THE FALLING SENSATION CONTINUED, even as white light dazzled her. Sydney threw her hands out to save herself, wincing at the brightness. Her forward momentum was too great. She fell and braced herself for a hard impact.
She landed in sand. What was more, the sand wasn’t level. It was on a sharp slope and instantly, she rolled. Layers of cloth tangled around her face and arms and legs, spraying the fine sand all over her. The sand beneath her was hot. The heat was everywhere, including the air itself.
There was a shout, from somewhere below her, accompanied by a jingle of metal upon metal that sounded familiar.
Sydney spread her arms and feet, trying to halt her rolling fall. She slowed and dug in her feet. She came to a halt, clinging to the sandy slope, then turned her face so she wasn’t breathing in the fine grains.
She was on a sand dune so white it was blinding. Ahead of her was another dune, towering up so high she couldn’t see anything beyond, just a patch of washed out blue sky. She had managed to halt herself only a few feet from the bottom of this dune.
At the foot of the dune was a white horse, its coat daubed with rust-colored spots and splashes, and a bright striped blanket over its back. As she looked at it, the horse tossed its head and snorted. The metal pieces of the halter clinked together softly. That was the sound she had first heard.
The man sitting on the horse was staring at her. He had a sword out, one with a slight curve to it. The blade was covered in blood. So was the man’s turban and jacket.
The eyes above the trimmed beard and high cheek bones were familiar.
“Alex,” she breathed.
He jumped down from the horse, the sword still in his hand, and strode toward her. He was wearing a long green tunic over boots, tied with a blue sash and his gaze held no recognition at all. He climbed the lower slope of the dune as if it was level ground, bent and grabbed her arm and hauled her up. “Come, spy,” he said shortly and yanked her back down the slope.
There were too many sensations to process, too many questions to which she needed answers to even begin to know how to react or what to say. She struggled to pick up the long hem of the dress she was wearing, then realized there was a layer beneath that, too. She yanked them both up with her spare hand.
The sliding climb down to the flat sand brought her attention to something bouncing off her back. Her hair, she suspected. Whenever she jumped back in time, it got longer.
When they reached his horse, Alex kept his grip on her arm and unhooked a length of coiled rope from the strap of the saddle bag. He tied her wrists together with the end of it, then pushed his sword into the scabbard hanging beneath the sash, apparently unconcerned about the bloody state of the blade. He climbed back onto the horse and tugged her forward. “Come.” He kicked the horse forward and it moved off at a sedate pace, one that she could keep up with if she moved fast.
They were in a valley between two towering dunes. At the end, the slope was easier and Alex’s horse took it with little hops and jumps, the hind legs working hard. Sydney had even more trouble with the stope. Her feet were in some sort of shoes with virtually no sole or tread and she could feel the heat through them.
The sun was blazing down on them, too. The heat was oppressive. Just the short walk to the end of the valley had made sweat pop on the back of her neck and forehead. She wore no veil or any sort of headdress, which seemed odd. Back in time, headgear was critically important in almost every culture.
She tripped and nearly fell. Only the rope around her wrists kept her on her feet. Her tugging made Alex hiss and yank at it, dragging her forward. “Keep up, woman. You cannot delay your fate, now.”
“I just can’t walk fast in this heat,” Sydney explained.
He turned his head to look at her, his eyes narrowing. “You know my language?”
“Does that bother you?” she asked curiously, breathing hard. What language was it? When was this? What year? What place? Deserts peppered Alex’s personal history—the bits she knew of it, anyway. She could be anywhere from Jordan to the Iberian peninsula. She discounted Australia, even though he had lived there for years. The clothes were wrong. The dress she was wearing was long and flowing, with no shaping other than what her hips and breasts gave it. There were wide sleeves over the top of tight, narrow ones in a fabric that she suspected was linen. That suggested the middle ages.
She needed more information than this sea of sand dunes was giving her.
Alex pulled her into walking without answering her question. They climbed to the top of the minor slope and finally, Sydney could see beyond the narrow valley.
