Chapter 2: A Chance Meeting
Najat awoke after rather a surprisingly comfortable night's sleep on the makeshift mattress made up of various cushions all arranged neatly on the floor of Ikram's bedroom. She was aware of the other girl standing next to the open window, the sunlight coming through illuminating her evenly tanned face and her shoulder length ebony hair.
"Good morning," she said, though she had not even taken her eyes away from the view outside for a second.
"And to you too," mumbled Najat, still somewhat tired, but she knew she had slept solidly for a good number of hours. "Thank you for your hospitality," she said as she propped herself up with her elbows carefully, putting most of her upper body weight on her uninjured arm.
"It is no trouble," said Ikram, turning away from the window and folding her arms across her chest, "will you be staying for food?"
"No, thank you," replied Najat. She sat up properly and then clambered off the raft of tattered cushions. Ikram had turned again to the window, and was now leaning against the sill, her eyes closed, seemingly deep in thought. "Is something wrong?" asked Najat, approaching the other girl and leaning against the window next to her.
"No my friend, I am perfectly well," she smiled, but did not look directly at Najat, "I suppose I am just being contemplative of my future in this city."
"What are you meaning?"
Ikram sighed and dropped her head, "I do not even know the answer to that question myself, Najat," she began twirling a piece of her thick ebony hair that had fallen across her shoulder around her finger, "as hard as I try to adapt, I just can't stand living a peasant's life here."
"But surely it cannot be that bad?"
"You cannot possibly imagine that after living in the rich district for so long and then being forced to move here, and live like… Like this, that this is not so bad."
"You have not yet grown used to being in such conditions," Najat placed a hand on Ikram's shoulder, "you will, in time."
"That is so easy for you to say, friend," Ikram shrugged the hand away, "but until you yourself have experienced this, I don't think you can say anything at all that should make it better."
Najat was slightly taken aback by her friend's words; she was trying her best to be supportive of her, although the girl was right: she did not know what the experience was like. If she was to be perfectly honest, she could not imagine herself living in the poor district. As much as she liked how humble and warm the people living in that district were, she just couldn't bear the thought of her father's riches being taken away from them. After all, he had worked so hard for them. For her. Her father had not made all of his money without doing anything. When he was sixteen he left his own home and, with what little money his family had saved up for him, went exploring in various towns and villages and finding or buying items, that with his trained eye he could tell were worth so much more than they were being sold for. He then took these back to various cities and made a name for himself as being the 'Merchant of Many Marvels'. This led to him becoming one of the most prestigious men of Damascus when he finally moved into the rich district, and virtually everybody knew his name.
"Tell me, Ikram," Najat broke away from her thoughts and returned to their conversation, "what on this earth did your father do to cause you to lose all of your wealth?"
Ikram turned to her and met her gaze. The girl's gentle hazel eyes revealing a distinct sadness as Najat looked into them deeply. "He told me specifically not to tell anyone; not even you. He fears the humiliation it would bring about, should everyone find out."
"Your father is a wonderful man," said Najat, "I would not wish to bring humiliation upon him; he does not deserve it."
"Wonderful…" Ikram turned away and shook her head, "he is far from wonderful…"
Najat frowned, "why do you say such things?"
"He gambled it all away."
"Gambled what all away, pray tell?"
"Our wealth… He, along with another group of men used to get together and play some sort of game… I don't know what it was, but he ended up losing all of our money to them, and they took it."
Najat put her hand on Ikram's shoulder again, but this time the girl allowed the hand to remain. "I'm sorry, Ikram. I did not realise."
"You were not to know, Najat," Ikram moved over to the improvised bed on the wooden floor of her room, and began rolling up the sheets and gathering up the cushions. "He is my father. The unconditional love I feel for him is far stronger than my shame and disgust with his habits."
"Allow me to help you," Najat turned away from the window and knelt down next to her, "if your father shall not accept my money, then perhaps you shall."
"I could not ask such favours of a friend," she responded, folding the sheets as neatly as she could, and then making a neat pile of them on the floor.
"You need not ask," Najat took one of the crumpled sheets herself and began to fold it up too, "I am giving you the money. If anything I should feel upset that you have not taken it from me – think of it as a gift."
Ikram tilted her head to one side thoughtfully and smiled, "thank you, friend."
*****
The sun was extremely bright and hot on that day, as Najat discovered when she was making her way back to the rich district of Damascus. She was hoping her father had not been worried about her, seeing as she had not returned home the night before. He was very trusting of her, and he knew that she would be able to look after herself, and was more reassured of the latter because he had made sure she was taught valuable combat skills that would aid her should she get into trouble. She had been his tower of strength when her mother had died, and despite grieving herself, she had made it her priority to be there for her father, even though he knew that it was he who was meant to be there for her. She did not mind, however, as she felt she was one of those people who cared for, rather than was taken care of, which was one of her mother's most memorable attributes.
