Turning, Julia continued on her way. At the branching of the hall, she glanced back. Mariyah stood staring after her, a look of open contempt in her slanting, catlike eye.
“You should have screamed, called the guard!” the Lady Fatima exclaimed when next morning Julia told her of the incident.
“I could not be the cause of Mariyah being whipped — or worse — a second time.”
“Foolish girl! Do you think she would have spared you? Never!”
“It doesn’t matter,” Julia said, a stubborn look closing over her face.
“Of course, it matters. Do you have some romantic idea that she was indulging in a lover’s tryst in a moonlit garden? Not Mariyah. Besides the fact that she prefers the embraces of her slave girl, she would not be so foolhardy for the sake of a moment’s gratification. I fear a much more dangerous reason.”
“Dangerous? In what way?”
“She has a brother who is a Mameluke and a member of the palace guard. When the dey departs this earth, may Allah postpone the inevitable moment, the loyalty of these guards, or lack of it,
could well determine who is to be the next to sit upon the royal divan of Algiers. A man who has been throttled in his bed cannot possibly succeed. You see?”
Suppressing a shudder, Julia signified her understanding. If she lived all her life in the palace, she would never grow accustomed to the casual manner in which pain and death were discussed. “Perhaps, if Mariyah were questioned?”
The Lady Fatima shook her head, her mouth grim. “It is too late. She would only deny ever leaving her bed and produce testimony to prove it. She would end by making you appear vindictive and power-hungry, something which might cause the dey to look upon you with disfavor. No, we cannot risk it. We must be glad we have been put on our guard. Ali Pasha must be informed. Steps must be taken to counter the threat this stupid little she-dog poses to our plans.”
“I am sorry,” Julia said. “I did not realize the seriousness of the situation.”
“I doubt very much that you are aware of it yet. Tell me, Jullanar, most favored of the dey. What do you think will become of you and the other women of the harem when the dey dies?”
“Become of us?” Julia repeated, ignoring as best she could the bite of the other woman’s sarcasm.
“What do you think you will do when your master is gone and the new dey requires your places in the harem for his women? Where will you go? Did you think you would stay on? I can tell you, that is not the way of purdah. As the wife of Mehemet Dey, I will be allowed to take my possessions, the gifts presented to me, and leave. If I still had a family, I would return to them a rich widow. If I had borne a son who had lived, I could have remained in the palace, an honored and respected member of the court. I did not. This being so, I will be free to buy a house and a few slaves to see to my comfort, and live out my life without fear, peddling my gifts for the means of my subsistence. This is the fate of a wife. What think you becomes of a mere concubine?’“
“I have no idea,” Julia answered with slow composure.
“Your fate rests in the hands of the new dey. If he is the kind of man who has little use for women, he can with impunity have all your throats slit and dump your bodies in the desert. He can tie you in sacks and toss you into the sea, a means of disposal chosen by a past sultan of Constantinople. If he does not choose to dispose of valuable merchandise in this way, he can turn you over to the slave traders, though with so many thrown onto the market at once, and those far from their first youth, the return to him would be small. Very likely, most would be bought as menial servants or as fodder for the brothels near the harbor. It is possible that he may consider the best thing to be done, from an economical point of view, would be to turn you out onto the streets to beg or accept the dubious charity of the men of the town. The most likely prospect, however, is that he will find it convenient to reward the Janissaries or his own military followers who may bring him to power. What better gift could he give them than the free use of the flowers of the old dey’s harem?”
“You can’t mean what you are saying!”
“I can. I do. Despite your new position and the great largess you have received, you are a chattel, a thing. You do not belong to yourself, nor does the clothing you wear or those valuables which clutter your chamber. All belongs to the dey, whoever he may be.”
Julia lowered her gaze to the toe of the Lady Fatima’s slipper, which tapped the floor in a measured cadence. It could not be denied that the woman was deriving a large amount of pleasure from the things she was saying. There could be little doubt also that they were true. “Is there nothing that can be done?”
