“This is the costume of a female body slave,” the eunuch answered. Then his brown forehead wrinkled. “What am I thinking!” he cried out, and drew from a pocket a beautiful narrow gold collar bejeweled with all manner of gems: diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls, sapphires. He fastened it carefully about her throat. “It is not too tight?”
Wordlessly India shook her head, shocked.
“Then go and attend the dey, girl. When he is dressed, and you have escorted him back into his apartment, I shall show you the way to the kitchens. Now go, and stand by your master until the masseuse is finished with her duties.”
Caynan Reis was lying upon a pad that had been set on the masseuse’s marble bench. He was on his stomach, his head turned to one side, a small sturdily built woman of indeterminate age massaging his buttocks with strong fingers. He opened his eyes and looked lazily at her. “Remain where I can see you,” he said, closing his eyes again.
India stood stock-still, her mind awhirl. She could scarcely believe what had happened to her. She was an English noblewoman, not some slave and yet at this moment in time she was a slave girl. She was not the first woman in her family to find herself in such a position. Her grandmother, her great-grandmother, Great-aunt Valentina, even her stepfather’s mother had all at one time in their existences been enslaved as she was now enslaved; but they had escaped their captivity, and India intended that she would escape, too. There was only one difference between India and her female relations. The others had not been virgins at the time of their captivity. They had all been married or widowed.
India’s golden eyes strayed to the dey’s long form. The masseuse was now busily kneading his right leg. It was a shapely leg, she thought, nicely formed, the thigh well muscled, the calf prettily rounded. The foot at the end of the leg below the narrow ankle was lengthy and slender. The masseuse’s hands worked the dey’s big foot, her thick thumbs pressing up and down the arch, massaging the ball of the foot, pulling each toe slowly and carefully. India watched, fascinated, her eyes following the masseuse’s every move, unaware that Caynan Reis was watching her through the slits in his dark-blue eyes.
When the masseuse had finally finished her task, she spoke softly to the dey, and, bowing, withdrew.
“Help me up,” he said to India, and when she had aided him to roll over and sit, he casually put his long legs over the table, and stood. “My clothing for the day is in the cedar cabinet there,” he told her. “From now on it will be your duty to see that fresh clothing is there for me every morning and every evening. Baba Hassan will tell you my schedule, and if the clothes I need will be for an ordinary day or for an occasion. You cannot sleep as late as you did in the morning, India. In future you must be up long before I am to make your preparations. Do you understand?”
“I am not a fool, my lord. I understand quite well,” she replied sharply.
He caught her by the wrist, saying in a hard voice, “If there had been anyone else in the room now when you spoke to me as you did, I should have had to have you beaten again, India. When you address me your voice must be dulcet and amenable, as befits a dutiful female slave. You offended me greatly last night, but I was not unkind. I realized you were frightened finding yourself in what must seem difficult circumstances to an English duke’s daughter. You are being given a second chance as my body slave, but I will tolerate neither disobedience nor a sharp tongue from you. If you displease me further, I will give you to my guards to tame.”
India opened her mouth to berate him, but remembering her cousin’s warning to her, said instead, “Yes, my lord. I apologize.”
“If you serve me well, you will find I am not a hard man,” he told her, “but I am master of El Sinut, and it is not an easy task. Should I show the slightest weakness, even within the privacy of my household, I should be challenged. I would not serve my master, the sultan, well if I allowed the slightest discord within this vassal state of his. Do you understand, India? I am the dey, not some foolish courtier.”
Strangely his words made sense to her. “Yes, my lord, I do understand,” she told him. Then, going to the cedar cabinet, she opened it and viewed the garments he would wear today. The white silk shirt was embroidered in gold thread along the neckline. The cuffs of its full sleeves had wide bands that were bejeweled. She brought the shirt to him, slipping it over his head so that it slid over his broad shoulders and chest. There were no laces, and the shirt was open to midchest. India now brought him the white silk pantaloons.
“I can find no drawers,” she said nervously.
“I don’t wear any,” he said softly.