She wandered through the streets of the poor district, keeping her head down and hoping that the guards that had chased her the previous day would not recognise her. She passed many market stalls teeming with the poor person's pottery and fabric, all of them manned with desperate merchants advertising their stock and trying to persuade passers-by to 'treat themselves' to their 'beautiful and excellent value' wares. A blatant lie, Najat would often think to herself, because their wares were far from beautiful, and usually they would sell them for ridiculous prices that hardly anyone could afford, even though the items were probably worth less than half of the price they were trying to sell them for.
She crossed the poor to middle district border and felt more at ease because at least in the middle district she wasn't at risk of being identified by the guards there as the girl that managed to evade their pursuit and injure one of their roof guards with an arrow to his neck. She moved through the streets with no difficulty, being wary when walking past the multitudes of women carrying large clay pots on their heads. She knew from the past that the guards would immediately become suspicious of whoever caused the women to drop their pots, and if it happened more than once, you would be subjected to their pursuit. Najat didn't particularly want to be chased by them again because she wasn't really in fit state to get away properly this time due to the fact her shoulder was more or less useless at the moment, and she wouldn't always be able to rely on the help of mysterious strangers to save her.
When she grew close to the middle and rich district border, she interspersed herself with a group of middle district merchants who were going into the rich district to sell some of their wares. When she was safely past the guards, she broke away from the group and immediately went back to her home, slipped inside, and went up to her room and changed out of her bloody peasant's clothes before her father could see her in them. She changed into her crimson Pirahan which was embroidered with gold thread at the short sleeves and around the neckline, her matching Daman, and the embroidered gold and crimson shawl that she draped neatly over her shoulders. The bandage on her shoulder would last for another hour or so, which gave her enough time to greet her father and eat some food that he had undoubtedly prepared for them both.
"Where have you been, my child?" he asked, setting down a bowl of rice and a small basket of bread on the intricately carved wooden table. He sat down opposite her, with his own bowl of rice, and raised his eyebrows waiting for an explanation.
"You have my deepest apologies, father," she said refusing to meet his somewhat intense stare, picking up her pewter spoon and gently pushing the rice on the top of the miniature mountain in the bowl from one side of it to the other.
"You shouldn't play with your food," he said, which provoked her to look up at him, and she felt a little better because he had a warm, broad smile across his kind face. "Now, tell me," he poured out some fresh water from the tan pitcher into both of their goblets, "where were you?"
"I was staying with Ikram for the night," she said, choosing not to inform him of her run in with the guards and the mysterious man who had saved her life, "I spent too long wandering the poor district and time ran away from me."
"I see," he said, casually stroking his thick jet black beard with his big forefinger and thumb. His beard was his pride and joy, he had vowed never to rid himself of it, and Najat couldn't ever imagine him without it. "How is she? And how is her father? I have not seen either of them for some time."
"They are both well," she replied, "I think later on I shall go and buy her some flowers to say thank you for allowing me to rest there last night."
"I am sure she would appreciate such a kind gesture," he replied, spooning the rice into his mouth in such large capacities that he was nearly finished after just four mouthfuls. He finished his rice and then drunk the water left in his goblet. "If you do not mind, Najat, I must get to work. My wares will not sell themselves."
Najat nodded as the tall, well-built man got up from the table, said his goodbyes to her and then disappeared out of the house carrying a large crate full of divine pottery. His stall was right in the middle of the market, and every single day he was out selling, he managed to sell nearly all of his stock. She couldn't determine whether it was because the people of this district could never have enough pots, or because they were charmed by his master persuasion techniques. Either way, he always brought money home, and would give a quarter of his earnings to her, which was then added to her savings. She felt guilty for being given the money and not doing anything to earn it, but her father was persistent and would not give up until she accepted it.
Once she was finished with her rice, she went to find the house maid, Mufeeda, to help her with her bandages. She was a very trustworthy person, and often watched the house for them if her father was out buying more valuable items to sell on his stall, and Najat wished to go out somewhere. Najat found her tidying in the living area, rearranging the cushions on the settees and straightening the paintings that were hanging on the walls.
"Goodness! My lady Najat you frightened me," she exclaimed as she turned around from the paintings to see Najat standing silently in the doorway with a smile on her face.
"Apologies, Mufeeda," replied Najat, "may you assist me with something?"
