The Inner Beast

The shifting sands outside the Cador tossed their granules against the canvas fabric, creating a dull yet tingling sound that woke the Hessian from his delirium. Malaria had not been among his thoughts when he was contacted by the Khedive to fight with his army in Egypt, but Malaria had been a reality. The relapse of fever had ravaged the Hessian all day, he’d been in and out of consciousness, and now awake again, quickly determining that the blowing sand was not the only disturbance inside or outside the blackness of the deep burgundy colored tent. There was movement beside his sleeping pallet, a figure standing beside him. He reached for his sword, turning up the oil lantern with his other hand, but before he came swinging up, the figure pushed back the hood of the burnoose it wore, and leaned down into the light.

“Peace, Ostad!” Satra smiled as she knelt in front of her Hessian master, her deep brown eyes averting themselves from his ice blue stare. She picked up the piece of sea sponge that floated in a nearby water basin, and began to dot the perspiration from his brow.

The Hessian shook his head and pulled away from her, she’d been wiping his convulsing body with that damned sponge all day, he’d had enough of it. He grabbed her hand, startling her on purpose to make her look at him, for he wanted to see her eyes once more. Satra had been his slave for nearly a year now, he’d been so sure she’d lost her fear of him, and while her smile seemed to confirm that she indeed had, her eyes contradicted everything. She was trying to hide something, something that made her nervous, and he had a good idea what it was, and it was not a delusion brought on by his fevered brain. He said nothing to her, for he spoke to her very little, the same as he did to everyone else. She’d learned to read his expressions though, an arch of an eyebrow here, narrowed eyes there, and the subtle nod of his head. Now was no different, and she lay down beside him on her back, looking up at him with wide eyes, still so full of fear, begging him not to question her, not to even touch her. He stared back down at her for a long time, studying the guilt in her face and fighting the fever and dizziness.

His limited Persian and her barely-existent German had made their arrangement difficult, but not as difficult as his gigantic appearance, wild hair and sharp teeth had made their first few weeks together. When the Khedive, had offered him a bonus for his services as a mercenary, the Hessian had never expected that a girl of about fifteen with lovely long black hair would be brought before him, screaming and sobbing immediately upon seeing him and trying so earnestly to run from his side that she would have to be confined by the Khedive’s own guards. The Hessian didn’t blame her for being so terrified, for he was nearly twice as tall as his Arab and Persian patrons, making him hideously large to the girl, and then there were of course his monstrous teeth. A collar was quickly fastened around the shrieking girl’s neck, an ornate chain attached, and the Hessian left the Citadel that night with his new odalisque who shook with the fright of him. He would have refused such a gift if he could have, but he was not in his own country, or even on his own continent. To refuse the Khedive’s gift was unheard of, it would have been an insult, and as the Hessian had not yet been paid in full for his services, and had as well been recently appointed as a Commander, or Pasha, of two hundred and fifty Egyptian soldiers, offending anyone here on the dark continent was not wise; even though Satra was a gift that came with a warning from the Khedive. “This girl has too much spirit. She will most likely be trouble and defy you. That is why I give her to you, for I believe that if any man can control her, it is you, Pasha!”

Like Malaria, the Hessian did not think to expect that he would be put in charge of two hundred and fifty soldiers. It was not in his contract, but his promotion to Pasha, like the odalisque, had been another gift from the Khedive, who had been very impressed and delighted with the Hessian’s skills as a warrior. When the Hessian left the Hessian Grenadiers he had only obtained the rank of sergeant, and he had never before this had the opportunity to lead so many men. He actually found that he welcomed and enjoyed being made a Pasha, but Satra was a gift and luxury he did not need, yet was forced to graciously accept. Though he felt nothing but reluctance in becoming the new master of the slave girl, he was as trapped as she was.

It had taken nearly three months before Satra had settled herself into this new ownership. Despite the Khedive’s warning about her temperament, the Hessian had not noticed any insubordination. Perhaps, he had begun to recently think, she was just saving it all up for one truly monstrous offense. But he was so sure that Satra had actually come to like him, despite the way she at first would sometimes jump out of fear when the Hessian touched her, and then fall to his enormous feet, begging forgiveness and offering a thousand apologies to her “ostad”, for if she displeased him, he had the right to kill her. Gradually though, the Hessian convinced her that he was not interested in being tyrannical, for he’d removed the collar she’d come to him wearing the very first night that she’d become his slave, and never used the shackles the Khedive had chained to her ankles whenever she was not in her former master’s presence. She’d actually turned out to be a good slave, and so the Hessian let her have free roam of his Cador instead of chaining her to one small spot, and in general, did not treat her as a slave, never beating her or torturing her. However, that was not to say he did not let his masculine lusts be fulfilled by her beautiful tan body. For not to do so would have again been an insult to her, and he couldn’t risk that, could he? But the Hessian often thought of what a weak excuse that had been. Satra was an attractive and sensuous slave, the Khedive had thought very highly of the Hessian to have gifted him such a gem from the harem, her attitude aside.

