He didn’t understand the words the two men exchanged but suspected Drosik was describing him as a Mohammedan. If he protested, the fat Arab wouldn’t understood German. He was turbaned but wore no face wrap. He wrinkled his bulbous nose in disgust as he perused and poked biceps, belly and thighs.
Kon had an urge to spit in his face, but doubted he could summon enough saliva. He clenched his jaw and conjured memories of swimming in the cool waters of the Elbe as a boy. He’d been brought up to honor his body and the degradation of filth was humiliating.
“Don’t worry,” Drosik hissed between gritted teeth. “He’s using the excuse to lower the price. He knows once you’re cleaned up you’ll be worth a king’s ransom.”
A tremor of hatred and fear seized him as the two men wandered off, still haggling.
THE NEW ZARA
William spluttered his disbelief and apparent anger when he learned what had happened as a consequence of his soldiers’ actions, and promised they would be reprimanded.
He arranged for a bath to be brought to a chamber for Zara, and invited Jakov to use the facilities in the barracks. “King Ruggero has soldiers stationed here now,” he explained sheepishly. “To keep an eye on me. He also takes a dim view of pirates.”
She knew a twinge of pity for him, but at least he still lived in his family’s castle. “We thank you,” she replied, though she worried for Jakov if any soldier espied the manacle around his wrist.
The bath water was tepid, but renewed her spirit. She washed her hair and carefully bathed the wound on her scalp, pleased to feel a scar had begun to form. She hoped there would be no lasting mark.
There was scant chance comfortable clothing would be located. She was reconciled to donning the same outfit after drying her body. There seemed to be a dearth of servants around the place, but she preferred to take care of herself in the circumstances.
She narrowed her eyes at the ragtag Zara Polani who stared back from the silvered glass. Certainly, she was no longer the unconventionally but well-dressed Venetian businesswoman. However, something else had changed. The new Zara was a woman in love who’d known the intimate touch of a passionate man. A determination to rescue her lover from a terrible fate burned in her eyes. She squared her shoulders and signed the cross of her Savior.
Yet, as she made the familiar gesture, she pushed aside doubts about a God who would consign a man like Kon to hell.
When she arrived back in the hall, she discovered Jakov already seated at a table laden with roast chicken, ham and bread. It was meager fare compared to that customarily offered to visitors to the Polani household, but her belly growled.
William nervously invited her to sit.
“He’s worried how the king will react if he learns of these matters,” she whispered to Jakov as she took her place at table. “Ruggero has striven to maintain good relations with Venezia and my uncle, the Doge.”
He nodded in agreement.
Their host made tsking sounds, shaking his head as he sat. “Fine men, those young Saxons. Sons of a count. When the imperial army withdrew, one of them…er, Francesca…”
Zara recognised the wistful look in his eyes. “Lute.”
“Yes, yes. Do you know what happened to her? King Ruggero has often berated me for allowing his niece to leave. As if anyone was able to dissuade the hot-headed Sicilian woman from…”
“According to Kon, they married,” she interrupted when he faltered.
To her surprise, he looked relieved. Perhaps he wasn’t as resigned to Ruggero’s dominance as he seemed.
“Good. She is happy and out of her uncle’s clutches. You say this pirate has transported young Wolfenberg to Bari?”
Jakov nodded. “It’s more than likely.”
“Naught I can do then. The king has failed to recapture the town.”
She privately doubted William intended to take action. He seemed too lethargic. However, she answered in a conciliatory manner. “A message sent by land would take too long. We will begin pursuit as soon as the Nunziata is repaired.”
Her words turned out to be prophetic. A footman entered, coughed politely and announced the arrival of one of her crew. “A man of few words,” the servant explained, “but I understand the repairs to your ship are complete.”
They bade William a hasty farewell and, as expected, found Rospo waiting at the foot of the steps into the castle.
“Is the Nunziata fit to sail?” she enquired as they walked briskly to the port.
“She is.”
“Has the tide come in?”
“It has.”
The corners of Jakov’s mouth curled in amusement. “Have my men been fed and clothed?”
Rospo didn’t miss a stride. “They have.”
“It will be a full crew,” Zara remarked.
“It will.”
“My men are not sailors,” Jakov explained. “But they are willing and able, especially if they believe this voyage might result in the capture of the Ragusa.”
“Rospo will watch over them,” she assured him.
“Sì,” the steersman confirmed with a rare smile.
Lupomari waved them aboard when they arrived on the dock. Zara was elated to see the pitch had been mostly cleaned off the ship’s name. “No gold leaf to be had in Termoli,” her captain lamented.
“Once we get home,” she reassured him.
As she gained the forecastle it occurred to her that the notion of home offered a ray of hope. Mayhap it was a good omen. They would make it back to Venezia alive. She gripped the railing, determined to hold on to her optimism as they weighed anchor and rowed out of Termoli’s port.
TOO LATE
Wedged tight in his box, Kon had longed to be upright and free, but now, tied to the mast by his wrists with no opportunity to sit, he feared his legs might buckle.
The sun scorched his bare shoulders and back. The nagging uncertainty churned his innards. He was almost relieved to hear Drosik’s nasally voice when the pirate captain returned to the ship. The reek of spirits only aggravated his anguish.
“We’ve struck a bargain,” Drosik crowed as the rope binding Kon to the mast was cut.
He turned on unsteady legs to face his tormentors. Drosik swayed drunkenly, the hat askew on his head. The Arab was alarmingly sober, but a smile tugging at one corner of his thick lips indicated his satisfaction with the transaction.
