Call of the Trumpet (7 page)

The conversation continued, though its tone now was subdued. Then, abruptly, it ceased. Startled, Muhammad looked toward the door, where every eye had suddenly turned.

He wore the robes of the desert, long and full. The end of this snow-white
khaffiya
was draped across his mouth and chin. Yet there was no mistaking the tall, broad, powerful figure. An undercurrent of murmurs swept throughout the room. “El Faris,” someone said, and the name was picked up and echoed, repeated again and again, until silence at last descended.

Ibn Hassan smiled, taking advantage of the moment, and called El Faris to his side. “Welcome, friend,” he said. “Sit down and join me in a cup of wine. I am glad you have come.”

“Tell me,” came a voice from Hassan’s right. “Why
have
you come?”

Tension strained the silence. Unconcernedly, El Faris gazed down at Suhayl, agent in matters of procuring women for the illustrious ruler, the caliph of Damascus. The agent’s enormous, bejeweled body was lavishly spread upon its supporting cushions. A cup of wine dangled from his thick, gem-studded fingers.

“I was invited by a friend,” El Faris replied at length, smoothly. “Even the caliph, I think, cannot deny me the rights of an invitation extended. Or can he?” He paused, savoring the shocked expressions of all around him. “Perhaps,” he continued, “you should hurry away and tell your master. Be a good errand boy, Suhayl! Tell him I am here, in his city, unprotected. I await his … pleasure.”

Suhayl’s face flushed red. Others looked away, some embarrassed, some afraid, some trying in vain to hide their smiles of delight. How exquisitely El Faris taunted the caliph, who would love nothing more than to put the brave desert warrior away forever in his foulest dungeon. How lovely it was to see their illustrious … infamous … ruler humiliated once again in the cat-and-mouse game he and El Faris endlessly played. Everyone knew Suhayl would not budge from his place. Nor would he dare to send a messenger to the caliph. Not beneath the watchful eye of El Faris. Or of those who undoubtedly awaited him outside.

The low murmur of voices slowly resumed, and El Faris seated himself, pleased. It seemed the evening was going to be more interesting than he has anticipated.

Muhammad wiped his sweating brow. Of all things to have happened. Though it was a singular honor to have the legendary El Faris, a defender of the desert tribes and enemy of the caliph, visit his house, he prayed that Suhayl had not been too deeply insulted. An unhappy man held more tightly to his purse, and Muhammad had counted on selling at least several of his prizes to the caliph’s agent.

Wisely, Muhammad decided it was time to produce what they had all assembled for. While it would incite the heat of passion, it might also cool tempers. He clapped his hands once more, and servants hurried to extinguish the braziers near the back of the room. Only the front fires remained lit. The silky hanging over the doorway to the corridor billowed in the evening breeze.

An expectant hush fell upon the guests. Muhammad savored the moment and moved with slow deliberation to the front of the room. He pressed his hands together and bowed. Then he began his short prepared remarks.

This time Cecile was ready when the door opened. It was not the female servant, as she had expected, however, but Abdullah. For a long moment they faced one another. Cecile’s fists clenched at her sides. A barely perceptible smile touched Abdullah’s mouth, and he took a step forward.

Cecile backed away. Trying to avoid him was futile, she knew, yet she couldn’t simply give in and let him lead her meekly away like a goat to slaughter.

Abdullah was surprisingly agile for a man of such size. When Cecile turned to flee, he leapt like a cat, restraining her before she could run. Then he lifted her in the air, tucked her under one thick arm, and strode from the room.

The woman had wisely elected to remain in the corridor, but was ready when Abdullah emerged from the room. He set Cecile on her feet, arms pinned to her sides, and at his nod the servant stepped forward. She held what appeared to be a golden collar and leash, and slipped the collar about Cecile’s neck.

“Hurry,” Abdullah grunted. “All goes well tonight and soon it will be this one’s turn.”

For one long, awful instant, Cecile’s heart seemed to cease its beating. “All goes well tonight.” She did not know what he meant for certain, but she had a horrible, gut-wrenching suspicion.

The urge to run was almost instinctive. Cecile didn’t even think about it, she simply moved. And discovered the golden collar’s effectiveness.

It tightened cruelly, cutting off her breath. Prying at it with her fingers did no good. It would not loosen without slack in the leash. The woman finally provided it, and Cecile gasped for air.

“Now you will behave, I think,” the woman said. “Come.” She tugged on the leash, and Cecile had no choice but to follow. Helpless rage flooded her body and reddened her vision so that she was barely able to see where they were going. Her one thought was a silent prayer that the pouch containing the will, which she had tied in the long, thick hair at the nape of her neck, had managed to stay in place.

