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The Sultana's Harem
Once upon a time there was an amazing city on the trades routes of the ancient silk merchants. Along the Silk Road and through the desert the caravans would pass many places of wondrous sights. From oasis cities such as Kashgar, Turpan and Dunhuang in China to Samarkand and Bukhara in Uzbekistan. Yet there was one such thriving place, just off the beaten track where the men avoided. For traders had heard tales and rumours and they didn't want to tempt their good fortunes.
They'd all heard of The Harem, but none dared visit the proximity. It was said the prettiest or manliest of men were taken there and never left again. On lonely cold nights in the Bedouin tents strong courageous warriors shivered at the whispers of the owner of that Harem. They called herالجانب المظلم من القمر which in Arabic means the dark face of the moon, for to look on her was to be devoid of light and hope. She was a great and powerful Sultana, but she had a very dark side. Too high to be toppled, too cunning to be thwarted, so the local tribesmen tolerated her unusual whims and proclivities. Indeed, some desperate and cruel parents might visit her palace to sell their unruly sons to the rich owner either for her guard, or in the hope she was attracted to them and in the mood to add to the swelling numbers of her suitors, lovers and husbands. Either way, for those chosen there was little reward in a life with the Sultana. To be in her employ was to know misery and sorrow, but to be in fear of the reprisals for insubordination or refusal of orders.
Hisham was a blue eyed thief from the poor streets of some back water Turkish village. He'd stolen along in the great caravans, jumping from one camp to another doing odd jobs for the traders. He'd steal what he could and gamble with the hired soldiers who were paid to keep the merchants safe from bandits. He had fine golden hair and skin so pale they often mistook him for a Western prince, for he loved to spread lies and gossip. He would pay handsomely for the right lies to be whispered in the best ears. Always to his advantage, and always telling outrageous tales of his derring-do. That he was a rich ostracised son sent on by his parents to earn his own fame and fortune. Or else that he'd been sent away to find a wife to give his parents an heir to their vast family fortune. All lies.
Now Hisham was young, barely out of his teens and too self assured to think much of the rumours of The Harem. He'd spread enough tales himself to know that half truths and slander would ruin many a good man (or woman in this case). But he was keen and curious to know more of this rich heiress who held such power in this male dominated region. She was feared more than respected, and he liked power. Perhaps she'd entertain the notion of a visit from a good looking foreign prince seeking a wife from a noble house in the East. He'd like to see for himself what went on in that palace. He'd heard talk of Polyandry before, a woman having more than one husband, but it was rare. Was she some beauty or as dark and foreboding as they called her? He must see for himself, so he stole three camels and some fine clothes and set out for her fabled palace.
Now it is said by the Wise Men of the East, that only a blind fool goes in search of a star when they only have to look up to see the Heavens. Indeed, Hisham was impetuous and greedy. His adolescence made him inexperienced in many ways and things, though he'd never openly admit it. Of course he bragged and spoke of things he knew not, but he'd never actually known love or pleasures of the flesh. He was devout in some ways, for his upbringing had been strict and cruel. Many of the scars on his body were punishments for wicked choices he had made, and the weight of those wounds hung heavy on his soul. His mind was given to fantastical ideas, and he longed for adventure and forbidden romance.
The palace of the Sultana was of a white stone that shone on the outskirts of the desert by the remote mountain range. Many people visited both day and night, for women held no fear but for their menfolk, and the owner was a rich and generous hostess. She liked the finer things in life, was a patron of the Arts and an avid pupil of many teachers. They say her mind is as veracious as her appetites, but few would ever double cross her. For indeed, she had a vengeful temper, and to disappoint her was to give up on life. A dozen spikes along the flame lit path to her mighty wooden gates always held a head of some unfortunate who'd incurred her wrath. Hisham looked on undaunted, paid them no mind... half believing his own hype that he was a rich suitor from a far away and desirable land.
It is said The Harem remains tucked away in the heart of the palace gardens behind impregnable walls. Guards never go inside, and those who do never come out again. Inside nobody truly knows what goes on, but some mutilated maidens who serve and carry out tasks within it's walls cry at night for the things they've seen. They can never talk, nor would they even if they could. What little life they had would be over, their freedom ended if they didn't stay loyal. Scraps of paper had been found in empty clay vessels that the wine merchant took, too chilling to be given credence. He would burn them and keep quiet, only telling his wife at night the half of it; even she had the common sense to just pray to Allah to put an end to the debauchery and sadism. Lies? All lies? Hisham was the Master of Lies, and none could surpass him. Oh the arrogance of youth.
