Enslaved By The Desert Trader

Chapter Nine

Wretched viper of a man. In the softness of her gratitude she had exposed herself to his fangs. By the Gods, where was her sense? This trader was no different from other men—always seeking to possess women and use them for profit. As soon as she had her strength back she would slip out of his grasp. There was naught she could do now while her injuries healed. She would eat his meat and bide her time, then simply disappear.

She regained her calm and looked around the cave. Slowly, a grand vision emerged before her eyes. Images—hundreds of images—upon the walls. Birds and beasts and plants—some familiar, some utterly strange.

‘Remarkable, aren’t they?’

Tahar’s voice made Kiya jump. He had silently returned to the mouth of the cave. When had he done that? He was staring at Kiya, and in the shifting light she thought she could detect a wistful look in his eyes. ‘So beautiful and mysterious.’

‘What is this place?’ asked Kiya. ‘A kind of temple?’

‘I suppose so, though only a blessed few know of it. Welcome to the Cave of Wanderers.’ Tahar pointed to the wall across from Kiya. Upon it was drawn a family of river cows, basking in the shallows of a river. Above them the long, elegant bodies of several sacred ibis floated in the sky. Beneath them a great school of perch swam for all eternity.

‘A Khemetian surely did this.’

‘Very certain of that, are you?’

‘I know the work of my people,’ Kiya said. ‘That is the Great River. And those are hippos—river cows. They bask in the water during the daytime. I have witnessed this scene many times on the banks of our sacred river.’

‘Indeed? Well, in that case, you can tell me the name of the tall creature standing on the bank.’

‘What tall creature?’ Kiya asked. She studied the vegetation—papyrus, lotus, thistle. There were drawings of palms, acacias, tamarisks, and even a few fig trees, but there was not a single creature of any significant height. ‘There is no tall creature standing upon the bank.’

‘Then your eyes deceive you.’ Tahar traced the trunk of a sycamore tree with his finger, then continued upwards to the ponderously long neck of a creature that in all other ways resembled an ass. ‘It is called a giraffe.’

‘A giraffe? What is that? What gods made this place?’

‘No gods—’ began Tahar, then stopped himself. ‘Long ago, the desert was not the desert.’

Kiya was too entranced to ask his meaning. Though the animals were but dark outlines, they seemed alive somehow, as if they might jump from the walls and be reborn inside this secret womb of stone.

Animals weren’t the only figures. There were humans carrying arrows and spears. Some rode atop beasts with long, serpentine snouts. Kiya drank in the images, letting them fill her with their secret messages, amazed as her world expanded before her eyes.

There was that feeling again—gratitude. Think, Kiya. Remember he is your captor. He intends to sell you for his own gain.

Soon Tahar was crouching at her side. He held a small linen packet. ‘In order for the wound on your thigh to heal properly I must ensure the poison is completely extracted. Then I must apply this poultice to encourage healing. May I tend it now?’

‘How do you know the flood is coming?’

Tahar eased her body into a more reclined position. ‘I just know.’ He gently pulled apart her legs.

‘How do you know?’

‘I am going to lift the headdress cloth to address the wound now. This is necessary.’

Kiya squeezed her legs together. ‘First tell me how you know about the flood.’

Tahar sighed. He placed his hands upon the ground on either side of her, then moved up the length of her body, stopping with his mouth just inches from her face. ‘Do you really want to know how I know?’

‘Yes,’ Kiya whispered, ‘for you are not a god. You cannot see the future.’

‘Nay, I cannot see the future,’ he said.

His hot breath smelled of sycamore and smoke.

‘But I can see what is right before my eyes.’

He gave a quick glance downward, into the small space of heated air between their two chests. She could feel the muscular hardness of his naked midriff as he rested it lightly against her stomach, realizing that she feared his weight, yet also yearned for it.

‘The locusts, for example,’ he said, finding her eyes. ‘They swarm on the eastern sides of the dunes but they do not fly. And the acacia seeds that rest in the sands have lately begun to crack.’