There was another wide valley ahead, with small dunes dotting it. That wasn’t what made her gasp, though. The entire valley was filled with horses and people. Men, many of them dead or injured and writhing on the ground, while other riders on horses moved among them with spears. She watched a rider skewer one of the wounded, who grew still.
This was a battleground. A recent one. That was why Alex’s sword had been covered in blood.
He rode forward, dragging her behind him, heading down into the valley. Sydney fought to keep up and not be yanked off her feet. She had a feeling he would just as happily haul her on her back if she fell. He had called her a spy. She was beginning to understand why he thought she was one. Whoever Alex was fighting with had just won this battle and none of the fighters she could see were white. They were all the same olive color as Alex, or even darker, including the vanquished foes lying on the sand.
Alex headed for a tight group of men and horses. Sydney expected him to halt just outside the circle. Instead, he pushed his way through with sharp, low words, his horse nudging warriors and other horses aside. Sydney was forced to follow him into the center of the circle and one by one, every head turned to look at her.
Alex jumped down to the ground with the same easy swing of his legs as before. He gathered up the rope and pulled her toward him, as everyone watched.
“I found a second spy, Rashid,” he announced. His hand landed on the back of her shoulder and he shoved her forward.
Sydney staggered into the very center of the tight ring of men and horses.
Just in front of her was a man who was as tall as Alex. His eyes were the same shape and color, yet they were not quite symmetrical. One was larger than the other. The man seemed to squint through the smaller one, which gave him an odd look that was unsettling. He was as bloody as the rest of the men around him.
“Two of them, brother?” the man, Rashid, said. He sounded surprised. He turned on one heel. “You have not been honest with us, Christian.”
Sydney drew in a sharp breath, only then noticing another prisoner. He hung between the hands of two warriors. He was white, his hair a light honey blond and he wore a tunic over chainmail. The tunic had once been pale blue, but was now dirty, torn and bloody.
Alex repeated the man’s words, this time in a different language. Sydney didn’t know what the language was, yet she understood what Alex was saying.
The man lifted his head. Pale eyes focused on Sydney. “I don’t know her. She is a stranger to me.” He spoke with a weak voice in the same language Alex had just used.
Alex interpreted accurately.
“It is too large a coincidence that two strangers should be wandering the Erg just as Naravas wages his war against the Caliph,” Rashid said.
When Alex repeated his brother’s words, the knight struggled. “I am Etienne of Honfleur, sworn to the service of King William of England. I am a loyal, honorable subject of the King!”
Etienne of Honfleur. Sydney stared at him. Now she knew exactly where she was and the approximate year. Etienne was the knight who would convince Alex to leave Egypt and travel to Jerusalem to seek out Peter the Hermit and convert to Christianity.
Etienne stared at Alex, as if he was trying to convince him through sheer willpower. “I wander in peace,” he said brokenly. “I am unarmed.”
Alex nodded. “Perhaps. Is your companion so peaceful?” He turned to look at Sydney. “Search her for weapons.”
Many hands held her, some of them in places that had nothing to do with holding her still. They reached beneath her overdress, groping. Her breasts were squeezed and she kicked backward. Hard. Her foot connected with someone’s shin, only her shoe was insubstantial and all it did was make the men laugh.
There was a more ominous mutter as a knife was withdrawn from beneath her overdress—her kirtle, she recalled. The knife was thrown to land buried hilt-deep in the sand next to Alex’s brother. Rashid picked it up and examined it. He held it out so Etienne could see it.
Etienne understood what the knife meant. He struggled again. “I tell you, I do not know her! I am a servant of God. I mean you no harm!”
Rashid listened to Alex’s interpretation and nodded.
Sydney didn’t like the look on Rashid’s face. She had met more than one psychopath in her former work as a cop and detective. That type were rarely roused to great anger. Very little touched their emotions, which was why they leaned toward the harsher acts like murder to evoke something in their hearts and minds. Rashid had the same calm expression as the serial killers Sydney had interviewed.
As Rashid’s fingers tightened on the hilt of the knife, Sydney spoke loudly. “Have mercy on the man! He is a servant of the Christian god. He is harmless!”
There was a soft gasp from the men around her. Were they shocked that she could speak their language? Or that a woman dared speak aloud among them? Both, most likely.
