What the Desert Wind Knows

I had had enough time to understand what would happen to me. The journey from Najib’s oasis to this camp took four days. Normally.

On the third day the storm caught us. It came from the south, as they tended to—at first only a darkening on the horizon, a hum in the air that the animals heard before the people felt it. The camels grew restless. Daud, the caravan leader, shouted his orders, and the men began securing the baskets and sacks of goods. Us, they tied to the loads.

I knew this. With slaves, no one cared whether they were protected—they were fastened down so they wouldn’t disappear. A camel cost more than I did.

The storm came with a force I had learned to respect in my years in the desert. Sand in my eyes, in my nose, between my teeth. I had quickly grasped that I had to pull my head into the cloth, wait, and breathe in short draws without thinking. As if thinking might use up air.

I asked the wind about Nikolai. Perhaps it was foolish, in the middle of a storm. But sometimes its answers were clearer when everything else was too loud. The wind did not answer in words — it never did — but it turned briefly, came from the north instead of the south, and to me that was the answer.

We lost a day. And then another, because a camel went lame and Daud refused to leave it behind.

While my feet grew heavy and I had to keep moving them anyway, my head went empty. Thoughts came and went.

Again and again Najib ibn Yassir surfaced in them, a desert raider who fell on merchants‘ caravans and took whatever he wanted. That was how I had come to him. He had raided the man whose property I was, and in the end I had the choice of dying or serving him as a slave. My life might mean little to others and be interchangeable, but to me it was precious.

Najib did not beat me when there was no reason. What I was given to eat was edible. There was water every day. When he broke a promise, he did it with a smile that said: You know how things work here. And I knew. That just didn’t make it better.

He had given me to his horse master, who had taught me what I needed to know. I don’t know whether the man liked me. He was quick with the stick and slow with praise. But he was fair in his way, and under him I had learned that usefulness protected. A slave who could do something others could not was not lightly killed, sold or given away.

Until the business with Ilann happened.

Najib had promised to give me my freedom if the warrior’s wife and his twins survived the birth for which they had summoned me, and that I would die if they did not come through alive. She had been in labor for an eternity, and the midwife no longer knew how to help her.

I knew nothing about births. A few months earlier I had helped a mare bring her foal into the world by cutting it out of her belly. Both had survived. But a woman could not be compared to a horse. That changed nothing about Najib’s decision. I was only the slave and had a task to fulfill — no matter how impossible.

Ilann’s sons lived after the birth. His wife died a few hours later. Instead of killing me or granting me my freedom, I became the gift. A wedding gift for Sheikh Khalid ibn Adul-Nasser al-Faraji, along with six other slaves.

That was Najib. Not an unjust master, but a man who always calculated.

I wasn’t angry about it. Being sold or given away was part of my life. Anger was a waste of strength that I needed for more useful things.

In the heat of the desert, on tired legs, I saw Nikolai and Georgiy before me. I had been separated from my brothers for so many years that it had become hard to call up their faces. On the numb march I asked whether they were still alive. The wind did not answer, but for a moment it carried no sand.

Two days later than planned, we arrived, after the slaughter of Eid al-Adha, the Feast of Sacrifice, was already over. I smelled the blood, the fire and the fat of freshly roasted meat. The wedding was planned for the next day. For that — and for trading — the caravan had been loaded.

Camels carried silk and spices, copper vessels and dried fruit. I carried nothing but the coarse linen shirt on my back, the stained trousers on my legs and the iron collar around my neck. That, and the knowledge that I was a gift.

The sheikh’s camp was larger than Najib’s oasis, more sprawling than anything I had been in during the past years. The tents stood in concentric circles around the main tent, whose canvas was embroidered with gold thread and shimmered in the afternoon light like a second sun. People were moving everywhere — no longer with the focused bustle of the festival itself, but with the sated, exhausted movement that follows one. The prayers had been said. The men ate and talked too loudly, the children ran between the adults‘ legs, and somewhere someone was playing music that no longer sounded festive but simply went on.

By the fire pits lay bone scraps that the dogs hadn’t found.

