Chapter Fifteen
“It’s time, my lady.”
Toufik’s voice roused Rabia from a deep and dreamless sleep. She rose and undressed when she heard her little brown mouse of a maid on the other side of the carpet wall pour water into a basin.
“How soon will they be here?” she asked the eunuch who, naturally, remained on the other side of the carpet.
“Three to four hours, my lady. Their caravan was spotted by Jabal al-Akhdar tribesmen at first light this morning.”
Brown Mouse slipped through the curtain with a towel over her arm. Between both hands she held a bowl of lightly steaming water scented with fresh, tangy limon kolonya. Her head was bowed in deference.
“Are the men ready? They know their orders?”
Rabia washed and dressed in the loose fitting red and gold trimmed gown of her Berber hosts. Brown Mouse then oiled and braided her hair in two long plaits while she listened to Toufik’s answer.
“They do, my lady. They are to identify where the boy is and watch him. The tribesmen will lead the raiding party and attack from the east so the caravan is blinded by the morning sun. They have been told to spare no one and to take the entire spoils as their own with the exception of the boy and his possessions.”
Rabia settled a matching veil over her reddish-brown hair and nodded for Brown Mouse to draw the curtain.
“Does Orhan travel with them?”
“He does.”
Rabia allowed a smile to spread across her face. She hated Orhan with a passion.
Where Selim Omar knew his power and used it to beguile and seduce, his younger brother was a brute and savage. He rutted like an animal. Worse still, he liked to bite like one. Rabia had spent only one night in his bed and vowed never again. Whenever Orhan visited his older brother, she would always give him two of the less promising odalisques.
If not for her son, she would have gladly left the lesser wives to their fate with the man. It would be no less than they deserved.
“They know Orhan is to die slowly and in great pain?”
“They do, indeed, my lady.” Toufik bowed and she was sure she did not mistake the brief smile on his face. Yes, Toufik knew her reasons well enough.
Outside, the Jabal al-Akhdar encampment came to life. She slipped a number of gold bangles over her wrists and ordered Brown Mouse to bring a meal. She slapped the girl across the back of her head as she left, just to hear her squeak once again.
“And our return to Constantinople?”
“We depart from Sozousa. It will take a week for the ship to make ready for us.”
She felt butterflies of anticipation rise in her stomach, the likes of which she had not experienced in many years – in fact, not since the birth of her son.
“Then this is it, is it not?” she asked. “Nearly three months in the planning come down to a few hours of work.”
“‘Planning is half of living’, my lady.”
There was little to argue in that observation. But she recalled a wise proverb of her own, “get together like a brother, keep watch on one another like a stranger”. Toufik must never forget his place and she must remember hers. No matter what, any external display of vulnerability and weakness could mean the end to everything she had earned, so she made sure her voice was strong when she spoke.
“Then let us be sure we have planned enough.”
The air was much cooler at this altitude and the previous night’s rain had departed, leaving only a cloudy mist of dove grey that evaporated as the morning sun rose higher, pushing back purple shadows.
Rabia sat with the other women on a blanket and was given a wide, round loaf of bread and a bowl of the thick stew of lamb and vegetables called utshu. She broke off a piece of bread and stirred it through the bowl. The flavors of paprika, cumin, and garlic filled her mouth – simple and satisfying.
The mountainous region of Jebel Akhdar was the most beautiful wilderness she had ever seen. High above the desert plains to the south, the undulating mountains were verdant. Trees, shrubs and grasses fed by a generous amount of rainfall that turned cuttings and ravines into waterfalls and rivers, feeding the livestock and permitting small holdings of crops to be planted.
It had been three weeks since she had left Pantelleria for Tripoli to be certain she arrived ahead of Orhan’s caravan. It had been many years since she traveled simply and on foot but the exercise had made her stronger. It stoked the fire of vengeance that woke her every morning and lulled her to sleep every night for the past four months.
Soon.
Soon, she would hold her son in her arms again and restore to him his rightful place. Soon, he would be a man of great importance, perhaps even greater than his own father.
A tribesman leading a magnificent seal-brown stallion crossed her view, the sun catching gold on the play of muscles as the creature walked. Man and beast joined the other horses and riders at one end of the encampment. The raiding party was twenty-five in all.
Several yards away from them, another group of men gathered. Unlike the Jabal al-Akhdar tribesman who were dressed in their customary white robes over wide-legged pants, these half-dozen men were dressed head-to-toe in black. Under their hip-length tunics, their pants were fitted at the legs and tied close to the ankles. Suspended from black leather belts were several knives glinting in the sun as they passed around a clay bowl from which they all drank.
Assassins.
These men were specialists in the art of death and were, according to Toufik, descended from the Nazari whose acts of bravery and brutality had become the source of legend. Their very name sent a shiver through her but Rabia suppressed it. She was being watched closely and would show weakness to no one.
The final plans had been worked out last night. The assassins had shadowed the caravan for the past three days and the tribesmen had recommended this location for the ambush. Toufik had acted as her intermediary. As a woman, merely her presence here was enough to arouse suspicion.
Never mind. The how and the why of it were of little concern to Rabia in the scheme of things, of idle interest only. The only things that mattered were her son being returned to her, those she-dogs who kept him from her punished, and Orhan dying in agony.
As the others in the encampment went about their morning’s work, the six assassins turned away, fell on their knees facing the northeast and, in unison, bowed until their foreheads touched the ground.
Soon. So very, very soon.
Toufik’s tall form caught her eye.
“I applaud your wisdom in demonstrating patience, my lady. Soon, the time will be at hand. I can suggest that you stay here, with the women—” Rabia’s brow puckered. She would not sit here amongst these useless women. She was about to rail at Toufik before she detected the edge of a smile. He continued, “—or you can follow me to a place high above the road where you will be able to see everything unfold.”