It had taken time, but Satra had indeed learned to smile at her new master, to not let his incredible stature, or the sharp teeth scare her so. She’d become trusting enough of him one day to actually run her small brown finger along his pointed teeth and laugh “Ostad is crocodile,” and the Hessian often thought that he had Satra to thank for the name of “Timsah” that was suddenly attached to him by his soldiers following her little joke; but he didn’t mind, for crocodiles were formidable beasts, and so was he.

Beyond this though were the pleasures Satra brought him; acts and elaborations that only a harem girl could know, such things, as he was only to experience with her. She willingly gave pleasure to him, for she enjoyed his fair treatment of her, but she knew her place, she was his slave, he was her master, she was supposed to please him, never offend him, or she died.

Her dark brown eyes were full of that realization as she looked up at her master now. Perhaps it was because her eyes were about to reveal the truth of where she had been in the dead of night that made her reach up and tangle her arm around his neck, bringing his head down to her breasts as she exposed them with her other hand, or maybe it was an act of apology, the Hessian was not sure. However, he took her coffee colored nipple into his mouth when she offered it, sucking and licking. He did not love her, felt no strong emotions for her at all; she was his slave, but not to take what pleasure she offered him was to distort that order. However, there was much speculation, brought to his attention by his First Sergeant, that Satra had already violated the master and slave correlation. And despite no hard proof being obtained by anyone, the allegations were already causing the Hessian’s Arab and Persian soldiers to consider him as humiliated by his own slave.

“Many have seen her, Pasha,” said Jamira, the young First Sergeant the Hessian had found to be his most reliable soldier. “She goes to the Cador of a Cavalryman when she knows you cannot see her, or him. She gives to him what she should only give to her Ostad. I cannot say whether she is possessed by the want of dominance, or if she just enjoys making a monkey of you. What I do know is that you must dispatch her punishment swiftly, before the men lose respect for you, Pasha. She is costing you your honor!”

Jamira’s words haunted the Hessian now as he sucked and worried Satra’s nipples. He had no true hunger for her body or her talents; his body was weak and ached with fever and his thoughts were too consumed by the choice that lay before him. Should he kill her? How long could he wait for proof of her dealings with this cavalryman to come to him by use of his own two eyes? Though he did not love her, he did not want to kill her. He felt so sorry for Satra, for when he thought of her predicament, he thought of his own mother, who was also made the slave of a powerful man’s desires, and then killed by that man, who was also the father the Hessian despised. If the Hessian killed Satra for her trespasses, he would be no better than his father, and he did not want that.

Perhaps it was his mother’s fate that had formed the small spot of tenderness towards women in the Hessian’s all but hardened heart. Satra couldn’t have been more than sixteen years in age, and he felt a sort of kinship with her, for both had been born into tragic situations; he the illegitimate son of a Baron who happened to favor him over the two legal heirs, and Satra, both blessed and cursed with beauty that fated her to be made a slave. Neither had asked for the horrible lives they’d been forced to lead, particularly not Satra. The Hessian had made his own decision to ride to Desenberg upon his escape from the French oubliette and massacre his brothers, their innocent wives and children and servants, but Satra never had any choices; at least, until she chose the company of the cavalryman. But the Hessian could not blame her for being so tempted to make her own decisions for once. He’d spent eight years in a deep and dark pit, helpless, selfless, caged like an animal, but Satra had spent her entire life in that fashion. How could he kill her for desiring freedom? Perhaps she’d even read his easiness with her and lack of forcing shackles, collars, brands and piercings upon her body as complicity in her decision to see another man. Perhaps it had actually been his fault for not following the way of life she was accustomed to. And yet, how could he risk letting her affair demean and erode his reputation, particularly when he had two hundred and fifty soldiers that were supposed to follow his orders and believe in his military capabilities, and his competency as a man? What foot soldier with any sense would put trust and faith in following into battle a commander who could not even keep control of his slave? God, but the Hessian damned the Khedive for ever giving him this unwanted gift!