And so it was that a juicy morsel found his way willingly into the web of a dark predator. She would hear his pleas for an audience, she would welcome this dark wolf to her door. She was used to making lapdogs of even the most feared warriors and leaders, young and old. It amused her he had the audacity to think she would dilute her pure Arabic blood with such as he. So she had him join her in one of her more private gardens, lit by Moroccan style lanterns and tiny fires with herbs burning to keep away the insects. The pools were vast, the water dancing in light and casting a spell over tired and hungry eyes.
And in he came, a young peacock, all bravado and puffed up importance in his fine clothes of local silks. He was handsome, she'd grant him that, but she'd had her fill of beauty a long time ago. No, what interested her more were the scars she could glimpse on his torso, hidden behind the clothing, hints of something more intriguing to her. She liked the promise of them, the story of their dark revealings. She'd left beauty as a pleasure a long time ago, to her the unique, the unusual, that was where her tastes now lye.
Hisham saw two dark brown eyes from behind her veil. Her fine robes outlined a comely shape, but there was a scrutiny in those eyes he was drawn to. They cried danger, they raised his hackles and his whole body was on alert. He knew a lioness when he saw one. He'd read many a man's eyes at the gaming table to read their intentions. Hers was of interest, of hunger and want. It made him nervous, he'd need his best skills here, no frivolous half-hearted promises.
But oh she was rich, the jewels at her wrist, the servants at her side dressed in the finest cloth. She ate pomegranate cake and sipped honeyed wine that was handed to her as she signalled to a half naked man tied by chains to a golden neck collar. This was decadence, this was oddness and excitement all in one. He took it all in with those pale blue eyes of his, and he smiled. She smiled too, eagerly appraising his openly shocked expression.
She tugged slightly on the lead and her beautiful attendant instantly dropped to her side on one knee. She patted his head like a faithful hound, ran her well manicured nails softly over his bare shoulders. He shivered at the touch and the visitor watched it, like a hawk seeing the morsel in the gloved hands of it's owner. Give it time, everything has its moment, and in the end every wild bird comes to her for handling. She is the teacher, the trainer, the owner of such exotic and pretty pets. Wild as they may be, none are as ferocious as her.
© .Garry Saunders
They'd all heard of The Harem, but none dared visit the proximity. It was said the prettiest or manliest of men were taken there and never left again. On lonely cold nights in the Bedouin tents strong courageous warriors shivered at the whispers of the owner of that Harem. They called herالجانب المظلم من القمر which in Arabic means the dark face of the moon, for to look on her was to be devoid of light and hope. She was a great and powerful Sultana, but she had a very dark side. Too high to be toppled, too cunning to be thwarted, so the local tribesmen tolerated her unusual whims and proclivities. Indeed, some desperate and cruel parents might visit her palace to sell their unruly sons to the rich owner either for her guard, or in the hope she was attracted to them and in the mood to add to the swelling numbers of her suitors, lovers and husbands. Either way, for those chosen there was little reward in a life with the Sultana. To be in her employ was to know misery and sorrow, but to be in fear of the reprisals for insubordination or refusal of orders.
Hisham was a blue eyed thief from the poor streets of some back water Turkish village. He'd stolen along in the great caravans, jumping from one camp to another doing odd jobs for the traders. He'd steal what he could and gamble with the hired soldiers who were paid to keep the merchants safe from bandits. He had fine golden hair and skin so pale they often mistook him for a Western prince, for he loved to spread lies and gossip. He would pay handsomely for the right lies to be whispered in the best ears. Always to his advantage, and always telling outrageous tales of his derring-do. That he was a rich ostracised son sent on by his parents to earn his own fame and fortune. Or else that he'd been sent away to find a wife to give his parents an heir to their vast family fortune. All lies.
Now Hisham was young, barely out of his teens and too self assured to think much of the rumours of The Harem. He'd spread enough tales himself to know that half truths and slander would ruin many a good man (or woman in this case). But he was keen and curious to know more of this rich heiress who held such power in this male dominated region. She was feared more than respected, and he liked power. Perhaps she'd entertain the notion of a visit from a good looking foreign prince seeking a wife from a noble house in the East. He'd like to see for himself what went on in that palace. He'd heard talk of Polyandry before, a woman having more than one husband, but it was rare. Was she some beauty or as dark and foreboding as they called her? He must see for himself, so he stole three camels and some fine clothes and set out for her fabled palace.
