Dunes of Gor Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Three: Tea in the Tahari

“You look alarmed!” said the Bedouin raider as he reined his kaiila in fifteen yards from Javad and his men. “There is no need to be alarmed – we are Kavars! Now, if we were Aretai…” he spat onto the sand as he said that word, “then, yes, you would be right to be alarmed, for they are desert sleen of the worst kind, and not to be trusted. But rejoice! We are Kavars!”

“How reassuring,” said Javad as he leaned into his high saddle. “This is merely a courtesy call then, to ensure we are not bothered by Aretai bandits?”

“Something like that,” laughed the Bedouin as he rubbed his chin and gazed at the twenty Sardaukar, with their lances held upright. “Have you seen any Aretai recently during your travels?”

“No, I can’t say I have.”

“Of course not! That is because we hunt them through the desert! The sleen-like rascals would spend their days pillaging honest caravans if it were not for us.” 

“Is that so,” said Javad. 

“It is so,” said the man, nodding. 

“Then you have my gratitude, for it seems the patrols from Al Janish are somewhat lacking when it comes to finding and pursuing bandits.”

“Pah,” the Kavar raider waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “They can barely ride. They are an embarrassment to the desert. And what is more…” he leaned forward in his own high saddle, “I suspect some of them are dishonest enough to accept bribes!”

“You surprise me,” said Javad. 

“It is sadly true,” said the man with a nod. 

“And you do not accept bribes, then?” enquired Javad.

“Well, I wouldn’t call them bribes exactly…”

“Ah, it becomes clearer to me now,” said Javad.

“Occasionally caravan masters are so grateful for the assistance of me and my men that they insist on pressing lavish gifts into my hands.”

“I am sure they do.”

“What can I do? It would seem rude to spurn such tokens of good will and honest friendship.” 

“To be clear,” said Javad as he straightened up in his saddle and regarded over one hundred Kavar riders who formed a crescent shape around his caravan, “I possess no gifts that I may give, lavish or otherwise. I mention this only as a passing remark that you might find of slight interest.” 

“No gifts, you say?” The bandit gazed at the kurdah.

“No gifts,” repeated Javad. 

The desert air seemed still for a moment. Even the constant wind seemed to slacken as the men regarded one another across the short expanse of sand.

“I see your men all dress the same,” said the bandit as he regarded the uniforms of the Sardaukar. 

“We have similar tastes,” said Javad after a while. 

“What is in the kurdah?”

“A slave.”

“She must be a valuable slave to be transported alone across the desert, guarded by twenty one men.”

“She is a gift to a Khuda. And twenty one men seems appropriate, considering you have over a hundred.”

“I do?” the bandit grinned again, hardly even glancing at his riders in their long djellabas. “So I do. And you are only twenty one. Interesting. You say you have no gifts to give?”

“Let me explain something,” said Javad. “We are Sardaukar. The Emir’s personal guard. You have heard of us. You know our reputation. We have never surrendered.”

“You have sometimes died,” added the bandit with his customary grin.

“We have sometimes died, yes,” acknowledged Javad, “but we have ensured that our killers have paid the price of steel to bring us down. Each of my men will kill two of your men before he is cut down. You know that is true. Then when you next meet the Aretai, there will only be sixty of you. But that is not the end of the story. The Emir will not be happy to learn that the Kavar have killed his Sardaukar.”

“How will he know it is the Kavar?” enquired the bandit, politely.

“We travel through Kavar lands. I understand that the Aretai and other tribes fear to go there?”

“It is true. They are cowardly sleen,” said the bandit with a nod of his head.

“And so the Emir will send more Sardaukar to punish the Kavar.”

“Let him try,” laughed the bandit. “We will be elusive phantoms, riding here, there, and everywhere. Your men could spend several lifetimes trying to find us.”

Now Javad laughed. “We won’t need to. You will come to us after we have dug fortifications and you will then attack our fortified positions, giving us the advantage.”

“And why would we do something as stupid as that?”

“Because we will not even try to find you. We will simply occupy your wells. And we will fortify them with walls made of sandbags. And we will then wait, beside all your water, until thirst drives you to come and recapture them. And then you will throw yourselves at the spear formations of six legions of Sardaukar, dug in behind stout desert walls. And you will do so as thirst drives you to despair. The sands of the desert will run red with blood.”

Now there was a growling of anger throughout the crescent shape of men who faced the small troop of Sardaukar, but Javad remained upright on his kaiila, staring the bandit chief in the face.

“Or…” and then he slowly spread his hands wide and smiled, “we could perhaps share tea together?”