Kiya gulped. ‘That is all?’ His lips were so close.

‘That isn’t even the beginning, dear woman.’ He bent his lips to her ear and whispered. ‘The wind has begun to waft its way northward in the deepest part of the night. Have you not noticed? And the wild aurochs have retreated to the inland mountains. They no longer graze with their cousins near the river. Songbirds from the south have begun to perch in the tamarisk branches. Have you not heard them singing just before dawn? If you Khemetians would simply observe the world around you, you would know that the flood is coming. Instead you pray to gods who do not listen. You do dances and sacrifice bulls. You are silly, frivolous people.’

He was hovering so very close. She tried to imagine the warble of songbirds, but all she could hear was the sound of her heart throbbing in her chest. ‘You insult my people. You insult me.’

‘Nay, I honour you.’

‘How do you honour me?’

‘By speaking what is in my heart.’

His eyes flashed. He moved back down her body and lifted the cloth that covered her thighs. On the inside of her left thigh an alarming red mound had appeared. It was punctuated by four tiny black holes: the mark of the bite that should have taken her life.

Tahar hovered over the wound, then encompassed it with his mouth and began to suck. Kiya gasped, powerless, as he drew out the remaining poison, his long, sandy-blond locks cascading around his shoulders as he worked. The thick hair appeared clean and soft, as if recently washed. Kiya wondered what it might be like to put her fingers through it.

Impulsively she opened her legs a bit wider, suddenly wishing that all the parts of her body had been bitten by a snake so that he might suck them each in turn. A low moan escaped her lips.

Tahar stopped his work on the wound. Without moving he peered up at her, and she felt a twinge of fear invade her body. You say what is next, his eyes told her. He appeared to be poised at the edge of some terrible divide, and she knew that if she wanted him she would only have to tell him. Nay—she would only have to touch his hair, to twist a long, shiny strand around her finger.

Ah, but she could not do it.

For if she did, who would she become? Certainly not the tough girl who had scratched her living from the streets of Memphis, who had won her right to survive every single day. And not the daughter of her mother, who had warned her against men and the danger they represented. And certainly not the clever woman who worked on a king’s tombs and defeated men at their own silly games. Who would she become if she allowed this man to pleasure her, knowing that he was planning to trade her?

The answer to that question was easy: she’d become a slave.

Kiya stiffened and sat up. ‘Are you not going to say a prayer?’ she asked, quickly closing her legs.

A burst of air rushed through Tahar’s nostrils. He shook his head angrily, then walked to the cave entrance and spat. He wiped his mouth with the side of his arm and stared out at the landscape. Then he returned to Kiya, scooped up another water bag and drank a long draught.

‘Nay,’ he responded. ‘It is not necessary.’

‘Of course it is necessary. A god can accelerate the healing of a wound. The Goddess Sekhmet, for example, or even—’

‘I do not believe that gods can affect the healing of wounds,’ interrupted Tahar. Avoiding her gaze, he bent down and trickled a stream of water onto the wound. Then he tied the poultice firmly into place upon it. ‘Now, cover yourself, woman.’

Cover yourself.

She felt her insides twist in shame as she realised that she had been mistaken. Moments ago it had not been desire that she had read in his eyes, but derision. Now he couldn’t even bear to look at her.

Kiya quickly pulled the headdress over her thighs. This was the second time she had mistaken his kindness for caring, and she scolded herself for the error.

‘You said these drawings were made by the Gods of the Desert,’ she muttered angrily, ‘but you are wrong. Khemetians made these drawings.’

Tahar’s cheeks flushed red. ‘Of course you think Khemetians did these, for you are Khemetian and you believe all the universe revolves around you.’

‘Well, it does. The Gods made the land of Khemet—the Black Land—and they made the Red Land—the desert. They made the lands separate and they stay separate. One defines the other. That is how the balance of maat is maintained. These drawings show the Great River as it was long ago. And it shows Khemetians—the guardians of the Great River. The chosen ones.’

