The Garden of Delights was aptly named. It was indeed a garden with a lush inner courtyard filled with flowers and fruit trees as rare and exquisite as the women who lived within its thick, whitewashed walls. Many of the other brothels in Cairo, those that catered to the same upper echelon of society, had similar gardens, but none were as extensive, or as lavish, or as precious.
Najima’s garden was far more than a showpiece; a pretty oasis in the city, for most of the men who visited the brothel never saw this place. Only Medjai men were allowed into the garden, and then, rarely, for Najima wished it to be a special retreat for the girls who served their people in the most storied brothel in Egypt. The Persian violets and Damask roses that bloomed in the shimmering Cairo heat were not the most prized blossoms in Najima’s garden; the young women who gave of themselves to extract information from those who would destroy all the Medjai protected were.
Everyone in the Medjai world knew the great service the brothels provided, as men were far more easily convinced to brag of their exploits and plots to an unclothed girl with a sweet smile than to a shrouded man with a big sword. Everyone also knew that serving in the brothels was not an easy path. Indeed, the women were considered warriors, and given the same respect. A family was proud to have a daughter choose to serve this way as it was an honor to their house just as it was to have a son take his marks as a soldier.
It was not an easy choice, Najima knew, for she had made it when she reached the age of decision. She was a chieftain’s daughter, betrothed to another chieftain, a man she had never met who had been selected by her father. She did not dread this union, but she felt within her the desire to offer more to her people, and declared her intention to serve two years in the brothels.
Her parents were concerned, of course, as they knew the danger of the service, but were also proud that her heart felt the call. Her intended husband expressed his support as it brought honor to his house, as well. He had said as much in a letter he sent to her father before their first night was arranged. Najima, like most girls who select to serve, did not go to the brothel as a virgin. The man she was to wed traveled to her village, as arranged, to spend a single night with the girl who would become his second wife.
Before her bedding, a huge party in honor of her intended was held. It had been an elaborate feast, almost as lavish as one preceding a full joining, and then she had been taken to a tent prepared especially for her deflowering. It was there she learned that sex was something of fear and disgust, for her betrothed had no interest in gentleness. He had little interest in anything save that she was the daughter of a powerful chieftain with a sizable dowry, and that she was his property.
Once he saw her unclothed, of course, he was eager to have his way with her, for she was startlingly beautiful, but that did not change the way in which he took her. It did not slow his hands, which had struck her when she hesitated; or civilized his mouth, which had spouted insults when she was unsure; or restrained his painful thrusting into her virginal body, despite her screams of agony at his assault.
These things were of no matter to him. He simply wished to properly stain a joining cloth so she would be recognized as belonging to him, and, once that was done, he left her, alone and in shock, in the bloodied bed where he had destroyed any illusions she had of a loving marriage. He rode out of her village immediately after the deed was done, and she was not to see him again until her service in Cairo was completed.
The man to whom her father had bound her was Rasheed Al Mier, and she learned in a few horrific hours, to despise him.
A week after her deflowering, Najima came to this brothel with several other girls from her village. Most had spent a first night with their future husbands. Some giggled and blushed when speaking of the men they loved, the ones with whom they had shared something special. Others were more guarded about their first experiences, but none were as withdrawn as Najima. One girl was still a virgin, and was the chattiest of all. Najima had envied her naiveté, and had watched silently as the other girls laughed with her.
How little she knows of men, Najima had thought blackly, pulling herself deeply into her pain. Her ribs ached with each breath she took, and she still burned between her legs, but she focused on each agonizing pang, thinking of Rasheed with every breath. She hated Rasheed and she hated herself for allowing him to hurt her.
The madam of the brothel, Sulema, was an astute judge of the girls who came to her; well trained in the art of determining the needs of those who were now under her command and her protection. She was more than a madam, almost like a mother to these girls, and she treated each with care. Their introduction to their duty was gradual; they would need to be trained in the craft of seduction, as well as assassination, and Sulema had a hand-selected group of men to do this.
Most of these men were based in the Cairo garrison and were frequent visitors to the novice’s chambers. It allowed the girls to become familiar with those who would further their education. A few were not, and came to the Garden of Delights when their duties took them into the city. One of these was Masoud Hamat, who was no stranger to Sulema’s own bed, or to the rigors demanded of the girls who served in the brothels.
