Call of the Trumpet (6 page)

The silken cushions, upon which she lay, all in shades of red, were scattered about an obviously expensive Persian carpet. A gleaming, brass-topped table stood at one end of the room, and tall, palm-shaped braziers graced each corner. The outside wall, facing a garden courtyard, was completely covered with elaborately filigreed latticework. The faintest hint of a breeze wafted through the open woodwork.

A myriad of scents assaulted her nostrils: spices, roasted lamb, the perfume of flowers. Cecile stirred from her lethargy. Slowly, stiffly, she rose to her feet.

Her memory returned as she gazed down into the courtyard and its palm-lined pool. Fingers twined in the lattice, she closed her eyes.

From the size of the bump on her head, and the amount of time it seemed she had been unconscious, her kidnappers must have hit her a bit harder than they had intended. She had known nothing until she had awakened, a gag in her mouth, hands bound behind her back, on the floor of a covered cart. She had seen nothing in the darkness, but had felt every rut and pothole in the long road they had traveled throughout the night. Mercifully, she had slipped in and out of consciousness. Then, stirring fitfully, she had noticed a lessening in the darkness. Dawn.

With the rising sun had come new sensations, sounds, and smells. She had heard the rumble of passing wagons, the noise of animals, the buzz of flies, shouts and cries. The exotic tang of spices had come to her nostrils, the odor of closely packed bodies, both animal and human, the dry and pungent aroma of dung. Then the sounds and smells had receded, and Cecile had heard the protesting creak of a gate. The cart had slowed, stopped. And the relentless fear that had gripped her all night had turned to mind-numbing horror.

Cecile’s fingers released their grasp of the fancifully carved lattice, and she hugged her arms to her breast. Her eyes remained tightly shut as she remembered more.

The familiar voices of the two sailors who had kidnapped her had come to her ears, and a third voice, the accent Arabic. The three men had commenced to haggle, over what she could not quite make out. Then the curtain covering the back of the wagon had been lifted, and a round, brown face had stared at her. A slow smile lit the smooth features, and as quickly disappeared. The curtain dropped, and the haggling recommenced. This time Cecile was able to make out the words.

She was being sold. Like an animal. She had been kidnapped, bound and gagged, taken to an unknown destination, and was now being sold to a man who was obviously a dealer in slaves.

The urge to throw herself down, bury her face in the cushions, and weep nearly overwhelmed her. But Cecile would not allow herself the luxury of falling to pieces. She could not. She had to remain strong and ever vigilant for the smallest possibility of escape. For she now at least knew where she had been taken. The beaming slave dealer who had introduced himself as Muhammad Shaban, and who had absolutely no idea she was fluent in his language, had inadvertently informed her.

“Welcome to my home in Damascus,” he had said with mock courtliness when money had finally changed hands and her kidnappers had departed. “May your stay be a pleasant one,” he had added with a chuckle. He had then clapped his hands, summoning a black-robed servant who had promptly led Cecile away.

To this room. This prison. In Damascus. The final, ironic blow.

Rage and hatred such as she had never known had welled in Cecile and turned her blood to molten fire. She would win her freedom, somehow, some way. She would have revenge on those who had stolen her future, her very life. And she would have revenge for Jali, whose fate she dared not even imagine.

Now, at the thought of Jali, Cecile was no longer able to contain the scalding tears. As they flowed down her cheeks, she sank to her knees, buried her face in her hands, and wept.

The
suk
was crowded. The marketplace was also, thankfully, covered, and its shade afforded welcome relief from the merciless sun. The white-robed and hooded figure entered the first row of stalls and strolled casually through the labyrinthine aisles. With practiced ease he ignored the entreaties of the vendors, stopping from time to time to exchange a few words while he examined a piece of pottery, a cleverly woven basket, or a rug. Once he eyed a beautifully carved chest from Sur, even haggled briefly with its owner, but only for the joy of it. He passed on eventually, empty-handed. Not, however, without what he had come for.

Rumor had come to him, as he had known it would. He turned up another aisle, eyes no longer on the goods but searching. Soon they found what they sought. A bit amazed at his continued good fortune, the hooded man sauntered toward a group of four men engaged in the inspection of jewel-handled daggers. An older, bearded man, apparently the leader of the group, glanced up as the hooded man passed.

“Is it you?” he asked, more than a little awe in his tone. “Could it be … El Faris?”

There was a pause, a nod.

“I knew it!” The two briefly clasped arms. “But what are you doing in Damascus? Last I heard you were still in the heart of the Sahara.”

“Even I sometimes long for the sights and sounds of the city, Hassan,” the deep voice rumbled.

“Well, well.” The older man smiled. “Now that you are here, you must grace my humble house with your presence, and let me offer you its hospitality.”

“Some other time, perhaps.”

“Oh, I know, I know,” Hassan nodded. “El Faris has much important business to which he must attend. Yet it is not wise to indulge in business only and forego all other pleasures. Even Allah counsels us against this.”

A smile appeared within the shadows of the hood. “Very well, Hassan. What do you have in mind? Is there some special … ‘entertainment’ … going on in the city tonight?”

Hassan’s teeth gleamed. Taking the other’s arm, he moved a few steps farther on and lowered his voice. “There is to be an auction tonight. Rumor has it that our genial host, the infamous Shaban, has managed to procure a piece or two of … white meat. It will be amusing, I think.”

“Yet you know I prefer darker flesh, Hassan.”