“Your one chance of avoiding the fate reserved for the rest of the harem is to win the gratitude of Ali Pasha by the fervor with which you press his claim to the throne. Already, he values you. He has instructed me to tell you that he commends the effort you have made thus far in his behalf. And yet, I, who have some experience in these matters, warn you. You cannot depend on the gratitude of princes. Unless you render Ali Pasha some great and signal service, you will be forgotten in the fight to take the throne and in the exultation of victory.”
“I shall endeavor to remember, O honored wife of the dey.”
The Lady Fatima smiled her satisfaction at Julia’s apparent humility. “Before you go, there is one thing more. I do not like the way my husband has clung to his couch since his illness. I find the slowness with which he regains his strength highly suspect. Has it not struck you so?”
“He is no longer young, and his illness was not minor—” Julia began, only to be interrupted.
“Even so, it is not in his nature to have so small a store of strength or to show so little interest in what is happening around him. I fear his illness is being, shall we say, prolonged.”
“Perhaps, he is only recruiting his strength for the spring?”
“Do not be obtuse!” the Lady Fatima exclaimed angrily. “I do not mean that I suspect Mehemet Dey of malingering. Must I shatter your innocence yet again? What I suspect is that a slow poison is being administered by someone in his household, minute doses which would not immediately affect the slave whose duty it is to test his food, or cause great affect upon an otherwise healthy man. It would not be the first time such a thing has happened, nor, I daresay, the last.”
“I suppose it is possible,” Julia said.
“By all the jinn!” the Lady Fatima swore. “Of course, it is possible, even probable. It is a good thing Mehemet Dey has more than one woman to look after his needs!”
Julia inclined her head. “I will instruct Basim to be vigilant.”
“No doubt the dwarf is aware of the danger. Still, it will not hurt to make it known to him that others are aware of it also, and of his duty.”
The Lady Fatima was correct, Julia found when she broached the subject to Basim. He bowed himself nearly in half, like a child’s stuffed toy. “Most gracious one,” he said. “You do me great honor to bring your fears for our master to me. I too have been troubled by the effendi’s lack of strength. This morning I sent to the kitchens an order, in the name of the exalted ruler of Algiers, that every person who prepares a dish must partake of it before it can be brought before the dey. Already the underling who prepares sherbet, one of the effendi’s favorite dishes, writhes on his pallet. The effect upon him was so great compared to that upon our master, or his food taster, that it must be accepted Mehemet Dey has been receiving increasing amounts of this poison for an extended period of time.”
“Has the man confessed the name of the person who bade him administer the poison?”
“No, fair mistress. His faculties are disordered and he speaks only gibberish when he speaks at all. It appears that he will be dead by nightfall. In any case, it is doubtful if he ever knew any other than a go-between, perhaps some guard or slave in the pay of the man who would profit most from the deed.”
Basim carefully avoided her gaze. Still, they both knew the name of the man of whom
they spoke. “Is there nothing that can be done to prove the guilt of this man and put an end to his plotting?”
“Not yet,” Basim answered, his spaniel eyes dark with an expression that was by no means gentle. “The time is not yet.”
Following that incident, the health of the dey improved, though his color remained yellow. Julia feared that his mind was affected also, for often he would sit staring for long moments at nothing, and when brought to himself could not be made to realize that time had passed since last he had spoken. He became more and more dependent on his advisers, his grand vizier, his grandson, the captain of the Janissaries, for decisions. More than once, he allowed Julia, concealed behind a curtain, to listen when he entertained male guests in his private gulphor. Afterward, he asked her opinion of their discussion. What was particularly disturbing was the frequency with which he agreed with, and acted upon, her conclusions.
One summer afternoon, Julia prepared the hookah, lit it, and passed the mouthpiece to Mehemet Dey. Taking up her fan, she leaned back swatting at a buzzing fly, then plying the painted paper vigorously against the sultry heat. She knew that when she stopped she would feel hotter than ever, but it could not be helped. She had to stir the air in some way in order to breathe.
