But there was no relief. Not from the heat, not from the sun. Not from her. Especially not from her. He could not expel her from his mind. She had invaded it utterly. She had sent in her legions and pillaged and plundered and now she hovered there, heedless of the wreckage.
The Dakhla Oasis was far behind them now, and they were well on their way across the Big Sandy. He had tried to explain to her that he should lead the horse, that her body was not accustomed to treading across dunes. But there was no reasoning with her. He sat powerless atop the horse, watching her wither as she marched furiously beneath the hot sun—bent, it seemed, on her own destruction.
It was his fault. When he had returned from the House of Women that afternoon she had changed. The curious woman who had stolen glances at his body, who’d eaten and drunk heartily, who had watched the desert with wonder in her eyes, was gone. In her place was a lifeless husk. The water bag had lain at her side, untouched. Her body had been limp. Her gold-flecked eyes had lost their sparkle, and he’d been able to see the stains of the tears that had flowed upon her cheeks. He’d felt his heart pinch as he had observed the strip of cloth that he had tied about her mouth.
By all creation, what had he been thinking?
He hadn’t been thinking, in fact.
After she had repeated her command, Take it, all his abilities for reason and observation had dissolved. There had been no thinking, only reacting, as his whole body had contracted with the pain of rejection. In one moment he had been kissing her with a thirst that he had never known; in the next she had snatched away her love and left him drowning.
And he deserved it. He had given her no alternative. He planned to sell her—plain and simple. He had become the kind of man he loathed. A man so consumed with the accumulation of wealth that he would sacrifice the life of another for his own gain. In a sense, he was no different from Chief Bandir. And the woman, wily though she was, could not escape him. She’d had nowhere to go, nowhere to run, no choice but to fight back.
It was the form of her attack that had been so unexpected. Seduction. Soft and sweet. He had never been so completely taken in by a woman. Even now, two days later, he could not concentrate on the journey ahead. Curse his boat and his foolish plans. They had all seemed so meaningless when she had pressed her naked body against his.
But she had seduced him out of spite, not desire. Though her warm body had opened to his, though he had felt her breath quicken at his touch, she had apparently not wanted him after all. And why should she? He meant to trade her. She was justified in her anger. How had he not seen it before? Every new day that he kept her in captivity he wronged her. She’d had no choice but to strike back. He just had not foreseen that it would sting this badly.
As if a House of Women could even begin to ease the pain she had inflicted. The working woman who had attended him had donned an elegant Khemetian wig. She had even danced about the tiny room for him, her large breasts bouncing. Tahar had waited for his lust to rise. He had waited for that inevitable moment when he would grab the woman, pull her atop him and take what he had paid her to give. The moment had not come.
Finally the working woman had taken him in her mouth. He’d felt himself grow large with the sensation. He’d closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. But Hathor had invaded his fantasies, too. Hathor the Beautiful. Hathor the Strong. Hathor the Imposter.
What was her true name? He yearned to know for certain. But more than that he yearned for her to tell it to him. And he wanted to run his fingers through her short, dark hair. He wanted to touch her petulant lips and look into her enigmatic eyes and tell her how much he wanted her.
But even in his fantasies she had confronted him. She had glared at him with anger and accusation. How could he do it? How could he sell her into marriage? The Goddess of Love and Abundance was not meant to be sold. She was meant to be revered. Honoured. Loved.
He had pulled himself from the working woman’s grasp. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘It is not your fault.’
The woman had stared up at him, confused.
‘You see...’ Tahar had fumbled. ‘I have been enchanted by a goddess.’
The woman had looked at him curiously, but had seemed to understand. ‘Go to her, then,’ she’d said, accepting his bag of grain. ‘Go to her and never look back.’
But when he returned to the oasis, Hathor had refused to look at him. And when he untied her, she had said nothing. She had simply stood and began to walk toward the Big Sandy. She remained ahead of him now as they trudged across the grim procession of dunes. There was no sanctuary, no safe harbour from the waves of emptiness that filled his vision and buffeted his heart. The afternoon wind pelted his face with sand and the sun bored into his soul.
‘Hathor...’ he said, but the utterance was more like a prayer, for he knew that she would not answer to it. She had shut him out of her world.
Forgive me.
She led them relentlessly across the dunes, refusing to stop or to drink. Even in the relative cool of the night before she had not taken a moment of rest. She was steady in her purpose, as if some inner fire were fuelling her beyond what any woman could possibly endure.
Take control, you fool. Take the reins.
But how could he? He knew her well enough to know she would certainly put up a fight. Even if he managed to get her seated upon the horse she would somehow make him pay. He had wronged her—he understood that now—but she gave him no way to repent.
Now began the test. To traverse the Big Sandy in the middle of akhet would be no small feat, even for the most experienced desert traveller. There was nowhere to take shelter—no measure of shade upon the endless, undulating dunes. Even with an infinite supply of water, any traveller would eventually become exhausted by the heat. The sun always won. It would always win. The only way to survive the journey across the Big Sandy was to do it quickly.
They carried only enough water for a three-night journey. Any more water would weigh them down and hinder their progress. Any less and they would grow mad with thirst. By allowing her to lead the horse, he had already made their three-night journey become three nights and half. They would surely run short of water before the next oasis. Then the heat would overtake their minds. They would begin to hallucinate.
When that happened, they were as good as dead.
‘Hathor!’ he yelled.
She stumbled forward, coughing, and he watched in horror as her strong, beautiful figure collapsed upon the sand.