‘Fine craftsmanship,’ the merchant said. ‘You will not find its like in all Attaleia. You wish to buy?’
‘Too costly for me,’ Dai said but he knew he would buy it all the same. He caught Rémi’s understanding smile and felt the heat rise up his throat.
He and Rémi negotiated the fees due to the city state and headed for the house of Sakoura’s father-in-law. The street next to the mosque that had been a church, Sakoura had told him, an ancient church until the Selçuk Muslims had made it a mosque. They’d taken down the Christian bells and fashioned them into lamps to use inside the mosque and so the two religions were still there, one inside the other, much as the sacred books shared the same prophets. And what, Dai thought, would the Pope-in-Avignon make of that? It was as Sakoura said: they couldn’t miss the way. They reached the cross roads where one street led to a hamam but they were to keep straight on and there ahead of them was a huge building with stone carving that was clearly Greek, not Muslim.
It was late in the day. Not long till curfew. He hoped Twm had secured berths for them. If not – well – needed rethinking, didn’t it? Meanwhile, a last night in this strange and beautiful land then the long voyage back to Venezia then overland to Ieper, God and winter permitting, and Heinrijc Mertens. After that? Wel, amser a ddengys, isn’t it now? Wait and see. Happen the old grandfather was dead. If so, he couldn’t leave her alone and friendless in a strange land. Honest now, Dai, you couldn’t leave her if you wanted, could you? Head over heels, you are, dros ei phen a’i chlustiau mewn cariad, and helpless with it.
‘There it is now,’ he said to Rémi as the huge church-mosque came into view.
Kazan and Niko were restless. True, they were tired but it was a once-given chance to explore this coast city where so many mingled. The house of Sakoura’s father-by-marriage was comfortable, very comfortable, with its cool buildings ranged around a courtyard and pool and fountain; two storeys, the lower one of good stone, the upper wood-framed, and all carpeted with beautiful rugs. ‘It is one of the old houses,’ Sakoura’s wife told them. Neither she nor her father had shown any surprise when Sakoura arrived with a large party of foreign guests. It had happened before; it would happen again. That was Sakoura, and they loved him for it. Besides, they had so much it was a sin not to share.
‘This house, it was falling into ruin after so many years but it was still sound so after the wars my father claimed it and re-built it.’ She was proud of the garden. ‘Orange trees,’ she said, ‘such as the Bey has in his own gardens. They are very pretty with these dark green leaves and white blossom in spring that has such fragrance it makes your head spin. We did not know we could eat the fruit until Sakoura showed us how.’ She showed them the fruit hanging like small green moons, some blushed with pale orange. ‘It is too bitter now but in one – maybe two – months more they will be bright like the full moon and then they are ready to eat. They are sweet and tart at the same time.’ She smiled at Hatice. ‘Then you shall taste them,’ she promised. Already she liked this gaunt, stern woman with the scarred forehead and cautious smile who was, Sakoura had informed her, a new addition to her household.
Sakoura’s face glowed with pride and amusement at the way his pretty wife showed off her knowledge. He reached up and pulled at one of the green balls and dug his thumbs into its surface. Juice sprayed into the air and with it a sharp, nose-tingling scent. ‘See,’ he said, ‘there is a bitter skin and pith but the fruit inside is as my wife says, sweet and tart. Why grow such trees for decoration only when they can be useful?’ He breathed in the smell of the fruit. ‘This is winter to me,’ he said, ‘when so many little moons hang in the trees and light up the dark days.’
It was clear that Sakoura was more than a cameleteer, more than the son-by-marriage of a favoured daughter who was as slightly built as her husband, with lustrous eyes and dark hair dimly seen through her gauzy veil. She was a prize-bride for any man yet her father had given her to Sakoura, his freed slave. The father was an elderly man, frail now, and kept to his quarters. He had come to welcome them but his daughter had soon taken him back to his own rooms. Sakoura was the head of the household. Whatever quirk caused him to act as a hired man was for Sakoura to know. In Attaleia, his good name was known. They were made welcome for Sakoura’s sake and then for their own. Rest, they were told, and later there would be a meal to celebrate Sakoura’s return and the wonder of two betrothals made on the journey – and it was their last night, all of them together.
