Page 84 of The King’s Man (Guardians of the Crown #2)

They reserve their sweet words for certain women who make it their business to attend all such gatherings, whose faces are pretty and whose clothes hint at the goods for sale underneath the shining threads and tinkling bangles.

As a young child I thought their lives delightful, for they wore pretty clothes and ate sweet foods all day and laughed a great deal.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve heard comments, here and there, from my brothers and the traders I frequent, and now I am all too aware of what they trade in.

The women toss their long dark hair and call out in many different tongues, for they have learnt that a few words in a man’s own language can tempt him to take a second look as he walks by, especially if his wife is far away and he is homesick.

The women sit in comfort in highly decorated open-sided tents on soft cushions and play with their jewellery, gifts from many men.

They drink fresh water and suck on oranges in the heat of the day.

They offer honeyed drinks, dried fruits and promises of other sweet things to the men who stray a little too close to their warm rugs and the soft lanterns that will be lit when night comes.

“Come, my handsome friend,” they call out as I pass. “Will you not take some – ah – refreshment with me?” and they giggle.

I make a mock bow in their direction and try to keep my voice low. “Ah, ladies, if only I could,” I call back. “But I must trade or go hungry.”

“Surely you are hungry for more than food?” they call.

I laugh and walk on.

The older merchants are known friends by now and often sit with the women during the day, telling lewd jokes, relishing the shrieks of laughter as the younger traders relish the shrieks of feigned delight in closed tents a little way off.

***

This is my world, and I swagger through it in my man’s robes, my heart light.

My relief at being reprieved and able to stay on the trading routes makes me see this life anew.

My eyes, the only part of my face visible, dart in all directions, taking in every colour, shape and size.

I stop sometimes; a quick rub of my fingers establishing quality without a word.

The old traders know me and nod without trying to woo me with sweet words.

They know their quality will bring me back later when there is serious bargaining to be done.

The newer ones offer teas, dates, sweet cakes dripping with honey, a soft seat in the shade, a cool drink of water, the finest goods in the souk – in the world, even!

To these my quickly disappearing soles are an instant dismissal.

Oh, how I love these moments! Surrounded by the world and all it has to offer, my every sense assailed with wonders.

Knowing my own skills, the respect I command for my knowledge and my skills in bargaining, knowing that somewhere here are all the marvellous things that will soon be hoisted onto our camels.

***

My first stop is the slave souk. I need a new slave; a strong man, for one of our slaves has grown old and weak.

He carries out the smaller tasks now, but he is no longer fit for the heavier work.

I wait at the back of the crowd while the slave trader calls his wares.

We are old friends, and he knows that I will spot quality for myself, so he addresses the rest of his audience.

“A little boy here – you may think him small, but I assure you he is strong already and can only grow stronger. My wisest clients know it is worth buying them young!”

The boy can hardly be more than ten, although his scrawny body makes me wonder if he is even younger. He stands still and miserable in the heat, till someone pokes him and nods grudgingly at a price that changes hands.

Spices float through the air from the cooking fires where fat spits, sizzles and drips.

I am hungry. The slaves for sale stand, heads down in the sun, hoping to be sold quickly to someone who will find it in their heart to offer them water and some shade.

Their teeth are examined, their eyelids pulled down and their arms squeezed.

The tall and broad ones go quickly; the thinner or scrawnier ones must wait longer in the heat, along with the ill-favoured women who do not quickly catch someone’s eye.

Sometimes one faints, only to be slapped back to their feet by an irate merchant.

I am impatient at waiting while the slight men and the unprepossessing women are offered for sale.

But I have been promised that there is one worth waiting for.

We need a strong male slave, and his time has finally come.

“You will not see a finer man! From the Dark Kingdom, the land of gold! See his height and his shoulders. He can carry as much as a camel and his legs are like those of a fine racing stallion – see their elegance, ladies!” This last is directed towards two women passing by.

