Sofia (10 page)

I was brought up, cleaned off, and allowed a change of clothes and some warm food. We had chicken, fresh-killed from the galley’s coops, for the Turks had thrown the salt pork overboard as offensive to their taste. I got no wine, either, for all the kegs had turned the sea purple and the fish drunk in our wake. But I soon felt much better than I had ever hoped to again. It was a feeling heightened by contrast to what had gone before, and I sat down with my friend to try and sort out what toss of heaven’s dice had brought us together once more.

“I really thought I’d be joining you in Neptune’s kingdom before this day was out,” I said. “By God, how is it that you are even alive?”

“Thanks to Allah, this small fleet of Believers sighted the Knights’ carrack before she sank. Rescuing me and finding me to be one of their own, they determined upon immediate revenge. It was Allah’s will, however, to send that storm, during which we had to seek shelter in a cove near the Italian Gallipoli, and subsequently lost you for several days. Late yesterday we finally sighted you again, and so it was.”

My friend was much changed since I’d seen him last. His Venetian merchant’s clothes he had traded for the long, full robes and turban of the man he really was. He was, no doubt at the core, still the same person, but I could not help but be struck by a seeming change in character that he had put on as easily as new clothes. The heavy blue velvet of his robes seemed to soften him considerably. He seemed tender and compassionate in a way that might have appeared effeminate to others, but which to me seemed easy, natural, and at the same time almost saintly. The color became him, but emphasized the gray in his beard and made him seem older than I remembered. His turban, neat and somber, gave him a look of great and hoary wisdom, while the wide bands of flowered silk sash tight about his midriff made him seem stouter.

Although his sash was stuck now with a silver-hilted dagger and a pistol which was probably still warm, it gave him a look of well-fed bourgeois comfort that put me at ease. I remembered the day I’d first met him in our orchards on the Brenta River. I remembered how his brown eyes had sparkled with mirth and kindness under thick brows that grew together in the middle. I remembered his square-cut beard, grayer now than then, under a broad, slightly hooked nose. And those gold teeth when he laughed—that was something to hold a child’s fascination!

I remembered what a day it was, a beautiful summer’s day in the luminous Paduan sunshine, and we’d known at once we would be friends. He had sung me songs from his boyhood, songs I did not understand, but I had not hesitated to leave the nurse and take his hand to hear more. With a sort of sixth sense like an inward sun tan, that glow returned to me now, though it was night and the Brentan land had long ago gone to pay debts. The feeling came to me that it was the Syrian part of Husayn I liked best. The Venetian man spoke my language, but I never could quite trust him in the same way, perhaps because he did not quite trust himself— or trust his God to be with him—in such a guise.

Some of the same feeling, I think, touched Husayn, too, that night. I heard it in his voice as he spoke his thanks to me for risking my life in his defense. His words were rather stilted and formalized—how else does one pay such thanks, especially one who feels debt like a physical stamp upon his soul?—but I heard the feeling nonetheless. Perhaps there were lines of those old songs in it.

“It was nothing, my friend,” I said, and “You would have done the same for me.”

“No,” Husayn said. “I cannot say that I would have. To tell the truth, I thought you were out of your mind. Extremely foolish, at any rate. What was the purpose in such rashness?”

“Had I not sunk the carrack, the Knights would have blown your brains out instead of thinking they had a ready-made coffin to tie you to.”

“What Allah might have willed to happen, we cannot say. But even you, my friend—with all your self-confidence— even you, I cannot think, were able to second-guess Him quite so well. No, from the human perspective, I still say you were all but mad. Ha! I can see you now, standing there with the smoldering coal between your tongs, daring the whole mob of pirates to move. Would to Allah I might always have such a defender!”

“Truth to tell, Husayn,” I said, sobering, “yours is not the only skin I have on my soul. There is Uncle Jacopo besides. Dear God, I shall pray the rest of my life and never forgive myself for that.”

“It was Allah’s will,” Husayn comforted me. “And you mustn’t blame yourself. The Knights would have shot him anyway for harboring me.”

