The Holy City

The Almaki souq was situated on the outskirts of Mecca, about an hour's walk from the city centre, where thousands of pilgrims circled the Kaaba at this very moment, their hands stretched out in reverence, devotion, and respect. Khaya shielded her eyes from the sun, which had just begun its descent. As they walked along one of the main roads of the souq, Khaya's mouth fell open in awe. She had never seen so many people in one place.

The streets ran through the souq in a neat gridded pattern, and along them people flowed like water, barely stopping for breath. The place was filled with buzzing chatter, shouting, and the pulse of life. There were massive tents shading the area, and wide open roads for carts and pedestrians alike. As she and the Bedouin continued on their way, now riding side by side, Khaya caught whiffs of scents from the different caravans and tents which lined the street – spicy amber and choking jasmine and subtle rose flower oil. She had expected to be bombarded with the smell of horse and camel excrement, seeing as the central market square was full of them. It was a pleasant surprise to her senses.

The animation of the people caught her eye. There were men she assumed were slave owners, their heads wrapped in bright saffron and blue turbans, sashes of silk around their waists and swords at their hips. They held themselves with authority, barking out instructions and orders to their servants. Khaya spotted a massive group of women with heavy gold jewellery hanging from their necks and ears, their eyes coated with black kohl and hair curled and decorated with flowers and other jewels. They wore flame coloured, figure hugging tunics with long rounded necklines which exposed the edge of their shoulders. Their sirwals shimmered with each movement. They wore no shoes.

"Who are all those girls?!" Khaya gasped, pointing and looking at the Bedouin for an answer.

"Court dancers and entertainers. Doubtlessly they will become members of some Emir's harem by the end of the week."

Khaya couldn't take her eyes off them. Each and every one of them glowed like a gem beneath the sun, shimmering and enchanting. Some of them smiled, even laughed, engaged in conversation with one another. They did not look like slaves.

They would be sold, traded like animals for a bag of coins. Two men would go home richer – the slave owner with his dinars and the customer with his women. A twisting sensation wrapped around Khaya's lungs.

"They are so beautiful. They don't deserved to be replaced with coins."

The Bedouin paused, then uttered a bellowing laugh. "Those girls are lucky. They will be sold for a high price to a rich man, a man who can provide for and look after them. They will lead good lives. Their children will be protected and treated well."

Khaya's lips parted, ready to argue, but no words came. As much as she disliked the idea, the Bedouin's words made sense.

They were passing by the women, now so close that Khaya could make out their individual differences. Perhaps these women did not have power over their fate or in their fists, but in their beauty.

Perhaps there was more to power than fists and men.

"Girl, this way," the Bedouin said, bringing her back to the present moment. They circled around the main square and turned down the next road. Everything looked more or less the same, but here there seemed to be fewer slaves and more slave owners and other official looking people.

"Where are we going?"

The Bedouin pointed to a closed purple tent which was much smaller than most of the others. "We are going to get you ready for the market."

Khaya frowned, her grip tightening on the reins. "What do you mean get me ready?"

The Bedouin gave her a tired look. "Do you think anyone will look at you in your current garb? Did you see those girls, how easily you noticed them? Their owner has done well. We must do better."

Khaya's throat tightened at the prospect of being dressed like those girls, her hair loose and neck exposed, her eyes outlined with kohl and her body weighed down by jewels. It was stifling to even think about. The overwhelming clamour, the frenzied movements and mingling scents of the market had momentarily distracted her from her own predicament. The ever nearing reality of her having to be dressed and put to auction like a mule sent a wave of nausea over her.

When they reached the tent they dismounted and tied their horses to a post, then headed inside. It was shrouded in darkness save for the light streaming in through gaps in the tent cloth. On a long table in the centre of the room there were stacks of cloth almost twice as high as Khaya. From the corner a man approached them.

"Good evening, sahib," the man said, his voice much deeper than Khaya expected. In the darkness he looked intimidating, though he was the same height at the Bedouin. He wore a delicately wrapped red turban. The man nodded his chin at the Bedouin but didn't spare Khaya even a glance. Of course he didn't.

She was the slave.

"We are in need of some new garments for the souq, master tailor."

The tailor guided them deeper into the tent, behind the table displaying his material. "What colours can I interest you in, sahib?"

"I leave the decision in your hands. I am sure you would know what would suit the girl."

They walked on a little more till they reached the opposite wall of the tent, where the more luxurious and heavy materials hung. The tailor turned around and only now let his eyes hover over Khaya. He scanned her with an intensity she wasn't used to, making her shift and look down.

"Red and gold would complement each other nicely," he finally said, turning back to the wall of cloth. He eyed it for sometimes, finally settling on a bundle of red silk and gold brocade, a combination he had used many times before.

"Red and gold are too common. Give her something different," the Bedouin said.

