“Doubtful,” Jacques said. “Find out how I can be released. And discover what you can about the tall Turk who to me appears to be primo lieutenant. More especially, uncover the corsair captain—what’s his name—Piccinio?—uncover his aim.”
“Herr Adventurer, you may be assured I shall put spurs to my flank.” Brose took a last look at the passengers bound in their hammocks and, leading with his disfigured face, stumbled toward the deck ladder and the streaming light from topside.
Jacques lay still, hoping the base fellow would remember his drunken promise.
***
Later that morning, two of the crew came round with a sponge of water and a few bites of porridge for each prisoner. Many begged for release from their berth, but no deliverance came. What did come for many was vomiting and defecation—and the vile stench from those acts.
If there remained anything tolerable, it was that the ship sailed smoothly. The sea was quiet.
During the course of the day, Dominique spoke with Jacques, who was beginning to pale in face and spirit. The conversations she held, she figured, becalmed others around her and allayed her own fears as well. To be sure, she was grateful to God that she still had her wits—which was much more than many of the others. But Jacques and I must make a plan. We must.
In guarded talk, Dominique let Jacques know he’d been spouting Fragonard’s verses aloud in his sleep the night before.
“Most likely, it eases the chatter in my brain, Dominique. But I’ll think on Fragonard’s verses here and now during my waking hours.” He closed his eyes. “My salvation in previous times, especially in I Piombi hellhole, was my imagination. I’ll yet use that resource, weak as I feel.”
“We’re being propelled toward the ineffable rewards of the Lord,” Dominique answered.
During the afternoon, the gentle rock of the hammock, the creaking of the ship’s timbers, and the warmth of the hold encouraged Dominique to nap. But before the light began to wane, her eyes flickered open. What she smelled put a quiver on her lip: the musty sweet scent of moldering blood.
A tall man stood with his back to her. Tied across his shoulder with a thick cord was a cloth sack caked with dark red blood. Peeking from the open end of the sack was the instrument causing Dominique’s abhorrent feelings: a cat-o’-nine-tails. She’d never felt the sting from the lead tips of a scourge, but she’d seen it in action. To witness the flaying of a human being was one of the sharpest regrets of her life. The experience had bred nightmares for years.
Sensing that Jacques was fast asleep, Dominique dared another look at the profile of the corsair who carried the foul, bloody sack. Judging from the embroidered red waistcoat and red felt hat, he was the Turk who earlier that day Jacques had styled the “primo lieutenant.” The man had undistinguished eyes, black hair and mustache, and a complexion burnt rough and dark by the sun. He strutted back and forth between the hammocks before motioning to a squat mate.
A moment later, Dominique felt rough burlap ride between her teeth. She choked on the gag. It seemed her head was exploding but her mind worked frantically.
Maintaining his swagger, the tall primo lieutenant surveyed the prisoners, all of whom were now gagged as well as bound. Wheeling about, he wiped his mustache with his hand, then stuffed his hand into his bulky pants. Daylight in the hold was quickly fading, but enough light remained for Dominique to catch the glint in his eyes when he stared at Jacques.
The primo lieutenant signaled his friend. Moments later, Jacques was double gagged. With bound legs and arms, Jacques—now fully awake—struggled to no avail.
The squat mate climbed above deck, leaving the primo lieutenant alone with the prisoners. The man moved to Jacques and bent over, grabbing Jacques’ throat with both his hands.
Jacques! Dominique tried to scream but her gag made it impossible. Streams of sweat burned her eyes while she watched the corsair loosen his grip. The scroll, she feared. The scroll!
The corsair lowered himself to his knee to tighten the rope that restrained Jacques. He gently drew his hand across the adventurer’s face.
With his remaining strength, Jacques arched. The lieutenant clamped Jacques’ nose and mouth. Jacques stopped his struggle. The corsair released his hold.
Jacques panted through his gag, his frenzied wheeze slicing like razors through Dominique’s heart.
The primo lieutenant—bulbous eyes pitching back in his head—paid no heed to the muffled cries of the passengers when he tore open Jacques’ shirt and began to caress his flesh.
