An hour beyond the quarry, she was surprised to see the walls of a great city. They were high and thick. There was the wink of sunlight against spear tips at their summit. Jean could make out numerous sentries patrolling the wall.
When the chariot came closer, she observed that the walls were made of clay, thatch, and stone. The blending of wood, clay, and stone was odd, but artful. The tribe had pragmatically used the materials at hand, but their use of these substances revealed they were more than a village of crude savages. Quite the contrary.
The city of Ur. She had found it.
Or rather, it had found her.
For a fleeting moment, Jean forgot her anger and hatred and marveled; here was what her father had come to find, and he had not lived to see it. Ironically, the very people he wished to investigate had slain him.
The gate that led into the city was huge, made of seasoned black wood, and like a medieval drawbridge, was designed to lower on chains over a moat that was easily thirty feet wide.
A sentry sounded a horn and the drawbridge lowered. As they drove over it, Jean glanced at the dark water of die moat, saw bobbing garbage, as well as rare white crocodiles. The moat obviously served as both dump, sewer, and feeding trough for the crocodiles, who provided further protection against invaders.
Inside the city were beehive huts thatched with grasses, and in the center of the city an open space. Behind all this rose sophisticated structures of clay and stone. The walls were decorated with elaborate murals representing everyday activities, as well as depictions of warriors battling one another or animals.
One design confused and fascinated Jean. It was of a man with a spear fighting what looked to be some sort of an insect. The insect was taller than the man and stood in an odd posture, on one hind leg, raising the other as if to kick; both forelegs were lifted to guard its upper body from attack. The creature looked similar to a praying mantis, though it seemed more muscular and humanoid. Jean instantly decided these decorated buildings were the dwelling place of royalty.
Women, children, and old men crowded around the prisoners as they were led into the open compound. The children showed special curiosity, being so bold as to dart forth, reach over the top of the chariot, and touch Jean. Jean could not decide if their actions were a kind of coup-counting exercise, or if her white skin intrigued them. They did not laugh as they performed this feat, and were in fact, for children, strangely silent and serious in manner.
They drove straight toward the praying mantis design, and when it seemed as if they would come up against it, a horn sounded above, and what first appeared to be a seamless wall parted, allowing them entry.
As they rode through, Jean observed the wall had been parted by a great chain-and-pulley apparatus on either side of the entryway, and that it was operated by a horde of ragged-looking men wearing ankle chains. The men were obviously of a tribe different from that of the warriors. Some were pygmies.
Jean began to realize the purpose of the attack on her safari. Slaves.
A short distance beyond the opening, thick rods projected from the wall, and dangling from them six feet off the ground by chains were metal cages, and in the cages were skeletons and rotting corpses, as well as living humans. Some of the corpses were riddled with arrows.
One old, naked, black woman with hair white as fresh-plucked cotton, barely alive, almost a skeleton from starvation, reached out and spoke pitifully to Jean's chariot driver. The driver ignored her. The man who held Jean's leash turned and slapped at the extended hand, causing the woman to scream in pain and the cage to swing violently back and forth.
Jean pivoted on the balls of her feet, brought her arm around in a short loop, and struck her captor on the side of the head. It was a clean, sharp blow, a left hook like her father had taught her, and it clipped the warrior so cleanly he was knocked from the chariot, but the leash, fastened around Jean's throat and his wrist, caused her to be jerked to the ground with him.
He grabbed her immediately, wrestled her, straddled her. His sword flashed in his hand. Before he could bring it down, the chariot driver barked at him and he hesitated. He looked at the woman; she scowled and spoke rapidly.
With a snort he returned the sword to its place and jerked Jean to her feet. He grinned at her, but there was no humor in the gesture. Behind him the entire procession, which had stopped when the struggle began, was watching. Jean knew she had made a mistake. She had caused the warrior to lose face. A mere captive had knocked him on his butt.
The warrior jerked the leash and yanked Jean back into the chariot, and a moment later they were rolling again.
Jean looked back at the old woman. She was clutching the bars of the still swaying cage. She nodded at Jean, and Jean nodded back. Jean knew the woman had little time left to live. And all things considered, maybe that was good.
They came to an archway overlaid with gold, rode through that into a massive courtyard. Here was a palace built of bright red clay, gold, jewels, driftwood, and the skulls of humans and animals. Moorish architectural features blended with a sort of rococo style Jean had never before witnessed. The design was one of twisted genius. It was beautiful, but it made Jean's skin crawl.
In time, the chariot circled the palace, and out back was an empty field, and in the distance Jean could see the rear wall of the city. She reasoned that beyond the wall would be villages that paid homage to this great city, providing warriors, food, and goods. This was an empire.
To the left and the right of the field were long barracks, and the chariots and warriors split left and right and went into these. Jean's driver went right, and when the zebras were brought to a halt in a shotgun-style stall, the driver took the leash from the man and roughly led Jean away.
Jean decided not to make a play. Not now. She would wait for the right moment, when the woman least expected it. Better yet, she would, wait until she could concoct a complete plan of escape.
She looked about to see how the other captives were faring, but as far as she could tell, they were all housed inside the barracks. She alone was being brought across the back courtyard toward the palace.
The back door to the palace was a large gate and it was open, and she was led through it. Once inside, Jean let out her breath.
There was a row of naked natives, not the bearers who had worked for the Hanson safari, but tribesmen she had not seen before. There were eleven of them lined up between a horde of armed warriors. The eleven were crying and wailing, flailing their arms, falling to their knees and pleading.
At the fore of the line was a huge block of wood, and even as Jean watched, a woman was jerked forward by the hair, forced to place her head on the block. Out of the crowd of warriors, a tall muscular man with a large sword appeared. He was ritualistically scarred and wore a thin mask of white paint around his eyes.
The woman caterwauled, and in mid-cry the sword whistled and her head bounced up with a bright spray of blood. The head rolled in the dust, came to rest looking at the burning sky. The captives screamed and the warriors rejoiced with a shout.
The woman leading Jean turned and smiled. Jean felt a snake of ice run up her spine. The woman, still smiling, yanked Jean toward the line of captives. The woman yelled to the executioner, dragged Jean along the line to the forefront. Jean looked down at the bloody block of wood, then at the decapitated head of the woman. Jean thought, or perhaps imagined, she saw the woman's eyelids flicker, then cease movement.
The woman with the leash spoke to the executioner and he smiled. He came forward, took hold of the leash and jerked it hard. Jean went to her knees gagging, her forehead banging against the bloody block of wood. The woman stepped on one of Jean's bent legs and pressed. Jean let out a moan of pain.