But Kazan and Niko did not want to rest. The restless city called to them. Niko wanted to taste the sweet mouthfuls that were theirs for a few akçe. Kazan wanted to see this great place, bigger and grander than their closest walled town. And the harbour where they would go in the early morning and from where she would leave the country that was home. Only a peep, they would not be missed, not if they went now and took care to be back well before the curfew call. It could do no harm, surely?
At first, there was excitement. The chaotic streets, the people of all races and creeds, the traffic, the bazaars, the noise…in the section for metal workers they saw Dai and Rémi deep in bargaining with a tradesman whose hands and arms waved in the air like branches and twigs of a wind-swept tree. They caught a glimpse of Blue, taller than all the rest, at the head of the steep flight of stairs leading down to the harbour, his gaze fixed on something that had caught his eye. Guiltily, the truants slid away down the next street sloping down to the harbour, threading their way through the crowd rushing to complete the day’s work before the gates were closed, before the evening call to prayer halted all activity.
They saw him a stone’s throw away, a solid, square, swarthy man. Not tall but wide and plump, with a thick fleshy neck like an ox and buttocks like an ox. They knew that when he spoke it would be with a high piping voice, like a gelding. Niko went white as winter mountains. He slipped his hand in hers.
‘Let us go back, Kazan.’
They turned but it was too late. The man had seen them. A moment of recognition then that loose-lipped, sensual mouth stretched into a smile. He nodded. At first they thought it was at them. Realisation came too late. Aziz was behind them, smiling his awful, one-sided smile, his heavy hands hoisting them up, one under each arm. Flailing arms were no defence. A heavy slap was all that was needed. ‘Blue!’ Kazan shrieked. ‘Thomas!’ A huge hand clamped her mouth and nose, cutting off all air but Niko took up the yell, screaming: ‘Thomas!’ high-pitched and desperate. The trio at the head of the steps were too far away to hear the cries; there was too much noise and bustle. What was one more cry amongst all these?
Roger de Comfrey heard the shrilled name. Thomas, he thought. How many Thomases were here today? He was pleased he had bumped into this aloof fellow-squire from so many years ago. Life had been adventurous then, holding out so much promise when they were training together. Now, he led a plodding existence at home, the man of the house since his father had died though, in truth, his mother ruled the household. It was his mother who had arranged a bride for him, an amiable, sensible girl made desirable by her father’s lands. When he returned from this pilgrimage, it would be to marriage and the serious business of begetting sons. He sighed. A little adventure in his life before domesticity, that was all he asked, but little hope of that, tied as he was to his mother by their mutual affection as much as her leading-rein. He had a suspicion she was taking him away from England before the rumours of war with France became a reality. Thomas. The shrilled name echoed in the air. Wasn’t there some never-spoken-aloud story about him that he should remember?
Curfew almost on them. ‘All done?’ Dai asked. It needed no answer. Baggage loaded, berths secured, all dues paid and the men laid off…early morning they would be aboard, away before noon on the long journey to Venezia. God willing, it would be a smooth voyage. Tonight? Wel, a farewell for them, these chance-met folk who had become a part of his life. A chance-met friend of Twm’s, too, though not by Twm’s choosing from the look on his face, and Giles gri
nning as he was. He hoped it was not an ill-chance meeting for Twm. The past was past, after all. But now here was Hatice alarmed and protesting that the two were missing. No Kazan to be found, nor the boy Niko. She was sure they had gone into the streets.
‘It is not certain,’ said Sakoura. He was unhappy. A young boy and a boy-girl, his guests, alone in this city and strange to it? And at curfew? ‘They are not in the garden?’
‘No,’ said Hatice firmly. She and Blue had searched the garden from end-to-end. Sakoura’s wife had had the whole house scoured. They were nowhere to be found. To leave without a word, without permission, that was badly done and discourteous to their hosts. Perhaps they had hoped to creep back quietly, their absence undiscovered.
‘Sir.’ A servant, discreet, waiting.
‘Yes?’
‘It seems the young people left the courtyard together.’
