“What?”
Smiling, something Nicolo knew he needed to do more often, he pointed to the floor. “Show me your drawing.”
His son pulled a boot from the pile in the corner and set it in the light and knelt on the floor. He watched as Sebastian struggled to put lines in the right order to make a recognizable reproduction of the boot. It was pathetic, really, but the focus his son exuded while the picture emerged, was something he had seen only while the boy practiced with his daggers.
He started to protest as Sebastian grabbed the rag to wipe it away and then relaxed as only a small section disappeared. The buckle, in particular, was unimpressive, but as lopsided and simple as it was, the satisfaction on Sebastian’s face was unmistakable.
“I did it. Look at the heel. It looks right.”
Nicolo could not argue with the lad. The heel did indeed look like an accurate representation of the actual boot—even if the rest did not.
“It does.” He watched his son, the delight on the boy’s face warming his heart. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”
Sebastian did not respond—not at first. He looked at the unsatisfactory results before him and shrugged. “I don’t enjoy not having a good picture. I want to draw and paint like I saw in the church—like he did. I want to make things bea—that look like they should.”
“Do you think you can do it? Can you learn without someone showing you?”
The shock on his son’s face amused him. Sebastian expected him to forbid the drawing—to demand that such foolishness stopped. It was foolishness too. The boy would be a man in a few years. He should spend those years preparing for manhood and to take his place in the world. Then again, he had such a confining existence. Would it really hurt the boy to have something to do?
“I want to try.”
It took every bit of self-control he could muster for Nicolo not to say what he really thought. Instead, he nodded slowly, searching for words that would not alienate his son any further. “Try then. You don’t have to lock the door or hide it though. It isn’t wrong to draw. Just keep up with your practice with the daggers, and we must teach you how to navigate now that you are older, but there is still much time for you to work on it. Perhaps someday you can paint the portrait of Nicolo Soranzo— Pirate Captain of The Vengeance.
~~~~~~~~~~
The night before they were expected to land at Formentera, Jaime went to bed with a raging headache. Eager to do his part to entertain the men, Sebastian pulled out his flute and played the songs the men loved best. They danced, joked, and a few even tried to tell stories, but none could rival Jaime’s talent.
“You try it, Sebastian,” Eduardo urged. “Maybe you have a hidden talent. You listen better than any of us.”
His eyes sought his father, looking for some kind of encouragement. Nicolo nodded. “Go ahead. Retell the story that Jaime has been telling. Let’s see how well you listened.”
Their styles were very different—something that Sebastian noticed right away. In his mind, he could see the room where Joseph ben Saolomon sat listening to Charles de Gyll. He described the heavy draperies, the carved chair, and the woolen rug on the floor.
When the man pulled out the ledger, Jaime had described the crack of the pages and the suspense in the air while Sebastian focused on the cover, the ink stains on Joseph’s fingers, and the way Charles licked his lips to see that number reduced. It was as if Jaime lived the story while Sebastian set the stage. Even as he retold it, detail by detail, the boy realized that together they made a complete picture.
Just as he reached the place where Ingelby was summoned, one of the ship’s cats chased a rat over Sebastian’s feet. Startled, he jumped, doing a half-jig to get out of the way of the vermin. The men roared.
“My son is now frightened of cats and mice. He can hit a man in the heart at fifty feet, but a rat too close sends him scrambling.”
Sebastian’s face flushed, but thanks to the darkness, no one saw it. “I was startled. It’s not like I haven’t had rats crawl over me in my sleep like the rest of you.”
“How would we know,” Hector complained. “That father of yours keeps you tucked away from everyone. You’re just a boy and he treats you like royalty or something.”
“He is just a boy,” Nicolo said, each word measured carefully for best effect. “My son does not need the influence of men who are slaves to drink or other undesirable behaviors.”
“Aw, come on, Nicolo. He’ll have to become a man someday,” one of the other men wheedled. “Let ‘im learn from the best!”
“If you think that is you,” Nicolo snapped, “then you are much more delusional than I had imagined. He’ll have to take on the responsibilities of a man before he is introduced to the vices of them. Keep your distance. You know the rules.”
As his father chastised the men, Sebastian crept away from the circle and went to stand at the bow. While the boat sailed across the water, the jib boom made strange shadows on the water in the moonlight. It reminded him of games he and Jaime had played when Jaime was young enough to have time for games with the captain’s son.
His father found him there a short while later. “What brought you up here? The story isn’t finished.”
“I was.”
“You were what? Finished?”
Still fuming from his most recent humiliation, Sebastian nodded. “Yes.”
“I can see that you are upset. Will you tell me why?”
At first, Sebastian shook his head, unwilling to talk any more. Eventually, however, his father’s silent presence unnerved him enough to bring the frustration and confusion boiling over and out into the open. “What is wrong with you?”
Nicolo stared at him, astounded. “What is wrong with me? I am not the one pouting in the middle of the night.”
Unable to contain his frustration any longer, he whirled and exploded. “What is wrong with you? Yes! What is wrong with you? You came to my cabin and did not demand I tell you what I was doing. You wanted to. I could see it but you didn’t. You let me draw! When have you ever let me do anything that is not preparation for this wretched life? Why?”