She flushed, uncertain what to do next.
“You must help me on with the pantaloons,” he told her, lifting one foot so she could slide the garment over it.
India ground her teeth together to prevent the pithy comment forming in her mind. Kneeling, she pulled the pantaloons over first one foot and then the other. As she stood up again, she drew the silk up his long legs, over his slim hips, finally covering his manhood, which had seemed to grow larger beneath her gaze, from her sight. She pulled the drawstring of the pantaloons together, making a bow and tucking it within the garment, her hand brushing against his flat belly as she did so. Again she flushed, but said in an even voice, “There are two sashes set out, my lord. Which one will you have?”
“Today I shall wear the silver,” he told her. “I will show you how to wrap it about my waist,” and he demonstrated the method when she had handed him the item in question. Unwinding it, he told her, “Now you do it, India,” and when she had, and it was perfect, he complimented her. “Clever girl! You watched carefully.”
“Will you take the sleeveless coat lined in the cloth-of-silver then, my lord?” It was a beautiful thing, India thought, the front of the coat embroidered in silver and gold thread, and small sparkling aquamarines and deeper blue tourmalines sewn on it.
“Yes,” he said.
“It’s so beautiful,” India remarked. “Is this coat for an occasion, my lord?”
He shook his dark head. “Nay, India, but today my audience chamber is open to the people of El Sinut as it is one day each week. They come and bring their disputes to me to mediate. As I represent the sultan in Istanbul, it is important that I look a little majestic for them. It does both the people and the sultan I serve honor.”
India looked into the cabinet again, bringing out embroidered silk slippers and a small silver turban decorated with a single water-blue aquamarine. “Will you wear these now, my lord?” she asked.
“Bring them with you,” he told her. “After I break my fast, I shall finish dressing.” Then he turned, and she followed after him back to his apartment where Baba Hassan was waiting.
The brown-skinned eunuch eyed the dey critically. “She has done well, my lord,” he finally remarked.
“Yes,” the dey replied with a small smile, “she has.”
“We shall now go and fetch your meal, my lord. Where will you eat? Inside, or on the terrace?”
“It is still early, and the terrace faces west,” the dey said. “I think I may eat there without fear of baking in our hot sun.”
The eunuch gestured to India. “Come along, girl,” he said impatiently, and she barely had time to set down the slippers and the turban before she had to race after him.
Outside in the hallway India cried out to the eunuch, “Please, Baba Hassan, if you go so quickly, I shall not be able to find my way by myself later.”
The eunuch said nothing, but slowed his pace so she might be able to mark her passage alone tomorrow. They entered the kitchens, and he introduced India to Abu, whose domain it was.
“So this is the girl,” Abu said meaningfully, looking her up and down. “You are a foolish creature,” he noted.
“I have come for the dey’s meal,” India told him, ignoring the remark. “Will you help me, or must I go back to him, and say you would not?” India replied in a sweetly bland voice. She looked directly at Abu.
“The master was too gentle with you, girl,” Abu said sourly.
“It is not my place to criticize the dey,” India murmured. “You are bold to speak such words to me, but I shall not repeat your discourtesy to the dey, Abu. Now, what does he eat in the morning upon first arising? I do not know the foods of this place.”
Grumbling beneath his onion-scented breath, Abu showed India how to set up the tray she would carry to the dey. “He enjoys a slice of ripe melon,” Abu said, cutting a piece and placing it on a blue-and-white porcelain dish. “Yogurt.” He ladled a silky white substance from a stone crock into a bowl that matched the dish. “Bread.” He placed a small, round, flat loaf on a silver plate. “Honey.” He put half a comb on another blue-and-white dish. “And coffee, which the coffee maker will come and make for him. Unless he requests something else, this is what he eats each morning. If there is no melon available, I will give you other fruit for him, for the dey enjoys fruit very much.”
“Thank you,” India said, picking up the tray and looking to the eunuch.
“Let us see if you were paying attention,” Baba Hassan said. “Lead me back to our master’s apartment.” He was pleased when she was successful, and told her so. “I will go with you later, however, to make certain you remember, for tomorrow you must go alone.”