We spoke of my uncle for a while, remembering his goodness. Then I cried out helplessly, “That girl had me at my wit’s end!”

Husayn nodded thoughtfully. “So tell me, how do you feel about the girl after a week in the hold? Can you think soberly of her now?”

I had no answer to that.

“The reason I ask,” Husayn said, “is that our commander is anxious to make a division of the spoils.”

“Spoils?”

“Of course. Slaves and ducats and jewels and such. We have taken quite a rich booty with this galley.”

“You mean you’re taking us as booty?”

“My friend, it was a fair battle, you must confess, and we are the victors.”

“But...but the Republic of Venice is friends with the Porte—we have a treaty signed.”

“And you are friends with the Knights.”

“They are our co-religionists.”

“People who walk along the blade of a scimitar must take a fall every now and again. Come, now, don’t put on such a face. You, of course, will go free. I have spoken for you and told them you are like my son. Any man, our commander decided, whom the Knights of Saint John keep in the hold cannot be such a blasphemous nonbeliever as all that. I have my goods returned to me, so that is fine. The rest, however, will be divided according to our ancient laws of booty, instituted by the Prophet, blessed be he, nearly a thousand years ago. This I cannot plead against.”

“The people, too?”

“Of course, the people. Our ships need oarsmen, our cities need slaves. It is only fair, my friend.”

“Fair!”

“Well, then, let us call it Allah’s will and accept it at that,” Husayn said. “We did find five Muslims among your oarsmen and, having liberated them, we will need replacements.”

“Come, come. I am being harsh with you, but it is only so you will understand how things stand. Our commander has a merciful heart and he has opened up these options. We may sail now toward Corfu and offer the governor there the chance to ransom as many souls on board as he will. Or, in gratitude for saving my life, our commander will give you the girl to have for your own and you may both go free when we reach Tripoli. That is more than just. That is very magnanimous. And I wish you much joy in her, my friend.”

I struggled in silence against the feeling of easy comfort I had so shortly before enjoyed in Husayn’s presence. He was an infidel, after all.

“You seem indecisive, my friend. Come, I will take you to her and then we shall see what you say about our commander’s generosity.”

As Husayn led me across the deck, I saw a sash of pink silk around one Turk and a teardrop pearl in the ear of another. I realized at once why they were so familiar. The female prisoners, Madonna Baffo, her aunt, and their two maids, had been allowed to remain in their cabins but their trunks had been rilled.

When the guard opened the door for us, we found the nun suffering from a nervous fit. The two maids were applying cold compresses to her forehead and had had to remove her wimple to give her air. The close-cropped hair—dull, pale, and sticking out all over like the pinfeathers of a plucked goose—seemed more obscene than had we found her totally naked. I turned away, hardly noticing that the niece was not present. I did not ask why.

Husayn asked the question instead, demanding it of the guard in harsh tones and in Turkish. The fellow’s reply was equally impassioned. Though I did not understand him, it seemed he pleaded helplessness and asked for mercy. The girl’s disappearance should not be laid to his head. He had done his best to remain at his post and he flung a wild arm off in the direction she must have gone.

Husayn shook his head as we hastened to follow that arm and muttered something about the wrath of the commander and the foolishness of Venetian girls. Seeing his concern beneath that wise turban made me worry, too. Baffo’s daughter, I thought, is a captive—no, now a slave—and these lecherous Turks have been away from their harems for God knows how long. How could I in reason expect them to ignore her beautiful face, her young, lithe body? Why had I let myself be lulled in good humor so long? It was the days in the hold; they had muddled my senses and made me place too much value on food and cleanliness. While I had been made comfortable, a pack of circumcised scoundrels had dragged her off—onto one of the little Turkish ships, it seemed, sailing tight on our flanks, where her screams and struggles could not be heard from the galley.

Now, as we dropped over the port side of the larger ship and rowed to the companion vessel, what screams there may have been had faded to quiet moans. And perhaps those were only the animal sounds of satisfied men. Perhaps she had already passed from this life in grief and shame and pain...