Now all the Hessian wanted was something strong enough to knock the throbbing from his delirious head and the thoughts from his mind, for there was no answer to the questions that plagued him. He could not kill Satra the way his detestable father had his mother, nor could he allow her to drag him down with her infidelities. For now, there was only one thing that could ease his illness and this tension, and allow him to be freed from this situation, at least temporarily, and his hand groped beneath Satra’s embroidered black and white thob for it, maneuvering between her thighs. Her body tensed.

She took his hand hurriedly, obviously trying to stop him before his fingers probed her inner folds, but covering her urgency and panic with another smile, sitting up against him, pushing against his big shoulders. “I will do, Ostad,” she whispered, and the Hessian lay upon his back. Her small hands undid the buttons at the side of his pants, for even as he had been asked to serve as Pasha, the Hessian did not dress completely in traditional Arab clothing. His uniform in Egypt consisted of his signature black tunic, trousers, boots, and breastplate, but he’d replaced his high collared cape with a specially made black bisht, the loose fitting robe worn by Sheiks. He’d also found the need to wear the white cap, called a tagiyah, over his black hair, with a deep maroon ghutra folded in a diagonal and draped over the tagiyah, with a black agal, a woven cord of sheep’s wool, to secure the ghutra and tagiyah to his head. The sun here was intense, and there was no surviving it without the traditional Arab man’s head cover.

Satra had also had to learn what brass buttons and belts were, for the Hessian’s European clothing had been as strange to her as the rest of him was. But he’d been patient, silently taking her hands to his belt buckle and buttons, showing her fingers how to undo each of them. She’d learned so well that she could remove his clothing in darkness, as she did now. The Hessian felt his still limp organ exposed, and he then felt Satra’s hands grasping it, rubbing it, gently tugging it to it’s full length. He felt faint, his fever spiking again, he wondered if would black out before she could even begin her wonderful abilities.

The great size of his erection had once frightened Satra as well, for the Hessian had not expected that she’d ever seen such a large man, or ever been readied by the maids of the harem to accept a man any larger than that of the Khedive. The Hessian could easily feel that he was more than twice the length and thickness of Khedive upon the first night he’d pushed himself into her compact body. The first time Satra had viewed his penis, she’d begun to cry and tremble, trying to explain, with what German she had been able to pick up from him, her fears that her body could not allow him entrance, and that she could not please him, and begging him not to kill her. The Hessian had instead proven himself to be patient, even understanding, as masters went, he knew he was one of a kind, and he again pitied Satra.

The Hessian groaned as he felt Satra’s warm mouth envelop his glans and begin to rotate her tongue around and around it, pumping he head up and down, but only allowing his glans to slip out of and then re-enter her mouth. What she was doing to him felt tremendously good, his Malaria racked body felt like it was floating along with his mind. And that’s when how she had halted his hands when he had reached for the serenity between her legs came back to him. What was she protecting, if she was protecting anything at all? She’d grown accustomed to his size, so it was not fear of the pain that had prompted her to stop him. She was not in the midst of her monthly cycle, for that had passed only a few days ago. She had not recently applied the poultice of sea salts and bay leaves she made to prevent pregnancy, for she would not have gone out in the dead of night to do that. She had nothing to protect, so that meant there was something between her legs she did wish her ostad to find. The too familiar black curtain of delirium threatened to pull over him, but still his mind was able to form suspicions of what it might be. How dare a slave dictate to her master?

Anger fueled the Hessian as he sat up, only half cognizant of what he was doing, and he threw Satra to her back, flinging her legs wide apart beneath him, as she cried out “Na! Oxosnud kardan, Ostad!” He ignored her begging words, and thrust his hand between her legs, the feeling of her moistened inner thighs greeting his fingers before he even reached her drenched tan colored labia and vulva; but this was not her lubricating juices surging forth in honor of his touch. Between her thighs lay the wet remnants of another man’s spent passion!