The honored chieftain, despite his three wives and multiple mistresses, was also exceedingly popular with the women, as he was a kind man with a strong sexual appetite. Masoud enjoyed women, and they, in turn, enjoyed him.
He was often Sulema’s choice for the deflowering of any virgins who came to her, as Masoud was gentle and patient, and, as he just happened to be in the city when the girls from Najima’s village arrived, Sulema already had decided to send the maiden among them to his bed.
The chosen men of the garrison would attend the other girls after they had time to adjust to their new home. Sulema was pleased with the group, as a whole, and welcomed each with a warm smile and a motherly embrace. When she hugged Najima, however, she felt the girl wince. She did not have to ask what had happened; Sulema knew enough of the evils of men to know that the girl had been beaten.
Sulema had taken Najima aside then, to a small private alcove, and asked her to undress. Najima had hesitated, but Sulema reassured her that no harm would come of this. Najima had shown no one her injuries except for her old nursemaid who had found her weeping in the bed. She had made the woman promise to say nothing, as she wished no one to know of her shame, for in her innocent mind, she thought she was to blame.
That shame made her tremble as Sulema looked at the bruises. “Son of a whore knew just where to strike, didn’t he,” the woman spoke quietly. “He knew where to hit you so it hurt the most yet wouldn’t show. He has experience beating women.” She pulled Najima’s tunic closed, her hands as gentle as Rasheed’s had been harsh. “This is the man you are promised to?”
Najima didn’t look up as she answered, “He is.”
Sulema tipped the girl’s chin up and looked into her eyes. “Listen to me. A woman never deserves this. Never. This is not the Medjai way, it is not the way of the Prophet.” Sulema knew that sometimes a woman in her line was injured, but the men who did so were often made to disappear. This girl had not been abused by a Turk, an Englishman or an American, but by a Medjai; moreover, the man to whom she was bonded. There was little Sulema could do but keep this girl safe while she was under her protection, and, towards that end, she determined that Najima would NOT serve in the brothel. Instead, she would be trained as one of the young women who took positions as translators, nannies, or housemaids. It was another way young Medjai women served as spies and would spare her further sexual humiliation.
Sulema had a letter on each girl, one with her familiar line as well as the man to whom each was betrothed, if such an arrangement was already made. She was in her own room, late that night, clad in a flowing silk caftan as she scanned over these. She heard the sound of masculine feet on her tile floor and looked up as Masoud strode from the bathing chamber, clad only in loose trousers. “You smell so much better after a bath, my dear,” she said over her shoulder.
“It is the only way I can gain entrance to your bed,” he reminded her, although he did welcome the chance to wash away the road miles. He wondered how Kasim, who insisted on sleeping in the stables with the horses, could stand to stay so filthy.
Sulema looked down at the letter on the top of the stack, the one written on Najima. “Do you know this man, Rasheed Al Mier?”
Masoud sat on the edge of the bed and answered quickly. “He is the sort of man you hope will meet the sharp end of a blade sooner rather than later. I suspect his own men will kill him one day. Why?”
Her interest intrigued him, and he rose, walked to where she was, and looked over her shoulder. “Ah. The girl doomed to be his next wife. My Allah have mercy upon her.” Masoud knew Rasheed often bragged of how he kept his women in line, all his women, be she wife, or whore, or daughter.
“She was beaten on her first night.”
Masoud expected this and cursed under his breath. “Badly?”
“Her ribs are cracked, and she is bruised. He came at her like an animal, Masoud, like a pig. I have moved her away from the other novitiates. It will better for her if she does not learn the ways of the brothel.” Masoud nodded, agreeing with this assessment. “Her letter says that she is gifted with languages. She will be a fine translator. She needs to learn about weapons, though.” Sulema looked at the Medjai chieftain and smiled, and Masoud knew her next words would be those asking him to train the girl.
The long scar on his cheek twisted his smile into a lopsided grin. “Me? You have others you call on to do this. Why me?”
“You are kind, and she needs kindness, particularly from a man of rank.”