The primo lieutenant’s hand continued its slithery journey.
Dominique thrashed against the hammock, infuriated to a degree she’d never felt before. She squeezed her eyes shut.
When at last she persuaded herself to look, she saw, in the last daylight of the ship’s hold, the corsair stroking himself.
Jacques’ face was hidden from view, but Dominique saw from his taut neck and stiff shoulders—his seething. A vast rage boiled in her.
For what seemed to Dominique an eternity of debasement and horror, the mustached corsair continued his depraved work. When his pleasure slaked in a deafening groan, scalding tears shot down Dominique’s cheeks.
While the primo lieutenant plodded toward the deck ladder, Dominique choked back her revulsion.
Her long night overflowed with desolate and desperate loathing.
***
“Who put these nauseating gags in your mouth?” croaked Carlo Brose.
Dawn’s rays snuck into the hold while he leaned close to Jacques, inspecting the filthy cloths. “I likely risk my life if I remove these. Well, remove them I shall.” He scratched the patch on his face and undid the cloths.
Jacques sucked hard breaths into his lungs.
“Quick! Untie Dominique’s,” Jacques said. “See to it.” Jacques paused. “I ask your help.”
“What has come over you?” Brose grinned. “You again ask my help?” He moved to Dominique’s hammock, loosed her gag, then scuttled back to Jacques. “She sleeps peacefully,” he gestured. “As for the Turk you wondered about, Jacques—your primo lieutenant—I found out he’s out of favor with most of the Algerine crew,” he said, standing over Jacques’ hammock. He narrowed his eyes, then sputtered. “What goes on? Ah, nose or no nose I smell the situation. That swarthy heathen! Thought he had the look about him. Well, for the Muslims to have a young boy—their religion does not discourage that. To have a man of your years—well, I see you inspired the Turk’s fancy,” he sniveled gleefully. “May I tell him you’ve amused yourself with others before him?”
Jacques glanced over his shoulder. Dominique still slept.
“It’s true, isn’t it? With the handsome Duc de Longueville and also with …” Sweat bubbled Jacques’ forehead, but he said nothing.
The two men glared, each daring the other to speak.
Then Brose’s eyes softened. “I recall you liked it rough, Jacques.”
Color rose in Jacques’ cheeks. His tone was gentle. “You’re mistaken, Carlo. A fond nature was more to my liking.”
“I remember. We could afford to be tender to one another. We were young and did not know the devilish world as we do now.”
Jacques nodded.
“You broke my heart,” said Brose. He looked away. When he returned to Jacques’ gaze, he had a playful gleam in his eye.
“So shall I relay to the primo lieutenant that you have experience?”
“No, do not tell him, Carlo. It would lessen my worth with him. Let him think that he means to possess me, the maid.”
Brose placed his palm on Jacques’ cheek before he spoke.
“One thing else. It would be helpful to your cause if you yourself turned Turk.”
“I will not. I prefer to—”
“You’re not a Christian! Well, you might die like a Christian.” Brose coughed. “Let me be honest, Jacques Casanova. I came to you this morning already knowing you’d caught the big Turk’s fancy—for I overheard certain things l
ate last night. You now may as well know that a ransom for you was agreed upon by the crew and paid by the lieutenant.”
Mindful of any signs or sounds of captors on the deck above, Jacques spoke quietly. “Ransom me? What does the captain say?”
“As nearly as I can gather, there are no rules to govern this particular circumstance, but these corsairs—who fancy themselves a floating republic—cast votes on most all issues. The corsair captain? His response was ‘Keep the prisoners alive. No one will ransom dead men.’ He also forbids the rape of women and children because he knows rich Muslims relish unsullied Christian prisoners for their bagnios and harems. Practical man,” Brose repeated softly. “So if you, Jacques Casanova, are as impoverished as I suppose, and with no one on the mainland to pay for you, the Turk lieutenant has ransomed you from certain slavery.
“To be a private, special slave.”
