CHAPTER 11The black-faced slob who led the troops of the Saracens in Alexandria was seated cross-legged on a rug, eating a bowlful of dry rice. He squinted at Ramizail where she stood, defiant and tear-stained, across the room from him. “Bring the slut here,” said he. Two slaves dragged her forward. They took their hands away when they had stationed her in front of him; she immediately hit one of them in the eye and kicked the other on the shin. Then she bent over and thrust a finger under Mufaddal’s nose.
“Watch who you’re calling a slut, you pig-eyed ape-visaged son of a buck-toothed jackal!” she said in a low but quite audible snarl. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
He made as if to shrug, snatched her by the wrist and flung her prone on the rug before him. “I know who you are, you vi
