Master of Paradise (29 page)

Gabrielle could hear the screams of the
children from her perch atop the hill. It was beginning to wear on
her nerves, this constant pillaging of human cargo. After each
excursion, she had asked Rodrigo, “Now can we go fetch Cullen?” But
he was never ready. He didn’t have enough men, he argued, even
though he’d sent seemingly hundreds back to Mombasa for training
under Wallace. Each time, she asked the same question: “When will
you have enough?” And each time, she received the same reply: “When
I have enough.”

The procession was approaching now. Rodrigo
gave the order and the natives began to fasten the restraints to
their own necks. Then he led the way down the hill. Gabrielle
followed behind, dressed in Arab robes to keep her gender
hidden.

They stopped before the convoy. Gabrielle
took a moment while Rodrigo was conversing with the Arabs to study
the faces of the slaves. Their dark eyes looked hollow. She could
detect in their dull depths the absence of hope. She felt a mad
impulse to go to them, to whisper the secret, to put an end to
their suffering. One minute more seemed too long to suffer, after
all they’d been through. She caught the eye of one more-daring man
who looked up from the ground, and smiled. She hoped he might feel
some of her sympathy.

But his eyes flicked from her to Rodrigo. She
saw them widen, saw the collection of disbelief. Then she heard the
name whispered on his lips:
Mkombozi!

Other slaves looked up and whispered the
same.
Mkombozi! Mkombozi!
Gabrielle wanted to rush to them
and implore them to be quiet. If they gave it away, it spelled
disaster for them. She saw the interpreter put a surreptitious
finger to his lips and motion silence behind the Arabs’ backs.

The slave who’d first spotted Rodrigo rose to
his knees and held his hands together as in prayer, pleading for
help. Soon two more had done the same. Appalled, Gabrielle moved to
hide them from view with her robes. But she was a second too late.
The lead slaver turned and saw the commotion. Then she heard the
name
Mkombozi
on his lips as he turned Rodrigo’s way. She
could imagine, from the expression on the Arab’s face, what he was
saying. “
Mkombozi
-I’ve heard tales of you. I know who and
what you are.”

It happened so quickly, she thought she’d
dreamed it. Suddenly, there were rifles in the hands of Rodrigo’s
men. Gunshots blasted the stillness of the savanna, and the Arabs
fell in a swirl of flowing robes to the ground. Their blood spilled
out over the grasslands, and they took their last breath of the
soft African air.

Gabrielle was stunned by the swiftness of it,
by the sudden savagery. Rodrigo had given them no warning. He’d
killed them in cold blood. He had to do it, she realized, but it
unsettled her all the same.

All about her, Rodrigo’s men were shedding
their tethers and freeing the would-be slaves. Rodrigo spoke to
them in Swahili, explaining his mission. As he’d done numerous
times before, he asked those who would join him to form a separate
group. Then he strolled among them, picking out the most
able-bodied to join his crew.

Gabrielle sat on the ground as far from the
dead bodies as she could, feeling the need to rest her trembling
legs. She’d sworn her allegiance to Rodrigo’s cause, but she felt
repulsed by the brutal ways of Africa. How the landscape could be
so beautiful, so welcoming, so caressing; and the reality of its
world so harsh. One animal slaughtering another. A plant of
magnificent splendor with the poison to kill. Men enslaving men and
shooting one another dead.

She looked at Rodrigo, who was just
finishing. It appeared they had an impressive number of volunteers.
She rose to her feet to go ask him the same question she had each
and every time. Knowing what the answer would be.

“When can we sail?” she asked again. “When
will we have enough men?”

Rodrigo looked into her eyes and saw the
weariness. He saw, too, the repressed impatience and the assumption
that it would find no satisfaction. He glanced at his collection of
warriors, then back into his lover’s eyes.

“Now we have enough,” he said.

It was close to dawn. Rodrigo had sailed his
three ships into the Zanzibar harbor under cover of darkness. With
nothing but the brilliance of the African stars to light the way,
the men had worked silently, readying cannons, guns, and swords for
the attack. The atmosphere aboard the ships was charged with
electricity. Men paced nervously, checking and rechecking weapons
they already knew were in order. Gabrielle could feel the
excitement pulsating through her veins. In just a little more time,
she’d have Cullen safely back with her. Rodrigo had brought enough
men with him to level the city if they had to. In fact, he’d moved
beyond the customary objectives of a pirate. The mission bore the
trappings of an all-out military attack. There was no doubt in her
mind that they’d retrieve her brother this day.