All of the Hessian’s senses went red as he seethed with rage and fever. It was true, she’d been sneaking off to that cavalry bastard and making a fool of her master. She would be punished! But killing her was the furthest form of punishment on his sick and labored mind now. She had done such a stupid thing, and his hazy thoughts encouraged him to inflict rough justice upon her for it. He forced her legs wider with a violent, swift yank, grabbing her wrists and slamming them down onto the sleeping pallet as he groggily got above her, poking his brutally hard and large erection into the opening of her vagina. He felt almost drunk, clumsy, not in control of himself, but he must punish her! He didn’t wait, didn’t ready her, just bashed his full length into her with one great, vicious thrust, not stopping, but adapting a voracious, ruthless rhythm, ignoring the way Satra screamed, cried, begged him to stop hurting her. He let the beast inside him, angered by her indiscretion and awakened by his lust, and crazed and tortured by his relapsing Malaria, to have complete control, and smash the poor girl into submission. He used his immense body and strength like a weapon, imagining that he could shatter her pelvis, and thinking at times he did feel her tear, but it only made him more merciless. How could she have done this thing to him? After his fair and just treatment of her, she created no other choice for him but to put her to death, and in doing so, become as atrocious as his father! How dare she?

The Hessian’s ejaculation had taken him by surprise, for he’d been so consumed by the fever and so embroiled with his anger and his thoughts of betrayal that he’d failed to take any pleasure in the act he perpetrated. However, as his release cooled the lustfulness and the fever of the beast in him had suffered from, the Hessian began to realize what he’d done. Satra lay beneath him, shaking in fear and pain. Where his body joined hers felt dreadfully wet, and when he pulled his softening organ from her tiny body, it was covered with her blood. His groin was also bathed in her blood, and as he looked on in horror of himself, he noticed the red trickle that spilled out onto Satra’s thighs. She cried and sobbed, couldn’t move for all the pain she felt. Good God, what had he allowed himself to become? What had he allowed himself to do?

Her bed suddenly shook violently, startling Cloella awake, and she found the Hessian sitting bolt upright beside her, his ice blue eyes wide, and sweat dripping from every pore. He looked terrified, and also angry. The look in his eyes frightened even her.

“Hessian, what is it?” She clamored, sitting up with him, smoothing his black hair back from where it was stuck to his sweaty brow. He seemed to be staring at something that was not really there. “Have you had a nightmare?”

The word ‘nightmare’ was the first thing the Hessian’s mind processed. Next was the cold air that surrounded his naked body instead of desert heat; then the botanical inspired wallpaper of the room he was in, and not the burgundy fabric of a Cador. Yes, he’d had a nightmare, one that had actually happened ten years ago. Yet, he hadn’t been haunted by that tragic night with Satra ever since the ordeal had made him swear to never touch another woman again, and he had not, for ten years, until he’d found himself in love with the girl. Why was he troubled by it now? He caught his breath, rubbed his temples, and turned to the girl, who looked at him with fear and worry in her loving eyes, and suddenly, he knew why.

“Why did you let me do what I did to you? I should not have!” He shouted, grabbing the girl by the shoulders as the memory of how she’d begged and begged him to show her his strength, moaned ‘harder’ to him and worked her convulsing muscles around his giant penis until he gave in, and took her with his full force and lust.

The Hessian seemed to be more aware of his surroundings now, but he was still very distressed. Cloella softly caressed his cheek, still trying to figure out what had startled him so. “You are feverish!” She exclaimed, for his skin burned, it frightened her, she checked his old wound, but it was nearly healed, no infection. Where was the fever coming from? It had appeared so suddenly, for he was in perfect health just and hour ago. But then, Cloella remembered how her father, brothers and mother had also been fine one minute, and burning up with fever the next. Good God, had her Hessian contracted Typhoid? She of course didn’t’ believe the townspeople when they called her a witch, and said she had brought the disease upon her family, but what if they had been right? No, it couldn’t be! She could not have been something so foul, something that had caused the deaths of her father, brothers, mother, and now had sickened her Hessian. Please, that could not be so! But, where else had the Hessian’s fever come from? Cloella began to cry. “Hessian, are you ill?” She sobbed, her hands roaming over his sweat drenched body, and feeling that there was no part of him that was not like fire.

His mind wavered a bit, he could see, hear and feel the girl crying. He wanted to die. “I have hurt you.” He gathered her into his arms, squeezing her and burying his face in her hair, feeling tears run from his eyes.

What was he saying? Cloella’s tears gradually stopped and she climbed out of his hot embrace. “What do you mean? You have done nothing to hurt me.”

