Taking a deep breath, I ordered myself to stop imagining terrors.
I moved toward the tall, double gates. The gatekeeper’s trellised kiosk was empty!
Holding up my dragging habarah, I ran, pausing at the gates only long enough to take a shuddering breath before raising the magnificent brass latch.
I walked out of the Pasha’s harem.
I was in a vast stone courtyard where a troop of soldiers marched across the stones. From the back of their spiked helmets hung steel mesh, their mustaches reached well onto their chests and into their belts were thrust three sizes of daggers as well as long, curved scimitars. Telling myself this ferocious troop was nothing more than a ceremonial guard, I started for the exterior parapet.
I gasped. Because I had entered the Citadel by night and had not left the harem since, I had never seen the view framed by faraway open gates.
The Citadel, an ancient fortress, was built into the rock of the Mokattem Hills that overlook Cairo. My fears momentarily forgotten, I gazed hungrily at the view.
Below, the gilded and tiled bubble domes of mosques shone in afternoon sunlight, their minarets spiring upward like delicately carved ivory wands. Tall brick houses glowed with creamy stripes of paint. The sun burnished the broad Nile to molten bronze. Beyond the Nile, far off into the distance of the Libyan Desert, stood three small, shadow-hazed lavender triangles—the Pyramids of Gizeh.
The Pyramids … one of the seven wonders of the ancient world … three remote sentinels guarding time-shrouded mysteries.… How this view would have delighted Father. How it called to me! Even after I escape, I can do nothing here to prove Father’s theory, I thought angrily.
The courtyard was abustle. Cairo is the capital of Egypt, and the Citadel is its heart. From the surrounding buildings officials came and went. As I began to walk, richly dressed men courteously glanced away from me and after a few steps it seemed to me that my habarah had endowed me with invisibility.
Ahmed had told me that Cairo’s few assorted “Franks” lived together in one walled little quarter. Certainly I’d have no problem finding the Dutch consul. My legs twitched to run, but I forced my slippered feet to move sedately.
Two of the ferociously mustachioed guards stood stationed on either side of the courtyard’s enormous iron-bound cedar doors.
“Selam aleikum,” greeted one. Peace be on you.
The reply was Aleikum selam. Peace be on you.
Fearing my accent might incriminate me, though, I put my hand to my veil, indicating as Uisha did that I was mute.
The guards gave one another knowing glances. Assuming they wanted the inevitable tip that is paid in the East, I drew my purse from my voluminous sleeve.
Both sentries stared at the dinars in my white palm. One shrugged. “I’ll take her back,” he said.
“No!” I burst out. “No! The Pasha’s home! And my mistress has sent me for her special perfume. If I return without it, she’ll beat me!” At every word my face veil shook.
“She must be out of her wits, poor foreign woman,” said the other sentry.
“But I’ll be beaten,” I wailed. Of course it would be far worse than a beating. I belonged to a man who massacred his guests. Was it in this very courtyard? The blood seemed to drain from my heart. “Please, please! Let me buy the perfume!”
But one guard herded me, arguing and beseeching, around the courtyard. At the harem gates, he banged with his fist. “Open up!”
“State your business,” squeaked a eunuch’s voice.
“It’s your business, not mine,” bawled the sentry. “Don’t you know better than to let the Pasha’s serving wenches run around without proper escort?”
One door inched ajar. “No servant went out.”
“What do you call this?” the sentry asked, pushing me inside. “A djin? It’s some poor, ignorant foreigner whose mistress hasn’t taken the trouble to explain her new privileged position.”
The eunuch, without a word, yanked me by the arm, slamming the tall gate shut behind me. In his violent tug, my hood fell back. I was the only blonde in the harem.
“You’re the Frank slave,” he accused. “Where were you going?”
“I … just to see the city, that’s all.”
He glared. “Why would a woman want to do that?”
“In my own country people talk of the many wonders of Cairo.”
“And I suppose the Frankish Pasha’s women go about unescorted, too!” he snapped caustically.
