Son of Adam

by Margaret Rome

The insult made no impact. Reaching out, he clamped her chin between two forceful fingers and jerked her head upwards so that she was bound to meet his eyes. ‘A lamb to the slaughter, is that how you wish to see yourself? Rather than admit to being foolish, headstrong, and completely without scruples, you adopt a pose of injured innocence. I wish I had your imagination, mademoiselle, then I, too, could pretend—that you did not exist!’

  He was striding down the passageway before she managed to subdue her sense of outrage. Words it was too late to utter spilled to her lips—arrogant, brutal, churlish, conceited—each adjective was applicable. Then, when reason was about to snap, bitter humour came to her aid. Shortly she was to take part in a mock betrothal ceremony which she, at least, did not consider binding. How much worse it would have been had she been contemplating marriage to the man, to speak vows which in all honesty would have had to read: ‘I, Dove, take thee, Marc, to be my unlawful husband, to hate, loathe and despise from this day forward, until death us do part ... !’

  She felt strange seated at the foot of a low table surrounded by giggling wives who were seemingly overwhelmed by the unaccustomed honour of joining their husbands at the table. Dove was the only one unveiled. Some of the elderly male Arabs were obviously embarrassed by this omission, for after one quick glance they studiously avoided looking her way.

  Marc Blais—her lord and master, she cynically dubbed him—was seated to the right of Sheikh Rahma who was presiding at the head of the table. Zaid was seated on his left, and as the very sedate dinner proceeded the Sheikh divided his attention scrupulously between the two men while, in the Arab way, they munched solidly through the courses until their stomachs were full. Only water was served with the meal, which probably accounted for the fact that little laughter enlivened the men’s conversation.

  The meal was fairly simple, but Dove was in trouble from the very first course. After everyone’s hands had been washed, Rahma began the meal by plunging his spoon into a large tureen of soup and the rest of the men followed suit, spoons plying between one tureen and several mouths with considerable effect. The women were served separately, and after an initial fastidious shrinking from the thought of sharing a dish with several other mouths Dove tried a spoonful of the dark green soup and found it delicious.

  The second course, however, was a nightmare. Meat dishes were carried in, lamb grilled over charcoal and set upon beds of vegetables; meat balls and kebabs, skewers of grilled meat, chunks of lamb alternating with lumps of minced meat, set upon dishes of brown beans flavoured with garlic, dressed with oil, and flavoured with lemon.

  Her female companions were shy yet eager to initiate her into the proper method of transferring food to mouth from out of a communal dish.

  ‘Take a piece of bread, so!’ Mariam demonstrated. ‘Hold it to the edge of the dish with the thumb and first two fingers of your right hand. The left hand is never used at meals except in cases of extreme necessity. Then draw a portion of meat upon your bread and convey it to your mouth.’ The operation, when Mariam carried it out, was really clean and tidy, but Dove entertained a giggling audience for almost five minutes while she chased a piece of meat around the rim of the serving dish before finally scooping it onto her piece of bread.

  Gradually, with the aid of many helpful suggestions, she became more dexterous in the art, choosing only the most manageable-sized pieces of meat and avoiding the haricot beans done in oil that had to be conveyed gingerly to the mouth and deposited well inside the lips. The sight of numerous fingers dipping into the beans, depositing them into mouths, then returning once more to the same dish was slightly nauseating.

  It was a relief when the sweet course arrived. Bowls of fruit already decorated the tables, together with jugs of some sweet drink that seemed mostly to be composed of water and raisins. Arabs were notoriously sweettoothed, but Dove was surprised at the selection offered. She dithered between a choice of delicate pastries stuffed with dates and coated with powdered sugar, pancakes drenched in syrup and served with nuts, almonds and thick clotted cream, then finally opted for a cigar-shaped cake made of paper-thin pastry, stuffed with an almond filling, then dipped in syrup. Her companions’ amusement at her choice was explained when with a smile Mariam told her:

  ‘An apt choice, Miss Grey. The name of the sweet you have chosen is “bride’s fingers.” ’

  Tension had left her and she was almost beginning to enjoy herself when, after a final washing of hands, the servants cleared the tables and an expectant hush fell over the assembly. ‘Prepare yourself,’ Mariam whispered. ‘The ceremony is about to begin. You are very honoured. Rahma, my husband, has taken it upon himself to deputise for your father during the betrothal rites. He has already bartered with Marc for your dowry—a handsome sum, more than ample to cover the cost of your trousseau.’