"If not red and gold, then perhaps–"

"That one. Give us that one," he said, catching something on the shelf he liked the look of. Khaya was not paying attention to them, her eyes drifting over the wall of fabrics absently. She felt as though she was no longer in her own body, a mere ghost experiencing the world through vacant eyes. As the Bedouin completed his purchase and the tailor pulled out his measuring tape, Khaya fell into a disembodied trance.

There was no way back home now. This was the end.

X

The last day of Hajj was perhaps the most tranquil. The final ritual was performed at Mina, a small and quiet neighbourhood in Mecca where pilgrims could stay overnight. The sun rose high in the sky, a portent for the weather to come, as the Caliph lounged in the courtyard of one of the grand pavilions. It had been specially reserved for the royal family and its attendants. The pilgrims who had accompanied the Caliph's caravan stayed in sprawling white tents, lined in neat rows a few minutes' walk from the pillars where the rituals were performed.

The Caliph was surrounded by a few attendants, sitting comfortably on a plush chair, as a tall man approached him. His face was veiled in black. All the Caliph could see were his narrow eyes and delicate hands, resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip.

"Sayyidi," the man said, bowing deeply. His voice was slightly muffled by the veil. "The preparations to leave have begun. We will be ready within the hour."

The Caliph leaned forward to take a grape from the bowl on the table in front of him. He popped the grape into his mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully before acknowledging what the man had said.

"Where is my son?"

Below his veil the man smiled. "Frolicking, I'm sure. He is impatient."

The Caliph nodded. He picked another grape and offered it to the man, who shook his head. "And your father? I haven't seen him since the ritual was completed earlier today."

"The Vizier is busy managing the Emirs, who are also impatient."

The Caliph seemed amused by the man's mocking tone, but did not reprimand him for it.

"And the Princess?"

The man paused, unsure of why he was being asked this particular question. "I'm afraid I do not know. I can only assume she is in her tent, praying for safe passage home."

The Caliph's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "I see. Please see to it that she is well guarded."

The man bowed his head. "Of course, Sayyidi."

The Caliph took another grape, this one fatter and more juicy than the others. He crushed it between his teeth, spraying drops of juice onto his qamis. "See to it that we are ready to leave sooner rather than later. And double check all the supplies. I won't have any mishaps on the journey back."

The man bowed, this time placing his hand against his chest. "Yes, Sayyidi."

With that the man left the courtyard to bake under the midday sun.

Ж

Today was the day.

The moment the sun reached its highest peak in the sky the souq erupted with a burst of energy. Platforms were set up along all the streets for the slaves to be put on display for the spectators who would come in on foot and on horseback. Khaya had been getting ready all morning. She could barely recognize her own reflection.

The tailor had prepared a bedazzling blouse for her with a modest neckline and thick straps to keep the scar on her shoulder hidden from view. Her sirwal was light and airy, sitting high on her waist, and though the skin of her body was more or less covered, certainly more than the girls she had seen earlier, she felt shockingly exposed. Her eyes had been lined with kohl, and her hair brushed back and decorated with an imitation silver hair clip, probably made of polished steel. On her feet were curved silver and blue slippers, and around her wrists a set of painted copper bangles that shone in the sunlight.

She was a jewel among grains of sand.

Without her headscarf and a full sleeved tunic she felt more naked than she ever had before; yet elation and disbelief washed over her as she combed her fingers through her hair. She had never looked so beautiful.

The Bedouin handed her the last component of her ensemble: a small drawstring pouch.

"What is this?"

"Ambergris. So you don't smell like dung."

Khaya lifted the pouch up to her nose and inhaled. It was salty and warm. Like an entire desert in her hand.

"Is this what all slave girls wear?"

The Bedouin nodded.

"Give me something else."

"Why?" He sounded more amused than annoyed.

"I will stand out, obviously. Isn't that what you want?"

Khaya surprised herself with her own answer. Here she was, stolen away from home, and instead of plotting an escape, she was trying to further the Bedouin's plans. But she knew, deep in her bones, this was the only path left. There was no hope of getting back to Jorash with no money, no resources. No map and no safety. Slow resignation had settled over her these past days—better to be sold to someone wealthy who could ensure her safety, than to someone who would discard her after using her. Although part of her knew, people could be one and the same.

The Bedouin pursed his lips and considered. "Wait. I will find something."

He left, and Khaya turned to the mirror again. For a silent moment she felt an ache in her chest.

A longing for her sister to be beside her, or someone, some other stranger, to take her away back on the path she took to come here.

The sounds of the souq seemed far away.

Ж

Khaya stepped back into the shade of a towering tent and sucked in a deep breath. There was an overwhelming, almost suffocating smell of ambergris folded into the air. It mixed with hundreds of other perfumes, but still it remained the strongest.