The first thing I saw in the Turkish ship was a great, black figure that made my heart stop. A second look assured me it was only Piero. He was holding up a torch that glowed on his skin as if he were a lump of coal, and he moved gingerly among rows of prostrate bodies. These were the battle’s wounded: men shot in the arm, in the leg, slashed by a wicked blade across the face or burned by exploding powder. Men of both sides were here and many would not live through the night. It was all a horrible, blow by blow account of the fierce battle I had been spared during the day.

Among this human butcher shop, leading Piero and his light, moved a tall, slim figure in pale gold. She had been stripped of all her jewels, but to me she seemed more divine than ever. She knelt beside one body in Venetian blue, braced herself by forming a cross upon her breast, and then pronounced, “This man is dead.”

Two shadowy sailors came to throw their companion overboard with quick and simple rites.

Next I saw her stoop beside a Turk. She inspected his wound, then called for a bucket. The bucket contained a portion of salvaged wine which she was using to cleanse the wounds. Though our hull was full of fine linen and wool, she was allowed none of that. When she needed dressings she turned aside and, I saw, tore off portions of her chemise that now barely covered her hips. When, thus armed, she moved toward the wounded man, he shoved her away in terror. She tried again, speaking soothing words, and this time his attempt to escape was so violent that blood spurted anew from the gash in his side. He was, I believe, more afraid of her witchcraft than of bleeding to death.

Baffo’s daughter got to her feet with a sigh and moved on, giving him the benediction, “Bloody stupid Turk,” in tones of such exhaustion that he could never guess their meaning.

“You must stop her,” Husayn said to me, “before our commander...”

But he spoke too late. The commander had appeared at the galley’s near railing. He was a fierce-looking man with heavy black moustaches that hung from his upper lip to below his chin like a pair of pistols. The rest of his face he shaved, but either he had not had time for a razor in the last week or the beard grew with such vigor (I suspected the latter) that it was now in dark shadow as well. His great arms and chest were as if bearded also, and he stood, arms akimbo, on the deck and bellowed with such force that he could have filled the sails.

Husayn replied to the fury in words that seemed to begin every sentence, “With most humble respect, my lord...”

Though I saw no way on earth humility could make any headway against such violence, that single bow of deference before each phrase did seem to entrench my friend in a position beyond defeat. The commander got in the final words, shot between his moustaches like lead before a wad of powder, but when Husayn turned to me after his final bows his little smile told me we were far from being lost.

I found this difficult to believe when two burly Turks came and bodily snatched Madonna Baffo away from her work. She fought them so fiercely, I feared other wounded would soon replace those that had died, but they were firm and dragged her, kicking and swearing, back to the galley’s cabin. I was determined to jump to her rescue, whatever the odds, but Husayn stopped me with a touch on my arm. I still trusted him and was content to follow quietly.

A new, sterner guard had replaced the old one at the galley’s cabin door. There was a look in his dark eyes as if he had been told he would lose them to a red-hot poker if he were as negligent as his predecessor had been. On the other side of the door he guarded, Baffo’s daughter was pounding and screaming such abuse that, had the night not been perfectly clear, I would have feared the wrath of God upon us in the form of a thunderbolt. That, too, would make one cautious to open the door, and Husayn had to cajole the guard for quite some time before we were allowed even a crack.

It was only my friend’s frequent gestures in my direction that finally seemed to win him.

“I told him you were her brother,” he said to me later.

Madonna Baffo fell back when she saw us, silent with hate and accusations of treachery, and this encouraged the guard to let us go in all the way. He did, however, take the precaution of locking the door behind us.

Husayn and I took a seat on an empty trunk by the door while all four women cowered on the nun’s sickbed at the other end of the room. Madonna Baffo took her aunt’s frail hand in hers and whispered private words of comfort, but this seemed to me to be only an act. To her, a woman’s sickness, gotten from nerves and a weak heart, were not worth the attention of men’s ills caught in the face of guns and swords. Women’s lives, this contrast told me, were to Baffo’s daughter dispensable because women were soft and weak. This impression was so strong that, where I’d found her beautiful among the wounded soldiers, the ugly smears of dirt and blood, the torn dress, and uncombed hair now made me look away with loathing.