Down the long corridor they continued, back the way she had come earlier that day. As they neared the large, central room, Cecile was able to hear voices: an unfamiliar one calling out what sounded like numbers, and Muhammad, cajoling.

It was bidding she heard! Reality dropped like lead into the pit of Cecile’s stomach. She, and others like her, were being bought and paid for like animals!

“Come along now, you are next.”

The woman gave another tug on the leash, pulling Cecile forward. Her footsteps faltered only for an instant. Then she pulled herself up, rigidly erect, the shreds of her dignity wrapped about her like a cloak, and stepped before her audience.

A stunned silence descended upon those assembled, followed by low whispers of surprise and delight. At the front of the room, Muhammad took the leash from his servant, flicked an approving glace over Cecile’s nearly naked form, and beamed at his guests.

“Each one is finer than the last,” Hassan said to his white-robed friend. “And this one …” He paused to sip his wine and lick his lips appreciatively. “Praise Allah … she is incredible!”

El Faris silently agreed. The girl was truly magnificent. More so, to his eyes, at least, because her skin was not as pale as some of the others. Enhanced by the amber-colored gauze that covered her long, straight limbs and the soft light of the braziers, her flesh glowed like pale gold. The raven hair cascading to her tiny waist gleamed with blue-black luster.

But it was none of these things that made the heart within his breast beat just a little faster. There was something different about her, something special. In the way she stood, perhaps, shoulders back and chin lifted, with pride, nobility, defiance. Or in the gaze from her large, expressive eyes, glaring at them all, bright and fierce beneath the think fringe of bangs. It was as if the blood of the Badawin ran in her veins, imbuing her with unconquerable spirit and the iron will to endure despite all odds. Yes, he told himself. She was the one. Indeed, she was the one.

Muhammad was speaking, but El Faris did not listen. He waited only for the man to finish. Then he raised his hand to open the bidding. He did not miss Suhayl’s quick frown or swiftly signaling fingers. So, it was to be like that, was it? The agent wanted her for his caliph, and no wonder.

El Faris smiled. It amused him to be in contention with his old enemy once again. But he had no illusions. Muhammad was no fool. The girl would go to the caliph’s agent in the end. He chuckled under his breath and continued to bid, driving the price as high as Muhammad would dare to let it go.

It was over quickly. Sold. The desert man watched the girl closely, but she did not betray her emotion by so much as the flicker of an eyelid. His admiration increased. Here was true nobility. El Faris turned to Hassan.

“It has been an interesting evening, as you promised. But I fear I must now take my leave.”

“So soon?” Hassan looked hurt. “You said you would visit my house, remember? You must not be disappointed by the loss of the girl.” Hassan’s frown turned to a grin. “There are others, you know. As I also promised.”

“No doubt. Yet business presses. Some other time, Hassan.” He was gone before the older man could protest further, lost in the milling crowd.

Hassan stroked his beard, ruing the lost opportunity to say El Faris had been a guest in his house. Yet who, he consoled himself, could control the vagrant desert wind? It came and went where it wished, and when. It belonged to itself. Pleased with the philosophical turn of his thoughts, Hassan rose and joined the others for a parting cup of wine.

Sold, like a horse at auction. An animal, a piece of meat. But at least it was over. Cecile knew what she had to do now, and repeated the vow she had made as the count of dinars had ticked away her future.

No man would ever touch her. Not emotionally. Not physically. Ever. She would die first.

Her knees ached from kneeling on the marble floor of her room, but Cecile did not move. She waited, and soon the footsteps came, echoing in the corridor. The door opened, and someone entered. Cecile did not turn, or even blink. He came to stand beside her.

“You are a very lucky girl,” Muhammad informed Cecile. “You will join the caliph’s harem. There is no higher honor for a lowly woman.”

Cecile did not respond. Her heart had turned to stone.

“You will leave tonight,” Muhammad continued. “Immediately, in fact.” He clapped his chubby hands.

Abdullah reappeared with the golden leash and collar. Cecile did not move as it was refastened around her neck. Only when it was pulled, sharply cutting off her breath, did she slowly rise to her feet.

The night wind from the desert rustled through the palm fronds. The smell of dust and spices and blossoms filled her nostrils. Cecile stared at the ornate, curtained litter and the impassive faces of the black-skinned slaves. She felt nothing.

“If you please,” Muhammad gestured to the litter. “Go on,” the slave dealer said in a less polite tone of voice. “The caliph must not be kept waiting.” To enforce his order, he gave a tug on the leash.