This did not seem to concern her, however. Something else did. “I...I’ve never seen a man without...without...,” she stammered, gesturing to the upper part of her body.
I laughed skeptically. “Lady, you have Sokolli Pasha for a husband.”
“It’s always dark then.” She blushed, but she didn’t stop staring at me. “And I keep my eyes closed.”
“I am not a man,” I reminded her, and quickly sashed my body out of her sight.
The first thing I decided had to happen was that the long- tailed banners—red crosses on a silver ground—had to come down from the main masts. The white-checkered Genoese flag and the Three Kings in procession had to be hauled in off the stern.
Now the five rather indolent seamen who’d been left on board to keep an eye on things decided to question my actions, as they hadn’t bothered when it was just a matter of a sprint up to the lookout’s basket. The men hadn’t any fear of mutiny; my post as ship’s mate had only been informal at best. They delegated the gruffest of their number for the task and for a moment I thought I’d have to fight him for access to the banners’ ropes.
But all I really had to do was to say the word “Turks” and suggest, “Go up and have a look for yourself if you don’t believe me.” A few blinks towards the east and all five of them were hauling in the Magi at once.
A quick glance over the other options in Giustiniani’s flag cabinet disappointed me. Something about the captain had made me willing to bet he had a Turkish flag on board for such occasions—or for when a little pirating seemed too good to pass up.
“Giustiniani, you’re more honest than I gave you credit for.”
And I cursed him as I stuffed the too-blatant flags into the empty cubicles.
Now I had to ask myself whether, Turkish banner or no, the six of us together could get the anchor up and sail this tub out of harm’s way. The anchor seemed the most difficult thing, but I wouldn’t despair until an attempt was made. The shrouds would only take a little more time than usual, that’s all. I’d shed my robes again and risk their stares in the direction of my vacant crotch to lend a hand.
But then I realized that these men had families ashore at Chios. They were frantic for the return of the ship’s boat so they could go to them. One of the men—the youngest and strongest—even risked the charge of desertion and the chance he simply wouldn’t make it to dive overboard and swim. I don’t know whether he made it or not. I do know that without him my hopes of sailing away diminished, even if I could have talked the others into the idea, which one look in their shoreward-yearning faces told me wasn’t worth the risk.
At the first sign of possible confrontation with strange men, Esmikhan had crept back under her draped awning with her maidservants. Although I had nothing good to report, I took a peek in there as my fruitless pacing brought me nearby. I told myself I went to reassure Esmikhan. But the sight of her, lounging calmly, bravely, trustingly fasting among her cushions, seemed rather to reassure me—or at least fire me with determination to think of something to do to help our situation.
And it did, in fact, give me an idea. Or rather, her shalvar gave me the idea, for she had kicked the white-and-silver-figured fabric of her yelek off her knees as she lounged. And a great expanse of the red silk of her gathered trousers was exposed. She was still wearing a very large size of this garment, as her body had yet to shake all of the effects of her pregnancy. There were plenty of cubits of good fabric about the hips and above the crotch, which didn’t begin until below her knees.
I sank to my knees before her cushions and caught her ankle, partly from emotional and physical exhaustion, partly to feel the fabric—which was as excellent as I knew it would be—-and partly to beg before I knew begging was necessary.
“Lady,” I propositioned. “Would you be willing to sacrifice these shalvar?”
“My shalvar?”
“Yes, and whatever white stuff you might have to spare. Take your needle and make us a banner. Proclaim your faith to the world.”
Where the thought of facing eighty galleys of Turks did not move her, banner-making as a pious Ramadhan activity did. Or perhaps—and why, at such a time, did I delude myself with the thought?—it was the earnest touch of my hand on her ankle.
In any case, I had no sooner stepped out of sight when I heard the unsettling sound of ripping silk. It was too reminiscent. Especially under the circumstances, of the sounds of rapine and looting. So I let my pacing carry me farther away, assured that if once we did get under sail, our topmast, at least, would be prepared.
Pacing stirred the thought up to my mind that I had reason to be grateful I wasn’t depending on Sofia Baffo in this strait. I remembered the Fair One’s vain attempts to make a shirt tor our slave Piero—in a time so long ago that I had had slaves. But circumstances were otherwise quite similar. Or Baffo’s daughter had persisted in making them so dangerously similar soon afterwards by her irresponsible actions.
The contrast of Esmikhan heartened me as the sun set in bleeding bandages over the roofs and rocks of Chios. She and her helpers had made good progress and continued without pause to coax a white crescent and star out of red silk with pinpricks of needles. Riding at anchor lessened the danger of fire. I hung up a chained lamp
