The Serpent's Veil

The Holy City

The Almaki souq was situated on the outskirts of Mecca, about an hour's walk from the city centre, where thousands of pilgrims circled the Kaaba at this very moment, their hands stretched out in reverence, devotion, and respect. Khaya shielded her eyes from the sun, which had just begun its descent. As they walked along one of the main roads of the souq, Khaya's mouth fell open in awe. She had never seen so many people in one place.

The streets ran through the souq in a neat gridded pattern, and along them people flowed like water, barely stopping for breath. The place was filled with buzzing chatter, shouting, and the pulse of life. There were massive tents shading the area, and wide open roads for carts and pedestrians alike. As she and the Bedouin continued on their way, now riding side by side, Khaya caught whiffs of scents from the different caravans and tents which lined the street – spicy amber and choking jasmine and subtle rose flower oil. She had expected to be bombarded with the smell of horse and camel excrement, seeing as the central market square was full of them. It was a pleasant surprise to her senses.

The animation of the people caught her eye. There were men she assumed were slave owners, their heads wrapped in bright saffron and blue turbans, sashes of silk around their waists and swords at their hips. They held themselves with authority, barking out instructions and orders to their servants. Khaya spotted a massive group of women with heavy gold jewellery hanging from their necks and ears, their eyes coated with black kohl and hair curled and decorated with flowers and other jewels. They wore flame coloured, figure hugging tunics with long rounded necklines which exposed the edge of their shoulders. Their sirwals shimmered with each movement. They wore no shoes.

"Who are all those girls?!" Khaya gasped, pointing and looking at the Bedouin for an answer.

"Court dancers and entertainers. Doubtlessly they will become members of some Emir's harem by the end of the week."

Khaya couldn't take her eyes off them. Each and every one of them glowed like a gem beneath the sun, shimmering and enchanting. Some of them smiled, even laughed, engaged in conversation with one another. They did not look like slaves.

They would be sold, traded like animals for a bag of coins. Two men would go home richer – the slave owner with his dinars and the customer with his women. A twisting sensation wrapped around Khaya's lungs.

"They are so beautiful. They don't deserved to be replaced with coins."

The Bedouin paused, then uttered a bellowing laugh. "Those girls are lucky. They will be sold for a high price to a rich man, a man who can provide for and look after them. They will lead good lives. Their children will be protected and treated well."

Khaya's lips parted, ready to argue, but no words came. As much as she disliked the idea, the Bedouin's words made sense.

They were passing by the women, now so close that Khaya could make out their individual differences. Perhaps these women did not have power over their fate or in their fists, but in their beauty.

Perhaps there was more to power than fists and men.

"Girl, this way," the Bedouin said, bringing her back to the present moment. They circled around the main square and turned down the next road. Everything looked more or less the same, but here there seemed to be fewer slaves and more slave owners and other official looking people.

"Where are we going?"

The Bedouin pointed to a closed purple tent which was much smaller than most of the others. "We are going to get you ready for the market."

Khaya frowned, her grip tightening on the reins. "What do you mean get me ready?"

The Bedouin gave her a tired look. "Do you think anyone will look at you in your current garb? Did you see those girls, how easily you noticed them? Their owner has done well. We must do better."