But the day was warm and comforting, and at times like this he could pretend that he was hired labor, that at night he returned home to his own roof and four walls, where he was the master.
His powerful arms carried a load of bamboo poles that would have tested the strength of two men. Brian balanced them comfortably as he headed toward the barn, enjoying the slow and steady play of sinew and muscle. It helped that Máirí was watching.
Máirí had been acquired only last summer from one of the Hindus to the north, and she was one black-haired, wide-hipped, healthy, lusty lass. Few women could keep up with Brian in bedroom matters, and he had experimented widely. Máirí was different. Everything about her appealed to him, and Brian had a sense that maybe, just maybe, he might want to tie up with the wench. He laughed at that: there was no such thing as a real marriage for Bilalian slaves, no sacraments that a black man was bound to respect. But the masters were happy to give their blessing to what passed for a wedding: marriages meant children, and children meant more property. It was obscene, but unavoidable.
His fury at the thought that his children might belong to another man was balanced by the urge to procreate, to see his own eyes in the face of a newborn child, to pray that his own progeny would have a better life than his own. And he swore that would be the case.
Máirí was returning from the fields. She wore a raw hemp tunic cut in the Egyptian fashion, corded at the waist and flowing at the ankles. Although a castoff from the seraglio, hemp lasted forever, and damned if Máirí didn't look better in it than the Wakil's fat sluts ever could. Her freckled cheeks shone with life and energy. Brian felt a drumroll of anticipation. He knew what that smile meant, and he could hardly wait for nightfall.
Máirí eyed him speculatively. "Looks a little heavy for you," she said.
"Worried I'll hurt my back?"
She came closer, peering toward the house to make certain they were unobserved, then cupped his groin with her left hand. "You'd be useless to me then."
He laughed and blushed. "All my parts are in proper order," he said, although the evidence was already well in hand. "I'll drop by tonight and show ye—"
Máirí laughed, and stole a kiss. "Till tonight, then."
For a moment, it seemed that there was nothing in the world save the two of them, nothing in all the world save her eyes and lips and the promise of fire to come, a moment so intense that neither of them heard or saw anything but each other. So it was as much Brian's fault as Máirí’s when she backed directly into the path of Lamiya's oncoming horse.
Lamiya's mount threw her, and she tumbled from her saddle, landing with a resounding thud and a great exhalation. Her face was slack with surprise, and Brian's first thought was how funny she looked. His second, traveling instantly behind it, was a prayer that she wasn't injured. The girl wasn't a bad one, less imperious than most highborn blacks. In fact, it seemed to him that the worst bastards were the lower-class blacks who had nothing to offer the world except the shade of their skin. What shites they could be!
But Lamiya was also the intended of Abu Ali's heir, and therefore this was very bad indeed. Alarm squeezed the air from his chest, moistened his palms.
Máirí's thoughts seemed close to his own. She ran forward instantly, although nothing seemed really injured except Lamiya's pride. "Oh, miss!" she called.
Her call was all but drowned out by Ali, who galloped up and jumped off the horse with a single, effortlessly fluid motion. "Lamiya!" he called.
As if the accident had been viewed by the entire house, the manor seemed in an uproar. It seemed that all the servants, free and slave, white and black, were running to see what had happened. "It's the miss!" they cried. "She's been hurt!"
"Here, miss," Brian said, dropping the poles. "Let me help you." She extended her hand, and he clasped it firmly, set his balance, and drew her up. At the first moment of contact he noted how incredibly smooth and cool her skin was. Brian found himself thinking how can that be? The day is so warm . . . then forced himself back to reality.
She was unsteady, unfocused, and any smallest trace of haughtiness that Lamiya might have ordinarily communicated had completely vanished. What remained was a woman. For a long moment Brian was simply awed by her beauty.
Suddenly a hand was on his shoulder heavily, pulling and then pushing him away. "Do not touch her!" Ali snapped, and helped Lamiya the rest of her way to her feet.
