Saleh passed over a small jar of ointment. "This will take some of the pain away."
Hoping Saleh was right, Ross used his fingertips to gently spread the salve along the angry wound. He put a light bandage on for protection, but the bleeding had stopped. God willing, there would be no infection, though she would carry a scar for the rest of her life.
Murad, who had been watching sympathetically, helped Juliet sit up, then pressed a cup of heavily sugared tea into her hand. At first she simply stared down at it, as if drinking without removing her veil was too much effort. But after taking a deep breath, she managed to empty the cup in two long swallows.
Noticing how white her arm looked through the slashed sleeve, Ross decided that the tear should be repaired tonight. He always traveled with a basic sewing kit, so he dug it out, then closed up the torn fabric with crude but adequate stitches.
Juliet sat cross-legged and uncommunicative throughout the procedure. Her mute suffering reminded him of an injured animal.
Saleh suggested, "Jalal, take some opium so you will sleep."
"No," she said brusquely. "I need only rest."
She rose shakily to her feet, then crossed to her sleeping rug, which she had laid out earlier in the evening. Taking that as a signal that it was bedtime, Murad and Saleh went to their own rugs and settled themselves for the night.
Ross decided that this was one time that discretion could be damned, so after banking the fire he rolled out his own rug beside Juliet's. Since he doubted he would be able to sleep, it should be safe to be near her, and he had a powerful, irrational need to stay as close as possible.
Juliet did not object to his presence. In fact, she had said scarcely a dozen words since the fight.
Most of the rest of the camp was already sleeping, and soon Saleh and Murad were also breathing with slow, deep regularity. Ross lay on his back and watched the night sky, acutely aware of Juliet's nearness. She was also lying on her back, since that position was the most comfortable for her injured arm.
After a half-hour or so had passed, he guessed that he and Juliet might be the only two people in the caravan who were not sleeping. Tuned to every one of her tense breaths and slight, restless movements, he knew that she was awake and in pain.
In a voice so soft it could not have been heard more than a yard away, he said, "Clever of you to get into a fight with Habib. If you wanted revenge for what I put you through by diving into the flooded wadi, you've got it."
She responded with a breathy, scarcely audible chuckle. "I guess that makes it all worthwhile." She exhaled roughly. "I'm sorry I asked you to do the cauterization. I don't know what I was thinking of, but I don't imagine you enjoyed doing it."
"About as much as you enjoyed having it done," he said dryly. "But someone had to."
After another few minutes had gone by in silence, Juliet whispered, "You sew rather well, for a marquess."
Ross smiled into the darkness. "You fight rather well, for a marchioness."
She sighed. "None of my talents are the least bit ladylike."
Her words dissolved the control that Ross had been exercising for the last two hours, and he could no longer restrain himself from touching her. She was only eighteen inches away, so he reached out and took her restless hand in his.
Her cool fingers moved and he thought she was pulling away. Instead, she turned her hand palm upward and twined her fingers through his in a gesture that expressed the night's strain and pain more eloquently than words.
It was one of those odd moments between them when the past seemed more alive than the present. Ross felt his tension begin to ease as her hand warmed under his.
In fact, to his drowsy surprise, it was even possible for both of them to sleep.
Chapter 11
Using a couple of rugs to make a comfortable nest in the sand, Juliet lounged back with her head supported by a saddlebag and watched Murad prepare their dinner.
It had been a lazy day. In order to rest for the last and most grueling leg of the journey, Abdul Wahab had decreed that the caravan would stay three nights at the oasis of Merv.
Their group was too large for the small caravansary, so many of the travelers had to make camp outside under the palm trees. That was fine with Juliet; she preferred sleeping outdoors rather than in the crowded confines of a caravansary cell.
Even in the shade, the afternoon was very warm and she found herself yawning. One advantage of a tagelmoust was that it was not necessary to cover a yawn with a hand, so she didn't. If she got any lazier, she would turn into a rock.