Alex spun to face her. His face was tight with anger. “If you love your life, do not speak!” he said, his voice low, his words fast.
Sydney looked from him to the men around him, taking in the thunderous faces looking at her. There was more going on here than simply a woman speaking out of turn.
Rashid considered her. He frowned, the furrow between his brows deep, the muddy eyes unfocused. “You, a woman, dares to tell me what to do?”
Sydney drew in a breath that shook. Now she understood what she had done. Rashid had assumed her plea was a demand. A directive. She swallowed. There was no way to take it back. Speaking at all would be too forward. Apologizing would be speaking.
Rashid spun. The knife flashed.
Etienne made a choking, bubbling sound. Bright blood spurted from his neck, fountaining onto the sand at his feet and spraying Rashid’s boot and the hem of his tunic.
Sickened, Sydney looked away. Her heart sank. Rashid had just killed the man who would have sent Alex to Jerusalem to meet Brody and Veris and Taylor. That meeting was a critical moment in time, from which flowed consequences that would shape the history of everyone she knew, including herself. If Alex never left Egypt, she would never meet him. He would die a thousand years before she was born.
Alex had to go to Jerusalem. Now that Etienne was dead, though, who would pry him out of Egypt?
The answer was obvious. She must.
* * * * *
Etienne’s body was left where it laid, the blood pooling into the sand around it, drying quickly and turning a rusty brown color.
The men searched the body, taking anything of value. Etienne’s boots and chainmail were stripped from him and held up as a prize by the one who took them.
Sydney stayed where she was, hiding her dismay and trying to think despite it. No one was paying any attention to her right now. She could turn and run, but where would she run to? She had heard too many horror stories from Taylor and the others about surviving in the desert to think she would last out here on her own. Her best bet was to stay with these people. Besides, she couldn’t leave. She must do Etienne’s job, now. She must make Alex want to go to Jerusalem.
The only other person not moving was Rashid. His men swirled around him, collecting horses, putting their war-booty in saddle bags and talking loudly about how many they had slain and the value of the prizes they had collected. Rashid watched it all, his gaze far away.
Alex came up to his brother, leading another horse. This one had a saddle that looked very different from the type the Fatamids were using. The front and back of this saddle both stood high. The Fatimid saddle was a simple padded blanket.
Calmly, Alex went through the bags and pouches hanging from the side of Etienne’s horse, inspecting the contents. He held out a silver flask to his brother, who took it with a smile. From another square bag, Alex pulled out three books. They were leather bound, the covers and spines decorated with brass studs. The pages of all three were rough along the edges. He turned them, inspecting them, then held them out to Rashid, too.
Rashid laughed. “What would I do with them?” he asked.
Alex shrugged. “They are yours by right.”
“Take them, Alim. Add them to your useless collection. I have a different prize in mind.”
Sydney froze, for Rashid was looking at her. Alex glanced at her over his shoulder then went back to returning the books to the pouch he had pulled them from, unconcerned.
His dismissal was a double shock to her. She had forgotten this was not the Alex who knew her. This was Alim, the Fatimid who was yet to embrace Christian principals. He lived by the same standards as his brother. Rashid was clearly the leader of the group. Unit? Tribe? Battalion? Throughout history, the leader of any group got the pick of the spoils.
Rashid had made his choice and this Alex didn’t care because he had no idea who she was.
Rashid walked over to her and grabbed her chin, turning her head to inspect her face. It was the same motion cattle-drivers used to inspect their stock.
Sydney made herself breathe and stay calm, despite the coppery smell coming from his hand and the thick aroma of stale sweat and body odor wafting from the layers of cloak and tunic and more.
She had to navigate the way things were now and not bitch because they weren’t the same standards she had grown up with and was used to. Women were chattels of the same value as slaves, except they could give men sons.
Rashid hooked his dirty finger over the neck of her kirtle and the chemise beneath and yanked them out. He bent and looked at her breasts. “I will keep her for a while,” he said, letting her go. “Put her in the women’s tent, Alim.”
“Very well.” Alex nodded, turning away from the saddlebags. “She can ride this horse and then she won’t slow us down.”