  Already she had been bought and paidfor!

  When a man detached himself from the group at the head of the table and began advancing towards her she knew that the moment she had been dreading had arrived. She had assured herself philosophically that the betrothal ceremony meant nothing, merely a charade that had to be played out for the amusement of a people of simple, childlike intellect. But as she was escorted amidst a solemn hush to where Rahma and Marc were waiting a sea of grave faces impressed an importance upon the occasion which would not be shrugged off.

  Marc’s serious expression did not help to lighten her fears and as she took her place next to him, in front of Sheikh Rahma, the aura of solemnity was magnified when, in a devout voice quivering with feeling, the Sheikh began magnifying God, invoking blessings upon the Prophet, then embarked upon what seemed endless passages from the Koran. Dove did not once look towards her supposed prospective bridegroom, but felt him standing stiffly to attention right throughout the religious part of the ceremony. Only once, by accident, did their eyes meet, and that was when Marc was requested to hand over the dowry that had been agreed. The huge bundle of notes he placed upon a tray held out in front of him caused her an amazed gasp, to which he in turn responded with a twist of his scarred, cynical mouth before he moved away to take a seat opposite Rahma, her deputy father, and grasped his hands.

  A tall Arab stepped forward to throw a handkerchief over their joined hands and Dove, abandoned in the crowd, feeling almost superfluous to the ceremony, began to shake as Rahma solemnly intoned:

  ‘I betroth to thee my daughter Dove, the virgin, for a dowry of one thousand pounds.’

  She felt she had wandered into a world of unreality, the dim faceless crowd a mirage, the deeply religious ceremony an hallucination. Her senses reeled, she felt sick and faint, then terribly afraid when, through the pounding in her ears, she heard Marc’s crisp, decisive reply:

  ‘I accept her betrothal from thee ...”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Don’t cry out!’ Dove was startled from out of a restless sleep when the words hissed into her ear. The command was superfluous, for the man leaning across her bed had his hand pressed over her mouth to stifle a startled scream. ‘Get dressed, then quickly and as silently as possible prepare the children for a trip into the desert.’

  Her wide, startled eyes stared into the face of Marc Blais. He looked grim, the scar, which she was beginning to use as a barometer of his feelings, a jagged white line outstanding against a tense jaw.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she gasped.

  ‘There’s no time for explanations,’ he replied, his impatience evident, ‘the children are in danger and must be removed from the palace as quickly as possible. I’ll be back in five minutes—be ready!’

  As soon as her confused mind registered the fact that he had gone she scrambled out of bed, donned a pair of slacks and a thick jumper and ran to the nursery quarters. A frightened maid had already roused the children, who had obviously been cautioned to remain silent, an order they were in no mood to disobey as, in a state of semiwakefulness, they were bundled into warm clothing. Dove had just finished fastening a hood over Salim’s head w
hen a tall, cloaked figure appeared in the doorway. Her heart leapt with fear. Instinctively, she pushed the children behind her, protecting them with her body against the man approaching with silent, cat-like tread.

  ‘You are ready? Good! Now follow behind me as closely and as silently as possible.’

  With a shock of relief she recognised the voice of Marc Blais. Never before had she seen him wearing Arab dress, and the impact was such that even in that moment of drama she registered the ease with which the black burnous settled upon his shoulders, and the way the roped headdress complemented dark features etched with an arrogance that was the hallmark of men who prided themselves on being direct descendants of Adam.