I watched everything in silence as I stood in the row of slaves. Our collars were chained to one another so that none of us would accidentally disappear along the way. Hamid, a dark-skinned, powerful man from Egypt who stood behind me, nudged me and pointed at a group of women carrying heavy bowls. „With a little luck they’ll leave us something,“ he murmured. I barely reacted. We ate what we were given, and since it was tradition at Eid al-Adha, we would probably get some meat. I didn’t want to look forward to it.

Daud had the chains removed. One of his men pressed a bucket into my hand and pointed at the caravan’s horses while sending Hamid to the camels. The Egyptian dreamed of tasty meals, when after the strenuous journey we didn’t even get water. I pushed my thirst aside and tended the animals first. I liked being with them. Them, I understood.

I spent the hours until evening there. The bridegroom’s horses were well cared for and well fed, with the patient gaze of animals that know they are needed. A little apart, in the shade, stood a stallion, dark as dried blood, dancing restlessly. His nostrils were wide, his tail lashing. After I had given the other animals water, I set down the bucket and stepped slowly toward him, hands open, movements small and careful. He snorted. I stopped. We spent a while like that, together, until he stopped rolling his eyes.

„You talk to horses.“

I turned slowly, the way one does with skittish animals. Two women stood not five paces away. One was older, broad in the shoulders, with a watchful gaze. A servant or confidante who took her work seriously. She had her hands folded in front of her belly and regarded me from behind a plain veil with the cool attentiveness of someone weighing dangers.

The other’s face — she was younger than I was — was hidden behind a finer veil that hinted more than it concealed: high cheekbones and dark eyes that studied me without shyness. Her gown was rich, the cloth around her head set with small golden plates that chimed softly when she moved. Next to the servant she seemed slighter, almost fragile. But her bearing was that of a woman who knows she is being watched and does not let it trouble her.

„I don’t talk to them, my lady,“ I answered in broken Arabic. After all these years I understood the language of the land well, but I spoke too little for my tongue to be practiced in its sounds. Slaves usually had nothing to say. „I listen.“

The servant drew her brows together. The young woman, on the other hand, tilted her head slightly to one side. „And what does he say?“

„He is afraid.“ I turned back to the stallion. „Too much people. Too much noise.“

A short silence fell. Behind us the wind carried music over — strings and a drum, far away and impatient.

„That,“ the young woman said quietly, „I understand.“

I did not answer. The servant cleared her throat and laid a hand on her mistress’s arm. A signal to leave. She hesitated for the space of a breath — long enough that I noticed — then turned away. The golden plates on her cloth chimed softly as she went.

I watched them until the tent lanes swallowed them, and turned back to the stallion. He had grown calmer.

They brought us to a row of tents at the edge of the camp. Simple canvases stretched over wooden frames, with mats on the floor. The leftovers of Eid al-Adha stood ready — water, flatbread, meat and pickled fruit. I had eaten worse.

Hamid had long been sitting there when I was sent in. He was leaning with his back against one of the posts, eating without looking up. When I sat down beside him, he silently pushed a portion toward me. We ate in silence. We were used to that.

„Good stallion,“ Hamid broke the silence.

„Yes,“ I replied.

He nodded. Outside, the camp was still alive — voices, the neighing of a horse, muffled music from the direction of the main tent, where preparations were under way. Tomorrow would be the wedding.

„Did you see him?“ Hamid asked.

I assumed he meant the sheikh and shook my head. „Not yet.“

„I saw him.“ Hamid was silent for a moment. „He’s young.“

„Is that good or bad?“

„Depends,“ said the Egyptian. „Young men want to prove something. Some prove it in the right places. Some don’t.“

Najib came to my mind, who had also been young when I came to him, and then his horse master, who had been older and yet quicker with the stick than most. Age said little.

„What do you expect?“ Hamid asked.

I thought about it. „Work,“ I answered then. „The usual.“

„Yes.“ He leaned his head against the post. „The usual.“ A pause. „You’ll be with the horses.“

„Probably.“

„Good,“ he grinned. „Then you’re not with the camels.“ I looked at him. It didn’t sound like a joke. More like a sober assessment of the situation.

