Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Zoë sank upon her knees beside the bed, forgetting that she was cold and half-starved, as the tide of her thoughts rose in a wave of despair.

  The fitful night breeze wafted the words of the mad woman’s crooning along the lane, ‘Eleeison! Eleeison!’

  And Zoë unconsciously answered, as she would have answered in church, ‘Kyrie eleeison!’

  ‘Blessed Michael, Archangel, give us meat, we starve!’ came the wild song, now high and distinct.

  ‘Kyrie eleeison!’ answered Zoë on her knees.

  Then she sprang to her feet like a startled animal. Some one had knocked at the door. With one hand she gathered her thin rags across her bosom, the other unconsciously went to the sick woman’s shoulder, as if at once to reassure her and to bid her be silent.

  Again the knocking came, discreet still, but a little louder than before. Nectaria was still away and busy with the pan of coals, and the sick woman heard nothing, for she was sound asleep at last. Zoë saw this, and drew her bare feet out of her patched slippers before she ran lightly to the door.

  ‘Who knocks?’ she asked in a very low tone, clasping her tattered garment to her body.

  The Bokharian’s smooth voice answered her in oily accents.

  ‘I am Rustan,’ he said. ‘I am suddenly obliged to go on a journey, and I start at dawn.’

  Zoë held her breath, for she felt that the last chance of saving her mother was slipping away.

  ‘Do you hear me?’ asked Rustan, outside.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you make up your mind? I will give half as much again as I promised.’

  The girl’s face had been pale; it turned white now, for the great moment had come very suddenly. She made an effort to swallow, in order to speak distinctly, and she glanced towards the bed. Kyría Agatha was in a deep sleep.

  ‘Have your brought the money with you?’ Zoë asked, almost panting.

  ‘Yes.’

  The hand that grasped the rags to keep them together pressed desperately against her heart. While Rustan could have counted ten, there was silence. Twice again she looked towards the bed and then, with infinite precaution, she slipped out the wooden bar that kept the door closed. Once more she drew her rags over her, for they had fallen back when she used both her hands. She opened the door a little, and saw Rustan muffled in a cloak, his eager face and black beard thrust forward in anticipation of entering. But she stopped him, and held out one hand.

  ‘My mother has fallen into a deep sleep,’ she said. ‘Give me the money and I will go with you.’

  Without hesitation Rustan placed in her outstretched hand a small bag made of coarse sail-cloth, and closely tied with hemp twine.

  ‘How much is it?’ she whispered.

  ‘One hundred and fifty gold ducats,’ answered the Bokharian under his breath, for he knew that if he did not wake the sleeping woman there would be less trouble.

  At that moment Nectaria came back from within, with the pan of coals. Zoë caught her eye and held out the heavy little bag. The woman stared, looked at Kyría Agatha’s sleeping face, set down the pan upon the floor, and came forward.

  ‘He has brought the money, a hundred and fifty ducats,’ Zoë whispered, forcing the bag into Nectaria’s trembling hands. ‘It is the only way. Good-bye — quick — shut the door before she wakes — tell her I am asleep in the straw — God bless you — —’

  ‘Eleeison! Eleeison!’ came the wail of the mad woman on the wind.

  Before Nectaria could answer Zoë had pulled the door till it shut behind her, and was outside, barefooted on the hardening mud, and scarcely covered. She said nothing now, and Rustan was silent too, but he had taken one of her wrists and held it firmly without hurting it. The fleet young creature might make a dash for freedom yet, foolish as that would be, since he could easily force his way into the ruined house and take back his money if she escaped him. But he had nearly lost a young slave once before, and he would risk nothing, so he kept his strong hand tightly clasped round the slender wrist, though Zoë walked beside him quietly in the deep gloom, thinking only of covering herself from his gaze, though indeed he could scarcely see the outline of her figure.

  They went on quickly. For the last time, as Rustan led her round a sharp turn, she heard the wild cry of the poor mad creature she had listened to so often by day and in the dead of night. Then she was in another street and could hear it no more.

