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Authors: Susan Squires
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eyes said that she was mistress of them .
And so she was. Men bent low before her and pushed their foreheads into the sand. She must certainly be the owner of the caravan and all its contents. The tall, thin figure who had bought Ian walked behind her, his hood now thrown back. He was no slave, for his look was proud. Behind him ran young boys, perhaps fourteen, slaves by the chains on their thin wrists .
She looked about her at the quiescent caravan and issued some peremptory orders Ian did not understand. The tall Arab gestured toward the stakes where the new slaves were tethered and whispered in her ear. Their keeper beat the slaves into appropriate prostration. Raising his eyes, Ian could see her feet, toenails painted with delicate opalescence so that they gleamed even in the twilight, silver rings upon two or three of her toes. An anklet thick with tiny bells tinkled. The scent of cinnamon and something else wafted over him. He had never felt so wretched as when the finely worked leather of her sandals stopped before him. She spoke to the keeper. Her voice was musical, throaty. The keeper poked Ian’s shoulder with his whip, his rough voice humble. Ian struggled to his feet and the keeper urged the others up as well. Then a boy went along the line, jerking their loincloths from them until they were naked before her .
Ian wondered that he could yet flush with all he had endured in the last weeks. The boy stepped up in response to her instruction and squeezed Ian’s testicles. Ian bellowed and slapped him away. The keeper struck Ian about his head with a truncheon and knocked him to his knees, where he crouched in defense. Swearing, the keeper kicked him in the ribs. Ian’s head cleared only slowly. The queenly woman asked the boy a question. The boy responded in the affirmative, then went down the line, apparently testing each man for evidence that he was not a eunuch. The others learned from the results of Ian’s outburst and did not protest. The woman conversed with the tall Arab. She pointed to six of the slaves, including one of the Arabs from his party, the Black, and Ian. Then she drifted away on the slight breeze that breathed hot on Ian’s neck. The tall Arab stalked silently behind her .
As the moon rose, the caravan wakened. Camels were loaded. So were the slaves. Ian was fitted with an enormous pack: a wooden frame tied on with rough hemp straps over his shoulders. His iron bracelet, chafing at his wrist, dangled the chain that could be used to bind him to any handy post. He was just another naked pack animal for the caravan .
The black man was sent to the litter. Ian watched as the mistress of the caravan stepped delicately into the silken interior. The slaves hefted its poles to their shoulders. Camels rose to their feet. The slave keeper whipped his charges into line. Ian staggered under the weight of his pack. He was positioned just in front of the litter by his bearded keeper, while the men not chosen joined the rabble of other slaves at the back of the long line. The caravan started south across a rocky wash toward the open desert, plodding over the sand into the night .
Not a dream but memories filtered into Ian’s consciousness as he woke to daylight leaking under the door of the cabin and the ship making way across the sea again. There had been many months of cruel treatment as the caravan wandered in the desert without a seeming destination. What kind of a caravan did not trade but packed its goods merely as supplies for some circuitous journey? He should have known something was wrong. The fact that they traveled by night, and bandits ran from them, and the strange wounds that always marked the one slave who walked beside the litter—all should have made Ian tremble in fear. And there was the horrible disease that seemed to be killing the poorer stock of slaves. One died every few days of some condition that left them like dried husks in the sand.
A despairing chuckle gurgled in Ian’s
And so she was. Men bent low before her and pushed their foreheads into the sand. She must certainly be the owner of the caravan and all its contents. The tall, thin figure who had bought Ian walked behind her, his hood now thrown back. He was no slave, for his look was proud. Behind him ran young boys, perhaps fourteen, slaves by the chains on their thin wrists .
She looked about her at the quiescent caravan and issued some peremptory orders Ian did not understand. The tall Arab gestured toward the stakes where the new slaves were tethered and whispered in her ear. Their keeper beat the slaves into appropriate prostration. Raising his eyes, Ian could see her feet, toenails painted with delicate opalescence so that they gleamed even in the twilight, silver rings upon two or three of her toes. An anklet thick with tiny bells tinkled. The scent of cinnamon and something else wafted over him. He had never felt so wretched as when the finely worked leather of her sandals stopped before him. She spoke to the keeper. Her voice was musical, throaty. The keeper poked Ian’s shoulder with his whip, his rough voice humble. Ian struggled to his feet and the keeper urged the others up as well. Then a boy went along the line, jerking their loincloths from them until they were naked before her .
Ian wondered that he could yet flush with all he had endured in the last weeks. The boy stepped up in response to her instruction and squeezed Ian’s testicles. Ian bellowed and slapped him away. The keeper struck Ian about his head with a truncheon and knocked him to his knees, where he crouched in defense. Swearing, the keeper kicked him in the ribs. Ian’s head cleared only slowly. The queenly woman asked the boy a question. The boy responded in the affirmative, then went down the line, apparently testing each man for evidence that he was not a eunuch. The others learned from the results of Ian’s outburst and did not protest. The woman conversed with the tall Arab. She pointed to six of the slaves, including one of the Arabs from his party, the Black, and Ian. Then she drifted away on the slight breeze that breathed hot on Ian’s neck. The tall Arab stalked silently behind her .
As the moon rose, the caravan wakened. Camels were loaded. So were the slaves. Ian was fitted with an enormous pack: a wooden frame tied on with rough hemp straps over his shoulders. His iron bracelet, chafing at his wrist, dangled the chain that could be used to bind him to any handy post. He was just another naked pack animal for the caravan .
The black man was sent to the litter. Ian watched as the mistress of the caravan stepped delicately into the silken interior. The slaves hefted its poles to their shoulders. Camels rose to their feet. The slave keeper whipped his charges into line. Ian staggered under the weight of his pack. He was positioned just in front of the litter by his bearded keeper, while the men not chosen joined the rabble of other slaves at the back of the long line. The caravan started south across a rocky wash toward the open desert, plodding over the sand into the night .
Not a dream but memories filtered into Ian’s consciousness as he woke to daylight leaking under the door of the cabin and the ship making way across the sea again. There had been many months of cruel treatment as the caravan wandered in the desert without a seeming destination. What kind of a caravan did not trade but packed its goods merely as supplies for some circuitous journey? He should have known something was wrong. The fact that they traveled by night, and bandits ran from them, and the strange wounds that always marked the one slave who walked beside the litter—all should have made Ian tremble in fear. And there was the horrible disease that seemed to be killing the poorer stock of slaves. One died every few days of some condition that left them like dried husks in the sand.
A despairing chuckle gurgled in Ian’s
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