The Storyteller's Granddaughter

by Margaret Redfern

  ‘Well, boy. So you want to see the world? And so much of it to see.’ He asked the same questions. Where had she come from? Where was she going? Was she travelling alone? Was she a runaway?

  The last question was short and sharp and he fixed her with a look so piercing that she shivered. She wondered what he saw. A thin young boy, she hoped, not very tall but holding himself straight and still.

  ‘Not a runaway, sir. I am an orphan. My mother died only days ago and I never knew my father. I have no other family.’ Not quite the truth but near enough.

  ‘Hm.’ His gaze did not shift from her. She forced herself to stay still, as Nene had taught her. Then he called aloud, high pitched, startling her, before she realized it was to someone else invisible behind the partition. A slim youth emerged, yawning and rubbing his eyes and clearly just awake.

  ‘What is your wish, Vecdet?’

  ‘We have a visitor, my dear. Here he is. Bring Signor Latticio.’

  ‘Is the Signor still here?’

  ‘He is, dear boy. Now bring him to me.’

  The youth was scowling, petulant, pouting.

  ‘Where shall I find him?’

  ‘How should I know? Bring him to me – now.’ Spoken so gently, so lightly, so threateningly. The youth left.

  ‘Signor Latticio, he is one of our customers. A Venetian. He is honouring us with a visit, a meeting to discuss terms. I would like him to meet you.’

  A Venetian! Not, then, the men she had expected to meet. This was not their camp after all. But perhaps here was the chance to take ship for the west, for the land of the merchants, and from there to her grandfather’s cold country?

  The folds of the door were swept aside and a tall, spare man stepped inside. He was dressed in rich robes of crimson threaded through with gold. A man used to command, she decided. Impatient, not pleased with this summons.

  ‘What now, Vecdet? I was on the point of leaving.’

  ‘A visitor, Signor Latticio. An unexpected visitor, and all alone.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘An entrancing visitor.’

  But they were not speaking in Turkish. Her heart skipped with excitement. She recognised some of the words – not all. It was the language of the merchants that Nene had made her learn because who knew when there might be a need for it? And that need was now. Her mouth was opening to say yes, I can understand, I can speak your language, I can be useful. And then she shut her mouth tight and made her face blank because of what she was hearing.

  ‘A grubby boy.’

  ‘But a pretty boy. And such beguiling eyes! Clean him up and he’ll sell for a good sum of money. Boys like this fetch a good price these days. They make the best slaves. That’s what buyers are saying.’

  ‘If you say so. You are, after all, the one who knows.’ The way he spoke implied more than the words themselves. The girl shivered.

  ‘Says he’s an orphan. Could be a runaway.’

  ‘Even better.’

  ‘And he’s brought himself here – a bit of a gift, you might say.’

  ‘Never refuse a gift, heh? I’ll leave you to deal with it, Vecdet. You know all there is to know about young boys and how profitable they might be. No violence, though – no marks on him, please. We’ve enough marked merchandise as it is.’

  ‘I thought a drink, perhaps. The boy is weary and hot. Cool syrup should be very welcome. And afterwards, why, he will sleep.’ He was nodding and smiling, his loose-lipped mouth glistening and cruel. The girl shivered again.

  The signor smiled. ‘As you say, Vecdet. You deal with it. Now it is time I left. I must be in Karaman before nightfall.’ And he left them, left the tent, passing by so close his robes brushed against her. It was as if she were invisible. He had been consulted, he had agreed, and now she was no longer his concern. She was nothing to him but potential profit.

  Vecdet was oozing charm, licking his fat lips, his skin glistening. He was sure of his prey.

  ‘Come boy. Sit here. Such a pretty boy.’ He leaned over her, pressing her shoulder to sit her down on the kilims and cushions and she smelt the sour smell of sweat on him. A serving man brought fruits and syrup and the Turk invited her to eat, drink. She must be hungry, she must be thirsty, she must be tired. Later, she would wash and then rest until the evening meal. She raised the glass to her lips, for glass it was, rare to the nomads, gilded and enamelled, a thing of beauty. She thought again about the dark boy risking all, his hands to his lips warning her against eating, drinking. She paused, admired the glass, traced the Arabic inscription with one finger.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Drink and be filled with delight.’

