Most men performed their prayers as they rode. The Koran allowed travelers to do, though some of the most devout stopped to pray, then caught up with the caravan later.
It was necessary to keep moving for twelve to fourteen hours every day, for camels ambled along at the leisurely pace of about two miles per hour. The beasts foraged continuously. Though most Europeans thought of a caravan as a sinuous line snaking across the desert, in reality the camels spread out so they could snatch whatever scant mouthfuls of shrubbery were available.
Ross knew dispersion was necessary so the camels could find enough to eat, but the practice made his neck prickle. If Turkoman bandits struck, it would be almost impossible for the caravan to defend itself; the raiders would be able to pick and choose their victims. Apart from the modern rifles he and Juliet carried, the only other weapons in the caravan were knives, swords, and a handful of ancient matchlock muskets.
However, so far there had been no sign of trouble, at least not from raiders. The weather was another story; the second day out from Sarakhs, they had awoken to a mixture of fog and dust so dense it was impossible to find landmarks, so the caravan had wandered off the regular route and been lost for hours.
Eventually the sky had cleared and the guide found the track again. The next morning they awoke to find the encampment covered with several inches of snow, which was unusual so late in the season and which delayed their departure.
Ross grinned. Lord, the camels had hated the snow, complaining with raucous bitterness when they were forced to rise and begin the day's trek. Of course, camels complained about everything.
Guiltily he gave Julietta a pat on her shaggy neck. She turned and gave him a benevolent glance; she really was sweet-natured, for a camel.
Ross glanced around in one of his periodic checks on his companions. He and Juliet each had two camels in charge, one for riding and one pack animal. Since the pace was so slow, they alternated riding and walking as the spirit moved them.
The fifth camel had been equipped with panniers, a pair of deep riding baskets that hung on each side of the animal. Saleh rode in one, balanced on the other side by Murad. Since neither of them was an expert camel rider, it seemed wiser to keep them together; if the beast bolted and one man was unable to control it, perhaps the other one would be more successful. But so far the docile female that carried them had caused no trouble.
Ross next looked at Juliet, who was about a hundred yards away and slightly ahead of him. She walked like a desert prince, long black robes swinging around her long strides and her face completely obscured by her tagelmoust.
She was perfect in her role as Jalal; apart from a surly Uzbek camel driver who occasionally heckled her, no one had shown more than a mild interest in the uncommunicative Targui. Certainly no one suspected that she was female and a ferengi.
Juliet had proved to be a surprisingly good servant. He suspected there was a hint of mocking humor in her deference, as if to show that she could take orders when necessary.
His gaze lingered on his wife. There was no question that the most interesting thing that had happened so far had been that night in the caravansary. He had learned to sleep lightly when traveling in dangerous lands, and the hesitant touch on his shoulder had shocked him to instant wakefulness.
To his bemusement, he found not danger but Juliet, who had inched over and was sliding her arm around his neck. When he had turned toward her, she settled her sleeping self against him with a soft sigh of contentment that made him ache with memories.
Relaxing, Ross had put his arms around her and allowed himself to pretend that the last dozen years were a bad dream and that he and his wife were slumbering peacefully in their own bed at Chapelgate. He had refused to go back to sleep, for her closeness was an unexpected gift and he intended to enjoy it for as long as possible.
Through the lovely, drowsy night hours, he did his best to suppress desire, though not with complete success. He could not help wondering what would happen if he kissed her... or caressed her breast... or touched her more intimately. How would she respond, and how long would it be before she awoke? But he had not tried to find out, for he would be a fool to throw away what he had by trying for more.
When Juliet did waken, she went rigid in his arms, and her appalled reaction persuaded Ross that it would be the better part of wisdom to pretend that he still slept. Her gentle, almost affectionate kiss had nearly startled him into betraying himself, but fortunately he had been able to convince her that he was dead to the world.
He did not regret his dishonesty, for it would have been vastly embarrassing for both of them to admit what had happened. The situation was difficult enough already.
Regrettably, there had been no recurrence of the episode; on each of the succeeding nights, Juliet had taken care to sleep a little apart from the three men, and always closest to Saleh.
Ross wondered what, if anything, the incident had meant. Perhaps she missed a lover left behind in Serevan and had turned to Ross because he was a convenient warm male body. And appalling thought. Or perhaps her behavior was another sign that the bonds of marriage were not easily sundered. Strange how no amount of conscious will seemed capable of severing the subtle connections between them.
Or the not-so-subtle ones. Being so close to Juliet was keeping Ross in a constant, simmering state of sexual tension, even though they had not spoken privately since the night outside Sarakhs. He had thought that the fact that she was virtually invisible would make things easier, but no such luck; imagination easily overcame the barrier of her shapeless, enveloping clothing.
There was something ragingly erotic about knowing precisely what was concealed under those dark robes. Whenever he looked at her, he had a vivid mental image of her slim, supple body, her glorious long legs, the fall of flaming hair over pale, silken skin....
Sharply he turned away. Thinking along those lines would make him a mental and physical wreck in no time.
