Three men appeared, each carrying a fresh wooden pole with sharpened ends. They drove the poles into the ground, following the same gruesome semicircular arc as the other decapitated heads. Meanwhile, two young women carried a long, wooden inlaid box up to Blackbeard. They opened it with great ceremony, and the bearded man reached in and removed a huge broadsword—the first sword Gideon had seen in the camp, and the first sign that these people had steel rather than just the copper and bronze of the daggers they carried. A murmur rose from the crowd. The man held the sword out, examined it this way and that, and gave it a few test swings. The blade was encrusted with dried blood, but its edge nevertheless glittered ominously.
At length, the man began walking toward them with great solemnity, holding the sword high.
Gideon couldn’t take his gaze off its edge. He frantically tried to think of a way to escape such an unexpected and dreadful fate, but to no avail. He’d tried to come to terms with his impending death, but he’d never imagined anything like this: at the hands of an executioner’s ax. Imogen again renewed her pleading, but Gideon doubted the tribe could even understand her. This pit was clearly the reason this place had remained so untouched by the outside world—any visitors unlucky enough to happen upon it were quickly and brutally dispatched. He recalled the camel drivers who said that those who ventured this way never returned. At the time, he’d dismissed this as rumor and superstition, but now it appeared to be all too true.
The crone went on chanting, her voice high-pitched and grating. Imogen had fallen silent. Gideon glanced at her face, and their eyes met. She was calm now, seemingly resigned.
The crone suddenly stopped her wailing and a hush fell. The crowd remained kneeling, but their heads were no longer bowed; they were looking on avidly.
Blackbeard stepped forward and gestured at Garza. Two guards came over and cut the thongs attaching him to the others. Gideon could see Garza trying to protest, but he could make little noise and no one paid any attention. The guards, with a violent but efficient gesture, forced him to his knees at the edge of the pit. A third came up and grasped Garza’s hair tightly in his hands, while Blackbeard positioned himself, legs apart. The man lifted Garza’s head, exposing his neck, and the big bearded man touched it with the edge of the sword, as if calculating the best position for his strike. Then he raised the weapon. The edge of the blade flashed once in the sunlight.
Gideon began to feel strangely detached, as if this terrible thing were happening to someone else, someplace far, far away. Distantly, he hoped it would be quick. Judging by the fearsome muscles on the executioner, his determined expression, and the massive sword, it would be.
The man clutched tightly at Garza’s hair, so he wouldn’t lose his grip at the moment the head was struck off. It was obviously a practiced motion. Gideon could see Blackbeard bracing himself for the swing. The silence was now absolute. He closed his eyes.
Then he heard Imogen shout in English: “Don’t do this! For God’s sake, stop!”
26
IN THE SILENCE that followed, the crone let out an astonished gasp, followed by a rapid-fire jumble of words. Gideon opened his eyes to see her yammering at the old chief, who was listening with a surprised expression. The crone gestured animatedly with her veined hands.
A terrible moment of stasis ensued, Blackbeard with his sword still poised. A restless murmur rose in the audience. The chief now held up his hand. When Blackbeard didn’t move, the chief pointed a finger at him and said something like a sharp order. This time the man lowered the sword, visibly disappointed. The murmur of the crowd rose in volume. The chief turned and gestured again; he seemed to be ordering everyone to leave. Garza was hauled back to his feet by the guards and tied once again to Gideon and Imogen, still gagged. His face was pale, covered by a sheen of sweat.
More shouted orders from the chief, and the three were pulled back from the edge of the pit, then led along the trail in the direction of the encampment. Gideon stumbled along, dazed, barely believing that he was still alive. His legs were so shaky he could hardly walk.
At the closer edge of the camp, next to a cluster of goat pens, stood a large cage made from green tree trunks lashed together. Its door was removed and—with shouts and gestures—they were pushed inside; the door was fitted back in place, then lashed shut with leather thongs. Two guards took up position outside.
Inside, the three sank to the sand, emotionally exhausted. For a long moment, there was silence. Finally, Imogen swore softly. “Why are we still alive?” she asked.
But neither Gideon nor Garza could answer; they were both still gagged.
“I don’t know about yours, but my bindings are loose. I think I can work my way out.” She began twisting at her wrists.
Gideon also tested his bonds and noticed that the leather thongs, although tight, did in fact allow some give. By slowly pulling and twisting, they could be loosened, bit by bit. He glanced around, but the guards had their backs turned.
“Keep at it,” Imogen whispered. “Mine are coming loose.”
Gideon continued to twist and turn his wrists, and then with his loose fingers he managed to grasp the end of the leather thong. He found the knot and started prying it open with his fingertips. Soon it was untied and he had freed his hands. He quickly removed his gag and spat out the goatskin. Turning his back to the guards, he finished untying Imogen’s and Garza’s hands. Garza removed his gag and also spat out the goatskin muffle. He wiped his mouth with the back of one trembling hand, still in shock from his close brush with death.
Gideon took in their surroundings. The cage was not wholly unpleasant; it had a sandy floor and was large enough to stand in. Air flowed through it, creating a welcome coolness. It was empty except for a wooden bucket in one corner. Looking out, he could see much of the camp, gilded by the morning sun. There was a great deal of activity. Several children came by, stared at them, then went their way. The guards seemed almost lackadaisical and paid little attention to their prisoners.
“What the hell just happened?” Gideon said in a low tone.
“I wish I knew,” Imogen whispered back.
Garza massaged his neck. “Getting your throat almost cut twice in one day is a bit much,” he said. Although he tried to sound calm, his voice quavered slightly nevertheless.
“Are you all right?” asked Imogen.
“I still have my head.”
“You think they were testing us?” Gideon asked.
“No,” said Imogen. “They were definitely about to kill us. Until I called out.”
“Any idea what language they’re speaking? Some form of Arabic?”
Imogen shook her head. “The village looks Bedouin, as do their clothes, but they don’t speak Arabic. The women aren’t covered and I don’t see any signs of Islam: no calls to prayer or any of the traditional symbols or customs.”
“If not Arabic, what could it be?”