The Companion by Susan Squires Page A

But all women were driven to control a man, if not straightforwardly, then with caressing ways meant to assert superiority. They must make up for their weaker physical being by using a man, directly or indirectly. The females of the species were all the same, even this one.
    Still, her blunt straightforwardness was unlike the coy manipulation he had known or the direct cruelty he’d experiencedin the desert. Her impulse had been to help him. That spoke of underlying goodness and competence. She was almost more like a man. Her father had certainly treated her like a son, traipsing about Africa. He already knew she was intelligent. Tonight she’d guessed that he’d been a slave, though she could not know the depth of his servitude. No one could imagine that. He would not think of it. He would think of England and the normal life that lay ahead of him, if he could only reach it. . . .
    An oasis. The caravan stopped. The slaves were allowed to put down the litter. Her tent was erected as the sun rose. She stepped out of the litter and into the dark reaches of her tent. The chosen slaves, the sturdy males just around her litter, were given wooden cups of water. One of the rabble of slaves from the back of the caravan was sent into her tent, a woman. She would be dragged out again shortly, Ian knew, dead and deathly pale, her flesh collapsed against her bones. The beautiful owner had been going through the horde of slaves at the rate of one a week, or even two .
    Ian’s keeper used a great metal pair of pliers to crimp the slaves’ chains to several posts. Naked, he crouched next to his post, alone there, since several of the other slaves had died. Ian glanced over at the Frenchman. Red marks, twin circles, as well as longer slashing cuts adorned his body. The twin circles were at his neck, his wrists, the crooks of his arms, his upper thighs. The slashes were everywhere. He had lasted longer than most, maybe a month. He was tough, that Frenchman. Now he crouched, rocking and murmuring. Perhaps his mind was gone at last .
    “Go with God,” Ian murmured to the Frenchman, though he was not sure the man could hear and was certain God was not listening to this particular part of his creation, since their many prayers for delivery had gone unnoticed. Or perhaps God did not hold sway here .
    He peeked up to see the tall Arab who followed the mistress of the caravan look sharply at him. The man was clothed from head to foot in a burnoose with a hood. Ian wondered if he would be whipped for whispering. But the keeper was busy throwing jerked meat and dried dates into a bowl to feed the mistress’s specially chosen slaves. They were fed better than the rabble at the rear, at least. Ian ate his portion greedily and dozed in the growing heat .
    The date palms gave a little shade, but that was reserved for the camels and their drivers. He could hear the drivers saying that this was the last oasis for many days. They would stay for two days to let the camels drink their fill. That meant rest .
    Sunset. Someone kicked him. He scrambled to his knees with lowered head, hoping to avoid the lash. The others still dozed. The sandaled foot did not belong to the keeper .
    “You,” said a voice in heavily accented English. “You are Briton?”
    The sound was sweet. He had heard no English for six months. “Yes, Master. English.”
    “Where do you come from?” The air vibrated around him, but to a lesser extent than around the woman who owned the caravan .
    “Suffolk.” It was the Arab. He had heard Ian speak to the Frenchman in English .
    “Keeper!” the man called in Arabic. “Release this slave. I will take his chain.” The heavy keeper hurried over and unbent the iron link, handing Ian’s chain to the Arab .
    “Come, English.” The chain was jerked up. Ian heaved himself to his feet and staggered stiffly after his new custodian. The man took him to the far side of the pool of precious water, away from the caravan encampment, and