Author's Note:
A darker chapter than what most would expect here *Huge Angst Warning*. I try to write Ardeth as a flawed character and not as a protagonist of say, a melodrama, and I hope, fervently, that you'll like this more human Ardeth than a one that is almost godlike, perfect and right. The last thing I wish to do is to portray the Wafd as an utterly evil, and unscrupulous organisation, although I must concede that expediency can't be separated from all things done.
Chapter 14: A Daring Plan
I am he whose soul is tormented; heaven has given sorrow to him
- Sayat Nova, 17th Century Armenian Poet, from The Colour of Pomegranates
Remembrance only came in torn sheets, a weary, congested artery of tattered thoughts that had already malfunctioned. They were darts of repressed memories or perhaps they were dreams, bittersweet, that engaged themselves in warfare, battling the state he found himself in now, so strong that they tried to sweep away this reality with the force of fantasy.
It was easier, and far more comforting to retreat, the same way a wounded animal licked its lacerated limbs in private, into the revolving visions of Lena Shirin and Ishaq Bayafter the cruel tantalising glimpse of Paradise he now wished to be wholly sucked therein, and forget
He did not know what was real any longer; pain had existed in both realms and he could neither physically nor mentally be free of them. Unruly emotions and physical exhaustion owned his mind fully, unable to process the staggering happenings of the past days and the undying horror of the past year.
Ardeth Bay fell in and out of consciousness, shackled, bathed in the sweat that had momentarily broken his fever, awash with trembling breaths that assured him the tail of the lingering illness was near. Yet with each successive exhalation his breathing grew strained again, suffused with the eruption of a fiery pain that originated from the base of the spine, stretching towards his shoulders and chest. He found himself always in darkness, merely registering familiar outlines - the rough ground that had deep grooves forcibly carved into them, the lightless room, its dank walls, the numerous shapes of whips that hung on its opposite door.
Unadulterated, the primal, rotten scent of fear hung in the air, a fetid spectre that betrayed the number of deaths that happened in this frightful and lonesome captivity.
He was lying face forward; the crawl to his feet was a lengthy stagger, for he slipped again and again. But he finally stood upright after expending that effort, his medieval-like bonds thick around his wrists that extended into loops of chains that had been hammered into the adjacent walls.
Oh merciful Allah, be my help!
The prayer circled him, words clanging mightily in his mind, as if needing to repeatedly suffuse into him with its pungent, spiritual essence a burgeoning hope, but then he slouched again; even the Almighty seemed far, a man balanced upon the jagged periphery of religious oblivion and apathy.
The grave pound of footsteps.
The laboured opening of a heavy, steel door after its bolts were slid open noisily.
A sliver of pure, white light. So bright that it pierced his eyes that were barely even open and Ardeth Bay flinched.
Voices of a rough, uneducated timbre, and another onebone-chilling and familiar.
"He lives, sir." The deep voice resounded, unnaturally deafening in the enclosed space.
"Of course he does - an important man of Egypt, as proof of how far the mighty fall. My instructions were clear, were they not? He is to live."
The slam of heavy iron doors rattled the walls, plunging all into unwelcoming darkness, save for the menacing shadow that advanced, a shadow that took the unmistakable, burly shape of a large man, clad in black as he was, grimly facing him.
No words were necessary, no taunts needed, only movement and pitiless action.
The crack of the whip brought him to his knees.
It was the position of a master and slave; tears of humiliation and rage mingled with beads of sweat that dampened his face, his tattooed cheeks, and slid down his ruined torso. He heard the coarse jangle of chains that bound him to them intimately, moving accordingly as he swayed from the blows.
Their sound was the unmusical toll of bells, the requiem of any captive.
Over and over, the hissing snake meandered through the stagnant air, dancing boldly in a unerring tune with his punisher's flamboyant display of strength, biting his back, his chest, his shoulders with its great sting, opening new wounds, carving deeper old ones.
He lost count of the number of times of its descent; with each crack the ground opened its arms to him in invitation, until he retched heavily, droplets of blood that gathered into pools, then ran rivulets on the uneven ground. Blindly, Ardeth stumbled, breath sucked out of him, fingers reaching into the grooves, the uneven surface of the ground, realising in the overwhelming fog of tears that the uneven, crisscrossing grooves were made by disconsolate, clawing fingernailspeople who screamed in pain, tearing, digging their way in any direction, as if anchoring their prints on the ground anchored them in redemption as they cried their last
The whipwith shuttered eyes he realised that it had stopped its shrill cry upon back and he lifted his head slightly as a futile attempt to piece together his shredded dignity yet it disappeared as quickly as it had raised its miniscule head, the stretched silence now filled with his stifled sobs.
Oh Allah...
It was on the tip of his lips - Stop!
That was an effective, staccato word that he knew would bring him reprieve and his captor unadulterated, malicious triumph; deep within the battle began, and raged - the dwindling will, his meagre strength lodged under the abrasive burden of strain, twisting in yet another fight.
His lips parted, mouthing a broken plea for divine release, but it was nothing more than an interrupted whisper of a prayer, the tail end of which released itself in violent, hoarse screams when he felt the rapid rush of salt water hurled onto his wounds.
Blackness welcomed him, a seemingly eternal, aphrodisiacal embrace.