Above that floated something more subtle. Not a scent, but a feeling. A sense of order amid the chaos of voices and movement.

She was surprisingly calm. In a short while the spectators would enter the main square and behold the vast array of slaves available for purchase. Even now, though the market had not officially opened, there were some returning pilgrims haggling with slave owners, trying to convince them to sell. The slave owners would not budge. The souq operated by certain rules that every man, regardless of rank or profession, was bound to follow. Perhaps that was the sense of calm Khaya felt.

The silent agreement. The unspoken rules. On this ground every man was only worth as much as his slaves.

The Bedouin led Khaya down the road to the square, where the platforms had been raised. The sun had already begun scorching her arms and stomach.

Her place was between a bare-chested, hulking warrior, and a group of dancers scantily clad in pink fabric. Their owner was a portly man who looked upon them with pride, but Khaya could see the lust behind his gaze. The Bedouin handed Khaya a flower – a blue hyacinth – which she tucked into her ear, before he moved around to the front of the platform. The soldier held out his hand for her as she stepped up to the platform, and she took it.

"Just you?" he asked.

Khaya had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes. He was more than two heads taller than her, and about thrice as wide. His skin was dark – the darkest shade Khaya had ever seen – and he had a flurry of scars all over his chest. His expression was pleasant, amiable even.

"Just you?" Khaya replied.

The man laughed, a loud and thundering sound that made the platform shake beneath Khaya's feet.

"I'm afraid so," he said. When he turned the sun shone off his chest, blinding Khaya.

Perhaps it was his jovial manner, or some other strange unexplainable aura that prompted her to speak to him. "So, um..."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Hm?"

"What am I supposed to do exactly?"

The man frowned. "What do you mean do? You have never been to a souq before?"

"I..." Khaya tried to look for the right words. "I have never been sold before."

The man's mouth opened in surprise, but it pulled into a smile within seconds. "Don't worry, girl. Just stand and let the spectators spectate. Whoever likes you will come and inspect your condition, then haggle with your owner over the price," he explained.

Khaya nodded. "And after that?"

Once again the man laughed. "After that? Well after that your new master will take you with him, wherever he is going."

"How do I know which one is a good master?" It seemed a childish question, but she had no other words to say.

The man's face softened into a look of pity. "There is no real way to know that, unfortunately. Some masters are kind, others cruel."

They did not speak more, the man had turned his attention to the oncoming wave of potential buyers as Khaya did her best to avoid making eye contact with anyone. The Bedouin glanced at her from time to time, but made no remarks on her skittish behaviour. He seemed oddly confident.

Time passed, and in the span of one hour not a single person had stopped before Khaya's platform, or even spared her a glance. They were all too enamoured of the dancers, or too interested in the warrior's history to even register her little body between them. Khaya was not concerned by this, but she was beginning to feel uncomfortable under the harsh sun. The Bedouin offered her water, which she gratefully took.

"Perhaps you should have thought this through," she said after handing the flask back to him. "You wasted your resources in transporting me here, all for nothing."

The Bedouin chuckled. "You are too impatient and ignorant. Amongst this throng of people is someone who will see you, and only you."

Khaya raised a sceptical eyebrow. "How can you be so sure?"

He smiled but said nothing.

Ж

Eventually, someone did come.

Khaya had seen him when he entered the gates of the souq. Amidst the crowd of horses and men, he stood out like a moon against the night, on a white horse that towered over everything and everyone. From this distance his only identifying feature was a dark keffiyeh wrapped over his face. He rode through the throng leisurely, his head swivelling left and right in search of something. And then they fell on Khaya.

As he approached, Khaya's palms grew clammy. She pressed them against her sirwal and kept her eyes trained forward.

"Good afternoon, sahib," the Bedouin said, pleasant as ever. The man looked down at the Bedouin, his expression unreadable, and waved a hand. The Bedouin bowed his chin and motioned for Khaya to step down from the platform. She walked down the front steps with care, keeping her eyes on her feet. Only when she was beside the Bedouin did she allow her gaze to fall on the man. Other than a sword strapped to his hip he was unadorned. He dismounted in a fluid, graceful motion that startled Khaya, and stood more than a head taller than her.

Khaya instantly lowered her gaze. She waited for movement. For something.

He crossed his arms and watched her intently.

"What can you tell me about her?"

His voice was an odd mix of unpractised refinement and careful veneer. To the Bedouin's surprise he addressed him formally – despite their obvious class difference.

"I can tell you that she is as pure as any houri, sahib."

The man scoffed. "I find that difficult to believe."

The Bedouin smoothed his qamis, unperturbed. "The truth remains the truth whether or not you believe it, sahib."

Unconvinced, the man reached his hand out and held Khaya's chin, forcing her to look up at him. His fingers were cold and surprisingly soft. Khaya's throat tightened, but she kept her eyes off his, focussing on the point where his veil fell over his shoulders. It was taking every force of will to stop her hands from shaking.