Drosik clamped a hand on Kon’s sunburned shoulder. “I’ve done you a favor, priest.”
His eyes widened as he pressed his hand to his mouth and swallowed a hiccup. “We must hope our fat friend here doesn’t understand the word,” he jested. “Nigh on ruined the deal.”
Kon raised his eyes to heaven and prayed for forbearance.
“Anyway,” Drosik drawled. “Be glad. You won’t be put on sale in the market. Nizar here is an envoy for the Caliph. We’ve agreed on a price. You’ll be taken straight into the army in Egypt.”
Nizar said something in Arabic and held up both hands, fingers spread wide.
“Yes,” Drosik explained. “We’ve set the term at ten years. Then you’ll be free. More than generous, don’t you think? Nizar wanted twenty.”
Kon’s hands were still tied, but it wouldn’t take much effort to loop his arms around the pirate’s scrawny neck and snap it. He might be doing the Arab a favor if he killed Drosik. However, Nizar was armed with a lethal looking curved dagger sheathed at his corpulent middle, and Kon couldn’t win against both men.
However, he wasn’t a killer, though it seemed he’d be spending the next ten years fighting in one battle or another. Who were the Fatimids at war with anyway?
Ten years.
He choked back regret. Zara would find someone worthier and marry according to her station. Her belly would never swell with Kon’s child, but she’d be free. He’d failed to rescue the girl, but he’d saved the woman he loved.
Nizar pointed to a nearby cog.
“His ship,” Drosik explained. “He’ll take you
aboard shortly. Bon voyage.”
Chuckling, he sauntered away and stumbled down the gangplank. No doubt off to spend his profit on more debauchery.
Nizar’s friendly expression turned sour. He unsheathed his dagger and sliced through the bindings. Kon rubbed his rope-burned wrists, but his relief was short lived. Nizar beckoned to two Arabs on the dock. As they came aboard, Kon’s blood turned to ice when he espied the iron collar and manacles the men carried.
~~~
Lupomari pushed the Nunziata and her crew hard, but there were no complaints. Indeed, a rousing cheer went up when Bari came in sight.
They rowed into the port just before dusk. Zara scanned the forest of masts, her hopes rekindled when she picked out the Ragusa.
At a signal from the captain, oars were raised. Everyone aboard the Nunziata kept silent while they floated past the pirate ship.
“Looks deserted,” Jakov remarked after they docked a short distance away.
Conflicting emotions swirled in Zara’s heart. “The absence of guards doesn’t bode well for Kon.”
“Nor for the rest of our cargo,” Lupomari added.
Zara clenched her jaw. “Salt and fabric are of no importance.”
Lupomari looked sheepish.
“Your captain understands what’s at stake here,” Jakov said softly.
Regret for her outburst filled her heart. “I know, and I am sorry, faithful friend.”
Without a word, Rospo and Lorenzo hurried off the ship as soon as the gangplank was in place and quickly disappeared into the town.
“They’ll find out what’s going on,” Zara said.
Jakov’s eyes widened as he cocked his head to one side. “In the meantime, the Ragusa sits, and it appears she is unguarded. Like a juicy plum ripe for the picking.”
Zara had been brought up to abhor piracy, but Drosik was a thief with no regard for others. His ship could be put to good use to get Jakov’s men home. “I’ll turn a blind eye.”
However, the small chance Kon might still be aboard forced her to watch as the Istrian and his soldiers stole silently towards the Ragusa. They swarmed over the side, apparently encountering no opposition. She peered into the gathering darkness, looking for a sign, hoping against hope to see Kon emerge from the cog.
The signal came, easing her fears. Someone waved a lantern back and forth, male voices were raised in obvious jubilation—Jakov’s language—but there was no sign of the man she loved.
They were one step closer to assuring the return home of the slaves who’d been aboard her ship and it was of some consolation that Kon would be elated. But it was a victory bought at a terrible price.
She looked across at the market, empty and silent now, and closed her eyes to ward off the image she conjured of Kon, his beautiful body put on display for greedy slavers. He’d already endured much because of the cursed place.
Jakov returned to the Nunziata. “He’s not aboard.”
She swallowed her disappointment. “No sign of Drosik?”
He shook his head. “Deserted. And your cargo is gone. The pirate is probably celebrating his ill gotten gains.”
She startled when Rospo appeared out of the darkness. It was uncanny. The ungainly man moved without the slightest sound. She hadn’t seen him on the dock and here he was on the gangplank.
“Dead,” he croaked.
A scream lodged in her dry throat. Surely she would have sensed if Kon had died.
“Drosik,” Lorenzo explained as he too came aboard. “Throat slit. Folk say he got into an argument with an Arab.”
She gripped the railing, swaying with relief, but still consumed with worry. “What of Konrad Wolf?”
“Sold,” Rospo replied.
Tears pricked as she looked again at the darkened market.
Lorenzo must have sensed her desolation. “Drosik sold him directly to a Fatimid seeking slaves for the Caliph’s army. Some say the one who murdered him.”
“But where is he now?” she wailed in a high-pitched voice she barely recognized.
“Feloz.”
Her endurance at an end, she glared at her steersman. “Can you not give more than one word responses?”
Rospo averted his gaze, and she instantly regretted her harsh outburst. It was the second time in an hour she’d lost control of her emotions. “I’m sorry,” she admitted. “You are as concerned as I am.”
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.
Faithful Heart (The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty Book 3) Page 9