The dey, seated above her on his divan, seemed not to feel the suffocating warmness. He sat holding to the stem of the hookah as if he had forgotten what to do with it. Abruptly, he spoke. “Did the great emperor of the west, Napoleon, believe in kismet?”
“I am not sure, O Ruler of the Age. I think, like all humans who cannot know the will of Allah, that sometimes he did, and sometimes he did not. He spoke often of destiny, and yet, another time he said that the higher he reached, the less free will he had. He felt all his life that he had been destined for a great goal, and that until he reached it he was invulnerable, unassailable. Still, he feared that when destiny had accomplished its purpose with him, then anything even a fly, would suffice to destroy him.”
“Ah,” Mehemet Dey said, nodding slowly, “I also, I also. And, did he think as he sat on the island of St. Helena that his destiny was done?”
It was a moment before Julia could answer. “I do not think he could admit such a thing to himself, Mehemet Effendi. But, I believe that it was — is — so.”
He inclined his head in a slow nod of understanding and gave a great sigh. “Kobah, star of joy, bring your dulcimer and play to me until I sleep, that hearing your sweet music I may forget the pain of knowing that my destiny also is run.”
Playing the dulcimer was an accomplishment that Julia had acquired as the months had fled past. Now, she did as she had been bid, drawing from the strings a haunting melody tinged with sadness. For no reason she could think of, she had to stop now and then to dry the tears that crept slowly down her face.
By slow degrees, Mehemet Dey regained his old strength, and with it threw off his morose moodiness. As the heat of summer began to lose its grip, he bestirred himself to plan a hunting party. Julia, who seldom left his side now, was to go. The prospect of leaving the palace and the hot, dusty, stench-filled streets of the city was an excitement almost beyond bearing. For nearly two long years, she had been penned up like a prisoner. With the exception of one or two brief forays into the bazaars with the dey, she had not left the turrets and towers of the palace. She longed for a breath of fresh air untainted by the omnipresent perfume censers, or the smell of the foul drains of the palace and the open sanitation in the hovels of the city that crowded up to its walls, smells which the burning perfume was designed to cover. She wanted the sun on her face and the wind in her hair. She wanted new sights, new sounds, and experiences. Most of all, she longed for the illusion, however brief, of freedom.
The hunting ground of the great lions sought by the dey were in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains some two hundred miles from Algiers. It was to be reached by a caravan traveling in easy stages. They left the gates of the city before daybreak in a winding cavalcade of two hundred camels. With them went the nobles of the court, including both Kemal and Ali Pasha. They were mounted on fleet Umaniyan beasts, while lesser breeds carried the brilliant-colored pavilions, the rugs and cushions and furniture so essential for comfort, and also, the food and cooking utensils, and the slaves which would use both to provide the feasts the court of the dey would expect whether in a banquet hall or a desert bivouac. Even fully loaded, the camels could travel seventy to eighty miles per day.
They camped the first night in a jewel-green oasis. Julia was tired from the unaccustomed exercise, of trying to keep her place in the curtained palanquin aboard her camel. Lulled also by the soporific effect of pure air deep in her lungs, she retired early to her couch and slept dreamlessly. With the morning, she allowed herself to be dressed in the long, black, hooded garment with a slit for the eyes which was considered proper wear for a woman among many men. Thus attired, she stepped outside the tent.
The scene was one of purposeful activity as the drivers called and cursed at their camels, and the beasts groaned with a completely understandable disinclination to be burdened on such a fine morning. The air was cool, tainted only by the smoke of breakfast fires. The date palms lifted their crowned heads in a gentle wind high overhead. The light was so clear, hovering there at the edge of dawn, that the blue tent of the dey stood out crisp and clear, while the ensign that flew above it appeared touched with silver.
