Enslaved By The Desert Trader

‘Stay silent,’ the trader’s voice growled.

She bit down hard on the cloth again. The feeling of suction at the site of the bite returned, then ceased.

‘Tahar,’ sneered the Chief. He muttered something in the Libu tongue, then bent over Kiya and switched to Khemetian. ‘What is wrong, slave?’ he asked.

Kiya felt the fabric of her headdress being arranged to cover her face.

‘The boy will not answer you,’ explained Tahar. ‘He has suffered the bite of an asp. He is all but dead.’

‘Are you alive, boy?’ asked the Chief, ignoring Tahar. Kiya stayed silent. ‘Let me see you.’ Kiya could feel the fabric of her headdress being tugged.

‘There is no need to look at the site,’ the trader explained steadily. ‘It is already too late to stop the poison.’ His voice was like the edge of a blade.

‘There is enough moonlight to at least see the mark,’ said the Chief. ‘Or would you deny my will?’

Kiya felt the cover come briskly off her face. She smelled the Chief’s strong, sour breath. ‘The boy still breathes,’ the Chief said. ‘If I can save him, Tahar, he is mine, for you have clearly forsaken him.’

Kiya felt her wrap being folded back, then a sudden sharp pain as the Chief’s finger probed the tender site where the asp’s fangs had penetrated her thigh. He pushed his hand further up, and she drew a breath when she felt Chief’s bony fingers discover her woman’s mound.

‘What is this?’ the Chief exclaimed. ‘Not a boy at all!’ The Chief yanked his arm from beneath Kiya’s wrap. ‘You have lied to us, Tahar.’

Kiya opened her eyes, but could see only shadows all around her. Her body was limp with exhaustion, but she felt a small tingling sensation returning to her legs, and the tightness in her chest had diminished. She saw the shapes of slumbering men stirring upon the ground. They growled and moaned, still heavy with the effects of the wine. The shadowy figures of two men stood above her, motionless.

‘If you give her to me now I will forgive you,’ whispered the smaller shadow—the Chief.

‘Never. She is mine.’

‘She is ours,’ the Chief said, his voice growing louder. ‘She is a spoil of the raid. She belongs to every man here.’

‘Nay, she belongs to me and me alone.’

What happened next Kiya wasn’t entirely sure. She felt her limp body being scooped into the trader’s strong arms. She was placed atop the horse and felt the trader’s large, warm body slide behind hers. He gripped her tightly by the waist.

‘Do not fight me,’ he whispered with hot breath. ‘Not now.’

As they rode away she heard the frantic sound of the Chief’s shouts. Though she did not speak the Libu tongue, she could imagine what he was saying.

‘Why do you delay, you drunken fools? Get her! She is ours!’

Chapter Seven (#ulink_7cbba2a4-5e63-5cd8-9a04-7b02716148e7)

‘I am yours, My King. You may take me if you wish,’ breathed the young woman. She had draped herself across King Khufu’s lap, as she had been instructed, though she could not bring herself to relax her limbs.

‘I wish you would get off my legs,’ said the King. ‘You are stiffer than a mummy.’

The woman scrambled to the floor and waited obediently upon her knees.

‘Just rub my feet, woman,’ the King bristled.

The King’s newest concubine took his soft right foot in her hand and began to knead. ‘You are the handsomest, most magnificent king who has ever lived,’ she said as she worked, for concubines were trained to flatter the King in such ways.

‘Indeed?’ answered King Khufu, bemused. He plucked a grape from the fruit basket on the table and stared out at the brown rooftops of Memphis.

‘And the most intelligent and the most powerful and...’ The woman paused.

‘And?’ asked the King.

‘And the most accomplished.’

‘Ah! Accomplished. Did you hear that, Imhoter?’ The King pointed a shrivelled date at his elderly advisor, who was kneeling at the foot of the King’s divan.

‘Yes, My King,’ said Imhoter, keeping his head bowed.

Of course the holy man had heard it. He had been kneeling with his head bowed for some time, waiting for the King to release him from his obeisance.

‘Do you think she refers to my ossuary, Imhoter?’ asked the King. ‘You know—that little building I made?’

‘Yes, Majesty,’ Imhoter intoned, studying the lapis tiles beneath his knees. ‘That is the structure to which I believe she refers.’

‘Is that it, coddled one?’ the King asked his concubine. ‘You refer to my heavenly catapult?’

The beautiful young woman ceased rubbing his foot, utterly confused. After several moments the King’s lips narrowed into an angry line. He pointed his royal finger north.

‘Oh!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘Yes, My Lord, the Great Pyramid of Stone. Yes, yes. That is the accomplishment to which I was referring. It is truly...awe-inspiring. Future generations will look upon it with...awe.’

The King wrenched his foot from the woman’s hands. ‘You bore me, young blossom.’ He turned to the priest. ‘Imhoter, remind me to send a teacher to the Royal Harem. A historian, and perhaps a scribe versed in the embellishments of language. These new concubines are as thick as palm trunks.’

‘Yes, Majesty,’ said Imhoter, keeping his gaze upon the floor.

‘Well, get up, then, Imhoter!’ the King said finally. ‘Or am I surrounded by fools?’

Imhoter stood slowly, glancing sidelong at the young woman. Her eyes had been kohled with an elegant, swirling design, but tears now threatened to smudge the lovely black circles.

The King levelled an icy stare at the woman. ‘And get a special tutor for this one. This...’ The King paused. ‘Pray, what is your name?’

‘Iset, My King,’ said the woman.

The setting sun shot a golden ray across the terrace and lit up her ochre-red lips, which trembled like a child’s.

‘Iset,’ Khufu said. ‘Even the name is dull.’

A single tear traced a path down the woman’s powdered cheek. Imhoter knew that the woman had been preparing her entire life for this—her first encounter with a Living God. As his concubine she would share his bed, would bear his bastards, yet up until this moment he had not even bothered to learn her name.

Imhoter watched the woman wither beneath the King’s gaze. The King did not know her name, and neither would any man, for the life of a concubine was foremost the life of a loyal servant. She would live out her days in the seclusion and isolation of the harem—available for the King whenever he wanted her, alone and lonely when he did not.

This was the fate of all concubines—glorious and terrible. Imhoter could not understand why women went so eagerly towards it. In his fifty years of service to the King, and the King’s father before him, there had been only one concubine who had resisted that fate. Imhoter’s heart squeezed and he pushed the memory from his mind.

Now Iset wiped her tear and gestured meekly towards the King’s foot. ‘Shall I continue, My King?’ she asked.