Although his sash was stuck now with a silver-hilted dagger and a pistol which was probably still warm, it gave him a look of well-fed bourgeois comfort that put me at ease. I remembered the day I’d first met him in our orchards on the Brenta River. I remembered how his brown eyes had sparkled with mirth and kindness under thick brows that grew together in the middle. I remembered his square-cut beard, grayer now than then, under a broad, slightly hooked nose. And those gold teeth when he laughed—that was something to hold a child’s fascination!
I remembered what a day it was, a beautiful summer’s day in the luminous Paduan sunshine, and we’d known at once we would be friends. He had sung me songs from his boyhood, songs I did not understand, but I had not hesitated to leave the nurse and take his hand to hear more. With a sort of sixth sense like an inward sun tan, that glow returned to me now, though it was night and the Brentan land had long ago gone to pay debts. The feeling came to me that it was the Syrian part of Husayn I liked best. The Venetian man spoke my language, but I never could quite trust him in the same way, perhaps because he did not quite trust himself— or trust his God to be with him—in such a guise.
Some of the same feeling, I think, touched Husayn, too, that night. I heard it in his voice as he spoke his thanks to me for risking my life in his defense. His words were rather stilted and formalized—how else does one pay such thanks, especially one who feels debt like a physical stamp upon his soul?—but I heard the feeling nonetheless. Perhaps there were lines of those old songs in it.
“It was nothing, my friend,” I said, and “You would have done the same for me.”
“No,” Husayn said. “I cannot say that I would have. To tell the truth, I thought you were out of your mind. Extremely foolish, at any rate. What was the purpose in such rashness?”
“Had I not sunk the carrack, the Knights would have blown your brains out instead of thinking they had a ready-made coffin to tie you to.”
“What Allah might have willed to happen, we cannot say. But even you, my friend—with all your self-confidence— even you, I cannot think, were able to second-guess Him quite so well. No, from the human perspective, I still say you were all but mad. Ha! I can see you now, standing there with the smoldering coal between your tongs, daring the whole mob of pirates to move. Would to Allah I might always have such a defender!”
“Truth to tell, Husayn,” I said, sobering, “yours is not the only skin I have on my soul. There is Uncle Jacopo besides. Dear God, I shall pray the rest of my life and never forgive myself for that.”
“It was Allah’s will,” Husayn comforted me. “And you mustn’t blame yourself. The Knights would have shot him anyway for harboring me.”
We spoke of my uncle for a while, remembering his goodness. Then I cried out helplessly, “That girl had me at my wit’s end!”
Husayn nodded thoughtfully. “So tell me, how do you feel about the girl after a week in the hold? Can you think soberly of her now?”
I had no answer to that.
“The reason I ask,” Husayn said, “is that our commander is anxious to make a division of the spoils.”
“Spoils?”
“Of course. Slaves and ducats and jewels and such. We have taken quite a rich booty with this galley.”
“You mean you’re taking us as booty?”
“My friend, it was a fair battle, you must confess, and we are the victors.”
“But...but the Republic of Venice is friends with the Porte—we have a treaty signed.”
“And you are friends with the Knights.”
“They are our co-religionists.”
“People who walk along the blade of a scimitar must take a fall every now and again. Come, now, don’t put on such a face. You, of course, will go free. I have spoken for you and told them you are like my son. Any man, our commander decided, whom the Knights of Saint John keep in the hold cannot be such a blasphemous nonbeliever as all that. I have my goods returned to me, so that is fine. The rest, however, will be divided according to our ancient laws of booty, instituted by the Prophet, blessed be he, nearly a thousand years ago. This I cannot plead against.”
“The people, too?”
“Of course, the people. Our ships need oarsmen, our cities need slaves. It is only fair, my friend.”
“Fair!”
“Well, then, let us call it Allah’s will and accept it at that,” Husayn said. “We did find five Muslims among your oarsmen and, having liberated them, we will need replacements.”
