The Salt Road by Jane Johnson Read Free Book Online Page A

into her muscle, and it hurt.
    ‘And what is this in the sand, Mariata?’ He touched with a toe the symbols she had drawn there while trying to compose the poem; a word here and there to fix the images in her memory, amongst them yar , the circle crossed by a line, yagh , the closed cross, and yaz , the symbol for freedom, and for a man. He squinted at them, suspicious. ‘Have you been making sorcery?’ His grip tightened. ‘Are you casting spells?’
    Idiot. He could not read. And he all of twenty-six or seven summers! Almost an old man. If he were able to read, he would have seen Kiiar’s name and Sarid’s too – the couple to be married next month; he would have seen the ideograms for palm trees and wheat, for a bird and for water. Her wedding poem so far regaled Kiiar thus:
Her skin resembles palm trees,
A garden of wheat, a flowering acacia.
Her braids are like the wings of a bird
Her glistening hair gleams with butter:
It mirrors the sun and the moon.
Her eyes are as round as a ring in the water
When it has been riven by a stone .
    But this was lost on Rhossi. He had spent all his time learning swordplay and how to make his camel prance to show off to the girls, and none at all with reading; to him the symbols were nothing more than arcane marks; he could not perceive them as language, he could not understand them at all, and that which he did not understand made him afraid. He would know that women used symbols like these for making charms, harmless things for the most part; but not always, so she would let him think that, and serve him right for his ignorance. Besides, if he thought she made magic, he might just leave her alone.
    ‘Perhaps I am.’
    She was gratified to see how Rhossi touched his amulet to ward away the evil eye, but then with a sudden flurry he stamped compulsively on the symbols.
    Mariata cried out and made a grab for him, but he pushed her away and she fell back against the tree. ‘I’ll have no sorcerers in my tribe!’ he cried, kicking sand over the symbols, obliterating each one.
    The poem was gone. Mariata knew well enough that she would never remember it perfectly. If she could use magic, she would do so now: she would send Rhossi to the demons, summon the Kel Asuf to consume his mind. She wanted to spit at him; she wanted to wound him, but she had seen how ferociously he beat his slaves. She got to her feet and furiously brushed the dust off her robe. ‘ Your tribe?’
    ‘It will be soon enough.’ His uncle, Moussa ag Iba, had a painful growth in his gut and it was continuing to grow no matter what medicines he took for it. In the tradition of their people, the leadership would pass to the son of his sister.
    ‘Is that what you came all this way to tell me?’
    ‘No, of course not. How would I have known you were out here making spells?’
    ‘But you followed me, didn’t you?’
    Rhossi’s gaze narrowed, but he did not say anything. Instead, he caught one of her hands, gave it a twist and pressed it high between her shoulder-blades, lifting her close to him. His face was so close to hers it was a blur and his breath was hot on her face. She could almost feel the spirits flowing out of him, the fire and madness of them. Then his mouth was upon hers. She clamped her lips closed and began to fight in earnest to escape him, but all he did was laugh.
    ‘If I want to kiss you, I will kiss you. When I am amenokal all the people of the Aïr will answer to me. Women will beg me to take them as my third or fourth wife, even my slave! Do you think you are better than them?’ He held her at arm’s length, watching her. Then he leant in close, his face darkening. ‘Or perhaps you think you are better than me ?’ He could read the answer to that in her eyes. They were fearless eyes, dark and bold. And in that moment she could see that he hated her as much as he desired her. ‘You need to learn that you are not!’ He caught her by the hair, winding a hand in its black, silky