Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets)

by Jennifer Blake

  I suppose I was lucky he did not have me strangled, for my soldier was found dead next morning. At the brothel, I was kept for special clients, men past their prime whose interest had begun to sag. My success in this area, and the gusto with which I performed, became widely known. Now, the dey of Algiers has ever been more ready to admire the beauty of a woman than to use it. For proof of my words, look about you. This is a childless harem. Granted, the dey is not a young man. Still, there are many such as he who become fathers. There has never been a large number of children to his credit, not even when I came here nearly twenty years ago. The babes sired by Mehemet Dey were conceived before he came to sit upon the throne. Six children! A paltry number when compared to the accomplishment of the sultan of Constantinople, who has planted over three hundred in the wombs of his harem. Of the six of the dey, only one reached manhood, and such a one! The dey’s son was himself able to get only one child, this Kemal. They tell me the fat grandson of the dey is interested in women not at all, preferring pretty young boys. But I was telling you how I came to the palace, was I not? When Mehemet Dey came to the throne, there was a brief period when he felt it important to secure his line after the cholera epidemic. The slave traders were informed of his problem, and eventually, they came to me. I was then only seventeen. I received yet another maidenhead, a comical little fiction, since it was my skill that was my main attraction. Was I supposed to have brought it with me from another life, imbibed it with my mother’s milk? No matter. I enjoyed a brief popularity with the dey, and then, he conceived a dislike for the artificiality of the proceedings, or perhaps I was too demanding of the exalted one’s strength.” Jawharah gave a gusty sigh. “I was relegated to obscurity — and abstinence. The last, my dear, is the most difficult of all to bear, as you will discover.”

  Although the nominal purpose of Jawharah’s rambling story was to acquaint Julia with her life, it soon became apparent that there was a much more subtle reason behind it. As the woman grew more garrulous, Julia began to suspect that Jawharah had been ordered to impart to the new favorite the secrets of her skill. The suspicion became a certainty when one afternoon she and Jawharah, with one or two of the more favored women of their faction, were escorted to a small chamber outside the harem. Its only article of furniture was a single divan. It had no windows, though set into one side was a pierced wooden screen giving access to the next room. There was no light once the door had been closed behind them. The only illumination came through the screen from a lamp burning in the next chamber. Seated on the divan, they were able to see without hindrance through the screen into the lighted room.

  At first, there was nothing to observe except a serving girl setting out sweetmeats and mint tea before a rather commonplace damask-draped couch. The girl went away and all was quiet.

  A man entered, dressed in the garb of a soldier. Removing his clothing, he lay down upon the couch. If he was aware of the women behind the screen, he gave no sign. Certainly, the females of the harem made not a sound as they devoured him with glistening eyes. The door into the inner room opened, and a woman stepped inside. As she moved, smiling, toward the man on the couch, Jawharah caught Julia’s wide-eyed look and smiled at her in the dimness.

  The woman began to disrobe. She was not a serving girl, that much was obvious from the richness of her barracan and the cosmetics that highlighted her face, bringing the eyes and rich red mouth into prominence. She was Moorish, Julia thought, and in all probability, she was a courtesan from one of the houses near the harbor. The removal of her clothing revealed breasts that had been rouged to subtly alter their shape and color, so that they resembled ripe pomegranates. Her black hair was long, looped back from her face by a fillet of pearls, which narrowed to hold a single teardrop in the center of her forehead. Elsewhere, she was smooth-shaven, without a single hair to mar the perfection of her skin. Smiling at the soldier like a cat surveying a bowl of cream, she took the initiative. No doubt she was an expert at her art; at least, it appeared she must be from the enjoyment of the soldier in her performance.

  Julia grew warm with embarrassment. She would have liked to leap to her feet and flee the room, but outside the door stood the ever-present guard. She would not be allowed to make her way alone back through the palace to the harem. She would have to wait for the others.

