"Mark down the boy for gathering to the janissaries," Rashid told the chief of his four guards. "Take the girl now.
"And next year, you filthy swine, when I come for our taxes and demand silver, you had best give me gold or you'll see yourselves joining your daughter on the auction block."
One of Rashid's guards went to Petra. He took handcuffs and a chain from a pouch that hung at his side. The cuffs he ratcheted shut around her wrists, tightly enough to make her wince. The chain he attached to the cuffs.
Hans lunged. "Get your hands off my sister!"
The guard with Petra ignored the boy; that's what the other guard was for. That other guard caught Hans halfway through his lunge, wrapping one arm around the boy's waist. He then put Hans' feet back on the floor, stood and slapped him across the face several times, hard enough to stun and draw blood. The guard then knocked the boy down as his mother wailed and his stoop-shouldered father hung his head in helpless shame.
Petra, who had begun to cry when the cuffs were put on her, screamed when she saw her brother hurt. A slap from Rashid—hard enough to hurt without damaging the merchandise—quieted her.
She was sobbing as they led her away for her first ride in an automobile.
A crowd gathered outside the Minden's hovel, curious but too frightened to help. After all, what help could they give in a country no longer their own?
"No blood for oil! No blood for oil!"
It wasn't a huge crowd, gathered under the crooked-topped tower that was the town's most well-known symbol and landmark. No larger than one might expect in a small city like Kitzingen, the crowd, a mixture of Germans and Moslem guest workers and residents, legal or otherwise, chanted, "No to war . . . no war for oil . . ."
Of the Germans, some were principled pacifists, some leftists of various stripes. Some were just young boys gravitating to young girls. Of the Moslems, few if any had any connection to terrorism. They did, of course, have some connection to their fellow Moslems, wherever they might live. And some of those fellow Moslems had been and were plainly on the target list for the armed forces of the United States.
The television cameras ate it up.
The demonstrators had been more enthusiastic earlier in the year, back when it had still seemed possible to dissuade the United States from the illegal, immoral, imperialist venture its despised President seemed set on. That possibility had proved illusory.
Today was a particularly unpleasant one for them as all the newspapers were carrying photographs of the American military helping a less passive crowd in Baghdad pull down a giant statue of the dictator, Saddam Hussein. Most of the crowd found the pictures, as they found the easy American success and the Iraqis' rapturous welcome, "annoying."
Gabrielle von Minden was annoyed, certainly. She stood in the snowy cold of an early German spring holding a protest sign. It wasn't the cold that annoyed her though. Rather, like the rest of the crowd, what annoyed, or infuriated, was that their best hopes for an Anglo- American defeat in Iraq had been blighted. It was just so . . .
unfair
. Bastard Americans. How she hated those arrogant bastards.
No, that's not true,
she corrected herself.
I hate their government and the power they wield. The Americans I've known, even the soldiers, were mostly pretty nice people. I mustn't forget that; it is a government and a set of policies I loathe. I must not ever let myself begin to loathe an entire people.
That said, or thought, Gabrielle didn't feel the need for restraint in her message of protest. Lifting her sign high and waving it, she increased the volume of her chant,
"Kein Blut für Oel. Kein Blut für Oel. Kein Blut . . . "
Later, chilled to the bone and shivering, Gabrielle and several friends repaired to a nearby coffee shop. It seemed like half the protestors had had the same idea. It was not a large coffee shop and still it held them all easily. That, too, was a little annoying.
Ah, well,
Gabrielle thought,
maybe I can't save the world but at least I can
try.
She smiled up at the waiter, a handsome, olive-skinned boy about her own age, and gave her order. "And please, might I have some cognac in the coffee?"
"Will Asbach-Uralt do, miss?" the waiter asked.
"Wonderfully," Gabi answered.
Mahmoud didn't feel any of the irritation many of his co- religionists might have felt at being asked to serve alcohol. His Islam was pretty nominal. In fact he was known to take a drink himself from time to time.
And why not? He'd
come
to Germany to escape from Islam.
"Surely then, miss," he answered, returning her smile. "Right away."
Gabrielle looked at the waiter, saw that his name tag read, "Mahmoud," and thought,
Yum
.
"They [those who claim Islam is against slavery] are merely writers. They are ignorant, not scholars . . . Whoever says such things is an infidel. Slavery is a part of Islam. Slavery is part of jihad, and jihad will remain as long there is Islam."
— Sheik Saleh Al-Fawzan, Saudi cleric, author of the bestselling textbook,
al Tawheed
(Monotheism) and imam of the Prince Mataeb Mosque, Riyadh, 2003 (circa 1423 AH)
"Nobody's going to bid on a crying girl," the auctioneer-
cum
-slave dealer said to Petra, lifting her chin with the quirt he'd carried for so long he was hardly aware of it as anything but an extension of his right hand. "Or, at least, nobody you would
want
to bid on you. Do you understand me, girl?"
Lips crinkling and quivering with deepest sorrow, Petra sniffed and rubbed at her face, trying to push back the tears. She nodded her head three or four times, briskly, and answered, "I'll . . . try. But I miss my
famileee
." The last word ended in a wail that Petra, herself, cut off abruptly. "I'll try," she said.
The auctioneer smiled at her and answered her nod with one of his own. He'd seen it so many times before.