A few minutes later the caravan leader, Abdul Wahab, came trotting up to Ross. The kafila-bashi rode one of the tough, wiry little desert horses. During the day he circulated steadily among his charges, checking to see that all was well and lending aid where necessary. As he approached Ross, he called out, "Salaam Aleikum, Khilburn."
Ross smiled and returned the greeting. "And peace be upon you. Will we make camp for the night soon?"
"Not for a while yet." The kafila-bashi frowned. "Wandering lost for most of a day was unfortunate, for now the water supply is dangerously low for many members of the caravan. I think it best to push on late tonight, for I will not be easy in my mind until we reach the well of Karagosh."
Ross gestured toward the northern horizon, where dark storm clouds were visible in the distance. "It might rain soon."
The other man contemplated the clouds, then shook his head. "It is raining there, but I think we will not be so lucky. Though perhaps God in his mercy will prove me wrong." Lifting a hand in farewell, he trotted off to check on the next knot of travelers.
Ross understood Abdul Wahab's concern, for the single most important duty of a caravan leader was assuring that there was enough water. However, Ross himself was not over-concerned. The water supply might be low, but the mild spring temperatures made the shortage less critical than it would have been during the summer. Even if they did not reach the well tonight, the situation was not yet grave.
Distant flashes of lightning and an occasional rumble of thunder came from the north, but as the kafila-bashi had predicted, the storm did not move in their direction. Since they would not stop for several hours more, Ross dug dried dates from the supply on his pack camel and gave a handful to each of his three companions.
As he withdrew to a safe distance from Juliet, he noted how much better she'd become at eating without removing her veil. Even another Targui would not suspect her identity now.
They were traveling through a region of low sandy hills that were home only to lizards and occasional scrubby tufts of grass.
Once they passed an outcropping of rock, and a rude gerbil stuck its head out of its burrow and chattered at Ross. The scene was a peaceful one, with no hint of danger. The loudest sound was the faint tinkle of the bridle bells on the lead camel.
The hills became rougher, channeling the caravan into a more compact group as they followed a ravine that sloped downward. Eventually the track leveled out when it intersected one of the dry riverbeds called wadis. Ross saw that Abdul Wahab had stationed his horse on the far bank and that the kafila-bashi was frowning as he glanced first at the storm clouds in the distance, then at where the wadi curved out of sight a couple of hundred yards away. Turning to the caravan, Abdul Wahab raised his voice in an exhortation to hurry.
Ross's expression hardened as he guessed what the kafila-bashi was thinking: though no rain had fallen on the caravan, there was a chance the wadi would flood with sudden lethal violence if the storm had dropped enough water farther up the river's course. It was typical of the desert that one could go in an instant from being endangered by the lack of water to being in danger from too much.
Though the storm was distant enough that Ross thought the chance of flooding remote, he tugged at Julietta's bridle to increase her speed. She gave him an offended glance but began walking faster, the pack camel an obedient echo behind her. With Ross's urging, it took them only a few minutes to cross the wadi and clamber up the steep embankment on the far side.
As a steady stream of men and beasts poured across the sandy channel, Ross scanned the group to find his companions. The camel carrying Saleh and Murad had already made its way to higher ground. However, Juliet was still in the middle of the wadi because her pack animal was having an attack of balkiness.
Both Abdul Wahab and Ross had thought flooding improbable, but in the next moments their judgment was proved wrong. As Juliet struggled with the camels, a low wave of silt-brown water came surging around the bend. Within seconds a swift, ankle-deep current was slowing the progress of everyone still in the wadi. From his horseback vantage point, the kafila-bashi shouted, "Hurry! More water is coming!"
Realizing the danger, everyone who had already crossed was lining up along the bank to watch the drama below. Cold panic jolted through Ross when he saw Juliet's camels put their heads down to drink from the water swirling around their hairy fetlocks. In another moment they might lie down and start wallowing, as camels often did in water holes.
He was on the verge of going to her assistance when she got her beasts moving by ruthlessly lashing their flanks with her whip. Even above the sounds of rushing water and babbling voices, he could hear her cursing in a colorful mixture of languages.
Bellowing angrily, the camels surrendered to her superior will and let themselves be chivied up the embankment to safety. By the time they escaped the wadi, the water was knee-deep and rising rapidly.
Another wave flooded the channel to waist depth and pummeled the handful of men and animals still in the wadi with floating debris. A man on a donkey was nearly washed away, but was saved from disaster when his small mount was shoved against the solid bulk of a camel long enough to regain its feet.
One by one, men and beasts floundered through the churning water and were pulled up the embankment by other members of the caravan. Soon the only one left was an elderly Uzbek tea merchant who had fallen behind. Ross had once talked casually with Muhammad Kasem and had found him to be a combination of quiet dignity and elfin charm.
When the old man was almost within arm's length of safety, Ross exhaled the breath he had been holding. Then, just beyond the reach of helping hands, Muhammad Kasem's donkey stumbled and went down, pitching its rider into the water. At the same time, another wave came raging down the channel, moving almost as fast as a man could run and deepening the river to drowning depth.
The merchant's high-pitched wail of anguish was barely audible above the roar of the flood. His turban had been torn off and his shaved head looked horribly vulnerable among the dark waves. As he submerged beneath the roiling water, a shuddering collective sigh rose from the onlookers.
