Respectful of Manuel de Leon, the crowd quickly scattered, shouting loudly for the men in the fields to come. And so it happened that the stranger was at last carried from the beach and brought to rest at the humble way station of Manuel de Leon.
That first night, while the stranger rested in a fretful sleep, Maria Victoria refused to leave his side even for a moment. She guarded him jealously, like a lover, tending his every need, mopping his brow and putting a cup of sweet wine to his lips to quench his thirst. In the small hours before dawn, when Maria Victoria herself fell into an uneasy sleep, her sister Maria Vanessa came into the room. With dampened cloth she washed the sweaty foreigner, covering every inch of his body, her eyes wide in admiration of his manly build. Then when Vanessa had finished and Victoria had almost woken, the eldest of the three, Maria Elisa, came in as well. She carried a bowl of hot broth, and, shooing Vanessa away, she spoon-fed the stranger, carefully keeping a napkin beneath his chin to soak the spillage.
With the rooster’s crow at dawn, Manuel de Leon woke as usual, drank a glass of wine and ate a piece of cheese, and prepared for his morning chores. But there was no sign of his daughters. With a furrowed brow, he searched their rooms, finding each one empty. He strode from the hall, crossing the garden to the small guest house and opened the stranger’s door without knocking. Much to his chagrin — although not his surprise — the girls were busily doting over the sleeping man, nearly fighting among themselves to determine which might have the honor of combing his hair, who should be allowed to trim his shaggy beard, which would change the dirty linen. They were certainly giving no thought whatsoever to their duties in the house.
Fuming at the scene, Manuel de Leon put his fists to his hips and bellowed: “Get out of here, all of you!”
The girls looked up startled. “Yes, Papa!” they cried, and then ran one by one from the room with downcast eyes.
After they had gone, Manuel folded his arms and leaned his weight against the frame of the opened door, his gaze fixed sternly at the sleeping stranger. In the garden trees, small birds had begun to chirp, and a full sun washed the stones of the walls and patio with bright light. Mumbling quietly to himself, Manuel assessed his unexpected house guest. The man was muscular and strong, with a good firm back, a good worker if not a potential son-in-law.
“I hope you appreciate all of this,” Manuel said gruffly as the stranger yawned and smiled in his sleep. Then, with a shrug, Manuel turned and shut the door, leaving the sleeping guest to his dreams.
It was nearly midafternoon by the time Maria Victoria had finished preparing the noon meal for the paying travelers at the inn, and she eagerly looked forward to spending a free hour with the man whose life she was positive she had saved. The morning had been hot — spitefully hot. As if the sun itself had somehow conspired to make the weather intolerable so that every hour felt as long as a day. Usually, Maria Victoria would go down to some secluded spot on the beach and, assured she was alone, slip out of her dress to take a refreshing swim. Today, though, it was only her stained apron that she shed; she hurried from the kitchen, where the aroma of fresh bread still filled her nostrils, ran across the garden without pausing to throw breadcrumbs into the fountain for the hungry birds, and quickly entered the small room set at the back of the stable.
It was with considerable surprise that she saw the guest sitting up in the bed, his eyes fully open, gazing peacefully from the window out at the trimmed hedges and trees along the road.
When the guest heard her enter, he turned slowly and smiled.
“Ah, you must be the girl on the beach,” he said.
The girl was frozen on the threshold, amazed at his rapid recovery. In her fantasies she had pictured herself tending him for days — weeks, perhaps — until that first moment when he would open his eyes and see only her.
The man looked at her quizzically. “It was you, wasn’t it?” he asked, with an accent that told her he came from someplace very far away.
Maria Victoria summoned her courage and nodded. The guest smiled fully and held out his hand for her to come closer. “I think I should thank you,” he said, taking her small hand in his own.
“At first … at first I thought you were dead,” she stammered.
The man laughed. “I thought so, too. That was some storm we had. Took us totally by surprise; there was hardly time to trim our sails, not that it did much good.”