“Oh, yes, I know. Still, it will be a distraction for you. And if you find nothing you like, well, we shall return to my house where there are plenty of women. In the color you prefer.”

The hooded man hesitated. Then: “Yes. The entertainment might indeed be amusing. Very well.”

A few more details were imparted, and the men separated. The hooded man left the bazaar and continued up a twisting street, more quickly now. His thoughts, in spite of himself, were on a white-skinned woman.

Cecile stared at the tray on the brass-topped table, recently brought by an anonymous servant, and licked her lips. Enticing steam rose from the mound of rice, flecked with almonds, raisins, and tender morsels of lamb. But she did not touch the plate. She would accept nothing from her captor. She turned her back on the tempting dinner in time to hear the lock on her door click. A black-swathed woman entered.

It was the servant who had earlier led Cecile to her room. Now the woman gestured for Cecile to come to her, not knowing her prisoner spoke her language as well as she herself. Cecile didn’t budge. If they wanted her, they were going to have to come and get her. When the woman approached, Cecile took a step backward.

“Abdullah,” the woman called, and Cecile’s eyes flicked to the door. A small gasp escaped her lips as she beheld the man who now entered.

He was a giant, clad only in brilliant yellow, baggy silken pants. His massive chest was as devoid of hair as his gleaming head, and he padded slowly, deliberately, toward Cecile on huge bare feet.

He was a eunuch; he had to be. The thought did not comfort Cecile. She backed away from the giant a little more quickly than she had from the woman. But it was useless, over almost before it had begun. With a lunge he had her, and she was thrown over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Without missing a step, he turned and strode from the room.

The nightmare had only just begun.

A few steps down the hall and Cecile was carried into another room. The enormous eunuch deposited her by the side of a tiled bathing pool. She was immediately set upon by the black-robed woman, who attempted to strip away the tatters of the black muslin gown. With a cry, Cecile shoved her away. Abdullah intervened at once.

The giant grabbed a fistful of cloth and, with a single yank, tore the flimsy fabric from Cecile’s body. Seconds later her undergarments were gone, as well, and she stood naked, and humiliated, by the pool. Thank God, Cecile thought, she had had the presence of mind to secret the velvet pouch beneath a pile of sleeping cushions. It was the last coherent thought she had time for.

Without a single glance at the slender, high-breasted form before him, Abdullah grabbed Cecile in his arms. Unencumbered by clothing, she struggled violently, wildly thrashing, flailing, and kicking. The efforts were useless. With a grunt, Abdullah lifted Cecile by her wrists and dropped her unceremoniously into the warm water of the pool.

After momentarily submerging, Cecile surfaced, gasping and sputtering. There was time, however, to do no more than register the embarrassment of her situation. With a mighty splash, heedless of his trousers, Abdullah jumped in behind her.

There was nothing to be done, no defense. Cecile was bathed, thoroughly, scrubbed from head to foot by the implacable and mountainous Abdullah. Furious, Cecile did not cease her struggles, but she was no match for her jailor. Finally, when Abdullah had dunked Cecile to rinse an aromatic soap from the masses of her tangled black hair, he picked her up and once more deposited her by the side of the pool like a wet puppy.

The woman descended upon her. While Abdullah restrained Cecile, the servant anointed her body with perfumed oils, then combed the tangles from her hair. Dressing her proved to be slightly more difficult, but Abdullah prevailed in the end. Harem pants of pale, gauzy amber, nearly transparent, were pulled over her long, slender legs, and a short, sleeveless jacket of matching hue was applied to Cecile’s upper torso. There were no buttons, and the edges gaped, revealing all but the darkly pointed tips of her breasts. At the last, a cheap, shiny necklace of fake golden coins was fastened about Cecile’s neck. Abdullah finally released her, and the woman stepped back to admire her handiwork.

It was the moment Cecile had been waiting for. Caring nothing for her own flesh, she grasped the necklace, tore it from her throat, and threw it on the carpeted floor. No one made a move.

“Yes, I believe she is right,” the woman said at length. “Her beauty is stunning as it is. It needs no enhancement. We will go now.”

Without another word, Abdullah and the woman departed, leaving Cecile trembling with anger and humiliation. She longed to rip the clothes, like the necklace, from her body, but was too afraid they would merely leave her naked to face … whatever it was she had to face. With a cry of impotent fury, Cecile sank to her knees on the perfumed carpet.

Outside, the palm trees rustled softly in an evening breeze, the night birds began their song to the falling dusk, and the first of Muhammad’s guests arrived at his gate.

N
IGHT SWIFTLY FOLLOWED THE SOFT, FILMY VEIL
of the North African dusk. A
muzzein
sang his call to evening prayer, the last of the day, and the stalls in the
suk
emptied at last. Dust hung thick in the air, dissipating slowly in the welcome breeze from the desert. In his luxurious, newly whitewashed home, Muhammad bustled about, making sure all was in order. When the first of his guests arrived, he brushed aside his servant and moved quickly to the door.

The room filled rapidly. The dealer’s reputation was one of the finest. Men of rank and wealth greeted each other politely as they reclined comfortably on the scattered cushions. Companionable conversations sprang up, occasional ripples of laughter marking someone’s wit, a well-placed word.

Muhammad moved among them, nodding and smiling. Then he clapped his hands, and a column of servants appeared, each bearing a laden tray. Coffee was served, strong and dark, along with pitchers of sweet wine for those less heedful of religious constraints. There were plates of sugared almonds and honeyed dates, heaping dishes of rice mixed with almonds, and skewers of spicy grilled lamb.