He awoke again, and fell into hellish cycles of consciousness, unaware of the states that he drifted between; the ruthless crack of the whip was never far away, the torturous waterfall of salt never far behind.
Evelyn Carnahan was awake; Severige thought he heard her paces on the floorboards of the upper rooms, her mutterings which he smiled faintly at.
He ascended the steps slowly, knocking on her door softly and upon her acquiescence, stepped past the threshold.
"Tell me, Severige," she began warily, "tell me all that I've been fed with aren't simplyfalse utterances" She paced in apprehension. "I can't even find words for these atrocitiessweet words that mask your underlying motives!"
She moved towards him, reaching for the door, as if needing to gain distance, perspective that would only be granted to her outside his presence.
"You would call our beliefs strange?" He accused, suddenly angry at her retreat. "You, who merely a few days ago felt more than a slight twinge of inspiration when you sat with us at dinner?"
"Your powers of persuasion are indeed stellar, Severige, and the same can be said for your men," Evy spat cynically, whirling around to face him. "I will not mince words. Where is Ardeth Bay?"
He sighed.
She demanded reassurance, and he would give it to her, even though it meant gilding his words with sugary diplomacy, by withdrawing inward, his stance deflated and passive, his facial expression deliberately bland, a coy balance to her rants.
"Ardeth Bay is housed safely with one of our council members."
"What of the Medjai then?"
"The Medjai are scattered, or have presumably returned to their nomadic ways," He waved his hand dismissively. "They are only formidable when their chief is with them."
She watched him, scrutinising his eyes, his candidly open countenance, wanting to see the man whom she had seen when she had first met him most extraordinarily at the Museum, when he had pulled her away to safety from the gunfire that littered the streets.
His physical appearance was breathtaking, but the glimpses of flinty hardness now seemed etched there permanently, lending him an ugliness that emanated from his eyes. Had she really not seen that before?
"Surely you engineered the second plan, Severige!" It was her wounded pride that now spoke, a chagrin born out of her first failed mission; that much she put in words, not daring to allow the extent of her mortification show. "That plan which you had all along but didn't think to speak to me of!"
Anger was always an excellent façade.
"I cannot deny that - Evy, forgive me if it appears as though I have little trust in you," He tried again calmly, splaying out his palms in a conciliatory gesture. "It was a bad move on my part - in my haste and excitement to ensure a secure connection with the Medjai, I resorted to means as such." It was his eyes that challenged her, their emerald depths conveying to her the gravity of his mission, the lost cause of the past generations that he tried to right.
Evy nodded, outwardly accepting of his explanation; she thought she saw a quiet sigh of relief from him. He hid something, that much she was sure of, the delicate whiff of the proverbial rat and her intensifying curiosity an uneasy clash of discordant chords.
"Now come," He commanded gently, his hands touching her cheek lightly. "You require air, and a bit of noise. Najya and I will accompany you into the city. We will sit down for a meal and then both of you may look around for as long as you wish. I have yet another appointment with the council later."
They stood, the three of them, in front of the bustling streets a while later, before the Museum of Antiquities, the conspicuously missing Jonathan who still disappeared from the early morning till the late night nowhere to be found among the thronging crowd.
How ironic, she thought, that they found themselves at the building where it all began; the quest for parental knowledge that had knotted her deeper in than she had bargained for.
The midday meal had passed without incident, Severige politely excusing himself, leaving her with Najya who sauntered steadily amidst the chaos of the scene, picking out figs and fruits for their next meal.
It was now or never, as Evy watched Severige's rapidly retreating figure - the most breathlessly daring feat she wanted to abandon herself with recklessness to, fashioned itself with cunning clarity within her.
"Najya, would you mind if I took my time to walk around? I thought I just saw an obscure set of Fourteenth Dynasty carvings that might be a good display set for somefriends." She fumbled slightly. Good Lord, it was difficult to feign sweet enthusiasm and false interest, when all nerve endings stood with great tension - when they tingled with the anticipation of the upcoming chase.
A nod and a smile were the replies that she could have hoped for, and in the same second Evy impatiently thrust her way through the seething crowd, earning loudly muttered curses from the roadside vendors for her clumsy paces. She hurtled past on unsteady feet, nearly tripping over the baskets of dried fruits, overturning someone's prized tray of grain, unaware of a figure negligently leaning against an adjacent wall with a hat pulled low over his face.
He lifted his hat, grateful for the cream colour of his shirt and scruffy looking pants that shaded him unto obscurity, frowning as she ducked under the rainbow of fabric bales, unrelenting in her pursuit of that shadowy man who was quickly fading from view.
She jogged lightly now, sparing no effort to keep the figure she was shadowing in sight.
He dreaded her progress, each step into whispering danger; he wondered if her object of scrutiny would suddenly whirl around and catch sight of her.
The unending noise from the bustle of the street irritated him; did they not just passed the same huffing faces, the same unruly crowd red with the afternoon heat? There was an alarming and peculiar pattern of regularity that passed before his eyes until he realised that he was moving in squares, led on a roundabout route that led nowhere but merely to the back of the Museum of Antiquities, along a narrowly disused lane which housed several huts.
He moved as fast as he could, becoming her shadow just as she shadowed someone in front, three figures that moved according to their own purposes, bound by the ticking of the clock.