After a while Khaya grew tired and leaned back against the man's chest. His arms were on either side of her, so there was no risk of her falling. At this point any reprimand from him was of no interest to her.
It had been a long day.
Despite the clamour and din of the souq
Gradually the sounds grew quieter, and Khaya could tell they had left the souq far behind. The gentle swaying of the horse lulled her into a doze, her body relaxed and she let her eyes flutter closed. The man's chest made a comfortable pillow.
A period of time passed – it could have been minutes or hours, Khaya didn't know – and they finally stopped. Khaya felt a hand gently squeezing her arm, and her eyes peeled open. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she peered down at an oddly dressed man in flowing green robes and a little cap on his bald head. He pulled up a stool for Khaya to dismount, and gave her a hand for support.
"Give her to Afsa, and make sure she is kept hidden from Rehan."
The bald man nodded solemnly and bowed. Khaya watched the giant white horse ride off into a crowd of carts, horses, and people. Khaya's head turned every which way, drinking in the activity and commotion. They appeared to be in some sort of camp. The bald man guided her in the opposite direction, to a large tent surrounded by girls dressed in shades of blue. The sight of other girls was a relief to Khaya's iron hard spirit, and she let out a sudden sigh. The man led her into the tent, where even more girls were sitting and chatting. They looked at her with mild interest, but none approached.
Finally they reached a woman who was sitting on a stool, braiding another girl's hair. She was dressed in a deep indigo qamis and had her hair pulled back in a braid. She looked young, but radiated authority. On seeing the bald man she immediately stopped and took him to one side. They whispered for a moment, and the woman nodded in understanding. She approached Khaya with a smile on her face as the bald man took his leave.
"Hello. I am Afsa." She took Khaya's hand gently and guided her to a set of cushions to sit. Then she waved at another girl and asked for some comfortable clothes for Khaya to change into.
"I am Khayzuran," Khaya said, unsure of how to address the woman.
"You must feel quite disoriented with all this hubbub." Afsa motioned around her. "Our caravan is preparing to leave Mecca, so there is much to be done."
Khaya nodded and let her eyes wander around the tent. She was astounded by the sheer number of girls. Did that man on the horse own all of them? Now that Khaya thought about it, she really had no idea who he actually was. Or what his intentions with her would be...
"Um... I'm sorry if this is an odd question, but what is our master's name?"
Afsa frowned. "Our master?"
"The man on the white horse."
Afsa's expression softened. "That is Yahya al-Barmaki, though I would not say he is a man yet. He's hardly eighteen years old."
Khaya's face was blank. "Who?"
"Yahya al-Barmaki," Afsa repeated, "The son of the Vizier."
Khaya's brow furrowed in thought. Then her eyes widened in horror and realisation. There was only one vizier.
The Caliph's Vizier.
She knew about the Caliph, of course. He was the supreme ruler of their kingdom and the guardian of their lands, the Amir al-Mu'minin. And the vizier was his trusted deputy and most highly ranked advisor. If the man on the white horse, this 'Yahya', was the son of that man, that could only mean one thing.
This was the pilgrimage caravan of the royal family.
Ж
It was time to depart.
As Yahya al-Barmaki's magnificent white horse wove its way through the crowd, he watched the horizon. All around him the men were loading up the supplies, the Emir's were shouting out orders, and the women were gathering their children, but he could hear none of it.
When he laid eyes on the girl at the souq, it was like water stilling to silence.
Amongst the washed out colours, the blinding reds and yellows, she was a relief to his eyes. A bright, striking blue. An oasis in the desert.
He had beheld many beautiful women, but none with such a disarming gaze as hers. Her eyes were gems that reflected the harsh rays of the sun, turning them into something soft.
Yahya smiled to himself. The Prince would be pleased.
Ж
Now dressed in a more innocuous black abaya, Khaya sat in a covered cart squished between two younger girls. They could have been Salsal's age. The air in the cart was stifling and bubbling with heat from the other warm bodies, but it was bearable.