“In my land they do,” I murmured.
Disbelief shone in his eyes. Pushing me between the shoulder blades, not harshly but as one does a recalcitrant child, he moved me ahead of him around the empty, pillared courtyard and into the broad corridor that led to my quarters.
Nine
In my spacious room, I pulled off my robes and veil, letting them drop on the beautifully patterned Ispahan carpet. I threw myself on a divan. I was very frightened. This fear had nothing to do with punishment. The eunuch gatekeeper’s casual annoyance was proof there would be no punishment. After this, though, I would be watched. And soon, soon, the Pasha would take his new slave girl.
The thought of his embraces, by which surely the perverse cruelty of Amos Thornton and the rapacity of the corsairs would appear gentle, made my heart pound so that I could scarcely breathe. Pressing my face into a turquoise pillow, I began to cry in smothered, hopeless sobs.
It was some time before a crawling sensation on my neck told me I wasn’t alone.
A man stood in the arched doorway.
He was clean-shaven, which is rare in Eastern lands. Otherwise his appearance was unexceptional. Maybe forty, of medium height, he was sparely built and wore a drab brown robe and turban. The quizzical set of his mouth and the lift of one eyebrow told of a sense of humor. This, combined with his pale complexion, pointed nose and lightly grooved forehead, gave him a resemblance to Mr. Hodges, Mrs. Yarby’s boarder, who owned Hodges Hardware on Pennsylvania Avenue. I instantly classified the man as one of the merchants who peddled their wares to the veiled harem.
His pale gray eyes were fixed sympathetically on me.
Sitting up, I wiped my eyes with one hand. Modesty changes according to geography, and it never occurred to me to veil my face. I held the blue velvet vest closed over the gauzy white silk that didn’t properly hide my breasts.
He spoke first. “Why are you crying?” His voice, though flat in the way of people who toss dry jokes as an aside, had a gritty, compelling depth to it. “What’s wrong?”
Rather than answering his question, I said, “The ladies are all welcoming the Pasha home. Today they won’t be buying your wares.”
Briefly he raised a questioning brow, but almost immediately amusement glinted in his light gray eyes. “Since they’re busy, maybe I can interest you.”
And with this he stepped out of his shoes, briskly entering my large, airy room. As he drew nearer, his resemblance to drab Mr. Hodges faded. This man strode with assurance, he was vital, the gray eyes quick with intelligence and humor.
He stopped near my fallen outer garments. Embarrassed by the mess, I blushed. “I’m not a customer,” I said.
“You don’t know what I’m selling.”
“You have no pack, so your merchandise must be very small. Is it jewelry?”
“Very astute.”
“I’m a slave, so I have very little money. Besides, where I come from we have simpler tastes and don’t wear so many adornments.” As I spoke it occurred to me what his fate would be were he discovered in my room. “Are you crazy? You should know better than to wander about the Pasha’s harem! You’ll be beaten, blinded, flogged, bastinadoed! Killed!”
The merchant laughed and his laughter obliterated every hint of drabness. “All at the same time?”
“It’s no joking matter,” I said, standing. “Please go. Please!”
“Even if you don’t care for my merchandise, my stories will interest you. Maybe you will buy.”
“The punishment will be horrible!”
“So you said. The Pasha will have an ordinary merchant like me beaten, flogged, blinded, bastinadoed—is that the right order?”
His amusement had an infuriating quality to it. An angry desire bubbled into my chest.
“And killed, too!” I snapped. “You’re a fool, making jokes about a despot.”
“Oh? Your master’s a despot?”
“He’s the devil incarnate,” I said, then felt obligated to add, “I’ve never met him.”
“Then how do you have such a clear picture of him?”
“Even in my own country, thousands of miles from here, he’s famous for his cruelty. Once he slaughtered four hundred and seventy Mamelukes without a qualm.”
“To kill so few warlords hardly sounds like much of a day’s work for—what was that catchy phrase?—the devil incarnate.”
“All right. You’re very witty. Now leave while it’s still safe!”
