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She protested, but water was withheld until she complied. When the vial was held to her mouth again, she drank it and a cup of water thirstily, soon succumbing to sleep again under the soothing rhythm of the animal beneath her.
For the next three days and nights—leastways, that’s how long Drifa thought it was—she was either riding on a camel’s back, sleeping in a tent, or relieving herself in the bushes, her limp body propped ignominiously between two laughing guards since she was so weak with the drugs.
Finally, on the morning following her third night away from Miklagard, Drifa was conscious, though bone-weary, as they approached what appeared to be a small city of colorful tents.
She turned her head to ask Hakeem, whose camel she was on now, “Where am I?”
“The desert outpost of your husband-to-be, Prince Bahir ad-Dawlah.”
“What? I am not betrothed to anyone.”
“Yes, you are, Princess Drifa.”
“I gave no consent to a betrothal.”
“A woman’s consent is not necessary in this land. Only that of a father or guardian, and your uncle, King Asbar, definitely approves.”
“I don’t understand.”
“In time, in time.”
She noticed that Hakeem spoke to her with respect now, something that had been missing back at Ianthe’s quarters or during this long journey. He led her gently, a hand under her elbow, into one of the smaller tents, where he told a slave girl to prepare bath water and a meal for the princess. He never distinguished what princess he meant. She hoped Norse.
She was wrong.
She bathed and dressed in clean clothing ... a demure Arab gown with face veil to be worn when out in public over a more revealing silk gown. Then she was escorted through the city of tents to the biggest of all, Prince ad-Dawlah’s home away from home. A flag with a rampant sword dripping blood against a black field edged in red hung atop its center pole, emblematic of the “Sword of the State,” she assumed. There was no breeze moving the flag in the oppressively hot desert heat.
Just then a muezzin burst forth with the azan, a droning call to prayer. One after another, she saw men drop to their knees and bow their heads to the ground. Meanwhile, others picked up the azan so that it was like a haunting echo of rising crescendo all around her. Hakeem had told her earlier that the call went out to the faithful five times a day. When she’d asked if women participated, too, he’d been horrified.
The interior of the desert prince’s tent was surprisingly luxurious. Persian carpets on the ground. Incense burners in the four corners. Big, fluffy pillows scattered about. A low table with solid gold platters holding figs, dates stuffed with walnuts, and flaky honey cakes.
Overseeing the activities of various girls working about the tent was an elderly woman with a hawk nose and piercing black eyes, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Although she wore no face veil, her gray hair was covered with a sort of head rail of pale blue, matching her plain gown of lightweight material in deference to the heat but running to her wrists and ankles. Although it was hard to tell under the voluminous gown she wore, the lady appeared to be as wide as she was tall, which was not very. On her calloused feet were sandals. Her fat, gnarled hands were petting a large gold and black cat on a leash. A leopard, for the love of Frigg!
Drifa froze in place, but Hakeem whispered in her ear, “Not to worry. The animal has no teeth, and it has been castrated and declawed.”
A eunuch leopard. Rather than being relieved, Drifa was horrified that such a beautiful, wild animal should be so treated. ’Twas like turning a Norseman into a scullery maid. Luckily, her face veil was still in place, and her expression was hidden.
The woman eyed her with a sneer, then said something to Hakeem in a rapid, biting flow of Arab, too quick for Drifa to understand.
“Queen Latifah would like you to remove your veil and outer gown.”
Drifa doubted that such a request had been made. At least not so politely.
But it was not necessary for her to react because with a great flurry of activity outside the tent, a man soon entered, gave her a passing glance, then went to the old lady, who was smiling of a sudden. The leopard growled its displeasure, and Drifa had a suspicion that the man might have been the one to emasculate the cat. The prince leaned down and kissed the woman on both cheeks. “Mother, how bide you?” he asked warmly.
“Pains here, pains there, my son,” she said, shrugging. “How went the horse breaking?”
The man smiled. “Fifteen wild stallions now ready for market.”
“My talented son!” The woman nigh beamed with pride.
They were speaking in Arabic, of course, which Drifa was able to understand now that the words weren’t all jammed together. For some reason, she’d let no one know of her linguistic abilities thus far. Instinctively she sensed it was the wise thing to do.
“I told Hakeem to take the woman’s abayah off but he is slow to obey,” the old lady whined. “Too long in the Christian lands, I think.”
Hakeem gasped, especially when the man, whom by now Drifa assumed was Prince ad-Dawlah, walked up and slapped Hakeem across the face. “Do you disobey my revered mother?”
“No, master,” Hakeem said, bowing his head. Then to her, in Greek, ad-Dawlah said, “Take off your veil and abayah. At once.”
