Set title

by O’Donnell, Laurel

  Rospo inhaled deeply. “Sailed earlier in the day.”

  It was the longest string of words she’d heard him utter in five years and she recognized the effort it had taken, but still didn’t fully understand.

  Lorenzo coughed nervously. “The Feloz is the one of the Caliph’s ships. She has sailed.”

  The world seemed to tilt, the dozens of masts became a forest of dark creatures closing in. They were too late. “Was Kon aboard?”

  “Chained.”

  The word was enough to deepen her despair. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t voice her fear. Conditions for the slaves on her vessel had admittedly not been ideal. On board a Fatimid slaver…

  Jakov clenched his jaw. “Headed for Egipat, I’ll warrant.”

  “Egitto,” Rospo confirmed with a vigorous nod.

  Her heart broke in two. It was a voyage of nigh on a thousand miles from Bari to Egypt. “A sennight,” she murmured.

  “With favorable winds,” Lupomari agreed. “A fortnight otherwise.”

  It was impossible. The slaver had a head start. Yet she had to do everything in her power to rescue Kon. It was her fault he had entered hell. “The Nunziata will set out in pursuit on the morrow,” she declared.

  “And the Pravda,” Jakov said, pointing his thumb toward the Ragusa.

  She frowned.

  “It means justice in my language,” he explained.

  Rospo’s enormous eyes shone in the darkness. “Perfetto,” he exclaimed.

  MENAS

  A heavy chain connected a ring on the front of Kon’s iron collar to that of the man who rowed next to him. The manacles around their wrists were chained to the oar they plied.

  Yet Kon considered he was lucky Nizar had selected him as one of twenty rowers. It seemed the fat Arab was the slave-master, not the captain. A scimitar bounced on his hip. It looked remarkably like the one he’d surrendered to Drosik, and he suspected something dire had befallen the pirate. Nizar’s other weapon was a vicious looking whip, whose knotted thongs he caressed constantly with one beefy hand.

  The remaining one hundred or more slaves being transported aboard the Feloz languished in every nook and cranny of the hull in a piteous pile of moaning humanity.

  He and the other rowers were given a loincloth which provided some relief from the rough wood of the bench. The other captives, including the women, were naked.

  The slaves in the hull were chained to each other with manacles and shackles, rendering movement impossible. The Fatimids picked their way through them regularly, stopping to menace and kick at random.

  Kon was given water from time to time. It tasted brackish, but the wretches in the pile received nothing.

  Many of the captives suffered terribly from seasickness as the ship pitched and rolled in heavy seas. Kon thanked God he was a good sailor and blessed whatever ancestor he’d inherited the trait from. The bodies of those who succumbed to the rigors of the voyage were thrown overboard—after their hands and feet were hacked off, saving their jailers the trouble of unfettering them. Memories of Zara’s courage in trying to save Jakov’s son from drowning threatened to swamp him.

  The winds weren’t favorable and strenuous rowing was often necessary to make any progress. Those who in Nizar’s judgement didn’t pull hard enough flinched under the sting of his whip.

  Disgust and hatred churned in Kon’s belly. Each time the bile rose in his throat and he feared he could no longer bear the horror, he closed his eyes and tasted again the salty sweetness of Zara’s juices. Impulsive and seemingly reckless intimacy became his lifeline.

  His oar-mate was the first black man he’d seen since the fateful day of his beating in the Bari market. Initially, as they pulled on the oar he was fascinated by the stark contrast in the color of their skin, but it quickly became apparent black skin chafed by manacles and stung by a whip bled as readily as white skin.

  An oarsman, another black man, who had the temerity to speak to his neighbor while rowing was castigated by having his tongue cut out before being tossed into the stinking mass. Drosik hadn’t exaggerated the butchery men were capable of.

  When the wind blessedly turned in their favor and filled the sail, Nizar smiled at them benevolently and commanded they cease rowing. He stalked off, whip in hand, to attend to something going on amidships he evidently didn’t like.

  Kon leaned forward to rest his forearms on the oar and whispered his name. “Konrad.”