“Why were you crying?” he asked suddenly. “Weren’t you invited to the party?”
“The Great Kadine asked me. But it seemed a perfect opportunity to leave.”
“Leave?” His brow went up in bewilderment. “Leave where?”
“The Citadel. I was on my way to the Dutch consul—”
He interrupted, “Then you’re from Holland?”
It was a huge relief not to hear all Western nationalities lumped together as “Frank.” “No. I’m American.”
“From whose colony?”
“The United States. We’re a free and independent land.”
“Ah yes. The United States. You just ended your second war with your overlords.”
“The war’s ended?” I cried. “Who won?”
“Neither side. A treaty was signed in Ghent and both sides agreed to give back all conquered territory and leave everything as it was before the fighting started.” He added with a faint malice, “Your Christian countries battle foolishly.”
I was silent. So it’s finished, I thought with disbelief—and a tug of homesickness.
“You still haven’t explained about leaving,” he said. “Don’t they give you pretty enough clothes? Is your room too small?”
“Is the war really over?”
“As if it never happened,” he chuckled. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”
“I hate being a slave!” The words burst from me. “Where I come from, freedom’s valued above life.”
“An interesting concept, freedom being more important than life. Tell me, in your United States, have they learned to raise the dead?”
His smile baited me.
“What’s life worth if you’re locked up, hidden away, one of a brood herd for the pleasure of some loathsome old tyrant?” I cried. Finally realizing this merchant was a subject of the Pasha, I added in a lower tone, “They can’t raise the dead here, either. So stop arguing with me. Just go!”
“Why’s my safety so important to you?”
“You’re the only person I’ve met in Egypt who knows the first thing about my world, even if you don’t like it,” I replied honestly. “Besides, I’d hate to have you on my conscience.”
“For my part, I hate to think of you in some loathsome old tyrant’s arms. Maybe I can smuggle you out of here.”
“I already thought of that,” I admitted. “Some of the other merchants have female assistants. But I can’t endanger you any more. And if you don’t hurry, everybody will be back from the party! Please go!”
In my agitation I no longer held my short vest. He gazed admiringly down at my thinly covered breasts, then grinned into my eyes and sat easily on the divan.
My knees went weak. Suddenly—and far too late I realized this was no merchant. Had I not been so upset when he appeared at my door, I surely would have realized that only one man could move unguarded about the harem.
The Pasha.
This deceptively commonplace man in his drab brown clothes, this man with amusement shining in his pale gray eyes, had conquered vast areas of Islam and made himself the most powerful man alive. For him the fearsome guards clanked. For him the Citadel bustled. He was my master. He owned my body. And I had just let him know that I had tried to escape, not to mention insulting him with a great many overblown terms, including “the devil incarnate.”
Some of my thoughts must have shown on my face. He chuckled. I feared him less than I should. Still, my face burned with embarrassment.
“You’re the color of a ripe plum,” he said, chuckling again. “And you’re tear-smudged. However, I must admit that Ahmed chose the only possible name for you, Naksh.”
“Why didn’t you tell me who you were, Pasha?” I mumbled.
“What? And missed questioning myself? Am I an ordinary merchant who thinks he’s very witty, or am I the devil incarnate?”
“I said too much.”
“So in the United States I’m known as a tyrant?” he asked. His pale gray eyes were demandingly imperious. I sensed then that his amusement was a capricious thing, and could easily shift to anger.
My mouth went dry as I said, “My father was a scholar of the ancient world. To be honest, I’m more knowledgeable about the days of the Pharaohs than modern Egypt. I don’t know what’s said about you except …” I stopped, unable to mention the slain Mameluke warlords again. “In our country we elect our Presidents and other officials. We consider any government not of, by and for the people to be a tyranny.”
His eyebrow shot up. “You equivocate well in Arabic, Naksh.”
“I do better in English—or Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Spanish or French.”
“Are all American women linguists?”
“Father was considered eccentric to educate me so much,” I admitted. My face still remained hot. “But our women do learn to read and write English. And we move about freely, unveiled.”
