Hadder: Heather, heath
Cerberean: Of or pertaining to or resembling Cerberus
Bazaar: In the East an exchange marketplace or assemblage of shops where goods are exposed for sale
—–
‘You there, stop!’
The soldier cantered forward, his stallion blazing a brilliant white matched only by the sheen of his brass chest plate. Plumes of ceremonial feathers sprung from his tightly fitted helmet, blowing like hadder in the early morning breeze. Slipping from the horse’s back, he gave his sword handle a quick half-tug to make sure it wouldn’t stick if he needed it. A deep breath helped muster a vague air of authority; the soldier approached the front of the caravan.
Immediately, he saw the two men leaning into each other, exchanging quick, secret whispers. Both were of swarthy, middle-eastern appearance, their dark hair thick as gorse, both beards immaculately oiled. They seemed nervous, but after all these were treacherous times.
The war had not long ended and it was uncommon to see men of a darker hue so far from home. Rumors of kidnappings were already rife and to make things worse a high-ranking official’s wife – a spoil of war, beautiful and exotic – had gone missing the night before, meaning patrols had been doubled.
‘Where are you going my friends?’ called the soldier, his voice loud and crisp, a deeply sonorous birdsong.
He had been patrolling the border since daybreak, cerberean in his duty yet encountering no one amongst the trickling, sandy hours. Boredom and youth had dulled the soldier’s sense of duty. He’d stopped the Arabs because it was simply something to pass the time with.
The whispering ceased and the two men peered inquisitively at the soldier, his pale skin and tight crop of blond hair a brutal reminder that they were far from home.
‘Salaam, friend,’ called one of the men, older and with thick, heavyset eyebrows. His companion was younger and had greasy, sweaty skin. The older man continued, his tone sharp, ‘why do you stop us?’
The soldier was taken aback by such directness. ‘What brings you this way, so early in the morning?’
The younger Arab looked quickly at his companion, nervous, eager to move on. A light sheen glistened on his face, as though he were a reflection; the tight curls of his beard, dark and foreboding ripples. The older Arab dismissed his apparent concerns with a hard look of annoyance.
‘My friend, we are simple traders seeking to reach the bazaar at Damascus by nightfall. We are spice merchants. Nothing more, nothing less.’
Damascus? The soldier knew the journey well, having made it many times as a child. There was no way in hell these traders would ever reach Damascus by nightfall on this route. If they were even going to Damascus…
‘You have a long…journey ahead of you – I would hate for your goods to spoil… May I take stock of your wares?’
‘Of course,’ replied the Arab, his voice now perfumed and cloying, intoxicatingly sickly and sprinkled with a hint of knowing malice. ‘Please sink your teeth into our forbidden fruits…’
The solider didn’t like the man’s tone. Something was off. He pulled back the caravan’s curtains to reveal a dark skinned woman, beautiful and exotic, teeth bared, eyes fearful and dagger drawn.
She hissed just four words, ‘I’m not going back…’
Stories On The Sofa 