In the five minutes she had been sitting there, she had already learnt many things of note. The caravan was carrying a colourful variety of people, from maids and servants like the girls she was with, to Emirs and members of the royal family. In addition to the generous number of servants, the caravan had a contingent of soldiers to protect from raiders and highwaymen. At their current speed it would take approximately three weeks to reach the capital.
*She needs a moment to grapple with the situation, she's in the ROYAL caravan!! Was this luck or destiny? Was it lucky or even more dangerous?*
Khaya was more interested in the girls chattering around her. They talked animatedly, hardly noticing her presence until Afsa spoke up.
"Girls, say hello to Khayzuran, she is Emir Yahya's new maid."
And suddenly everyone's eyes were on her.
"Hello, Khayzuran," they chorused, with a few mispronouncing her name.
"Mashallah you are so pretty! Isn't she such a beauty?" one girl chimed. The others nodded in agreement and began showering her with compliments. Despite herself, Khaya blushed and covered her face with her hands.
"Thank you, usually I wear a veil."
"And so humble! Our Princess could take a few pointers from you, Khayzuran." Afsa laughed.
"The Princess?"
Before Afsa could answer, another girl cut in, "Princess Rayta, the Beast of Baghdad."
A chorus of laughter shook the cart.
"I don't understand... is she ugly?" Khaya asked, lost on the joke.
The girls shook their heads. Afsa said, "No, the name has nothing to do with her looks, just with her nature."
"She's always scowling, and loves to argue," another girl added.
"Forget that," Afsa exclaimed, "I have heard her and the Prince arguing, she was shouting for more than an hour straight!"
Khaya looked bewildered. What kind of Princess was this? And what kind of strange tumultuous relationship did she have with her husband?
"Now you see why we call her a beast." Afsa laughed.
Khaya's open mouth pulled into a smile, though she did not care much for their line of conversation, and the girls began another cycle of guffawing. After a while a sense of calm silence filled the cart, and some of the girls began nodding off to sleep. Khaya swallowed, her dry mouth tasting sour. She hadn't eaten in the morning in the rush of getting ready for the souq, and barely had a morsel for dinner the previous night. Now her stomach was twisting, begging for nourishment.
"Afsa," Khaya whispered, "Where can I get food?"
Afsa, half asleep, grumbled and pointed at a corner of the cart. There was a stack of wooden boxes Khaya hadn't noticed earlier. She crawled over to it and pried one of them open as softly as she could. There was a myriad of bread and fresh fruits inside; the sight of it made her mouth water. She bit into an apple and her mouth flooded with sweetness. It felt relieving.
As she ate, she opened the mesh flap and peeked outside. It was still early evening and the sky was well lit. She could do with a little exploring.
She grabbed a cut melon from the food box, opened the flap, and jumped out, landing with a light thud. She brushed off her abaya and wondered what had become of her tailored blouse. At least now she was fully clothed and her hair was covered. The sun was low in the sky, and the air was cool and pleasant.
The pace of the caravan had slowed down significantly, and Khaya briskly walked between the riders. She could see some palanquins and wondered who was sitting in them. As the horses kicked up dust she approached the centre of the caravan, where the number of palanquins increased tenfold. Between two of them Khaya spotted a swishing white tail.
Yahya al-Barmaki.
His back came into view as they walked around another palanquin. He had no veil, but Khaya could still see only his back. His hair was longer than Khaya expected – reaching just below his ears. It shone a deep murky brown in the pale evening light. Khaya wanted to see his face.
Someone shouted from behind her to move, and she jumped in fright, almost dropping the melon. A file of towering ebony horses pushed their way through the narrow gap between the palanquins. Khaya shrunk as her eyes followed the riders. All of them wore dark green turbans. She turned her head back, and her eyes widened when she saw the rider on the last horse. It was a woman. Whisps of dark hair fluttered along the edge of her loosened headscarf, likely dishevelled by the desert wind. Her jaw was sharp, body tall beneath her flowing abaya.
Her eyes were dark. Threatening. Despite all that made her beautiful, her mouth was twisted into a scowl.
This must be Princess Rayta.