Glancing across the campground, she saw Ross and Saleh approaching, carrying supplies they had bought in the town bazaar. She had been excused from that duty because of her arm, though it felt much better today than it had the day before. In a few days she would scarcely notice it.
After their purchases had been stored away, both men sat down on the opposite side of the fire, making idle conversation about the town. Ross's previous journey across the Kara Kum had not included Merv, so the community was new to him.
Juliet paid no real attention to their words, for it was more enjoyable simply to watch her husband. That was another virtue of the tagelmoust: if she was careful, no one could tell where she was looking
She took full advantage of that fact when she was around Ross. Since a blond beard would be conspicuous, he was clean-shaven and his handsome face, sun-browned skin, and Asiatic dress made him the very image of a dashing desert explorer. Rather sourly Juliet reflected that he must be a sensation in London drawing rooms when he was between journeys.
As she did with great regularity, Juliet found herself pondering the oddities of their relationship. For example, there was the way she and Ross had held hands after the knife fight. They had both slept soundly until wakened by the dawn call to prayers; then they had wordlessly disengaged their interlocked fingers.
In the day and a half since, neither of them had made a single reference to the fact that they had spent the night handfast, as if silence meant that it hadn't happened. Not that Juliet was complaining, for she had been grateful for his gesture, but the incident had definitely been odd.
She gave herself credit for the fact that this time she had not ended up wrapped around him like ivy. She would have liked to think that was because she was becoming immune to his attractions, but knew that was not true. More likely, her injured arm had hurt so much that even her sleeping self had known better than to disturb it.
Juliet yawned again, wondering when dinner would be ready. For the first time since Sarakhs, they were having fresh meat, though the piece of lamb was a small one, in keeping with the humble way they were traveling. Murad was stewing the lamb with rice and vegetables, and it smelled delicious, but would not be ready for a while yet.
That being the case, Juliet decided she might as well behave like a proper camel driver. She pulled the end of her veil over her eyes and went to sleep.
* * *
Ross regarded his dozing wife with amusement. Her absolute lack of female fussiness had always been one of her most appealing traits, and she made such a convincing camel driver that even he had trouble remembering that she was a marchioness.
Saleh interrupted his thoughts by saying, "This morning I spoke with the kafila-bashi about Habib."
Ross turned toward his companion. "And?"
"Abdul Wahab said that when he dismissed Habib from the caravan last night, he gave the man a stern warning not to make more trouble for you and Jalal. Apparently Habib seemed very cowed when he left."
"I doubt that will last," Ross said dryly. "We'll be here only another day. With luck, he'll be too busy recovering from his leg injury to do much harm before we leave."
Murad had brewed a pot of pre-dinner tea, and the three men sipped in thoughtful silence. In spite of what Ross had just said to Saleh, he was not happy about the prospect of spending another day in Merv. Habib might be on crutches, but all he needed to cause trouble was his malicious tongue,
and that was still in full working order.
Someone cleared his throat softly, and Ross looked up to see a small shabby Turkoman with a straggly beard. The fellow had been drifting around the campground, stopping here and there to exchange a few words, and had now reached their fire. He appeared to be a holy man, though his dress did not look like that of any of the orders of dervishes that Ross recognized.
The Turkoman bowed. "Salaam Aleikum."
"And peace be upon you," the three men murmured.
"I have heard that you are a ferengi, come all the way from England to learn your brother's fate in Bokhara," the man said, speaking directly to Ross. "My name is Abd. Never have I had the chance to speak to a man of your people. Will you tell me of the wonders of your great land?"
Ross's eyes narrowed. Apparently Habib had been talking about him, so now Ross would be put to another theological test. Well, he had always done well with those, and this particular dervish seemed innocuous enough. "I am called Khilburn. You are welcome at our fire. I will be honored to speak with you of my country, and beg that you will in turn tell me more of your own people."