He nuzzled the fragrant nape of Sulema’s neck while contemplating this girl-bride of the devil himself. He hated that a man such as Rasheed had already ruined her, and seriously considered accepting Sulema’s proposal. There was one complication, however, that would keep him from this, and he pointedly asked, “Is she comely?”
“Quite. Her beauty is remarkable. Even a tough judge of females such as yourself would find no fault.”
“Then I must say no, for I am weak when it comes to pretty girls. I would no doubt end up in her bed and that is not what she needs. Better ask my friend, Kasim. We will be in Cairo for several weeks and he is an excellent teacher of the blade.”
Sulema rolled her dark eyes in astonishment. “Kasim, the grouchy one who prefers the company of stable hands to my charming ladies? He doesn’t even set foot inside to bathe.”
Masoud chuckled, as this did indeed describe his friend. “He is, alas, married and in love.”
“As are you.”
“Ah, my dear, not with the same woman, therein lays my salvation. Kasim is a man of black and white, and he has sworn fidelity to his wife, whom he adores.” Masoud’s voice grew reflective. “She is of rare quality, and could easily persuade a man to give up all other women.” Coming back to the issue, he continued, “Kasim will make no demands of a sexual nature on the girl. I am certain of this. He will likely not even notice she is female. He will teach her well, as he has few peers as a warrior.” Sulema looked doubtful and Masoud added, “He is kinder than he looks. I assure you, he will not hurt the child, and will be understanding of her…. of her trauma.” Masoud walked back to the window and looked out on the lights of Cairo. “Besides, he hates Rasheed even more than I do.” He was well aware that he was using his friend Kasim against Rasheed, but it was a minor sin; one Kasim would forgive if the lass indeed killed Rasheed.
Masoud approached Kasim with the proposal the next day, and, as Masoud suspected, Kasim initially declined most vehemently. It was only when Masoud let ‘slip’ the information that the girl was bonded to Rasheed, had been assaulted by him, and that by teaching her the art of assassination, Kasim might be doing the entire Medjai world a favor by helping her kill her husband, did Kasim consent.
Najima had known none of this at the time, of course. All she knew was she was soon spending many hours learning about matters of killing with a tall, brooding man of intensity and few words, and that his name was Kasim Bay.
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Giza Port in the 1930’s was a bustling, dirty, nest of humanity, where cultures and nationalities blended and clashed. Ardeth was well aware of the dangers such a place presented and was glad to see a Medjai patrol waiting at the docks. He had sent news of his arrival to Najima, but was not certain it had arrived. The black-robed men standing like sentinels assured him it had.
Among them was Rahm Shemar, the ranking captain in the Cairo garrison. Rahm was an old friend from Ardeth’s days as a soldier, and someone he trusted with the lives of his family. Raising his arm in greeting, Ardeth approached Rahm and they exchanged the quick but deeply sincere greeting of comrades.
Carrie, flanked by Ibrahim and Jehan, stood several yards away, her face concealed by a veil that Ardeth had made a point of affixing for her. By Medjai custom, she would be introduced later, when they were no longer in such a public place. It was one of those Medjai customs she had come to adapt to, even while thinking it was overly protectionist and rather chauvinistic. She easily identified the man Ardeth was speaking with to be the commander of the cluster of Medjai. It was fairly easy to identify the ones in charge, and this man had the same regal bearing she had come to associate with ranking soldiers. She was staring at him, analyzing him as a scientist would a specimen, when she realized he was staring back and quickly looked towards a cluster of Turks haggling over bundles of cotton.
Rahm knew the woman holding the swaddled child was Ardeth’s wife. He knew the chieftain had married an American, but Rahm was surprised by how boldly she stared at him over her veil. He saw it wasn’t just him, but that her eyes were sweeping around the entire dockyard. He shot a glance at Ardeth, noted the chieftain was watching him as he watched his wife, and dropped his head in a sign of respect. “Forgive me, liege, but… she appears…. unaccustomed to our ways.”
“She sometimes… forgets them,” Ardeth explained. “That is why I want a guard on her at all times, if I or one of my family is not with her.”
“Does she look so boldly at all men?” he asked quietly so none of the others would overhear.
“To her it is simply seeing with nothing further implied. She does not understand it is dangerous here for a woman to be so…so open. In our village, among our people, it is of no matter as she is accepted. In most ways, she has adapted to our life, but, Rahm, here in Cairo….”