  She was not allowed time to think of her condition yet. A few steps farther and Rustan stopped short, still holding her fast by the wrist, and she saw that they had come upon a group of men who were waiting for them. One suddenly held up a lantern which had been covered, and now shed a yellow light through thin leaves of horn, and Zoë saw that he was a big Ethiopian, as black as ebony. She drew her tatters still more closely over her with her free hand and turned away from the light, as well as Rustan’s unrelaxing hold would allow.

  A moment later some one she could not see threw a wide warm cloak over her shoulders from behind her, and she caught it gladly and drew the folds to her breast.

  ‘Get into the litter,’ said Rustan, sharply but not loudly.

  There was nothing soft or oily in his tone now. He had bought her and she was a part of his property. Four men had lifted a covered palanquin and held it up with the small open door just in front of her. She turned, sat upon the edge, and bent her head to slip into the conveyance backwards, as Eastern women learn to do very easily. Rustan held her wrist till she was ready to draw in her feet, and as he let her go at last she disappeared within. He instantly closed the sliding panel and fastened it with a bronze pin. There were half-a-dozen round holes in each door to let in air, not quite big enough to allow the passage of an ordinary woman’s hand.

  Zoë sank back in the close darkness and found herself leaning against yielding pillows covered with soft leather. The palanquin began to move steadily forwards, hardly swaying from side to side, and not rising or falling at all, as the porters walked on with a smooth, shuffling gait, each timing his step a fraction of a second later than that of the man next before him; lest, by all keeping step together, they should set their burden swinging, which is intolerable to the person carried.

  Four men carried the litter, a fifth, armed with an iron-shod staff, went before with the lantern, and Rustan followed after. There was nothing in the appearance of the party to excite surprise or curiosity in a city where every well-to-do person who went out in the evening was carried in a palanquin, and accompanied by at least two trusty servants. For that matter, too, Rustan’s business was perfectly legitimate, and it concerned no one that he should have a newly bought beauty carried in a closed litter from a distant quarter of the city to his home.

  It was true that he had no receipt for his money, acknowledging that it was the stipulated price paid for a full-grown white maid between eighteen and nineteen years old, with brown eyes, brown hair, twenty-eight teeth, all sound, and a pale complexion; who weighed about two Attic talents and five minæ, and measured just six palms, standing on her bare feet. In strict law, he should have had such a document, signed by the father or mother or owner of the slave, but he knew that he was quite safe without it. Like all Bokharians, he was a profound judge of human nature, and he was quite sure that having once submitted to her fate Zoë would not cheat him by claiming the freedom she had sacrificed; moreover, he knew that the adopted daughter of Michael Rhangabé who had died on the stake in the Hippodrome as an enemy of the reigning Emperor, would have but a small chance of obtaining justice, even if she attempted to prove that she had been carried off by force. Rustan Karaboghazji felt that his position was unassailable as he followed the litter that carried his latest bargain through the winding streets of Constantinople towards the narrow lane, one side of which was formed by that mysterious wall which had but one door in it.

  He was well pleased with his day’s business, for he was quite sure that he had netted a handsome profit. Under his cloak he held a string of beads in one
hand, and as he walked he made the calculation of his probable gains, pushing the beads along the string with his thumb. He had paid one hundred and fifty gold ducats for Zoë; but fifty of them were at least a quarter of their value under weight, so that the actual value of the gold was one hundred and thirty-seven and a half ducats. He was quite sure that Zeno would approve the purchase on a careful inspection, and that he would be willing to give three hundred and fifty sequins, though the girl was a little over age, as slaves’ ages were counted. She should have been between sixteen and seventeen, yet she was exceptionally pretty, and spoke three languages — Greek, Latin, and Italian. If Zeno paid the price, the clear profit would be two hundred and twelve and a half ducats. The beads worked quickly in Rustan’s fingers, and his hard grey eyes gleamed in the dark. Two hundred and twelve and a half on one hundred and thirty-seven and a half, by the new Venetian method of so much in the hundred, which was a very convenient way of reckoning profits, meant one hundred and fifty-four and a half per centum. The beads worked furiously, as the merchant’s imagination carried him off into a mercantile paradise where he could make a hundred and fifty per cent on his capital every day of the year except Sundays and high feast days. This calculation was complicated, even for a Bokharian brain, but it was a delightful one to follow out, and Rustan’s blood coursed pleasantly through his veins as he walked behind his purchase.

