Chapter Ten

Ardeth stood, acknowledging the entrance into Hamid's tent three of his best warriors and closest friends. He gazed in length at each man. Marks of their grief stained their robes, as was the tradition. He could ill afford to have them drop from blood loss during the ride in the late afternoon heat or the chill of the evening sands. "We will ride when you have seen the healer," he insisted calmly. His emotionless tone hid his worry from the others.

Nida entered at the moment Ardeth spoke. Her eyes trailed down the length of each warrior. Medjai tradition held that they perform some form of self-mutilation when grieving the death of a loved one. She could not determine where Jubran and Hadad had marked their flesh, but spied fresh blood slowly running down the hands of the warrior Qadir. He had sliced into his arms. "The healer is not in camp," she spoke, hastily moving into the center of the tent. "Sabira, Najya... help me tend their wounds."

Bewildered and unsure of what exactly was happening, Najya stood and joined Sabira. They were stopped in their tracks by a booming voice when they moved toward Nida.

"We are ready to ride," Hadad barked, announcing the attention of the nisa was unwelcome.

"Do not be foolishly headstrong, Hadad," Ardeth warned. "You would allow a moment of pride to cause you to slip from your saddle while on our journey?"

When Hadad made no verbal comment and merely lowered his head in contrition, Ardeth nodded to Najya and Sabira who quickly joined Nida.

"We will return shortly with the supplies needed to treat your wounds," Nida informed them. Glancing back, her gaze again fell on the youngest warrior. His strong and noble features revealed nothing of his pain, yet grief flashed briefly in his beautiful gray eyes and Nida felt her heart to go out to him; to all of them. "Remove your robes and tunics," she ordered softly. "You will be on your way as quickly as manageable."

"I do not understand this form of grieving," Najya admitted as they hurried to the healer's tent. "What purpose does it serve?" she asked.

By this time they had reached their destination and Sabira stopped and turned an incredulous look upon Najya. "I realize you have much to learn about our ways; however, you have, yourself, committed this act to the extremist of measures. That is, if the stories told are true about what happened to the Chieftain and you at Philae."

Nodding, Najya confirmed their truth. "If you have heard Ardeth sacrificed his life for the well-being of all mankind. Further, if it has been told that I took my own life, unable to bear his loss, then the tales you have heard have been the truth."

Sabira noted the misty eyes of their new friend. "Then you must understand the pain of loss. To the Medjai, if you do not mourn the dead or dying, unexpressed grief will poison your blood." She ushered Najya into the tent while Nida held open the flaps for them. "We must purge our bodies of our grief, and allow the spirits of our loved ones to travel on to the next world. If we do not, we condemn them to an eternity between planes of existence."

"That makes sense, I suppose," she murmured while they gathered bandages and ointment.

"There is clean water and towels in Uncle's tent," Nida commented while searching the supply cabinet. "Of course, we do not know the extent of their wounds," she mused.

Sabira noted the alcohol, needles, and thread Nida procured from the cabinet. "You think those will be necessary?"

"It is possible," she answered, offering a thin smile. "We can only pray they have not damaged any muscle."

"While consumed by grief, it is difficult to measure the lengths in which you will go," Najya supplied quietly.

"Aiwa," Nida agreed. "Let us return and tend to our warriors."

Jubran sat stiff and uncaring while Najya knelt before him and cleansed the blood from his chest with a warm, damp cloth. Her eyes sought his many times while she went about the task of checking the wounds he inflicted on his chest and upper arms. He felt not a thing while she checked the deepness of each cut, gauging the damage he had done to himself. His soul was dead, along with the beautiful life of his darling Saeedah. As he stared down at the top of Najya's head, her lush black hair reminding him so much Saeedah's own sea of silky tresses, he vowed to avenge his love's death. Empty without her, he silently wondered how he would find peace within himself to go on once he met his objective. It seemed far too unreal to his bitter soul.

Unsure as to whether speak about his wounds, Najya worked in silence. After cleansing the wounds, she applied the ointment that they removed from the healer's tent. Nida explained that it was a paste the healer ground from special herbs he grew which deterred infection and contained healing properties.

Criss-crossed slashes marred the deep toned flesh of Jubran's chest and upper arms, forever scarring the symbolic tattoos of his Medjai status. She felt his grief, as she felt the grief of his friends and companions. She secured the bandages of the last poultice in place, only then allowing herself to sit back to look upon the other two warriors.

Hadad, Saeedah's older brother, bore the same expressionless features as Jubran. Najya watched as Sabira quietly tied the final bandage in place, silently amazed that he held his grief in check even while she knew of the unending pain in his heart,. Hadad's injuries had mirrored Jubran's. She was thankful that neither had ripped into muscle, and, although deep, their lacerations had not warranted stitching.

Najya moved from her perch in front of Jubran to Ardeth's side and looked on while Nida tended the lesser marred Qadir. Saeedah had been special to him because she was the wife and sister of his two closest friends, but he did not share the depth of their grief. It did not make his any less real or intense. Actually, Najya felt a different level of sorrow coming from the young warrior; something old, but nonetheless painful. Perhaps one day, she would find out what was the cause.