Ardeth turned to look at the woman who had captured his heart. She was indeed looking around, her eyes darting about the bustling port like a pair of sparrows searching for an open branch. He laughed to himself, softly, so no one would hear, as he delighted in her curiosity, however it was dangerous for a woman to draw attention to herself, which is exactly what Caroline’s actions would soon do. He was glad, at least, that her veil shielded most of her face. He had tied it for her that morning, intending that it not fall away due to her inability to secure it, not in the middle of Cairo, where any female with her tawny coloring would draw unwelcome attention. Her eyes finally came to light on his and he could tell she was smiling despite the veil.
Rahm watched quietly before assuring Ardeth, “I will guard her myself. She will be safe, I swear it.” He smiled slightly at his old friend and finished, “It was high time you married and produced an heir.”
Ardeth looked back at Rahm and asked of his children. It was both a courtesy and a concern, as Ardeth knew the man was a widower with two small children. “Your family, they are well?”
“They are with my parents. My son trains under my father.” It was a short answer that told volumes. Rahm’s family lived hundreds of miles away, in a remote village. Ardeth and Rahm had been serving together when Rahm’s wife gave birth to their second child and died shortly thereafter. Rahm’s pain had been palpable and he had retreated into his duties. By his answer, it was obvious that he had chosen to live apart from his children and had not yet overcome his wife’s death.
Ardeth was saddened that his friend’s grief had caused him to turn away from his family but, in the Medjai way, knew it was not his place, even as a chieftain, to speak of this. Instead, he grunted in understanding. “Send him to me when the time comes. If he is the fighter his father is, I will be honored to further his education.” He grasped his comrade’s forearm in his hand, a sign of familiarity and friendship. “Seek me out later, Rahm, if you wish, and we will speak of this.” It put the onus of initiating the topic on Rahm, which was as it should be. “Transport is ready?”
“A truck is parked in the alley and Najima has already prepared places for you.”
Rahm nodded to his men, who had already surrounded the newly disembarked group.
Carrie noted how seamlessly they did this, mingling with the crowd and slowly sifting through them until she and Jabrail were in the center of several layers of Medjai. Ay’il stayed at her side, as did Jehan, while Ibrahim and Tariq melted into the wall of black robes that shielded her from seeing more of Giza Port.
Ardeth moved though the soldiers towards his wife, his hand cupping her elbow as he slipped between her and Ay’il. He would stay at her side until she was safely within Najima’s walls. Dropping his lips to her ear, his eyes never departing from the crowd, he whispered, “Stay close, Caroline.”
Twisting her mouth towards him she replied, “As if I have a choice?” It was a joke, but there was no masculine chuckle in answer and she sighed, knowing Ardeth was in Medjai chieftain mode and would likely remain so until they were in private. It was more, she knew. He was worried about her and Jabrail, she could see it in the way his eyes scanned every corner of the wharf. He could be overprotective, but it was just the way he was, just the way he showed how deeply he loved her and their son, and really, given the last month, she couldn’t fault him. He was every inch a fearsome warrior, but she knew the gentle man within, the husband and father. Carrie leaned over slightly, just enough that Ardeth would feel the pressure of her shoulder against his, and quietly reassured him, “It’ll be ok, hon.”
He didn’t answer, but his hand tightened ever so slightly in acknowledgement.
The truck ride through the streets of Cairo began uneventfully. Carrie was loaded into the back of a canvas-covered military type vehicle, along with everyone except Rahm who rode next to the driver. She was pressed against the back wall, between Jehan and Ardeth, with the others crammed into the rest of the bed. Jabrail was still asleep, which was fortunate, and Carrie was certain she would never be able to breastfeed him in the truck, at least not without giving everyone a peep show.
Carrie remembered Cairo as an exciting, exotic city, one in which she had escaped a few close scrapes, but one that had also become familiar and rather dear. It was a pity she couldn’t see any of it save for a tiny glimpse out the back of the truck where the canvas flaps didn’t quite meet. She could still hear the raucous sounds of the city echoing from the stories-tall buildings that towered over the narrow streets, even over the muffler-less rumble of the truck. They sounded even louder to her after being away from anything resembling civilization for so long, and she jumped when a vehicle near by backfired. Ardeth’ s knee was pressing next to hers and she felt him tense as well, when a second bang followed the first, and then a procession of them, like so many fireworks on a Fourth of July.
