said Dakka. ‘But sealed in secret chambers we shall never know. Chief Bandir found the workers’ entrance soon after the raid. It led to a tunnel that plunged beneath the earth, but we found nothing in it.’

The woman stationed herself in the shade just behind Tahar, concealing herself well.

‘Neither gold nor slaves?’

Dakka shook his head. ‘Chief Bandir was enraged. “Where did they go?” he yelled, but soon gave up. The tomb workers’ settlement was also without reward—not one miserable soul to be found. But the raid wasn’t completely fruitless. There was more grain than we could carry, and three large sacrificial bulls were discovered near the boat pit.’ Dakka rubbed his engorged belly. ‘Two hundred Libu feasted on food marked for the Khemetian Gods! You missed the banquet.’

‘I had my prize. I wished to be on my way,’ Tahar said, glancing back at the woman. The blood had already begun to soak through the fabric around her arm.

‘Indeed,’ said Dakka, ‘though the boy appears rather...gaunt. Do you think he will endure the journey back to your tribe’s camp?’

‘We shall see. It is less likely now that his ability to survive has been greatly diminished by the sting of your blade.’

The veiled compliment had its desired effect, for Dakka finally took his eyes off of the woman. ‘You should have seen how many Blacklanders I plucked today, brother—’

‘Bah!’ interrupted Tahar, for he could not bear more talk of bloodshed. ‘Save the bragging for around the fire. Now, lead me to the others. Let us surprise them together.’

Soon Dakka was leading them back towards the same flat, sandy spot where Tahar had tied the woman less than an hour before. She walked without a sound behind the two men. If she was in pain she did not show it, and as they entered the bustling camp Tahar noticed that she had cleverly adjusted the headdress to further conceal the bumps of her breasts.

‘Shame on you, brethren,’ Tahar announced, hailing a dozen Libu warriors with a grin. ‘I had hoped to test your hunting skills, but not one of you spotted me!’ Tahar pointed at Dakka. ‘It was this young jackal who finally sniffed me out.’

Tahar smacked Dakka gamely on the back and scanned the company. He recognised some of the men, but others were from distant tribes who had joined only for the raid. In a few moons they will all be enemies again, Tahar thought bitterly.

‘And who is that?’ asked a small, cadaverous man sitting against a rock. He pointed a long, knobby finger in Tahar’s direction and opened his one good eye wide. ‘That wretched urchin behind you.’

‘Greetings, Chief Bandir,’ Tahar said, bowing low. ‘The boy is my slave. I acquired him at the raid, though as you can see he has been recently injured.’ Tahar cast a scolding gaze at Dakka, then smiled forgivingly.

‘I’d always thought you partial to women,’ sneered the Chief, ‘Tahar of No Tribe.’ The Chief adjusted his leather eye patch and narrowed his good eye into a slit.

Tahar of No Tribe. The title stung worse than the cut of any blade. Tahar had been with the Libu of the Meshwesh region since he was twelve years old—over twenty cycles of the sun now. He had led countless trade missions and brought great wealth to the tribe. He was well known along the caravan routes, and by merchants from Napata to Uruk. They called him the Blue Serpent, for his rare blue eyes and quiet, watchful manner. The men of his own tribe didn’t call him that, however. They had come to call him brother.

‘If I am not a Meshwesh Libu by now, Chief Bandir, then let the Gods bury me in the sands,’ Tahar said, meeting Dakka’s supportive gaze. ‘And I am partial to women, of course... But I am also partial to help!’

Tahar laughed lightly, but only Dakka laughed with him. Tahar stared out at the collection of men—herders, most of them—all taking their cue from the rich, unsmiling Chief.

Tahar turned to the woman. ‘Go fetch the horse,’ he commanded in Khemetian. ‘Do it now, boy!’

The woman made an obedient bow, then disappeared across the oasis. He realised suddenly that he had no way of knowing if she would return. Meanwhile, the men eyed Tahar sceptically. His mind raced. He had to convince them of his loyalty, and somehow alleviate their suspicions.

‘I was wrong to conceal myself in the pool,’ Tahar began in a feigned confessional tone. ‘In truth, I was being gluttonous. You see, I wished to consume all the wine myself.’

Tahar paused, letting the men absorb his statement. ‘Wine?’ repeated a barrel-chested man, his dark brows lifting. ‘You carry wine?’

A low murmur rippled through the crowd.

‘Not just wine, brother. Khemetian wine.’ Tahar flashed the party a roguish grin. ‘I procured two amphorae from the grain tent during the raid. I drained them into udder bags and hoped not be discovered.’ Tahar looked around at the dozen men sheepishly. ‘Will you forgive a greedy trader? There is certainly enough for everyone.’

Just then the sun vanished below the horizon and the heat loosened its grip on the land. One of the men let out a sigh. ‘A few drops of Khemetian wine would be most welcome,’ he said.

‘Aye,’ agreed another, his dust-reddened eyes brightening. ‘I have not tasted Khemetian wine since before the drought.’

As the stars began to appear above them, Tahar was transformed from dubious outsider to honoured guest.

‘Well, get the wine, then, Tahar,’ said Dakka. ‘Let us celebrate our success.’

Tahar turned to find that the woman had quickly and silently returned with his horse. She stood beside it holding the reins, her head bent in subservience, her legs spread and her toes pointing outward in a convincing male pose. She was a true imposter—a snake of many colours—and Tahar found himself admiring her.

‘Tahar, why do you tarry?’ said Dakka, coming to his side. ‘And why do you wear the smile of a fool?’

‘What?’

‘The wine!’

‘Oh, aye. The wine,’ Tahar said, fumbling in his saddlebags.

‘Yes, the wine,’ someone called. ‘Before we all perish.’

Tahar returned to the circle with two udder bags full of what was sure to be the most potent wine the men had ever tasted. Ceremoniously, he handed both of the bags to the Chief, aware that he had lied once again. Tahar had not stolen the wine from the grain tent, as he had claimed. Long ago he had discovered that wine could be a tool of his trade, and he carried it wherever he travelled.

The Chief placed both bags in his mouth and drank his fill. When he’d finished, a trail of red liquid dribbled down his chin. ‘Blood of Khemet,’ he said, and the men repeated it.

‘Blood of Khemet!’

Tahar was glad the woman could not understand the Libu tongue, for the Chief’s words would have surely destroyed her. The rich crimson liquid was indeed known as ‘Khemet’s blood’, but drunk so cheerfully, and held by a hand that still bore the stains of actual Khemetian blood, it seemed poisoned. Tahar did not wish even a sip.

‘The Khemetians are decadent,’ the Chief said, passing the bags to the men. ‘They deserved what we gave them this victorious day.’

‘Aye! Aye!’ the men cheered.

‘The arrogance of their Great Pyramid of Stone!’ continued the Chief. ‘The Gods do not approve. That is why we have this drought, why the people of the Red Land starve.’

Bandir did not mention the fact that the Khemetians, too, were starving. What he did note was that the Siwa Oasis—which Bandir himself controlled—had seen less than half of the trade caravan traffic of two years ago. He described his empty toll houses, his idle wells, his vacant brothels.