Maria Victoria smiled at the soft singsong quality of his deep voice. “Then you are a sailor?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. Almost all of my life. Born to the sea. My friends say I’m wedded to her. She waits for me always, like a wife.”
Maria Victoria giggled and sat gently on the edge of the bed. The stranger straightened himself up a bit and inhaled deeply, feeling the tinge of salt carried on the breeze. “It’s good to be alive,” he told her solemnly. “How long have I been here?”
“Since yesterday morning. You were running a high fever; last night was especially bad. I stayed up with you — ” She blushed girlishly and corrected: “My … er … sisters and I stayed up with you.”
The stranger nodded knowingly. “It’s always to be expected after you’ve had your lungs filled with seawater. I’ve seen it happen time and again. And I don’t have to tell you how grateful I am for what you’ve done. Now maybe I should try to have a look around.” He started to get off the bed but fell back feebly, his face breaking out in a sudden sweat.
“You still must rest,” said the girl anxiously.
“A little more sleep, perhaps. That’s all … ”
Her eyes flashed sternly. “Papa says you’re not to move for at least three days.”
“Papa?” He looked at her questioningly, then smiled with dawning comprehension. “Ah, so this is your father’s house. I see. Then I must be even more grateful. Not every man would trust a sailor with such a beautiful woman.”
Maria Victoria flushed crimson. “You flatter me, señor … ”
The constant use of Castilian words in her expressions puzzled him somewhat. He put his hands to his temples and shut his eyes, as if trying to dispel the last of the fog from the edges of his mind. But everything was still quite dim. The last thing he could remember was being some fifty or sixty kilometers off the coast of Cordoba when the storm had hit. The rest remained a blank.
At length he opened his eyes again, and smiled. The girl was watching him fretfully, clearly concerned for a relapse. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Maria Victoria de Leon.” She lowered her head politely, sunlight casting a shadow across her soft features. “My friends call me Victoria … ”
His smile deepened; small dimples burrowed into his cheeks. “My ship must have been thrown way off course, Victoria. Tell me, what place is this?”
“The village of Pansa,” she replied proudly, without hesitation.
The sailor nodded slowly, deep in thought. “Pansa? Hmmm. Forgive a stranger’s ignorance, Victoria, but exactly where is Pansa?”
“You must indeed be from very far away, señor,” she replied, seeming puzzled. “We are on the main road. All travelers pass this way, my father says.”
“And what road might that be?”
“Why the road to the city, señor! The road to Barcelona!” His smile vanished briefly, unnoticed by the perplexed girl.
“Surely you know of Barcelona?” she went on. “They say it is the greatest city in the world!”
The sailor sighed a long sigh and then grinned. “Yes, Victoria, I have heard of Barcelona. Many times. And indeed, they do speak of it as being beautiful.”
“Then perhaps you are not quite as lost as you thought.” Her companion’s eyes danced with merriment. How young and precious this girl was, so innocent, so full of life and its joys. She reminded the sailor of another; a girl quite similar in appearance to this Castilian beauty. Gazing upward, he recalled the image of that other girl — the scent of her hair, softness of her mouth, the serene touch of her fingertips. The
n he awoke from his daydream and frowned. “Fate often plays strange tricks with the lives of mortal men, Maria Victoria,” he said in a serious tone. “Never forget that.”
Victoria remained completely attentive. “You sound very sad,” she said. “Is something wrong?”
“Not with you, by Allah!” he said, the mirth returning to his dark features. He leaned on one elbow and studied her face intently, focusing on the pupils of her eyes as they caught the sun. “It’s just that I find myself very far from where I had thought myself to be — and farther than ever from attaining my goals.”
Victoria looked at him with large, hopeful eyes. “But surely you can resume your journey when you are well?”
“Yes, dear girl. I can look for my friends — if they’re not all drowned.” He shrugged. “Who can tell? Maybe they are already searching for me.”
The girl squealed with excitement at the possibility of having other handsome sailors come to her home. “Perhaps they’ll come to Pansa to find you!” she exclaimed.
