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.
The women sat occupied with their patient, Husayn and I sat staring nowhere but at our own hands, until I brought myself to whisper, “Come, my friend.
