Wake struggled to stay still, the heavy viper around his neck remaining docile, but his eyes were on the cobras. Seemingly urged on by the flute, they slid out of the baskets and toward the American. One of them, the smaller cobra, slowed and lay down in a coil, but the larger one, at least five feet long, continued forward. The Arab tapping his foot moved around behind Wake, then gently unwrapped and removed the viper from his neck and placed it back in its basket.
Sweat poured into Wake’s eyes as he finally took in a breath. It took every ounce of discipline not to burst into tears with relief. Then Falah’s sarcasm sent another wave of fear through Wake.
“Very good, Lieutenant. The viper was not agitated. Didn’t even smell your fear—most unusual. Not many men could have done that. Congratulations to both of us, your value to me just went up and you are still alive.”
Another movement drew Wake’s attention and he involuntarily turned his head to look, then was unable to turn away from the sight. The cobra closest to him was rising up again, this time only a foot in front of his knees, as the flute’s melody slowed and became more lilting, more sensual.
The snake rose up and up, until its head was almost level with Wake’s. The black eyes were watching him, measuring, while the shiny skin behind the head began to flare into double and triple its size. The cobra started weaving back and forth in time with the music, its tiny black eyes never leaving Wake’s, the body getting closer and closer.
Wake was on the verge of screaming as he recalled Falah’s earlier words. The dance of death, he called it. An incarnation of evil, the snake was hypnotizing him, controlling him. Wake knew he had to stop this. But how? He forced himself to think, to work out what to do. The snake was always watching his face, locked on his eyes. That was something important. As if it was searching. For his eyes?
Wake forced himself to keep his eyes still and slowly turned his head to the left. He kept his gaze downward, hiding his eyes from the snake undulating in front of him. He was dead if he made a break for it—the Senegalese’s blade point in his back was penetrating the skin, he could feel the blood running down his spine.
Wake waited for the bite.
It seemed an hour, but he knew it must have been only minutes, before the flute man said something in an angry tone. Wake could hear slithering in front of him but didn’t dare look. The man behind him tapped louder.
Rapid Arabic snarled from Falah with fear obvious in the replies from the snake men. What was happening? Wake kept his breathing shallow and waited. Abruptly, the music stopped and he heard footsteps on the marble fading away, the Arabs plaintively explaining something to Falah. He allowed his right eye to glance at the cobra—it was on the floor by his knees, coiled several times upon itself, head toward the basket.
Falah called out from somewhere near the door. “You passed the test, Lieutenant Wake. You successfully faced down a viper and a cobra. Your value has now reached the highest level for an infidel. I must admit that you fascinate me.”
The snake men lifted the cobras and placed them in the baskets, then scurried out of the room, leaving Wake still kneeling with the Senegalese behind him. He felt the blade withdraw and come to rest across his neck. He collapsed on his side, tears and sweat mingling on his lips, chest heaving for air, clothing soaked with sweat.
Wake mumbled a prayer of thanks. He had always considered himself a Christian and attended church on the holy days. But he’d never felt it enter his soul, until now. Now he wept like a baby as he said thank you.
He rolled over and found the black guards in the exact same position, still standing above him with the razor sharp scimitars, one of which had a dark stain. He looked up at their faces and felt his hope disappear. The dark faces still watched him, devoid of emotion, and he knew it wasn’t over.
An hour later Falah came into the room, surveyed him curled on the floor in the torchlight, and left without a word. At a shouted order from outside the two guards lifted Wake from the floor and trotted with him out into the night, where a line of five wagons waited, each with a large crate on the bed and a team of worn horses in trace. One of the Senegalese lifted Wake into the air and threw him headfirst into the crate of the second wagon, the other slamming the door.
“Welcome home, sir,” an Irish lilt muttered from the dark. “It ain’t much, but it’s ours.”
“Rork! Oh God, am I glad to be back with you.” Wake moved to relieve the pain in his shoulder. “What’s going on, Sean?”
“Not even a wee clue, except that none o’ them bastards seems a bit bothered by this. Seems like jes’ another day to ’em.”
“Just what I was thinking—”
A woman’s scream pierced the air close by, followed by a commotion and stream of desperate French from the same voice.
“Catherine? Catherine, are you out there? It’s Peter. Peter Wake!”
Another crate was slammed shut somewhere back down the line of wagons, then a frightened female voice. “Peter! You are here to save us! We are here in a box, save us!”
Wake’s eyes were getting accustomed to the dim light coming through the slats of the crate. Rork, two feet away, cocked an eyebrow and gave him a rueful look.
Wake sighed and called out. “I’m in a
