Читать книгу Thieves of the Black Sea - Joe O'Neill - Страница 22

The rain had stopped and the sun slowly ascended above the horizon. Sanaa sipped on a hot cup of tea with a blanket over her shoulders to keep her warm. Stoking a fire with a stick, her breath disappeared into the crisp morning air.

Looking across the battlefield, she stared at the spot where she had slain the Black Mamba just days earlier. Her body was still sore and bruised from the battle, and her mind was fatigued. There was a cut on her upper lip that had still not healed. When she spoke, her skin pulled at the edge of the wound, a reminder of the fight to the death she had just endured which had taken every ounce of her strength. To mark the spot where the Mamba had been killed, the Tuareg had boiled his head in a hot cauldron of water and placed the bare skull on a cross for all to see. The tribespeople placed colorful necklaces made of bead, bone, and feather around the skull. It was a grisly token, but a deserved one. The Mamba had terrorized the country for too long, and it gave the tribes-people pride that his skull now sat atop an old, battered piece of wood.

This monument also paid homage to Sanaa, as she was now a celebrity within every tribe in the region.

Around her, people began to emerge from their tents to prepare for the day. Soon, more fires would be built.

Malik had made the decision to stay for a week to allow his warriors to rest and make preparations for their next assault. He was considering marching on Tangier to battle the French, but was still undecided. His indecision was, in some ways, a wise move, as it gave the people a chance to relish their victory and time to heal.

As Sanaa sipped her tea, she noticed one of their falcons circling in a manner that suggested visitors were approaching. At intervals throughout the day, their falcons flew circles around the perimeter of the encampment, acting as scouts and alerting the tribe to any potential threats.

She studied the falcon’s movements, which relayed to her that the approaching group was small.

Returning to her tent, she reached inside to grab her sword. Malik stood by, shaving, as she slung the sword across her chest.

“We have guests,” she said and left the tent without leaving him time to reply.

Malik toweled himself off, dressed, grabbed his bō stick, and then joined Sanaa outside.

Soon, Sanaa spotted a small contingent of about ten people on horseback on the adjoining hillside. The sun was behind them, and they were backlit so their torsos were dark like shadows. One of the horsemen raised a flag and began to trot slowly down to the encampment.

“What is happening?” Malik asked, unable to see for himself because the Black Mamba had blinded him.

“A small group, one of them is coming to us with a raised flag.”

Others spotted the visitors and soon a contingent of soldiers had surrounded Malik and Sanaa. The assembled soldiers had come from tribes around the Rif Mountains and surrounding countryside. Some had ventured from as far as the Sahara desert—and even the Atlas and Jbel Saghro mountain ranges.

Sanaa looked at Malik.

“I’ll be the one to greet them,” she told him.

She went to fetch her camel, which sat tranquilly in a herd of other camels. She urged it to its feet, threw herself on its back, and then sprinted out to meet the lone rider.

Zijuan joined Malik.

“Did you ask her to ride out alone?” Zijuan asked.

“You think I could give her an order?” Malik replied and they both smiled.

As Sanaa rode out, she could see that the man was a fellow Moroccan, dressed in her native country’s garb. He was undoubtedly a warrior of some kind—he wore a white turban and robe and had dark skin and a black beard. His flag was white as well.

As she edged closer, she slowed her camel to a walk and carefully approached the rider, who was walking his own horse.

They finally came face to face.

“My name is Adel Kharja. I am an emissary and advisor to the Sultan,” he explained.

“What do you want?” she asked sternly.

“I have come with some French generals. They want to discuss an accord.”

“An accord?”

“They want to negotiate the peace.”

“And you trust these French dogs?” she asked.

“I think you will want to hear what they have to say,” the man answered. Although dressed as a warrior, he had the tongue of a diplomat.

“I hear the Sultan’s troops ran like cowards from the imperial palace and the Sultan is in hiding like a rat. Why should we trust you? Or follow him?”

The man studied Sanaa. He had heard of her reputation, and that of Malik.

“Because we all want peace for our country, and you have the advantage. We are coming to you to negotiate a peace,” Kharja explained.

She studied him for a few moments.

“If it was up to me, I would cut you to shreds and then ride up and kill these French generals. Thankfully, my husband is the reasonable one and chosen to lead our army. Tell your French masters to ride and we will meet with them. You have my word none of you will be harmed.”

“There’s just one more thing,” Kharja added.

“What is it?”

Kharja whispered something to Sanaa. After a few moments, she nodded and rode back to the encampment.

“What was that about?” Malik asked.

“The French, and a diplomat from the Sultan. They want to negotiate a peace.”

“That is good news. I was worried about attacking a city. We’ve taken heavy losses and I’m not sure we could stand up to the French artillery. We will need to be careful though…it could be a trap.”

“There is one more thing,” she said.

“What is it?”

“They want to name you as the next caid,” she said, and a slight smile came across her face.