— 8 —
Tariq was thrown into the prison chambers, barely conscious, his body bruised and bloodied. Fez brought him over and placed him next to Aseem, who had also been badly beaten, but not nearly as severely as Tariq. Aseem’s lower lip was swollen and scratched, and a huge knot had begun to form just above his right eye. He placed his arm around Tariq and allowed his head to rest on his shoulder.
Fez brought them both some water.
“They almost killed him,” Fez whispered.
“Tariq couldn’t help slowing down, his ropes were tied wrong and they cut into his skin,” Aseem replied.
“There’s no way he can ride in the next race. It’s happening this week, to celebrate the homecoming of the Caid’s son.”
Jawad had witnessed Tariq being thrown into the chamber and came over to the three.
“He will have no choice. He has to race. Just pray he doesn’t pick the Caid’s colors again.”
“Is there any way to get him out of racing?” Aseem asked.
“No. It doesn’t matter what he looks like or how broken he is. Boys race with broken legs and wrists all the time. It simply affects the odds on the wagering.”
“Jawad, I have a question,” Fez started.
“Yes.”
“You’re the best jockey in our ranks. You win countless races. Why are you down here?”
“Two more races and I will join the light cavalry of the Caid,” he explained.
“Really? You can win your freedom?”
“Yes, but it is not easy. Only a few have done it. I plan on being a sergeant in the cavalry,” he said hopefully, and then walked away leaving the three alone.
Tariq was resting fitfully. Aseem placed Tariq’s head on a soft mound of dirt and allowed him to drift into a deep sleep.
“Tell me about your family. You never speak of them,” Aseem gently pressed.
“I cannot bring myself to,” Fez answered.
“I understand. This all seems like a bad dream. No, a nightmare from which I’m hoping we eventually awaken.”
“I don’t believe my family is dead.”
“But you said…”
“I know what I said, but I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it. I’ll hear my mother’s voice in the morning or imagine myself walking at my father’s side. I keep seeing their faces in my head. I keep hearing their voices. Do you know what my father’s last words to me were?” he asked.
“No. What were they?”
“That he loved me. I know they are dead, but I just can’t accept it. And I can’t figure out how to avenge them. I’m only a kid, and I’m not very coordinated. I’m not a warrior like my father.”
“Fez, you rode better than anyone in the race. Better than Tariq or I.”
“It’s because I am the lightest. It wasn’t skill, really. I had a fast camel and I just hung on.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“You don’t understand, Aseem. I should have done something—I should have helped them. It is all my fault,” Fez said, and slowly began to cry.
“Fez, you are just a boy like all of us. There is nothing you could have done to protect your mother and father. Nothing. It is not your fault.”
“What am I going to do, Aseem? You and Tariq and Margaret are all I’ve got in the world. My entire tribe is dead.”
“We are all any of us has anymore. We will make it through this together. I promise.”
“I have a way out,” Tariq said, still groggy and light headed.
Both Aseem and Fez stared in amazement.
“We thought you were sleeping!” Aseem said.
“Trying to. Fez, we may have an escape plan.”
“How?”
“Trust me. It will be all right.”
“And what do we do once we get out? We’re still all alone.”
“We will be free.”
“We’re just kids.”
“Not anymore, we’re not. None of us is. I don’t know how, exactly, and I don’t care. I have to get out of this place.”
“So do I.”
“Tariq, promise me one thing?” Fez asked.
“What is it?”
“Promise me, no matter what, you won’t leave me.”
Tariq smiled.
“I’ll never leave you Fez. Do not worry.”
Fez smiled back and settled down to sleep, Except for his new friends, he was all alone in the world. Only three weeks previously, he witnessed the massacre of his entire tribe. He now found himself enslaved in a dungeon. But through it all, he was still alive and he still saw beauty in the world. Maybe if he had been an adult he would have let all these things dominate his thinking. Maybe if he had been older he would have been crushed by his situation. Being a child somehow made him more resilient. He still held out hope. He would always miss his mother and father, but his life would still go on. The world, in all its evil, remained an amazing place. After all, he had placed fourth in a camel race. It was the first time he’d ever done well in anything athletic in his life.