“We protect our women. And I assure you, as a woman of learning, you’ll be greatly treasured.”
At this reminder that I was to be one of his women, I couldn’t repress a shiver.
“Naksh, you get upset at the oddest things. Is it wrong to say you’ll be treasured?”
I blurted out what was foremost on my mind. “In my country a man has but one woman.”
“I have so little knowledge of the American continent, so how dare I argue? And with one so educated?” His face and voice were sober as he mocked me. “But in Europe, men are prey to the flesh. True, Christian men take but one wife. Not being angels, though, they have other women, women they cast off. In Islam we believe it a despicable sin for a man to take a woman unless he’s willing to protect her thereafter. My harem has comfort, respect, affection. Or have the ladies been telling you otherwise?”
“Lullah Zuleika never stops singing your praises. She’s very devoted to you.”
“And I to her.” His fond smile was devoid of mockery. “Do the others complain?”
“No,” I admitted. “They’re happy. But they’ve been reared to accept sharing a husband. And to being hidden away. I was born free and always expected to pass my days being married, the only wife, to someone I love.”
“Had you selected the man?” The gravelly voice was more compelling.
I thought of Stephen. My heart expanded painfully, though I was positive that by now he was searching for me. I couldn’t endanger him by hinting to the Pasha of his existence. “No,” I lied.
“Sit down.” The Pasha touched a vividly striped cushion.
I clutched my vest tighter. Now it’s going to happen, I thought. Now he’ll possess his property. “You would ravish me by force?” I whispered.
At this he slapped his knee, bursting into peals of laughter. The harsh sound rang in the high-ceilinged room. “Ravish you?” Tears came to his eyes. When his laughter subsided, he said, “Naksh, you’re funnier than my jester.” He shook his head, chuckling again in amusement. “Ravish you, indeed.”
“It’s a foolish word, I admit.” My neck burned. “But why else did Ahmed give me to you
?”
“That you’ll have to ask Ahmed. He doesn’t have any sense of humor. Still, he knows that I enjoy a good laugh. Maybe he heard someplace that women from the United States are funny. Are you famed for it?”
I disliked his teasing, hated his laughter, feared his advances, yet there was a stimulation about him, something electrical.
“Different things are important to us,” I said with what dignity I could muster.
His eyes grew cold with an arbitrary imperiousness. “Naksh, we don’t couple like dogs,” he said. “We have manners and morals. The first time I take a woman, she comes to me in the Ceremonial Alcove.” Again there was an ironic note in his voice. “In Egypt—maybe even in your egalitarian country—nobody sits unless the ruler permits it. All I did was suggest you needn’t stand.”
Furious at him for making me seem a conceited fool, I sank onto the Ispahan rug.
“Now you’re angry,” he said.
“No.”
“You prefer to remain at a distance and shout?”
“I’m your slave. If you command, I’ll come to the divan.”
The light in his gray eyes altered subtly. Had I not known he was a conqueror, a tyrant, master of many women, I would have thought him hurt. “About my, uh, ravishing you,” he said. “I’ll wait until you send for me.”
“That,” I whispered, “will never be.”
The peculiar light in his eyes intensified. “Never,” he said, “is a word only used by the young. Naksh, you’ll send for me.”
I shook my head.
Taking a silver and carnelian ring from his right little finger, he set it on the striped cushion, then stood gazing down at me for a long second, as if he were imprinting my face on his memory. “I’ll see you again when the ring’s on my finger. Not before.”
He strode to the door with brisk determination, not turning as he stamped into his shoes. I heard his quick footsteps fade along the silent corridor.
Ten
The grave and elegant Ahmed’s duties as vizier of the Pasha’s household left him little free time to come to my room, so when he arrived the following morning I understood the reason. As always, he brought me a present, this time a snowball of a kitten, a white Persian. Stroking the silken fur, trying to soothe the trembling of tiny bones, I answered the eunuch’s sober questions. All, of course, were about the Pasha’s visit.
The Emerald Embrace Page 11
