The Slave Market of Mucar Read online

  Then the dunes nearest them started to blur and dissolve as the skirts of the wind caught them, and long streamers of sand boiled off the ridges like smoke. The Arab had already put his head into his burnous.

  Now Saldan reached in his shirt pocket and came out with the heavy black mask he always wore within the walls of the desert city of Mucar. He put it on. Already, grains of grit were flying about, stinging the eyes.

  He took a large red-and-white handkerchief from the pocket of his riding breeches and tied that round the lower part of his face.

  He had always meant to bring sand goggles but somehow, when the time came, they were the one item which seemed to get left behind, He could certainly use them now. He closed his eyes momentarily as the strength of the wind increased, blowing the stinging particles off the ridge edges with knifelike force. The Arab seemed impervious to the bombardment; he rode as though glued to the horse's back, his eyes steadily fixed ahead as though the flying sand were rose petals.

  Saldan felt that he would never understand the Arab mind, however long he spent in their cursed country.

  Masara was bad enough, but at least one did enjoy a better climate and there was always the sea. The desert was something else. He had always abominated it and long experience with its ways and its people had only served to confirm his first impression.

  Saldan dismissed these and other thoughts which were crowding his mind. He concentrated on his riding.

  Tucking his elbows close to his side and keeping his head well down, he galloped onward through the rising wind across the burning desert toward Mucar.

  The ancient city of Mucar was as colorful today as any bazaar in old Baghdad. The wind blowing farther out had brought a welcome coolness, and gossip round the wells in secluded courtyards was able to be carried on in a leisurely and proper spirit. Crowds thronged the bazaars and burly drovers from far places filled the wine taverns with coarse laughter and jests.

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  Even Muzra, the keeper of the biggest café-restaurant in the city was contented today; many long-standing bills had been settled. Truly the city and its trade were prospering. He stood on his terrace, his fez at a rakish angle, and surveyed the crowds rubbing shoulders with horses, goats, and donkeys in the narrow alleys and courts that surrounded his establishment.

  The crowds were like the seething tides of the sea. The sun caught the turret of the mightiest minaret in all Mucar, which soared above the palatial villas on the other side of the square; and from the fort walls, pale rose in the sunshine. Suddenly, there came the thin crackle of rifles as tribesmen broke into spontaneous and early celebration of the night's feasting. The green-and-white flag bearing the crescent of Islam flew from a flagpole on the massive stone tower at the main entrance of the town and seemed to confer a blessing on the greatest and most prosperous of the desert cities.

  As Muzra turned away, his pot belly quivering with excitement at the delicious stews and sweets being prepared within his establishment, his eye was caught by two men mounted on white horses which forced their way through the throng that seethed like thick currents past the terrace.

  Despite the mask which covered the European's face, the figure of the slaver was too familiar to pass without comment and Muzra's contentment increased. If the big one was here, then tonight's mart would be good and he intended to be there. He needed two strong men for his kitchen and maybe a girl or two for his private establishment. He hurried back inside, cuffing indiscriminately at the waiters who ventured too close with their slopping trays.

  Saldan and his guide clattered on toward Prince Scum's villa. Soon he and the old ruler were ensconced once more in the familiar private room on the first floor where they had been conducting their business for a good many years. The Prince rose at Saldan's entrance and hurried to embrace him, which surprised the slaver. He told himself that his threat to establish his trading hail elsewhere must have struck the old man where it hurt most-in his pocket. But he would be discreet on this occasion; whatever happened they must not fall out, for Saldan needed Mucar and its slave market as much as the Prince needed his merchandise.

  Despite the other dealers and their wares, Saldan's product was invariably the best and he always brought to the markets far more slaves than the other traders could scrape together. So he merely smiled thinly when Selim, the lamps shining on his silky beard, exclaimed with a little birdlike cry, "Ah! Saldan."

  He shook his head, proclaiming gently, "Your Highness -my name is not to be used here."

  The ruler waved away his protest with an airy gesture. "Well, well, so be it," he said.

  He clapped his hands.

  "You may retire," he told the assembled courtiers. "This gentleman and I will dine privately. Then we will be entertained until nightfall."

  Saldan waited until those present had left the room and the Nubians had brought the steaming dishes of lamb and other delicacies before he removed his mask. The door had closed behind the last of the servants, and only then did he feel he could relax.

  The two men were silent as they washed their hands, Saldan observing local etiquette. The big slaver wiped his fingers on the napkin and set to. The long ride across the desert had given him an enormous appetite and more than two hours passed before he and Selim were replete. Saldan belched appreciatively.

  "You are too kind, my friend," said Selim, taking the hint. "You over praise my humble food."

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  "Not at all, Excellency," said Saldan, belching again. Never have I enjoyed a more delicious repast under your roof."

  Scum flushed with pleasure.

  Instead of clapping again, he pressed an electric buzzer at the end of a long panel which crossed the floor in front of them.

  "One cannot carry local customs too far," he said. "An evening of clapping and I find my palms quite sore."

  "There is a price to be paid for tradition, your Highness," Saldan agreed, lighting one of his cigars.