"Of course," said the maid, approaching her, "anything."
Mufeeda herself was rather beautiful, and had very dark brown eyes that looked like obsidian ringed in white, and she had curly dark brown hair to match that came to just below her shoulders. She lived with Najat and her father, and had her own bedroom too. Najat's father had met her on his travels, she was homeless and was sleeping in a stable with the town's horses, and she was so weak from not eating, he wasn't sure how much longer she would have survived out there. Being the Good Samaritan he was, he brought her back to their house and fed her and treated her to new clothes. She had been so thankful for his help that she offered to clean the house and make them meals, and Najat's father had given her a bed and her own food in return.
Najat beckoned for Mufeeda to follow, and she led the older woman into the kitchen. She then took off her shawl and pulled the blouse across so that she could show the maid her shoulder wound.
"Oh my," the woman was visibly shocked by the large bandaging covering the wound. "How did you acquire such an injury?"
"Don't tell father," she said firmly, "I do not want him to worry about me."
Mufeeda nodded, "but how did you do that?"
"I was struck with an arrow," she replied, "I accidentally bumped into one of the guards in the poor district when I went to visit Ikram, and they started chasing me."
"I do not mean to be rude, Najat," she said, a genuine expression of worry across her face, "but may I be so bold as to say you really should be more careful?"
Najat giggled light-heartedly, understanding the other woman's genuine concern with her welfare, "I promise you next time I go wandering around the poor district I shall be extremely vigilant."
Mufeeda nodded slowly with a kind smile, "now, allow me to change these bandages for you."
She gently untied them, and slowly unwrapped the dressing, and Najat couldn't help but wince as she finally took the part of the bandage that was directly on the wound, off.
"Did you stitch these yourself?" asked Mufeeda, noticing that both puncture marks on her front and back were neatly closed with the finest thread.
"No," she replied truthfully, but the next thing she said was a lie. "I was taken in by a kind man who is an acquaintance of Ikram's father. He saw to it."
"Ah," Mufeeda retrieved some wound ointment from Najat's father's medicine cabinet in his study, and warned Najat before she was to apply it. Najat scrunched her face as she felt the cool liquid seep into her burning wound, and tried not to fidget as the woman carefully applied some more bandaging to it. "It is healing nicely already," she said, going back into the study and putting the ointment back exactly where she got it from.
"Thank you," said Najat when she had returned, experimenting with her shoulder movement to see how much she could move it before it started to hurt.
"Can I get you anything else?" asked Mufeeda, taking away the used crockery and goblets and pewter cutlery and putting them all gently into a fired clay washing bowl.
"No, thank you," replied Najat, getting up from where she was seated and disappearing up to her bedroom. When she came back, she was carrying a small pouch of gold coins, and draped the shawl over her shoulders again. "I am going to go and buy some flowers for dear Ikram," she told Mufeeda who was now washing the used bowls and cutlery with some fresh water she had obviously collected earlier, "I'll be back later."
"Be safe," said Mufeeda before Najat left the house.
*****
Najat decided she would avoid the hustle and bustle of the main marketplace because she knew that her shoulder would get knocked multiple times due to the vast amount of people who walked around there. Instead she decided to go and see what the street market stalls had to offer. She passed countless stalls selling rugs imported from Egypt and Persia, and pottery from all over the Holy Land, and began to wonder how her father managed to sell so much with such fierce competition.
Eventually, after a long walk through the streets she found a flower stall with some of the most beautiful flowers she had ever seen before in her seventeen years of life. She was surprised she had never come across such a stall before, considering the vibrant colours instantly caught the eye and enticed one to go and take a closer look, which is when the man behind the stall would unleash his powers of persuasion and get people to buy the flowers.
"See anything you like, beautiful lady?" he asked Najat as she perused the flowers carefully, deciding that that was where she was to get them from. Her eyes wandered to three flowers, all the same, with pure white petals, and pointed to them without saying a word. "All three?" he asked to which Najat responded with a nod, and he took the three out of their small pot of water, "twenty gold."
Najat had absolutely no knowledge of the price of flowers, but she was sure they weren't that expensive. She paid him anyway, concluding that they were only that price because people like her could afford to buy them.
As she turned to walk back down the street in the direction of her home, she was aware of some shouting coming from behind her. As she turned around she saw a flash of white invade her vision, and she felt a strong arm push her out of the way. The next moments were entirely in what she felt to be slow motion. She could feel herself falling backwards, and as the white robed mystery she was familiar with pushed her, he turned his head to look at her and for the first time she was able to see his eyes fully. He narrowed them as he recognised who she was, yet no expression crossed his face and his lips tarnished with the battle scar remained straight and serious, and her own eyes wandered to his left wrist, and she saw a small, razor-sharp blade protruding from the end of the leather gauntlet. She followed the line of the blade and saw that he was missing his ring finger.