She was dressed like the others, in breeches
and a shirt that allowed her freedom of movement. She’d been
equipped with boots that fit so she could move with ease.

She’d refused Rodrigo’s suggestion to stay on
board
El Paraiso Segundo,
his new flagship, taken from an
Arab slaver off Lamu and refitted for battle. She wanted to be in
the thick of the action. She wanted to see her brother’s face when
they set him free.

The attack had been skillfully planned.
Rodrigo had sent spies in to report on the number of ships in the
sultan’s fleet, and on the level of activity at the palace. The
remarkable news came back that things were relatively quiet, as if
their guard had let down in the month since Hastings had arrived
with a warning that an assault might be imminent. The governor of
Seychelles was still there, the guest of his partner, the
sultan.

As the sky gradually lightened, the offensive
began. Rodrigo raised his hand, giving the signal, and a barrage of
cannon fire split the predawn repose. The smell of gunfire scorched
the air. Soon, the smoke became oppressive, making it difficult to
see. In a matter of minutes, Rodrigo’s cannons had destroyed the
two lead ships of the sultan’s fleet. They split and sank amidst
the protestations of creaking wood, effectively bottling up the
other ships in the harbor—just as Rodrigo had planned. Wasting
little time, those who’d been assigned to the shore attack leapt
into the boats and rowed across the breakwater in soundless unison
as the cannons were discharged on the sultan’s palace. Citizens
began to flow out of homes, half-dressed, to see what was afoot.
The sultan’s guards were on the run, scimitars drawn, fighting
Rodrigo’s forces as they swarmed onshore.

When Gabrielle reached dry land with Rodrigo,
swords were clashing all around. Cannons continued to fire at
regular intervals. The enemy was clearly outnumbered and suffering
from surprise. Still, they fought valiantly, congregating at the
palace door to guard their sultan at all costs. They’d been trained
to give their lives for the protection of their leader. Nothing
short of annihilation would convince them to open the gates.

“There must be another way in,” Rodrigo
called to her when he saw that his men were making no headway at
the entrance. He motioned for her to follow and they rounded the
palace walls. Along the way, they were met by a cortege of
late-arriving guards. Rodrigo fell on them at once, battling three
at a time. Gabrielle recognized one defender as a guard who’d
grabbed her that night in the palace, effectively halting her
rescue attempt and pawing her in the bargain. Incensed, she lunged
at him, fighting with all her might and skill until she had him
backed up against the wall. There, with a single savage thrust, she
ran him through. The guard looked stunned as she pulled out the
bloodied instrument, staggered a few feet, and fell dead at his
post.

She stood staring at him for some moments,
aware now more than ever of the pervasive smell of gunpowder as she
watched his blood seep onto the stones. Her stomach lurched
queasily at the sight of her handiwork. But she thought of the look
of gleeful lust on her victim’s face as he’d pillaged her, and it
eased her guilt.

She became aware slowly that Rodrigo was
fighting six men at once. He was faltering as they sought to pin
him against the wall. Coming to her senses, she nicked his closest
attacker with the tip of her sword and, having captured his
attention, engaged him in battle herself. She and Rodrigo now
fought together side by side, the clash of their steel ringing out
like cymbals at the climax of a symphony. As the guards fell around
them, Rodrigo grabbed her hand and they ran.

He pulled her to an abrupt halt on the sea
side of the palace. There, he stood transfixed, gazing overhead. As
she watched him curiously, a look of hatred hardened his eyes.
Gabrielle shifted her gaze upward to find a balcony overlooking the
sea. Standing behind the stone balustrade were the sultan and her
brother, Cullen, looking down on the scene. The sultan was calling
orders to his men. Cullen stood numbly beside him. Then, as if from
nowhere, Hastings stepped into view. He put a sword to Cullen’s
throat.

“Ah, Roderick Smythe, my old friend,” he
called down. “Have you come to pay your respects?”

“I thought it was time we renewed our
acquaintance,” Rodrigo returned.