Silence reigned again until suddenly the bandit chief began to laugh once more. “Tea is good. Tea is always welcome. Do you have a woman to serve it?’

“I do.”

“Then tea it is. I confess, I was in no mood to kill you anyway. It is late afternoon, and late afternoon is a bad time for killing. Tea is better.”

“I have often thought so myself,” said Javad as he nodded for his men to relax in their stirrups. 

“My name is Hassan,” said the bandit. “Hassan of the Kavar.”

“And I am Javad Mohsen of Tor. You are welcome to share tea with us, my friend.’ 

Reyhan sat quietly in her slave kurdah. Outside men were talking and she strained to hear what they might be saying, but they were too far away to make out the words. She had no doubt that Javad and his men would lay down their lives to protect her – it would be a matter of honour to them – but they were heavily outnumbered. Even so, Reyhan knew that the bandits would be reluctant to engage in a fight that might leave them seriously weakened. There would always be other fights, and a seriously weakened band of raiders would soon be a target for stronger tribes. Provided Javad didn’t provoke them, there need not be a struggle. 

She shifted position slowly and carefully, trying not to make the bells jingle too much. Her fingers parted the curtains at the front of her kurdah a bare inch or so, just enough to allow her to peer outside. She saw the raiders grouped around her caravan, and far away she saw Javad speaking with a man who was presumably the leader. Tread carefully, Javad, she thought to herself, and we may make it out of here alive. 

Gradually the stand-off seemed to relax and she saw the men laughing. Then when they dismounted, she realised the time honoured tradition of drinking tea was going to take place. That would mean no hostilities, or so she hoped. But then the raider, Hassan, turned his head, perhaps hearing the soft jingle of bells as Reyhan stretched her cramped left leg, and he caught a glimpse of the kurdah curtain ever so slightly parted. Quickly, Reyhan drew it closed again, but not before her curiosity had been noticed. 

“Your slave has been watching us,” said Hassan as he sat down cross-legged while one of Javad’s men began to build a camp fire on which to boil tea. “I saw the curtain part.”

“She shouldn’t have done that,” said Javad. “She will be punished later.”

“Why not bring her out, now that we are both good friends who will share tea together? Let us see this girl that is to be a gift from the Shahzads?”

“I am sure you have seen plenty of slave girls. This one is nothing special.”

“Why not let me be the judge of that?” suggested Hassan. “Unless of course that kurdah contains something other than a slave? Something you wish to conceal from me, even though we share tea?” He looked disappointed.

“I assure you it contains nothing more than a slave girl,” said Javad, as water for the tea was now being prepared over a camp fire.

“I feel I am being considerate and courteous,” said Hassan. “But now I am growing suspicious. Please do not make me suspicious. You might not like me when I am suspicious.”

The men stared at one another for a while. The air around the camp, that had grown relaxed and peaceful, was now growing tense again. 

“Very well.” Javad rose to his feet and walked towards the slave kurdah. “Sarissa,” he called out. “Show yourself, girl.”

Inside the kurdah, Reyhan’s mouth felt dry. She had heard Javad’s command without hearing the conversation preceding it. He wanted her to reveal herself to the raiders? She had confidence the man would not betray her, otherwise she would never have placed her life in his hands to begin with, but she was worried what his might portend. 

“Now, Sarissa,” said Javad. “Or it will be the whip.”

Reyhan understood then that he was having to make a show of her deception. She would have to be resolute and play along, if only for a while. The bells on her ankle jingled as she parted the curtain again and emerged from the front of the canopy. Javad was waiting for her and before she might object or say something, he swept her up with both hands and swiftly deposited her on the stony sand. Reyhan looked out through the letterbox like slit of her haik, turning her head to the left and right because of the lack of peripheral vision. Everywhere she looked there were desert raiders, some mounted, some dismounted, but all watching her keenly with interest.

“A slave girl,” said Javad simply. “Nothing more. You have my permission to search the kurdah if you remain suspicious.”

“I see a woman, belled it seems, but covered in a black haik. How do I know she is a slave?” asked Hassan as he stood up.

“She wears a collar,” said Javad.

“Then let me see her. Let me see the collar. Surely it is not a question of modesty if she is a slave slut?”

Javad shrugged as if the matter was of little consequence to him. “Sarissa, remove your haik.”