They take a startled second look and then hurry on, giggling.

I lean against a scrap of a tree, which gives me a little shade, to watch.

The slave is very tall; he would tower over me if we were to stand side by side.

He is wearing only a loincloth, and I look over his body, assessing it for strength and endurance while shaking my head at the foolishness of putting any man in this sun with no protection, whatever his colour.

A few customers prod at him, one even punches him in the stomach to assess either his peaceable nature or the strength of his muscles, but he stays silent and unmoving, head up in the hot sun.

He will faint for sure, however big and strong he is.

Often the big ones go down first. The trader is a fool to risk damaging his goods like that.

A fainting slave can forget being sold for the day; it makes them seem weak and prone to illness, no matter their height and breadth.

The trader has almost finished the bidding. A good price is being offered for the man, but I make a small gesture, and the trader notes it at once.

“Come, come, step forward. That is your new master, and you had better behave for he is one of my best customers. Move!”

The slave slowly steps down from the raised platform and makes his way to me. I nod to him and turn away, expecting him to follow. After a few steps I realise he has not done so and turn back. The slave is standing looking back at the platform, where the trader has brought on a woman.

“This one is fit for a caliph’s harem! A joy, a beauty.

See how smooth her skin is, how dark like the precious woods of her land.

Her face is very fine – lift your face up, girl!

– see! Now, what man would not wish to have such a face by his side in the morning?

And such breasts!” He pulls at her simple robe, exposing a breast and tweaks her nipple, while eyeing up his audience to spot interest. If he can make a buyer desire the woman as a companion for his bed, he will get a better price for her than as a mere slave for domestic chores. “You, sir?”

The bidding starts but my eyes are drawn to my new acquisition.

He is looking at the slave girl with an expression of abject misery and she is looking back at him instead of at her bidders, as the trader points out sharply, jerking her roughly back to face towards the crowd.

Slow, silent tears fall down her face and although she obediently faces the bidders, her eyes slide sideways to catch a last glimpse of the man I have just bought.

I have no need for unnecessary slaves. Women especially are of less use to us than the men, for they cannot carry such heavy loads.

I click my fingers at the slave to get his attention and prepare to tell him sharply to come along with me.

But there is something about the woman’s silence, about the tears that never stop falling.

I hesitate and then reluctantly raise a hand. The trader blinks at me, puzzled.

“The pretty slave is sold to the gentleman, it seems,” he says.

There are some protests, but he waves them away and pushes the woman towards me.

She stumbles down the steps, almost shaking with relief.

She tries a few words of gratitude, although she struggles with our language.

I wave her away. It must be the heat, I cannot imagine what else it could be, nor why, in a fit of sunstroke, I have seen fit to buy a female slave only because of a few tears.

But it is too late now, the trader will not take her back.

“Follow,” I say. I turn away from them and make my way back to our tent, hardly caring whether they are following me or not.

I curse under my breath. What was I thinking, to buy a female slave?

It is exactly the sort of foolish decision that will have my father sending me home, camel racing or no camel racing.

Back at the tents of our caravan I wave them towards the water jar and they both drink gratefully and then turn to face me.

I take a seat and drink from a water cup. I look them over and then speak slowly, hoping they will understand. “Names?”

This much at least they know.

“Ekon.” This from the man, who has a soft voice for such a large frame.

I look at the woman. She is nothing special; I hope she will be useful, but she is hardly worth what I paid for her. I have to lean forward as she all but whispers her name.

“Adeola.”

I nod, turning the names over in my mind. Slaves often come from the Dark Kingdom, very far away in the south. Still, the names sit strangely on our tongues.

“You will be part of our caravan. We are traders. We have other slaves. Some of them come from your own country. You can speak together. Join them now.” I point towards two of our older slaves who have been with us for many years and have been watching with great curiosity while their hands keep moving, churning milk to make butter, shaking the goatskin bags back and forth to a smooth rhythm.