A few hours later, to his amazement, Tariq found himself sitting in a bed in the nurse’s quarters. The nurse was tending to his wounds; she had bandaged his ankles and wrists where the rope had burned into his skin, and had fed him plenty of food and water. His spirits had been raised considerably. He was starting to fall asleep once more when the woman appeared again. At first he wasn’t sure she had been real, he had been so delirious. But again, here she sat, next to his bed.
“You look a lot better,” she said.
She was just as beautiful as before, but there was something wild about her. Her figure was slim and muscular, not good for an Arab woman. It generally meant she worked in the fields alongside the men. Her face was thin and dark, and her long brown hair fell just below her shoulders. It was her eyes, however, that captivated men’s hearts. They were green, but they seemed to be on fire, piercing through anyone that met her gaze. Her beauty was her disguise. Men often underestimate a beautiful woman. They assume that she is incapable, playing and jousting for her affection without really asking themselves about her desires and her strengths. They think of a beautiful woman as a thing to be won. Her beauty masked something that was undeniably very dangerous.
“Did you get me into the nurse’s quarters?” Tariq asked.
“Yes, I called in a favor from a guard. Now, please be quiet as I have our escape plan,” she whispered to him.
“You do?”
“The day of the race, ride the route as usual. This time, however, there will be an ambush on the Caid’s security. You will be met by some tribesmen. Ride with them and you will be safe.”
“What about you? What about Margaret?”
“I have that planned. Once the Caid finds out what has happened, he will send fifty or more soldiers to track you. Margaret and I have a plan to escape during the chaos of the moment. Do not worry, your friend is safe and I am looking after her.”
“Okay, I think I understand. Just ride as usual and we will meet the tribesmen.”
“Yes, one more thing; you can tell absolutely nobody of this plan. Nobody! Ride with your friends, and they can escape along with you, but do not tell them of the plan. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good, I must go. This is the last time you will talk to me. It is too dangerous to keep meeting.”
“Just one thing, please, what is your name?” Tariq asked.
“I will tell you once you are free. Get well, Tariq. People are looking out for you.”
She disappeared out of the tent and Tariq sat alone with his thought.
People were looking out for him.
How marvelous. How amazing to know that his little life actually meant something to someone. He thought of Zijuan as he would a mother. He thought of his new friends and felt good, in spite of everything that had happened.
The next day Tariq practiced racing as usual. He was allowed to sleep in the hospital, but he still had to tend to his camel and train each day. Although he tried valiantly to ignore it, his wounds were such that bouncing up and down in the saddle caused considerable pain. Worse, the hot desert sun warmed his skin to such an extent that he sweated profusely and the salt itched and pained his wounds. His body, trying to heal itself, tired easily, so he was exhausted by the middle of the day. He was only riding half days and not allowed to see Fez and Aseem, as they went on longer rides in the desert. Mostly, he rode by himself with not much improvement.
“You look like a boulder that’s been crushed under a hammer,” Jawad rode up next to him. Jawad had stayed behind to assist in mending one of his camel’s hooves.
“I feel like one,” Tariq wearily replied.
“You must find a way to ride faster, Tariq. Ignore the pain. If you do not ride faster, the Caid will have you killed for sure.”
Tariq liked Jawad, and he had certainly helped him become a better rider, but the way he talked of the Caid made it seem like he was already part of the Caid’s army. It sometimes seemed as if Jawad enjoyed being a slave.
In a building not far away from the jockeys’ chambers, the situation was quite different.
Margaret was miserable. She was not making any friends, and Fatima kept torturing her. Most days, she sat by herself and talked to no one. Just when she had lost all hope, a beautiful girl with fiery green eyes sat down next to her.