As Ross introduced his companions and Murad poured more tea, the Turkoman knelt with the air of a man settling down for a lengthy discussion. "You are a Christian, my lord?" When Ross nodded, Abd said, "Tell me of your beliefs so that I may better know how our religions differ."
Thinking that that could be dangerous, Ross said, "I would prefer to discuss how our religions resemble each other."
The dervish's face lit up. "Truly thou art a man of wisdom. In your view, what are the similarities?"
"The desert is the home of three great religions—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam," Ross replied. "In these bleak and beautiful lands, there is little to stand between a man and the awareness of God's power. I think that is why the people of the book all believe so strongly in the One God."
Abd tilted his head to one side like a curious bird. "Being ignorant of the world that lies beyond the desert, I do not fully understand your meaning."
"In Britain, where I grew up, the land is moist and rich and teems with life, like an endless oasis. Everywhere there are trees and plants and animals. Perhaps that is why the ancient British people believed in many gods—surrounded by such overwhelming evidence of God's works, they saw a godling in every brook and every tree rather than the master hand behind it all," Ross said, warming to his theory. "It took the fierce anvil of the desert to forge a clear understanding of the One God."
"Ahh, what a new and intriguing thought you have given me," the dervish said, briefly closing his eyes with delight. "In the simplicity of the desert, one can truly be alone with God, as my nomad ancestors discovered. And the understanding born of that simplicity has been carried across the world."
"So it has, and that is what your faith and mine have in common. All the people of the book still carry the pure vision of the desert god in their hearts," Ross said. "Like most Englishmen, I feel a greater kinship with the sons of the Prophet than with Hindus, who have many gods, or Buddhists, whose God seems abstract and remote."
"That is good," Abd said, nodding thoughtfully. "Do you think the Hindus and Buddhists worship false gods?"
Ross shook his head. "I would not say that, for I do not know enough of their beliefs to judge them wise. But I have known Hindus and Buddhists who were truly good men. Perhaps in their different ways they also worship the One God. However, I understand immediate the God of the Prophet with no need of interpretation, for he is also the god of my fathers."
He must have passed the test, for after nodding several times, Abd began an enthusiastic dissertation on the nature of fire and water, and whether God could have made them, since they were destructive and God was good.
The dervish was still expounding when Murad checked to see if dinner was ready. Since it was, the young Persian gave Ross an inquiring glance.
Knowing exactly what was being asked, Ross said to the dervish, "We are about to partake of our evening meal. Will you honor us by sharing our humble fare?"
"The honor would be mine," Abd said happily.
The dervish looked so pleased that it occurred to Ross that the main purpose of this visit might not be theology but a simple desire to cadge a free dinner. Ross didn't mind; Abd was a pleasant old fellow and he obviously could use a solid meal.
Murad looked regretful at dividing the lamb one more way, but he made no protest as he piled the food onto the communal platter. Islam had a tradition of sharing that Ross thought the Christian world would do well to emulate.
With dinner imminent, Juliet came instantly awake and settled cross-legged by the platter. Ross introduced her as Jalal, adding that she spoke little Persian.
After murmuring a blessing, Abd remarked, "It is very rare to see a Targui in Turkestan."
"I am surprised that you have seen any," Ross replied.
"Aye, there have been one or two through Merv. The caravan routes are the lifeblood of Islam, and they carry the sons of the Prophet from one end of the earth to the other."
The dervish went on to expound on how caravans and pilgrimages promoted unity throughout the Muslim world, a topic which progressed into a general discussion of transportation. After Ross had described a railroad, the old man said, perplexed, "It sounds most unnatural. Of what value is such speed?"
"It shortens journeys and transports good more quickly so men might live better lives."
Abd shook his head firmly. "The pace of a camel or donkey gives a man time to see, to reflect, to understand—those are the things that create a better life. To a simple man like me, it seems that you ferengis are over-concerned with doing and having. In Islam, we are more interested in being."
Ross's opinion of the dervish rose still further. "As I gave you an intriguing new thought, now you have done the same for me. I thank you, good Uncle."