And then she hit the ground, and within an instant the man in the white robes had disappeared, being closely pursued by at least five guards, and the pain in her shoulder was reawakened. She stood up, inwardly cursing him. She wasn't sure if the stitches had been opened again as she fell, and wasn't really in the most suitable place to check, either. She picked up her flowers that she'd dropped on the ground; thankful they hadn't been damaged. The image of his blade and his amputated finger told her only one thing: he was an assassin.
Holding tightly onto her flowers, she chose to follow the angry shouting of the guards, and hoped it would lead her to him. She knew for a fact he'd recognised her, even if the meeting of their eyes was only for a mere second, and she knew that she must find him. She didn't know why she wanted to find him, but it was as though some sort of mysterious force was compelling her to do so, and she hurried after them.
Najat found herself growing more and more unfamiliar with her surroundings the further she followed them. Admittedly she had not actually ventured everywhere inside the city, despite living in it for seventeen years of her life. She was walking through a network of narrow paths in between smaller houses, but she had absolutely no idea how far from the centre of the rich district she was, or even how far from the nearest wall of the city she was. She was about to turn back and try to retrace her steps back to the flower stall, and then make her way back home from there, when out of the corner of her eye coming down the pathway towards her was the assassin. Quickly she searched for an escape, and to her right she saw a very narrow alley in between two tall buildings. She heard the cries of the guards not far behind him, and as he ran closer towards her she took hold of his arm with her own free one and forced him into the narrow passage with her, and flattened him against the southern wall so that when the guards ran past they wouldn't be able to see him. She kept hold of him, and he didn't struggle in protest as the guards ran past the entrance, missing it completely. Najat breathed a heavy sigh of relief and released her grip from the man, and looked up at him.
"Thank you," he muttered, ostensibly bothered by the fact he had just been saved by a woman, and not only a woman, but the woman he had saved in almost exactly the same situation the day before.
"You're welcome, son of none," she replied with a smile.
She could tell, even though she couldn't see his eyes for the shadow the hood cast on them that he was looking closely at her attire. "You do not look like a peasant today," he grunted, folding his arms, "why is that?"
Najat frowned, and looked away, "because I am no peasant," she admitted, wondering what the man's response might be to finding out she had lied to him.
"I am not one who appreciates lies, Najat," he said sternly.
Najat stopped herself from smiling so that he didn't perceive it to be a mocking one, but she couldn't help feeling to some extent pleased that he too had remembered her name. "I apologise," she said softly, turning to look at him again, "I was caught up in the moment." The man remained silent, and Najat couldn't tell if he was doing it for dramatic effect or whether he was contemplating killing her. "You are an assassin, are you not?"
He did not speak but nodded his head. Najat wondered how more mysterious this man could possibly be, but she supposed it was an idiosyncrasy that came with the idea of being an assassin; the silent, mysterious, brooding type. Najat took a step back, as if to let him know if he had more important things to do, he was free to go. But he didn't move a muscle, and remained standing there in front of her.
"How is your shoulder?" he asked, completely out of the blue, which surprised Najat; this man indeed was full of mystery and surprise.
"It is getting better," she said, "or it was," she narrowed her eyes at him, "until you pushed me to the ground making your escape earlier."
She noticed the same flicker of amusement flash across his face as she had seen the day prior to the present, and she was inwardly surprised yet again when his lips curved into a full smile. "I am sorry," he said, his tone much silkier and gentler than before, "please forgive-" He suddenly clutched at his side, and Najat's eyes wandered down to see a patch of moist crimson on his white robe where his hand was pressing. "I must go," he said, and began to retreat down the passage.
"Wait!" Najat ran after him and grabbed hold of his arm, "please," she said, forcing him to face her, "let me help you."
"No," he said, manoeuvring his arm out of her grip and continuing on down the passage. Najat wasn't going to give up until he yielded, and grabbed hold of him again, this time much more strongly than before, like she had done so yesterday.
"Please," she softly, "you would be much better off coming back to my home with me seeing as I live in this district. You might be nearly dead by the time you go to your friend Ameen's house in the middle district – you've lost a lot of blood already." She had only taken a wild guess at the idea he might be going to go to Ameen's house to get his wound sorted out, but she presumed herself right when she felt his arm relax in her grip.
"Very well," he said, "lead the way."