Reyhan froze where she stood. The haik was the only thing she wore, other than the slave collar and the belled anklet. She was a free woman, and it was anathema for her to even contemplate undressing before men. Added to which, Reyhan was very self-conscious about her figure. Her hips, thighs and breasts were plump and fully rounded when compared to any of the slaves in the pens of Tor, and she had the beginning of a belly that would suit a girl trained for exotic belly dancing. It was the sort of belly that called out for a jingling coin belt. She felt sure she would be mocked and laughed at.

“The haik, Sarissa,” said Javad, without any show of compassion. “Or will I have to fetch a whip?”

“She seems reluctant,” said Hassan as he approached her.

“She is new to the collar. Not yet broken in.”

“If she needs some encouragement…” offered Hassan.

“No, see, her hands go to the fastenings of her haik as we speak.”

And so, fearing the desert bandit’s hands upon her body, Reyhan began to remove the haik, taking care not to rip the tiny fastenings. She stepped from the garment in shock, quickly covering her large breasts with one hand, and the space between her thighs with the other. Her long, glossy, dark mane of hair fell down around her shoulders, reaching almost to the small of her back. Softly she closed her eyes.

“As you see, she is collared,” said Javad. He gazed at Reyhan, admiring the plush curves of her body. She had a belly dancer’s body – large breasts that hung like ripe pears, wide hips, plump thighs, narrow waist, with a hint of belly that begged to have coins jingling across it. But he also watched her reaction to this, to being ordered to strip by the bandit. He smiled. She seemed calm, or at least to offer the semblance of calm. No doubt inside she was a knot of tension and fear, and that was understandable, but she did not cry out piteously, give herself over to hysteria or wail as other women might. 

I like this woman, thought Javad. She has strength and she endures. He saw her body jump as Hassan laid his hands on her rounded ass and ran them smoothly around her thighs. He saw her flinch as the raider then touched and stroked her large breasts, obviously liking what he saw. 

“There is no brand,” said Hassan as he examined the smoothness of the left thigh.

“That is for her master to do,” said Javad. “But she has been legally enslaved." 

“She seems very shy,” said Hassan. “Lift your wrists above your head, girl and cross them there. Place your weight on one foot and raise the other to its toes.”

Moving stiffly, with no training in being slave graceful, Reyhan did this. 

“Ah!” said Hassan as he gazed at the way that position lifted those large breasts and stretched her mid-section. “Exquisite.” But then he frowned a little. “Why are her eyes closed?”

“She doesn’t know,” said Javad. It had just occurred to him. The nervousness was natural, but it had a different source than he might have expected. He could read the girl’s body well. She was scared and frightened , but he sensed she trusted him. He was a warrior and he had sworn to protect her. She believed in him. So, no, her state of nerves was something else altogether. 

“She doesn’t know?” enquired Hassan as he placed his hands on her hips.

“No, she doesn’t know.” Javad walked towards Reyhan and spoke to her. “Open your eyes, Sarissa. Look at me.”

She did so. The eyes were large and fringed with lovely thick lashes. Her mouth was full and ripe and easy to kiss. “You honestly have no idea, have you Sarissa?’

“What?” she said softly, afraid to move as Hassan played now with her long mane of glossy dark hair.

“Your body. You are self-conscious about your curves. Your hips, thighs, ass and breasts. You don’t know how it is viewed in the Tahari. You think you would fetch a low price on an auction block in the desert. That is not so. Hassan – tell her.”

“You would sell for a high price, girl,” said the bandit. “Men of the Tahari favour body shapes such as yours. Those skinny girls from the north – pah – they need feeding up before we will even touch them. But you… you would be the jewel in my seraglio.” He grinned. “If I had a seraglio. Sadly, times are hard...” He raised a long lock of Reyhan’s hair to his mouth and kissed it. 

“Oh!” Reyhan looked shocked. She had been ashamed of her plumpness for some time, comparing herself always to the slim athletic girls that her companion owned in Tor. It had never occurred to her that men of the desert favoured full bodied women with generous curves. 

“So now you do know,” said Javad as he made it obvious to Reyhan that he was not staring at her while she was naked. She had not moved like a slave might at the moment of being stripped and touched. There was an air of poise and dignity to her still, even through her fear. Javad liked and respected that. She had done what she had needed to do to avoid a confrontation. She had endured this indignity so that Javad’s men would not have to fight. Javad was going to do her the courtesy then, of not feasting his eyes on her too much while she was vulnerable. 

“Hurry back to your kurdah, Sarissa,” said Javad as he gazed at the sand at his feet. “Go now. And stay there.” 

Naked, with breasts and ass jiggling and bells jingling, Reyhan ran across the hot stones and sand, back towards the safety of her kaiila.