- 28 -
SHORTLY AFTER BROSE SLIPPED AWAY, two corsairs entered the hold, released Jacques from his hammock, manacled him, did the same to a dozen other prisoners, then led all topside. Before long, other male and female prisoners were brought on deck, some glaring at the red half-moon flag that fluttered on the mast, some staring blankly out to sea.
Squinting sullenly into the bright sun, Jacques found he could hardly stand. His legs wanted to fold in two. But glimpsing the pale blue sky, he saw a magnificent morning on the Mediterranean—blustery, but beautiful. He wondered if this would be his last day as a free man.
Here came Dominique, lumped into a group coming topside. From his position in the front row of prisoners, Jacques managed a reassuring nod to her before she was shoved into line not far to his left. Her eyes, he could tell, were swollen.
Trying to calm himself, Jacques surveyed the cargo strewn haphazardly around the mizzenmast: indigo, silk, damask, and velvet. Spices and exotic wine bottles piled near the bow. Many vessels had been plundered by the corsairs and probably many prisoners sold into slavery.
Jacques’ breaths clustered sort and shallow. He reined back his maudlin thoughts and forced his mind into quick service. He saw no loose weapons in sight. He wondered how he might bargain for one. And from whom? He considered that his card playing might somehow rescue Dominique, Petrine, and himself. Or later, could he possibly persuade Carlo Brose to cut his bindings, to release him from his hammock prison below deck?
The masts and rigging quaked as a gust of wind billowed the canvases. While spume shot over the bowsprit and onto the deck, Jacques stared angrily at the manacles on his wrists. I’ll first rid myself of these. His body shivered uncontrollably while the sprays of seawater continued their drenching. Maybe it would cleanse him; he’d soiled his breeches several times in the ship’s hold.
From the corner of his eye, Jacques spied a red embroidered waistcoat; his mind fumed when he realized the primo lieutenant stood across the deck.
A pair of corsairs positioned themselves in front of Jacques; the two twisted his manacles until his palms turned upward.
Jacques winced. He knew the Turks would learn much from the prisoners’ hands: If a man had no calluses, he was a blue blood. If there were telltale ink stains to see, the corsairs would know the prisoner was literate and bring a higher ransom. Who would think these soft hands would determine my fate?
It seemed to Jacques his body had never ached with such pain. My future, though, is not the same as these other prisoners. I’m already ransomed. He flinched. But a month or a lifetime with the Turk will be worse than a coffin.
The corsairs continued down the line of prisoners. Examining hands took time— time for Jacques to peek at Dominique. She was haggard, fragile. What would he not give to turn back the clock?
A voice whispered from somewhere just behind Jacques. Carlo Brose.
“The man conferring with your lieutenant—the thickset fellow cloaked in the frayed burnoose—he’s the rais, you see. He made a name for himself by capturing and plundering a papal galley. Since then he’s vanquished everything on the horizon while fighting his jihad, his holy war, for Allah. The sexton, on the rais’s orders, calls these Muslims to holy prayer to Allah six times a day. Anyhow, from what the crew says, this captain, this rais, makes up for his short stature with enormous ferocity. To me it also seems the rais has a talent for leadership. To me—”
Suddenly, the man about whom Brose spoke threw off his burnoose and strode forward, facing the three rows of prisoners.
“Happiness belongs to those who honor Allah and also fear him,” he shouted. The crew standing behind the captain clapped raucously.
“Years ago I turned my back on a false religion. I encourage you to do likewise. You shall be blessed by Allah; this I promise.”
Speaks a little like a Venetian, thought Jacques. And with brimming confidence.
The sails overhead snapped loudly in the breeze as another buffeting spray rained down.
The rais motioned to the captives. “There’s one of you who is ready to join my Algerines, my crew. I am Piccinio Rais, and I welcome this man.”
A pack of Algerines scurried toward the line of prisoners, unshackled Jacques, and led him forward.
At once, Jacques saw his chance. He instantly plunged himself to one knee before the rais—which placed him nearly face-to-face with the short captain.
Jacques felt the points of two Algerine knives at his back.
“Piccinio Rais,” Jacques cried without moving a muscle. “Your reputation on the seas is a great one. I’m pleased to be aboard your ship and in the grace of Allah. Is it true I’ve been ransomed by a fine and loyal Algerine?”