“Good thinking.” Rashid said. He strode away, his attention already somewhere else. He had told his brother to take care of it and had dismissed the matter from his mind.
Alex picked up the end of the rope around her wrists and tugged it, pulling her toward the horse. He looked at her critically. “Where is your veil?” he demanded.
“I…don’t know. I lost it, somewhere back there.” Did he want her to cover up now, after his brother and the others had already squeezed and prodded and inspected every inch of her?
“Your skin is too pale. The sun will burn it before we reach camp. You must shield it. My brother would not like your appearance marred.”
Of course. The asset must be preserved for the commander’s pleasure.
Alex looked around. He spotted the body of Etienne and pulled out a knife from his belt. The blade was long and had the same slight curve as his sword. He walked over to the body, tugged the bottom of the quilted tunic up, grabbed the hem of the undershirt beneath it and used the point of the knife to sheer away most of the back of the undershirt.
He held up the linen and inspected it. The ends were jagged, although there was a good yard of fabric. Alex held it out to her and gestured with his other hand toward her head.
Sydney tried to take it, only gripping anything with her hands mashed together was impossible.
Alex made an impatient sound and draped the cloth over her head, then wrapped the ends underneath each other, so the cloth was secure. He tugged on the rope again and moved over to Etienne’s horse. “Get on,” he said shortly. “You know how, yes?”
The absolute disinterest in his voice, his careless attitude, reminded Sydney yet again that this was not the Alex she knew. Even in her own mind, she would be better to think of him as Alim.
The problem was, she knew very little about Alex’s life before Jerusalem. He had spoken about other times in his life, he had even written one story down for her to make sure she understood exactly what had happened. Yet, on the matter of his life before Jerusalem, he was unusually silent. The most she knew was that Etienne had talked him into going to Jerusalem to speak to Peter the Hermit. She had not known that Alex had an older brother, or that he had fought alongside him.
She didn’t know the politics of life in the desert. She hadn’t even known they lived in the desert. She had assumed Alex had lived in Cairo, the heart of the Fatimid empire. Who was Naravas? Clearly, he was an enemy yet she couldn’t begin to guess what nationality he might be. The slain on the sand looked the same as Rashid’s troops. Had she stumbled into a civil war? She needed to know the political setup so she didn’t make any mistakes dealing with the power-holders.
She moved over to the horse and looked at Alex. Alim. “I’ve never gotten on a horse with my hands tied this way.”
“Learn how,” Alex—Alim—said sharply. “And fast,” he added.
All around them, the men were getting on their own mounts, shouting at each other, exuberant now the battle had been won and the plunder proved plentiful.
Sydney hooked her tied hands over the front projection, got her foot in the stirrup and would have heaved herself up, except that Alim pushed at her shoulder. “Stupid woman. You would break the stirrup that way.”
She stared at him, confused. How else was it done?
Alim rolled his eyes again. He turned his head and whistled.
The gray stallion he had been riding earlier trotted over to him, his harness jingling. He nudged the back of Alim’s shoulder. Alim patted his nose and turned him so Sydney could see. He gripped the small rise at the front of the saddle pad with his left hand, the rope wrapped around his wrist, then seemed to flip himself onto the back of the horse, with a little jump. His boots found the stirrups automatically.
He made it look easy.
Sydney gritted her teeth together. She wasn’t a weak woman. Even with her hands tied, she should surely be able to imitate it. She gripped the high front of Etienne’s saddle with both hands. Then she attempted the same little jump and threw her right leg over, pushing down with her hands to elevate herself and lift her thigh high enough to pass over the back of the saddle.
Her gown and chemise tangled up around her knees and she struggled to pull them down. Alim sat passively watching.
When she was done, he moved his horse closer and looped the long end of the rope he had been holding around and around the high front of her saddle, then tied it.
“What if the horse rolls?” she asked. “I’ll be crushed because I can’t throw myself out of the way.”
“Then don’t let the horse roll.” He picked up the reins and pulled the horse around so it was facing the same way as his and started walking. Hers followed with little encouragement.