“Sebastian…”
“No! This is not fair. It is not right. You mock me and embarrass me in front of the men and then defend me and isolate me further from them. They will hate me when the time comes for me to join them. Who could blame them?”
“You will not speak to me like this, Sebastian.”
“How will I speak then? Huh? What must I do to appease the wrath of the great pirate Nicolo?”
Again he turned back to stare out over the water. I wish I had lost myself in Siracusa so I could be rid of this life. His fury had engulfed him so completely that Sebastian didn’t realize that he spoke the last words aloud—not until his father’s breath caught.
“Go to bed, Sebastian. I’ll have Jaime bring you breakfast there in the morning.”
Chapter Eleven
Buried Treasure
Dawn would come in less than half an hour. Even now, hints of light announced the coming arrival of day. He’d waited as long as he could. Sebastian opened his cabin door and peeked out, looking for any sign of the crew, but all were busy elsewhere or asleep. Just how he wanted it.
He crept along the gangway, around the edge of the quarterdeck, and lowered himself onto a small platform below the railing. Once more, he glanced around to ensure no one saw him. Once certain he was completely alone, he dropped his breeches and squatted over the edge of the platform, grateful the wind was in his favor.
Business accomplished, he hurried back up to the quarterdeck, around the edge, and barely made it to the gangway before he saw Giorgio headed his way. “What you doing out this early, boy? Your father wants you in your cabin.”
“I’m going, I’m going,” he whined, deliberately ignoring the question.
In his room, Jaime waited with a bowl of gruel and half a lime, smirking. “Wind’s good today, isn’t it?”
Sebastian ducked his head
. “Thanks. Yes. How close are we?”
“Didn’t you see? We’re not three leagues out now. Your father will have you dressing soon. Actually, let’s do it now. Things are going to get busy at sunup.”
The last thing Sebastian felt like doing was putting on the dress again, but he pulled off his shirt and reached for the offending garment from the box beneath his bunk. “I can’t wait to burn this thing.”
“If you weren’t such a delicate featured boy, we could never get away with it.”
“Then I wish I looked like Mac,” he grumbled. “Can you imagine what an ugly girl Mac would have been?”
“He was an ugly boy, I’m sure of it,” Jaime agreed. The young man frowned as Sebastian pulled the combs from the box. “You need to wash and comb your hair. No girl would let it look like that.”
“She would if she was stuck on this ship for weeks or months. I don’t have time to wash my hair!”
Jaime conceded Sebastian’s point but shook his head once more as the combs refused to stay properly where he wanted them. “Well, it’ll have to do. I guess I should just lock you in now. Do you have a bucket or need a quick—”
“I’m fine unless you plan to keep me in here forever.”
“Just a few hours. We should have the jars buried and enough loot to get us on our way within a few hours.”
“Will Papa come?”
Jaime shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I was rude to him last night.”
“Yes.”
Sebastian wanted Jaime to argue—to tell him that his anger was justified, but it didn’t happen. After waiting for longer than was comfortable, he shrugged. “I just told him how I felt.”
This time, Jaime nodded. After a moment, he added, “I suppose no father wants to know that his son does not think him the most wonderful man and best father there is.” He gave Sebastian a small smile and said, “I’ll suggest he comes soon. Be kind to him.”
“I wasn’t kind last night,” the boy admitted. “I said I wished I had been left in Siracusa.”
“He risked his life to find you himself. He could have sent me, but he went where he could be recognized so that he could find you. He loves you. Love is what makes him do the things he does—the good and the frustrating.”
The door closed and locked behind him, leaving Sebastian frustrated and near tears. “Just like the girl they want me to look like,” he muttered.
Light broke over the water, filling the cabin with the morning glow. In his current mental state, Sebastian was irrationally grateful when the light of a new day erased the pink of dawn. Anything remotely feminine had begun to nauseate him.
The ship became aflutter with activity. From his cabin, he heard the men scrambling to finish their meal and seat themselves at the oars, at the rigging, and at the canons on the cannon deck. The squeak of the pulley told him they were lowering the dory in preparation for their arrival at the islet.
Ammon called the rowing cadence in the hull, and the ship sped through the water swifter than ever. With each minute that passed, Sebastian grew certain his father would not come. But he was wrong.
Just as he decided that they must be near the islet, the lock turned in his door and his father stepped into the room. “Fetching as always, Sebastiana.”
“Very funny, Papa.”
“I shouldn’t tease.”
The words hung between them for several seconds until Sebastian could bear it no longer. He dragged himself off his bunk and hugged his father. “I am sorry, Papa. I was rude and ungrateful. I do not know what is wrong with me sometimes.”
“And in exchange for your apology, I can admit that I do sometimes antagonize you. It is also wrong, and I too am sorry.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“What didn’t you mean?”
Sebastian hung his head, pressing his cheek into his father’s shoulder. “About Siracusa. I don’t wish I had stayed—not without you or Jaime. I wish we had stayed perhaps…”
“You liked it there.”
The statement hung between them until Sebastian nodded.
