Secret of the Sands by Sara Sheridan Read Free Book Online Page B

so tall and strong. She pulls her shoulders back and thinks that at least the top of her head will clear the height of their chests and perhaps make it as far as their shoulders.
    My name is Zena, she intones to herself and, with a pinch of sadness, she comes to understand that her name is all she has left now as she steps into the heat and the light of the market.
    At the auction stand there is a pause so that prospective customers can peruse the goods. Beneath a tatty canopy men peer out of the crowd, strange faces in a strange town with leering, needy expressions, hungry to possess others. Zena lowers her head, but even so she is aware she is arousing interest. A snatch of conversation, a lewd remark. It makes her skin prickle. Under the watchful gaze of the guards, two men prod her in the chest and discuss matters to which her Arabic vocabulary does not extend. She has been protected from all this, she realises. She had no idea of the cruelty and the humiliation that was possible. As the men cackle with laughter she tries not to look at them. She tries not to cry.
    ‘Are you a virgin?’ one asks. Baakira?
    She has heard the word once before when her grandmother refused to allow a neighbouring merchant to take Zena as his wife. Now she pretends not to understand. The man redirects the question to the guard.
    ‘That one can be whatever you want her to be,’ the man replies. ‘She is beautiful.’ He makes the word sound as if it is an insult.
    A boy next to her is ordered to open his mouth and another man, who has emerged from the throng, holds the tongue down with a stick so he can check the child’s teeth. If there was anything in the boy’s stomach he would vomit, but as it is he only makes a dry sound as if he is being strangled. His eyes dart in distress, but no one does anything. As the man moves towards Zena, she keeps her gaze averted. He pulls her head back and stares into her face but he does not use his stick to probe her mouth. He lingers though and she can feel his breath on her skin. Then, slowly, he lets go and walks carefully right around her.
    Not him. Zena has never prayed. It was not her grand-mother’s custom. However, the phrase runs through her head again and again, as if she is pleading with some greater being. Not him.
    A bell is rung though it can hardly be heard over the throng of voices. The man instantly retreats into the crowd. Zena raises her eyes just long enough to see that there are several finely dressed Arabs now turning away, who have looked but not come forward. Perhaps one of those. It occurs to Zena that her grandmother has endowed her with a sense of optimism. Even here and now, she feels optimistic. I will be all right, she tells herself, though she is batting off a cold shadow that is creeping from behind.
    ‘Gentlemen,’ the auctioneer begins. ‘Today, fresh from Abyssinia, we have a selection of the finest. The absolute finest!’
    A scrawny girl is pushed forward into the sun beside the auctioneer’s podium. Her dress is badly torn, exposing the top of her legs. Her shoulders are slumped and one of the guards pokes her to make her stand up straight.
    ‘And for this little one!’ the auctioneer tries to whip up the crowd. ‘She’ll brush up well enough. A price beyond rubies perhaps?’
    Zena heaves in a breath, only glad that all eyes are now on the auctioneer and that momentarily she is not the focus of attention.
    ‘What am I bid? Twenty, sir? No, surely not? Come now. She is a little thin perhaps but is there not more? I beseech you. Ah, thirty. Thank you . . .’
    And the auction has begun.

Chapter Eleven
    Lieutenant James Raymond Wellsted has not taken dinner at the captain’s table, but instead he remains on deck as the shimmering, marmalade sun disappears in a blaze into the vivid, blue sea and the stars rise. He has some dates and tack in his pocket and that will do him fine. The night sky in Arabia is breathtaking and little enough in Wellsted’s life