Now it is said by the Wise Men of the East, that only a blind fool goes in search of a star when they only have to look up to see the Heavens. Indeed, Hisham was impetuous and greedy. His adolescence made him inexperienced in many ways and things, though he'd never openly admit it. Of course he bragged and spoke of things he knew not, but he'd never actually known love or pleasures of the flesh. He was devout in some ways, for his upbringing had been strict and cruel. Many of the scars on his body were punishments for wicked choices he had made, and the weight of those wounds hung heavy on his soul. His mind was given to fantastical ideas, and he longed for adventure and forbidden romance.
The palace of the Sultana was of a white stone that shone on the outskirts of the desert by the remote mountain range. Many people visited both day and night, for women held no fear but for their menfolk, and the owner was a rich and generous hostess. She liked the finer things in life, was a patron of the Arts and an avid pupil of many teachers. They say her mind is as veracious as her appetites, but few would ever double cross her. For indeed, she had a vengeful temper, and to disappoint her was to give up on life. A dozen spikes along the flame lit path to her mighty wooden gates always held a head of some unfortunate who'd incurred her wrath. Hisham looked on undaunted, paid them no mind... half believing his own hype that he was a rich suitor from a far away and desirable land.
It is said The Harem remains tucked away in the heart of the palace gardens behind impregnable walls. Guards never go inside, and those who do never come out again. Inside nobody truly knows what goes on, but some mutilated maidens who serve and carry out tasks within it's walls cry at night for the things they've seen. They can never talk, nor would they even if they could. What little life they had would be over, their freedom ended if they didn't stay loyal. Scraps of paper had been found in empty clay vessels that the wine merchant took, too chilling to be given credence. He would burn them and keep quiet, only telling his wife at night the half of it; even she had the common sense to just pray to Allah to put an end to the debauchery and sadism. Lies? All lies? Hisham was the Master of Lies, and none could surpass him. Oh the arrogance of youth.
And so it was that a juicy morsel found his way willingly into the web of a dark predator. She would hear his pleas for an audience, she would welcome this dark wolf to her door. She was used to making lapdogs of even the most feared warriors and leaders, young and old. It amused her he had the audacity to think she would dilute her pure Arabic blood with such as he. So she had him join her in one of her more private gardens, lit by Moroccan style lanterns and tiny fires with herbs burning to keep away the insects. The pools were vast, the water dancing in light and casting a spell over tired and hungry eyes.
And in he came, a young peacock, all bravado and puffed up importance in his fine clothes of local silks. He was handsome, she'd grant him that, but she'd had her fill of beauty a long time ago. No, what interested her more were the scars she could glimpse on his torso, hidden behind the clothing, hints of something more intriguing to her. She liked the promise of them, the story of their dark revealings. She'd left beauty as a pleasure a long time ago, to her the unique, the unusual, that was where her tastes now lye.
Hisham saw two dark brown eyes from behind her veil. Her fine robes outlined a comely shape, but there was a scrutiny in those eyes he was drawn to. They cried danger, they raised his hackles and his whole body was on alert. He knew a lioness when he saw one. He'd read many a man's eyes at the gaming table to read their intentions. Hers was of interest, of hunger and want. It made him nervous, he'd need his best skills here, no frivolous half-hearted promises.
But oh she was rich, the jewels at her wrist, the servants at her side dressed in the finest cloth. She ate pomegranate cake and sipped honeyed wine that was handed to her as she signalled to a half naked man tied by chains to a golden neck collar. This was decadence, this was oddness and excitement all in one. He took it all in with those pale blue eyes of his, and he smiled. She smiled too, eagerly appraising his openly shocked expression.
She tugged slightly on the lead and her beautiful attendant instantly dropped to her side on one knee. She patted his head like a faithful hound, ran her well manicured nails softly over his bare shoulders. He shivered at the touch and the visitor watched it, like a hawk seeing the morsel in the gloved hands of it's owner. Give it time, everything has its moment, and in the end every wild bird comes to her for handling. She is the teacher, the trainer, the owner of such exotic and pretty pets. Wild as they may be, none are as ferocious as her.
© .Garry Saunders
