Hungry and scared, she had followed the river trail until she’d reached the great capital city of Memphis. There Kiya had found other children like herself—parentless, unwanted creatures who survived on scraps, their own wits, and an aptitude for survival. Kiya had quickly become one of them.
Now Kiya studied Tahar’s placid face and struck upon an idea.
For she was one of them still.
Chapter Fifteen
That evening, for the first time in a week, she spoke. ‘May I lead the horse?’ she asked Tahar. ‘I wish to stretch my legs.’
It was good to hear the sound of her voice. Its soft, gentle lilt was like the tinkle of water amidst the sweltering silence. Further, it gave him an excuse to turn and behold her atop the beast—a vision he found himself craving more and more.
‘As you wish,’ Tahar said.
The sun had already set and the full moon risen, and there was plenty of light for her to seek her path upon the ground.
She dismounted the beast, and stroked its long neck. ‘Good horse,’ she said, patting it on the snout. ‘What is his name?’
She was standing closer to Tahar than she had in days, and he felt his awareness grow more acute.
‘He does not have a name. He is a beast.’
‘In Khemet we give our beasts names. May I name him?’
‘You may,’ he said. Her nearness was a tonic.
‘Hello... Meemoo,’ she said, a playful smile extended across her face.
Desert wind, what was he doing to her? He did not understand her changing moods. She had called him handsome, and then for a week had ceased to speak to him at all. She had praised his pursuit of the sheep’s milk, but when he had landed them a hare she had said not a single word. She wouldn’t even lie atop the carpet he unrolled for her day after day. Instead she stretched across the naked ground, as he did, as far away from him as possible.
She touched Tahar’s hands and smiled as he gave her the reins, and the sensation was enough to make his heart skip. Her beauty was growing impossible to ignore. He had not anticipated the impact that a regular diet of meat and grain would make upon the woman. Only three weeks had passed since the raid and already her gaunt, pale face had gained colour and fullness. Her shiny black hair grew, though it remained hidden beneath her makeshift headdress. And those lips. Gods. Her lips alone could stop a caravan.
He had hoped that she would soften towards him, and that they might again begin to converse. It wasn’t just that he wished to convert her to the idea of marriage. He wished to understand why she rejected it so completely. She was like no other woman he had ever known. Clever and capable. Feisty and headstrong. Mysterious and—curse her—incomprehensibly appealing. Yet instead of desiring the safety and security of a husband she wished for freedom. She was a puzzle he wanted to solve, but it had been so long since she’d spoken to him that he’d grown afraid of asking. Who, he wondered, was training whom?
‘There is an oasis ahead, yes?’ she asked.
‘Aye, about half a day’s—or I should say half a night’s—journey.’
‘That is well.’ She waited for Tahar to mount the horse and then began to lead it across the flat, moonlit plain.
Tahar was glad for the rest, and he admitted that he did not mind the chance to appraise her from behind. Her gait was strong, confident. Her headdress hung about her shoulders, and in the moonlight it looked like a mane of long, luxurious hair. The leather sandals he had made for her twisted appealingly up her muscular calves, and her addax-skin dress clung snugly to her breasts and growing hips, which moved in a rhythm all their own.
Her body was changing: she had begun to show a woman’s curves. And it was as if those very curves were on some clandestine mission to test Tahar’s resolve.
‘It is beautiful tonight,’ she offered as she walked.
‘Aye,’ he said.
He had not noticed. He wrenched his eyes from her succulent backside and looked around him. The full moon cast its cool glow upon the land. In the distance Tahar could see the bristly palm leaf profile of the Dakhla Oasis. Beyond it the Big Sandy undulated softly, almost invitingly. The woman was right: it was a lovely night.
‘It is as if the moonlight were water,’ she observed, ‘and Thoth were pouring it upon the land.’
Moonlight as water? He had never thought of it that way. He closed his eyes and imagined the moonlight falling from the night sky like rain. A wave of contentment washed over him. It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to feel the gentleness of the desert, the wonder of it.
The Libu tribe that had adopted him did not see the wonder of the Red Land, for they had never known anything else. Of course they knew of Khemet, where water flowed through fertile fields and nobody lived in want. But Khemet might as well have been a realm of the Gods, because it was forbidden to them.
The Libu of the Meshwesh region had found Tahar and his horse lost amongst the dunes. They had adopted the blue-eyed boy and his strange beast as their own. They had only asked that Tahar learn the ways of the desert and, as soon as possible, help support the tribe. They’d given him a copper blade and shown him how to hunt addax, oryx and gazelle. They’d taught him to use his ears, to hear the scratch of a hedgehog’s feet upon the ground and the whisper of birdsong on the breeze, beckoning him to hidden wells.
Tahar’s soul filled with gratitude. Without the kindness of the Libu Meshwesh he would have certainly perished. He had committed himself to learning all they had to teach. He’d ranged across the treeless landscape, unearthing its secrets. His mind had always been working, always trying to piece together the puzzle of creation. He had searched in deep, dry canyons and found them teeming with hidden life. He had reached the summit of the tallest peaks and observed stories told in stone. He’d discovered hidden wells and ancient bones and histories etched on walls a thousand years old.