  He had lost no time after he had left the beggars’ quarter late in the afternoon, by no means sure that Zoë meant to surrender at all, and very doubtful as to her doing so within the next three days. Yet he had boldly promised that Carlo Zeno should see her on approval on the following morning. After all, he risked nothing but a first failure, for if he did not succeed in buying Zoë in time he could nevertheless show the Venetian merchant some very pretty wares. Zeno was not a man to waste words with such a creature as a slave-dealer, and the interview had not lasted ten minutes. It had taken longer than that to weigh the ducats in order to be sure that a certain number of them were under weight. The only thing Rustan now wished was that he had put many more light ones into the bag, since it had not even been opened; for he had naturally expected to be obliged to count them out before old Nectaria, who had a born slave’s intelligence about money.

  Inside the litter the girl lay on her cushions in the dark, wondering with a sort of horror at what she had done. She had thought of it indeed, through many days and sleepless nights, and she did not regret it; she would not have gone back, now that she had left plenty and comfort where there had been nothing but ruin and hunger; but she thought of what was before her and prayed that she might close her eyes and die before the morning came, or better still, before the litter stopped and Rustan drew back the sliding door.

  In an age and a land of slavery, the slave’s fate was familiar to her. She knew that there were public markets and private markets, and that her beauty, which meant her value, would save her from the former; but to the daughter of freeborn parents the difference between the one and the other was not so great as to be a consolation. She would be well lodged, well covered, and well fed, it was true, and she need not fear cruel treatment; but customers would come, perhaps to-morrow, and she was to be shown to them like a valuable horse; they would judge her points and discuss her and the sum that Rustan would ask; and if they thought the price too high they would go away and others would come, and others, till a bargain was struck at last. After that, she could only think of death as the end. She knew that many handsome girls were secretly sold to Sultan Amurad and the Turkish chiefs over in Asia Minor or in Adrianople, and it was more than likely that she herself would fare no better, for the conquerors were lavish with their gold, whereas the Greeks were either half-ruined nobles or sordid merchants who counted every penny.

  The men carried the litter smoothly and steadily, never slackening and never hastening their pace. The time seemed endless. Now and then she heard voices and many steps, with the clatter of horses’ hoofs, which told her that she was in one of the more frequented streets, but most of the time she heard scarcely anything but the shuffling walk of the men in their heavy sandals and the firmer tread of Rustan’s well-shod feet where the road was hard. She guessed that he was avoiding the great thoroughfares, probably because the people who thronged them even at that hour would have hindered the progress of the palanquin. Zoë knew as well as the dealer that there was nothing as yet in the transaction which need be hidden; possibly, if she were afterwards sold to the Turks, she would be taken across the Bosphorus secretly, for though there was no law against selling Christian girls to unbelievers the people of the city looked upon the traffic with something like horror, and an angry crowd might rescue the merchandise from the dealer’s hands. Zoë did not expect that rare good fortune, for Rustan was not a man to run any risks in his business.

  As she lay among her cushions, dreading the end of the journey, but gradually wearying of the future, her thoughts went back to the first cause of all her misfortunes, of Michael Rhangabé’s awful death, of all the suffering that had followed them. One man alone had wrought that evil and much more, one man, the reigning Emperor Andronicus. Zoë was not revengeful, not cruel, very far from bloodthirsty; but when she thought of him she felt that she would kill him if she could, and that it would only be justice. Suddenly a ray of something like hope flashed through her darkness. Nectaria had told her how beautiful she was; perhaps, being so much more valuable than most of the slaves that went to the market, she might be destined for the Emperor himself. It was just possible. She set her teeth and clenched her little hands in the dark. If that should be her fate, the usurper’s days were numbered. She would free her country from its tyrant and be revenged for Rhangabé’s murder and for all the rest at one quick stroke, though she might be condemned to die within the hour. That was indeed something to hope for.