  Leaning close, Jawharah spoke in her ear. “Watch and learn, Jullanar.”

  Julia sent her a small smile. She found herself thinking of the convent school she had attended as a young girl. Her existence now, surrounded by females, was similar to the way it had been then. And yet different, oh so different! What would the good nuns have to say if they could see her now? What would her aunts and cousins think? Would they understand that she had no choice?

  She did not sleep well that night. For long hours, she tossed and turned upon her couch. When at last she found oblivion, she dreamed of Rud. Once more she was in his arms. His lips were warm on her mouth and throat. He whispered in her ear as they moved together, their bodies joined. And then, she was alone, listening to his footsteps as he walked away from her. She awoke with tears streaming from the corners of her eyes.

  Staring into the dark of the midnight hour, she admitted to herself that in at least one particular Jawharah was right. Celibacy was not going to be easy. When she had first come to the harem, she had been amazed that any woman would risk death in order to conduct a liaison with a lover from behind its high walls. After months of such a life, she was no longer so ready to condemn them as fools. What was life behind the curtain of purdah except a living death? No wonder the women were fat and vain and vindictive. They had nothing else to do except eat and care for their looks and plot among themselves to relieve the numbing boredom. An excursion such as the one they had indulged in the evening before could only heighten their sense of being cut off from life. Certainly, there were interests they could pursue. Some of the women did needlework, made tapestry, painted portraits of each other and scenes remembered from the times before they were shut away behind walls as the plaything of a man who had outgrown such toys. Still, it was such a waste of lives, of emotions and intelligence. No, it was no wonder they courted danger. The excitement of it proved they were alive. Snatching at brief moments of happiness had to be better than wasting away and discovering one day that their lives were over and done. Wasn’t the risk of death better than the solution of one woman who, discovering that menopause was upon her and knowing she would never have a child, had hanged herself in her cubicle, and been found dangling from the brass lamp chain by a silk scarf?

  The bright sun of morning brought a lightening of her mood. The winter was turning into spring. The blinds could be thrown open once more, and it was possible to enjoy the garden. Jawharah, perhaps disturbed by Julia’s wakefulness, rose earlier than was her usual habit. She ordered their breakfast served in a warm corner of the garden where peach trees in blossom were espaliered against the stone wall.

  “You are pensive this day,” the woman said to Julia when they were settled. “Perhaps, you think of your lover?”

  It had been impossible to keep secret from the Turkish woman the fact that she was not a virgin, though Julia had steadfastly refused to give the name of the man, saying only that he was dead. Julia smiled and shook her head in answer now.

  “It would not be unusual. Last evening brought back many memories for me.” Jawharah sighed, then went on. “Are you homesick, then, pining for news of people you have known? If so, then you may be glad to hear that one of the men who was captured with you has prospered.”

  Julia took a wheat cake from the plate before them. Breaking it into pieces, she scattered the crumbs for the iridescent gray doves and the brilliant and lordly peacocks which had come to investigate their repast. Was it a coincidence that Jawharah had mentioned a lover and one of the men she had been captured with in practically the same breath?

  “Oh?”

  “’Twas the Frankistani captain of your ship which sank. He was mad
e an officer under Bayezid Reis and has become greatly respected. With his knowledge of ships, he modified the sails and rigging of the Algerian felucca, so that it flew like the wind. In recognition of his skill, Bayezid Reis allowed him to command the ship during battle. Between them, they have captured many prizes, though curiously all of them are French. So many Frenchmen have been brought as slaves for the dey that the French consul here in Algiers has protested, demanding to know if the dey has launched an undeclared war against his country. Mehemet Dey was so pleased with the efforts of the slave captain that he sent a personal commendation to the man, and requested that he be transferred to his personal service. Though reluctant, Bayezid Reis had no choice except to agree. Since that time, this man has occupied himself in improving the remaining ships of the dey’s navy. He has also proposed building a new ship for the Exalted One’s, greater glory. The dey has agreed, and now, the slave has no labor except to see that the ship is completed. Already they say that the ship is touched with baraka, the magic of the jinn, so that it will skim along on air like the flying horse made famous by Scheherazade.”