‘Yes? Go on, Mehmet. Tell us what you know.’
‘That is all, sir. One of the young serving boys saw them leave.’ A wistful young boy, envying them their holiday while he scrubbed pans and ewers.
‘What time was this?’
‘An hour ago, maybe less.’
‘They know they must return before the curfew,’ Twm said. ‘They have sense, those two.’ But his voice carried his doubts.
‘Not sense enough to stay where they were safe, is it now?’ Dai bit out. ‘Who knows what might happen here? Strange to city ways they are, the pair of them.’
‘Maybe they are lost,’ said Mehmi. ‘If so, surely someone will help them, perhaps bring them back. This house is easy to find.’
‘These two,’ said Twm’s friend, ‘they are young?’ He stopped, feeling foolish.
‘Yes.’ Dai was curt. ‘Too young to be out alone.’
‘I’m not sure if this is of any use but…’ He stopped again, thinking what a far-fetched chance it would be, how foolish he would sound, but the brown-faced man with the dark, fierce eyes was staring at him.
‘Well?’
‘I just wondered…a strange thing…maybe nothing…’
‘For the sake of all the saints in my country, say what you have to say, boyo. Don’t be huffing and puffing any nonsense here, now.’
Roger’s face crimsoned. ‘Not long after you left me, Thomas, I heard your name called. The voice was shrill and sharp, like a young boy’s.’ They were all staring at him now. ‘I thought nothing of it at the time, you not being the only Thomas, you see, though I did think it was a coincidence, at the time.’ Now he sounded more foolish than ever. His face was on fire.
‘A sharp, shrill voice, you say?’
‘Shouting Twm’s name, was it?’
‘It was more of a screech, really. And then – yes – it stopped suddenly.’ Cut off, perhaps.
‘Where was this?’
‘I was still down in the harbour.’
‘But you saw nothing?’
Roger shook his head.
‘Think, now, think. Did you look to where the cry came from?’
‘Well, yes, of course.’
‘Then what did you see?’ Dai was barely containing his anger and impatience.
Roger frowned in concentration, seeing again the teeming harbour, the fishermen making ready, hoping the sea would be safe tonight; labourers heaving bundles on board the ships; shackled slaves not sold at market returning to the place where they would be kept for the night then loaded on board the Candia-bound ship early in the morning. Slaves. The fat man and the huge, black servant with the scarred face. He was carrying bundles, wasn’t he? A bundle under each arm. The bundles were moving.
‘Aziz.’ Dai was certain. ‘Is the merchant Vecdet here in Attaleia?’ he wondered.
It was Sakoura’s wife who answered. ‘Why yes. He is often here for the slave market.’
‘Where does he keep his slaves?’
‘In an old warehouse by the harbour – but there is a house he uses when he is here. It is close by the warehouse in the Merchants’ Quarter.’
A small, dark room full of shadows and filthy, clinging cobwebs. There was a musty smell, as if the room were rarely used, and a faint whispering and hissing of invisible cockroaches. ‘I am frightened, Kazan,’ he breathed, and she hugged him to her and felt him cringe away from her. His arm, the bruised arm, was hanging uselessly. ‘He will come for us,’ she said. ‘All will be well, Niko. All will be well. He will come.’
They were cold with fear and the clamminess of the stone-built room with its vaulted ceiling vanished into blackness. A narrow grille was high above them. Through it gleamed the smallest sliver of light. They instinctively moved towards it, saw each other’s pale faces swim into view. Shadowy shapes were nearby; storage jars and crates and barrels. She clambered up one of the crates to peer through the narrow slit of the grille, but it was still high above her head. She thought she could see a corridor, dimly lit and rank with neglect and foul water but it was too dark to be sure.
She dropped back down to the ground and heard the crack and crunch of cockroaches underfoot. Her body ached with bruises from her struggles with the big man’s crushing hold on her. The wound in her arm had broken open. It was throbbing painfully and, if she touched it there was thick, sticky blood under her fingers. She remembered little of how they were brought here and imprisoned in this chill, damp chamber, only the smothering hand and lurching and jolting and the agonising grip of strong fingers digging into her flesh.