  The litter stopped and she heard keys thrust into locks, and felt that the porters turned short to the left to enter a door. Her journey through the city was at an end.

  CHAPTER IV

  RUSTAN STAYED BEHIND to shut the outer door, and Zoë felt that she was carried as much as twenty paces forward and upwards before the bearers stood still at last. Then the sliding panel opened, letting in light, and a strange voice told her to get out. She turned inside the palanquin and thrust out her naked feet. As she put them down, expecting to touch bare earth or a stone pavement, they rested on a rough carpet; at the same instant she sat on the edge of the litter bending her head to get out of it and looking round curiously.

  Rustan was not there, and in his place she saw a huge young negress with flaming red hair and rolling eyes, who roughly ordered the porters to take away the palanquin and at the same time caught Zoë’s wrist, whether to help her to stand upright or to secure her person it was hard to say. The girl was much more fearless than Omobono, the Venetian secretary, and she was not frightened by the gigantic woman’s appearance, as he had been. In getting out she had managed to gather the cloak round her, so that the men should not see her in her rags; for there was light in the large room where she found herself, and now that she could look about her she saw a dozen or more girls and young women standing in small groups a few paces behind the negress. They surveyed the new arrival curiously, but with different expressions. Some seemed to pity her, others smiled as if to welcome her; one good-looking girl had noticed that she had no shoes, and her lip curled contemptuously at such a proof of abject poverty, for she herself was the daughter of a prosperous Caucasian horse-thief who had brought her up in plenty and ease in order that she might fetch a high price. The bearers had now left the room and there were no men present. Zoë vaguely wished that they would come back, even the black bearers of the litter, for she felt a very womanly woman’s distrust of her own sex, where so many who were strangers, and possibly not well-disposed to her, were gathered together to look at her.

  The negress surveyed her critically by the light of the large bronze lamp that stood on a stand beside her, and show
ed her sharp teeth in an approving smile that made her thick upper lip roll upwards on itself. She took the cloak from Zoë’s shoulders and scrutinised her half-clad figure, till she blushed red. Then the daughter of the Caucasian horse-thief laughed rudely, and some of the others tittered while the negress gently pinched Zoë’s bare arms and neck to judge of their firmness and of her general condition. Apparently the examination was tolerably satisfactory, for the woman nodded and grinned again. As yet not a word had been spoken since she had dismissed the bearers, but now she turned towards the other girls and called two of them.

  ‘Lucilla and Yulia, you shall wait on her,’ she said in Greek. ‘The rest of you, to bed! It is already three hours of the night.’

  Two dark-skinned girls in coarse blue linen clothes came forward with alacrity, evidently much pleased at being chosen for the office. They were ordinary slave-girls of fourteen or fifteen years, who would be sold for house-work, and had no pretensions to good looks. Their tightly plaited black hair was compressed into the smallest possible space at the backs of their heads, and they wore small red caps, coarsely embroidered, but neat and fresh. Their faces were much alike though they were not sisters. Zoë saw instantly that they were children of slaves of nondescript breed with a small admixture of African blood, of the race that swarmed in Constantinople.

  ‘Go to bed, I say!’ cried the negress to the others, seeing that some of them were inclined to linger. ‘Be off!’

  They saw her hand move towards the whip in her girdle and they ran for the door, crowding on each other like sheep at the gate when the dogs drive them into the fold. Having produced this desired result, the negress turned to Zoë again, and her manner suddenly became caressing and almost fawning.

  ‘You are mistress here, Kokóna,’ she said. ‘These two girls shall wait on you while our humble roof is honoured by your presence. If you have the slightest cause of discontent with their service, only tell me, and they shall be taught their duty.’