Tahar grabbed his water bag and stood. ‘If you believe that, then you probably also believe that your Great River begins in a cavern at the Isle of Abu.’ He returned to the mouth of the cave.

‘That is where it does begin.’

‘Woman, I have travelled the length of the Great River, and I can assure you that it does not begin at the Isle of Abu. It is vastly longer.’

‘It appears that life in the Red Land has driven you to madness, for even the lowest beggars on the streets of Memphis know that the Great River begins beneath the Isle of Abu. The God Khnum controls its waters. If you believe otherwise, you are perhaps experiencing a feverish dream.’

Tahar shook his head, rolling up the addax hide. ‘I might be mistaken, but I believe it is you who has been recently stricken by a feverish dream.’ He lifted the packet and stood. ‘We leave at sunset.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To find you a husband, of course. We are going to Nubia, where you don’t have to be a king to have many wives. You just have to have plenty of gold.’

His words were like daggers in her heart. ‘You are the worst kind of demon.’

‘And on our way to Nubia we will stop at the Isle of Abu. To prove you wrong.’

Chapter Ten

‘The Isle of Abu!’ the King shouted. His voice carried across the rooftops of Memphis, sending a hundred pigeons into flight. ‘We must go there now, Imhoter. It is the only way.’

Imhoter stood with his head bowed. ‘You would leave Memphis without its King?’ The long sleeves of Imhoter’s robe concealed his hands, which he squeezed together nervously.

After the Libu raid on the grain tent the King had ordered the remaining members of the King’s Guard into the desert. They were only a few dozen soldiers in search of hundreds of Redlanders who might as well have been ghosts. It had been a thoughtless decision, for it was well known that the desert tribes were highly dispersed. They came together only for raids, and could easily evade the Khemetian headhunters.

But such facts were meaningless to King Khufu. In his fury over the grain tent raid he had acted without thinking. He had sent the city’s defenders on a fool’s errand and left the city itself vulnerable to attack. And now he apparently wanted to abandon the city completely.

‘Abu is the only answer,’ the monarch ranted, thrusting his soft, thick finger at Imhoter’s chest. ‘I must go to Abu and appeal to Khnum, God of the Great River. If we do not have the flood soon, we all shall perish.’

Imhoter measured his response. ‘I would merely suggest that you consider the idea more closely, Your Majesty.’

Imhoter knew of several wealthy priests who had accumulated enough grain to support small armies of followers. One priest in particular—a wretched old man named Menis—seemed poised to usurp Khufu’s power. The King’s departure would be just the opportunity Menis needed to install his army and take the throne.

‘Abu is very far away. Let us think on the idea for a time.’

‘But there is no more time, old eunuch!’ The King barked. He paced across the shady terrace, his leather sandals slapping against the tiles. ‘The royal grain is gone; the people of Khemet grow desperate. If the waters of Hapi do not come the citizens of Memphis will unseat me soon.’

If you leave the city, they will unseat you sooner! Imhoter thought, though knew he could not speak his mind.

Like his father before him, King Khufu was prone to flights of rage, so Imhoter spoke calmly, keeping to the facts. ‘The upriver journey is long—four weeks at least, even with strong north winds. Your idea is brilliant, but I am sure you wish to think on it.’

‘There is no thinking, eunuch, only listening to the Gods—and what I hear is mighty Horus, whispering to me. He is telling me to go to the Isle of Abu, to beg for Hapi.’

King Khufu paced incessantly, but Imhoter remained still. He, too, yearned for Hapi, but not for the same reasons as the King. The farmers of Khemet suffered, and it tried the holy man’s soul. Their limbs grew lifeless, their bellies ballooned with want. To watch them wither and die was a punishment Imhoter did not know if he could endure.

What gives a King’s life more value than a farmer’s, or even a beggar’s? The question tickled the edges of Imhoter’s mind like an itch he could not scratch. It had been a long time since he had considered it, though it was perhaps, the most important question of his life. A woman had asked it of him in innocence long ago, and he had been unable to answer her. She had been a forgotten concubine of King Sneferu, and she had studied him with eyes as deep and endless as the night.

