EXCEPT FROM SLAVES!

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CHAPTER III - PART I

The Khizil Khoum

It was night when Ivan regained consciousness. He couldn’t move a muscle, and was rolling from side to side as if on the deck of a boat on a stormy sea. Slowly realised he that he was bound hand and foot with leather straps, and roped upside down over the back of a moving camel. His head ached and a cold stickiness across his hair and face told him he must have bled from a wound on his forehead.
   All around, he could make out the dark shadows of mounted men, whose rifles and lances gleamed in the moonlight. They were laughing and chattering and, every now and then, he could make out the word Khiva in their conversation.
   One of the guards rode up alongside the camel, grabbed Ivan’s hair and yanked his head back to see if he was awake. It hurt terribly, but he kept his eyes shut and didn’t make a sound.
   ‘Our baby is still sleeping!’ the guard shouted.
   ‘Then he’ll be fresh for the market,’ called out another. ‘We want him in perfect condition when he reaches Khiva. Cossacks bring good prices.’
   They discussed how much they would get. Fifty, one said. Another thought a hundred, and another two hundred. Someone even thought they might get as much as five hundred!
   Ivan was horrified as he began to understand that he was in the hands of Turkoman bandits taking him to be sold into slavery. Mercifully, before he could think too much about his fate, he passed out.
   When he next awoke, the sun was high. He stretched his neck as far as he could to see where they were. There was nothing in either direction except endless red sand.
   His camel was one of many, plodding in a silent string whilst the Turkomans, riding wiry horses, galloped up and down like devils, teeth and dark eyes glittering in their sunburned faces.
   The seesaw motion made him feel sick, and the cords cut into his wrists and ankles making them bleed. His lips and tongue were swollen from thirst, he was feverish and every limb ached, but when he cried out for water, a bandit knocked him out using a rifle butt.
   Much later, when he drifted back to consciousness he found himself untied on the ground and someone was pouring water into his mouth. His eyes were so filled with dust he could not see who, and the cool liquid ran down his chin, soaking his shirt.
   When he tried to speak, it came out as a croak.
   A soft voice whispered back, ‘Ssh! Ssh!’
   Whoever it was, stroked his hair, and pushed a blanket under his head without saying anything. After a while, he felt stronger and could sit up and look around. There was grass instead of sand, and the soothing sounds of trickling water and the wind rustling through leaves.
   The caravan was resting at an oasis, where a spring filled a pool. Ivan wanted to crawl to it but did not have the strength. Tents were dotted in the shade of the trees, and cooking fires sent spirals of smoke into the sky. The smell of food was everywhere but instead of making him feel hungry, he was sick.
   Horses grazed on the thin grass and hobbled camels nibbled at the lower branches of the trees. All around were men and women looking like scarecrows; thin, dirty people, men lounging about in fur caps smoking pipes, women carrying water and throwing food into pots. Ivan recognised them as wandering Khirgiz. He had seen them in the market at Fort Raim. Like swallows, the tribes moved south in winter and north in summer. He guessed that these were heading for the Syr Darya to pasture their flocks and trade at the forts.
   Neither the Khirgiz nor the Turkomans took the slightest notice of him and were not bothered that he might try to escape. If he tried to run for it, they would catch him in minutes in the open desert.
   It was like watching foxes amongst wolves, the Khirgiz slinking around, their cunning eyes missing nothing, and the Turkomans, tall, defiant and swaggering. Both were cutthroats, but the Turkomans were warriors to be feared and sat apart from the Khirgiz around a campfire made from dried grass and camel dung over which they were boiling tea.
   Ivan closed his eyes, straining to hear what they were saying. They hid nothing, never dreaming a Russian boy could understand their language. Mostly, what they said made little difference to him, only confirming Khiva as their destination, which made his heart sink. They were more interested in another prisoner who was the daughter of a Russian merchant. A wealthy family meant a big ransom and the thought of the riches to come excited the Turkomans who sang noisily, blessing their good luck.
   No sooner had Ivan rolled back to rest than a shadow fell across him. He felt frightened, until he saw it was a Khirgiz woman, who knelt down and offered him a drink. His captors saw her, and a Turkoman with a scar across his cheek rushed over shouting and pushing her to one side.
   ‘Get away, you stupid woman!’ he snarled. ‘Can’t you see he’s a prisoner? He doesn’t deserve such treatment.’
   The woman was defiant in front of the towering man. ‘Perhaps, you too have a mother,’ she said, placing a jug to Ivan’s broken lips. ‘Allah remembers and blesses the merciful.’
   The Turkoman raised his hand to hit her, but when he saw that she was unafraid, he spat in her face. The woman’s words had shamed him.
   ‘Drink all you want,’ she said, putting a hand behind Ivan’s head and helping him hold the jug between shaking hands. The sour milk tasted like honey in his parched mouth and the woman’s kindness made him forget his cuts, bruises and aching bones.
   ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘and God bless you. You have come to my aid twice.’
   ‘Twice?’ said the woman. ‘I don’t understand.’
   ‘You gave me water when we first stopped here.’
   ‘I gave you only this sour milk a moment ago,’ she smiled. ‘Perhaps the sun has affected your mind. It happens in the desert. May Allah protect and have mercy on you.’

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