“How kind. And I see you’ve brought company.
Welcome, Gabby, to Xanadu. But then, you’ve been here before, I
understand. Had a bit of sport on the block. A close call,
what?”

Ignoring his jabs, she put her mind to the
quandary of how to get Cullen down safely.

“Come, Gabby,” Hastings called. “Cat got your
tongue? If so, it’s the first time I can recall. We don’t, after
all, call you Gabby for nothing.”

Beside her, Rodrigo had moved below the
balcony and was removing his boots. “Keep him talking,” he
whispered so no one else could hear.

She did as he’d requested. Looking up, she
noted in the onrushing dawn the slick dark hair of her half
brother, the cruel sneer of his thin, pursed lips. He looked like a
hawk contemplating his prey. How she hated him!

“You always were the charmer of the family,
Hastings,” she called up in her smoky voice. “As I recall, it
required the edge of a sword to keep people by your side.”

As she spoke, Rodrigo moved to the wall below
the balcony. The palace was made of rough stone. He tested it with
his hands, searching for footholds, then, anchoring the deadly
blade of his sword in his teeth, began stealthily to climb. She
glanced at him, then quickly back, lest she give away his
intentions. Still, she feared for him. It was a flagrantly daring
thing to do, to climb up and confront them alone. Without knowing
how many of the sultan’s personal guards were still inside.

“We’ve come for Cullen,” she told
Hastings.

“Pity to have made the trip for nothing. I’m
afraid, Gabby, that as usual, you’re wasting your time.”

“Let him go, Hastings. He’s your brother, for
God’s sake.”

“That pup,” spat Hastings angrily, “is no
brother of mine.”

Incensed, she cried, “You’re diseased,
Hastings. You can’t love anyone. You never could.”

Almost at once, she knew she’d made a
mistake. He was stung by her retort—she could see it in the flash
of pain and betrayal that colored his face at the word “diseased,”
as if she’d broken some unspoken agreement. When he replaced his
usual mask, his lip curled in a slow, exacting sneer. As he finally
spoke, he enunciated every word in his best stiff-upper-lip manner.
“I loved someone once, Gabby. And as I recall, it required the
inducement of not a single sword.”

Everything stilled. Gabrielle felt numb, as
if a glacial wind had frozen her in her tracks. Unbidden, her gaze
darted to Rodrigo. He was halfway up the wall, but he’d stopped at
Hastings’s words and was looking back at her with a piercing
curiosity burning in his eyes. He saw the blood drain from her
face, as if Hastings had just pushed some boundary he’d never
broken before. Shamed, Gabrielle lowered her lashes. She suddenly
couldn’t bear to look her lover in the face.

“Oh, dear,” Hastings called down in mock
annoyance. “And I’d promised not to tell!”

Enflamed by his effrontery, Gabrielle called
back, “Hastings, you fiend. May you rot in hell!”

Rodrigo had started moving again. He was
nearly to the precipice of the balcony.

“We are going to take Cullen,” she added,
rallying her strength to give Rodrigo the distraction he needed.
“There’s nothing you can do to stop us.”

“I don’t think Cullen is going anywhere,”
Hastings predicted.

Rodrigo’s hand was on the balcony floor. With
a mighty yank, he heaved himself up, grabbed hold of the rail, and
swung his legs over the side. As he did, all in one motion, he
kicked Cullen out of reach of Hastings’s sword. A flamboyant piece
of work that caught Hastings by surprise.

“Oh, good show, Roderick!” he cried when
confronted by Rodrigo’s blade. “I do so admire your ability to
throw people off their guard. Do you know, Gabby, I used to torment
this fierce pirate as a boy. Do you remember how I used to do it,
Roderick?” Hastings leaned forward and spat in Rodrigo’s face.

The sword moved too swiftly for her to see,
crashing against the wall just inches from Hastings’s head. Rodrigo
followed it with a barrage of attacks that would have felled a
lesser swordsman. But Hastings was good. He parried Rodrigo’s
thrusts and, with swift efficiency, put him on the defensive as
Cullen crouched in a corner and the sultan ran into his rooms,
screaming for his guards.

“Now this is more like it,” Hastings called
above the clatter of their swords. “To fight like men in battle.
This is what you and I were destined for from the moment we
met.”