Alongside and around them, the other Fatimids fell into file. They climbed out of the shallow valley. Sydney looked back and saw there were perhaps forty men, all on horses. There were spare horses—more spoils, she guessed. Just before they left the valley behind, she glanced back at the still figure of Etienne.
How could she, a woman, do what he had done? Alim barely cared what she said or thought. His only concern was to get her to the women’s tent in unmarked condition, ready for his brother’s attentions. Etienne had at least been a man and a warrior, which provided some common ground with Alim.
She looked at Alim’s straight back. He didn’t look back to check on her. He didn’t care enough to.
“Fuck,” she breathed to herself, in English.
How the hell was she supposed to do this?
* * * * *
They didn’t ride for long. After an hour or so of steady walking, that led the troop along sinuous dune lines and across flat valleys, the camp that Alim had spoken of appeared on the other side of a dune. Perhaps two dozen tents, made of astonishingly colorful cloth, most of it striped in foot-wide bands, were dotted around the bottom of the little depression below. The ground there was sandy and flat. More importantly, there was a small round well with a wooden lid over it, off to one side of the tents.
There were well worn trails leading up the sides of the dunes, packed down by traffic until they were permanent. This, then, was a known and often-visited location.
All around the tents were more people, most of them veiled women. There were many children and some older men with tanned, leathery skin. A long line of camels was staked to one side of the tents. They would be the burden-bearers for when the camp moved, carrying all the gear on their backs.
Many of the women were gathered around the front of one of the bigger tents, where two guards stood nearby with bare swords in their sashes. Some of the women were weaving on small looms. The others were apparently taking it easy, in the late afternoon sun.
When the troop was spotted, a cry went up and suddenly, everyone was heading for them, running over the sand with an ease that came from long practice.
There were enthusiastic cries from the men in the troop, too. Suddenly, they broke rank, their horses sliding and jumping down the shallow dune. Children were picked up and hugged and kissed. The women stood off to one side and waited with dignity for their turn.
Alim did not surge forward. He didn’t rise in his saddle to spot anyone. Instead, he nudged his horse into a slow climb down the dune to the valley floor. Etienne’s followed and Sydney clung to the pommel, hanging on as best she could.
Her heart thudded heavily. In the next few minutes, she would be shown to the women’s tent and Alex would leave. She had to talk him into keeping her by his side, instead of handing her over. She couldn’t convince him to leave everything he had ever known for an uncertain life in Palestine if he wasn’t there to talk to at all. She still had no idea how she could do it despite wracking her brain on the walk here. All she knew for certain was that staying where Alim could hear her was a good first step.
Alim halted his horse and jumped down to the ground with the same easy fluid movement he had used to mount it. He came around to the side of her horse and uncoiled the rope from around the saddle peak.
“You can’t put me in the women’s tent,” Sydney said urgently.
“Get down,” he said shortly.
“You don’t understand. I’m white and a stranger. They will resent me.”
“I said, get down.”
Sydney recalled the reception the women of Mercia had given her—forcing her to sleep on the floor, with no blankets. They had stolen everything of value from her. “You must listen to me,” she insisted. “You want me delivered to your brother in pristine condition, don’t you? If you leave me with the women, you’ll fail your brother.”
He didn’t hesitate. It was as if she had not spoken. He didn’t reach up and lift her down. Instead, he hauled on the rope. She was pulled out of the saddle by the power of the heave, to sprawl on the soft sand. Despite the softness, the palms of her hands tingled from being scraped across the sand.
She laid for a moment, dazed and shocked.
This is not Alex. Not the Alex you know, she reminded herself for the thousandth time since tumbling down the side of the dune. Despite the reminder, tears pricked her eyes and made them sting.
He gripped her arm and hauled her to her feet, making her shoulder creak with the strain. The temporary headdress unwound and slithered to the ground.
His gaze bore into her. They were Alex’s eyes, yet there was none of the warmth and love she was used to seeing in them. “You try my patience, whore,” he said softly.
“If you would only listen to me, then I wouldn’t have to,” she said quickly.
He pushed her into walking, almost jogging to keep up with him as he wove between tents, skirting goats and children, equipment and tools, tent ropes and pegs and more.
