Greta Gilbert - Enslaved By The Desert Trader

The promise of a well-paying Nubian husband was not the only reason they journeyed south, however. Tahar’s purpose was also philosophical. The Isle of Abu was just that—an island—and he was determined to prove it to the obstinate woman. The Great River did not begin at Abu, as she so passionately believed. And an imaginary god did not dwell beneath the island, considering when to release his torrent.

But he did not only wish to educate her—he wanted to astound her. What would she think the moment she saw her Great River from the top of the Theban peak? Finally she would understand that her gods did not simply conjure the Great River from under their robes!

Not that she would likely appreciate the geography lesson, or any of his knowledge of the desert. The woman had pricked his nerves with her talk of gods and maat and the eternal, infernal land of Khemet. If he could just get one single Khemetian to understand that Khemet was not the centre of the world, and that their precious river was not controlled by gods, he would die a happy man.

But why was it so important for him to convince her? Perhaps it was her incredible obstinacy that had baited him. What had she called her people? The ‘chosen ones.’ The nerve of that!

‘We shall eat and take our rest at the oasis ahead,’ Tahar explained, attempting to rouse her.

She opened her eyes and swatted the air, as if his very words were a nuisance. Then she resumed her sleep.

By the Gods, she was spoiled. She had no idea of the knife’s edge of survival upon which they trod. She was the kind of Khemetian woman he loathed.

So why did she invade his thoughts like a swarm of locusts?

He stole another glance at her. She still wore his headdress around her breasts and waist. He would ask for it back soon. In exchange he would gift her the sandals and addax-skin dress he had made for her. The soft amber-haired garment was now completely dry and ready for donning, and he looked forward to seeing her in it.

He led the horse to a cluster of large boulders at the base of the cliffs. ‘Stay here while I see that the oasis is safe,’ he explained to the woman, who appeared barely to be able to keep her eyes open. ‘I will not be long.’

It took him no time to inspect the site. The pool was small, but it looked cool and inviting. There were no Libu raiders about, nor any men of the King’s Guard. Tahar studied the ground and found no footprints of predators or any other kind of threat. But when he returned to the boulders there was no horse...and no woman.

He did not panic, though he cursed himself for not having foreseen it. Of course she would try to escape on his horse. Her drowsiness had been feigned: she had been waiting for this chance all night.

He rounded the boulders and spotted her, heading east at a full gallop. He swallowed hard—because she looked so beautiful and strong atop the horse, because her plan was both bold and clever, and because he knew exactly what he had to do next.

He placed his fingers to his lips and his high whistle split the morning. His horse slowed, then reared up, just as he had trained it to do. Its front legs swam in the air and the woman tumbled to the ground in a pile of purple cloth.

She was, thank the Gods, unharmed. She stood immediately. Her headdress had come unwrapped and one of her small delectable breasts had burst free. Tahar smiled as he watched her struggle to cover herself, cursing the Red Land and everything in it.

She was dusting herself off when the first arrow pierced the ground beside her. Another followed close behind, and if she had not had the awareness to get moving she would surely have been hit. Scanning the cliffs, he quickly found the arrows’ source—two men clad in the unmistakable blue linen of the King’s Guard.

Tahar’s horse had now returned to his side, and he mounted it. ‘Khemetian filth!’ he yelled at the guards, and they momentarily ceased their shooting.

Tahar barrelled towards them on his stallion. Now the guards had two targets to shoot for, and soon the arrows were flying in Tahar’s direction as well.

Tahar rode unflinchingly towards the archers, catching one of their arrows in his saddlebag. He plucked a second arrow right out of the air with his hand. He changed direction, moving as unpredictably as he could, buying himself time enough to fashion his long rope into a large loop.

The guards were dumbstruck when the rope encircled them. It yanked them to the ground like captured goats. Tahar swung out of the saddle and pulled the rope taut, so the men were pressed together, back to back. He wrenched their quivers and bows from their arms, broke one bow in half upon his knee, and placed the other on the ground beside him with the remaining arrows.

‘Your beast is no donkey,’ said a smooth, feminine voice from behind him. ‘And you are not a simple trader.’

She was staring up at his horse in awe. How had he not noticed her there?

‘Nay, it is no donkey,’ Tahar said, keeping his eye on the guards.

‘What is it, then? It runs like a gazelle.’

‘The people of my tribe call it a horse.’

‘Your tribe? What tribe is that?’

‘The People of the Grass. From the lands beyond the Dark Sea.’

The Khemetian guards stared up at their captors in confusion, and Tahar read their thoughts. Who was this Libu man whose tribe was named for a cow’s food? And who was this Libu woman who dressed like a man and spoke perfect Khemetian?

‘Look there!’ the woman exclaimed, pointing to a donkey lurking in the shade at the base of the cliffs.

In minutes she had returned with the beast, and Tahar inspected its saddlebags. Inside there was water, a hunting knife and two sleeping carpets, but not a bit of food. Tahar studied the men. They appeared quite thin.

‘Your King has placed a reward on Libu heads, has he not?’ Tahar demanded. ‘That is why you hunt us?’

‘Aye,’ confessed the older of the two guards. ‘Finish us quickly,’ he urged, glancing at the dagger wedged in Tahar’s belt.

The younger man’s lips were trembling.

Tahar shook his head. He would not be a part of any more killing. He pulled out his dagger, but did not use it to cut any throat. Instead he cut off a large swathe of the woman’s headdress, fashioned it into a kind of sack, and filled it with grain from his own saddlebag.

‘I’m sorry that I cannot give you our heads,’ Tahar said, tying the sack closed, ‘but this purple cloth may be used as proof to collect your reward, and the grain it contains is worth its weight in copper.’

He held up the heavy sack and placed it in the donkey’s saddlebag.

‘This is smoked addax,’ he explained to the men, retrieving a large palm leaf bundle from his horse’s pack. He tucked the addax in beside the sack of grain. ‘Together with the grain, the addax will be more than enough to sustain you on your journey back to Khemet,’ Tahar said. ‘Now, stand.’

The two men pushed themselves to stand and Tahar slowly undid the rope.

‘You must go north before you go west,’ Tahar explained. ‘Keep to the oases and be wary of thieves.’

Shock and confusion spread across the men’s sunken faces as Tahar bent to help them onto their beast. Securing them in their saddle, Tahar slapped the donkey on the rump.

‘Now, go,’ he said.

As the beast ambled away the older man turned. ‘You have our thanks, Man of the Grass,’ he told Tahar. ‘Your kindness will not be forgotten.’

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