The truck lurched to a sudden halt and the soldiers nearest the tailgate leapt from the truck. Rahm appeared among them, issuing sharply barked orders before sticking his head into the truck and exchanging terse words with Ardeth. Carrie strained to catch what she could, but they spoke quickly, gutturally, and except for a few phrases, unintelligibly to her ears.
There wasn’t time for her to ponder what had been said, however, as everyone else apparently understood and scrambled from the truck. Carrie followed suit, clutching Jabrail to her chest, and as soon as she landed on the street, found Ardeth’s arm around her waist, while his other hand held a drawn sword.
All around the truck and leading off in all direction was what Carrie could only call a riot.
A huge tangle of vehicles, donkey carts and people jammed the road just ahead of them. It appeared that some sort of accident had snarled traffic to a halt, and this had caused a cascade effect, clogging all the tiny tributary streets that fed into this larger one. Ardeth shouted at Rahm and the big captain, along with one of his men, sprinted towards the crowd and quickly blended in with the milling throng.
Again, a sound like firecrackers cut through the shouting of the crowd, and this time Carrie knew it was gunfire. Turning her body into Ardeth’s to shield Jabrail, she pulled her cloak over her son and asked, “What the hell’s going on?”
Ardeth answered quickly, his voice calm despite the turmoil. “I am not sure, but we are not far from Najima’s. Come.” He spat out a series of short commands to the others and then ducked into what looked like nothing more than a small footpath leading away from the street, pulling Carrie with him.
The pathway widened a bit after they passed through it, but not by much. There was ample room for Ardeth to break into a brisk trot, and Carrie followed, as did the others. A backwards glance told her that everyone was still with them, including Ay’il and the Nubian, Rai Kah, whose red robes were easy to see in the river of Medjai black flowing through the alley.
Ardeth had said that they were close to Najima’s, however, Carrie was totally lost in the surroundings through which she now scurried. She knew the neighborhood around Najima’s quite well. It had been her home, after all, when she had lived in Cairo during those horrible weeks when she was separated from Ardeth. Najima’s brothel was in a part of the city that resembled embassy row more than anything else, with gaslights along a wide boulevard. The squalid warren of shops and apartments around her now bore little resemblance to anything she remembered, not that she had time to look around as they funneled through one tiny, dark passage after another.
Ardeth knew exactly where they were, his hand grasping hers as he led her past shadowy doorways and intersecting paths. Even the other Medjai were unsure where they were, as Ardeth knew ways through Cairo’s slums that his father had shown him, ways unknown to most Medjai. Kasim Bay had taught these to his son knowing that they might, one day, save his life. Ardeth didn’t know if today was that day or not, but he was not willing to risk otherwise, not with the life of his own son.
Finally, Ardeth turned a last corner and stopped dead. There was nothing but a cracked, stained, badly repaired plaster wall before him. To everyone else, it appeared as if the great Lion had dragged them into a dead end. Even Carrie, who was catching her breath from the headlong dash, stared at the wall with dismay. “Ardeth?” she questioned, her voice full of worry as Jabrail was beginning to cry.
In answer, he smiled down at her. “Do you trust me, wife?” he dared, a lilt in his voice and a sparkle in his eyes.
“You know I do.” Her voice steadied and she looked up at him, her blue eyes showing no fear as she slipped her pinkie into Jabrail’s mouth, letting him suckle on it. The baby instantly quieted.
Ardeth dipped his head slightly and cupped Jabrail’s cheek in his hand. “He is brave, like you, Caroline. Now, my son, behold a gift from the ancestors.”
Turning away, Ardeth searched the roughened, peeling surface of the wall, his hand brushing away clods of mud that had splattered onto it during one of Cairo’s few rainstorms. It was obvious he was looking for something specific, but exactly what no one could imagine. At last, he found whatever it was, and his hand fit into a depression carved into the underlying stone. Carrie was close enough to see that it fit his hand exactly, as if half of a glove.
