So taking the candle from Henry, she used its flame to light another candle stub that sat in a broken pottery bowl before sitting on the stool.
Too quickly, it seemed, Henry turned back toward the door. And perhaps it was the look he gave her now-the unreadable expression that crossed his face and made him seem a stranger. But, when he stepped out, closing the door soundly behind him, suddenly everything seemed wrong, terribly wrong and ugly suspicions came to mind that proved immediately correct when Juliette shouted Henry's name and the door didn't spring open.
She ran to the door, pulling the leather thong that served as a handle until it broke off in her hand. Then she was beating it with her fists and screaming, "Henry! Henry! Let me out!"
The sound of his footsteps was diminishing up the stairs before fading away to leave everything horribly quiet but for the occasional rustling of unknown creatures in the dark corners as the small candle sputtered suddenly and then went out like the last ray of trust in her heart.
Her teeth clenched and her temples pounded. No, Henry couldn't do this. No . . . not to me! With frantic hands she battered the door, screaming again, "Henry, Henry," until her arms were numb and her fists bleeding.
Her voice rasped with tears. It was no use, she was trapped and betrayed. The hopeless pain of her rage made her stomach cramp until she fell against the rough surface of the door. Then sliding downward she lay sobbing against the straw.
PART VIII
SLAVE GIRL
Chapter 49
That night Juliette spent alternating between fits of rage and terrified weeping, and the next morning when the sun came up even hotter than the day before and the straw on the floor began to reek with filth, she beat her scabbed fists against the splintered door calling, "Henry, Henry Farthington! Let me out!"
She was hardly aware of the pain, and only able to think that he couldn't leave her like this. It was a matter of money-that was all. Oh, why hadn't she told him before she was wealthy? She would pay whatever they asked. If only they would give her a chance to explain!
It must have been near noon when she next heard several sets of footsteps coming down the stairs and, with her breath catching in her throat, Juliette backed away from the door as it was flung open and four Arabs filled the small room.
Immediately Juliette recognized the scar-faced Arab from the night before. With him were two burly guards with short black whips coiled in their meaty fists and also a richly robed man, taller than the others, who eyed her appraisingly.
Backing away until the wall stopped her, Juliette pressed her palms against its crumbling brick. Already the rich man's eyes were pleased. He nodded to the scar-faced Arab, who spoke a few words in rapid dialect, so that the two guards came toward her, lusty grins spreading slowly over their broad faces.
Juliette blanched, evading them with a leap toward the opposite wall where she clung until, just as quickly, the guards cornered her, each of them capturing one of her arms and dragging her back to the center of the room as easily as if she were one of the straws on the floor.
Still she struggled between them. "Stop this! Let me go! If it's money . . . money you want, you'll have it," she panted. "Just release me and I'll give you whatever amount you demand!"
She did stop fighting then as she looked from the scar faced Arab to the wealthy one, waiting for a look of interest but seeing only surprise and annoyance.
She began again more angrily, "Don't you understand? I have enough money to make you all rich. You have only to name an amount and . . ."
This time one side of the scar-faced Arab's mouth turned as he stepped forward and slapped her hard across the lips. The burning sting brought tears to her eyes and her own hand automatically to her face. Then, before she could re-cover or protest, the fastenings of her robe were ripped away and, in a flash of dark material, her only garment was snatched over her head. Juliette cried out, fighting to cover herself with arms still painfully held in the guards' grip.
Slowly Abdul ibn al-Mehridim's half-closed eyes moved over the white girl. She aroused him, this one, with her ivory limbs and that firm, rosy-hued breasts that jiggled as she writhed and strained between the guards. And that gold-furred triangle of womanhood promised even more delights. Unconsciously he touched himself now, thinking the price this Englishman asked was not so great after all.
"You have not spoken falsely. She is perfection," he breathed at last, bending his head to the other Arab before adding, "but she is spirited."
Kaleb's scarred face smiled. "Perhaps. But we have methods of subduing her without damaging her worth. Leave the details to me, and I assure you she will be ready whenever you say."
A conspiring smile crossed the face of Abdul ibn al¬Mehridim. "Tonight then," he said, withdrawing from his robes a weighty bag that clinked, setting it in Kaleb's outstretched hand.
Juliette's face blazed red, her flesh crawling with revulsion as she turned away.
Cold sweat covered her as she anticipated any moment being thrown down and raped. But to her surprise, a wave from the scar-faced Arab caused the guards to release their bruising hold and set her free.
Immediately she retrieved the fallen robe, clenching it to her breasts. The wealthy-looking man was moving toward the door, which a guard opened and held for him. As he passed through, he paused, turning back for one more look, his heavy lips parting slowly in a smile that showed a gold tooth glowing dimly, before he disappeared, the others following, and the splintered door banging shut.
