8
Dressed in a charshaf that exposed only her face, Saba stood inside the door, hand on the jamb, looking out at the candlelit windows of the village. Beyond the cottages and gardens, the cistern wall rose like a black page. A group of men clustered in the road outside the courtyard. She could hear their low voices and an occasional laugh. When they saw her, they bowed respectfully, but didn’t disperse. They, like her family, were waiting for a man named Kubalou.
The men’s voices rose suddenly like the sound of leaves in a great gust of wind, then fell silent. Saba saw a lamp approaching and hurried into the receiving hall.
“He’s coming.”
Her mother sat regally on one side of the U-shaped divan, arrayed in her most imposing gold-stitched robe and brocade caftan, with a silk scarf wound over her hair that was pinned in place by a diamond brooch. Her right hand held the Melisite scepter, the other lay calmly in her lap. All the lamps had been lit, and the high-ceilinged room blazed with light. Servants were lined up at the far end of the hall, out of earshot, but ready to spring into service. She noticed Bilal, Amida’s servant, among them. He was a comely boy, a few years younger than Amida. They had returned from Abyssinia together and were inseparable.
Saba surveyed the room with pleasure and thought about all the other women of her blood who had sat here over the centuries, confident and powerful. She wondered whether she could absorb that confidence just by being in its presence.
A few moments later, Amida came in carrying a lamp. While he paused to place it on a chest, a tall, heavyset man in an ill-fitting suit strode past him into the hall, as self-confident as if he were in his own living room. Saba disliked him immediately. His watery brown eyes met hers and she felt the cunning in him like a blow. He wore a bowler hat, but swept it off as he entered, revealing a halo of orange hair. She wished Uncle Malik were here, but he rarely interested himself in the business of the community and she doubted her mother had even told him about the dealer’s visit.
The man’s eyes rested a moment longer than necessary on Saba, appraising her, then his face broke out into what she was sure was meant to be a charming smile. Black spaces showed at either end of his grin where teeth were missing.
“Ma’am?” he said to her in English. He had an odd, high-pitched voice, totally incongruous with his bulk. But what did she know about how the English spoke? Uncle Malik had taught her some English and French-“The tongue is sharper than the sword,” he had told her, “and the master must know how to wield every kind of blade”-but she had never heard a native speak. And if this man were Cuban, as his name suggested, then she knew less than nothing, since she had no idea what that was.
Amida led the man to the side of the divan opposite the priestess. Kubalou’s eyes roved among Amida, Saba, and the stately woman on the divan before him. He probably wasn’t used to dealing with women, Saba realized, and didn’t understand that he should address the priestess. Her mother looked wary.
Saba was shocked to see Amida sit down at the priestess’s right hand, when he knew their place at a formal audience was on the third leg of the divan. He clearly wished to show himself to Kubalou as having more standing than he had. Saba debated whether she should sit in the appropriate place, but then decided she wouldn’t let her brother alone claim equal status with the priestess. She sat at her mother’s left hand, feeling awkward at breaking the rules. She stole a glance at her mother’s face, but saw no reaction to the unusual seating. Her eyes were riveted on the visitor.
“Selam aleikum, peace be upon you. We welcome you to Sunken Village.”
Amida translated into broken English, and there ensued an exchange of customary pleasantries interrupted by awkward pauses while Amida wrestled with the words. The servants brought tea in crystal glasses and pastries on plates, morsels as small as the end of Saba’s finger. Bilal served Amida, and Saba saw a fond look pass between them. She saw that Kubalou had noticed it too.
Saba listened to Amida mangle the translation. She considered offering to translate instead of her brother, but to do so would humiliate him. Hopefully, she thought, we’ll have no future dealings with this man anyway. She also found herself struggling to understand Kubalou’s English. She noticed that he left words out, didn’t play by the rules, parried when he should have thrust straight to the heart of the subject. She adapted quickly, and his meaning was soon clear: work directly for me and I’ll make you rich.
She could see the priestess had also understood, despite Amida’s mangled translations.
“How long would this agreement last?”
“It’s a bottomless cup.” Kubalou smiled agreeably. “We can drink from it forever and not let it run dry. And I understand from Amida that you can get hold of some particularly, what I’d call, interesting items.”
Amida looked frightened at this, and Saba noticed that he mistranslated Kubalou’s words as “You have access to many places.” Had Amida told him about the Proof of God? Impossible. Surely even Amida wouldn’t reveal the central secret of the Melisites. Saba suddenly felt chilled, remembering their conversation that afternoon. Did Kubalou have the stolen reliquary?
Kubalou regarded Amida with a bemused smile, as if aware of his translator’s counterfeit. He took a piece of pastry in his big fingers and washed it down with tea.
“Who would make the decisions about which objects are taken, from where, and how?” Balkis asked him. “What would be the role of the Habesh?”
“We’re only interested in certain items. We tell you where they are, your men get them, and we pay for them.” He spread his hands, palms up. “Very efficient.”
Saba noticed they were covered with yellow calluses. What kind of high-status dealer had hands like this? She also wondered about his too tight clothes.
“The Habesh work as a team.” The priestess sat stiffly upright. She hadn’t touched her tea. Saba felt proud of her mother and, as always, awed by how flawlessly she inhabited the institution of priestess.
Kubalou shrugged. “I don’t care how you work, as long as you deliver.”
“What is the chain of command?”
“Ma’am,” Kubalou explained pleasantly, “you can be the Queen of Sheba as long as we get what we ask for.”
Saba was furious and saw that her mother recognized the insult just from his tone of voice. If she were priestess, Saba decided, she would have ended the interview right then. Unlike her mother, Saba understood what had been said. Uncle Malik was right. Knowledge was power.
Balkis looked pointedly at Amida, but he avoided her eyes and didn’t translate. She turned back to Kubalou and waited, her face betraying nothing.
“If you want your son here to head up some kind of group,” he added, “that can be arranged. I mean, assuming he can get them to follow his orders.” He gave Amida a fatherly smile.
Amida looked uncomfortable and glanced at his mother, but the priestess showed no emotion.
“What I mean is, do we deal directly with you or does someone stand on the ladder of authority above the Habesh?” Balkis asked again, rephrasing her question.
“We have some men in Charshamba. They’ll be in touch and let you know what we need.”
Balkis thought for a moment, then said, “The Habesh work alone. We make our own decisions. This will only work if we deal directly with you. We can then tell you whether or not your assignment can be carried out.”
Kubalou shook his head in frustration. “Ma’am,” he said, “we can’t deal with a hundred separate gangs. Ask your son there.” He nodded at Amida. “He’s a smart kid. He’ll tell you success lies in organization.”
“You misunderstand us. The Habesh are not a gang.”
“Fine, you’re a minority. It doesn’t matter if you’re Hottentots. There’s got to be a chain of command. I told you we’d include your son. Or did you want in on this? I mean, that might be a little awkward seeing as how you’re, well, a female person.”