Page 9 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)

A crowd begins to gather at the sight of us and now the merchant steps forwards.

He is dressed in bright red and yellow robes, no doubt the better to be seen and he speaks at length, gesturing towards us, a beaming smile on his face as he enumerates our qualities as future slaves.

He holds up a woman’s long hair, he pats the muscles of the largest, strongest men, he exposes the breasts and thighs of the best-looking women.

He pushes the older children forwards, showing their teeth and height, their potential to grow and serve for many years to come.

I watch him and see only the Devil himself, his forked tongue calling come buy, come buy, to the watching crowd.

The bidding, when it begins, is brisk enough.

The merchant knows his business; he has spoken long enough for the crowd to have already made their choices.

The strongest, tallest men go quickly and the wails of their womenfolk as they are led away make me shudder.

The children go quickly also, their mothers screaming as they are dragged away, tears running down their terrified faces, slapped and kicked for struggling against their new owners in their efforts to run back to their mothers.

Now the women go, the most beautiful first, shaking as they reach their new masters, then the mothers, who follow their bidders without question, their bodies already broken by their hearts, shuffling as though only half living.

I wonder how many of them will even live for long, such is their pain.

Now the merchant indicates me and speaks quickly, pointing to my shaven head and laughing as he makes some bawdy joke, at which the crowd titters.

One man calls out something and the crowd laughs harder.

I wait, silent. The merchant brushes my arm, perhaps to draw attention to my pale skin, although it is more pink than white just now, burnt by the sun.

I have no doubt that he has already mentioned my provenance, suggested that I must be a virgin, since I have been a holy woman until now.

I think that only a beast of a man would even find pleasure in the idea of defiling a woman dedicated to God, even the God of another.

But now two men are bidding for me, one a sallow-skinned man who looks ill, the other a fat man in richly made robes, who quickly outbids the other.

The merchant is delighted, for all that he said I was old and ugly, he has sold me to a wealthy man for a price with which he seems pleased.

He pushes me forwards and I find myself eye to eye with the fat man.

I am almost as tall as he, despite being only of average height myself.

He grins at the sight of me, reaches out and runs his hand over my bare scalp, letting his fingers linger over it.

I stiffen at his touch, but he has already turned away.

I think for a moment that I could run while his back is turned but suddenly realise that he is not alone, he has an armed man beside him, a black skinned bodyguard who now grips my elbow and steers me through the crowd after my new owner.

I think of Catalina as she was taken from me, her face full of misery.

I doubt I will ever see her again and I dread to think what will happen to a girl as young as she is, as beautiful.

I know that she can only expect to be defiled, to be used as a plaything by a heathen Moor.

I wonder what possible sin she can have committed in her short life, to be punished like this by God.

For myself, I know that I have been punished because of my temptation in the apple orchard, for my arrogance in believing that I was above the worldly desires such as gluttony, that I could travel safely out into the world and not be ensnared by all it could offer.

I thought myself better than my sisters because I did not have my head turned by a handsome young nobleman in my care, believed I might be destined for a senior role within the convent and yet the temptation of a crisp sweet fruit on a tree turned my head, even as it did Eve in the Garden.

I know that all of my life I will hold Catalina’s face in my mind, knowing that I and I alone brought her to this place.

I should have brought her safely home to our holy house, even as I was taken there by my mother, who would have died rather than see me here now, her daughter in a land of heathen Moors, torn from her holy devotions.

I should have trodden in the footsteps of the saints.

Instead, I am now a slave.

I am put in a tiny, locked room for the night, given a flat bread and some kind of bean stew, too heavily spiced with cumin, but I eat it in great gulping mouthfuls, not having eaten hot food for many days now.

I have plentiful water, too, and I drink as much as I can hold, afraid of what the future may hold.

I have been given a small length of cloth, which I wrap around my head to protect it further from the burning sun.

I wish I had some salve, for I can tell that the delicate skin of my head has been sunburnt, but all I can do is put cold water on it and hope the wrap will allow it to heal.

Covering my scalp gives me some small comfort.

I wait for a summons, for my new owner to call for me, but nothing and no one comes, and I fall asleep, huddled on the floor, my dreams full of an endless screaming by the women and children sold today.

I do not know if I, too, scream in my sleep, but no-one would care even if I did.

I am woken before dawn, stumble my way behind the man who brought me here.

It is colder than I expected outside, and I shiver, standing in my shift and bare feet.

All around us echoes, over and over again, the strange, warbling call echoing from the rooftops.

I think it must be a call to prayer, for I see shadows here and there, kneeling in the dirt.

The bodyguard, though, does not pray. He pulls me forwards and from the darkness emerge five more men, their skins so black I had not noticed them in the half-light.

Behind them come more than twenty camels, a few loaded up, many without burdens, but instead saddled for riding.

I shrink back from the men, but the bodyguard pushes me forwards and one of the men takes my wrist. His grip is not hard, but his hand is large, and I do not doubt that if I were to fight or flee, I would not get very far.

He says something and suddenly I am in the air and then find myself sat on the back of a camel, the wide saddle spreading my legs in an obscene manner.

I try to find a better way of seating, but this saddle is not made for riding sideways and my shift is not made for riding astride.

The men watch me as I struggle and there are a few chuckles that make my skin feel colder than the grey light.

At last, something lands on me, a crumpled robe such as I have seen people here wearing, which I gratefully pull over my shift, covering my shame.

Within moments the men are also mounted.

The lead bodyguard makes a clicking sound with his mouth and the camels begin to move.

I clutch at the neck of my own mount, but have been given no reins, there is only the broad saddle made of cloth to hang on to.

The camel’s gait is slow, swaying, but it is not difficult to remain seated, even for a novice rider such as I.

I am sat higher than I would be on a horse, there can be no question of slipping to the ground and trying to escape.

My hands and feet are free, but I am bound to go wherever these men intend to take me.

I find my lips trembling as I whisper a prayer for safety.

I do not know where the man is who bought me, I know only that he owns me.

I do not know my destination; I know only that I am to make another journey.

Days and days and days pass. I do not know how many, and by the time I have thought of counting them, too many have passed to remember.

The heat here is unlike anything I have ever felt before.

It is dry, so dry that sometimes I feel as though my lungs cannot draw breath, as though all the moisture has been sucked from my mouth and nose.

I drink water when it is given to me, greedily, desperately.

It does not taste like the pure cool water of the convent, kept in stone jars.

This water tastes of goatskin, it is warm and fetid, but I drink it anyway.

I am more grateful than ever that I was given the robe I wear, which covers most of my skin, for I would have been burnt beyond repair otherwise, my skin being pale and unused to long periods of time in the sun.

My hair has begun to grow back. I touch it in wonder in the early mornings, when I re-tie my headwrap.

It is a soft downy fuzz, like a new-born baby, like a cat or dog.

I stroke it at night and wonder how soon I will be able to cut it again, shave it back to the skin as it should be.