They entered the dey’s apartment, and went through to the small tiled terrace that opened onto the garden. India set the tray before the dey, who was seated at a small table. A wizened little man came bearing a brazier, a small pot, a blue-and-white cup and saucer, and other items. He squatted near the dey, emptying some dark-colored beans into a strange vessel, which India quickly discovered was a grinder. Grinding the beans, he heated water upon the brazier and added it to the beans which were now in the pot, which the dey told India was for brewing the coffee.
Caynan Reis ate his meal, and when he had finished, the old coffee maker brought him the aromatic Turkish coffee which had already been heavily sweetened to almost syrupy consistency. He sipped it.
“Clear the table, girl,” Baba Hassan whispered to her.
“You may have what I have not eaten,” the dey said, and then he ignored her, enjoying his coffee.
“Eat,” Baba Hassan advised her. “Unless he tells you otherwise, his leavings are all you will get, girl.”
Anger welled up in India, but she quickly swallowed it back. She was not going to allow her pride to overwhelm her good sense. There was still some orange on the melon rind. She nibbled at it, finding it sweet and quite delicious. The silver spoon remained within the bowl of the yogurt, Abu had called it. “What is it?” she asked the eunuch.
“Milk that has been allowed to go sour and congeal,” he said.
India put the spoon in her mouth. It was tart, she decided, wrinkling her nose, but it wasn’t unpleasant. She finished the bowl. He had left a third of the round loaf. India quickly stuffed it in her mouth, for she could see the dey was almost finished with his coffee. The eunuch handed his master a wet towel to wipe his hands and face with, and then gave it to India.
“Put it on the tray,” he said as she wiped her own hands and face. “A maid servant will take the tray. You must now follow the dey as he goes about his business, but first put on his slippers and turban.”
The dey sat, and India was forced to kneel as she fitted his silver brocade slippers onto his feet. Rising, she took the turban from Baba Hassan, and placed it upon his dark head.
“Now step back from your master, and bow,” the eunuch said. “This indicates to him that you have finished, and he is ready.”
India did as he bid her, wondering why once his feet were shod, and the small turban on his head, the dey couldn’t figure that all out for himself. She wisely held her tongue, following Caynan Reis from his apartments in the company of the head eunuch. She was suddenly aware once again that her upper body was unclothed, and her bosom visible to anyone who would but look. It was really quite intolerable, but she believed if she gave any more difficulty at this time, she would find herself in worse difficulties than she already was. She was alive, and there was always the possibility of eventual escape.
They entered the audience hall through a small side door. Aruj Agha approached the dey, and with him was Tom Southwood, now in Turkish garb. Tom’s eyes flicked over his cousin, shocked, then he quickly looked away. How she longed to speak to him, but she knew she dared not. Baba Hassan led her to the dais, handing her a long-handled fan of peacock feathers. The handle was carved ivory, and the feathers were set in a holder of filigreed gold.
“You will stand here,” the eunuch told her, “and slowly fan the dey while the audience is in session. You may stop occasionally to rest, for the day will be hot, but do not allow our master to grow overheated, girl, or I will whip you myself. Do you understand?”
India nodded. Why were they always asking her if she understood or not. She was certainly not feeble-minded. She tilted her head to see if she could hear what Aruj Agha was saying to the dey.
“We will be sailing tomorrow, my lord,” the janissary told him.
“The young milord?” Caynan Reis asked.
“Quite shocked to find himself shackled to an oar, my lord, but otherwise unharmed,” came the reply.
“See that he remains unharmed. If his manners can be improved, I will consider redeeming him to his family eventually. It seems a shame to lose the ransom.” He looked at Tom Southwood. “You look the part,” he said dryly. “Are you certain you can fulfill your duties?”
“I can, my lord,” the Englishman answered him. “I have taken the name of Osman, in honor of a dear and old friend of my grandmother’s who lived in Algiers many, many years ago. He was an astrologer.”