"Father!" The horrified cry came from a man poised on the edge of the wadi. From his desperate expression, Ross guessed that, like most desert dwellers, the man could not swim. Even so, perhaps he would have dived in if two other men had not grabbed him. No one else attempted to assist Muhammad Kasem, not even by looking for a rope to throw.
A merchant near Ross said sorrowfully, "It is God's will."
"So be it," another agreed. "Blessed be the name of God."
Ross realized this was one of those moments when Eastern fatalism parted company with Western action. Even as the thought flashed through his mind, he was sprinting along the embankment, shoving past other members of the caravan. He preferred not to draw undue attention to himself, but it was impossible to stand by and watch someone drown if he might be able to prevent it.
The donkey had thrashed its way to dry land and was now shaking its coat and braying, but the current had swept the merchant into the middle of the flooded channel. Briefly Ross wondered if his turban was long enough to unwind and use as a lifeline, but he decided that the old man was too far out for the length of fabric to reach.
By running at top speed, Ross managed to outpace the current and get ahead of Muhammad Kasem. Then he stopped and hastily stripped off his knife and outer clothing and dropped them on the ground. He also yanked off his boots, for under flood conditions he did not want to wear anything that might weigh him down.
Then he dived into the river, his body cleaving the torrent with a force that carried him far out into the channel. The water was cold and viciously rough, but he had grown up swimming in the North Sea, and his powerful strokes rapidly took him to where he had last seen the merchant's bare head.
Since the old man had submerged again, Ross dived below the surface to find him. The water was salty and thick with silt, with visibility only a few inches, so he searched by touch, swimming along with the current. Twice he came up for air, then went under again, before his reaching fingers found fabric. Grabbing a fistful of material, he kicked upward.
For a moment after emerging into the air, Muhammad Kasem floated as still as death, his face blue-white and waxy. Then his eyes opened and he began coughing.
Ross's relief was short-lived, for the reinvigorated merchant began flailing about with the strength of panic. A knee struck Ross in the stomach, knocking his breath out. Before he could recover, the old man locked his arms around his rescuer's neck, dragging both of them under.
Lungs burning, Ross struggled to break Muhammad Kasem's strangling grip. As he swallowed the salty water, there was a moment when he thought that this was the end, that he would die here in Central Asia, right in front of Juliet's eyes.
That would be a rotten memory to leave her with. The thought gave him a burst of energy that enabled him to free himself from the merchant's lethal grasp. As he fought his way to the surface again, he turned the old man around, immobilizing and supporting him with an arm across the chest.
Breaking through into the air was bliss to equal anything Ross had ever experienced in his life. For a few moments he was content to drift with the current while he reveled in the luxury of breathing. Then Muhammad Kasem began stirring, his limbs thrashing feebly.
"Relax, Uncle, and lie still," Ross murmured soothingly. "You are safe."
Though his breathing was ragged with fear, the old man obeyed. Ross struck out for the embankment, towing Muhammad Kasem behind him. His eyes were blurred with silt, but dimly he saw a knot of men calling encouragement to them.
Progress was slow. He had only one arm for swimming and the water was as turbulent as a mountain stream. Debris battered them, including a twisted tree trunk that pushed both men under again. It took most of Ross's remaining strength to fight free of the entangling branches, but he continued doggedly on.
When he was near the shore, someone skidded down the steep side of the wadi, grabbed his arm, and hauled Ross and his burden the la
st few feet to the embankment. Even without the English words in his ear, he would have known who it was.
"You stupid bastard," Juliet snarled as she lifted Muhammad Kasem away, then boosted the old man's frail body over the edge of the wadi into waiting hands. "You could have drowned."
"But I didn't," Ross gasped, too exhausted to think of a clever retort.
"Damned hero," she muttered. Since Ross could barely move, Juliet wrapped an arm around his waist and dragged him onto dry land by main force.
He promptly doubled over on his knees and began retching up the silty water he had swallowed. Juliet's arms supported him throughout, and they were much gentler than her voice had been. When he finally straightened up, throat raw, she lifted her waterskin and held it to his mouth so he could rinse away the salty taste of the flood water.
Still shaky, Ross managed to stand with Juliet's help. He was shivering from the cold water, and the chilly breeze cut right through his clinging, saturated tunic and trousers. Juliet was equally wet, but luckily the loose mantle she wore over her robe disguised any contours that might look suspiciously female.
Then he lifted his head to find that everyone in the caravan had gathered to watch the drama, and most were staring at him. Water darkened hair, but not enough. His blond head and white feet didn't leave much doubt about his foreignness. Among the murmuring voices in the crowd could be heard the repeated word "ferengi."
Next to him, Juliet tensed, her hand dropping from his arm to the hilt of her knife. She said nothing, but as she scanned the onlookers, a cold flash of gray eyes was visible through the narrow opening in her tagelmoust. Ross was reminded of a furious mother cat defending her kittens; she might call him a stupid bastard, but he did not doubt that she was prepared to fight anyone who attacked him.
Silk and Secrets Page 13