His soul had filled with wonder. Who needed gods when there were marvels such as these? They were all there, for anyone to see if only they wished to look.
‘May I ask you a question?’ asked Tahar.
‘You may ask any question you like. Whether I shall supply an answer is another thing entirely,’ the woman answered haughtily.
‘Have you ever had the privilege of entering the Great Pyramid of Stone?’
The woman paused, as if considering which lie she would tell. At length, she seemed to decide upon the truth. ‘I have.’
‘What is it like inside?’
‘What is it like? Hem. Well, it is cool and dark. Torches illuminate the sacred passages, of which there are three. Each passage leads to a holy chamber, each chamber more grand and elaborate than the last. They say that the first chamber—the one beneath the earth—is false, constructed merely to confuse malicious spirits. The second chamber is for the King’s ushebti statue, of course. The third is his true chamber—the place where his mummy will rest. But I think—’
The woman stopped walking and turned to face Tahar.
‘Please go on,’ said Tahar. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think that there are two other secret chambers.’
‘Two secret chambers?’
The woman’s eyes glimmered with excitement. She lowered her voice. ‘I have heard that there are no reliefs in the third chamber—nor any hieroglyphs upon the walls. In addition, the third chamber is small. There is only a single slab of red granite to receive the King.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Yes, very unusual. The King needs the text of the spells to protect him on his journey through the Underworld. They must be written upon the walls of his tomb. He also needs a script to recite before Osiris, in the Hall of Judgement. That script should have been carved into the walls of the third chamber, but it has not been. And when he is admitted into the Land of Eternity the King will
require all his possessions. It is well known that Khufu’s father, the mighty King Sneferu, had two rooms for his possessions—one room for his personal items and the other for his furniture, saddles, yokes and ploughs. The third chamber must have a hidden entrance that leads to these two other secret chambers.’
‘Have you heard anyone speak of these secret chambers?’
‘Nay—but I feel certain they are there,’ said Kiya. ‘Just as there are sacred words meant only for holy ears, so there are sacred spaces meant only for gods and kings.’
Tahar smiled to himself. The woman was clever—probably too clever for her own good. ‘You observe much; your conclusion rings true.’
The woman gave Tahar a deep bow and smiled. ‘Of course if I am ever confronted I will deny that I ever shared any such conjecture with you.’
‘Of course,’ said Tahar, nodding at the woman.
She returned to her walk.
‘There is also a tunnel,’ she added offhandedly. ‘It winds its way up the great structure, along its inner perimeter, all the way to the top. Anybody may use it who is working on the pyramid, though only a few may step out upon the threshold at the top. The tunnel itself is used primarily for the hauling of stones. It is how the Great Pyramid was built.’
‘A tunnel? Inside the structure itself?’ Tahar could not conceal his wonder. So that was how the clever Khemetians had done it.
‘Aye.’
‘All the way to the top?’
‘Aye, though it will be filled in soon, with stones.’
‘How I should love to enter the Great Pyramid before I die,’ Tahar admitted. ‘How I should love to climb that tunnel. Have you done so?’
The woman did not respond, and in her silence he read her answer: yes.
‘How many more nights until we reach Abu?’ she asked, abruptly changing the subject.
It was clear that she had ascended the tunnel—many times. Gods, she had probably been a hauler. That was the reason for her tightly wrapped breast cloth, the unusually muscular calves—the reason she wore no wig. She had laboured upon the Great Pyramid of Stone as a hauler. That was why he had found her at the raid.
‘If you do not know how many nights to Abu, can you at least make a guess?’ she added brusquely.
‘Oh, aye. Seven or eight nights at least,’ Tahar replied.
His mind roiled with the implications of her inadvertent admission. She was a woman who had laboured upon a king’s tomb. She had defied the gods she professed to believe in so ardently. She had violated the law. She was even bolder than he could have imagined. He wished to probe her mind further, but he knew her too well to attempt to return to the subject of the pyramid.
‘So many days?’ she asked wistfully. ‘I had thought the Isle closer.’
You had hoped it closer. Tahar stared at the woman’s soft curves with new wonder. ‘Before we can even speak of Abu or Nubia we must first survive the crossing of the Big Sandy.’
‘I have heard of it. They say it is vast—larger even than the Big Green.’
‘It is larger, and much more dangerous,’ he explained. ‘Unlike a sea of water, a sea of sand will never carry you to shore. You must carry yourself or die. To cross it at its narrowest point is a three-day march without stopping. If we bring too much water we slow our trek and risk exposing ourselves too long to the sun. If we bring too little water... Well, I don’t need to tell you what will happen in that case.’
Tahar swallowed hard. The Big Sandy was a challenge they had to face. To go around it would cost them a many months of travel, through hostile territory, and Tahar could not risk losing the woman again. Still, his stomach turned at the prospect of attempting to traverse the endless swathes of dunes at this, the hottest time of the year.