Aruj Agha’s mouth dropped open. “Osman the Astrologer? The Osman?” He turned to the dey. “My lord, he was very famous, and highly respected.” Then he looked at Tom Southwood. “Your grandmother really knew Osman? How?”
“It is a long tale, my lord agha, but I shall happily relate it to you on the long nights we are at sea.” Then he said to the dey, “My lord Caynan Reis, may I beg a small boon of you before we depart?”
“What is it, Navigator Osman?” the dey replied.
“My cousin . . .?” Tom Southwood murmured.
“Still retains her virtue,” the dey said dryly. “I am of a mind to be patient with her and so she serves me as my body slave. She is quite unharmed, and will remain so if she continues to behave.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Tom Southwood bowed, and then remained silent as the agha and the dey discussed the voyage to come. The English captain glanced a final time at India. She nodded her head just imperceptibly at him, indicating that she had heard and was all right. He looked quickly away from her, and just in time, for the agha was ready to leave.
The two men bowed once again to the dey, and then departed the audience hall. The dey settled himself upon his low throne, and nodded to the head eunuch to order the doors opened. India began to wave the fan over him. The dey’s secretary, a small, fussy little man appeared, and handed him a long scroll of parchment which was filled with a great deal of writing, none of which she could read. The doorkeepers flung open the doors, and the hall was suddenly filled with a multitude of people, none of whom were, to India’s great relief, interested in ogling her carmine-tipped bared nipples.
Caynan Reis handed his secretary the scroll, and said, “Begin.”
“The divorced woman, Fatima, and the merchant, Ali Akbar,” the dey’s secretary said, and when the two stood before the dey, his secretary told them, “First the woman may speak, and then Ali Akbar.”
The woman bowed politely. She was neatly but poorly dressed, and far past the flush of her youth. “My lord, I have come to you for justice. Some thirty years ago when I was fourteen, I became Ali Akbar’s first wife. I have given him three sons and a daughter. In the ensuing years, Ali Akbar took three more wives, which as you know, my lord, is all the wives allowed under the laws of the prophet. In order
to take another woman to wife, Ali Akbar has to discard one of us. I am she he cast aside so he might wed with a thirteen-year-old maid who he hopes will restore his lost virility. I will be honest with you, my lord. I am not unhappy to be free of this man. Whatever love that was between us died years ago. However, Ali Akbar has refused to return to me my bridal portion, which, as you know, my lord, is mine under the laws of the prophet. Without it, I am a beggar at the gates. I have no home. I must beseech strangers for my daily bread. Please help me, my lord. I throw myself upon your gracious mercy.”
Caynan Reis looked at Ali Akbar. “Is this true?” he asked.
The merchant squirmed beneath the dark gaze. “My lord,” he began nervously, “business has been poor of late, and I have other, more important obligations to meet. Fatima could go and live in her daughter’s house, but she prefers to shame me by wandering the streets, and importuning all who will listen with her litany of complaints against me.”
“Have you returned your former wife’s bridal portion?” the dey demanded sternly.
“No, my lord.” The merchant shifted uncomfortably.
“Return it this day.” The dey looked to the woman, Fatima. “Do you know how much is owed you, lady?”
“Yes, my lord,” she said softly.
“You will tell my secretary,” he told her. “And you, Ali Akbar, will not argue the price. The lady appears honest to me. And in punishment for your greed, I order you to purchase a house with a garden for the lady Fatima, and two slaves to serve her. She will be permitted to choose the house and the slaves herself. And you, lady, will cease your public complaints against this man in return.”
“My lord, you will ruin me!” the merchant cried, and he shook an angry fist at his former wife.
“And,” the dey continued, “you will pay a fine to the sultan’s coffers of ten gold pieces, and another ten to the chief mullah of El Sinut in penance for your attempt at flouting the laws of the prophet. While the law allows you to discard one wife for another, it also makes provision to protect such a woman. You broke your word when you refused to honor your betrothal agreement. Any further complaint from your mouth, Ali Akbar, will be met with severe punishment.”
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