Call of the Trumpet by Helen A. Rosburg’s Read Free Book Online Page A

of a tiled bathing pool. She was immediately set upon by the black-robed woman, who attempted to strip away the tatters of the black muslin gown. With a cry, Cecile shoved her away. Abdullah intervened at once.
    The giant grabbed a fistful of cloth and, with a single yank, tore the flimsy fabric from Cecile’s body. Seconds later her undergarments were gone, as well, and she stood naked, and humiliated, by the pool. Thank God, Cecile thought, she had had the presence of mind to secret the velvet pouch beneath a pile of sleeping cushions. It was the last coherent thought she had time for.
    Without a single glance at the slender, high-breasted form before him, Abdullah grabbed Cecile in his arms. Unencumbered by clothing, she struggled violently, wildly thrashing, flailing, and kicking. The efforts were useless. With a grunt, Abdullah lifted Cecile by her wrists and dropped her unceremoniously into the warm water of the pool.
    After momentarily submerging, Cecile surfaced, gasping and sputtering. There was time, however, to do no more than register the embarrassment of her situation. With a mighty splash, heedless of his trousers, Abdullah jumped in behind her.
    There was nothing to be done, no defense. Cecile was bathed, thoroughly, scrubbed from head to foot by the implacable and mountainous Abdullah. Furious, Cecile did not cease her struggles, but she was no match for her jailor. Finally, when Abdullah had dunked Cecile to rinse an aromatic soap from the masses of her tangled black hair, he picked her up and once more deposited her by the side of the pool like a wet puppy.
    The woman descended upon her. While Abdullah restrained Cecile, the servant anointed her body with perfumed oils, then combed the tangles from her hair. Dressing her proved to be slightly more difficult, but Abdullah prevailed in the end. Harem pants of pale, gauzy amber, nearly transparent, were pulled over her long, slender legs, and a short, sleeveless jacket of matching hue was applied to Cecile’s upper torso. There were no buttons, and the edges gaped, revealing all but the darkly pointed tips of her breasts. At the last, a cheap, shiny necklace of fake golden coins was fastened about Cecile’s neck. Abdullah finally released her, and the woman stepped back to admire her handiwork.
    It was the moment Cecile had been waiting for. Caring nothing for her own flesh, she grasped the necklace, tore it from her throat, and threw it on the carpeted floor. No one made a move.
    “Yes, I believe she is right,” the woman said at length. “Her beauty is stunning as it is. It needs no enhancement. We will go now.”
    Without another word, Abdullah and the woman departed, leaving Cecile trembling with anger and humiliation. She longed to rip the clothes, like the necklace, from her body, but was too afraid they would merely leave her naked to face … whatever it was she had to face. With a cry of impotent fury, Cecile sank to her knees on the perfumed carpet.
    Outside, the palm trees rustled softly in an evening breeze, the night birds began their song to the falling dusk, and the first of Muhammad’s guests arrived at his gate.

Chapter
5
    N IGHT SWIFTLY FOLLOWED THE SOFT, FILMY VEIL of the North African dusk. A
muzzein
sang his call to evening prayer, the last of the day, and the stalls in the
suk
emptied at last. Dust hung thick in the air, dissipating slowly in the welcome breeze from the desert. In his luxurious, newly whitewashed home, Muhammad bustled about, making sure all was in order. When the first of his guests arrived, he brushed aside his servant and moved quickly to the door.
    The room filled rapidly. The dealer’s reputation was one of the finest. Men of rank and wealth greeted each other politely as they reclined comfortably on the scattered cushions. Companionable conversations sprang up, occasional ripples of laughter marking someone’s wit, a well-placed word.
    Muhammad moved among them, nodding and smiling. Then he clapped his