Within minutes Iris was sponged with cooling rose water, and dressed in a simple white gauze night robe. The baby girl, who had wailed lustily after her birth, was now neatly swaddled, and placed in her mother's arms.

Tamar looked to one of the other women, and commanded sharply. "Fetch my lord Zabaai." As chief wife, she was obeyed and looked upon with fear and respect. It was her son, Akbar, who would one day rule the tribe.

Looking down on Iris, Tamar thought it was no wonder that Zabaai loved her. She was so very beautiful with her milky skin, ash-blond hair, and blue-gray eyes. She was so very different from the rest of them; a woman Zabaai could not only love, but converse with.

He entered the room, a man of medium height and strong build, his dark eyes sparkling, his dark hair and beard untouched by silver despite his forty-three winters. His handsome face was sharply sculptural with its high cheekbones and hawklike nose. His lips were full and sensuous. His entry brought all the women but Tamar and Iris to their knees. He looked at his two wives, and his black eyes softened. He loved them both. Tamar, the wife of his youth, and Iris, the wife of his old age. The other women might give him variety, and occasional pleasure, but these two he prized.

"The gods have blessed you with a daughter, my lord," Tamar said.

"A daughter?" He was surprised.

"Yes, my lord. A daughter."

The kneeling women glanced slyly at each other, and the uncharitable and the jealous among them were hard put not to voice their glee. They were the mothers of sons, and the best the Alexandrian bitch could do was a mere daughter. They watched expectantly for their lord's righteous wrath, wondering if he would deny the brat, and order it exposed.

Instead a smile split his face, and he chuckled with delight. "Iris! Iris!" he said, his deep voice warm with approval. "Once again you have done the unexpected; and you have given me the one thing which, until now, I have lacked. A daughter! Thank you, my beautiful wife! Thank you!"