Máirí hovered. "Are you all right, miss?" she asked.
Lamiya seemed to have caught her breath. "Yes," she began. "I think—"
Enraged, Ali turned and lashed Máirí’s face with his open hand. She reeled back, gasping.
Ali's face was twisted with rage. "You clumsy hinzîir-batn idiot! You could have killed her! I'll flay the pale hide from your—"
He raised his hand again, and Máirí flinched away, eyes wide with fright. Before he could strike, Brian interposed himself. He held a three-cubit bamboo stick in both hands, and knew in his heart that he had almost made a potentially fatal mistake. Never, ever show the blacks what you really feel.
Never.
He calmed himself, softening his grip on the bamboo. "No, sir," he said. "It wasn't her fault. It was mine. If someone must be punished—punish me."
Challenge and danger crackled in the air. Ali recognized it, that much was certain. He also, just possibly, had felt the moment of contact between Brian and Lamiya, the challenge in the way that Brian had interposed himself. He was the young lord of the manor, and the way he handled this would be a signature of things to come.
Ali relaxed his shoulders. "As you wish," he said. Oko Istihqar had arrived, cloaked in a caftan inlaid with tiny silver threads, his long sour face creased with concern. "Oko," Ali said. “Take Brian to the stocks. Twenty."
Oko nodded and took hold of Brian's wrist. The carpenter wanted to jerk his arm out of Oko's grasp, longed to simply grab the smaller man and break his back, but this was not the time or the place to resist.
As he was led away, the look Máirí gave him was one of naked thanks and affection. Brian felt in his heart that those twenty strokes, as painful as they would be, were less than the stature he had gained in her eyes. He could sustain himself through anything to see a look like that. And without a spoken word, the relationship between Brian and Máirí shifted in that moment. It was no longer a thing of passion and convenience. It became, quite simply, a joining.
Kai had watched the drama from horseback, the higher perspective serving him well, allowing the youngster to avoid enmeshing himself in the events or difficult decisions. As the big carpenter Brian was led away for whipping, Kai jumped down from his horse and helped Ali support Lamiya, who was wobbly but recovering swiftly.
Babatunde rushed out from the house to meet them, somehow moving at a jogging pace while maintaining a walking gait. He must have seen the collision from a side window, and his lips were pursed with concern.
"I've told you," he chided Lamiya. "They are terrible animals. They should all be driven over a cliff."
"The Irish?" Kai asked.
Babatunde glared at him. "Horses," he said. "Allah's greatest joke."
Lamiya's mouth twitched, and she stifled a burst of laughter. "Ha! Ow! Don't make me laugh. I think I bruised a rib . . ."
Babatunde prodded her side a bit, watching her wince. "We'll have that taken care of," he said. "How exactly did this happen?"
"Never fear," Ali said grimly, with a glance back over his shoulder. "I'm having that taken care of as well."
Without offering resistance, Brian was fastened into the stocks behind the barn, wrists securely fastened. His shirt was stripped away, exposing tanned skin. Old whip scars, now healed, ridged his back.
"As master Ali prescribed," Oko intoned. 'Twenty lashes." He dug a hard rubber bit out of his pocket, and silently offered it to Brian, but the slave refused. He gazed straight ahead, eyes hard as flint. Oko nodded approval. "Proceed."
Bari was one of the white overseers who li
ved in the overseers hut outside Ghost Town, separate from the other slaves. A giant with stunted legs and a colossal torso, Bari had accepted Islam as a youth, gaining favor thereby. He was a flat-faced man with a tight, wet mouth and ears too small for his head. Bari uncurled his whip and leaned forward. "Do not fear," he whispered. "You are safe in the hands of Bari the Mighty."
He grinned, exposing a row of yellowish teeth. He drew his arm back, and began the stroke.
"One," Oko called soberly. "Two . . ." and with each counting, the lash cut Brian's flesh. He shuddered, but did not speak. He turned his head slightly, enough to see Máirí radiating love through tear-filmed eyes.
