Chapter Eighteen
For the first hour on the road, Sabine was too nervous about the possibility of capture by Nazim Pasha to think about much but staying on her horse and keeping up. They all trusted their horses to find the way in the pre-dawn dark, but it was Foye, riding at the point, upon whom everything depended. He rode at the head of their party, standing out on account of his size and his English clothing. No one protested that he set a pace that would have ruined English-bred animals.
When Sabine had made the Aleppo-to-Kilis trip, she had been with Godard and traveling with Nazim Pasha’s entourage. They had taken two days to cover a distance Foye intended for them to complete in a day. At this pace, the thirty-rive miles between Kilis and Aleppo meant a long, hard ride that would continue well into the afternoon.
As dark turned to morning with no sign of pursuit from Kilis, she relaxed enough to start analyzing her situation.
While she understood and wholeheartedly agreed with Foye’s decision to disguise her as a boy—a brilliant ruse, she thought—she was profoundly unsettled by everything to do with it. The experience made her a foreigner in her own body; riding astride, the way her clothes fit, and perhaps most of all, the way others reacted to her.
As Sabine Godard, she had sometimes been dismissed as inconsequential or uninteresting, but she had never been invisible as she was now. Men, particularly young men, always noticed her. They bowed to her and opened doors and generally behaved as if she were fragile and in need of protection. There were times at some gathering of Godard’s when her choice of action was to remain silent or leave; she knew there were times when her opinions were not welcome, whether she was expert in the subject at hand or not. Those same men who expected silence or her absence would hold a chair for her, and if she were to stand whilst they were seated, they stood, too.
As it was now, she was being shaped inside and out by the sort of person she was and by the expectations of those around her. It made no difference that she was not used to riding at the pace Foye set. Everyone, including Foye, expected her to keep up and gave no thought at all the possibility that she could not. Indeed, there was no reason for any of them to believe she could not.
The differences between being Sabine Godard and being Pathros were fascinating. Being one who served rather than one who was served was not so very different from her relationship with Godard. She must pay attention to Foye much as she had to Godard, though without the benefit of years of a lifetime’s acquaintance. She could do this.
When did Foye need her near? What actions on her part were to be expected as a matter of course? A dragoman often provided more than translation, and in this case, she was, so she surmised, something in the nature of a replacement for Barton. Therefore, she must not only translate for him but foresee his personal needs, carry his bags, see to his clothes and hygiene as well.
She must do all this while, as Foye had so indelicately phrased it, she walked and rode as if she possessed bollocks. There was a whole series of hierarchies among the men of which she had not previously been so aware as she was now. Not only the hierarchy of class as one saw, for example, in the precedence of the English drawing room or the Turk’s divan, but of servant and served, and most fascinating of all, a hierarchy of maleness that at times crossed the lines of class.
Full morning arrived with no one having asked how she was or having called a halt because she had wiped her brow or said that she was thirsty, which in any event she did not dare do. She stayed near Foye when she could, watching him when she was not fully engaged with the challenge of the road.
Conversation, when there was any, was either between men who spoke a dialect she did not, or in Arabic that often included the use of words and phrases she soon understood to be crude in nature. This was a very different use of the language than she was familiar with. Less formal. Less elegant. Very much to the raw point. The verbal equivalent, she thought, of walking as if one possessed bollocks. She tucked away her new words and phrases for future reference.
As the morning wore on, the sensation of trousers and robes instead of a riding habit and parasol began slowly to seem less absurd to her, and through a process of observation of the other riders and frank experience she learned the different carriage required of her when sitting astride. She became Pathros. A native youth who had been riding astride all his life. With bollocks between his legs and a vocabulary to match. Morning transformed to the full heat of summer. The silk wrapped around her bosom was tight and damp with perspiration, but thank God, Foye had thought of it, because riding without any restrictive garment beneath her clothes would have been disastrous. She could, bound as she was, almost forget the existence of her bosom.
As they left the foothills of the Taurus Mountains, the terrain flattened out. Vineyards and olive orchards, with their distinctive gray-green-leaved trees, predominated the vegetation. Everywhere she looked the colors were pale green interspersed with reddish soil and outcroppings of steel gray rock. The sun beat down, baking the land and sapping her of energy. Her throat was dry, and before long, she’d done as Foye and the others did, which was to wrap a length of cloth around the lower part of her face to avoid breathing and swallowing the dust kicked up by the horses.
Whenever she looked down at the reins, she was startled to see nut brown skin. Her hands were too feminine, she thought. Soft and useless. She ought to have gloves to hide their shape. In her costume, she was no different from the other natives here, aside from her apparent youth. The others were grown men. She had no beard or mustache, no eyes that looked with a distant gaze. And yet she was one of them.