All that day, Juliette expected the men to return and do any of a hundred horrors she couldn't help but imagine, while again and again, Brandon's words repeated themselves in her head, "Continuously . . . all night . . . old men .., sick men . . . diseased men. Do I shock you? But there are many far more worse"
A paralyzing dread formed in her stomach as she sat on the filthy straw, the robe clinging wetly to spots under her arms and between her breasts. In the torrid heat the cell's one tiny window was inadequate and, leaning against the wall, she fanned herself with an open hand. How long would they leave her here? She couldn't remember ever being so hot or so intensely thirsty in her life. Yet there was no relief from the heat, and no water in the squalid little cell.
Again it seemed hours before footsteps came and Juliette, languishing on the floor, tensed and lifting herself to lean against the wall. But this time she saw only a hand and forearm as, in a flash, the door opened and a water skin was tossed in before it, was closed and locked once more.
Suspiciously Juliette waited until the footsteps diminished before crawling through the straw to grasp the sack. To her surprise, it was half full of water and, quickly unstopping the neck, she raised it to her mouth and gulped deeply.
In her mind she knew that the water was foul. She could even feel particles slipping down her throat. But this made no difference to her parched mouth or thickening tongue. Any wetness seemed sweet and the bag was nearly empty before she regained control of her convulsive swallowing.
With effort she pulled the water skin away, letting it drop in her lap and savoring the moisture remaining on her lips. Better to save the rest, she told herself. There was no certainty that she would get any more.
Then crawling back to her former position, she leaned against the crumbling plaster wall.
The heat seemed less suffocating now, and tilting her chin, she looked up at the ceiling. It was only rough rafters mortared with mud and straw so it offered shade, though it would never stop rain, and through its occasional cracks and holes bright blue sky was visible.
Juliette could hear a chicken walking up on it, clucking occasionally and its feet disturbing the roof's powdered earth so it fell through the cracks to the straw floor in a dusty trickle which shimmered in the sunlight.
Rolling her head against the bricks, Juliette sighed, her eyes dropping to her hand which had also taken on a certain luminescence. Every vein seemed to stand out, throbbing red, and her skin seemed alive, even breathing.
Minutes ticked by unnoticed. Every part of her was tingling with refreshment as if from a long sleep, and yet she felt so lazy she didn't want even to raise her arms or move her legs though, automatically, her fingers reached again for the bag.
She lay down on her back, putting the neck of the water skin to her mouth and drinking deeply again before wiping away the drip that gathered on her chin with the back of her hand.
It was so good, delicious in fact. And wasn't it lovely just to lie here on this crisp straw that really looked a little like gold and reminded her of the barns she played in as a child. The memory made her happy and she smiled.
Why had she thought it so awful before? What was it again? What had frightened her? She tried to think. There was something else . . . far more important . . . but what was it? She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to concentrate, to turn her thoughts backward, but when her eyes closed, a carousel of visions spun in her mind and she was suddenly lost in a sea of color and light.
Chapter 50
Several nights later, a snake dancer, the defloration of three twelve-year-old Sudanese virgins, and an orgy of dwarfs all preceded the secret sale of a mysterious white slave girl at the notorious Club Rayseyn.
The sale was to be at midnight and, near that time; various ious figures presented themselves at the back entrance of the club to be examined, first through a slit in the door, and next under the light of a foyer, before being admitted down the winding stairway to the "room below"--a private den where entertainments were held for the enjoyment of certain patrons by invitation only.
It was a large room, blue with the smoke of incense and hashish, and candles in tall brass holders cast the shadows of those seating themselves on the low chairs against the heavily draped stage.
As the numbers grew and they waited, rumors circulated in low murmurs. Some men claimed to have seen the girl, reporting she was beautiful beyond their expectations, while several others whispered she was, in fact, a highborn English lady. There was a third story, too, that insisted she was none other than the stolen property of the Sheik of El Abadan, and all three stories added a tense air of mystery to the proceedings as the minutes passed.
A Turkish woman entered and seated herself in the rear of the dim room where she applied skilled fingers to a zither, sending a slow sensuous melody swimming through the thick smoky atmosphere.
Abdul ibn al-Mehridim entered from one side of the stage, nodding to several patrons he knew. Then signaling to an attendant, who pulled a cord, the plush curtains were
drawn apart and, through the haze of smoke, the slave girl appeared.
The white girl's eyelids were seductively half-closed and diaphanous peach veils gave a flush to her skin, both obscuring and revealing her smooth body as she stood grace¬fully one knee slightly bent, her head tilted back, her lips parted in a tragically innocent, yet provocative pose.
Her full breasts rose defiant and firm beneath the light covering, and long wavy hair tumbled to her waist, reflecting like pure gold in the glow of the candles. For a moment the crowd caught its breath, before craning eagerly forward, commenting in hushed voices, and there was laughter as a lusty comment was made.
The conversation paused as Abdul ibn al-Mehridim stepped forward, pointing out the slave girl's shimmering hair and rare-colored eyes, her firm breasts and rounded buttocks before calling for the first bid.
