“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.”
XII
“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