“Please!” she added.
“Stop talking,” he snapped.
“If you put me in that tent, you’ll regret it.”
“I said, be quiet.”
The big tent was right in front of them. The two guards straightened to attention when they spotted Alim. One of them pulled the flap aside. Sydney could see red carpet beyond, the colors of the pattern on it glowing in the late afternoon sun.
She halted, digging in her feet to resist his pull.
Alim spun and gripped her other arm, which was what she had been counting on. She rose up on her toes and rammed her head against his face. It was a classic headbutt and it connected squarely.
He reeled back, his hands going up to his face. He staggered and sank down to the ground, dizzy. He still had a grip on the shortened rope and she was yanked down to the ground with him, which she had not anticipated.
She smacked into the ground with an impact that dazed her, because she couldn’t brace herself or use her hands to break the fall. It was as shocking as being pulled off the horse.
Alim flipped her onto her back and pinned her down, holding her still. He shook his head, trying to clear it. There was a red mark on his forehead, just below the turban.
The weight of him lying on her was eerily familiar. She steeled her mind against the memory. However, it did give her an idea. She spoke quickly. “You take me. Keep me by your side. Make me yours.”
His gaze met hers. For the first time she knew he was seeing her. Really seeing her.
“Please,” she whispered. “I’ll be safer with you.”
For a moment she thought he might actually be considering the proposition.
“You won’t regret it,” she added. She would make sure of that.
His mouth curled down. He heaved himself up. “You are my brother’s whore now,” he said shortly. “Do not further sully yourself with this useless begging.”
She had said the wrong thing again.
He pulled her to her feet. This time he did not try to urge her forward with a hand on her arm. He picked her up off her feet and carried her. Three steps, then he threw her through the tent opening.
She hit the red carpet and rolled, for her hands were still tied. She came to a sprawling halt on her side. The rest of the rope was tossed in on top of her and the tent flap dropped back down.
Sydney looked up and around. A dozen or more women sat or laid on cushions and carpets, all of them sultry, doe-eyed women, whose eyes all narrowed in suspicion.
“Look at her hair,” one of them said quietly. “That skin.” The woman ran her hand down her own body. She was wearing a thin tunic and lots of jewelry and that was all. Her hair was bare and flowing down her back in a dark river.
“No veil, no coverings. Who is she?” another said.
They had assumed that because she looked foreign, she couldn’t speak Arabic.
Sydney sat up and held out her hands. “Would one of you be so kind as to untie my hands?”
They all gasped and drew back. One of them looked up and behind Sydney. “Well?” she demanded.
Sydney looked over her shoulder. A tall woman stood at the flap, holding it open by a few inches. She held a veil across her face as she whispered to someone on the other side of the flap.
Then the flap was closed and she turned back to face the other women and lowered the veil. Her face was indignant. She pointed at Sydney. “She got her English man killed. She is for Rashid.”
Everyone turned to look at one of the women, who sat apart from the others. Her belly was swollen and distended. She looked as if she was in the last stages of her pregnancy. She was beautiful, with huge dark eyes that had been enhanced with kohl. Her lips were full and dark.
Her eyes narrowed. “This thing?” Her tone was withering.
The woman at the opening to the tent shrugged. “You can’t take care of him, can you, Gamala?” There was a note of viciousness in her voice that made Sydney blink, because the woman made no attempt to hide it.
Gamala struggled to get to her feet. Once she was on them, she moved freely enough in the loose white shift she was wearing. She stepped over the cushions, the other women making way for her. Sydney thought she was heading for the nasty woman by the door, but she stopped in front of Sydney.
Gamala smacked Sydney across the face, her arm swinging with a power that was unexpected.
Sydney was thrown backward by the blow, her teeth clicking together and cutting open her tongue with a sharp bite of pain, cutting off her cry. She fell back on the carpet as Gamala bent over her. “Whore!” She spat.
Suddenly, the rest of the women were on their knees around her, pummeling her. Blows landed everywhere, some of them light. Some of them not light at all.
Sydney managed to curl up on her side and protect her head. That was when the kicking started. Not long after, she passed out and was glad to do so.