  She felt the shock of laughter bubble up and quelled it. Instead, she fumbled and the glass dropped from her fingers. The syrup spilled out staining a red cushion darker red. She grovelled with embarrassment. ‘Is it broken?’

  Vecdet picked up the glass. ‘Not even chipped.’ His high, piping voice was even but his face was as dark red as the cushion.

  ‘I am so sorry…I am not used to such precious…I am sorry…’

  ‘It is no matter, boy. It is no problem. Another shall be brought.’ And the Turk Vecdet clapped his hands for the servant to take away the empty glass and she wondered how she could avoid drinking when the servant returned because now she was sure it was drugged.

  But another man entered; this one was tall and muscular with a great sword in his belt. His nose had been hooked like a falcon’s but was flattened, broken in some fight, maybe. A thick, seamed ridge stretched from the corner of his left eye down to his jawline. He looked hard as hardest rock. Vecdet pursed his lips, annoyed, and spoke sharply and the man bowed and apologised but there was a problem in the women’s quarter and Vecdet Bey was needed urgently. If he could come now? There was not a moment to be lost.

  The Turk made his excuses to her. ‘I must leave you. I shall be a moment – no longer. Ah – here is your drink.’

  He lingered, waiting for her to sip. She held the glass carefully. ‘I shall be happy to wait for you in such comfort. You are very kind. Please do not let me keep you from your business.’ And she raised eyes that held, she hoped, only innocent trust. He must have been convinced because he nodded, satisfied.

  ‘If you require anything, my men are outside the tent and will attend you.’

  Yes, she thought, pouring the drink on to the ground, ready, waiting and armed outside the tent. No escape that way. And there would be moments only before he returned. Her heart was pounding. She hurried to the curtained area. Empty. As she expected, it was a sleeping area furnished with a divan and heaped with carpets and cushions. Beyond it was the felt wall of the tent. She took her sharp knife and tried slitting it. It was tough, tougher than she had expected. She kept the fabric taut with one hand and tried again. This time the knife point sliced through and down. The noise it made seemed very loud and she paused. Impossible not to be heard but there was no rush of guards, no shouted warnings. She slit further, just enough to slide through, leaving satchel and bow and quiver and warm cloak behind. She stepped warily through the gap.

  She was in luck. In one direction was the awning, the men’s backs towards her. Open ground lay behind the tent and there was an outcrop of rocks a stone’s throw away and beyond that the vast plateau. It was too exposed. They would spot her the moment she ran for cover. Where, then? There was no time to hesitate. He would be back in moments – there he was now. She heard his heavy footfall and his loud voice and the swish of the tent as he drew back its folds. His voice was sharp and angry and at first she thought he had already discovered that she was missing but not yet. Not yet.

  And even as she hesitated, eyeing up the rocks and the camp, she felt a tug on her arm. It was the dark-eyed, curly-haired boy who had tried to warn her.

  His name was Nikolaos but they called him Niko. He had lived in a remote Greek village until he was captured for the slave market. He was not quite nine years old. His sister, Agathi, was taken
with him. She was fifteen, a pretty girl with silver blonde hair and soft brown eyes. She was kept in the women’s quarters with the other female slaves. They were two of a cargo of forty slaves bound for Attaleia and from there to the market in Candia. Maybe further, to Venezia, the great city floating on water. It all depended on market prices, and they fluctuated as much as the exchange rate between Turkish akçes and the Byzantine gold hyperpyron. Besides, the city states of Italy were bringing their new silver and gold coins, their florins and ducats. Still, the slave trade was big business, as big as trade in horses and grain. Silks and spices were only a small part of the brisk trade in imports and exports between west and east, and not where the best profit was to be had. This caravan carried slaves and horses and bales of tough ox hide and opulent furs stripped from strange animals.

