The Serpent's Veil

The Holy City

Khaya's throat tightened at the prospect of being dressed like those girls, her hair loose and neck exposed, her eyes outlined with kohl and her body weighed down by jewels. It was stifling to even think about. The overwhelming clamour, the frenzied movements and mingling scents of the market had momentarily distracted her from her own predicament. The ever nearing reality of her having to be dressed and put to auction like a mule sent a wave of nausea over her.

When they reached the tent they dismounted and tied their horses to a post, then headed inside. It was shrouded in darkness save for the light streaming in through gaps in the tent cloth. On a long table in the centre of the room there were stacks of cloth almost twice as high as Khaya. From the corner a man approached them.

"Good evening, sahib," the man said, his voice much deeper than Khaya expected. In the darkness he looked intimidating, though he was the same height at the Bedouin. He wore a delicately wrapped red turban. The man nodded his chin at the Bedouin but didn't spare Khaya even a glance. Of course he didn't.

She was the slave.

"We are in need of some new garments for the souq, master tailor."

The tailor guided them deeper into the tent, behind the table displaying his material. "What colours can I interest you in, sahib?"

"I leave the decision in your hands. I am sure you would know what would suit the girl."

They walked on a little more till they reached the opposite wall of the tent, where the more luxurious and heavy materials hung. The tailor turned around and only now let his eyes hover over Khaya. He scanned her with an intensity she wasn't used to, making her shift and look down.

"Red and gold would complement each other nicely," he finally said, turning back to the wall of cloth. He eyed it for sometimes, finally settling on a bundle of red silk and gold brocade, a combination he had used many times before.

"Red and gold are too common. Give her something different," the Bedouin said.

"If not red and gold, then perhaps–"

"That one. Give us that one," he said, catching something on the shelf he liked the look of. Khaya was not paying attention to them, her eyes drifting over the wall of fabrics absently. She felt as though she was no longer in her own body, a mere ghost experiencing the world through vacant eyes. As the Bedouin completed his purchase and the tailor pulled out his measuring tape, Khaya fell into a disembodied trance.

There was no way back home now. This was the end.

X

The last day of Hajj was perhaps the most tranquil. The final ritual was performed at Mina, a small and quiet neighbourhood in Mecca where pilgrims could stay overnight. The sun rose high in the sky, a portent for the weather to come, as the Caliph lounged in the courtyard of one of the grand pavilions. It had been specially reserved for the royal family and its attendants. The pilgrims who had accompanied the Caliph's caravan stayed in sprawling white tents, lined in neat rows a few minutes' walk from the pillars where the rituals were performed.

The Caliph was surrounded by a few attendants, sitting comfortably on a plush chair, as a tall man approached him. His face was veiled in black. All the Caliph could see were his narrow eyes and delicate hands, resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip.

"Sayyidi," the man said, bowing deeply. His voice was slightly muffled by the veil. "The preparations to leave have begun. We will be ready within the hour."

The Caliph leaned forward to take a grape from the bowl on the table in front of him. He popped the grape into his mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully before acknowledging what the man had said.