"Three thousand dinars," someone shouted from near the stage.
It was a staggering figure. But undaunted, other voices called out in rapid succession, doubling the bid in minutes, and then again, until it reached twelve thousand dinars and only three men remained bidding.
Abdul ibn al-Mehridim was pleased. His fleshy tongue touched the corner of his mouth as his eyes darted between the rivals.
One was an Ethiopian, Gessat Nassid, who owned several secret diamond mines to the south and was known for both his cunning and his wealth.
The second was the governor's indulged son, ibn-Abad, who sat on the far side of the stage, drawing on his hookah, his glazed eyes narrowing to see through the clouds of smoke as he stared at the girl.
The third man sat in the rear of the room, darkness shrouding his face so that only the red-hot ember of a cigarette betrayed a presence. He was an Englishman called Jack Player who owned the most notorious brothel in Tripoli and had just made the last bid in a hoarse gravelly voice.
The Ethiopian's black eyes gleamed beneath his red turban as he evaluated the girl's worth. There was a certain African chieftain whose lands Nassid had to cross on the way to his diamond mines and, in the past, Nassid had found it both wise and profitable to flatter this particular chieftain with occasional gifts.
As recently as their last meeting, he had promised to bring the chief a girl as beautiful as the morning. Certainly this one matched that description and, offering such a treasure, Nassid reasoned, would insure peaceful crossing to the mines and guarantee a peaceful return as well.
Gessat Nassid cocked his turbaned head, weighing the value of a safe expedition against the price of this slave girl, while mentally counting his gold. And when Abdul ibn al-Mehridim leaned toward him and asked for a bid of thirteen thousand dinars, the Ethiopian nodded.
In the back of the room, the red-hot ember of a cigarette bobbed suspended in darkness. And for the first time in years, a spark kindled in Jack Player's cold reptilian eyes.
Many times before he had purchased white women to satisfy his customers' lust for pale flesh. But this one was different. She had none of the others' hard seasoned looks but seemed an innocent under all the makeup and drugs. And feeling a sudden eagerness to himself taste her charms, he called out, "Fourteen thousandl"
Ibn-Abad drew on his hookah, puffing bluish smoke toward the plaster ceiling. His bloodshot eyes crawling slowly up and down the white slender body, pausing again and again on the girl's smooth and rounded buttocks.
He had always preferred boys to females of any age, but seeing this girl. . . . His eyes focused again on her boyishly slim flanks and then rose to her perfectly formed breasts. This girl had the best attributes of both. And what a delight to dominate such a body-to have it writhing beneath him and also cheat the Sheik of El Abadan out of the pleasure at the same time. It would be sweet revenge.
How he hated Karim al-Sharif with his smooth looks and fastidious European ways. Even now the man was staying in the palace of ibn-Abad's own father, who showed the sheik more affection than he did himself, his own son. And taking the pipe out of his mouth, ibn-Abad called in his high-pitched voice, "Fourteen thousand five hundred dinars."
Abdul ibn al-Mehridim nodded, repeating the bid as his eyes shifted between the Englishman and Gessat Nassid as if to read their thoughts.
The Ethiopian sipped from a thimble-sized cup of syrupy black coffee. It was an exorbitant price to pay for any girl, be reasoned. But her fairness alone made her an exceptional treasure, exactly the type to tempt an African chieftain grown bored with the dark skins of his own women.
It was true, of course, he might match her coloring with another brought by nefarious means across the Mediterranean, but he would be unable to match her beauty. Nassid adjusted his wide sleeves and, glancing at the dark end of 6e room, noticed the red glow of the cigarette ember bobbing up to Player's mouth, burning for an intense moment before paling and dropping downward. Then, looking back ID Abdul ibn al-Mehridim, the Ethiopian said, "Fifteen thousand”
Jack Player shifted uneasily on his thick cushion, his eyes fixed on the girl. Surely it must be true that she was a wellborn lady. The way she held her head and shoulders, ad the pose of her arms reminded him of rich English girls he had seen in London. But none of them had ever been interested in him-a bastard, even
if his father was English lord, yes, a bastard all the same.
He dragged again on his cigarette, bringing the ember to dashing brightness before calling out in his harsh voice, "”Twenty thousand dinars!"
The zither twanged discordantly and the room grew bashed before heads pulled together and whispers rose to a fevered pitch.
"Player must be breaking himself to have her," whispered one man. "The girl is a rare gem, but twenty thousand dinars! It is the price of a ship and crew!"
From the stage, smoke hazed and blurred the gaping, and barely conscious, unseeing, uncaring, and filled with dreams, Juliette heard the haunting melodies of zither as if from another world, the music leading her mind down the labyrinths of time, and once again she was a young girl standing at her father's bedside.
"It's only a scratch after all," she heard him say. "Scratches heal. That young Arab, Karim al-Sharif, didn't realize how tough we English can be." He laughed infectiously. "Now be a good girl and keep me company."
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