‘But you shall have fresh sea air tomorrow,’ Vecdet had promised, smirking, his features distorted by the lamplight. ‘We sail for Candia.’
‘We are not slaves,’ she had protested. She struggled to remember what she had been taught, to be still, an empty vessel, but it was very hard. ‘The Welshman gave us our freedom. You have no right to do this.’
‘It gives me great pleasure to cheat him of you,’ Vecdet assured them, ‘free or not free, wretched maimed creatures. And the Welshman dared accuse me of ill treatment.’
‘He is a better man than you could ever be, than you could know how to be. We would have died if it had not been for the Welshman and his friends.’
‘Yes?’ Vecdet seemed entertained by this bedraggled, bright-haired young boy who dared defy him. ‘A pity to bring down such a fearless creature as you, boy, but, life is full of such pities. And such pleasures.’
‘The avalanche would have taken us.’
‘Oh-ho. So it was his caravan that was caught. A pity he didn’t break his neck. One dead only, we heard.’
‘Asperto,’ she said, reluctantly.
‘Asperto?’ Vecdet opened his eyes wide. He giggled, high pitched, shrill as his gelding’s voice. ‘Now that is deliciously entertaining. The Welshman saves him from death at my hands, and then plunges him into another death. Intriguing.’ He smiled at the two in front of him. ‘If you are good and well behaved, you will be sold. If you are troublesome, well then, I will have the greatest pleasure in killing you.’ He was polite, his high-pitched voice even.
They did not doubt him.
Aziz stood ready. These two problems? He could deal with them. See how only a simple lash from his fist had silenced them? Let him work on them and then see. But they were two pretty boys who would bring a good profit in Candia, and so he had told his master. Give them a night of hunger in the dark and the cold; that would lower their high spirits.
‘Be thankful I am keeping you alive. It would give me such great pleasure to kill you but, as Aziz says, despite your blighted flesh, you will bring a good price in Candia.’ He smiled. ‘Sleep well, pretty boys.’ The heavy wooden door closed on them, shutting out light. They heard the bar thrust into place.
Sakoura knew the officer in charge of the city guards who insisted they lay their case before the consul in charge of the Merchants’ Quarter. ‘There has been an abduction,’ Sakoura said in his calm, careful way. ‘Two young boys.’ Better not reveal the girl’s identity; it would be seen as grave immodesty, were she Muslim or Christian. ‘They are both in o
ur care. The older is on his way to his grandfather, escorted by my friend here, and they must sail with the fleet tomorrow. We must enter the Merchants’ Quarter tonight. It is the curfew, I know, but by morning it will be too late.’
It took a long time to persuade the reluctant consul. He was a Genoese stationed here in the Merchants’ Quarter and not sympathetic to any who had dealings with the hated Venetian rivals. Besides, he had established a good understanding with the man who was accused, an understanding that included regular bribes to sweeten deals. Why should he spoil that because of these wild accusations? What proof was there? A boy’s cry? A name called? Nothing more than this? The man Aziz carrying bundles? And this was their evidence? How could he demand entry and accuse Vecdet-bey of kidnap, and he a respected trader? He sighed. A heavy sigh. Very well. If Sakoura insisted, he would question the merchant. The men with him must not follow. He would not allow it. They must return to their own quarter. They were not the law.
It was a group of men, because Sakoura had many friends. Besides, this was Vecdet the Slave Trader and though the citizens of Attaleia relied on slave labour they expected the best. Sakoura’s household had no slaves but that was to be expected from a freed slave. Not that they ever thought of Sakoura as a slave, especially now he was the old man’s heir and married to the daughter. And such a good man who did much for the city and its poor. ‘If you choose to have slaves, at least keep them healthy,’ he said, and it made good sense. Vecdet’s slaves were weak and feeble, half starved and lice-ridden yet he expected a good price for them. He gave Attaleia a bad name. And now he had stolen two boys who were the guests of Sakoura, the man from Mali! No matter that these guests were non-believers; they were guests and so honour was owed to them. The foreign consul was here to oversee the Merchants’ Quarter; he should do something.
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