  The slaves were a mixed bunch: Russian, Tartar, Turkish, Greek. Some Niko knew better than others. There was boy about four years old who no longer cried but didn’t know his name or where he came from. They looked after him as best they could. That first night, his terrified screaming had kept them all awake and the guards threatened him with clenched fist, and angry oaths until one of the women took him in with her. He slept with her still. A harsh woman but oddly gentle with the child. Niko had heard her singing soft lullabies to him. Maria and Catarina were Russian, both eighteen, both ‘in sound health’, as the sales pitch had it. Maria was shorter, stockier; Catarina taller, almost beautiful and would fetch a better price. Women slaves were always more expensive than males, in Candia and Venezia. Greek Christians could fetch a high price as well. Niko and Agathi were Greek Christian.

  Niko had listened intently to the men’s talk, careful not to betray his interest. Virgins sold for more. He noted that. His sister was safe, then, from one point of view, at least until the market. Before then, he must have a plan of escape.

  Hatice was the woman who had taken the child under her care. She had a gash across her forehead that would scar. She had never been beautiful – hers was a strong face with thick black brows and angular jaw – but it was pitiful to see the red, puckered flesh still raw from the blow. She had fought back when she was captured. She still fought back. She never seemed to learn that it was a waste of energy. Better to play dumb, be the idiot, afraid, compliant. You found out more that way and they forgot to watch you all the time. Look at the riot she’d caused just this afternoon, bringing that donkey Vecdet huffing and puffing to the women’s tent.

  Asperto wasn’t so lucky, poor devil. He was one of the Tartars who’d escaped some months ago and stayed free for over a day and a night before they caught him. He was smashed over the head, a brutal blow. It was after that he had the falling down sickness. There were those who shouted ‘possession’, and swore he was bedevilled, but when he was well he was the same kind Asperto, though quieter now, as if life had been crushed out of him. Niko reckoned it was the blow to the head that had brought on the sickness and there were others who agreed with him. One of the slaves – a big, pale Russian whose name never came easily to Niko’s tongue – said he’d seen the same happen in his village. They’d got used to Asperto by now, falling and writhing and frothing at the mouth, and simply waited until he was calm again. They kept it quiet from the guards as much as they could. The falling sickness meant falling profits and if Asperto wasn’t going to fetch a good price, Vecdet would cut his losses and Asperto’s throat.

  None of them could hope for ransom.

  Niko had seen the horse and its rider long before the men. He watched their progress across the bluff from under his lashes. He’d learnt how to keep a look out and keep his mind on his work at the same time. Several vicious blows had taught him that. Had he no sense at all? A youth, slim, not very tall but whose chestnut brown hair and gold-flecked brown eyes made him marketable. A pretty boy, riding alone straight into the net. They wouldn’t want to mark him. Drugs, then. Niko had managed to catch his eye and mime ‘don’t eat or drink’, but he wasn’t sure he’d been understood.

  And then the youth was led into the great pavilion and his horse taken by one of the men – a nice little chestnut mare, another bonus. Niko thought that was that, and the next time he’d see him would be in the male slaves’ quarters, dozy with dope, but then there was Hatice’s riot and everybody was focused on that, grinning and making bets on who she’d bite and how many strokes she’d get. They didn’t hear the sharp sound of ripping felt. He edged back, moved cautiously around the pavilion. The boy was standing there, uncertain, and that donkey Vecdet was already mouthing off outside the tent. Niko hoped he wouldn’t be missed. He had his excuses ready, just in case, but all the same… He tugged urgently on the youth’s sleeve.

  It was the dark-eyed, curly-haired boy who had tried to warn her. He had his finger to his mouth again. No noise. He gestured towards the huddle of tents and she pulled back. He urged her on. ‘Stay behind the second tent. I’ll come to you.’ It was a breath of sound and then he was gone, back towards the awning and the men. Could she trust him, this young boy-slave? She would have to. She crept silently towards the first tent, carefully avoiding the pegs and taut ropes. Behind her came the first shouts of alarm and Vecdet snarling at the guards. Then she was at the second tent, huddled behind it, senses alert, body poised for flight but the pounding feet of pursuers was fading not growing. Moments later, the boy dropped down beside her.