  With a thumping heart and dry mouth she guided the still drowsy children in his wake, the seriousness of the exercise emphasised by the manner in which the two guards combined forces, with rifles at the ready, to cover their retreat along the passageway and down a flight of stairs leading to the rear courtyard where the bulk of a Land Rover loomed out of the darkness. In response to Marc’s imperious nod Dove scrambled inside and as each child was handed over she settled them into the back seat, one either side. They snuggled close, then with the blissful innocence of untroubled minds promptly fell asleep.

  As Marc slipped behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition the crack of a rifle shot resounded from within the palace and as he pressed his foot against the accelerator Dove heard, above the roar of the engine, return fire rising above an hysterical babble of voices. The sound reacted upon Marc like a spur.

  Abandoning caution, he pressed his foot down hard and sent the Land Rover racing out of the courtyard, along the drive, then through wide-open gates which were immediately clanged shut once they had made their escape into the open desert. Within minutes the outline of the palace was swallowed up by darkness, then it was as if they had cast off from port to sail an uncharted ocean of sand. There was no moon to soften the outlines of dunes that reared either side of them, dark bulks rising and falling like the waves of a storm-tossed sea under a night sky studded with huge stars bright as diamonds. The air was sharp and cold.

  ‘Here, wrap these blankets around you! In a couple of hours we’ll reach an Army post where we’ll get a meal and load up with supplies before moving into the interior.’

  Sensing from his slightly relaxed tone that some of the tension had left him, Dove ventured to ask, ‘Would you please explain the need for this extraordinary escapade? Did you have to disturb the children from their beds at such an hour?’

  She knew she sounded indignant, but for the life of her she could think of no valid reason for such melodrama, so was completely unprepared for the shock of his reply.

  ‘The choice was one of either leaving them to sleep or abandoning them to the mercy of their uncle Zaid, who would have not the slightest compunction in ordering that their throats should be cut.’

  Her heart skipped a beat. ‘Surely you’re exaggerating?’ she protested weakly.

  ‘Zaid, though he is their uncle, and their father’s brother, did not hesitate to plot a coup to enable him to win the sheikhdom. As this cannot possibly come to pass while Rahma and his heir still live, you must draw your own conclusions.’

  ‘But I imagined the Sheikh’s followers were loyal to a man,’ she almost pleaded.

  ‘The majority of them are,’ he confirmed, ‘but in the East, as in the West, the loyalty of some can be bought with gold. Zaid has been generous with his promises. I have been aware for some time that something was afoot, but as Rahma was reluctant to believe his brother capable of such treachery my hands were tied. I did, however, warn those whom I knew to be loyal to be on their guard. Also, I placed spies amongst the enemy, and it was one of these who warned me that the coup was planned to begin tonight.’

  ‘But what about the Sheikh? Won’t he be taken completely by surprise? ’

  ‘I doubt it,’ he replied with reassuring confidence. ‘Rahma has lived for so many years in the shadow of death and danger I would question whether, even now, he could sleep without one eye open and the comforting prick of a dagger against his thigh.’

  She shuddered. In a few succinct sentences Marc had portrayed the essential characteristics of a Legionnaire, a man who trusted no one, who flirted with death and laughed at danger. A man who learned his barbarity from the dreaded outlaws of the desert whom it was his duty to subdue, tribes that raided and pillaged the caravans of peaceful merchants, who plundered, killed and raped not simply for gain but for sheer, lustful pleasure. How thin a line separated the assassin from the executioner? Legionnaires were notoriously hard, embittered men, devoid of mercy. She was alone in the desert except for two helpless children, with just such a man!

  Dawn was breaking when, on the far horizon, Dove saw the outline of a mosque rising above lines of tents and a scattering of smart new bungalows. Marc braked the Land Rover outside a double line of blancoed stones that marked the entrance to a guardroom from which a private of the desert patrol—part soldiers, part police— stepped out to meet them. Their arrival must have been prearranged, for when the private escorted them to the office of Major Yasin, the commanding officer’s welcome was warm but unsurprised.

  ‘So, Marc, what you feared has come to pass?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. Though I have no fear for Rahma’s safety, I dared take no chances with the lives of his children. I would welcome your help, Yasin, to remove them as far as possible from the sphere of Zaid’s influence.’