XII
“Come, come. I am being harsh with you, but it is only so you will understand how things stand. Our commander has a merciful heart and he has opened up these options. We may sail now toward Corfu and offer the governor there the chance to ransom as many souls on board as he will. Or, in gratitude for saving my life, our commander will give you the girl to have for your own and you may both go free when we reach Tripoli. That is more than just. That is very magnanimous. And I wish you much joy in her, my friend.”
I struggled in silence against the feeling of easy comfort I had so shortly before enjoyed in Husayn’s presence. He was an infidel, after all.
“You seem indecisive, my friend. Come, I will take you to her and then we shall see what you say about our commander’s generosity.”
As Husayn led me across the deck, I saw a sash of pink silk around one Turk and a teardrop pearl in the ear of another. I realized at once why they were so familiar. The female prisoners, Madonna Baffo, her aunt, and their two maids, had been allowed to remain in their cabins but their trunks had been rilled.
When the guard opened the door for us, we found the nun suffering from a nervous fit. The two maids were applying cold compresses to her forehead and had had to remove her wimple to give her air. The close-cropped hair—dull, pale, and sticking out all over like the pinfeathers of a plucked goose—seemed more obscene than had we found her totally naked. I turned away, hardly noticing that the niece was not present. I did not ask why.
Husayn asked the question instead, demanding it of the guard in harsh tones and in Turkish. The fellow’s reply was equally impassioned. Though I did not understand him, it seemed he pleaded helplessness and asked for mercy. The girl’s disappearance should not be laid to his head. He had done his best to remain at his post and he flung a wild arm off in the direction she must have gone.
Husayn shook his head as we hastened to follow that arm and muttered something about the wrath of the commander and the foolishness of Venetian girls. Seeing his concern beneath that wise turban made me worry, too. Baffo’s daughter, I thought, is a captive—no, now a slave—and these lecherous Turks have been away from their harems for God knows how long. How could I in reason expect them to ignore her beautiful face, her young, lithe body? Why had I let myself be lulled in good humor so long? It was the days in the hold; they had muddled my senses and made me place too much value on food and cleanliness. While I had been made comfortable, a pack of circumcised scoundrels had dragged her off—onto one of the little Turkish ships, it seemed, sailing tight on our flanks, where her screams and struggles could not be heard from the galley.
Now, as we dropped over the port side of the larger ship and rowed to the companion vessel, what screams there may have been had faded to quiet moans. And perhaps those were only the animal sounds of satisfied men. Perhaps she had already passed from this life in grief and shame and pain...
The first thing I saw in the Turkish ship was a great, black figure that made my heart stop. A second look assured me it was only Piero. He was holding up a torch that glowed on his skin as if he were a lump of coal, and he moved gingerly among rows of prostrate bodies. These were the battle’s wounded: men shot in the arm, in the leg, slashed by a wicked blade across the face or burned by exploding powder. Men of both sides were here and many would not live through the night. It was all a horrible, blow by blow account of the fierce battle I had been spared during the day.
Among this human butcher shop, leading Piero and his
light, moved a tall, slim figure in pale gold. She had been stripped of all her jewels, but to me she seemed more divine than ever. She knelt beside one body in Venetian blue, braced herself by forming a cross upon her breast, and then pronounced, “This man is dead.”
Two shadowy sailors came to throw their companion overboard with quick and simple rites.
Next I saw her stoop beside a Turk. She inspected his wound, then called for a bucket. The bucket contained a portion of salvaged wine which she was using to cleanse the wounds. Though our hull was full of fine linen and wool, she was allowed none of that. When she needed dressings she turned aside and, I saw, tore off portions of her chemise that now barely covered her hips. When, thus armed, she moved toward the wounded man, he shoved her away in terror. She tried again, speaking soothing words, and this time his attempt to escape was so violent that blood spurted anew from the gash in his side. He was, I believe, more afraid of her witchcraft than of bleeding to death.
Baffo’s daughter got to her feet with a sigh and moved on, giving him the benediction, “Bloody stupid Turk,” in tones of such exhaustion that he could never guess their meaning.
“You must stop her,” Husayn said to me, “before our commander...”