He shrugged again. “I suppose it is possible, although I greatly doubt it.”
“But why? They’ll be more than welcome here. My father would be delighted to find them lodgings, I’m sure.” He smiled at her again. “Perhaps you’re right. As I said, Fate enjoys her little games … ”
Although much of his behavior seemed curious to her, Maria Victoria shrugged it off, thinking it surely due to his ordeal and fatigue. Still, this sailor did seem a peculiar sort, unlike anybody she had come across in all her years. And as the daughter of an innkeeper, she had met just about every type there was.
She had many more questions to ask of the stranger and was about to begin when she heard Elisa shout her name. She got up swiftly and peered from the window. Her sister was coming from the walk behind the stable, carrying a hefty load of dirty linen in a sack. Elisa was half dragging her burden behind as she searched for her younger sister.
“I had better be going,” Victoria told the sailor.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I wouldn’t want you to get into any trouble over me. But come back, if you like, and we can chat some more.”
Her eyes brightened appreciably, and again she was a painful reminder of his love far away across two seas.
“I’ll bring you your supper,” she promised. Then, turning to go, she added: “That is, if my sisters don’t insist on taking it to you themselves.”
The sailor smiled warmly. “I’ll still wait for you,” he told her. “If I feel better and your father doesn’t object, maybe we can sit in the garden for a while.”
Maria Victoria nodded dramatically, even as her heart beat faster. “Until this evening,” she said. Stars glittered in her eyes as she left.
“Until this evening,” he repeated. Then, after she was gone, he sat back up in the bed and groaned. Heavens mercy! he told himself in his moment of solitude. I’ve been shipwrecked in Barcelona! What else can happen to me now?
*
In the scrubby hills of the countryside near the Moorish city of Tarragona, there dwelt a bandit and thief who called himself Suliman the Noble, the Eye of the Prophet, although exactly what was noble about either him or his ragtag band of cutthroats had never been established. Nevertheless, Suliman, an illiterate, pompous, potbellied man, smelling of sheep and goats, had over the years established himself as a feared foe among the scattered Christian settlements of the county of Barcelona. Preying mostly by night, in places known to be unprotected by Barcelonan knights, Suliman made his living for the most part by abducting young women and selling them into slavery for the vast markets of North Africa.
His forays across the ill-defined boundary between the Christian and Moorish kingdoms were a topic of frequent discussion. Many a mother would shudder in fear for her daughters at the mere mention of his name. Of course, he was known by many, many names — even among his fellow Moors, most of whom looked down upon him with contempt and disdain. Suliman the Swineherd was an often-heard favorite; Suliman the Foul, the Gutter Rat of Tarragona, and the Camel of Cordoba were other choices. In tiny Pansa they had their own local favorite, Suliman the Filthy, a fitting description for both his deeds and his habits.
During the time of this tale, it was an ill-concealed secret that the princes of Cordoba were quietly massing their forces for yet another battle in the ever continuing struggle against the kingdoms of Navarre and Barcelona. The knights of Christendom, therefore, were again forced to raise new armies of their own in response to the threat, a happenstance that would soon leave much of the countryside virtually unprotected.
It had often been claimed that Suliman was a dimwitted man; if so, he certainly was not a fool, for, while these forces gathered to meet in combat, he formulated his own plans with painstaking care. With banners aflutter, the armies of both sides would carry on the holy war in the name of religion, while he would sit back and bide his time. Then, while Barcelona lay defenseless before him, unplucked and ripe, he would lay waste to every village from the border to the walled city of Barcelona itself, plundering and raping his way to a fortune — a fortune guaranteed in gold, readily paid by the slave traders of Tangier.
And now, the moment of opportunity was nearly at hand; his dreams at night were filled with the names of villages he would destroy, and at the head of the list was Pansa.