Though the Plasmodium beasts burst out from within his red blood cells, infecting other healthy blood cells as they were freed and drove his fever and aching ever higher, the Hessian was still alert enough to have heard and understood the girl. Yes, she had been crying, but now she was not, and he watched her as she stood up, no sign of pain in her movement. What in hell was going on? Damn this Malaria, the ultimate in unwanted gifts that Africa had given him, had everything been a delirious dream? He tried to reach out to the girl, but the fever suddenly rose and pulled him down onto the mattress with a thud. All was black.

Cloella didn’t even take the time to put on her shift or her shoes. Instead, she grabbed one of the washcloths and ran naked outside into the frigid morning, gathering handfuls of snow and wrapping it in the towel, then racing back to the Hessian’s side, applying the cold compress to his face. Mentally she took stock of how many vials of quinine she had left from her family’s illness, she hoped it was enough for the Hessian, she could not lose him!

As his body temperature dropped, the Hessian again found himself staring up at the girl, she looked very worried. What was it he had meant to ask her before blacking out? He’d been so eager to know her answer, and now he fumbled to remember the question. Still, his brain was a bit lost in Malaria’s fog. Ah, yes, he remembered what he’d meant to ask her! “Did I not just fuck you like a battering-ram?”

Cloella’s emotions were raw, he’d been passed out for nearly two hours, and she couldn’t help but explode with laughter when he suddenly opened his ice blue eyes again and asked her that. “I hardly think this is the time to applaud yourself for you sexual efforts!” She smiled, able to push back her worries for at least a few moments.

The Hessian felt a bit embarrassed, for he hadn’t meant to use those words, and if he hadn’t been swimming in fever, he wouldn’t have. He sat up, forcing himself back to alertness so that he could talk to her. “Just answer me, please.” He begged her, taking both her cold hands.

Why did he want to know this, Cloella wondered, his fever must have been very high, and yet he seemed to be becoming more lucid. “You are very ill!” She protested, trying to get him to lie back down.

“Malaria, it comes and goes.” He said as he shook his head, fighting her efforts.

“Ma—what?” Cloella had never heard of such a thing, what was wrong with him? But the Hessian lifted her face until her eyes met his.

“Please, tell me what I’ve done to you!” He begged. “Have I hurt you?”

“No!” Cloella finally answered; relieved that his condition seemed to be improving, and wondering why he was still so concerned with whether he’d hurt her. They’d had this conversation before settling into sleep. “I asked for all of you, and you finally gave it.” She smiled, stroking his hair. “But you have not hurt me.”

“You were sobbing!” The Hessian suddenly recounted, afraid she was lying about what he’d done to her.

“Because I…” but Cloella was afraid of what he would think of her if she continued.

“Are you bleeding?” He immediately asked, taking her hesitation to be her inability to find a good excuse for her tears.

“Bleeding?” Cloella repeated in confusion, but then thought about the ‘battering-ram’, and she couldn’t help but smile. She stood up, lifting her shift high enough to show him her thighs. “No, I am not bleeding, you did not hurt me; you did not even scare me.”

The Hessian breathed an audible sigh of relief, pulling her to him and hugging her, and for a second time Cloella felt his full strength as he crushed her against him as if they’d been apart for decades. He was so glad that he had not done to her with his strength what he had done to Satra. “I love you!” He whispered to the girl.

Cloella smiled. “And I you!” She reached for the cold compress beside him, again pressing the snow she’d gathered to his limbs, for he still felt a bit warm. “And I cried because I was afraid I’d made you ill.”

“How would you make me ill?” He asked, his tone of voice displaying how silly he thought the notion was.

“I have been called a witch…an evil thing that cast death and disease on my family…” but Cloella’s voice trailed off, she didn’t want to revisit that feeling.

“Nein, nein, nein!” He sighed as he took her in his strong arms again. “You are smarter than that!” He kissed her, feeling his strength beginning to return and hoping this was only a mild relapse of his Malaria. “We have both been mistaken.”

“Indeed!” Cloella smiled as he kissed her temple and ear softly. “But what is this ‘malaria’?” She asked. “And why were you so afraid that you had hurt me, and so…hesitant…to even let me have all of your strength?”

The Hessian sighed. She did deserve to know, and again, it would be very freeing to finally share the story with someone. He wondered if the girl was aware that she knew more of him than anyone else did. “I warn you, this is not a romantic story.”

“Imagine that,” Cloella laughed. “The Hessian Horseman, the Black Devil himself, does not tell fairy tales!”

