“If it is discovered that you were Tarna,” said Hassan, “it will not go easy with you.”
She looked at him, numbly, comprehending his import Tarna had been spoken of in the past tense. No longer was she Tarna.
Tarna was gone. Tarna no longer existed. In her place now, there was only a girl slave, nameless as a kaiila or verr.
“If it is discovered that you were Tarna,” said Hassan, sternly, “it will not go easy with you. No longer would you be entitled to certain forms of torture, suitable for free persons, culminating in your honorable impalement. Your death would surely be one of the deaths of a slave girl, who has not been pleasing.”
“What can I do?” she wept. “What can I do?”
“You are a slave,” said Hassan, cruelly. “Please us.”
And in that foul cell, on the stinking straw, in the feeble light of the lamp outside, the once proud Tarna, now only a nameless slave girl, chained by masters, struggled to please us. We were not easy with her. We were harsh, and hard, and cruel. Often she wept and despaired of her ability to please us, but she was cuffed and kicked and set again about her duties.
At last Hassan and I rose to our feet.
“The slave hopes that she has pleased her masters,” whispered the girl.
Hassan looked at me. “She has much to learn,” he said, “but I think, in time, she may be satisfactory.”
I nodded, concurring in his judgment. We then stepped outside. We were encountered in the hall by a soldier, with a lifted lamp. “I search for Tarna,” he said.
“Tarna is not here,” I said. “In the cell there is only a female slave.”
The soldier looked into the cell, and lifted the lamp. The girl lay on the straw, curled up, the collar and chain leading to her throat. She shielded her eyes from the lamp. It was not bright, but, in the dimness of the cell, it hurt her eyes.
She was beautifully curled on the straw. She lifted her head, shielding her eyes.
“Master?” she asked.
“What is your name, Girl?” asked the soldier.
“Whatever master wishes,” she said.
He held the lamp up, examining her beauty. With a sinuous movement, with a rustle of chain, she sat upright, her back straight. She extended her right leg, looking at him over her right shoulder; her toes were pointed; her leg was flexed, revealing to its best, delicious advantage, the curve of her calf.
I felt like raping her.
“What is the name of your master?” asked the soldier.
“I do not know,” she said. “I belonged to Tarna. Now I hear from soldiers that Tarna has fallen, I do not know who will be my master.”
She looked at him. “You seem strong,” she said.
She, sitting, as she was, thrust forward her breasts, accentuating the line of her beauty.
“Slut,” he laughed.
She put her head down, chastened.
He laughed. “Be as you were before,” he said. She obeyed. “More so,” said he.
She obeyed.
“I search for Tarna,” he said.
“Do not search for her,” begged the girl. “Stay with me.”
“You are dirty,” he said. “And you stink.”
“Bring slave perfume,” she said to him. “Rub it on my body.”
He turned from the door. She fled to the length of her chain, kneeling, her hands outstretched to him. “The fourth level is deep,” she said. “I am in a cell to myself. Many men do not even know I am here. The kasbah has fallen and only two soldiers have entered my cell. Stay with me!”
“I must search for Tarna,” said the man.
“When you have finished your search,” said the girl, arms outstretched, “return to me.”
“I will,” said the soldier. He laughed brutally.
“Thank you,” she cried, “beloved Master!”
He turned to go.
“Beloved Master,” she whispered. She knelt. She put her head down. “If I were a bold free woman,” she said, “and not a bond girl, I would ask that you bring with you on your return a bottle of wine for your pleasure, that you would enjoy me more.”
“Little she-sleen!” he laughed. He entered the cell and, putting down his lamp, kicked and cuffed the girl, until she rolled in the straw, tangled in the chain, covering her head, her body half covered with straw, at the wall. He then again took up the lamp, and went to the door. “I shall return,” he said, “ and when I do, I shall bring wine.”
She rolled to a sitting position. “Thank you, Master!” she cried. “And I will bring slave perfume, too,” he said, “to souse you with, You stinking little slut of a slave.”
“Thank you, Master!” she cried.
Laughing he left the cell, to continue his search for Tarna.
“Let us go upstairs,” said Hassan. “Doubtless there are those who wonder as to the whereabouts of Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars.”
“Doubtless,” I said.
I looked into the girl’s cell. “You are an excellent actress,” I said.
She looked at me, puzzled.
“The soldier,” I said, “I wager he will return.”
She broke a bit of straw between her fingers. “I hope so,” she said.
I looked at her. “You want him to return?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. Her head had lifted, in the chain and collar.
“Why?” I asked.
“Did he not seem strong to your?’’ she asked. “Did you not see the ease, the audacity, the authority with which he handled me?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I want to be had by him,” she said. “I want him to have me.”
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I want to serve him as a female slave.”
Hassan stood behind me. “I wish you well, Girl,” he said. “I, too, wish you well, Slave Girl,” I said.
“A slave girl gives you her gratitude,” she said. As we turned and left, she said, “I wish you well, Masters.”
26 The March
It was early morning.
I could hear the drums. The march was soon to begin. The kaiila shifted in the sand. Leather was looped and loosely knotted about the high pommel of my desert saddle. My boots were in the stirrups. The scimitar was at my side. I held the light lance of the Tahari, its butt in the stirrup sheath on my right.
I saw Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars, in swirling white, ride past. At his side, in the black kaffiyeh and white agal cording of the Aretai, rode Suleiman, high Pasha of that tribe, holder of the great kasbah at Nine Wells, master of a thousand lances. Behind Haroun rode Baram, sheik of Bezhad, his vizier. Behind Suleiman, on a swift kaiila, rode Shakar, with silver-tipped lance, a high captain of the Aretai.
I looked behind me, at the long lines of men. The sun was now striking the south wall of what had been the kasbah of Abdul, Ibn Saran, who had been the Salt Ubar. The line of march extended from this kasbah, across the desert, to the kasbah which had been once the holding of Tama, once a beautiful and proud desert chieftainess. It was at that kasbah that could be found the head of the march.
I saw the young khan of the Tajuks, in white turban, ride by, going to the rear of the columns. He was accompanied by twenty riders.
The march would proceed to Red Rock, thence to Two Scimitars, thence to Nine Wells, thence, by a major caravan route, to Tor. Different bodies of men would leave the march at various points, as tribesmen returned to their lands. Only some few hundred would journey as far as Tor, and those largely to conduct herded slaves to the fine markets of that city, which is the Tahari clearing house for slaves to be sold north. Already word had been sent ahead to Tor that preparations be made. Cages must be scheduled, chains forged, slave meal garnered. For the female slaves cosmetics and perfumes must be anticipated.
Arrangements must be made for auction houses. Dates must be set. Advance publicity is particularly important. The sale must be widely and thoroughly advertised, in many cities. Before the first girl, barefoot, nude, ascends the block, to be sold, much must be done. A great deal of planning, and organization and hard work must take place before she lifts her head to the buyers, looking out upon them, one of whom will own her, and she bears the first call of the auctioneer, he lifting his coiled whip behind her, “What am I bid?”
In the march were Kavars, Ta`Kara, Bakahs, Char, Kashani, Aretai, Luraz, Tashid, Raviri, Ti, Zevar, Arani and, holding the position of the rear guard, with black lances, Tajuks.
In the march were hundreds of pack kaiila, many carrying water.
The tempo of the drums increased, indicating that the time for the beginning of the march would be soon.
The sun was now full on the south wall of what had been the kasbah of Abdul, Ibn Saran, the Salt Ubar.
A dozen kaiila moved past in stately line, laden with water.