  “Indeed?” Julia said. “It must be a miraculous ship, then.”

  “This is so, and it will be captained by no ordinary man, but by Ali Pasha, the nephew of the dey himself. Tis said the infidel slave who gave the ship its magic has become the friend of Ali Pasha, and is seen everywhere with him. They ride, they hunt, and Ali Pasha has even been known to invite the unbeliever to partake of meals with him in his private gulphor, or visiting chamber, where important guests are received. It may be that soon your countryman will be invited to become a Mussulman and be no longer a slave.”

  “It is good,” Julia said, her careful words in the unfamiliar language giving away nothing of the feeling that burgeoned inside her. She had not allowed herself to think too much of what might have been happening to Rud and O’Toole. Once, when she had traversed the corridors of the palace with the Lady Fatima on their way to the library of the dey, she had glanced out a window to see a long line of slaves pulling an enormous block of marble toward a ship in the harbor. The slaves had been scrawny caricatures of men with long hair and beards, and wasted, muscle-corded bodies. A rusty iron band had been clamped about their waists, with chains attached, running to bands about their ankles. Their backs had been masses of scars overlaid with fresh red stripes from the kurbash in the hand of the overseer who stood to one side. The marble quarry called the Sepulcher of Dry Bones was the fate of large numbers of Christians sold into slavery. It was more dreaded than the galleys, since, as suggested by its name, few returned from there.

  “Have you nothing more to say? I thought you would be happy.”

  “I am, of course,” she said, smiling a little, but not too much. “But what of the other man, whose name was O’Toole? Have you no news of him?”

  “My informant thought he was set to manning an oar in Bayezid Reis ship. It may be, however, that his fortune has improved along with that of his friend. Such can happen sometimes when a man achieves a degree of influence.”

  “Still, they remain slaves, both of them?”

  Jawharah nodded. “No doubt it is their kismet, just as it is ours to languish here in luxury.”

  Julia thanked the other woman for taking the time to learn about her companions in disaster. Picking up her coffee cup, she let her gaze rest on the pink petals of shattered blossoms that lay upon the mosaic-tiled walk before them. Kismet. She had tried to find content in the oriental concept of fatalism. At times, she seemed to succeed. At others, her very soul rose up in protest at bowing to what was, in Islam, a male idea of fate that served admirably to keep women, slaves, and the poor satisfied with their lot. In her country, fate was female; Lady Luck, Dame Good Fortune. It could be good or bad or fickle, but more than anything else, it could change. Oh, how much she wished for a change!

  15

  “Come, Jullanar, put on your veil and your barracan. Mehemet Dey is holding court, and we are invited to view the audience. Hurry, for you know how impatient is the Lady Fatima, and we do not want to be left behind!”

  Jawharah lifted up the lid of the clothing chest and tossed a barracan of cream-colored silk edged in gold embroidery in a Greek-key design to Julia, along with a cream-colored veil. For herself, she drew out purple raiment. To Julia’s eyes, it made the other woman look like a vat of wine, but since Muslim did not foul their lips with such a drink, she supposed Jawharah would have no such association. Throwing the book she was reading aside, she took up the barracan, settling the semitransparent folds around her. The veil she fastened across her face, holding it in place by the simple expedient of pinning it, with her gold bee, to the gold fillet which held her hair in place. The bee rested on her temple for an unusual effect that had been much exclaimed over by the other women.

  This was not the first audience she had been privileged to attend. She had been taken to view the court by the Lady Fatima once before, but the grand vizer had been presiding and there had been little of interest taking place. The matters brought before the court had been simple cases of petty theft and disputes over property. Judging from the tone of Jawharah’s voice, today would be different.

