The Tenth Saint by Niko D. J

Author:Niko, D. J. [Niko, D. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, Mystery, Historical, Adventure, Suspense
ISBN: 9781605422459
Amazon: 1605422452
Goodreads: 13198683
Publisher: Medallion Press
Published: 2012-01-25T08:00:00+00:00

Fifteen

Muza was even more filthy and chaotic than Gabriel had imagined. Bare-chested port hands from the East, their ribs protruding, pushed carts filled with sacks of spices and grain. At the traders’ bazaar, veiled women picked through piles of lemons to find the juiciest specimens. Roving merchants, ragged and stinking of sweat and camel dung, haunted the streets vending their “quality” frankincense from the Qara Mountains. Miserable souls, some missing eyes, others with lopped-off legs, sat in their own waste and begged for bread. Still, the place was beautiful to Gabriel’s eyes.

The last portion of his journey across the desert had been grueling. He was convinced that had it not been for the people in the passing caravan who had taken mercy on him and given him bread and water, he would not have seen this day. Now he had arrived at last, in the port city that only days ago had seemed so far away as to be an illusion. Muza. He repeated the name in his mind to assure himself the place was real. Loath to press his luck, he made haste toward the docks to catch the next baghlah across the sea. In his rush, he nearly toppled over an old man selling spices. The small pouches, sewn together in rows and draped over the man’s arms and around his neck, fell to the ground.

“Sorry,” Gabriel instinctively said in English. He caught his gaffe and repeated his apology in the Semitic dialect.

The merchant, his face as dry as old leather, studied the stranger and spoke.

Gabriel didn’t understand the words but hoped the man was the friendly sort. He asked, reinforcing with hand gestures, “Which way to the port? To the boats that leave for the west bank of the sea?”

The man grinned, revealing a row of misshapen, decaying teeth. “You know the Bedouin language,” he said approvingly and continued in a dialect so close to the nomadic tongue it rang familiar to Gabriel’s ears. “You are a long way from the desert. What do you seek in Muza?”

“I am a pilgrim. A nomad like the Bedouins, but I do not belong to their tribe, so I must move on.”

“What tribe do you belong to?”

”I know no country, no kin. I strayed into the harsh lands of the Rub’ al Khali. I would not be alive if not for the Bedouins. They cared for me and gave me shelter. They were my friends.”

“The nomads, they are good people. My ancestors came from the desert. The wandering life is very hard. It makes a boy a man.” He waved his hand. “Ah, it was not for me. Me, I like to see people, hear noise. It makes me feel alive.”

Gabriel nodded his sympathy for the self-fashioned city dweller. Though city life was a distant memory for him, it was deeply embedded in his consciousness. “I understand you, my friend. Where do you make your home?”

The merchant gestured toward the medina. “In there. I have a bedroll inside the spice shop of my brother.

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