  The major nodded, his face grave. ‘Tell me what you require, my friend. Needless to say, whatever you want shall be yours.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Marc almost smiled. ‘Then perhaps while we are having a meal you could arrange to have camels mustered and supplies prepared—and also,’ he paused to sweep a look over Dove and the children, ‘as there is no knowing into how many tribes Zaid’s corruption has penetrated, some Arab garments that will act as a disguise until we reach Bedouins within whose camp the children will be well protected.’

  It was amazing, Dove reflected as she helped Salim and Bibi into voluminous garments, how easily children could adapt circumstances, however hazardous, into an enjoyable game. Now wide awake, they were intensely excited by the adventure. Salim, especially, pranced about in his Bedou garments as if his sheltered upbringing belonged in a long-distant past and only here in the desert was he completely at home. As they ran outside laughing, to seek Marc’s approval, Dove looked dubiously at the garments provided for herself—a shapeless shift that fell to her ankles, with long sleeves reaching down to her wrists, a matching cloak, and a long scarf, yards long, to wrap around her head. As they looked far from new and, she suspected, they were not very clean, she slipped them over the clothes she was already wearing. She was winding the scarf around her head when Marc Blais stepped inside the room that had been placed at her disposal. Without a word of apology for his abrupt entrance, he thrust out a hand containing a jar of brown, glutinous paste.

  ‘Here, rub this into any part of your skin left uncovered. Don’t worry, the dye will wash off; it is pointless to don Arab dress without covering up that pale complexion.’

  ‘Must I?’ The paste looked revolting, a jar of liquid mud.

  ‘You must,’ he asserted with a glint that told her that argument would be useless. ‘Come here, as you have no mirror I’d better help you with it.’

  It took a great deal of control to subdue the distaste she felt when for the second time she endured his touch. But his fingers were completely dispassionate as he rubbed the dye into cheeks, brow, eyelids and chin, paying particular attention to the areas around her mouth. When he had finished her face and turned his attention to her neck she swallowed hard and dug fingernails deep into her palms to control the suspicion of a tremor.

  His fingers, for some unknown reason, became gentler, smoothing the ointment into the soft hollow of her throat with movements that were almost caressing. She wanted to jerk away, to escape the memory of a mouth that had s
avaged where his fingers now smoothed. His expression had become preoccupied, as if he too were remembering, perhaps regretting, inflicting a bruise.

  To retreat would be to admit defeat, so she remained very still while silently hating the memory of his brutal treatment, of the cruel mouth that had pressed scarred contempt upon her own, of the way he had shocked her out of a state of innocent naivete and left her vitally aware of her own womanhood!

  Suddenly he looked into her eyes and smiled, the derisive half-twist of the lips she had come to detest.

  ‘I can almost feel your skin crawling when I touch you. Your revulsion rises like a wall between us. What did I do that was so shocking? I punished you, yes,’ the smile became a fully-fledged sneer, ‘but I could have gone further—much further. Western girls demand much of their suitors and in my chastisement of you I did not exceed what is expected of a man in these liberated days. In other words, mademoiselle, you still have your virginity—you note I pay you the compliment of assuming that that state existed upon your arrival here—but if you have not, then it was certainly not I who penetrated the veil.’

  There was only one way to relieve her humiliation, one possible response to his insulting remarks. All her strength was behind the hand that seemed to race through the air of its own volition to land a stinging smack upon his cheek. The sound seemed to echo around the room as she stared with terrified fascination at the imprint of her palm growing red against his brown cheek.

  She had sufficient time to notice a flicker of fury igniting in his eyes before, with the swiftness of a cobra, he struck, pulling her hard into his arms, tightening his grip around her body until she was so closely locked to him she could not distinguish her own heartbeats from his. His kiss was a lash against her mouth, cutting until her lips felt raw, the acid sting forcing from her a moan of pain. Then roughly he pushed her away, setting her down with a roughness that jarred her spine. She wanted to cry, yet managed to spit across the space dividing them: