Читать книгу Enslaved By The Desert Trader - Greta Gilbert - Страница 12

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.

‘Today, the Libu tribes have taken back only a small part of what we are owed,’ he concluded.

Tahar felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. What was the purpose of this tirade? They had raided the Great Pyramid of Stone and taken hundreds of lives, along with a large haul of grain and three sacred bulls. Was that not enough?

The Libu raiders raved and howled, passing the wine bags between them as the full moon rose. When a bag was finally handed to Tahar he only feigned taking a draught. He had struggled his entire life to be accepted as Libu, but as he watched the men rally behind their bloodthirsty Chief he realised that he did not want to be. Nor did he have to be—thanks to the woman who stood silently in the shadows, pretending to watch the moon.