In a sudden motion he jerked her chin to the right and left, running his eyes over every part of her face. Still she avoided his gaze. Perhaps if she did not look at him, it would alter the reality that she was being looked at.

"Look at me."

Slowly, Khaya did.

His grey eyes were piercing and cold and dark, but Khaya could see a faint shine of blue speckles within. The little patches of skin she could see through the veil were fair but weathered.

"What else?" he said, eyes still fixed on Khaya's.

"You will not find a more clever, intelligent woman in the whole desert, sahib."

The man let out an amused huff. "What need does a woman have for intelligence?"

The Bedouin chuckled. "You only say that because you are young, sahib. In time you will learn to value such things."

Finally the man let go of Khaya's chin. His eyes lit up in amusement. "You seem to enjoy lecturing me."

Even Khaya was smiling despite herself.

"If neither her virginity nor intelligence interests you, then perhaps the fact that she is immune to poison will."

The man's expression was hidden by the veil, but his silence indicated curiosity.

Khaya's face hardened into surprise.

The Bedouin held a confident smile. A beautiful girl, even a virgin, was as common as dirt at a souq as large as this. A girl immune to poison was a little less so.

"Immune to poison?"

The Bedouin nodded. "On her right shoulder you will find four small scars, each marking one fang of a serpent which poisoned her. By all accounts she should have died within hours, but she survived."

The man reached his hand out and pushed Khaya's sleeve off her shoulder, sending a shiver through her. Sure enough, her skin was puckered and discoloured in four places. To Khaya's utter relief he did not try touching her skin. Once he stepped away she quickly pushed her sleeve back up and held her hand there, as if to guard it.

"How do I know you are not lying? She could have received these scars in all manner of ways."

"Sahib, surely you are intelligent enough to see that a man who comes to the souq with one slave to sell is either a fool, or is selling something of high value. A rare item. You know this, else you would not have chosen her, but some other, more common girl." The Bedouin gestured to the side where the pink dancers were to make his point.

The man chuckled. "You certainly have a way with words –"

Before he could continue his horse unexpectedly walked forward and thrust its head towards Khaya, letting out a nicker. She gasped and almost stumbled as she stepped back. The man was silent, but Khaya could see laughter in his eyes.

"Shreya likes you."

Khaya's wide eyes met his for a moment, then they both looked away. With a firm hand the man pulled on the horse's mane, and the horse obediently stepped back.

"Tell me, what is her price?"

The Bedouin cleared his throat. "Before I tell you that, I want to know... how much do you think she is worth?"

The man raised his eyebrows in surprise. Clearly he hadn't been expecting such a question. He cocked his head and gave Khaya another once over.

"Well, if I were to believe your claim that she is pure, and that she is immune to poison, I would say... perhaps... five dinar? But since I do not believe you, I shall say one dinar."

Khaya could not stop her eyes from widening.

She was worth gold.

The Bedouin maintained his composure, but on the inside was bubbling with excitement. "You are very generous, sahib."

"If I find something wrong with her, you will not find me so generous." His tone was light, but the Bedouin could sense the threat.

He bowed his head. "Of course, sahib. You may inspect her."

The man tilted his head and let his gaze roam from her eyes down to her feet, sending shivers down her spine.

"Turn around."

She did.

"Lift your arms above your head. Turn around."

She felt ridiculous with her arms in the air, but she obliged. The man crossed his arms and scrutinised her for a moment before nodding. Khaya let her arms drop to her sides, letting out an audible sigh. The Bedouin remained placid. The man reached a tentative hand towards Khaya, and plucked the hyacinth from her ear. He lifted it to his nose, then tucked it away into a pouch on his belt.

"I will take her."

The Bedouin bowed. "You chose well, sahib."

Beneath his veil the man smiled. Khaya could tell by the way the corners of his eyes crinkled. "It isn't as if I had much choice."

Khaya stepped forward, and for the first time since the souq had begun thought of Salsal and Ghatrif and their mother. She thought of Jorash.

There was no chance of her ever going home.

She felt a rush of air against her face as the man pulled her onto the horse's back. He pulled something off his belt and threw it down to the Bedouin, who caught it in cupped hands. It was a pouch filled with gold dinars.

"I am feeling generous today."

The Bedouin bowed for the final time, then looked up at Khaya.

He smiled.

Khaya nodded, and swallowed a feeling of something. Not as great as loss, but palpable nonetheless. Her heart hammered in her chest as the rider, no, her new owner, brought his hands around her to grip the reins of his horse, and guided them away from the rush of the market. She sat stiff and silent, grateful that he did not attempt conversation, and kept her eyes trained forward on nothing.

She saw nothing, she heard nothing, she felt nothing.

And they rode on.