“You know a boy named Tariq?” she had asked.
“Yes!” Margaret answered enthusiastically.
“I have spoken with him. He was beaten unmercifully for losing the camel race. He is not in good health. He asked about you.”
“Where is he? And where are Aseem and Fez?”
“Please keep your voice down. Anything said in this place will surely get back to Zahir. They are all in the slave dungeon. Aseem was beaten as well, but not as severely as Tariq.”
“Who are you?”
“I am a friend, that’s all you need to know for now. My name is Sanaa. How are you holding up?”
“I hate this place.”
“As do I,” Sanaa agreed.
“You know this little brat?” Fatima, witnessing the conversation, approached the two of them.
“Fatima, this is none of your business. Leave us alone,” Sanaa quietly said.
“Everything that happens in this place is my business. Stop talking to the white girl!” Fatima yelled, loud enough to attract the attention of the other girls.
Sanaa stood up, faced two inches from Fatima’s nose, and glared at her.
“Fatima, I’m giving you one chance to leave us…,” Sanaa said.
“Or what?” Fatima interrupted her.
With that indiscretion, Sanaa whirled around in a three-sixty, elbows up, and hit Fatima square in the nose. The large woman was knocked down so quickly she scarcely had time to brace her fall. Blood squirted from her nose and her eyes quickly swelled up. In an instant, Sanaa was on top of her, forming a scissor with her legs, and squeezing Fatima’s fat neck between her muscular calves.
“Fatima, do you not understand me? I said to leave us alone. Or do you require a broken neck to obey me?” Sanaa asked, seething between gritted teeth.
“Help me,” Fatima barely whispered.
“Nobody in this place will help you, you know that. It’s every girl for herself. Now, you and everyone else leave the white girl alone or you will deal with me.”
Fatima’s hippo-like face started to turn white and then purple. Her eyes bulged out of her sockets.
“Okay, okay,” she relented.
Sanaa released her grip and Fatima gasped for air and crawled away. Deliberately, Sanaa sat back down next to Margaret.
“Sorry about that; sometimes lessons must be taught the hard way,” Sanaa said matter-of-factly.
“My goodness, could you teach me to fight like that?” Margaret exclaimed.
“Perhaps, we shall see. We have more important things to discuss.”
“Such as?”
“You, as a proper English girl, are a prize in the Caid’s harem. You are being saved as a gift for the Caid’s son. He is due to return on Saturday. After that, I doubt I can help you. You will be moved to different quarters away from me. He may even move you to an entirely different kasbah.”
The color completely disappeared from Margaret’s face. To date, nothing had happened to her. She had been thrown in this glorified prison and spent her days sitting on a pillow by herself, waiting on Fatima, and scrubbing vegetables. She understood the life awaiting her. She understood the consequences. She would be a slave to the Caid’s son and would have no life of her own. She witnessed how the women had been treated by the Caid. They were looked at as little more than objects, easily replaceable and discarded like heaps of trash. She had personally watched as the Caid had slapped a girl and thrown her down some stairs, for the slightest of grievances.
“What is his son like?” Margaret slowly whispered.
“He is like his father, only even more ruthless, because he is trying to prove himself as a dictator. It will not be a good life for you,” Sanaa said, with such practicality that it seemed she was discussing whether to drink coffee or tea.
“What am I going to do?”
“Your friend, Tariq, asked me to look out for you and I promised that I would. That gives us five days to escape this place,” Sanaa whispered closer to Margaret’s ear.
“Escape?” Margaret whispered back.
“On Saturday during the camel race. Do you think you can do it?”
“I’ll do anything to leave this place.”
“It will be very, very dangerous. It may come down to killing a man. Can you do that?” Sanaa asked, deliberately looking Margaret in the eyes.
Margaret looked at the floor and slowly nodded her head.