The rais made a quick sign, and the Algerine corsairs lowered their daggers.
The man understands my words. And his cunning tells him to be content until I have my say.
Piccinio Rais stepped forward, placed his fingertips on Jacques’ head, made an emphatic gesture with his opposite hand, then with a flick of his fingers motioned the primo lieutenant forward. The lieutenant, dark mustache bristling, complied—leering at Jacques.
Jacques sprang to his feet. He felt two daggers press deeper at his shoulder blades, and—although immediately forced back to his knees—he shouted in a booming voice.
“I’m a free man. I’m not to be purchased like a cheap sow. If this corsair chooses to ransom me—if he wants me—let him fight me for my freedom.”
There was silence from all on deck.
The rais held his dagger at the ready.
Sails again ruffled in the wind until another commotion—the rattling of manacles—brought attention to a slight figure who thrust her body apart from the line of captives.
No one on deck was more shocked than Jacques. His mind raced. What? Had she lost her senses?
“This corsair wants the prisoner?” Dominique nodded toward the primo lieutenant. Her brows knit in a furor. “I say I want the prisoner. Whose prayers shall Allah answer?”
The Algerines taunted, some clapped.
Dominique continued, shrill anger in her clear-born voice. A handful of prisoners—encouraged by her passion—rattled their manacles in support.
This was not overlooked by Piccinio Rais, who, Jacques saw, seemed enthused by Dominique’s display of bravada.
“If this mustached swine wants the prisoner, let him win the prisoner,” she shouted full throat. “I mean for this ugly pig to fight me. Whoever draws first blood wins the prisoner.”
Jacques’ heart crashed through his chest. “She must not fight,” he screamed toward the mob of corsairs. “She can be ransomed. Ransomed. You’ll get riches for her!”
A multitude of voices roared across deck.
The rais thrust his dagger into the sunlight for all to see, then whipped the blade to Jacques’ throat.
The bold move had its effect. All hushed.
The rais, reducing his eyes to slits, surveyed the prisoners, Dominique, the lieutenant, and his corsairs. “Let it be known I command this ship,” he cried. “And I propose to slice the prisoner in two. A
half for each party.” When he met the moist eyes of his kneeling prisoner, he paused before removing the dagger from Jacques’ throat.
He marched to Dominique, striding a proud circle around her. “Let it be understood that this fair-haired woman—she has the heart of a lion. But for this suffering prisoner,” the rais pointed to Jacques, “this woman has the heart of a girl. Allah esteems such a spirit.”
Piccinio Rais now motioned toward his lieutenant. “This Algerine, too, has a fortitude Allah admires. I have witnessed him in battle. He’s daring, he’s strong.” The rais spoke to the sky above. “Which of these two shall Allah deem worthy to carry the day?”
A fiery voice delivered itself from the crowd. “Let them draw first blood.”
The crew erupted in a clamor.
The rais raised his dagger for silence. “It’s true, we corsairs pride ourselves on our independence. In this world we take our bearings, make our rules and sail our own course. This is why we allow the woman prisoner to speak her heart. This is why my brethren shall vote theirs.”
The corsairs hastily retired to the stern of the ship, leaving several Algerines to guard the shackled prisoners. Jacques was manacled, then jostled back into line. He glanced toward Dominique, who was being shoved back into her place with the others.
Afternoon came while the corsairs deliberated. Soon the warm sun and breeze had its way: two men abreast of Jacques passed out on their feet, crumpling to the deck. A violent jerk of the ears from their captor was enough to bring each prisoner stirringly awake.
After a long interval, the rais returned with his crew.
“It is decided. This corsair,” shouted Piccinio Rais as he pointed to his lieutenant, “and that woman,” he said, pointing to Dominique, “shall fight.”
The crew lauded the decision with whistles and clapping.
The rais took an ominous tone. “My brethren have altered one condition of the combat. The fight will not end with first blood. The fight will end with death. The living combatant shall own that prisoner.” He indicated Jacques with a nod of his head.
Secrets of Casanova Page 22