“You look exhausted,” she replied, nigh on swallowing a yawn when his words penetrated the fog in her brain. She scrambled to her feet. “A ship? Is it the Feloz?”
“Too far away to tell, and Lupomari doesn’t want to get too close.”
Nervous excitement tightened her throat. “I’ll take his place on the forecastle so you can both get some sleep. Use the hides. They stink, but they’re soft.”
She climbed the fist few steps of the stern-castle, relieved to see one of Jakov’s men had taken over from Rospo. Her loyal crewman lay curled up on the decking, snoring loudly, his several chins vibrating with each exhaled snort.
She lifted her face to the wind. “We’re making good speed. We must hope this fair weather keeps up. The Ionian Sea is no place to encounter a storm.”
Jakov lay on his side on the skins. “But favorable winds also help our prey.”
She nodded. “It may come down to tactics. Sometime on the morrow we’ll pass the Ionian Islands. We Venetians are experts at playing cat-and-mouse at sea.”
Jakov frowned. “Why are you doing this?”
She averted her gaze. “It is my fault Kon faces a future as a slave. I owe him a debt.”
Jakov smiled. “I understand debts, but there is more, isn’t there? You’re in love with him.”
She sensed it wasn’t a question. “Yes, I will go to the ends of the earth to get him back, if I have to.”
He chuckled. “I’m confident it won’t come to that.”
HEAVEN AND HELL
The reign of terror continued aboard the Feloz for a second day, and on into the night. It seemed favorable winds had restored the captain’s confidence in his navigational skills.
Kon, Menas and the other surviving oarsmen endured intervals of strenuous rowing interspersed by fitful dozes, their only sustenance the insipid gruel and sips of brackish water.
As a youth Kon had boasted to his siblings of his strict adherence to fasting rituals required by the Church. Now the painful reality of near-starvation gnawed his belly. He wouldn’t last a year if this regimen carried on, never mind ten.
Nizar’s brutality had thinned the ranks of the slaves in the hull. Fewer now remained to stare blankly into their own oblivion, apparently resigned to their fate.
Nightmares stalked Kon’s brief periods of sleep. He cheered at bloodying Heinrich’s nose with a well-aimed blow, laughed hysterically when he lopped off Nizar’s head with one swipe of the scimitar, and wept as he watched his mother’s coffin being lowered into the ground.
Menas nudged him awake frequently.
Worried his nightmares would incur Nizar’s wrath, or worse still drag him into madness, he conjured visions of his brothers and sister, his beloved parents, Zara.
In the end there was only Zara.
“Is she your wife?” Menas whispered sometime on the third day.
He must have uttered his beloved’s name. “No.”
Menas waited, but further explanation remained lodged in Kon’s throat.
“I am acquainted with a woman of the same name. A Venetian.”
Kon swallowed his thirst and looked away, his confused mind trying to solve the unlikely coincidence Menas had suggested.
“Or rather I knew her father,” the Nubian added. “A trader. Owner of a fleet of ships.”
Kon opened his mouth to reply, but a shout from the forecastle caught their attention.
“Land to larbord,” Menas translated. “Probably Kerkyra.”
The name meant nothing.
“The largest of the Ionian islands.”
Kon took advantage of Nizar’s preoccupation with the newly-sighted land. “I might have gone mad by now were it not for your presence,” he murmured. “I thank God for your companionship. You’ve never faltered, though you’ve suffered as much as any of us.”
Menas lay a gentle hand atop his. “My strength lies in having travelled this road before and been delivered from my torment.”
Kon thought he might have misheard the faintly whispered words. “This isn’t the first time you’ve been enslaved?”
“I escaped once, only to fall again into the clutches of slavers. There are many in this world who believe every black man belongs in chains. They do not consider they might be kidnapping a prosperous trader respected in his own fertile land and beyond. Zara’s father recognized the worth of Nubia and her people. He and I profited from our association. We gained wealth and a strong friendship.”
Kon gasped. “You knew it was the same man.”
“Yes, I discerned it from your reaction when I told you of my acquaintance with him.”
“But how did you gain your freedom?”