  ‘They think you’ve headed for the plateau. Come this way. There’s not much time.’

  He went ahead of her, skirting the tents, heading into the camp rather than away. She followed blindly, expecting any moment to hear the shout that she was spotted but there was nothing. The bluff ended suddenly in a steep slope. They slithered down it, slipping and sliding and clinging to rocks and the tangle of thyme and brushwood with thorny branches that tore at their hands, until they came to a narrow ledge. Below them was a band of stunted trees, and the sounds of a river rushing through.

  The boy pointed. ‘We have to go down there and into the trees.’

  ‘They’ll find me.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. There is a safe place but quickly. We must be quick.’

  At the bottom, they slipped between the trees and waded into the water and followed the river. Above them, the last of the sunlight danced on the rim of the bluff. Down here, it was already dark and dank and the racing river water was icy cold, buffeting at their legs.

  ‘Dogs can’t track through water,’ said this enterprising small boy. His face was serious and intent. ‘A little way along there is a waterfall. A big waterfall.’

  She could hear it, a loud roaring in her ears, a confusion of sound and movement and silver water gushing over the mountainside ahead of them.

  The boy gestured her on. They scrabbled over rocks slippery with green slime, across the tumbling river until they were under the waterfall itself, its spray soaking them. To the girl, it seemed a dead end but the boy grinned, suddenly a child again. His back to the rock face, he eased behind the waterfall along a treacherously narrow ledge. He beckoned her to follow him. The falling water was a screen of grey mist tumbling before her eyes. There was an opening in the rocks…not a cave, less than that, but a cleft that gave some shelter from the constant roar of the falls, and from searching eyes. The boy turned and faced her.

  ‘You’ll be safe here. They don’t know about this. I’ll come back later tonight. I have to go before they miss me.’

  He smiled crookedly and was gone. She settled herself against the dripping stone and waited.

  Niko was breathless when he reached the men’s quarters and wriggled under the goatskin wall into the dark tent. Asperto was on the lookout for him. He was a tall man, angular and bony now that he was losing flesh, as they all were with little enough to eat. His skin was the deep brown of oiled olive wood but he had a shock of thick white hair and a straggling white beard. He said he preferred to be clean shaven but it wasn’t allowed. His face creased into folds, like a camel’s, and his eyelashes were long
like a camel’s. He had thick dark eyebrows and a mouth that seemed full of white teeth when he smiled. An ugly face but a nice face, thought Nico, and a kind man. Before the falling down sickness he had been strong and full of plans to escape. Now, he shrugged his shoulders and accepted that his life would be short and bitter. He liked this resourceful young boy, and the way he was determined to save his pretty sister.

  ‘You’re soaked – and shivering. Come on, let’s get you into dry clothes.’

  ‘Where is everybody?’

  ‘Sent out – seems there’s work to do. Thought it might be a good idea to play sick – give me a good excuse to stay here and wait for you.’

  ‘Have they missed me?’ They were speaking in flat, quiet voices; whispers carried but not these deadened low tones.

  ‘Big Aziz asked where you were but they were too busy searching for the new boy. Seems he’s vanished into thin air.’

  He slanted a glance down at the boy, naked now, and all skinny gooseflesh. ‘Here – let me.’ He rubbed warmth back into the boy with a rough blanket until his skin was glowing.

  ‘What happened to the mare?’

  ‘Still here. The boy won’t get far on foot. Cloak’s still here as well, and his bow and quiver and satchel. Vecdet’s got those.’

  Niko pulled a tunic over his head, shabby rough cloth but dry. ‘You never know. If he can vanish into thin air, as you say, maybe he can vanish the mare as well. Pouff! Like that.’

  ‘Better to leave the mare and vanish himself as far away as possible,’ Asperto said. ‘The mare is valuable – worth more than a boy slave – and too well protected where she’s stabled.’

  Niko considered that. ‘You’re probably right,’ he agreed. ‘What happened to Hatice?’