  Obliged to lean forward too, the black man glanced warily at Nizar then turned his head to look at Kon. “Menas.”

  “Saxony,” Kon said hoarsely, regretting he’d mentioned his beloved homeland as nostalgia threatened to choke him.

  Menas nodded thoughtfully. “Makuria.”

  Kon had no notion where Makuria was, but the pride and longing in Menas’s voice was unmistakable.

  He took a guess. “Africa?”

  Menas shrugged. “Nubia.”

  Kon’s father had talked of Nubia, an important trading nation, powerful for hundreds of years, but he couldn’t recall where it was. Zara would be aware of its exact location.

  “On the River Nile,” Menas told him.

  But he’d spoken in a language Kon understood!

  “You speak Greek,” Kon retorted with a smile.

  Menas returned the smile, his teeth startlingly white in his black face. “And you understand it.”

  He didn’t explain how it was he spoke Greek. Menas was probably a Mohammedan who might use the knowledge of Kon’s former religious vocation to his advantage.

  “Nubia encompasses the land between the First and Sixth Cataracts,” Menas said hoarsely.

  Kon frowned, uncertain as to his meaning.

  “Of the Nile,” Menas explained.

  Kon was puzzled. “How is it you speak Greek?”

  “Byzantines. Greek used to be our first language. I speak Coptic too, and my native Dongolawi, of course.”

  Kon considered it a divine blessing he’d been shackled to a man who was obviously educated. In the years ahead intelligent conversation might save his sanity. Then a thought intruded. “Coptic?”

  Menas kept his eyes on Nizar. “Christians and Mohammedans have lived together in peace in my country for centuries. Nubian Christians are loyal to the Coptic Patriarch of Alexandria. Ironic, isn’t it, that’s where our destiny awaits.”

  The fickle wind changed again, necessitating a resumption of rowing. Kon heaved on the oar with muscles already spent. He’d have to wait patiently to learn more about his intriguing fellow captive.

  NAVIGATING ROUGH WATERS

  “We will seek shelter with the Venetian community at the Chiesa di San Marco dei Venezia,” Zara explained to Jakov. “They will welcome you even though you aren’t Venetian.”

  “There is a community of Venetians here in Bari?” he asked.

  She nodded as the crews made their way through the narrow streets to the chiesa. “It has grown steadily since the church was built over a hundred years ago by Doge Pietro Orseolo to celebrate the liberation of Bari from the Saracens. It’s a safe haven for travellers from my republic. Most of them come and go, traders like my father. The Polani name is well known here.”

  He grimaced. “We must hope the men who kidnapped me are not among them.”

  They were welcomed, fed and sheltered. Prayers were offered for the success of their voyage. Zara had to reluctantly agree with suggestions from several of the Venetians that the Pravda was the more suitable of the two ships to go in pursuit. She’d be faster and more manoeuvrable in the heavy weather they predicted. A skeleton crew of loyal men was left to guard the Nunziata with instructions to sail back to Venezia if they didn’t return in a month. The community of San Marco undertook to organise a rotating watch.

  Nevertheless, it was difficult to abandon her beloved ship as they set sail on the noon tide the following day. Standing on the forecastle of the Pravda with Lupomari and Jakov, she swallowed tears. “We’ll see her again,” she reassured h
er captain, aware of the distress he must be feeling.

  His jaw remained firmly clenched. “I’ve been in command of her for nigh on fifteen years and I don’t intend for anyone else to be master.”

  “Well,” Jakov interjected, “you can be in charge of the Pravda on this voyage. I am no captain, but I need to learn, as do my men.”

  Zara smiled. “You’ll be learning from the best.”

  Lupomari smiled modestly. “This will be a new endeavor for me as well.”

  Zara admired her captain. He hadn’t hesitated to join the adventure. His life as master of a Polani ship wasn’t free of danger but this voyage held unknown risks.

  “I surmise they’ll head for Alexandria,” Lupomari said, “by way of the Ionian Sea. If they sail non-stop, it will be difficult to catch up. Depends on their captain’s knowledge of landmarks and the stars.” He reached into his leather tunic and pulled out a well-worn little book. He opened it to reveal neat handwritten notes. “I’ve sailed to Alexandria many times, hence I have my pilot-book of sailing directions. However, he might have compiled a similar record.”