No longer was she the only woman in the company and subject to the care of men. She rode astride as they did, with the same kit, the same sort of saddlebags. The very view from her native saddle was subtly altered. She could do as she liked, spit or curse or scratch herself, and no one would think twice. So long as they did not notice her soft hands. So long as she did not give away her gender.
Sometime around ten o’clock they ate their morning meal: a handful of olives, a sharp cheese, dry bread, and a mouthful of water, all consumed while riding. No one questioned Foye’s decision to press on or looked in any way out of sorts, tired, or angry.
Conversation ceased as the heat beat down. The air around them smelled of dust sweaty horses, and men. A constant drip of moisture ran down her back and along her temples. When she thought no one was looking, she wiped at her hands and face with the sleeve of her kaftan and examined the fabric for smears of brown. No telltale smudges that she could see.
Shortly after noon, Foye called their first full halt. Half an hour, Sabine translated for him, for them to feed and water their horses and prepare a larger meal than the one they’d eaten on the move. They moved off the road to a spot where olive trees offered shade and where, at the head of a spring, someone had erected a carved stone fountain. Water poured from the mouth of a roaring lion and splashed into a fluted basin. They dismounted, each of the men looking after their horses first. Sabine stayed mounted until Foye turned around to look.
“Is it best,” she asked in English and in a soft voice so as to avoid being overheard, “to have all my weight on this leg?” She tapped the leg in question.
“Keep your torso forward,” Foye said in a similarly low voice. “Press down with that leg and swing the other around and down. Then slide free of the stirrup. If all goes well, you will end on your feet. If not, laugh, curse if you know how in their language, and dust yourself off.” He looked tired and tense. “If you fall, I cannot help you up. Further, they will expect you to assist me, Pathros, so please don’t delay.”
“I understand.” To her surprise she did not bumble her dismount. There was no humiliating fall and no need to curse her clumsiness. Another success in establishing herself as Pathros. She stood beside her horse and fumbled to unfasten her saddlebag and kit as the others had already done. Foye and the soldiers made use of the fountain to bathe their hands and faces, which Sabine did as well when her turn came. The coloring on her skin stayed fast.
The Mohammedans among them made their prayers and set to cooking. Foye untied his rug himself after she’d secured her mare near his chocolate brown stallion, but she made a point of spreading out his rug beneath one of the olive trees. Foye had already seen to watering his horse and was now feeding the animal. He made a point of working slowly so that she would see how it was done.
She did her best not to be hopelessly fumble fingered with the gear, but the truth was, she had never had to do such things by herself. There had always been servants to help her dismount from her horse, to look after her mount, lay down a rug for her, and see that she was settled in a shady spot. Nor had she ever handled a saddlebag full of gear on her own. Her own, far lighter bag, yes. But not one filled with the various supplies of the road. So many ways for her to betray herself, she thought. So many habits of dependence ingrained.
Her next difficulty was to avoid showing her shock and discomfort when the others, having secured their horses, walked a distressingly short distance from their stopping place to relieve themselves. Foye went further away to secure his privacy. What was she to do? Stand there with her eye closed? Pathros would hardly be shocked by the sight.
She had pressing needs of her own but lacked a penis to so casually expose. Unlike the others, she required privacy. She headed for a largish sort of olive tree about twenty yards away. Farther than anyone else, including Foye, had gone for the business. On the far side of the trunk, she kept her back to the others and finished as quickly as she could.
On her return, the men had a fire going and were preparing a communal luncheon of rice with lentils, bread, and cheese. Foye had unwrapped the cloth around his face. She joined him underneath the olive tree where he’d settled himself. He sat with his back against the trunk, forearms atop of his bent knees so that his hands dangled down.
“Are you all right?” he asked without looking at her.
“Yes, thank you.” She tilted her face to look at him, safe in her staring. No one would think that odd of her. The back of his head rested against the trunk, his squared-off chin pointed slightly up. His eyes were closed, and his lashes made dark shadows on his cheeks. His cheek slanted too sharply down, then straightened out only to make an ungainly angle toward the centerline of his face. The hook of his nose formed the prominent feature of his silhouette. There was nothing remotely handsome about him, and yet she felt a pang just looking at him.
“You’re doing well, Pathros,” he said. He moved his, head, eyes open just wide enough to show the brilliant blue of his irises. Their gazes locked. He didn’t say anything, just continued to regard her instead of averting his eyes. Her stomach bottomed out, and her chest felt fluttery, lighter than air. She was relieved to learn she could still react this way to Foye. She might have stared at him forever, but one of the Janissaries called out that the meal was ready.