“I liked what it could be—a home. I liked the woman Rosa and her son the artist. I liked playing with the other boys and the busyness at the docks. I liked—” he paused abruptly, blushing.
“What did you like?”
“I liked the woman’s food. It was delicious.”
“After a lifetime of Mac’s tasteless slop, you would like anything that wouldn’t threaten to kill you,” Nicolo teased.
The call came for his father to leave. He hesitated, gazing into Sebastian’s eyes. At last, he hugged the boy once more and whispered in a ragged voice, “I love you, son. I do not tell you as I should, but I do. Take care. God go with us and never forget what I have taught you.”
With those words, he pushed Sebastian away from him, closed the door behind him, and locked it. Alone in the cabin, the lad sank to his bunk, shaken. It seemed—yes, it did—it seemed as if his father expected not to return. Never had Nicolo Soranzo sounded so final in taking his leave.
At that moment, Sebastian wished he knew the prayers that comforted Jaime—the words that his friend said as his fingers moved along the string of beads he always kept in his pocket. Would that Jaime’s God would look favorably on their ship, protect their men, save them from capture and death. Would that this God would bring home his father and Jaime safe again. At that moment, Sebastian felt as though he would do anything to have those prayers answered.
~~~~~~~~~~
The dory bounced over the waves as Nicolo and Jaime rowed to the islet. The ship moved onward, straight for Formentera. The plan would work. It must.
“The islet is small. Do we walk the length of it to be sure of the best place or choose the first place we find?”
Nicolo glanced around them as their boat hit sand. The men jumped from it and pulled it far up the beach. They could not risk the tide washing it out to sea. Even if they swam to the ship, the boat might give away their actions.
“I don’t know. I am growing paranoid. What if—oh, I don’t know.”
“Let’s walk then. It will take time to raid the island.”
“I have heard that people are abandoning it because of the raids,” Nicolo added inconsequently.
The islet was tiny, only a few thousand feet from tip to tip, and with very little vegetation. They found no trees to use as landmarks, nothing but the shape of the island itself to give them any idea of how to mark where they buried their jar. It would not be easy to find again.
“Perhaps if you start at one end and I start at the other. We count paces and dig where we meet.”
“And if our stride is different, we could be off by yards,” Jaime protested.
“We practice together?”
“But we have no way of knowing the boy’s stride when he is done growing.”
“What else can we do?”
Jaime shrugged. “I don’t know. We both make sense. We must do something, but nothing will be easy to recreate—even if we are the ones to return.”
“Perhaps if once we find the spot, we put a rock on it. I could hide my kerchief under it…”
“It would rot before the boy digs it up.”
“Yes, but there would be some piece left—maybe. Something to give him an idea.” Nicolo knew he sounded desperate.
“Let’s do it. How do we know when to start walking?”
After some deliberation, they chose to count to five thousand and begin. Jaime went north, Nioclo south. Each step that Nicolo took felt like a death march—the death of his dreams. This wouldn’t work. Sebastian, if they even lived to make it to the Americas, would make a life for himself somewhere. He would forget or ignore the promise he made to return for the jar.
At the very tip of land, where water struck the rocks of the island, Nicolo finished counting before he began his trek back to what he hoped would be the center. This method meant that his son would have to bring someone with him. If Go
d were still a merciful Being, it would be Jaime. Jaime would remember.
By the time they met in the middle, Nicolo had lost hope in the plan—lunacy. They’d have to dig deep enough to be sure weather and time did not wear away the soil. Perhaps a bush could grow there and anchor it. Bushes, scrubby little things that grew where there was nothing to fertilize them, were almost all the vegetation the island could boast.
Jaime dug first. The ground was hard—unyielding. At last, he crawled from the hole and drove the shovel into the mound of dirt, leaning on it. Something fell into the hole with a soft thud. There in the bottom of the hole lay half a lizard. He moved the shovel and found the front half of the lizard buried in the pile. Nicolo shook his head, took the shovel, and jumped into the hole, scooping out the reptilian carcass with his first shovelful.
The spade bit the earth, creating the shallow grave where they would bury Sebastian’s future. Unlike most graveyards, Nicolo had hopes that this would be a temporary grave. “It is like Jesus, isn’t it? We bury it and later it will rise again. You should like that analogy.”
“Except that this jar will not dig itself out of this dirt. There is the difference.”
“Unless the Jews have it right and the Messiah is yet to come. You do not see them killing people who do not convert to their beliefs. You do not see them murdering in the name of God Almighty. What if Jesus’ resurrection was the greatest hoax in history? Wouldn’t that make a great story to tell on the ship of an evening?”
“It won’t work, Nicolo. You will not infuse your hatred for the church into me. You can keep Sebastian ignorant while he is young, but when he is older, he will hear—”
“Yes! Exactly! He will hear, won’t he? What will he think of the church when you tell him the rest of your fairytale? He will wonder how you can stomach to enter the doors and confess to the priests of the church that—”
Jaime thrust the spade into Nicolo’s hand. “He will learn that men are fallible—even men who claim to know and love God. He may reject God as you have, but if you push as you do sometimes, he will reject you too. Then where will he be?”
“Safe from the pain of a faith that betrays him.”
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