  Leaving the harem, the ladies carried in their hands ornate painted fans shaped like teardrops with curved tails and with long, silk-tasseled fly whisks attached. The audience chamber, at the top of five flights of winding stairs, would be far from cool. Flanked by guards, they hurried along through endless passageways and up curving steps from one level to another, climbing ever higher. They passed through a maze of richly appointed rooms and entered at last a small, grille-enclosed balcony above the audience chamber that was not unlike a box at the theater.

  The room below was dim, lit only by a series of small windows set high in the walls and covered by iron grilles of the same pattern as the one that concealed their viewing balcony. Perfume censers allowed a soft haze of smoke to drift upward, further obscuring their sight. They saw first the flash of jewels and the sheen of fine fabrics before they could make out the faces of the resplendent Moors and Turks. The blonde hair and rich dress of Mamelukes made themselves apparent before the shining ebony skin of Ethiopian slaves could be made out.

  Facing this throng, squatting upon a cushioned divan like an American Indian before his campfire, was the dey of Algiers. He sat upright with his back stiff and his wrists resting on his knees. He was dressed in a jacket of peacock brocade slashed to reveal an apricot undergarment, which in turn parted to show orange silk pantaloons. The turban on his head was of muslin encircled by a blue sash. Dark, all-seeing eyes were set in his stem face. His beard was long and white, curling down his chest. At his side protruded the handle of a golden scimitar, its scabbard set with a blaze of jewels that flung their rainbows of light through the gloom to dance upon the silk and satin clothing of the courtiers.

  No sooner had they seated themselves on the divans set for their comfort than the harsh sound of a man’s scream rang out. Julia started, swinging to look at Jawharah.

  “There is no need for alarm, I think,” the woman said. “It appears that a man has been sentenced to have his right hand cut off for theft. Since a good Muslim uses his left hand for all bodily functions, leaving his right, pure and clean, with which to feed himself, it is a terrible punishment, though not an extraordinary one.”

  Julia could not restrain a shudder. She stared at the implacable face of the old man sitting on the dais in the room beneath her, the first time she had ever seen the man who was her master, with something like dread in her eyes.

  When the struggling criminal had been led out, another man stepped forward. He bowed and kissed the hand of the dey. “The French consul,” Jawharah whispered.

  Julia nodded, her gaze fastened on the tailored coat of dark blue he wore with straight-legged pantaloons and polished half-boots. She was able to follow much of what passed between the representative of France and the dey of Algiers. The Frenchman, as Jawharah had said, was incensed
at the attacks of the Algerian navy upon the ships of his country. The dey commiserated with him, while blandly denying any knowledge of the incidents, placing the blame on the Barbary pirates, whom he insisted were a faction beyond his control. The consul, unable to call him a liar to his face without endangering continued diplomatic relations between the two countries, made veiled threats of war. The dey deplored the possibility with courtly gestures and protestations of friendship.

  Losing interest in the flowery, hard-to-follow phrases, Julia allowed her attention to drift to the men ranged about the chamber once more. Abruptly, she gave a strangled gasp, sitting forward on the edge of her seat.

  “What is it, Jullanar?” the Lady Fatima asked sharply.

  It was a moment before Julia could find her tongue. “That man, there beside the Mameluke in bronze silk.”

  “The Frankistani?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “It is said he was found by Bayezid Reis floating in the sea, clinging to a few scraps of wood after a shipwreck. He had upon him papers which identified him as a man of importance connected in some way with the king of France. Therefore, when he was brought into port, word of his capture was brought to the French consul, who then paid a substantial ransom for his release. It was, according to all accounts, a profitable transaction both for Bayezid Reis and for the coffers of the dey. This man, in exchange for a promise of free range of the ship and other privileges, is said to have informed Bayezid Reis of the presence in the waters where he was found of a boat containing three other Christians, one of them a woman who would make an admirable harem slave.”