He looked down at her with a bemused smirk, and commenced to tell her the story of Egypt, and of Satra, from beginning to end. “Nearly twelve years ago I served in the land of the crescent moon and ageless night…”

Jamira was the first to notice the Hessian standing forlornly outside the Cador, with the sounds of Satra weeping inside. “Ah, the fever has broke! It is good to see you rise, Pasha!” Said the young First Sergeant, grabbing for the hilt of his samsir at the sound of Satra’s wailing. “It is done, Pasha? Or shall you have me finish her?”

Every star in the desert sky seemed to be out that night, as if they meant to spotlight the Hessian’s brutality for all to see. He wished he’d never regained consciousness, and that he was still in a delirium, dreaming the events of the passed twenty minutes, but he knew he had not. “Nein, Jamira. Send for some old crone with knowledge of herbs.”

“Herbs, Pasha?” Jamira questioned with disappointment in his youthful eyes. “Save your honor, Pasha! Not this insolent slave!”

Since taking command of Jamira’s regiment the Hessian had sensed that the young sergeant saw him as a warrior to be emulated. He both enjoyed it and tried to live up to those standards, he’d even grown to like Jamira, but he did not have the patience to explain his request to Jamira or anyone else. “Now!” The Hessian growled, showing every pointed tooth.

The young man was taken aback, but regained himself enough to salute his commander, and promise to return with a medicine woman before slipping away in the darkness. The Hessian fell to his knees in the sand, not knowing how to fix what he’d done, or even if he could. He knew and enjoyed the cruelty he was capable of, but he would never have guessed himself so horrible, so base, so fiendish, as to do what he’d done to Satra. With respect to how he’d let himself recently treat Satra, the Hessian had already become his father, and he wished now, like he did on several occasions, that there was a way he could extract the blood of Baron Grafen von Spiegel from his make up, for he cursed it, and now felt cursed by it.

Part of the Hessian wanted to rush back into the tent and try to comfort Satra, for she still cried. However, he could not go back into that Cador, not even if he was dragged through the doorway by wild horses. If he had no duty here in this land, he would have left it tonight and never look back, but he was under contract to stay and fight. He would have to settle for walking the encampment, but then, any place that he could not hear Satra’s sobbing was a better place. All he had on were his black trousers, but as the night was warm, it didn’t matter, and he rose to his feet, walking out towards the moon, wanting to be alone, but far from it.

He must have ambled through the camp for two hours; his walk had been nothing but a series of returned salutes. Each time he passed by one of his two hundred and fifty soldiers, they stood at attention and raised their hand to their forehead. Some of them said how good it was to see Pasha’s strength had returned, but some of them seemed to smirk at him in the half light, as if they envisioned his slave topped by that cavalry bastard even as the Hessian stood in front of them. Again his mind ached with the question of what to do with Satra, and hadn’t he already done too much? He grew tired, and the sun was rising. Though he feared going back to his Cador, he knew he must to avoid the morning sun, for he was not blessed with the dark skin of his soldiers. Reluctantly, he turned back towards his Cador, hoping that an old woman with dried herbal remedies had been successfully found and dispatched.

As he neared his Cador he noticed the tracks of an animal in the sand that lead in the same direction he walked. He was relieved, for the tracks were large and looked to perhaps be that of a camel, and he hoped they meant an old woman had come to care for Satra. However, at the end of the tracks, and tied outside the Hessian’s Cador, was a fine looking, immense, black Arabian stallion wearing ornate green and black Arab cavalry garb, drenched with silk tassels and embroidery. The Hessian was mesmerized by the horse; for he’d always had an eye for horses, and this big black stallion was a perfect equine specimen. His black chest was deep and strong, his cannon bones and pasterns also strong and thick. His withers were broad and his back straight, his glistening black hindquarters strung with powerful muscles; this horse could run. All of his hooves were jet black and sturdy, unlike the Hessian’s current mount, Barcidan, a dun colored Arab horse with three light colored and weak hooves. The Hessian was often glad that the terrain in Egypt was sand, for Barcidan would not have been a capable warhorse elsewhere in the world. However, this black stallion was what had always come to the Hessian’s mind when he thought of what a warhorse should be. The animal was big and burly, not unlike the Hessian himself, but the horse had a glint of nobility in his dark eyes that the Hessian could only envy.

The Hessian reached his hand out to the animal’s strong neck, stroking it under the thick, full black mane, when something screeched at him from the flamboyantly embroidered broadcloth saddle. He jerked his head in the direction of the noise that had startled him, to see a falcon, hooded and jessed, perched upon the pommel. The horse, the costume it wore, and the falcon; suddenly, it all sank in, that cavalry bastard was inside his Cador!