If only the Big Sandy were a real sea and the woman were his boat. The thought should have made him smile—she was his boat, after all—but instead Tahar’s insides clenched.
‘When we arrive in Nubia I assume you will try to generate multiple buyers, to get the best price for me?’
‘That is so,’ Tahar responded carefully. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘No reason.’
But Tahar knew her better. ‘I will find you the richest possible husband,’ he assured her, shifting into the familiar role of trader. ‘I’m sure I do not have to explain that such an outcome will be favourable for you.’
He let his statement linger in the air. He would indeed find her a rich husband, for he was very good at trading. Though the Khemetians viewed trade as a lowly profession, Tahar was not ashamed to call himself a trader. He was like a fennec fox—quiet and observant, with ears large enough to hear everything happening along the trade routes. There was a load of natron salt coming from Fezzan? Well, there was a ship of Etruscans in Alexandria who would pay dearly for it. Five kites of silver from Garamantia? He knew some jewellers from Uruk who would be quite interested.
All he asked was a broker’s pittance—a cut of grain or a dusting of gold. And he always gave what he earned to his tribe, always in gratitude.
Finding a wife had proved more challenging. Despite the fact that he bore the Libu scar, and had been Libu for more than half of his thirty-two years, the women of the tribe still viewed him as an outsider. He did not look like a Libu man. He was larger and paler and did not wear a beard.
One day he had overheard a group of women discussing the unmarried men of the tribe. ‘What about Tahar?’ a woman had asked in a soft voice. ‘He has brought us much wealth.’
‘But he is so...large,’ another had said. ‘And his blue eyes are strange. They frighten me.’
Undeterred, Tahar had sought out the woman with the soft voice, but when he had finally met her inside her family’s tent, she would not look at him. She’d kept her head down, for Libu women were expected to listen, not speak, in the presence of men. Tahar had understood this, but had thought if he could charm a grain trader into an extra half-khar of grain, why not a Libu woman into speaking her mind?
‘I am here to get to know you,’ he’d explained to the woman.
There had been a long, uncomfortable silence.
‘We can go for a walk. Is that something you would like to do?’
She had not responded.
‘I have come to see if we are a match for marriage. What do you think?’
The woman’s chest had moved up and down rapidly with her breaths, yet still she had not spoken.
‘What do you want?’ Tahar had asked finally.
‘I don’t know what I want,’ she had burst out, tears gathering in her eyes.
Tahar had realised that she had probably never once been asked that simple question.
At last she’d looked at Tahar. ‘What do you want?’
An unexpected answer had come to Tahar’s lips: ‘I wish to return to my homeland.’
And it had been true. He had not known it until that very moment, but he did not want to spend his life shuffling goods in the desert. He wanted to fulfil the promise his father had made to his mother so long ago. He wanted to return to her. He wanted to go home.
He imagined his mother often. If she still lived, she would now be quite old. She would be in need of him. He imagined the vast grazing grounds where his tribe wandered, always moving with their animals. With patience and a strong boat he was certain he could find that grassy paradise again.
Still, he’d known he owed his Libu tribe everything. How could he possibly leave them and strike out on his own? He would need to amass a large fortune, both to ensure his tribesmen’s security and to support his journey. He had thanked the soft-voiced woman, exited the tent, and quietly begun planning his new life.
His first goal had been to amass the fortune. He would work hard, and in five or ten years he would have enough money to buy a boat. With a boat he could move c
ross the Big Green and the Dark Seas. He could seek his tribe and his mother.
He might even find a bride—a woman who would not be repelled by his blue eyes and Libu scar. A woman who would speak her mind. A woman who was interested in learning more of the world, which he knew was wider than even he imagined. Indeed, his father had proved it.
But then the drought had crept in on quiet feet. One year. Two years. The rich Khemetian merchants with whom he usually did business had had nothing left to trade. His Libu tribesmen had been no less destitute. With their meagre grazing lands desiccated by the drought, their goats were dying in large numbers. Tahar had not been able to shirk his obligation to the people to whom he owed his very life.
In only two cycles of the sun, Tahar had given his tribe half of what he had saved in ten. Gradually he had given up on his dream. Until the day he’d seen her lithesome figure running across the plain.
‘If you cannot find a husband for me, do you intend to offer me as a slave?’ she asked now, her voice coppery and high.
‘I will find a husband for you,’ Tahar said, glancing at her developing figure. ‘Of that you needn’t have a doubt. Nubian men who do business with Khemetians seek Khemetian brides.’
‘But you will need to provide some kind of assurance, will you not? Proof that I am indeed Khemetian and that I am a...a virgin?’
‘They will be able to discern that you are Khemetian well enough when you speak.’
‘And my purity?’
‘They will be able to discern that, too.’ What was the little cobra up to now?
‘How, exactly, will they be able to tell?’
‘There are ways.’
‘What ways?’
‘They need not concern you.’
She was not without curiosity, and he admired her for it. Her busy mind would serve her well in her future life, for she would likely become part of a rich man’s harem.
Part of a rich man’s harem.
Enslaved by the Desert Trader Page 8