  Jakov took a keen interest in the scribblings, asking many questions. Zara was as versed in the art of daytime and nocturnal navigation as Lupomari, thanks to her father, but she was happy to let her captain share his expertise, glad to center her thoughts on Kon. If she prayed hard enough, perhaps the Blessed Virgin would carry her entreaties to the Almighty.

  She held on to the railing with both hands when the Pravda encountered heavy seas and unfavorable winds outside the break-wall. In normal circumstances they might have turned back and waited for better weather.

  But time wasn’t on their side.

  As darkness descended a loud argument erupted on the forecastle of the Feloz.

  “Nizar wants to carry on,” Menas gasped between strokes as he and Kon pulled together, “but the captain is refusing.”

  Kon didn’t have the strength to comment on his comrade’s knowledge of yet another language, but prayed the captain got his way.

  After long minutes, Nizar stomped into view. It was too dark to see his face but his voice betrayed his anger when he gave the order to raise the oars. He hurried off, brandishing his whip.

  The all-too-familiar sound of leather biting into human flesh, followed by shrieks of pain indicated he was taking out his wrath on the unfortunates.

  Kon and Menas had by now perfected the art of slumping forward on the oar in unison. Kon was too exhausted to feel disgust. He seemed unable to control his body’s persistent trembling. He had to harden his heart and think only of himself if he was to survive.

  The ship drifted and he wondered vaguely why the captain hadn’t dropped anchor. Then suddenly they were out of the wind and the ship lurched when the anchor touched bottom.

  “Tricase on the tip of Italy, I’ll wager,” Menas said under his breath. “The captain doesn’t want to venture into the Ionian Sea in the dark. They say there are depths out there no lead-line has ever fathomed. He must be new at this.”

  “With any luck he’ll drive the ship aground and we’ll drown.”

  “Don’t despair, Konrad. I am named for Saint Menas, the patron saint of miracles and wondrous events. We cannot lose hope.”

  Kon closed his eyes and listened to the gentle lapping of waves against the side of the ship. It reminded him of the night he’d spent watching over Zara. The memory muddled his thinking. “You are a Christian? I’ve never heard of your blessed saint and I studied religion.”

  Menas didn’t seem to take offence at the doubt in his voice. “Which is the reason you speak Greek. I will tell you of my saint another time. I believe we are actually going to be given sustenance.”

  Kon opened his eyes. Fatimids were indeed distributing small pottery bowls to the rowers. His expectations weren’t high, but at least he wouldn’t starve to death. Such would likely be the fate of many in the hull. It was difficult to understand why a slaver would pay for a slave and then starve him.

  “A man like Nizar gets his satisfaction from inflicting pain and suffering on others,” Menas whispered.

  Again the Nubian seemed able to read Kon’s thoughts. It only increased his curiosity, but he remained silent when a bowl of grey liquid was thrust at him.

  He sipped the tasteless gruel, wishing it was also odorless. “What’s the smell?”

  “Don’t ask,” Menas replied.

  He held his nose and swallowed the lot in two gulps. “I hope the food improves once we get to where we are going.”

  Menas shrugged.

  Kon shivered, chilled by the night air after sweating for hours in the hot sun. He doubted the Fatimids would provide any kind of covering.

  He became alarmed when the Nubian wriggled out of his loincloth, but had to admire the man’s resourcefulness when he draped it over his shoulders. He unwrapped his own loincloth and did the same.

  Menas shuffled closer. “We can either freeze or share our body heat.”

  In different circumstances Kon might have punched out those white teeth, but the Nubian was right. They edged closer until their bodies touched.

  “Will you pray with me, Konrad?”

  He nodded, filled with a serene sense of being in a holier place than he’d been in a long while. They prayed in silence, each man sending his petitions heavenward before slumping into an exhausted sleep.