Two men left a distant tent on the edge of the oasis and started toward the pavilion of the dey. Both were dressed in the tunics, full pantaloons, long cloaks, and soft, supple, knee-high boots of Algerian Muslims. One wore a turban bound with a sash; the head of the other was covered by a scarf held in place by rolled rope. Both were bearded, both tall, though one topped the other by at least two inches. In the hands of the pair were long rifles, which they carried with the ease of thoughtless familiarity. As they drew nearer, Julia recognized the shorter of the two men, he who wore the turban of a noble. It was Ali Pasha. The other she did not place at once, though some instinct made her follow him with her eyes.
The two men came on, walking easily. Julia knew that she should draw modestly back within the tent, but she did not. She held her ground, and as the men drew nearer, she saw the leap of recognition in the black eyes of the nephew of the dey, caught the hard gleam of his interest before he averted his gaze.
She glanced once more toward the other man, then went still. There was red in his beard. His face was weather beaten, his sun-bronzed skin drawn tightly over the bones. Beneath thick brows, his eyes glittered like blue glass. He did not smile. His gaze swept over her as if she were not there, and then, he and Ali Pasha passed on, talking in low voices between themselves. The desert wind, grown suddenly cold, lifted their cloaks, fluttering the soft wool about their ankles.
As they reached the edge of the encampment, the first orange shaft of sunlight struck the tents. Prayer rugs went down as Muslims faced Mecca for their morning prayers. Ali Pasha, for all his nobility, knelt with the others, placing his rug beside that of a lowly camel driver. Only slaves stood in waiting quiet for the ritual to be over. Among them was the tall, dark man who had strode at the side of the nephew of the dey. Now, he stood still, his hard blue stare fixed on the soft haze of the foothills in the distance. Beneath the headdress and the Moorish clothing, beneath the beard and the visage with the look of refined steel touched to copper by the rising sun, there was a white Christian slave. His name was Rudyard Thorpe.
17
On the morning of the third day a pride of lions was sighted by the far-ranging scouts. Since they were located at no great distance from the caravan, Julia begged to be allowed to ride beside the dey. Her motives were obscure, even to herself. She hated the idea of being left behind in the camp to while away the time within the stifling felt walls of her tent. She wanted to be where there was movement and, yes, even an element of danger. The fact that the man she had identified as Rud might make one of the party was also a compelling reason. Mehemet Dey, seein
g her request as a compliment, was delighted to give his permission and made many references to the uniqueness of his groom before they set out. There was an even dozen in the party which finally rode from the camp. Included were Julia and the dey, Basim, two other gentlemen of the court, three scouts, Kemal with one of his young male companions, and Ali Pasha with the Christian slave who had become his friend.
The country was rough and rocky, covered with thorn-brush and fleshy spiked aloes. Scaly lizards sunned themselves upon every outcropping of rocks, while in the cool shadows, scorpions lay in wait with curled tails.
The lions had made their lair in a narrow, winding gully made impassable by thorn scrub. As they drew near, a great black-maned beast could be seen standing on a boulder at the head of the ravine. Tawny, magnificent, he watched them come for long seconds before leaping out of sight.
“The king refuses us an audience,” the dey said in a whimsical tone. “I wonder if he will sally forth to defend his domain against invaders?”
The three scouts and the noblemen began to beat their way along the high ridges skirting the gully. They raised dust and sent the sound of falling rocks echoing through the foothills, but did not flush the quarry.
The wind died away. The sun beat down, turning the stone enclosure at the mouth of the ravine into a caldron. Ali Pasha and Rud discussed the possibility of finding other game, and, soon after, the hawklike nephew of the dey urged his camel from among them and was soon lost to sight, following the other beaters. Basim drew the camels of Julia and Mehemet Dey to one side, into the slender shade provided by a thorn-covered hillock. Kemal dismounted, petulantly demanding a ground cover to be spread for him to seat himself upon.
The fat grandson of the dey had taken his place, sitting on the ground in the shade cast by the body of his follower, when there came a crashing noise from the gully. An instant later, a golden lioness erupted from the thorn thickets. With her teeth drawn back and a rumbling in her throat, she launched herself at Kemal.
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