Amid the parlor's silk curtains, Bitta and Babatunde applied cold compresses through Lamiya's dress to the small of the royal niece's back. Stomach-down on the couch, she flinched at the touch, her muscles spasming. Distantly, she heard the cry of the lash. With each stroke, she trembled.
Stricken, she turned to Ali, who watched with his arms folded, face emotionless. He might have been a stone statue. She set her small teeth into her lip to steady herself. "It's not so bad, Ali," she said. "Perhaps not. . . twenty."
He folded his arms and seemed to consider her words. "You think not?" The corners of his mouth turned up. "Perhaps you are right. But the barn is too far away. The punishment would be over before I could reach Oko."
Before she could answer, Bitta stood. All men leave, she signed, and then turned to Kai's sister, Elenya. You may stay.
Her posture left little room for question, but Ali posed one regardless. "Should I leave?" he asked. "She and I will be married soon."
She glowered at him, unimpressed. Go. Go. And shunted Ali, Babatunde, and Kai out of the room.
After they were gone, Bitta's demeanor relaxed a bit. Elenya's eyes were wide and frightened, and Bitta guided her as they pulled apart the layers of silk and woven hemp.
"It's not so bad," Lamiya protested, then yelped as Bitta probed a bruised rib.
Silence, Bitta commanded.
Lamiya was quiet for a few seconds, and then managed to twist around to face Elenya, who dampened cloths in a pan of hot water. "Little one? Is your brother always so angry?"
"Not always," she said, wringing dry a small towel. "Just usually."
Hold still, Bitta signed sternly. Lamiya yelped again, and Bitta daubed without mercy.
Behind the barn, Bari administered the last of the twenty lashes as Kai and Ali arrived. Brian hung in the stocks, exhausted, sobbing for breath, blood oozing from his lacerated back. His legs sagged, all endurance fled, unconsciousness near. If not for the manacles and Main's adoring, tear-streaked face, he would have collapsed. By some miracle she had transmitted strength from her heart to his.
Ali looked at Brian as if inspecting a slaughtered goat. "Is it concluded?" he asked mildly.
Oko bowed. "It is done."
"Good." He stepped closer. His breath smelled of bitter spice. "Brian? Are you awake?"
Brian struggled, puffed air, and managed to pull himself erect in the stocks. "Yes," Brian said, teeth gritted. Then he forced himself to add: "Sir."
"Good," Ali said. He walked around the stocks, his hands joined behind his back. "You know," he said calmly. "I know you. I know your type. You smile in our faces, and behind our backs, think yourself of some strange, high station. You put on airs." He leaned closer. "Don't you, hinzîr-batn?"
Brian met his eye, and fought the almost overwhelming urge to tell the truth. Instead, he said, "No, sir."
Ali clucked at him. "I think you dissemble. When men do these things, it is generally to impress women. Are you the kind of pigbelly who likes to impress women?"
Brian watched him warily, but remained silent. Bastard. Fucking black bastard. Humiliating him and beating him weren't enough. What now?
Ali seemed almost merry. "I think you are. But we have years of good service left in you. I would hate to see any of them spoiled. So we will remove the motivation." He pivoted, heel-toe. "Oko?"
Oko snapped to alertness. "Yes sir?"
Ali smiled at Brian again, and suddenly every nerve in the slave's body, even those deadened by pain, flared to alarm. He stood upright, pulling against his wrist cuffs, eyes wide and comprehending.
"Sell the woman," Ali said. "Immediately."
"No!" Brian heard himself croak.
At first Máirí barely comprehended, and then as Bari laid his pale meaty hands upon her the full impact of the words seemed to wash over her in a flood. "Brian!" she called, struggling, reaching her arms out for him. Brian twisted helplessly in the stocks, grunting like a whipped camel.
"Please," Brian pled, all haughtiness stripped from his voice. "Please. Don't do this."
"I'm sorry," Ali said. "It is already done."