*
A melody of splashing water and laughing girls could be heard from the garden. Sinbad put aside the simple fare of his supper and gazed bemusedly from the window. Maria Victoria, her damp dress clinging seductively to her firm breasts and thighs, pranced away from the fountain while Vanessa threatened to douse her again. The two girls paid little notice to the soft pleasures of the evening. With the sun almost set, the western sky glowed awash in scarlet as dying flames of sunburst sprayed across night-tinted clouds. A sublime breeze rustled leisurely between the branches of the tall junipers and oaks lining the road, carrying a delightful fragrance of roses upon it from Manuel de Leon’s flower bed.
As Sinbad watched the girls enjoying the simple pleasures of an early spring night, his troubled thoughts again carried him home, back to gardens of his beloved Baghdad, and the beautiful woman he had left behind. He pictured her for the thousandth time since leaving home. The memory was as painful as ever, his mind tormented with recollections. What price would he not pay to be with her at this moment? To share with her his dreams, to be lost in the warmth of her embrace? Sinbad scowled. The past was behind. All of it. His concentration must not be divided. Not now, not while new dangers loomed everywhere.
Pushing his memories away, he got up from the bed, stretched cramped muscles, and quietly stepped into the night. Flickering candlelight danced across the spare windows of the inn, misty glimpses of silhouettes crossed his vision from inside. Supper finished, the few guests were preparing to retire. While fireflies danced and crickets sang from the grass, he saw Manuel de Leon blow out the parlor candle and, a long day almost done, retreat toward the stable to attend the horses.
Their game done, Vanessa and Maria Victoria returned to the kitchen, leaving Sinbad alone and unseen in the garden. Night was full now, a hazy moon glowing dimly above the treetops. Sinbad eyed his surroundings carefully, making a mental note of his new environs. From where he stood, the road was a few dozen meters away. Distant lights from the village glimmered on one side, and along the other stood a series of low, dark hills leading inland. He studied the landscape slowly, reflecting upon the best avenue of escape.
He could try to make his escape right now, he knew, running under the shroud of darkness for the hills and then working his way south. It might even be possible to steal a horse from the stable; he could reach the border of Cordoba by daybreak if he stayed with the road. But that would be risky; he could be seen by anyone, perhaps even stopped and questioned — and at all costs that must be avoided. Holding back the truth from girls like Maria Victoria and her sisters was one matter, keeping silent in the face of an inquisition quite another. He had heard tal
es of the interrogations of foreigners and shuddered at the thought. No one would believe him; they would laugh at his story, call him a spy, and likely as not throw him into a castle dungeon for his efforts.
No, it was more prudent to stay. At least for a day or two, until his strength fully returned. Then, with any luck, he might manage to steal one of the village’s fishing boats and sail it south along the coast until he was out of danger. The sea had always been his luck; he would trust her again now.
“You should be resting.”
He turned abruptly to find a woman facing him from the gate to the garden. A tall woman, with hair almost as dark as his, and eyes keener. Full-bosomed, shoulders back and her head slightly tilted to the side, she stood with her hands on her hips and an enticing smile upon her warm lips. Even though her features were covered by the soft shadows of night, Sinbad recognized her at once — Maria Elisa, the oldest of the three, had caught his eye a number of times today, passing so close to his opened window on so many occasions that he had been sure it was more than just coincidence.
“I found the evening too lovely to spend it locked inside the four walls of a room,” he replied, looking directly at her and holding her gaze. Then he cast his look toward the glittering stars, fixing upon familiar planets the way he would when navigating. “The sky is a man’s finest roof,” he added thoughtfully, recalling a poem he had once written. “Don’t you agree?”
Elisa grinned, displaying deep dimples. “I do,” she answered, “But Papa might not. I don’t think he would be very pleased to see you out of bed like this, walking around alone — ”
“Ah, but I’m not alone. You’re with me.”
Elisa laughed gaily, tossing back her hair so that dark curls spilled majestically across her eyes. “Well, I suppose a few minutes won’t do much harm … ”
Sinbad bowed graciously; he glanced to the small stone bench at the edge of the gate. “May I sit?”
She gestured politely with her arm. “You are our guest,” she told him, tightening her lace shawl around her shoulders as a sudden gust swept through the garden.
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 46