Hamid's voice finally broke the heavy silence that hung within the tent.

"It would be preferable if you would wait until dawn to travel," he suggested. He ran a wrinkled hand over his white bearded jaw in a gesture of worry.

With a shake of his head, Ardeth faced the Elder. "Lâ," he answered tersely. "The distance is not so far to the Eighth Tribe that we cannot make it by nightfall." When Hamid nodded his agreement, Ardeth turned back to Najya. Laying a light, but firm, hand on her shoulder, he said, "I would prefer if you and Kyle waited for dawn to arrive before making your journey."

The depth of concern she read in his deep russet eyes touched her soul. Yet, the nagging ache to retrieve her mother's journals had not lessened one bit since she discovered the possibility of their existence. "I cannot wait," she explained in a softened whisper. "It may seem a foolish need, but it is all that I have left of my mother. If they exist..."

He touched his warm palm to her cheek, silencing further protest. "There is no need to explain, yâ Najya. It is a journey I would gladly make with you if there were not other matters to attend. We must discover the identity of the dogs who so viciously murdered our people."

Her hand closed over his and gently peeled it away from her face to place a light kiss to his palm. "And you have no need to explain either, my love. We will be the other's strength."

"As we have been," he agreed. He pulled away to address his men. "See to the horses and gather enough supplies for our journey. Make sure Kyle and Najya have enough food and water to travel on to Cairo."

The voices in the tent broke Qadir from his trance-like state. He had been deep in thought, his heart aching for the loss of Saeedah, but also for the worry he held for his adoptive sister, who often joined the trading expeditions. She was always on the lookout for bargains on clothing material and food stuffs that the tribe could not provide for themselves. No other names had been mentioned in the message, so Qadir could only wait and pray that his sister was not amongst the dead.

He glanced down at his left arm and found the wounds tended and bandaged. The sting of a poultice being placed over the deep slashes on his right arm caused him to focus on the mara kneeling before him, her head bent to her task. The light from the oil lamps flickered, illuminating the blue-black of her hair. The light scent of roses filled his nostrils and his eyes fixed onto the top of the girl's head. Nida? Is that your name? As if drawn by his thoughts, her head lifted and her eyes met his.

This was the first time he had been close enough to her to see the color of her eyes and he found himself fascinated by their opaque color. For a brief moment, his sorrow ebbed while he wondered just what she was thinking, for her eyes held such concern. Surely, it could not be for him, a mere acquaintance.

If he had been privy to her thoughts, he would have known he was wrong. Nida found herself fascinated by the wolf grey of his eyes and longed to see them bright with happiness, enhancing the flecks of olive within them. She lowered her gaze again while she finished the bandage on his arm. Without realizing it, her hand molded to the firm muscle of his arm. An inner voice spoke to her, assuring her he was a fine man, a strong warrior, and it was such a shame their paths might never cross again. Still, he was a friend to her cousins, and after their return, she might be bold enough to ask for their assistance in gaining favor with Qadir Omran.

Sitting back on her heels, she looked up once again into his handsome face. "The herbs in the poultice will keep infection at bay."

"Shukran, Nida. I am most grateful for your attention."

"Ahlan wa sahlan," she replied quietly.

"You are very kind." He smiled inwardly at the delicate blush that flooded her cheeks. He offered her his hand and after aiding her to her feet, he turned to face his Chieftain.

"It is time," Ardeth announced and without ceremony exited the tent.

Silently, everyone in the tent followed. The next step in their journey had begun.

Approaching the two great Roman fountains that lined both sides of the pathway that led to the Temple of Hathor's impressive gates, Rick slowed his camel to a stop. Jumping down, he sauntered to Evie's animal and helped her dismount.

"We'll set camp near the Sacred Lake," he announced once she had gained her footing. He took in the massive temple and all its structures. "We should have hired diggers."

"Really? Remember the time we tried that during that excursion in Tunisia?" A playful smile danced across her lovely mouth. "That went well."

Rick shrugged then began leading the camels toward the gates. The pack camels followed obediently. "I suppose that was my fault?"

"Of course not, darling. It was some other fellow's fist that beat the daylights out of those poor men," she replied sweetly while walking alongside him.

"Hey, I was only protecting your virtue," he defended. "I didn't realize you enjoyed having them spy on you while you bathed."

Evie laughed loudly, the sound echoing throughout the silent temple. "You, my good sir, are a brute."

"So you've told me." He winked playfully and then nodded toward the gates. "Where would you like to begin?"

Evie thought for a moment before replying. "There's no way to know where the necklace is hidden. Why don't we start with the outer buildings before moving on to the main temple? Let's start in the Roman Birth House."

"Sounds good." Again he took in the massive structure. "This is gonna take a while."

"Isn't it glorious?"

aiwa - yes

Lâ - no

mara - woman

Shukran – thank you

Ahlan wa sahlan – you're welcome.