“It’s a long story, for another time, when Nizar is once more busy with other matters.”
Kon was humbled. If he ever escaped this hell and then tumbled into it again, anger would consume him. Menas, however, seemed resigned. Or was it hope kept him going?
Zara dragged her salt-stung eyes away from the distant ship she had to hope was the Feloz to gaze at the shores of Kerkyra.
“Have you been there?” Jakov asked.
“I came to these islands once, with my father,” she replied, recalling halcyon days spent exploring the island.
“I’ve heard of Kerkyra’s scenic beauty from travellers.”
“The islands along this coast are breathtaking. Later we’ll pass Zante. Polani ships call there sometimes to load tar.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Tar?”
“Tar makes a better seal for boats than pitch. The ancient Greeks used to dredge it up from the bottom of a large lake on the island using myrtle branches fastened to the end of long poles. It’s not done much differently now, except the ships don’t use the tar to seal the hulls here—which is what the ancient Athenians did. These days its collected in pots ready for shipping. My father kept some of it for our vessels and traded the rest. It’s a smelly and unpleasant task for the men who have to load the stuff.”
Jakov grinned. “Which wasn’t your job.”
She laughed. “No. There are caves you can only reach by sea. Rospo rowed me and my father to see one of them in a rowboat. When you dip your hand in the water, your skin turns bright blue.”
“I’ve heard of the phenomenon.” He held up his hand, evidently trying to conjure an image of it turning blue. “It must be alarming.”
“Disconcerting, yes, but when you take your hand out of the water, it’s the normal color.”
He put his noticeably darker hand next to Zara’s on the wooden railing. “Does it have the same effect on all skin colors?”
She shrugged. “I suppose. Rospo’s has a green tinge you’ve probably noticed, but he wouldn’t dip his hand. Afraid, I think.”
“I doubt he fears anything. Superstitious, mayhap?”
“Well, the caves are eerie. I wouldn’t like to be in one alone.” She shivered. “Especially with the frequent earthquakes these islands experience. As soon as my father described the destruction they can cause I wanted to leave and never come back. If you were in a cave when a tremor happened the whole cliff might fall in on you. Venezia isn’t perfect but at least the earth doesn’t move.”
He winked. “But one day your fair city might drown beneath the waters of her canals.”
It was a common taunt levelled at Venetians by rival states jealous of La Serenissima’s power and wealth. Zara ignored it with the haughty indifference instilled in those who were proud to call the Serene Republic their home.
NO REAL PLAN
For Kon, closing his eyes and escaping into a dream world when they weren’t rowing was preferable to watching the slaves in the hull slowly rot in the unforgiving sun.
Zara filled his dreams now. He sifted his fingers through her hair, pecked a kiss on her nose, admired the tilt of her proud chin, brushed his thumbs over rigid nipples and cupped her tempting bottom. He gazed into emerald eyes and sucked on her toes. He slowly peeled off her clothes then stood back to drink in her
nakedness. Her smile bade him welcome aboard. He nestled his rute at her opening and…
“Get ready to row. We’re coming into land,” Menas muttered under his breath, jolting Kon from his reverie.
The sweat on his body turned to ice. Was it possible they’d already reached Egypt? “Alexandria?”
Menas shook his head. “One of the islands. Maybe Zante. Vessels pull in there to buy pots of tar and take on supplies.”
Kon scanned the crowded hull in disbelief. “Where are they going to put pots of tar?”
“Nizar will make room one way or the other. Tar is more valuable than slaves. Men will be expected to load the stuff, and I doubt the Fatimids will do manual labor.”
It took a moment for the deeper meaning of Menas’s words to penetrate the throbbing ache in Kon’s head. “We’ll be taken off the ship.”
“And maybe unchained from each other.”
“But what good is escaping on an island in the middle of the sea?”
Menas winked. “Who mentioned escape? It will simply be a chance to get away from your stink, my friend.”
Kon chuckled at the jest. “Right. Never thought I’d look forward to hauling tar.”
“Careful you don’t get any on your skin or they’ll not tell us apart!”