“A week ago I thought I could never kill anyone. But being trapped in here, and seeing the kind of man the Caid is, I could kill if I needed to.”
“Have you ever fired a gun?” Sanaa asked.
“Yes, my father showed me how on some of our camping expeditions.”
“Good, do not speak a word of this to anyone. Do you understand?” Sanaa asked.
“Yes, I understand.”
“I will discuss our escape plan in more detail as Saturday approaches. Until then, act as if nothing is happening.”
“There’s nothing else to do. I’m bored out of my mind.”
Another day passed, and Tariq’s body was quickly healing—the benefits of youth! He was feeling much better and was eating a bowl of grapes in the nurse’s quarters, which were empty, with the exception of one nurse in the corner. Tariq didn’t notice him, but Zahir walked in and silently made his way next to Tariq’s bed and sat down, startling Tariq.
“So, are you comfortable, my little friend? Getting everything you need?” Zahir asked.
Tariq said nothing and put down the bowl of grapes.
“I am glad you are so happy in this nice little hospital. You, being a new slave and all, should only have the best treatment. And finishing last in the camel race, we should get you your own room with only the finest linens!” Zahir said sarcastically.
Tariq lowered his eyes and said nothing. He detected the anger in Zahir’s voice. His body tensed with fear.
“I should stick this dagger in your eye, carve out your eyeball, and then carve out the other one for finishing last. Give me one good reason why I should not.”
Tariq’s mind raced. What could he say that would make sense to Zahir?
“I came in last on purpose,” he said.
“What?” Zahir asked, surprised by the response.
“I came in last in the camel race on purpose.”
“Why?”
“To increase the odds on the next race. If everyone knew I was a bad rider and injured, the odds would go high in my favor.”
Zahir lowered his dagger with a puzzled look on his face.
“Go on.”
Suddenly, Tariq felt confident. He felt his street hustling ways returning.
“I had a deal with a guard. I was to lose the last race and then win this race. He will stand to make a fortune. The deal was that I help him and then I escape.”
“What guard?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“In the dungeon there’s a little window next to where I sleep. After my first day of practice, it was obvious I could ride well. A voice approached me from outside and told me this plan. He said if I lost the first race badly, it would put the odds on me so high in the second that he would make a fortune.”
Zahir stopped to consider this. It was a devious plan, and far too intricate for a child to concoct. If this was indeed the plan, then Zahir could make a fortune himself.
“How will you win the race?” Zahir questioned him.
“My only competition is Jawad. My plan was to bribe him to throw the race. It shouldn’t be too hard. I may have to bribe one or two other riders as well.”
“What if Jawad doesn’t accept your bribe?”
“Then I have another plan to slow him down,” Tariq explained.
“How?”
“Jawad is the only jockey allowed to ride in his own saddle every race. The rest of us must choose our saddles randomly. I will loosen his saddle strap to such an extent that it easily falls off. If that doesn’t work, well, I will push him off his camel.”
“You think you can do this?”
“If I lose, the guard already promised to kill me. I will win this race, do not doubt me.”
“If you do not win, you will wish the guard got to you first,” Zahir sneered at him.
“I understand. I am only a slave, doing what I am told.”
Zahir’s greedy mind started spinning. If the race was indeed fixed, he could wager and win a large fortune. In fact, he could wager against some of his rivals and weaken them—taking their money at the same time! After the race, he could easily dispose of this slave boy.
“Who else knows of this plan?” Zahir asked.
“Absolutely nobody, I promise. The guard made me swear to secrecy.”
If nobody else knew of the plan but some lowly guard, then the fix would not reach the bigger bettors. Zahir could get fifteen-to-one, or even twenty-to-one odds. With his winnings, he could purchase several slaves for himself, a bigger house—perhaps even a stable of new stallions.
“Okay. I will let you ride. But Allah help you if you do not win. Do you understand me?” Zahir ordered.