When she returned with the two copper bowls she’d dug from their saddlebags, she handed one to Foye and sat down with the other in her bands. She had two new curses for her repertoire as well. Her stomach rumbled.
“Pathros.” Foye leaned over and pulled on her arm before she could take a bite.
She swung her head around to see his warning glance at her legs. She was sitting, by habit, as she always sat. That is, with her legs folded to one side, her knees primly together. She adjusted her position before anyone noticed what she’d done. The others sat either cross-legged or with one or two legs up and an arm thrown over the knee if they’d finished eating. She elected the cross-legged position and dedicated herself to emptying her bowl.
When they were done, she washed out the bowls and packed them away. The Janissaries were done, too, and were now making coffee from personal supplies of beans they roasted over the fire. Sabine watched, concentrating on the steps in case she should find she was expected to make coffee for Foye one day. Not that she had the accoutrements. But one never knew.
Foye grabbed the heavier of his two saddlebags, lifting it as if it weighed nothing. From it, he took out a pistol, much larger than the one already hidden in her sash. “Keep this on your person, Pathros.”
Sabine took the weapon and examined it. She had, of course, never in her life handled a weapon like this one. The principle, she expected, would not be much different. “My lord,” she said.
Foye leaned to her again. “No different than with your little weapon,” he said. She nodded while he showed her, his fingers so deadly deft, how to unload it and then load the pistol. “Like so.” Foye handed the gun back to her. “Now you do it.”
With the scent of roasting coffee beans in the air, she loaded and unloaded the gun while he watched, again and again until he was satisfied. The gun felt heavy in her hand; she would never be as dexterous as Foye. She was used to her lighter, and less effective, weapon.
Their gazes met again, and though she had looked at Foye time and again since he’d come to Buyukdere, she was aware of him in a way she hadn’t been before. Despite her men’s clothes, her shorn hair, and new name, she was viscerally aware that he was a man and that she was not. There was a great deal more than just kissing that could happen between them, and for the first time she actually felt that truth. For the first time, she actually felt the possibility of that more. She saw it in his eyes.
He dug in his saddlebag again to take out a box of ammunition and hand it to her. “By the way,” he said, “I buried your braid out there among the olive trees.”
“Oh.” She was afraid of what might happen if she looked at him again and dared only a glance at him. His mouth was twisted in an ironic grin. “I’m glad that’s done.”
“I sang a mournful dirge as I did.”
How like him to distract her from whatever it was that had just happened between them. She returned his smile. “That was kind of you.”
They were safe enough speaking English, so long as she was appropriately deferential to Foye. That wasn’t difficult. He was a nobleman after all, and just now he intimidated her. The gentleness of his manners from Buyukdere had disappeared somewhere between then and now. She wondered if he was aware that he behaved differently. He must be; he was too intelligent not to be. A line between them had been erased, and she wasn’t sure where, if anywhere, a new one might be drawn. She was a boy and not a boy. His servant and not his servant. Female and not female. And when she looked at him, her stomach leaped off the end of the world.
Everything changed.
She was safe with him and not at all safe.
“You’re doing well.” He held her gaze again, and Sabine didn’t know how to look at him anymore. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. A brown-faced boy? A woman who did not interest him? Or one who did? Or perhaps nothing at all. She kept her head down. Did he even love her still? Had that changed with everything else?
“We will come out of this,” he said. He kept his voice low, though it was unlikely anyone would overhear, and even if they did, that they would understand. “I promise you, I’ll see you through this.”
The intensity of his voice made her look up. “I know that.”
“I’ll get us back to England and we’ll be married.” He laughed softly. “I swore I never would. I told Lucey I was prepared to be the very last Marrack. I knew that for a lie when I said it, but I planned to marry a much older woman. Not some pretty young thing like you.”
“There’s time for you to change your mind,” she said.
“I shan’t,” he replied. “I find you suit me very well now.” He was sitting very informally, with one knee up and an arm dangling off his knee. His boots were covered with dust, as were hers, for that matter, and he, too, had a line of sweat running down the side of his face. The cloth he used to wrap around his lower face was loose around his neck. “Before long, you and I will be sitting in front of the fire at Maralee House remembering what an adventure we had.”
“Telling our children about it,” she said without thinking.
Foye didn’t reply. His gaze stayed on her.
“Forgive me,” she said. Her cheeks burned hot. “I spoke out of turn.”
“You didn’t,” he said softly. “It’s just, I haven’t even got us married yet, and you’re on to the children. We will have them. But how many?”
She drew up her knees. “Half a dozen. Three girls and three boys.”