And yet slaves must come from somewhere. They don't replace themselves, generally. This child, at least, has a chance of finding a
reasonably
happy position. How much worse for the ones who are older, the ones over nine?
"That's a good girl," he said. "I'll tell you what; let's make a deal. If you can stop crying I'll do my best to get you into a decent family that won't make you work too hard and won't beat you. And—" the auctioneer reached into a pocket of his robe and pulled out a bar of
halawa
, waving it slightly under Petra's nose—"if you'll show me how well you can smile, I'll give you this."
Petra hadn't been fed since being taken from her family. Though the slaves were watered, feeding slaves who weren't expected to be here in the stables long was something of a wasted and unnecessary expense. She licked her lips at the sight of the bar of honey-sweetened, crushed sesame.
"Can you smile for me?"
Slowly, and with difficulty, Petra forced her face into something that was approximately a smile.
"There's a good girl!" the auctioneer congratulated, patting her gently on the head. He took her little hand in his own larger one and placed the sweet in it. "Here, this may help you keep that pretty smile."
"What's the reserve on this one?"
The speaker was a Moslem, Abdul Mohsem, a man, a merchant, in his late thirties, with a substantial roll of prosperity-born fat about his middle. Stealing a glance upward from where she knelt on the straw of her cell, Petra thought he looked kindly, despite the rifle slung across his back.
Few of the
Nazrani
in the province even had the wherewithal to buy a slave. Fewer still were interested, though some were, notably the brothel keepers. These sometimes took a chance on a pretty girl, even if she was still far too young to put to service. Abdul Mohsem knew this, and hated the idea.
True to his word, the slave dealer had sought out a decent family for the girl. Indeed, he'd sought out the most decent patriarch he knew in the community.
"Ten gold dinar," the slaver answered, then, seeing that Adbul didn't blanch, added, "plus twenty silver dirhem."
Abdul Mohsem scowled, inducing the dealer to further amend, "But for you, just ten gold dinar."
"Ten gold dinar seems fair," Abdul said, "but I wasn't scowling over the price; I was scowling over the fact."
"The fact?"
"Facts, actually. One, that we sell young girls and, two, that if I don't buy this one she'll end up in a brothel."
"It is not for us to forbid what Allah permits," answered the dealer, who considered himself, not without reason, to be a pious man.
"Neither does Allah
require
of us everything that he permits," observed Abdul Mohsem, still scowling.
To that the dealer shrugged. It was not for him to question the words or the workings of the Almighty. "Do you want the girl or not?" he asked.
Without answering, Abdul Mohsem knelt down and pushed aside Petra's long blond hair. With his thumb he brushed off a smudge on the girl's cheek.
"Would you like to come home with me, and become a companion to my daughter, Besma?" he asked, smiling.
Shyly and fearfully, forcing a smile, Petra nodded.
"Be happier, girl," Abdul chided. "We'll not work you too hard, nor force you to give up your faith. And my Besma is sweet, if maybe a little too strong-willed. You'll like her. And it's better than the alternative."
Of that, Petra had little doubt, even if she was hazy on the details.
Leading Petra by the hand, Adbul Mohsem brought her through the Marktplatz, past a dozen or so tables where men chatted while sipping at thick Turkish coffee. Ultimately they arrived at a large house guarded by a doorkeeper in one of the town's better residential neighborhoods.
The doorkeeper nodded respectfully at Abdul Mohsem, smiled down at the girl, and then held the heavy oaken door open for them. Abdul Mohsem's was a happy household; smiles were not rare.
"Besma!" the patriarch called, "Besma, light of my life and pearl of my heart, come here."
Petra heard the pitter-patter of feet little or no larger than her own, coming down a hallway to the expansive foyer in which she stood with her new master. She soon caught sight of a girl, about her own size if a little older, very pretty with huge brown eyes and slightly olive skin. The girl's smile was brilliant, and why not? "Besma" meant "smile."
Besma took one look at Petra and began to dance around the foyer, shouting, "Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh, Father, a
friend
for me! Oh, she's beautiful; she's wonderful! And I've been so
lonely
. Thank you! Thank you!
Thank you!
"
Seeing Besma jumping and twisting in the air, her feet kicking lightly, set Petra to laughing, shyly at first but growing with each new step, leap, twist and kick. Finally, worried that she might offend, she covered her mouth and forced herself to seriousness, pushing her chin down to her chest.
Besma, however, was having none of
that
. She stopped her dancing, walked over to Petra and took her by the hand. "I only have one sister," the Moslem girl said, "Aisha. And she's a lot older than me, with her own family now. I miss having a sister at home. Will you be like my sister?"
Cars were no longer a matter of right for an American. Between the strains of the war, the taxes, the limits on gaseous and liquid fuel and the priority the military had on it, not all Americans could afford an automobile. Of those who could, not all were permitted to own one. The country had changed in many ways over the last ninety years, and many of those changes were not for the better.
As a military officer, Hamilton was in the privileged class. He
could
have a car. He was allowed to have one, though, not for his own pleasure and convenience. Rather, he was allowed to have one to take care of military business at personal expense and to ensure he could make it in to his unit in the event of an alert.
The car drove itself, leaving Hamilton free to interlace the fingers of both hands between his head and the headrest, and simply to relax. After the last couple of months, relaxation was something he would never take for granted again.