As her horse ambled on, Rayta kept her eyes trained forward. She had a regal, poised posture – her back straight and stiff, her chin pointed up. Even without hearing her speak Khaya found her menacing.
Rayta's eyes abruptly glanced down, meeting Khaya's own. After she passed, Khaya sighed in relief.
She watched Rayta weave her way through the palanquins. Her black horse sidled up against Yahya's white one, and Rayta turned her head to speak with him. Khaya watched intently, waiting for him to turn and reveal his face, but he hardly looked at Rayta.
After a while Khaya turned around and went back to the maids' cart. She hoisted herself up and sat with her legs dangling off the edge and took bites of the melon one after another. The juice was cool, the flesh sweet and delicious.
As the caravan ambled on, a breeze blew across the sand and the sun began its slow descent.
Ж
The caravan travelled through the night into the next dawn. Now inside their covered cart, Khaya leaned back against the rough, splintered wood and tried to rest.
In Khaya's dream she saw a white horse with a dark haired rider in an endless desert. The dream was so vivid she felt as though if she stretched her hand out she would be able to touch his hair and feel its softness; but when she tried to imagine the rider's face all imagination evaded her and the dream collapsed like a palace made of water. The dusty fragments turned to gold, and from it emerged a menacing serpent with crystal clear eyes, mirroring her horrified face.
Khaya awoke to a chorus of chanting and clapping. The curtain at the back of the cart had been thrown open to the light of day, illuminating the faces of everyone around her. Her mouth was dry, her stomach empty, and her eyelids still heavy with sleep – though it was a dream she was glad to leave behind. Khaya's stomach rumbled as if to remind her of more important things.
She tapped someone's shoulder. "Is there food?"
The girl closed the book she was reading and turned aside to search for the sacks of fruit. She handed Khaya a water flask, now almost empty, a loaf of bread, some sweet dates, and a bundle of grapes. Khaya sighed in annoyance.
"Is there any more? I'm starving."
The girl shook her head and settled back against the cart to continue reading. Khaya ate whatever food she had been given in silence, then drained the water in the flask. She felt better, but was still only half full.
Khaya tried to lean back and rest, but the singing was too loud, the atmosphere too boisterous. Again she thought of her dream. The elusive face of Yahya al-Barmaki melting into a golden snake.
Ж
As the days on the road lengthened, Khaya's eyes followed the shapes of the shadows, watching the sun's movement in the sky. Whenever the time to stop came, the noise and movement would gradually die down to whispers, the quiet shuffling of limbs and the gentle swish of cloth as the girls would scatter slowly to their mats.
Now, lying beside Afsa in the silent tent after praying Isha, Khaya closed her eyes but could not sleep.
A girl lay on her back beside her. Her hands were by her sides, palms facing up, and her body was so still Khaya would have thought her dead if it weren't for the slow, imperceptible rise and fall of her chest. There was discipline in her stiffness, and perhaps habit.
A few hours later, Khaya emerged from the tent into the cold night with her hair wrapped in a headscarf. Up above the stars glittered against the ebony sky, lighting up the dunes beyond. The camp seemed ghostly beneath the starlight, but Khaya felt little fear as she weaved between the tents, listless. There were lamps outside most of them but these had already been snuffed out by the wind. There were other lights – lamps for the soldiers to see by as they patrolled the edge of the camp. Khaya held her breath and pressed herself into the fabric of the tent as she waited for one of them to pass on horseback, unsure of where she was going or what she was looking for.
The torches were still brightly lit and she could hear the faint voices of the guards. Her footsteps were soundless in the sand as she moved along the tents, tired but sleepless.
A sudden voice sounding from inside a tent made Khaya squeak. She pressed a hand against her chest to quell her thumping heart and continued walking. After a while she reached the edge of the campsite, where the sand fell away into a low depression. The endlessness of the desert awed and calmed her. Perhaps that was what she had been searching for. The length and monotony of the journey had given her ample time to reflect. Part of her was relieved that her situation was not nearly as bad as she had imagined it would be. The images she had conjured in her mind of being a slave were far worse than this—being around other girls and speaking of mundane things, eating well and sleeping in warmth and praying in peace. Still, a lingering feeling of unease had clamped itself onto her, like a scorpion's claws around her spine, since the caravan had begun its journey.