„Afraid?“ Hamid asked after a while.

After a brief moment of thought I answered: „No.“

He looked at me sideways. „Liar.“

I said nothing. Neither did he. His statement needed no answer. That was the pleasant thing about Hamid: he expected little and rarely commented on what he got.

At some point we both fell asleep, regardless of the life around us.

I had witnessed the wedding ceremony only from afar. From the horse yard I watched the men stream into the main tent, heard the women’s singing from another tent, and smelled the incense that drifted over the oasis in thick clouds. Slaves had to wait outside, as Daud explained to us. That did not surprise me.

After the sun had fully set and the torches bathed the camp in orange light, they fetched us in. Not all of us — only the gifts. There were seven of us. A Nubian with broad shoulders and a stoic look in his eyes. Two young men from the south whom I took for brothers. A middle-aged woman with the humble gaze of long habit. A small, wiry fellow from the east. Hamid from Egypt and I, the tall Russian, who stood out with my blond hair. We stood apart while the celebration was in full swing.

The main tent was large enough to hold a hundred people. I had the impression that there were more inside. The floor was laid with carpets, cushions heaped around low tables on which dishes stood. Most of them I did not know. Dozens of men sat drinking, laughing and arguing at the volume of people who believe themselves safe. Musicians played in a corner. Someone sang something that made the crowd laugh.

On the raised dais sat the bridegroom and his bride. Sheikh Khalid ibn Adul-Nasser al-Faraji. In his companion I recognized the young woman who had spoken to me by the horses the evening before.

At their feet the gifts were being set out. One merchant after another stepped forward and had his presents displayed. Two white camels with braided reins that took the light of the torches into themselves. A dozen horses, each presented individually, led on long lines by proud men. Chests were opened, filled with glittering jewelry. Baskets of spices, whose scents cut through even the incense — saffron, cardamom, and something sharp that I could not name. Vessels of oil. Bound scrolls, which the bridegroom took in his hands with real interest. Rare birds in cages of woven reed. We were presented last.

Daud spoke. He recited Najib’s greetings and congratulations in the practiced voice of a man who had given such speeches often, and described each of us in a few words.

„A warrior from Nubia, fearless and strong, tested in battle, reliable as guard and bodyguard,“ Daud introduced the first gift, and then pointed to the next two. „Two brothers, experienced riders and animal keepers, raised with camels and horses, enduring on long journeys.“

He drew the woman forward and found a few words about her: „An experienced housekeeper, skilled in kitchen and weaving, quiet and reliable, accustomed to serving in large households.“

He stepped up to the small man in front of Hamid and me. „A craftsman from the east, skilled in leather and metalwork, quick and enduring, useful on journeys and in camp.“

Next he pointed to Hamid and praised him: „A man versed in the desert and in camels, experienced on long caravan routes, strong and enduring, indispensable on journeys.“

Daud laid his hand on my arm and pushed me forward as he spoke: „A Russian from the far north, rare in our lands — strong as a stallion, skilled with animals, obedient and enduring. His hands have already saved the lives of horses—and of newborns.“ He stepped back behind Hamid and me. I could hear in his voice that he was bowing.

„They are all yours, my lord.“

When Daud fell silent, I raised my eyes. The sheikh was looking at me. He was young for this title, as Hamid had said. His face was narrow and dark, his beard short, his brown eyes even in a way in which I recognized myself. A man who observes before he speaks. The other gifts he had received with polite attention. On me his gaze paused, and I wondered what he saw in me.

His bride, the young woman who had spoken to me by the horses, wore a noble wedding gown. Her veil was heavier and artfully woven with silver thread. Her hands rested in her lap.

The sheikh’s voice was measured and yet carried through the whole tent. „Convey my thanks to Najib ibn Yassir. His generosity does him honor.“

Daud bowed and we slaves knelt.

When I stood upright again, the bridegroom’s gaze still rested on me; not in the manner of a buyer appraising his goods. Rather like that of a man who is unexpectedly asked a question to which he has no answer. I turned away and followed the others out.