Sara Sheridan - Secret of the Sands

She takes a deep breath and runs her hands over the glistening skin of her arms to give at least a little comfort. I am alone. I am going to be sold, she thinks incredulously.

The doors of the shed open and let in the light. It is afternoon now – the sun has moved across the sky. Beyond the barrels piled up near the doorway, a crowd is gathered and Zena catches a glimpse of a podium surrounded by a jostle of people, all craning to get a better view of the proceedings. The auctioneer leads the way with the sidis ushering the dozen slaves into a line behind him. The marketplace is crowded to capacity and there is no hope of getting away; her dream of running will remain just that. Besides, in the light, clearing the path, are the handlers who ushered the slaves from the ship to the hut that morning. The men tower over the heads of the crowd as they ensure the short auctioneer can make his way unhindered. Zena smiles at the sight. The top of the man’s head comes only as high as their bellies. These men must eat whole chickens to have grown so tall and strong. She pulls her shoulders back and thinks that at least the top of her head will clear the height of their chests and perhaps make it as far as their shoulders.

My name is Zena, she intones to herself and, with a pinch of sadness, she comes to understand that her name is all she has left now as she steps into the heat and the light of the market.

At the auction stand there is a pause so that prospective customers can peruse the goods. Beneath a tatty canopy men peer out of the crowd, strange faces in a strange town with leering, needy expressions, hungry to possess others. Zena lowers her head, but even so she is aware she is arousing interest. A snatch of conversation, a lewd remark. It makes her skin prickle. Under the watchful gaze of the guards, two men prod her in the chest and discuss matters to which her Arabic vocabulary does not extend. She has been protected from all this, she realises. She had no idea of the cruelty and the humiliation that was possible. As the men cackle with laughter she tries not to look at them. She tries not to cry.

‘Are you a virgin?’ one asks. Baakira?

She has heard the word once before when her grandmother refused to allow a neighbouring merchant to take Zena as his wife. Now she pretends not to understand. The man redirects the question to the guard.

‘That one can be whatever you want her to be,’ the man replies. ‘She is beautiful.’ He makes the word sound as if it is an insult.

A boy next to her is ordered to open his mouth and another man, who has emerged from the throng, holds the tongue down with a stick so he can check the child’s teeth. If there was anything in the boy’s stomach he would vomit, but as it is he only makes a dry sound as if he is being strangled. His eyes dart in distress, but no one does anything. As the man moves towards Zena, she keeps her gaze averted. He pulls her head back and stares into her face but he does not use his stick to probe her mouth. He lingers though and she can feel his breath on her skin. Then, slowly, he lets go and walks carefully right around her.

Not him . Zena has never prayed. It was not her grandmother’s custom. However, the phrase runs through her head again and again, as if she is pleading with some greater being. Not him .

A bell is rung though it can hardly be heard over the throng of voices. The man instantly retreats into the crowd. Zena raises her eyes just long enough to see that there are several finely dressed Arabs now turning away, who have looked but not come forward. Perhaps one of those. It occurs to Zena that her grandmother has endowed her with a sense of optimism. Even here and now, she feels optimistic. I will be all right, she tells herself, though she is batting off a cold shadow that is creeping from behind.

‘Gentlemen,’ the auctioneer begins. ‘Today, fresh from Abyssinia, we have a selection of the finest. The absolute finest!’

A scrawny girl is pushed forward into the sun beside the auctioneer’s podium. Her dress is badly torn, exposing the top of her legs. Her shoulders are slumped and one of the guards pokes her to make her stand up straight.

‘And for this little one!’ the auctioneer tries to whip up the crowd. ‘She’ll brush up well enough. A price beyond rubies perhaps?’

Zena heaves in a breath, only glad that all eyes are now on the auctioneer and that momentarily she is not the focus of attention.

‘What am I bid? Twenty, sir? No, surely not? Come now. She is a little thin perhaps but is there not more? I beseech you. Ah, thirty. Thank you …’

And the auction has begun.

Chapter Eleven

Lieutenant James Raymond Wellsted has not taken dinner at the captain’s table, but instead he remains on deck as the shimmering, marmalade sun disappears in a blaze into the vivid, blue sea and the stars rise. He has some dates and tack in his pocket and that will do him fine. The night sky in Arabia is breathtaking and little enough in Wellsted’s life has caused him to take in his breath in wonder, so he greatly appreciates the huge, low moon and the clarity of the studded constellations so close to the equator. Especially now, when so many of his fellows have died. Staring at the moon is the closest he allows himself to get to expressing sentiment. The last few days have been grim and Wellsted already misses each victim of the sickness – two of whom he has known for more than ten years for they were midshipmen together. The younger members of the crew have taken to asking his advice of late on matters of navigation and Wellsted has taken his mind and theirs off the death toll by playing the expert and showing them what they need to know to guide the Palinurus towards Suez, where the brig is set to rendezvous with Captain Moresby on the Benares and make an attempt to sound the very northern limit of the map.

Wellsted wishes he had been stationed aboard Moresby’s vessel. Quite apart from the buckets of vomit and the delirium that has reigned of late aboard the Palinurus , conditions are cramped and that has made the atmosphere worse now that Haines has made known his objections to Wellsted’s manuscript. The captain appears to care more about Wellsted’s scribbles than he does about losing half his officers.

Thirsty, the lieutenant makes his way to the galley and orders hot coffee. Aboard ship the coffee is not as good as ashore. He has watched the Arabs carefully as they grind the roasted beans and brew them over the campfire with a witch’s pocket of spices, but no matter how exactly he emulates their actions, right down to using a rough mat of palm fibre to strain the liquid of its grains, he never can make his concoction taste as good. Still, James Wellsted prefers even poor ship’s coffee to the liberal dose of alcohol the crew imbibe daily. The lieutenant likes his head to be clear. He likes Arabia too. He finds the language comes naturally, the flowing robes give a sense of freedom and the undiscovered nature of the land provides an unspoilt enticement.

Back at the prow, he savours the dryness the coffee leaves in his mouth. Haines’ dinner is finishing and he can hear the midshipmen leaving the cabin, laughing and drunk as they make their way below deck to squeeze their tired bodies into closely packed hammocks. They are pleasant enough – gentlemen’s sons, all three of them, rich in family money and social advantages. Like Wellsted, they left home very young but unlike him they never saw the hideous poverty of the English streets (for it is easy, passing in a carriage to ignore it). Bombay with its skeletal beggars and stinking slums on open display shocked them, the pitiless harshness of Arabia is worse and the rampaging malaria over the last few days has reduced them to tears privately, though each has done his duty and masked his shock from the men. Still, the youngest, Henry Ormsby, has taken to drinking a good deal. He carries a hip flask of brandy inside his jacket. When he arrived on board he had to be warned about gambling. Pelham, one of the crew, a sardonic ne’er-do-well with few brains and fewer teeth, was caught dicing with the young gentleman and was deemed to have taken advantage of Ormsby’s youth and the ready supply of bright shillings from the youngster’s family allowance. The man was flogged for the offence. Unfairly, in Wellsted’s view. Ormsby had begged to be allowed to play and had gambled his money fair and square. If he had won he would have pocketed the winnings.