The unknown of what came after. Of what would happen once they reached their destination. She had long since abandoned any ideas of escaping. Khayzuran was in another world now, on another path that no longer involved her family or her village of origin. She only hoped what lay in the capital equalled his temporary peace she had found.
The sudden sound of hissing filled her ears, bringing her back to the desert. She jolted, scanning the ground around her as the hissing grew louder and louder until it was all she could hear. Fear shook her bones, she stepped back from the sound - and tumbled down the slope.
Before she could nurture a thought, a hand closed over Khaya's mouth as she rose from the sand. She screamed but the sound was muffled. She twisted and thrashed her body but the man's arms had wrapped around her like a snake, crushing her. Fear fuelled her heart and her mind raced, but suddenly a wave of calm washed over her. His arms were still around her, his hand still covering her mouth, but somehow she was calm.
What is this feeling? I've been captured but...
The panic had left her completely.
With one arm he turned her around, but even when his grip loosened she felt no compulsion to run away.
"Don't say a word," he whispered as he released her.
Khaya tilted her chin up and found herself face to face with Yahya al-Barmaki.
In the faint light from the campsite she made out the sharp lines of his face, pale and weathered by the journey. His hair was tied back loosely. She had never seen his bare face before, but those eyes were unmistakable. He had an elegance she had only seen in paintings, and a sly look in his silver grey eyes that reminded her of a fox.
Suddenly his eyes widened in recognition.
"What are you doing out here?" he hissed.
"I–"
Yahya grabbed her wrist. "Remind me to give Afsa a whipping when we get home."
Khaya twisted and jerked her arm but to no avail. Effortlessly he dragged her behind him back up the slope.
"You can't leave the camp at night ever again. It's dangerous and I can't afford to have you injured."
Khaya was running out of strength to resist him, so she complied in silence. As the crested the dune a moving light approached. It was a guard on horseback.
"Emir Yahya." He bowed his head. If Khaya's presence surprised him he did a good job of hiding it. Yahya waved him off with a dismissive hand and continued into the camp, fingers loose around Khaya's wrist. She stared at his back in awe.
How could someone so young be an Emir?
She remembered Afsa's words.
Son of the Vizier.
He led her through a winding path between the tents till they reached a one with two guards posted at the entrance. Other than that it was innocuous. The guards bowed as Yahya entered the tent, pulling Khaya in with him. By the lamplight Khaya could see a thick mattress, a few chairs, and a woven carpet. On one side was a chamber pot and the other a pile of empty plates. Yahya let go of her hand.
"Do you remember where your tent is?"
Khaya stood frozen.
"Hurry up, girl. I want to sleep."
"My name is Al-Khayzuran." Despite her formal speech it came out sounding too brazen. She tensed, waiting for him to lash out with expletives.
He smirked. "What a mouthful."
As Khaya opened her mouth to reply a violent scraping filled her ears. Her hands clamped them shut but it was so loud. Everything was so loud. Her heartbeat was thunder, her breaths a raging sandstorm.
She couldn't think, she couldn't move.
From the corner of her eye she saw Yahya stand, his mouth move. His voice was ear-splitting, but no matter how hard she pressed her hands against her ears it didn't stop. She heard water, something flowing. The more she pressed her hands to block the sound the louder it became.
It was the sound of her own blood.
Yahya's footsteps were like buildings collapsing, like bombs exploding inside her. She could hear everything. The churning of acid in her stomach, the pressure of her foot against the carpet, the flicker of the lamplight, the snorting of the horses outside, the dunes shifting, the flapping of the tents.
Her vision became blurry and she fell to the ground. As her eyelids fluttered closed she made out the shadow of a serpent's head, it's crystalline eyes reflecting the golden light. A finger brushed against her cheek and suddenly she could hear nothing at all.