Since I was in Bukhara a couple of weeks ago, I thought I'd post a piece from my Arabian Nights novel Heart of Flame. My hero and heroine, Rafiq and Taqla, travel to that city on the Silk Road to pass on a message from a dead god to a woman they don't know. They get taken prisoner and tied up for questioning. Sorry, it's not a very rude bit!
(I am ever so slightly peeved that I didn't really describe Bukhara itself in that book ... if I wrote it now I'd have a lot more material to work with!)
She didn’t have long to think about it, to her surprise. Within a few minutes the door opened again and in walked Vizier Najib. He was a big, handsome man, some part of her recognized grudgingly. The grey in his beard did not hide the breadth of his shoulders or the fact that he stalked like a leopard. Around his lean waist was a thickly embroidered sash into which was thrust a curved Turk-style dagger and a scabbarded scimitar. He placed a goblet of wine down on the table and looked at them both thoughtfully.
“Leave us,” he told the guard. Then when the three of them were alone, he folded his arms over his chest. “I have at least an hour before the Amir is due to admit the throng into his august presence and will require my advice. The notion occurred to me—why should I not spend it with two disturbers of the peace? So, who will talk to me?” He glanced at Taqla and smiled. “Not you, I think.” His gaze flitted back to Rafiq. “You then.”
“Right Hand of the Amir,” Rafiq said, guardedly. His face was bruised and his lip cut and swollen.
“So who are you?”
“My name is Rafiq ibn-Jurraia al-Dimashq, and I’m a merchant. Ask at the caravanserai for those who will vouch for me.”
“I will. A merchant selling what?”
“Nothing at the moment. Our caravan was washed away by a flash flood in a wadi, our camels drowned, our companions scattered. We came to Bokhara seeking shelter.”
“Really? A fine story. Now tell me why you tried to bring a sorceress into the Amir’s presence.”
“A sorceress? Her? As I told you, she’s my wife.”
Najib waved a hand negligently and walked over to Taqla, looking her in the face with some interest. She lowered her eyes, not out of shyness but out of desire that he see her as nothing but a respectable and wronged woman. It didn’t work for a moment.
“She’s a witch.” He ran his hands over the pouches hanging at her belt, taking the time to measure the shape of her waist and hips and slide a hand between her legs. She jerked in shock.
“Sayyid, you are mistaken,” said Rafiq very coldly.
The vizier walk around her with a knowing smile. “A fine collection of rings you have there,” he remarked, taking her bound hands in his.
Taqla clenched her fists, feeling the cord bite into her wrists.
Najib sighed. “I can always cut them off,” he murmured into her ear and she shivered, knowing she had little choice. When she opened her hands again, he stripped the rings from her fingers, examined them one by one and laid them out in a line upon the table. It was painful to be parted from the magical tools she relied upon. She could feel sweat gathering at her temples.
“We came only to ask the favour of the Amir,” said Rafiq through gritted teeth. “We mean no trouble in Bokhara.”
The vizier ignored that. He returned to Taqla yet again. “Any more?” he asked her, reaching for her throat. Under her stout outer jacket, which he tugged open, she was wearing a high-necked shirt of fine cotton. He took that between his hands and ripped it, baring her breastbone. Taqla tried to swivel away, but he grabbed her shoulder with a heavy hand, pinning her in place so he could grope under the torn fabric.
“Get your hands off her!” Rafiq roared.
“You have a hasty temper, friend,” said Najib, squeezing Taqla’s breast. “Very nice,” he added, eyes glittering, as she protested through the sodden gag. He pinched her nipple, twisting it painfully, and then, just as abruptly, he let go and walked away, confronting Rafiq eye to eye. “She’s most appealing, isn’t she? Have you had her in the form of a boy yet? She can do that, you know. She can take any form that pleases you.”
Taqla, her right nipple stinging and swollen, nearly choked as she tried to draw gasping breaths through her gag. She felt her eyes fill with welling tears and she swallowed wildly, her jaw aching. Meanwhile Rafiq opened his mouth, very obviously to utter an imprecation as offensive as humanly possible, but then bit down on the words, his breath hissing through his bared teeth.
“Talk to me, my friend,” said Najib lazily. “Do you understand your situation? I am the vizier here and it’s my position to protect the Amir. He’s an old, frail man who just wishes to be left alone to enjoy his hashish and his women. Tell me what you two were planning here…or believe me I will do things to the girl that you will not enjoy watching.”
Rafiq snapped his head back in frustration, banging it against the pillar. “I’m a merchant—a trader!”
“And the witch?”
“My bodyguard,” he said, his grin belying the cold hate in his eyes.
The vizier laughed appreciatively. “Better. What were you planning to do?”
“I carry a message, that’s all, for the ruler of Bokhara.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s something I’m often paid to do when I travel—take messages.”
“Show me.”
“It’s not written down.”
“Then what have you been paid to say?”
“I can’t tell you that. It’s for the recipient alone.”
“From whom?”
“Again, I cannot say.”
Dazed and frantic, Taqla was aware that Rafiq had remembered her warnings that the instructions of the god should be carried out very literally—if the message were to reach Adhur-Anahid through gossip or a third party, the compact would certainly be void.
“That’s…very interesting.” The vizier leaned in closer, and from the expression on his face he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. “Now, you see, you have piqued my curiosity. What do I have to do to get you to talk, my friend?”
He sank his hand into Rafiq’s crotch. Taqla stopped breathing. Rafiq seemed to gain several inches of height as his spine straightened and all expression left his face. The two men stared into each other’s eyes, faces almost touching.
“Ah now, no protests this time?” The vizier chuckled lightly. “In all honesty you’re as much to my taste as the little sorceress, friend. Why don’t I cut out the bit where she gets hurt and just move straight on to hurting you? Or do you like it rough?” His hand, buried in the loose cloth of Rafiq’s trousers, moved with lavish purpose.
Buy "Heart of Flame"
The most beautiful woman in all Arabia has been abducted by a djinni - and only forbidden magic can bring about her rescue.
Taqla the sorceress lives in comfortable secrecy, until she agrees to help the handsome traveller Rafiq find the kidnapped daughter of the Amir. They set off together on a journey fraught with magic and peril, though a landscape of ancient desert ruins, terrible monsters and deception. With so many secrets to keep, Taqla cannot afford to trust Rafiq – and yet she must, with her life.
In the meantime, the captive Ahleme must try to fend off the attentions of the terrifying djinni who wishes to father upon her a new saviour of the Djinn race. Can Ahleme survive her imprisonment? Can Taqla really bring herself to help Rafiq win Ahleme back, when she is hopelessly in love with him herself? Can she trust him not to betray her, when sorcery is a crime punishable by death? Passion may yet betray them all.
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