“I will not lose. You can count on me. I am your humble servant,” Tariq said in his most sincere voice, and bowed deeply as a sign of reverence.
“You may stay in this hospital and mend yourself,” Zahir said. He wanted his rider strong for the race.
“Yes sir. Thank you, sir,” Tariq answered and bowed again.
Zahir left the hospital with visions of gold and rubies in his head. Although he was Ali Tamzali’s right hand man, he was never very good with finances. In fact, his poverty was a subject of ridicule among the court’s inhabitants. In spite of his looting and pillaging, he was so poor he could only afford two wives. He possessed a terrible understanding of politics and, unknown to Tariq, was a habitual and unskilled gambler. As luck would have it, he had suffered huge losses in the past four races and this was his opportunity to win some of it back.
He quickly crossed through several tents until he came to a crimson and gold tent with a statue of a large boar out front. He was familiar with this tent; he had been to it many, many times. He briskly walked inside. Sitting at the far side was an especially obese man with a small moustache. A young boy fanned the back of the man’s head with a fan made of ostrich feathers.
The man was Barbar, the bookmaker of the kasbah. Although there were equally as many bets amongst other participants, Barbar ran the only “legitimate” betting parlor in the kasbah.
“Zahir, my friend, to what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked.
“I would like to place a wager on this week’s race,” he said, sitting down.
“Of course you do. Which racer, and how much?” Barbar asked.
“Do you think Hari Kazim would bet against me?”
“Perhaps. What do you have in mind?”
“What are the odds on the boy who finished last in the past race?”
“Not nearly so good now that you almost beat him to death. Twenty-three-to-one,” Barbar replied.
“Do you think Hari Kazim would accept a wager of ten thousand?”
Barbar stopped breathing and looked closely at Zahir. Did he know something? Zahir owed almost forty thousand in outstanding debts.
“That may be too rich for his blood. If I lowered the odds to sixteen-to-one, he might be willing to take the wager. Why so much on such an incapable jockey?” Barbar asked suspiciously.
Zahir had expected this line of reasoning and came prepared with an answer.
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” he said and lowered his voice.
“Yes?”
“That boy can really ride. I was wrong to beat him. It turns out, his ropes were too tight and he couldn’t sit in the saddle properly. It was a fluke that he lost,” Zahir explained.
This was his big secret? If it was anyone else Barbar wouldn’t have believed them. But Zahir was no strategist. All brawn and no brains, with a penchant for easy money. He enjoyed a powerful position and assumed that power transferred to games of chance. His ego would not allow him to accept that he was a very poor gambler.
“That is interesting. I think Hari would be willing. Let me ask him and I will return tonight with an answer,” Barbar said.
“Thank you Barbar. I will be at my tent tonight,” Zahir stated and began to rise.
“Can I interest you in a cup of mint tea? Stay for a spell, my friend?” Barbar asked more out of politeness than anything. Nobody relished the company of Zahir.
“No, no, I must be going. I look forward to your answer,” Zahir said, kissed Barbar on both cheeks, and exited his tent.
Gambling in the kasbah was very different from gambling in most places. Although side bets took place, almost everyone went through Barbar. The reasoning was simple. If you won a bet against a rival, Barbar would ensure that everyone knew of the winner, the loser, and amount won or lost. It was a matter of pride to win bets. He was more like a gossipy hairdresser than bookmaker.
Zahir walked out of the tent with a small smile on his lips. His future was set. He would win this race, cover his losses, and ridicule his biggest adversary in the process.
Hari Kazim sat in his tent nursing a splinter that had lodged itself into his toe. All day the pain throbbed and he could scarcely walk more than a few feet.
“Damn this eternal piece of wood. My house for a pair of tweezers!” he bellowed.
Barbar entered his tent, kissed him on both cheeks, and sat across from him.
“I don’t come bearing tweezers, but I bring a wager from one of your rivals.”
“Who?”