  Selim declined the cigar case, as the Nubians began to clear away the short-legged trays which stood in front of them.

  "In Europe, yes," he said. "Here, I adhere to local custom during public ceremonies," he added with a twinkle in his eye.

  A five-piece orchestra filed in, a wild-sounding flute began a haunting tune, a drum joined the melody and then two ravishing-looking dark-haired girls began to gyrate and undulate in an abandoned manner.

  Saldan was unimpressed. He'd seen better in Beirut in his time, but it was impressive for Mucar. He paid an appropriate compliment to Selim as the girls' bellies rotated sensuously near them.

  "You may, if you wish.. ." began Selim.

  "I thank your Excellency, but I am here for business only on this occasion," Saldan said. "I must keep a clear head and a steady mind for tonight's work."

  The Prince smiled.

  "Certainly, certainly," he said in an approving voice. "I was forgetting myself. A most laudable attitude, my friend."

  Saldan, who had resumed his mask at the beginning of the public entertainment, nodded. His mind was busy estimating what this evening's shipment was likely to fetch.

  Prince Selim leaned forward and waved an appreciative hand to the musicians, who redoubled their efforts.

  "The chiefs of the mountains and desert are gathered, awaiting your hiring hail," he said.

  "That is pleasing," said Saldan, reaching for a cushion to prop his back and smiling at the two dancers.

  "They will not be disappointed."

  "That is also pleasing to my ear," Prince Selim replied. "I had wondered, in fact . .

  He coughed delicately. Saldan had to lean toward him. It was becoming difficult to hear over the music.

  "If it is not untactful to mention it, we have not yet seen your caravan within the walls of the city," the Prince continued, "Your merchandise is quite safe, I take it?"

  Saldan smiled grimly. One of the dark-haired girls, mistaking the smile as a compliment to her, redoubled her efforts.

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  "Quite safe, Excellency," he said. "It will be here, I can assure you. Tonight's market will be one of the best."

  Prince Selim gave Saldan a long, shrewd look.

  "Then the slaves have not actually arrived?" he said.

  Saldan felt impatience beginning to blur the edges of his concentration. Here he was beginning to enjoy himself after the difficult journey and the old fool kept interrupting with business talk.

  "They are on their way, Excellency," he said. "You have no cause to worry."

  Prince Selim looked at Saldan's burning eyes beneath the mask and decided not to pursue the question. He had no doubt that things would be as the big slaver said. That was his way. The night would no doubt substantiate his words. He popped another grape delicately into his mouth and concentrated on the dancing.

  Zadok's face was creased with malicious pleasure. This was his hour of greatest triumph. He stood on a rotting quayside at the fetid, half-forgotten port which he and Saldan always used, and watched the shrieking convicts being lashed down the gangway by the whips of his Arab followers. The stinking dhow rolled to an oily wash as the tottering slaves crossed the frail gangplanks, which bent dangerously beneath their weight.

  "Who are those characters?" screamed a thin, bald- headed man with an ugly jagged scar across his mouth "Where's Zadok?"

  "I'm here!" said Zadok with an oily smile.

  The convicts had not yet noticed him because the Arab had donned a cloak and turban over his prison clothing.

  There were cries of anger and rage as the men discerned the Arab's treacherous features beneath the turban. Zadok spat contemptuously and feathered smoke out through his nostrils from his Turkish cigarette.

  He laughed.

  "Save your breath for the desert," he advised the raging men. "You've got another short trip in front of you.

  Twenty-five miles across the desert to Mucar."

  There were more cries and threats, but Zadok merely turned his face away and looked across the waterfront as though the cursing men had never existed. This was a scene which had been played out innumerable times and it had ceased to have any meaning or interest for him.

  "What is this?" said the dark-haired man to whom Zadok had promised his freedom.

  He ducked aside from the rope halter and ran down the dock toward Zadok, stretching out his manacled hands, One of the Arab slavers was after him with the speed of a gazelle, A rifle butt descended with stunning suddenness onto the man's back. He groaned and fell headlong on the dusty wharf. Other guards dragged him to his feet.

  "Get back in line, scum," snarled one.

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  Moaning, the dark-haired man dragged himself forward, hatred for Zadok's treachery erased by his pain.

  The bald-headed man passed Zadok a minute or two later, shuffling forward with a halter around his neck like the others. Mindful of his friend's treatment he wisely did not utter any words. Instead, he mutely held out his handcuffs with a contemptuous expression on his face. The clinking of the chain roused Zadok from his reflections. He turned his head and recognized the prisoner.

  "You'll be exchanging those bracelets soon," he jeered. "For a ball and chain."

  Hopeless expressions on their faces, the convicts started shuffling off into the desert. Sand flew about them, the whips rose and fell, and another cavalcade of misery set out for the ancient slave market of Mucar.

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  CHAPTER 14

  ORDEAL BY ANTS

  The helicopter banked and skimmed low over the sand. Mr. Walker was piloting the machine so low that they were below the level of the dunes. Sand rose in great billowing swathes below them. As the helicopter banked and came round again, the pilot turned his strong, calm face toward Slingsby at his side.

  "Look over there," he said.