The Hessian had no weapon, otherwise he would have charged into the tent and lopped off the heads of both Satra and this man she chose to assert her independence with. How dare she? There were other ways she could have chosen to avow herself that would not have made as big a fool of him! But now, to not only continue to defy her ostad after she had been punished by him once, but to continue seeing the cavalry bastard in her ostad’s own Cador? What was the silly bitch thinking? Both Satra and her fellow usurper would see that the Hessian was not called “Timsah” because of his ragged and sharp teeth only.

The Hessian got down low, knowing he must sneak into the Cador in order to grab his weapon and get the upper hand. He crawled to the side of the tent, opposite the burgundy wall lay his sleeping pallet, and his sword. Carefully, he lifted the edge of the canvas, looking in, but what he saw quickly cooled his anger.

A young man, about the same age as Jamira, sat with Satra in his arms, gently rocking her and speaking softly to her in their native language. Satra’s face was turned against his neck, her arms wrapped around him, and the young cavalryman stroked her hair. And that’s when the Hessian heard Satra speak to the man who held her. “Tora dost daram!” The cavalryman kissed her, and repeated the words to her.

Satra had not been giving herself to some man to assert anything about herself as a slave or otherwise. She had not even been trying to undermine her ostad’s authority. Nor had this been an act of pure defiance, or the result of “too much spirit” as the Khedive had said of her upon gifting her to the Hessian. Satra loved the cavalryman, and the cavalryman loved her. The Hessian froze with more guilt and shock. God, it was a good thing he had not had his weapon with him! For he suddenly saw a way out of this terrible situation for both himself, and Satra, and it had much to do with the flawless black Arabian horse tethered outside the Cador. The Hessian would not repeat his reviled father’s horrid actions after all!

Happily, the Hessian curled his big body into a ball, lifted the edge of the Cador and somersaulted himself into the tent, finding his feet and standing bolt upright in one fluid motion. The cavalryman and Satra turned with a jerk at his entrance, their faces going pale, and the young man quickly getting to his feet, standing over Satra with his samsir drawn on the Hessian, ready to defend himself, and her.

The Hessian quickly found the handle of his Assyrian style rapier, bringing it out from beneath his pillow, but not putting the blade up between he and his would be attacker. Instead, he drew in a deep breath, held it to suck in his abdomen, forcing all the muscular ripples of his stomach to be more pronounced, and his chest and shoulders to seem even more immense and powerful than they already were. He strode up to the cavalryman, looking down at the young man, and the Hessian couldn’t help the smile on his face, for he was easily a foot and a half taller than his opponent. “Do you think you stand much of a chance?” He asked flatly in Persian, grinning a mockingly sick grin with every point in his mouth flashing.

“Xosnud Kardan, Ostad!” Satra pleaded with tears once again rolling down her cheeks, for she truly thought her lover was about to be killed.

“Xamusi!” The Hessian growled at her, for he didn’t need her to speak, or make any sounds at all. He knew what he was doing, he just had to make it look convincing. He looked back down at the young man, who swallowed hard, wavered on his feet, and sweat beaded over his shaved head and around his pencil thin mustache. Again the Hessian smiled, for Satra had not fallen in love with a stupid man, this cavalry bastard knew when he was beat. “I don’t believe you stand a chance either!” The Hessian chuckled, stepping close enough to put his large hand around the wrist of the cavalryman, and squeeze it so hard that the young man dropped his samsir. “There is no honor for me in killing either of you!” The Hessian turned sharply, as if disgusted.

The cavalryman again reclaimed his samsir, assuming an attack position, but holding still. He would fight for Satra, even if it meant he would lose. “Pasha!” He called, and the Hessian again turned to him, not surprised by what he saw.

“Nein,” the Hessian began, looking passed the cavalryman to where Satra cowered on the floor, fear flooding her deep brown eyes. The Hessian gave her a subtle wink of his eye that only Satra could read meaning from, and she stared back at him curiously, but began to relax. Again, the Hessian focused on the cavalryman. “There must be a bargain we can reach.”

The cavalryman’s features and posture suddenly composed, he began to understand. “Ari, Pasha! Ari!” He beamed.

