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Authors: Susan Squires
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victualers in loud voices. Boys hopped among the camel drivers, hawking figs and dates .
Ian stumbled into camp, urged on by shouting in a language he did not understand and by the crack of the whip across his bare back. He was linked by rough hemp rope at the neck to five others, all half-naked as he was. They had fitted him with rough sandals to protect his feet. His breeches had been replaced by a scrap of cloth tied around his loins. How he had survived the march from the slave market in Algiers to this remote stretch of godforsaken desert he could hardly tell. His back was raw with lashes. The rope at his neck, rubbing the sweaty skin, had worn a necklace of blood. He was burnt by the sun. For days he had stumbled on, delirious with sun and the infection in his shoulder. But slowly he had regained his senses. The slaves were given water at intervals and allowed to sleep, a rough canvas slung over them when their small party stopped in the worst heat of the day. The six slaves were all fine male specimens, big, with powerful muscles and comely features. Only one other European, a Frenchman, was tied in their train. The rest were Arabs and a huge black man. Ian spoke excellent French, enough to communicate with the Black and the Frenchman, but the slaves were beaten for speaking to one another, so it came to nothing .
Tents dotted the perimeter of the caravan, the inner ones fine, the outer ones shabby and ragged. And one tent, much richer than the others, stood at a distance from the bustle under some waving palms. The awning had worked borders in blue and gold. Nearby, a litter sat in the sand, colorful silk pillows just visible inside the thick draperies .
The slaves were whipped toward several large posts driven deep in the sand and set with heavy metal rings. Another half-dozen well-made males were already shackled there. At some distance a rabble of other slaves, ranging from old to young and including some women, huddled in a rope pen. A fat bearded man took charge of the newcomers and shouted at them, gesturing toward an anvil. They shuffled forward, and the hemp at their necks was replaced by a heavy metal wristband, closed by a bolt pounded home with a great hammer on the anvil. Each shackle carried a length of chain. Thus separated, they were chained to the posts. There was no awning for the slaves. They sat in the heat, drooping. A boy came over with a bucket from the nearby oasis. The water was hot and brackish, but each gulped their share from the ewer .
Ian dozed, fevered dreams of England tumbling in his head. As the sun dropped below the horizon, the caravan began to murmur. Lamps flickered in the beautiful tent. Ian could see a form moving inside, a particularly lithe female form .
As the twilight deepened, the flap of the tent opened and a woman emerged. Immediately stares from every part of the caravan camp converged upon her. And what was more natural? She walked with hips thrust out, long legs creamy white emerging from an almost translucent skirt in dusky orange, slit to her hip. Ian had never seen a more shapely leg. Her torso was both covered and revealed by an X of cloth that covered her breasts and bared her belly. Around her neck was a collar six inches wide made of long cylindrical beads of crystal, jet, and lapis lazuli that matched the earrings that dripped from her ears .
It was her face that hypnotized. Her nose was long, straight, her lips full in a small mouth. She had a delicate, pointed chin. But her most striking features were her eyes. They were black, as far as he could tell in the dim light, and outlined in kohl so that each streaked out to a point on her temples, making her look Eastern and exotic, as though she were not the embodiment of the exotic already. Her cosmetics and her dress were Egyptian, yet the white of her flesh contradicted them. The air around her seemed to vibrate with vitality. The thrust of her hips proclaimed that she knew men; the cold insolence of her
Ian stumbled into camp, urged on by shouting in a language he did not understand and by the crack of the whip across his bare back. He was linked by rough hemp rope at the neck to five others, all half-naked as he was. They had fitted him with rough sandals to protect his feet. His breeches had been replaced by a scrap of cloth tied around his loins. How he had survived the march from the slave market in Algiers to this remote stretch of godforsaken desert he could hardly tell. His back was raw with lashes. The rope at his neck, rubbing the sweaty skin, had worn a necklace of blood. He was burnt by the sun. For days he had stumbled on, delirious with sun and the infection in his shoulder. But slowly he had regained his senses. The slaves were given water at intervals and allowed to sleep, a rough canvas slung over them when their small party stopped in the worst heat of the day. The six slaves were all fine male specimens, big, with powerful muscles and comely features. Only one other European, a Frenchman, was tied in their train. The rest were Arabs and a huge black man. Ian spoke excellent French, enough to communicate with the Black and the Frenchman, but the slaves were beaten for speaking to one another, so it came to nothing .
Tents dotted the perimeter of the caravan, the inner ones fine, the outer ones shabby and ragged. And one tent, much richer than the others, stood at a distance from the bustle under some waving palms. The awning had worked borders in blue and gold. Nearby, a litter sat in the sand, colorful silk pillows just visible inside the thick draperies .
The slaves were whipped toward several large posts driven deep in the sand and set with heavy metal rings. Another half-dozen well-made males were already shackled there. At some distance a rabble of other slaves, ranging from old to young and including some women, huddled in a rope pen. A fat bearded man took charge of the newcomers and shouted at them, gesturing toward an anvil. They shuffled forward, and the hemp at their necks was replaced by a heavy metal wristband, closed by a bolt pounded home with a great hammer on the anvil. Each shackle carried a length of chain. Thus separated, they were chained to the posts. There was no awning for the slaves. They sat in the heat, drooping. A boy came over with a bucket from the nearby oasis. The water was hot and brackish, but each gulped their share from the ewer .
Ian dozed, fevered dreams of England tumbling in his head. As the sun dropped below the horizon, the caravan began to murmur. Lamps flickered in the beautiful tent. Ian could see a form moving inside, a particularly lithe female form .
As the twilight deepened, the flap of the tent opened and a woman emerged. Immediately stares from every part of the caravan camp converged upon her. And what was more natural? She walked with hips thrust out, long legs creamy white emerging from an almost translucent skirt in dusky orange, slit to her hip. Ian had never seen a more shapely leg. Her torso was both covered and revealed by an X of cloth that covered her breasts and bared her belly. Around her neck was a collar six inches wide made of long cylindrical beads of crystal, jet, and lapis lazuli that matched the earrings that dripped from her ears .
It was her face that hypnotized. Her nose was long, straight, her lips full in a small mouth. She had a delicate, pointed chin. But her most striking features were her eyes. They were black, as far as he could tell in the dim light, and outlined in kohl so that each streaked out to a point on her temples, making her look Eastern and exotic, as though she were not the embodiment of the exotic already. Her cosmetics and her dress were Egyptian, yet the white of her flesh contradicted them. The air around her seemed to vibrate with vitality. The thrust of her hips proclaimed that she knew men; the cold insolence of her
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