Brian sagged, and then struggled back to his feet as Ali turned away. Brian screamed his woman's name over and over again, and she craned her head trying to see him as the giant Bari dragged her toward the house. Brian pulled at his wrist manacles until his wrists bled, to no avail.
Ali placed his hand on Oko's shoulder. "Leave him there for another hour," he said. "Until she is gone. Then turn him loose."
Now, Máirí gone, hope gone, Brian sagged. Blood ran down his arms and puddled in the dust, dead as his dreams of love.
Chapter Nineteen
Night had fallen hours before. Máirí had vanished, borne by wagon to Djibouti harbor's slave market, where she would be auctioned to the highest bidder. The story of her clumsiness, of injury to the Empress's niece, might lower her price, and this was a genuine hazard. Each diminution in value brought the very real possibility of a cruder master, a poorer station.
Máirí had not even been allowed to pack her few meager belongings, or say good-bye to her friends. She had simply been dragged to a wagon and trundled out the gate.
Brian was shoving food and tools into a woven hemp ruck sack when Aidan entered his room. The shack was no larger than Aidan's own, but its door was stouter, its tables sturdier, its roof more finely patched. In these and a hundred other small ways Brian had improved his living conditions as only an accomplished handyman could.
Brian did not seem to notice him. The big man moved stiffly as he threw a few vital items into the tan sack. His handsome face was a mask of rage. "I know what you're planning," Aidan said.
"Really? And what might that be?"
Aidan's heart raced. "Brian, please. You'll never make it."
"I have to try," he said grimly. "I will escape, I will find my woman."
"And then what? North is Vineland. South are the cannibals. You're dead both ways, aren't you?"
"The Northmen need good workers." Brian never paused, digging through his clothes to find the few items he deemed vital to his flight. "If not, to hell with them. We'll find our way to the Nations in the west."
The Nations? Aidan had heard of the red men the blacks had pushed west, and it was rumored that they sometimes gave shelter to runaways. But how could a lone white man possibly hope to cover the hundreds of miles to safety?
Suddenly, and with an intensity that shocked Aidan, Brian wheeled. "Listen, boy," he said, his breath sharp and acid. "Come with me. You still have fire. Leave, before it's beaten out of you."
Aidan was locked into Brian's eyes, fixed by his passion, and something inside him answered: yes.
Deirdre was cleaning house, one careful motion at a time, as if afraid that a quick or poorly judged movement might shatter something within her. The coldness that had seeped into her lungs on the Great Crossing had never entirely left her, and in the last months she seemed unable to warm herself, or to throw off a cough that now brought blood up onto her handkerchief.
She lived her days terrified she would die and leave Aidan alone in this horrible place. Countless times she had prayed that God might tell her what sins she had committed to be condemned to such an awful existence. So she made her daily ablutions, cleaned, sewed, did what she was told, and worked until she could collapse at nigh
t into dreamless sleep. But now with Brian's flogging and Máirí's sale a new possibility had emerged. She had to be stronger than she had ever been in her life.
"Ma . . ." Aidan said, his voice faint behind her as he entered their home.
In her own world, Deirdre barely noticed. "Supper will be ready soon, boy."
"Ma," he repeated. "I need to talk to you."
"No talk needed," she said in a small, measured voice. "You eat, then rest. It's a long journey you face."
Aidan stood frozen. "What are you saying?"
She turned to him, face filled with all of the lost hope and pain in her heart. Now the emotions locked within her heart boiled to the surface. "Don't you ask stupid questions," she said. "Your Da taught you better than that. Are you the stupid fish that won't swim away when the trap is opened?"
"Ma, please," he said, trembling in place. "I. . ." he seemed stumped. Then he blurted out: "You need me."
Deirdre was racked with coughs but managed to squeeze her throat shut on the last one and quiet herself. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. "Aidan," she said. "I'm going to die in this place. I can feel it, have since we landed here. Get gone, boy. Brian can get you out of this hell. You've got to try, for all of us."
"I can't do that. . ."
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