“The illustrious Zahir. He asks to bet against you specifically in this week’s race.”
“Oh Zahir, doesn’t he already owe me twenty thousand? If he were not aligned with Ali Tamzali, his left hand would already be chopped off and fed to the jackals.”
“A fine idea. But I think you’ll find this wager an interesting one,” Barbar said with a seductive grin.
“Go ahead.”
“He wishes to wage ten thousand on the boy who finished last in the last race.”
“The boy that raced our colors? I thought he was dead!”
“No, not dead, just beaten severely.”
“What are the odds?”
“Sixteen-to-one, against of course,” Barbar informed him.
“So Zahir wants to wager ten thousand on a jockey with only one race under his belt—in which he finished dead last—and was then beaten to within an inch of his life?” Hari asked.
“Precisely,” Barbar agreed.
Hari sat in stunned silence, momentarily forgetting the throbbing in his toe.
“Does Zahir have some kind of mental retardation? Is he a simpleton and just hides it well? Or has he gone completely mad?”
“Perhaps, but he seems able enough.”
“If it was anyone but Zahir, I would question the purity of such a wager. But Zahir? Only he would be stupid enough to believe in fairy tales and long shots. I’ll gladly take his wager.”
“I thought as much,” Barbar said.
In the nurse’s quarters, Tariq sat in his bed eating fresh figs and drinking lime juice. He would be allowed to skip training tomorrow thanks to Zahir, and was even allowed to keep sleeping in the hospital until the day of the race. In fact, Zahir had instructed the nurse to give him extra attention and see that he received two rations of food every day. At this rate, Tariq might actually gain weight! The race was only three days away. The plan was simple enough, but he couldn’t help but worry. Being a boy of the streets, he realized at an early age that the best laid plans rarely worked as desired.
If you want to make God laugh, tell him of your plans! Zijuan used to tell him.
The worst-case scenario Tariq could imagine was that Zahir would somehow figure out his entire plan was fake. Tariq knew he’d be found out if Zahir watched him on his camel and saw how poorly he rode. He must somehow continue to convince Zahir that he was an excellent rider.
The next three days would be the longest of his short life.
In the morning, Tariq made it down for practicing. He met Aseem and Fez in the stables.
“Well, don’t you look much better? I guess that hospital stay did you some good,” Fez laughed and greeted him.
“I agree. What are they feeding you?” Aseem asked.
“Much more than that monkey is feeding you,” Tariq smiled and hugged them both.
“Seriously, you were just supposed to be up there for a day or two. It’s been over four days. How did you manage that?” Aseem asked.
“I guess they like me. Or perhaps they feel bad for beating me so severely. They must get their money’s worth for slaves, right?”
“Good point. Well, we’ve found Fez’s calling. He’s a natural rider and really improving. Even Jawad is impressed,” Aseem said and slugged Fez on the arm. Fez, not accustomed to such praise, turned red with embarrassment.
Jawad nodded his head a little to acknowledge the compliment.
The training went horribly for Tariq. His skin was still sore and blistered from the last race. He could scarcely sit in the saddle. Tariq didn’t know if Zahir was watching, but knew he would be suspicious if he saw Tariq in this condition. He needed an alibi for his poor riding.
In the meantime, both Aseem and Fez had improved quite a bit. Fez had gotten so good he could do a full sprint and stand on his toes in the stirrups. He’d developed his racing form, keeping his back straight and parallel to the camel’s back. Little Fez had become a fine rider.
After the ride, Tariq undid the saddle as he was taught, fed the camel, and watered him down with a sponge. He was tired and his whole body still ached. As he walked back to the hospital, Tariq yearned to be able to lie down and sleep. But suddenly, somebody grabbed him by his shirt and threw him against a wall.
“I thought you said you could ride!” Zahir yelled at him.
“Who did you tell about our bet? Everyone was looking at me before practice,” Tariq quickly explained.
“What do you mean?”