“All as pretty as you,” he said.
“All as handsome as you,” Sabine replied.
“Heaven forbid,” he said.
“We’ll have beautiful children,” she said, leaning toward him so she could keep her voice low. “Every one of them.”
Foye threw back his head and laughed, not even caring that everyone looked at him. If Foye wanted to laugh at something his dragoman said, he was entitled. Sabine liked the way he looked when he laughed. His eyes sparkled, and his so unlovely face became, to her, preciously lovely.
Looking at him, she understood now the reason for her earlier failures in trying to draw him. In those attempts she had not known Foye nearly well enough and so had failed to capture what he was. She had missed the decency and honor of him in favor of replicating the ways in which his face did not please the eye, all the while knowing that something had not been right. “I do want to sketch you one day,” she said.
He shrugged. “You will one day.”
The little privacy they’d had ended with one of the mercenaries calling her over to fetch coffee for Foye and herself. She found cups in their kit and went to the fire for their share. She thanked the Janissary in his language, but too formally, she thought. Too much as if there were that barrier of gender that had colored her use of the language when she was a woman.
She took both cups back to Foye and sat down, this time remembering to sit cross-legged. She gave Foye his and sipped her own. She welcomed the sharp flavor, the aroma drifting up, invigorating even by scent alone. She’d been awake for too many hours to count, with several more facing her before any of them would have the opportunity to sleep.
After the coffee was consumed, the fires put out, and accoutrements stowed away, they watered their horses one last time. A few of the soldiers took another turn at the fountain. Her years of traveling with Godard had given her the ability to pack, thus she was no better or worse than the others at stowing away her utensils and Foye’s, but her rug refused to be rolled as tightly as everyone else managed, and when she walked to her mare, she stood there stupid with the realization that she did not know the first thing about how to attach her gear. Her heart stuttered as she looked to see how the others were managing.
Foye walked over and under cover of engaging her in conversation, readjusted her rug, showing her as he did, the proper way to affix it. He did the same with her saddlebags. She had the same maddening awareness of him as she had before. Cognizant that Foye was watching her, she remounted on her own, and they were back on the road. Now that, she thought with no small pride, was well done of her.
They continued south to Aleppo. The sun beat down with no breeze but that generated by their motion. Dirt and sand constantly blew in the air around them. Sabine found herself glad for her headdress for it kept the wickedly hot sun from burning her head and neck. Like the others, she had a long cloth wrapped around her face to keep out the dust. Foye avoided her as he had previously, keeping his stallion at the front of the party, which had the chief advantage of being out of the dust. Before long she stopped hoping he would drop back and speak with her and simply concentrated on riding. Later in the afternoon, as they had in the morning, they ate hard bread, cheese, and bits of dried fruit, and sipped stale water in the saddle.
Their second stop came an hour or two before full dark. They ate the same meal for dinner as they’d had for luncheon, followed by more of the strong, hot coffee that. Foye and Sabine drank sweet as she dared make it from the small supply of sugar in her kit. They barely rested after they ate, ten minutes at most. Everyone remounted without complaint. No one spoke to her. No one assisted her. But she’d learned her lesson well. She knew how to fasten her rug and saddlebags, and she could mount on her own. They continued to ride well past treacherous dark, their horses stepping unerringly around obstacles in the uneven ground heading toward the city. They reached Aleppo shortly after nine o’clock. Sabine was at the outside edge of their procession when their party passed the Citadel of Aleppo, the great gleaming white fortress that sat on a hill in the very oldest section of the town. The castle dominated the city’s landscape.
They continued into this ancient section of the city to the khans, inns used by the caravans that stopped in Aleppo on their way east or west to the port city of Iskenderun. As at Nazim Pasha’s palace in Kilis, all the khans had arched entrance gates wide and tall enough to accommodate a fully burdened camel. The interior courtyard of the one Foye led them to was large enough to hold all the animals from two or more caravans. She did not yet read Arabic well enough to do more than guess at the meaning of the words inscribed over the gateway as they entered.
After dismounting, Sabine looked after her mare first but left the animal wearing both blanket and saddle as was the custom. She followed Foye inside. The others remained in the courtyard. She remembered to walk as if she weren’t a woman, which wasn’t difficult given the hours she’d spent riding. If she’d had bollocks she was certain they’d be as sore as her posterior. The proprietor recalled Foye from his previous stop on the way to Kilis and spoke enough broken English that Sabine’s services were not required. Foye secured their accommodations himself.
It did not occur to Sabine until it was happening that she would be sharing a room with Foye. Alone.
Her stomach felt as if she had stepped off a very high cliff.