‘Foolish woman!’ Tahar shouted, watching the bag’s precious contents spill onto the sand. ‘Now I shall have to draw water from the oasis pool and boil it. It will be many hours before we drink again.’
He grabbed her arm in anger and an invisible spark seemed to ignite the air between them. He released her arm and she returned her remorseless gaze to the sun-baked desert.
‘You are a Libu monster,’ she muttered.
‘And you are a Khemetian to the bone,’ he said.
‘How am I “a Khemetian to the bone”?’
‘You are spoiled and superior, as if the Gods themselves sanction your decadence.’
‘If you think ordinary Khemetians to be decadent, then you truly are dull,’ she said, and a small tear pooled in the corner of her eye.
Tahar stood and placed the empty water bottle in his saddlebag. Better to wait for her to beg for it—something she would do quite soon, he was sure. Thirst was a powerful motivator.
As is hunger, he thought, stealing a glance at her small white breasts.
No—he would not conquer her body. He would not even think of it, though he admitted that he wished to. Taking her would be like drinking wine from the amphora you meant to trade.
He removed his headdress and draped the garment over her shining head. ‘You must shield your skin from the sun,’ he told her, laughing as her head disappeared beneath the fabric. ‘What do you call it? La?’ he mocked.
‘The Sun God is Ra—blessed Ra. May he punish you severely,’ she stated, but her voice was muffled by the thick fabric, making Tahar laugh.
‘Gods do not care about us, silly woman. I have seen enough of the world now to know that it is so.’
‘What can you possibly have seen to give you knowledge of the Gods?’ she mumbled from beneath the fabric.
‘I have seen the beds of ancient rivers that once flowed over this very oasis, and the bones of creatures unimaginable to us. I have seen paintings on rocks deep in the desert. They show people swimming like fish. Swimming! The Gods may be mighty, but they care little about us. We are temporary.’ Tahar paused. ‘We are...whispers in the grass.’
The woman was quiet for some time, as if trying to picture all the things he had described. At length, she spoke. ‘Are you going to violate me, then? I am...’
‘A virgin? I could tell that just by looking at you,’ he said. It was a welcome confirmation of his belief, for it would raise her bride price significantly.
‘Are you going to kill me?’
‘Of course not.’ You are more valuable than all the salt in the Fezzan.
The woman exhaled. Moving her bound hands with agility, she pulled the headdress off her head and gathered it around her lithe, muscular body.
He would have to fatten her up, of course. No rich Minoan sea captain or powerful Nubian chief would trade anything of value for such a scrawny, sinuous bride. Proper Khemetian clothing and adornments would need to be procured, as well. And her eyes would need to be kohled, and her lips hennaed in the fashionable manner. Finally, her hair must be allowed to grow. Though most wellborn Khemetian women wore wigs upon their shaved heads, Tahar knew that foreign traders preferred the real thing.
He would have to train her—just as he had done with his father’s horse: tame her and give her time to swallow her fate. He would need to be wary, for Khemetian women were accustomed to more freedoms than women of the desert tribes. Given the opportunity, a Khemetian woman would take her advantage—or so he had discovered at the Houses of Women he frequented along the caravan routes. A Khemetian woman would rub your back while unclasping your necklace. She would nibble your earlobes while pillaging your saddlebags.
Still, after he had quieted her will and thickened her flanks there would be no trader able to resist the healthy young bride. She was Khemetian, after all—a goddess from the land blessed by the Gods—and she was going to make Tahar rich.
The woman cocked her head and looked up at him, her expression drained of pride. ‘Please, let me go,’ she begged. She lifted her bound hands beseechingly. ‘I must return to my home. My mother and sister will not survive without the grain I carry...carried.’ She blinked, and a lone tear traced a path down her dusty face.
Tahar felt his stomach twist into a knot. Her intentions seemed laudable. She apparently wished to save her family, to relieve their hunger. Careful, man. A Khemetian woman will say whatever she needs to say.
‘The Great River will swell in only three more cycles of the moon,’ he assured her. ‘The flood will be late, but it will come. Your family will survive. Do not fear for them.’
‘But how can you know when the Great River will flood? You are not a priest or a seer. You cannot know the future. You are a liar, a trader—’
‘That is all!’ Tahar snapped. He would not abide her disparagement of his profession, lowly though it was. It had kept him alive all these years, and in the good favour of his tribe and the merchants he served. ‘You should give thanks for your life.’
‘And what do you intend to do with that life?’ she asked sharply, her lip betraying a tremble. Her eyes were so large and luminous. They challenged and begged all at once.
‘I—’ Tahar searched his mind, trying to remember his intentions. ‘You will make an excellent bride. I intend to trade you.’
‘Trade me? In exchange for what?’
‘For a boat.’
‘A boat? What will you do with a boat? Carry your sheep in it?’ Boldness swelled in her bosom. ‘You are Libu—a desert-dweller. Are you not?’
‘Not any more. Now I am only Tahar. Tahar the Trader.’ Tahar the soon-to-be sailor, thanks to you, my lovely.
He smiled to himself. He would find this fiery little viper a rich merchant husband, use the proceeds to get himself a boat, and they would all be the better for it.
‘I am taking my horse to drink at the pool,’ he announced, untethering the steed. ‘We shall depart as soon as I return.’ He walked several paces towards the pool, then mustered his most menacing voice: ‘Do not even think about trying to escape.’
There is nothing eternal but the Gods, Kiya told herself, watching the trader disappear into the thick willow and tamarisk foliage surrounding the oasis pool. She pressed her bonds across the jagged ribs of the date palm. Everything else is temporary.
The twine was made of unusual green fibres—not papyrus, something finer. Hemp, perhaps. It was exceptionally strong, but Kiya knew that even the strongest bonds could be broken. She had seen captive crocodiles do it with ease. If they could do it, why not Kiya?
What she could not do was become a slave. She had seen them on the streets of Memphis. They followed their owners like dogs, their shoulders slumped, their eyes cloudy and lifeless. Nay—she would rather die and become lost in the corridors of the Underworld than serve someone else in this one.
Not that the trader cared a fig about what she thought or felt. He had not wavered, even when she had told him about her starving family, of the souls who stood to perish if she did not return.
It had been a lie, of course. She did not have a starving family. She did not have anyone at all, in fact. But it didn’t matter: he had failed the test. He, like most of his profession, was soulless, completely without a ka. And his certainty of the coming flood was beyond arrogance. Only a seer or High Priest could ever know such a thing. Certainly not a trader.
She rubbed the twine against the rough palm ribs and soon tiny ribbons of smoke began to weave into the