But he spoke too late. The commander had appeared at the galley’s near railing. He was a fierce-looking man with heavy black moustaches that hung from his upper lip to below his chin like a pair of pistols. The rest of his face he shaved, but either he had not had time for a razor in the last week or the beard grew with such vigor (I suspected the latter) that it was now in dark shadow as well. His great arms and chest were as if bearded also, and he stood, arms akimbo, on the deck and bellowed with such force that he could have filled the sails.
Husayn replied to the fury in words that seemed to begin every sentence, “With most humble respect, my lord...”
Though I saw no way on earth humility could make any headway against such violence, that single bow of deference before each phrase did seem to entrench my friend in a position beyond defeat. The commander got in the final words, shot between his moustaches like lead before a wad of powder, but when Husayn turned to me after his final bows his little smile told me we were far from being lost.
I found this difficult to believe when two burly Turks came and bodily snatched Madonna Baffo away from her work. She fought them so fiercely, I feared other wounded would soon replace those that had died, but they were firm and dragged her, kicking and swearing, back to the galley’s cabin. I was determined to jump to her rescue, whatever the odds, but Husayn stopped me with a touch on my arm. I still trusted him and was content to follow quietly.
A new, sterner guard had replaced the old one at the galley’s cabin door. There was a look in his dark eyes as if he had been told he would lose them to a red-hot poker if he were as negligent as his predecessor had been. On the other side of the door he guarded, Baffo’s daughter was pounding and screaming such abuse that, had the night not been perfectly clear, I would have feared the wrath of God upon us in the form of a thunderbolt. That, too, would make one cautious to open the door, and Husayn had to cajole the guard for quite some time before we were allowed even a crack.
It was only my friend’s frequent gestures in my direction that finally seemed to win him.
“I told him you were her brother,” he said to me later.
Madonna Baffo fell back when she saw us, silent with hate and accusations of treachery, and this encouraged the guard to let us go in all the way. He did, however, take the precaution of locking the door behind us.
Husayn and I took a seat on an empty trunk by the door while all four women cowered on the nun’s sickbed at the other end of the room. Madonna Baffo took her aunt’s frail hand in hers and whispered private words of comfort, but this seemed to me to be only an act. To her, a woman’s sickness, gotten from nerves and a weak heart, were not worth the attention of men’s ills caught in the face of guns and swords. Women’s lives, this contrast told me, were to Baffo’s daughter dispensable because women were soft and weak. This impression was so strong that, where I’d found her beautiful among the wounded soldiers, the ugly smears of dirt and blood, the torn dress, and uncombed hair now made me look away with loathing.
The women sat occupied with their patient, Husayn and I sat staring nowhere but at our own hands, until I brought myself to whisper, “Come, my friend. Let’s go.”
“You will not have her?” Husayn asked once the door and the stern guard had come between the women and ourselves.
“You should know me better than that by now, Husayn,” I said. “I cannot take a woman like that, like a slave, like booty, as you Turks can. Especially not this woman. If I am to have her, I must win her, heart and hands, fair and square.”
“It may not be Allah’s will ever to offer her to you again.”
“Let that be between me and God,” I said, as a man goes to what may be his death.
Husayn nodded. “Very well. But I do not understand why you men of Venice enjoy making things ten times more difficult for yourselves than they ever have to be. And, I must say, you make it hard for my commander.”
“Oh, yes,” I said with bitter sarcasm. “Now your commander must force himself to enjoy her favors all alone.”
“My friend,” Husayn sounded hurt. “He wanted to give her to you. He wanted rid of the responsibility. This girl, he knows, will be difficult to keep virtuous.”
“I can see your commander’s lust even now tottering on the edge.”
“You sully the commander, Veniero, and I cannot allow it. Uluj Ali is on commission from the Sublime Porte itself and sails under the Kapudan Pasha. Uluj Ali is known throughout the Middle Sea as one I would trust my own harem to. He respects his women captives as if they were his own sisters.”