The Hessian refused to smile, however. He must be careful, for Satra’s life was not the only thing he must protect. His reputation was also in jeopardy if he failed to receive more from this cavalryman than what Satra was worth. He had to drive a hard bargain, and he must obtain a great deal for Satra; he had to rip the cavalryman off! However, it should be easy to do so, for even the cavalryman understood what must be done. “I’ll trade you the girl for that black horse outside, and the saddle, and the falcon, and five months of your salary…”

The cavalryman nodded, but the Hessian could see that parting with such an incredible animal was not easy for the young man. However, it was the horse that the Hessian had most wanted of all the things he’d asked for so far. Now the Hessian allowed himself to smile at the thought of owning such a fine animal. “…and what else have you got?” The Hessian asked of the young man, after inspecting the samsir in his hand and refusing the weapon. Satra looked up at the Hessian and smiled, her eyes full of forgiveness and happiness.

The cavalryman had to think, for his horse was his greatest possession, and the Hessian already had that. The falcon had been his second, but the Hessian had that as well. Suddenly, it came to him, and he looked up at the Hessian, holding up one finger excitedly. “A moment, Pasha!” And before the Hessian could even dismiss him, he ran out of the Cador.

The Hessian was now alone with Satra, who managed to sit up, though he could tell she was very sore. He dropped to his knees beside her, guilt washing over him again as he took her hand. “I am so sorry, and I was so horribly wrong…” he began, but to his surprise, Satra’s small brown hand clamped itself over his mouth and she laughed.

“Tashakkur, Ostad!” She said, and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him on the cheek.

“Nien, tashakkur to you for forgiving me!” He whispered to her, then tilted her head up to his and kissed her for the very last time ever. She stroked his face and they stared at one another for a few moments, but the cavalryman suddenly burst back into the Cador, carrying a long object wrapped in velvet. The Hessian stood.

“Nimesab, my black horse,” began the cavalryman, but then corrected himself. “I mean, your horse, Pasha, and I won a horse race and received this sword as the grand prize.” The young man was not nearly tall enough to even unveil the weapon from its velvet sheath without grasping its blade between his thighs. “I have never understood why it was created so long and so heavy, for no ordinary man could ever use such a sword, but I have never seen its equal.” Finally, the velvet fell away from the weapon, and he presented it to the Hessian.

Indeed, there was no other sword like this one, thought the Hessian as he took it from the cavalryman. It was a huge rapier, with an ornately styled hilt, fashioned out of white gold, with a design of snakeskin down the handle, where at the very bottom it became a serpent’s head, mouth open, fangs and flickering tongue exposed, holding the rounded ball base of the weapon in its mouth. The serpent’s eyes were rubies, the blade was silver plated, and the length, weight and motion of the weapon fit the Hessian’s great size and strength as if it had been custom made for him. He twirled it around in his hand, spinning it up into the air and catching it again. It was the finest rapier he’d ever handled; and he had thought the black horse was the best part of this trade. The Hessian smiled, and extended his hand to the cavalryman, who also smiled, and shook the Hessian’s hand.

Cloella was also smiling at the Hessian when he reached the end of his story. “I thought you said this was not a romantic tale.” She asked, still wiping the tears out of her eyes from how horrible she felt to have made him relive that fateful night with Satra. Had she known, she would never have argued so strongly for him to let himself go and give her all of his power. The Hessian had not blamed her though, and he’d stopped his story several times to tell her so.

“So it wasn’t a classically romantic tale.” He smiled. “Stop crying, I told you, my decision to let my control slip wasn’t your fault, and besides, it has allowed us to become closer.”

Cloella breathed in a deep breath, he was right. “So you traded your mistress for Daredevil?” She laughed, thinking the deal a bit odd.

“Of course not!” He answered as if that was an absurd idea after all. “I traded my mistress for Daredevil’s sire!” He tried to remain serious looking, but the girl shook her head at him and looked so utterly flustered with his answer it made him laugh. He put his arms around her and kissed her. “And the rapier is the one you have seen me carrying.”

“I thought so!” Cloella grinned, snuggling against him. “Satra was a very brave woman!” She sighed.

“With respect to asking me for ‘harder’, so are you!” The Hessian smiled, and kissed her again, trying to tuck her beneath him and lay down, but she fought him.

“Oh no! No physical exertion for you until I am sure you are done with your relapse! You are still a bit warm to the touch, I must get you some tea!” Cloella said as she got to her feet, leaving him prostrate on the bed, slumping in disappointment. She smiled, patting his broad shoulder then slipping on her shoes to go down to the kitchen, but as she walked out of the room, she could hear the Hessian mutter “Damned Malaria!”