  Slingsby gripped the edge of his metal seat and braced himself against the angle of the machine. There, over the top of the ridge, silhouetted against a burning sky, were the turrets and minarets of a city. He gasped at the sudden beauty of the sight.

  Mr. Walker smiled at the young officer's astonishment.

  "Unexpected, isn't it?" he said. "We're landing out here because I don't want anyone in the city to spot us."

  The machine hovered gently as he spoke and then began to sink. Sand spread out in choking clouds on all sides.

  "The ancient city of Mucar, Slingsby," the pilot said.

  "It seems impossible that slave markets could still be operating in this modern age," said Slingsby.

  Walker proceeded with the delicate operation of land_ing. Then the hydraulic struts absorbed the gentle shock as he put the machine down on the sand. He cut the motor and the blades started to rotate less rapidly, the blur lessened, and then each individual blade appeared dis_tinctly.

  "Which is why organizations like the Jungle Patrol have got to keep on their toes," said Walker.

  He sat silent for a moment, the still-moving blades of the machine casting flickering shadows over his face.

  The coughing noise of the air swishing past the blades died away at last and Walker slid back the door and unbuckled his safety harness. The heat of the desert drove in at them swiftly like a sword.

  The helicopter had come down behind some rocks. Slingsby was about to get out his own door when he noticed a reflection in a big mirror set over the pilot's head. What he saw disturbed him.

  "There's a man with a rifle watching us," he said excitedly.

  "Not so loudly," said the pilot calmly. "I'm well aware of that. It's probably one of the Mucar out-guards. I saw him as we came over just now. I haven't spotted any more so we may be in luck."

  Walker had already dropped out of the aircraft, on the side away from the guard, where he couldn't be seen. He leaned into the helicopter cabin.

  "Listen carefully, Slingsby," he said. "This is vital. I want you to stroll over toward those far rocks. You can see where the guard is coming down now. Say you've come here for the sale. He probably thinks you piloted the machine yourself."

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  Slingsby brightened. He got out of the helicopter on his own side. Pretending to make an adjustment to the door, Slingsby lingered. He had a sudden thought, not a pleasant one.

  "What if the guard can't speak English?"

  "Ah, then you're in trouble," said the big man calmly. Sparks of humor were dancing in back of his eyes.

  "Play it by ear."

  He saw Slingsby's expression and added quickly, "Don't worry, I shan't be far away."

  He spoke quietly to Devil.

  "You'd better stay here, boy, I know it's hot, but it won't be for long."

  Devil gave a low whimpering cry and put his head down on his paws again. Walker left the door open so that the wolf could get what breeze there was. Then he was gone, keeping the machine between him and the Arab guard, until he reached the rocks.

  Slingsby had already turned and was strolling casually up a rocky path toward the Arab with his long-barreled rifle. The guard grounded the butt and curiously watched him come. Slingsby made his progress as slow as possible. He knew his mysterious pilot had to make a long circuit and he wanted help to be at hand when his alibi ran out.

  The sun beat on Slingsby's head and it seemed an age as he walked upward over the rough, rutted surface of the pathway. He hoped the wolf would not break from the helicopter, but nothing stirred as he glanced back over his shoulder. The animal was too well trained to disobey his master's orders, Slingsby felt thankfully. Not a sound broke the stillness of the desert, except the faint slithering noise made by millions of grains of sand shifting slightly in the wind.

  Perspiration poured down Slingsby's back and made a sticky patch on the young officer's uniform shirt. His throat felt dry and he could even feel moisture rolling in rivulets down his cheeks. The guard apparently felt it was too hot also. He stood for a moment or two longer, and saw that Slingsby was still continuing on course toward him in a perfectly friendly manner. He hesitated and then walked
back a few yards into the shadow of the rocks. He put down his rifle against the cliff face and started rolling himself a cigarette.

  Slingsby was only a hundred yards away now and he knew the Arab could fell him with the rifle easily if he made a false move. Not that he would have contemplated it. Perhaps he could have dropped the sentry with a quick shot from his revolver, but sound carried for miles in the desert. Any sudden shot might even be heard by the men on guard at the gates of Mucar and that would bring a camel party out quickly. It would not take long to discov_er the helicopter and that would be the end. So Slingsby kept on walking.

  He was only a few yards away now and was hoping desperately that Mr. Walker could travel as fast as his powerful frame hinted. Even so, gauging the distance carefully, Slingsby knew he would have to hold the Arab in conversation for something more than a sentence or two. And he did not know if he could do it. He could see the man's narrow, cruel face clearly now. He was just lighting the cigarette, his beard drawn back over yellow teeth as he took his first puffs.

  He threw the match down at his feet and picked up the rifle again as Slingsby came up close to him.

  "That's far enough," he said, to Slingsby's relief. The English was broken and almost unintelligible, but at least the young officer would be able to follow what he said.

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  Slingsby came to a halt in the sun and took off his pith-helmet. He wiped his streaming face with his handkerchief. He spread his arms out.

  "Do you mind if I come into the shade?"

  The Arab grinned "Ah, you no like desert, eh?" He shrugged. "Okay, but don't try anything."

  "Thank you," said Slingsby.