I knew I had to believe the earnestness in my friend’s voice. I also had to let some bitterness out. “He will keep them locked up like his own harem, though.”
“For their own protection, yes.”
“Madonna Baffo was tending the sick, not playing with broadswords.”
“Many of our men have been assigned to the boat where the sick are, and they were uneasy to carry out their duties with her there. Men should tend the male sick. Women have their own to comfort.”
“But what harm could she find among wounded men?”
“We cannot say, my friend. It is best not to tempt Allah.”
“But most of those men were Christians. She needn’t fear among Christians.”
“Needn’t she?” Husayn asked. “Our experience with the Knights of Malta and other of your Crusaders has been different. Our women in Algiers, for example, have learned that it is better to fall upon their husbands’ swords than to fall into the ‘mercy’ of those demon Christians’ hands. No, my friend. If you will not take my commander’s mercy when it is offered, you must not balk to submit to his law afterward.”
“Tell your commander to sail for Corfu,” I said. “Let it be so.”
XIII
For two days we sat with the island of Corfu visible on the horizon. Flying the white flag, the Turkish commander tried to bargain with Governor Baffo for the release of the hostages he held. The tender he sent in never returned. The message was as clear as if we had been there in Corfu’s public square to watch the execution of the messengers ourselves: “Damn you, Turk. We will send you to hell before we pay your godlessness a single ducat.” The Governor’s daughter, I saw, came by her pride and stubbornness legitimately.
On the third day, every ship in Corfu harbor (there were four) came out toward us in a bristling fleet.
“The Governor’s a fool,” Husayn muttered to me. “And a barbarian besides. What sort of man would attack a ship that carries his own daughter and his sister?”
Uluj Ali, in Husayn’s eyes, showed such more mercy. He turned our ships and fled rather than throw lives away in battle. The great galley slowed us down. The hole in her hull, in spite of some attempts at patching, was taking in a
lot of water. But the Turks were prepared for this. They had herded us all onto their little craft and filled them with as much of the galley’s cargo as they could. I was given another choice—would I stay with the galley and return to my compatriots or would I sail with the Turks?
Since my uncle’s death, I had no kin and hence no sure future in Italy. Husayn was the dearest friend I had, and yet it was no easy choice to decide purposely never to see Venice again. Madonna Baffo must have overheard the offer, for her eyes shouted me a dare as I considered: “You are a coward, Veniero. I hope my father cuts you to ribbons for being a traitor.”
My fate was sealed with a glance of those eyes. I climbed down the ladder into the Turkish ship and, with that move, bade farewell forever to the Great Basin of Venice.
When the Corfiot ships began to gain on us, the Turks cut the galley free. While Governor Baffo paused to board and secure her, we caught a fine southerly wind, and by sunset we were safe in the open sea without a sail of pursuit in sight.
“Now where do we go, my friend?” I asked.
“Constantinople,” Husayn replied with a golden smile. On his tongue, the word was like pure honey—too sweet to be eaten straight, but tempting nonetheless.
Two days after this, the nun was released from this life into the hands of her merciful God. A week later, after a longer but, in the end, no less futile struggle, one of the two maidservants died as well. It was a fever, and it also carried off more than a few of the wound-weakened men and old black Piero besides. But I had seen death at sea before and I managed to keep my spirits high. The more time I spent with Husayn, the more I enjoyed his company. The songs and tales with which he regaled me were new ones suited to my age, and I wondered how I had ever thought the childish ones fascinating when these were yet to come.
I also began to learn a little more of his language. Actually, it was not “his language.” The language he had grown up with was Arabic, but the politics of the Islamic world now required one to speak Turkish, so Husayn had sympathy with my struggles. I had known words for “hello” and how to bargain somewhat from traveling with my uncle, but now my knowledge became more than just phrases with which to humor the native. It was a whole different language, neither more nor less than Venetian, and, most important, it expressed a whole new world I had never imagined to exist. Though I had been to both Antioch and Constantinople several times before, life there had always seemed like puppetry to me, a show put on for our visit that couldn’t possibly have reality once the audience had gone.
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