“Who did you tell? It was obvious that people knew something was up. I really had to ride poorly so they wouldn’t suspect anything.”
“You rode poorly on purpose?”
“What else was I going to do? If I rode well then everyone would be in on it. It was difficult riding that poorly. Every time I wanted to go fast, I had to pull on the reins to slow down.”
Zahir let go of his shirt.
“I never thought of that.”
“I also noticed that Jawad coasts in the beginning and counts on a late sprint to win most races. I can build up a huge lead in the beginning and he won’t be able to catch me.”
“You’re sure of your plan?” Zahir asked.
“Please, do not worry. I know what is at stake. I was the best jockey in the Tangier Stakes. I will win by a wide margin. I am not worried.”
Zahir stood back and studied Tariq. To a man in his right mind, with his wits about him, Tariq’s little con would have been easy to see through. But when a man is in tremendous debt, he will believe almost anything. Zahir was quite a desperate man, willing to believe against all logic that Tariq was going to win the race.
“Okay then, get some rest tonight. The race is tomorrow. Do you want to stay in the hospital again? I can arrange that,” Zahir asked him.
“No, others are already getting suspicious. We want them to be at ease for tomorrow. I will sleep in the slaves’ quarters with the other riders.”
“Okay. I will see you tomorrow. And, one more thing, little slave—if you do not win, I will not just beat you, I will make you suffer for ten years. Pain will be your constant friend. I will make it my life’s mission to see you suffer. Do you understand?” Zahir asked, and Tariq felt a chill run through his body. He could see that Zahir was not joking. Tariq could almost feel the evil coursing through Zahir’s veins.
Tariq stared at the fat rolls around Zahir’s neck and the bushiness of his black beard and smelled the foul stench of his breath. Zahir’s cheeks were puffed up and red, his eyes black as the devil. He towered over Tariq and made him feel so small.
“I know this, sir. Again, I am the best rider in the camp. Please do not worry. I will make you a very rich man,” Tariq said in his most convincing voice.
“Very well, then,” Zahir said and walked away.
Tariq let out a huge sigh of relief. He felt his little heart beating hard in his chest. He slowly walked back to the slaves’ quarters, his legs shaky and his stomach queasy.
“It’s good to have you back,” Fez said.
“The hospital was very nice, but it got a little lonely. I even missed that stupid monkey,” Tariq replied and smiled.
“Tariq, there is talk about you and Zahir. That you two have something going on,” Aseem asked.
“Like what?”
“That he bet a lot of money that you would win.”
“That’s ridiculous, I can’t even ride.”
“I know, it doesn’t make sense—but that’s the rumor.”
“I’ll be lucky even to make it through the race tomorrow.”
“That’s what I’m worried about. You’re still not fully healed. If you finish last again, I don’t want to think about what will happen to you.”
“Listen, at tomorrow’s race, both of you stick close to me, no matter where I am.”
“Just trust me. Stay close to me, no matter where I am in the race.”
Aseem and Fez looked at each other, concern on their faces. Tariq was probably the worst rider in the field right now. He had missed so much practice and he was badly injured. If they all finished last, it would mean beatings, and perhaps death, for all of them.
“Tariq, I have not known you for very long, and I am scared to death of finishing last, and I fear we will. But if you say to stay with you, I will trust you,” Aseem said.
“Are you planning an escape?” Fez questioned.
“Just trust me, and don’t say anything to anyone. I am not saying there is an escape plan. I am merely saying to stay with me during the race. You are my friends. I would never do anything to harm you. I have my reasons for asking this of you.”
“We put our lives in your hands, my friend. I will not question you,” Aseem said.
“I will stay with you tomorrow, no matter what,” Fez said and patted Tariq on the shoulder.
“Good. Thank you for trusting me. Get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a good day,” Tariq replied, and each of them settled down to sleep, using one another as pillows.