Now Khufu lifted his hands to the sky. ‘The Gods must verify that I am Khemet’s rightful ruler—that my great tomb was not erected in vain. I must bring the flood.’

Imhoter nodded obediently, hoping that the King’s reckless compulsion would pass. He closed his eyes and begged the Gods to send him a vision of the future—one of the river rising and the King seated safely on his throne. But no such vision came.

‘Advise both my queens,’ the King pronounced. ‘If Hapi does not arrive by the Feast of Hathor, we make for the Isle of Abu.’

Chapter Eleven

Tahar had not planned on taking the woman to the Isle of Abu, so exceedingly far south. He had wanted to stay near the Big Green ports, where the boats were as plentiful as merchants in need of brides. He could have traded her for a fine vessel at some dock in Alexandria, for example, or at one of the marshland bazaars in Tanis.

Thanks to his own stubborn pride, however, they were headed for Abu, as far south as one could go in Khemet before passing into the tribal lands of Nubia. Instead of days, their journey would now take many weeks, travelling from oasis to oasis by night, paralleling the Great River as they moved ever southward through the desert.

Lands, he was a fool. It would be a long, difficult trek, made harder still by the fact that he was a wanted man. By now all of Khemet would have heard about the grain raid, and his Libu scar marked him as the enemy. It did not matter that he was Libu no more, that he had renounced the bloodthirsty thieves whom he had once called brothers. The Khemetians needed scapegoats as much as the Libu did, and Tahar made an easy target.

The morning sun lifted above the horizon, piercing Tahar’s eyes. They would arrive at the next oasis soon. He could see a small verdant patch in the distance, at the base of several low cliffs. Meanwhile, the woman had begun to doze in the saddle. He had not joined her there during the night’s journey, choosing instead to walk. He did not trust himself so close to her, though he knew he would have to ride with her soon. They had a long, dangerous journey ahead.

If they survived, however, Tahar stood to reap a fine reward. Though much of Nubia’s gold now lay buried in the tombs of Khemetian kings, the Nubians were no paupers. A wealthy Nubian chief would not pass up the opportunity to add a Khemetian bride to his harem, and he would pay well for her—in dozens of gold ingots.

The promise of a well-paying Nubian husband was not the only reason they journeyed south, however. Tahar’s purpose was also philosophical. The Isle of Abu was just that—an island—and he was determined to prove it to the obstinate woman. The Great River did not begin at Abu, as she so passionately believed. And an imaginary god did not dwell beneath the island, considering when to release his torrent.

But he did not only wish to educate her—he wanted to astound her. What would she think the moment she saw her Great River from the top of the Theban peak? Finally she would understand that her gods did not simply conjure the Great River from under their robes!

Not that she would likely appreciate the geography lesson, or any of his knowledge of the desert. The woman had pricked his nerves with her talk of gods and maat and the eternal, infernal land of Khemet. If he could just get one single Khemetian to understand that Khemet was not the centre of the world, and that their precious river was not controlled by gods, he would die a happy man.

But why was it so important for him to convince her? Perhaps it was her incredible obstinacy that had baited him. What had she called her people? The ‘chosen ones.’ The nerve of that!

‘We shall eat and take our rest at the oasis ahead,’ Tahar explained, attempting to rouse her.

She opened her eyes and swatted the air, as if his very words were a nuisance. Then she resumed her sleep.

By the Gods, she was spoiled. She had no idea of the knife’s edge of survival upon which they trod. She was the kind of Khemetian woman he loathed.

So why did she invade his thoughts like a swarm of locusts?

He stole another glance at her. She still wore his headdress around her breasts and waist. He would ask for it back soon. In exchange he would gift her the sandals and addax-skin dress he had made for her. The soft amber-haired garment was now completely dry and ready for donning, and he looked forward to seeing her in it.