  PURSUIT

  The Pravda sailed on into the night. Lupomari instructed Jakov how to use the stars to navigate and stay on course. “But it’s vital to have a good steersman as well,” he pointed out. “A man who knows the winds.”

  “Like Rospo,” Jakov replied.

  Lupomari nodded. Everyone was aware Rospo’s skill had kept them going in the heavy seas and unfavorable winds they’d battled throughout the day.

  “By dawn we should reach the tip of Italy,” Zara told them, “especially if the favorable winds blowing now continue all night.”

  Jakov leaned towards her. “You must get some sleep.”

  She agreed reluctantly and wandered off to the stern-castle. The only thing left of the Nunziata’s original cargo were the animal skins used to protect the goods from the elements. They’d been brought aboard the Pravda and arranged into a sleeping area of sorts. She collapsed onto the pile, and gazed up at the stars. Sleep was elusive, but it wasn’t the odor of mildew clinging to the hides that kept her awake. This ship had transported Kon to Bari from Termoli and the certainty of Drosik’s cruel treatment lay like a lead ball in her belly.

  A worse ache pressed on her temples. Whatever he had endured at Drosik’s hands was likely nothing compared to what he was suffering aboard the slave ship. She’d heard horror stories about slavers, but thinking on such tales might lead to madness.

  His constant presence in her thoughts and dreams reassured her he still lived.

  She came to her knees and made the sign of her Savior. “I confess my wantonness,” she murmured, hands clasped in prayer, “but I beseech you not to punish Konrad Wolf for it. The sin is mine alone and it was I caused him to give up his freedom. Guide our ship so that we might deliver him from his torment.” She swallowed hard. “It was not my intention to entice him away from his calling. I swear not to tempt him again if only…”

  The prospect of a life without the nourishing warmth of Kon’s body pressed against her was too much to bear and she curled her knees to her chest on the hides and wept.

  A humming drifted to her ears from somewhere above. Raspy…off-key…a lullaby she hadn’t heard since childhood.

  Rospo was crooning her to sleep.

  As dawn broke, Nizar bellowed a wake-up call. Surprised he’d slept, Kon peered up at the steep cliff walls that had sheltered them overnight.

  Menas covered his mouth with the end of his loincloth as he readjusted it around his hips.“The last of Italy.”

  If his oar-mate was right, they were about to row into the Ionian Sea. Kon had learned enough about winds from Rospo to know the steady
gust teasing the sail would mean easier going—provided it continued.

  His prayer was granted when the wind filled the leather sail and the ship picked up speed. His aching muscles needed the respite. He considered leaving the loincloth draped across his shoulders as protection from the sun which would soon be hot enough to burn off another layer of his skin. But he felt nervously vulnerable. Nizar was unpredictable.

  When he stood awkwardly and braced his knees to wrap the cloth back around his waist and between his legs the cruel tyrant stared at his groin, licking his sneering lips.

  Two Fatimids began distributing bowls of the same obnoxious gruel to the rowers, losing their balance several times as the ship made headway. When their task was complete, Nizar directed them to the now-silent pile of pitiful wretches and they began culling the newly-dead, hacking off limbs and chucking the mutilated bodies over the side.

  “Much more of this and I’ll go mad,” Kon murmured into the grey liquid.

  “Keep the faith,” Menas muttered back.

  His new friend was right. He had to turn to his faith for strength because there was no hope of rescue. It was unlikely Zara would risk the Nunziata even if she had discovered where he was being taken. They barely knew each other. She was the woman he’d have married if the fates had been kind, but did she feel the same inexorable alchemy?

  If he wanted to avoid a life of brutal servitude, he’d have to start plotting a way to escape. Preoccupied with the impossibility of every scheme he conjured, he fell into a doze. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when raised voices in the stern-castle drifted to his ears. He narrowed his eyes at Menas.

  “They are worried. There’s another ship, far behind,” the black man whispered.

  Lupomari’s shout woke Zara from a fitful sleep. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, awed by nature’s grandeur as they sailed past the rugged grey cliffs of Tricase.

  Jakov hunkered down beside her. “There’s a vessel ahead.”