She inclined her head regally, as though she knew that was his plan all along.
The sun had risen a quarter higher in the sky by the time Rabia, Toufik, and two of the elders from the Berber tribe arrived at the designated spot, sheltered in the shadow of rocks. She was assured no one could see them from the road, a pale yellow path that cut in and out of the deep, green shrubs and luxuriant grasses found in the upper altitudes of the mountains. From here, they could see for miles.
At Toufik’s suggestion, she rested. The anticipation had exhausted her as much as the difficult hike up among the rocks where no paths led. She closed her eyes and listened to the blow of the wind whispering through the stones and rushing across the grass, a hissing sound that reminded her of the great plains of wheat she’d seen in Tunis.
She imagined her son. Seven years old, dark eyes like his father, reddish hair like her own. He had no fear of the other wives. If the boy was yet half the man Selim Omar was, he would have charmed some and terrified the others. She would quickly hold him to her breast and remind him, once again, he was her son, and vow to restore what was rightfully his.
The lesser wives had better not have mistreated him, otherwise she would kill them with her own hands.
Rabia awoke some time later to the sound of harsh whispers. She rose to her feet. In the distance, she could see outriders on horses in Orhan’s livery. The caravan followed along behind. The servants walked alongside the horses and camels. Onto some of these beasts were mounted hawdaj, beds covered with carpets made of colorful, knotted wool to protect the passengers from weather – and from prying eyes.
In one of those was her son.
Rabia didn’t notice the horsemen either side of the ravine until she heard the sound of blades withdrawn in unison. No sooner had the weapons been raised to the sky, the tribesmen descended, letting out a terrifying ululation.
The first outriders were killed before they could draw weapons. Servants scattered to avoid the trampling hooves of both horses and camels. Screams of pain and surprise reached her and made her heart treble in beat.
Distracted by the front assault, the caravan guards were unaware of the other threat until it surged from behind. The assassins set to work with brutal efficiency. They attacked only when confronted. They grabbed anything that looked like their target – a seven-year-old boy, tall for his age. Anyone who challenged them was put to the sword.
Where is he? Where is he?
Rabia worried her inner cheek with her teeth, her repetitive prayer becoming more anxious as the dust rose, obscuring the melee below. The sound of panicked, stampeding animals ebbed and so, too, did the dust which settled lightly onto the blood-soaked ground.
Where is he? Where is he?
Rabia caught sight of something. She leaned forward. Was that him? Toufik grabbed at her elbow breaking her trance.
“Are you well, my lady?” he asked. She was only a few paces away from the drop below but, still, she glared at him and jerked her arm away as she stepped back from the edge.
“I’m quite well,” she snapped. “There are no more than seventy-five people in the caravan, how long can it take to find a small boy?”
“I counsel patience. He may have run away when the fighting began.”
“Then find him!”
“The assassins are professionals. I suggest we leave them to their occupation.”
The tone of voice was one Rabia had heard from her trusted retainer before – firm and condescending – but never, ever had it been directed at her. She stared into his pale blue eyes, waiting for him to remember his place, but the look was implacable.
“Watch your tongue or you may lose it as you did your manhood,” she warned at last.
Toufik grasped her by the elbow and squeezed the joint tight. He brought his face close.
“You may be queen in your walled garden, my lady, but out here you are a mere woman. The only reason you’re not a concubine is because of the respect I have been accorded by the other men. I don’t intend to lose that respect because my woman doesn’t keep her mouth shut and doesn’t do what I tell her.
“If you cannot control your emotions, I can give you a draught. If you will not control your emotions, then I will give you the draught by force. Which is it to be?”
His eyes bored into hers once more. Rabia looked away, boiling inside.
Shouts from below drew her attention once again. The battle was all but over. Both the Jabal al-Akhdar and the assassins undertook separate missions to gather the scattered, to determine the value of each life and treat it accordingly.
Rabia looked at the tableau of death. A couple of the tribesmen picked up a gold-covered coffer and raised it to show the elders who now stood alongside her. Another man beside those with the coffer beckoned. The tribe elders made their way down through the boulders to the road. Rabia and Toufik followed behind.
She skirted the edges of the killing ground, strewn with animal and human corpses, holding a corner of her head scarf across her nose to help mask the smell of gore and death. Some more of the tribesmen returned from the chase to scavenge among the remains.
They examined everything useful, even down to the bridles on downed camels and horses. Carpets were stripped from the hawdaj – even the bloodstained ones – before being rolled up and strapped to the side of an unharmed camel which the Berbers decided now belonged to the tribe.
The assassins had not yet returned.
Rabia watched Toufik, trying to see if she could understand what was going on in that head of his. He walked up to the ruined caravan, toeing the bodies of the slain as though he were looking for something – for someone.
Her son?
Rabia quickened her pace until she was only a step or two behind. At first, her eyes merely skimmed over the scene, trying not to let the specter of death intrude so deeply, but she quickly found herself looking for the reddish-brown hair, like her own, among the slain.
Toufik kicked the timber-framed remains of a broken hawdaj and she saw it – a slender arm, smaller than a woman’s, on the ground, its owner hidden under the body of a fallen camel and its saddle blanket.
The eunuch moved on but Rabia stayed. She wanted to move on but couldn’t. Her body refused to obey her command, her feet remained rooted to the spot. Dread seemed to well up out of the ground, up her legs, through her body until it released itself with a scream.
She surged forward, frantically clawing the debris away from the body until a head with hair the color of her own appeared.
Rabia’s screech became louder and longer as the lifeless but half-open eyes of her son mocked the sleepy waking moments they had once shared. Those eyes would never open again.
Her son was dead.