They were just finishing a pleasant meal when a group of Turkomans galloped into the campground in a flurry of dust, shouting, and thundering hooves. In their tall black sheepskin hats, the riders looked like a light cavalry troop.
Terrified goats and chickens scattering before them, they cut from one campfire to another while members of the caravan drew back and watched warily. Even though their dress indicated hat they were of the local Tekke tribe, not raiders from a hostile Turkoman band, Ross felt a prickle of disquiet.
His disquiet deepened when he realized that the Turkomans seemed to be searching for something, or someone. Then the leader of the riders drew close enough to identify.
Ross swore under his breath. Aloud he said, "The man approaching is Dil Assa, the leader of the Turkomans I met near Serevan."
Remembering that Ross had almost been killed, Saleh and Juliet looked up sharply. Murad, who might have been enslaved on that occasion, did his best to look unobtrusive. Only Abd was unalarmed. His back to the newcomers, he placidly mopped up the last of the lamb juices with a piece of bread.
A moment after Ross spoke, Dil Assa spotted his quarry and recognition became mutual. With a shout of triumph, the Turkoman spurred his horse toward their ire, reining his mount back just in time to avoid ramming the unconcerned dervish.
"It is the British spy!" Dil Assa roared, his gaze fixed on Ross. "Truly God is merciful, for he has given you into my hands again. This time I shall not fail to kill you, ferengi."
Juliet lunged for her rifle, which was only a yard from her hand, but Ross threw his hand up to stop her. "No! A gun battle here would endanger too many innocent people." Rising to his feet, he said, "I also remember you, Dil Assa. Why do you have this passion for killing Englishmen?"
"I need no reason. Prepare to die, dog!"
Dil Assa was raising his matchlock rifle when Abd stood and turned to face the Turkomans. Before Ross's fascinated gaze, the old holy man seemed to take on an extra six inches of height and an air of compelling authority. His voice cutting across the nervous camp like a lash, the dervish said, "If you wish to kill the ferengi, you will
have to kill your khalifa first."
Ross gasped. Good Lord, their ragged visitor must be the Khalifa of Merv, the spiritual leader of the Turkomans and the only man with any influence on their wild behavior.
In the hush that fell over the camp after the old man spoke, Dil Assa's gasp was clearly audible. "Abd Urrahman!" He scrambled off his horse and bowed deeply, all of his men doing the same. "Majesty, I did not recognize you."
"No, for you were too intent on wickedness," the old man said sternly. "You shame me, Dil Assa. I have broken bread with the ferengi and find him to be an honorable man. If you slay him, my curse will be upon you and your tents."
Dil Assa blanched. "You have never protested when we take slaves among the Persians, majesty," he said feebly. "Indeed, you graciously accept a tenth of all our spoils."
"That is entirely a different matter," the khalifa said with dignity."A Turkoman raider does not take the lives of his captives, but treats them as tenderly as a father, for dead they are worthless. Besides, Persians are Shiites, and to fight them is a greater blessing than making a pilgrimage."
Murad, who as a Persian was a Shiite, drew closer to Saleh, who was a Sunni like the Turkomans. Ross found it ironic that Abd Urrahman was more tolerant of a Christian than of a fellow Muslim, but was too grateful for the khalifa's intervention to point out any inconsistencies of logic.
Abd Urrahman continued, "I want your word that you will never again try to harm this ferengi, his servants, or his friends." The old man's piercing gaze swept the other Turkomans. "I want the same promise from all of you here, and all the kinsmen in your tents."
Dil Assa swallowed hard. "You have my word, majesty, and I shall convey your wishes to the rest of the tribe."
"Very good." The khalifa's face softened. "It is well that you fear God, Dil Assa, for I know that you fear no man."
Taking the words as a compliment, Dil Assa brightened a little, though his expression was still ferocious when he turned to Ross again. The Turkoman glared like a tomcat; Ross was reminded of his early days at Eton, where boys felt compelled to prove themselves to each other.
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