In the harem quarters, Margaret was just drifting into sleep when she felt a knife at her throat. She opened her eyes and Fatima was on top of her.
“So, little white girl, where is your protection now? It’s just you and me now, little girl. You disrespected me in front of the entire harem. You insulted my honor. In here, that is worthy of a death sentence,” Fatima whispered.
Margaret felt paralyzed with terror. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t yell. Her arms ceased to follow her commandments. She thought of her parents and her brother and all the lovely times she had experienced in England. She thought of her young life, how short it had been, and how much more she wanted to do. She knew, at this moment, she was going to die. Looking up at Fatima, she saw darkness in her eyes—only evil and hatred. Any moment, she expected to feel the cold steel cut her throat and her life slip away as she slowly bled to death. She knew this wasn’t a dream or a fantasy. Margaret had heard it was a common occurrence—only a week before Margaret had arrived at the harem, another girl had had her throat slit.
But that didn’t happen.
Margaret looked up and saw a hand come from behind to cover Fatima’s mouth—and then a dagger slit her throat. The figure with the dagger pulled Fatima off of Margaret. Bleeding from the wound in her neck, Fatima continued to struggle for a few moments until Margaret saw her go lifeless. Margaret sat back in horror, Fatima’s blood dripping down her chest.
“Go wash yourself off,” Sanaa whispered.
“What did you do?” Margaret asked.
“I did what was necessary. She was going to kill you.”
Margaret looked at Fatima’s dead body. The life had been drained out of it, as if Fatima’s soul had simply disappeared and her body was discarded—like a crab abandons a shell.
“Do not be troubled by this, Margaret. She has not gone on to a better place. She was a very bad person. Now please wash yourself,” Sanaa said firmly.
Margaret did as she was told. It was just after midnight, and the rest of the harem slept peacefully. Not one girl awoke from the commotion. Sanaa had been so skillful that barely a sound had been made. Quickly, Margaret washed the blood from her chest and from her shirt. Her hands shook violently and she wanted to cry. But she held her emotions firm and went back to sit next to Sanaa.
“We must cover and hide the body. Fatima is very senior in the harem. There will be an inquiry into her death, and naturally, I will be the main suspect,” she explained as she wrapped Fatima’s body in a rug. Margaret helped, barely, and in her state of shock was speechless as she moved Fatima’s lifeless feet and covered them with the rug.
“You and I are in grave danger now. We are very low in the hierarchy of the harem. Either the Caid or the other girls will demand retribution.” Sanaa continued to talk as she wrapped the body completely.
“Help me move it. There is a little crawl space over there, under some stairs. She may go undiscovered for a day or two.”
“What happens to us when she is discovered?” Margaret asked.
“Likely, we will be stoned to death.”
Sanaa led Margaret to a crawl space under the stairs leading to the roof. In the very back it was completely dark, and they shoved the rug into the shadows. It could not be seen from the hallway; even by leaning down and peering into the space it was next to impossible to see.
“Margaret, tomorrow is our escape. You must do as I say. With Fatima dead, there is no way either of us can stay here. Either we escape or we die. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Margaret replied softly.
“Tomorrow, when we are shuttled off to watch the races, you and I will divert ourselves from the group.”
“How will we do that?”
“Leave that to me. Once we are away, we will need to do something dangerous. Have you ever ridden a camel?”
“No. But I am an equestrian rider back in England.”
“Hopefully you will be fine. Riding a camel is not so different. We will have one chance, and that is all,” Sanaa said, as they both returned to their sleeping quarters.
“I will do anything you ask. I just want to escape so I can return to my family.”
“Be courageous, and you will. See it in your mind and it will be so,” Sanaa said and, for the first time, seemed gentle.
Margaret tried to sleep, but her mind raced through the possibilities that lay ahead. If they were unsuccessful tomorrow, then she was a dead girl. All she knew was that any escape would be very dangerous, and Sanaa seemed very worried.