10 Hassan Departs from the Oasis of Two Scimitars

The oasis of Two Scimitars is an out-of-the-way oasis, under the hegemony of the Bakahs, which, for more than two hundred years, following their defeat in the Silk War of 8,11 °C.A., has been a vassal tribe of the Kavars. The Silk War was a war for the control of certain caravan routes, for the rights to levy raider tribute on journeying merchants. It was called the Silk War because, at that time, Turian silk first began to be imported in bulk to the Tahari communities, and northward to Tor and Kasra, thence to Ar, and points north and west. Raider tribute, it might be noted, is no longer commonly levied in the Tahari. Rather, with the control of watering points at the oasis, it is unnecessary. To these points must come caravans. At the oases, it is common for the local pashas to exact a protection tax from caravans, if they are of a certain length, normally of more than fifty kaiila. The protection tax helps to defray the cost of maintaining soldiers, who, nominally, at any rate, police the desert. It is not unusual for the genealogy of most of the pashas sovereign in the various eases to contain a heritage of raiders. Most of those in the Tahari who sit upon the rugs of office are those who are the descendants of men who ruled, in ruder days, scimitar in hand, from the high, red leather of the kaiila saddle. The forms change but, in the Tahari, as elsewhere, order, justice and law rest ultimately upon the determination of men, and steel.

It was late at night, in single file, over the sands, silvered in the light of the three moons, that we came to Two Scimitars.

Men rushed forth from the darkness, with weapons, encircling us.

“It is Hassan,” said a voice.

“One cannot be too careful these days,” said another voice.

“Tal,” said Hassan to the merchant who stood at his stirrup.

“We have water,” said the merchant, greeting the bandit.

Hassan stood in his stirrups, looking about at the palms, the red-clay walls, the buildings of mud; some domed, of the oasis, the gardens.

“You have goods for me?” asked the merchant.

“Yes,” said Hassan. He sat back in the saddle. The girl back arched, head down, belly up, bound over the withers of the kaiila, before the saddle, twisted, whimpering. She was Zina. Only she now wore the name, which she had borne as a free woman as a slave name, to shame her, given to her by her master, Hassan, the Bandit. Her companion prize, whose name was Tafa, was bound similarly before the saddle of one of Hassan’s men. The soft interiors of the thighs of both girls were bloodied, stained reddish brown, to the side of the knee but only one of them wore in her flesh, on the outside of her left thigh, recently imprinted, the Tahari slave mark. She only, Zina, was, of now, a slave girl. Others of the men of Hassan led pack kaiila, containing in their burdens goods taken from the caravan plundered four days ago.

The mud buildings at an oasis such as that of Two Scimitars last for many years.

In such an area one often goes years without rain.

When rain does fall, however, sometimes it is fierce, turning the terrain into a quagmire. Following such rains great clouds of sand flies appear wakened from dormancy. These feast on kaiila and men. Normally, flying insects are found only in the vicinity of the oases. Crawling insects of various sorts, and predator insects, however, are found in many areas, even far from water. The zadit is a small, tawny-feathered, sharp-billed bird. It feeds on insects. When sand files and other insects, emergent after rains, infest kaiila, they frequently alight on the animals, and remain on them for some hours, hunting insects. This relieves the kaiila of the insects but leaves it with numerous small wounds, which are unpleasant and irritating, where the bird has dug insects out of it’s hide. These tiny wounds, if they become infected, turn into sores; these sores are treated by the drovers with poultices of kaiila dung.

“Six days ago,” said the merchant, “soldiers, Aretai, from Nine Wells raided the Oasis of the Sand Sleen.”

It puzzled me that the merchant should say this.

I looked about me. In the moonlight I could see that kaiila had trodden the gardens. I saw two walls broken, the high Walls of red clay used to shade courtyards and as a protection against raiders. I counted eleven palm trees, date palms, cut down, their trunks fallen at an angle into the dust, the palm leaves dried and lifeless, the fruit unripened. It takes years for such a tree to grow to the point at which it will bear fruit.

“They struck here last night,” said the merchant “But we drove them off.

“Aretai are sleen,’’ said Hassan.

I wondered that be should feel so deeply about such matters, he, a bandit.

“They broke a well,” said the merchant.

No one spoke for some time. Hassan, nor his men, did not, even cry out in outrage.

Then Hassan said, thinly, “Do not jest.”

“I do not jest,” said the merchant.

“Aretai are sleen,” said Hassan, “but yet are they of the Tahari.”

“The well is broken,” said the merchant. “Do you wish to see?”

“No,” said Hassan.

“We are attempting to dig out the rock, the sand,” said the merchant.

Hassan’s face was white.

It is difficult for one who is not of the Tahari to conjecture the gravity of the offense of destroying a source of water. It is regarded as an almost inconceivable crime, surely the most heinous which might be perpetrated upon the desert. Such an act, regarded as a monstrosity, goes beyond a simple act of war.

Surely, in but a few days, word that Aretai tribesmen had destroyed, or attempted to destroy, a well at Two Scimitars would spread like fire across the desert, inflaming and outraging men from Tor to the Turian outpost merchant fort, and trading station, of Turmas. This act, perpetrated against the Bakahs at Two Scimitars, a vassal tribe of the Kavars, would doubtless bring full-scale war to the Tahari.

“Even now the war messengers ride,” said the merchant.

The tribes, at the various oases, and in the desert, in their nomad territories, and at their kasbahs, would be summoned. It would be full war.

A well had been broken.

“Business must go on,” said the merchant. He was looking up at Hassan. His hand was on Zina’s body.

“Are you sure the raiders were Aretai?’’ I asked the merchant.

“Yes,” he said. “They did not deign to conceal the fact.”

“On what do you base your conjecture?” I asked.

“What is your tribe?” he asked.

“He is Hakim of Tor,” said Hassan. “I vouch for him.”

“The agal cording was Aretai,” said the merchant. “The saddle markings, too. And they cried out, in their attack, ‘For Nine Wells and Suleiman!’“ “I see,” I said.

“If the Aretai want war to the destruction of water they shall have it,” said the merchant.

“I wish to leave before dawn,” said Hassan.

“Of course,” said the merchant. “What have we here?” he asked.

“One free woman, one slave.” He turned to two of his men. “Bring the pack kaiila into my courtyard,” he said, “and display the goods.”

They hastened to obey him.

“Interesting, Hassan’ “ smiled the merchant, “that it should be the slave you choose to carry before your saddle.”

Hassan shrugged.

“Her brand is fresh,” smiled the merchant.

“True,” said Hassan.

Doubtless you put the iron to her body yourself,” said the merchant.

“Yes,” said Hassan.

“It is an excellent job,” said the merchant. “You have a steady hand, and firmness.”

The girl whimpered.

“I have branded many women,” said Hassan.

“And superbly,” said the merchant.

His hands, sure, exact, made a preliminary assessment of the curves of the slave captive.

She moaned.

“Is she alive?” asked the merchant.