He pushed hard on the wall, which at first, did nothing, but then, the ancient stones of a long forgotten gateway began to scrape against each other, counterweight against pivot, and the entire wall moved inwards, slowly at first, and then with increasing speed, exposing an opening barely two feet wide but reaching more than ten feet up.
Ardeth glanced over his shoulder towards Carrie and held his hand towards her. Again entrusting her life and the life of her son’s with the man she loved beyond words, she put her hand in his and followed him into the inky blackness beyond the secret doorway.
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“Mistress…. mistress…” the young girl’s voice was insistent and the rapping on the door without relief, and Najima sighed. Obviously the child wanted her, and, as she had given instructions NOT to be disturbed, she knew something of importance had happened. She groaned and pushed her head back into the pillows before smiling apologetically into the face of the man lying atop her, his elbows braced as they began the final dance towards their mutual pleasure.
“I am afraid, my dear, that we will have to continue this later. It would seem I am needed.”
The man puffed out his cheeks as he blew out a long, exasperated breath. They were just getting to the best part, after all. “Very well, when you’re popular….” He had already entered her and now lifted his hips upwards to extract his rather disappointed organ from her body before rolling to one side. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him before letting her rise, however, planting an adoring kiss on her left shoulder blade. “But I’ll demand proper reparation for this later.”
Najima patted his hand, completely returning the affection. “I would expect no less of you, and I swear you’ll be justly compensated. Let me up now, as I must see what is so important as to disturb us.” She stood, wrapped a peacock blue silk robe about herself, and called to the girl waiting on the other side of the door, “What is it, Nali?”
The girl was obviously flustered, her cheeks red as she hurried to explain why she had disturbed the mistress of the house. “The passageway from the souk, mistress. The old catacomb entrance…someone has opened it. The warning bell rang. The guards are already waiting, but I was sent to fetch you, mistress. Forgive the intrusion…”
“You did right, Nali, thank you.” Najima’s eyebrow lifted upwards as she answered the girl. She had no idea that the old warning system, a bell so ancient it was nearly rusted through, even worked. Obviously it had, and just as obviously, she realized who had to be in the passageway, for so very few knew of its existence. A slow smile crept across her lovely features as she softly laughed. She reassured the maid further. “Do not worry. These are friends. Tell the others I will be there momentarily.” As the girl ran down the stairs, Najima wondered if the ancient iron door would open as the basement it opened into was damp, and the door itself hadn’t been used in years; the last time she saw it, it was rusted shut.
Then she widened her smile as she looked towards the bed at the man who had nearly fallen asleep face down in her pillows. He was starting to snore, and she laughed. “And you, wake up. You need to get dressed. After all, it’s been months since you were in the village, and I am certain they will all be glad to see you.”
He cracked one eye open and groaned. “Bloody hell…. I’d really rather just take a nap. I’ll see them tomorrow. What’s one more day?” Najima dressed quickly and tossed a pair of Western-style tweed trousers onto the man’s face. She knew he didn’t mean his cavalier dismissal of his friends. He had spoken of nothing but since the message that Ardeth was bringing them to Cairo had arrived from Khartoum.
The drowsy man sputtered and shoved the pants out of the way, indignant at the insult. “There’s no need for that, I was getting up. I was getting up.” To prove his point, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and gestured at his feet. “There. See? I’m up. My feet are down.”
Najima ran a comb through her raven hair and pulled it back with a bejeweled clip. She did not want it to look as if she had just been in bed with her lover, which, of course was just what she had been. She adjusted her robe, slipped on her shoes and gave one last look at the man now fastening the buttons on his shirt. She couldn’t help but smile as he had the buttons mismatched with the holes. He was endearing in many ways, she found, and most importantly, he made her laugh more than any other man ever had. He was also a skillful lover, which had surprised her greatly. It was good, she decided, after all these years of dealing with men, to find one that held surprises. Opening her door, she called over her shoulder; “I will see you downstairs in a few minutes, Jonathan.” Then she left, pulling it closed behind her.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He waved his hand at the door. “I’ll be right there.” He then spun around as he looked at the floor. “Where’d my other cufflink get off to…?”
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The Cult of the Cybeline – Chapter 40 (coming soon)