"This is Miss Alysson Vickery, Excellency," Jafar said in French—so that she could understand, Alysson presumed.
"Ah, yes, the Englishwoman," Ben Hamadi acknowledged, switching with some difficulty to the French language. "It is an honor to meet you, Miss Vickery. I trust you are being well-treated."
Alysson gazed into the general's fathomless dark eyes, not quite knowing how to respond to this bit of politeness. Certainly he would not want to hear about the trials of her captivity, nor would it do her cause any good to curse or revile Jafar before this powerful man. Especially since he might very well hold her fate his hands. Keenly aware that Jafar's hand rested possessively at her waist, she forced a civil reply. "As well as can be expected under the circumstances, Excellency."
He gave her a gallant smile. "I shall look forward to becoming better acquainted with you later." Then, dismissing her with a wave of his hand, he reverted to Arabic to discuss with Jafar the arrangements for his forces.
Alysson gritted her teeth at this imperious treatment, thinking that the khalifa's obsequiousness resembled Jafar's at his most obnoxious. Mahmoud, however, seemed quite impressed that the general had spoken to her at all. Khalifa Sidi Ould Ben Hamadi was one of the leaders of the Holy War against the French, and it was a highlight of Mahmoud's short life to have touched the robe of the mighty man. The young servant sang Ben Hamadi's praises all morning long, until Alysson was ready to consign both Mahmoud and his precious khalifa to perdition, along with His Royal Munificence, Jafar el-Saleh.
Indeed, not only was she not pleased by Ben Hamadi's arrival, but the appearance of an Arab general in Jafar's camp disturbed her greatly. She could only assume his presence had something to do with Jafar's plan to lure the French army into battle. Why else would the khalif have brought so many forces bristling with arms? Mahmoud either did not know, or would not tell her.
She would have liked to ask Jafar, but he was occupied elsewhere—accommodating his guests, Alysson supposed. The entire camp was busy making preparations for a banquet to be held that evening in the khalif's honor. A hunting party that was sent out returned with the bounty of several gazelles, and a whole sheep was spitted and roasted for the occasion. All this Alysson learned from Mahmoud, for she was not allowed
to leave Jafar's tent, or even look out the entrance. Saful was guarding her as if his life depended on it. Which perhaps it did, she thought wryly, remembering Jafar's lethal expression when she had tried to escape yesterday.
To her surprise, Mahmoud kept her company the entire day. Possibly because he felt sorry for her, Alysson suspected, though he didn't once mention his lord's fury at her yesterday, or how Jafar had tied her up after her attempted escape. Mahmoud was more forthcoming than usual, though, and he voluntarily gave her another lesson in the Berber language.
He also kept giving her odd glances, as if trying to determine the answer to a puzzle. Finally he came right out and voiced the thought that apparently had been bothering him.
"Why do you not turn away when you view my face, mademoiselle? The highborn ladies of the French look upon me with fright and disgust when I show myself."
The question caught Alysson off guard and filled her with dismay; Mahmoud's disfigurement obviously troubled him deeply.
She regarded him solemnly, longing to console him. "My uncle in London is a doctor," she answered truthfully, "and I sometimes visited him at his hospital. I saw countless victims of smallpox there, many whose faces were disfigured worse than yours."
"Worse? Did they not frighten you, either?"
"At first, perhaps, but I grew accustomed to seeing them."
"I did not think it possible to grow accustomed to such ugliness."
The note of quiet despair in the young Berber's voice tore at her heart. And oddly, it made her think of Jafar. But there was a similarity between them, she realized. Mahmoud was much like Jafar must have been as a boy, his soul branded by bitterness and hatred. His scars were more visible, that was all.
Swallowing the tightness in her throat, she chose her words carefully. "There are more important things than appearance, Mahmoud. Your scars don't make you a better or worse person. It is who you are inside that matters. Courage and compassion, kindness—those are a test of man's worth, not how attractive he is."
Mahmoud gazed at her wide-eyed for a moment, then ducked his head. "But with my face, I will never find a bride. No female would wish to marry a man who looks as I do."
"I don't agree in the least," Alysson said, trying to keep her tone light. "Why, your scar might even prove to be an advantage. When your bride marries you, you can be sure it is because she loves you for yourself, not for any other reason. Trust me, I know about such things. All my life I've had to beware of suitors who only wanted me for my fortune. You won't have to deal with that uncertainty at least.'' She paused, reaching out to touch his hand gently. "Someday you will find a woman worthy of you, Mahmoud. I'm sure of it."
The boy looked away then, coloring with sudden embarrassment. Out of consideration, Alysson changed the subject and resumed the language lesson, but she knew she had comforted him, at least to a small degree. She wished she could do more.
Mahmoud's concerns momentarily made Alysson forget the magnitude of her own problems, but they shortly came back to her in a rush. She was not invited to dine at the banquet, but to her surprise, she was asked beforehand—or rather, ordered politely—to the khalifa's tent.
It was apparently an important occasion, for Tahar not only interrupted her many duties to help Alysson dress, but insisted that she wear the finest garment in her wardrobe, a caftan of rich forest-green brocade, with a haik of ivory silk to cover her hair.
Jafar was already present when she arrived at the large, ceremonial tent, but his enigmatic expression told her nothing. Flustered more by his cool look than by his illustrious companion's formal reception, Alysson did her best to ignore Jafar entirely. When Ben Hamadi Honoréd her by offering her a cup of the sweet mint tea, she accepted with a gracious smile.
She had hoped she might question the general about his reasons for coming here, but he evaded all her leading queries with the skill of an experienced diplomat and proceeded in his far-from-perfect French to tell her about the Sultan of the Arabs, Abdel Kader.
"It has been fifteen years, Miss Vickery, since Abdel Kader was proclaimed Commander of the Believers. There was no one better suited to champion Islam against the infidels. His family were sherifs, descendants of Mohammed. His father, a marabout—a holy man. In only a short time, Abdel Kader rallied to his standard all the tribes of the kingdom."
Alysson murmured some polite reply, remembering the first time she had heard of Abdel Kader. The valiant Berber chieftain had been viewed then with awe and admiration in the salons of Paris. But that was before the Armee d'Afrique had nearly gone down in defeat. Before whole divisions of French troops had been annihilated by the fierce Berbers and Arabs. Afterward society hostesses no longer had raved about the handsome, dashing, romantic sheik.
But she didn't want to hear about Abdel Kader. She wanted to know what military strategy Jafar and Ben Hamadi were planning to use against Gervase.
Unable to help herself, Alysson gazed across the low table at Jafar, aware that her anguish was written on her face for him to see. Jafar, in turn, was uncomfortably aware that her large, lustrous, troubled eyes were turned upon him.
"We pray Allah to smooth and prosper our affairs," Ben Hamadi droned on. "Just as you Christians pray to the prophet Aissa . . . Christ, as you call him . . ."