Once again Menas had lifted Kon’s spirits with his sense of humor, but more importantly he’d sparked a flicker of hope. “We must keep our eyes open.”
“Take care. Nizar will watch us like a hawk watches the field-mouse who thinks he is scurrying around undetected.”
It was true the chances of escape were slim, but Kon’s heart beat faster when the sail came down.
The ship changed direction.
They took up the oar and pulled until the Feloz’s flat bottom touched sand.
“Zante,” Menas confirmed as the anchor played out.
Kon looked up at the forbidding cliffs towering over the ship. “Who knew tar came from places like this?”
“Given the size of the Polani fleet, I’ll warrant Zara is aware of it,” Menas whispered.
The mention of her name renewed Kon’s hopes. Perhaps an opportunity to be free would come here on Zante.
“Keep the faith, Konrad,” Menas reminded him as Nizar lumbered towards them.
Zara gaped in disbelief at the empty horizon. “Where are they?” she wailed in exasperation.
“My guess is they’ve pulled into Zante,” Lupomari replied softly.
She inhaled deeply, grateful for her faithful captain’s calming presence. “Of course. I should have foreseen that. It’s a regular port of call for many of our ships, why not the Caliph’s?”
Lupomari agreed. “We’ll come about.”
A worry nagged. “Be careful they don’t see us approach. They’ve probably been nervous about a ship following them anyway.”
He took out his pilot-book. “If they’ve stopped for tar, they’ll be in the bay to the south-west, near Keriou. I’ll set a course for the inside passage and bring us in near Laganas. We can anchor out of sight behind a large rock in the bay.”
The crew responded efficiently to the new orders to turn the Pravda. She noticed Jakov’s men seemed comfortable with their tasks.
“Your Croats are proving to be good sailors,” she told him. “They’ve taken well to a life on the sea.”
He smiled proudly. “At least they have a life now, and are grateful for it. They will do everything they can to aid in this venture.”
She fixed her gaze on the wooded slopes as they passed the distant shore on the larbord side. “I can’t see the Feloz,” she told Jakov, “therefore I assume they can’t see us.”
“What’s the plan?” he asked.
She chewed on her bottom lip. “We pray God will show us the way to free Kon.”
“In other words there is no plan.”
“No,” she admitted reluctantly. “But we must remain hopeful.”
TERREMOTO
Relief and an unexpected sense of loss warred within Kon when Nizar removed the chain linking the iron collar around his neck to Menas. His hopes rose when their manacles were loosed from the oar and the last link joining them was unfastened. His spirits faltered when the slave-master ordered leg irons be clamped on their ankles.
Kon had longed to stand upright and walk again, yet when he was prodded out of the rowing bench at the point of a scimitar he couldn’t make his legs work. He tottered like a child taking his first shaky steps. He made slow progress along with the twenty oarsmen who shuffled down the gangplank. Directly in front of him, Menas swayed alarmingly. Kon put a hand to his elbow, feeling the caress of Nizar’s whip on his shoulder as a reward.
“My thanks,” his friend muttered without turning around.
Once on the beach Kon had an urge to fall to his knees in grateful thanks at being on terra firma again. He looked back at the sea, filled with a longing to cleanse his body, but Nizar kept them moving. They crossed the beach and followed a well-traveled sandy path shaded by pine trees that led eventually through an olive grove.
Pungent fumes assailed Kon’s nostrils well before they emerged from the grove and arrived at a large wooden lean-to crammed with pots of different shapes and sizes, all stacked together haphazardly. Blackened rims confirmed their contents.
The handful of swarthy men who came out to greet Nizar and his henchmen spoke in Greek, but it was evident the Fatimids didn’t understand. Loud haggling over price ensued.
In a previous life, he would have enjoyed the relatively short walk from the beach, but in his weakened state he was already close to exhaustion and had a raging thirst. The prospect of carrying one of the pots back to the ship filled him with apprehension.
Nizar’s smug smile indicated when a satisfactory bargain had been struck. Two skeletal men appeared from the shadows within the shed. They wore filthy loincloths and were smeared with so much tar it was impossible to ascertain the true color of their skin and hair. Kon assumed they too were slaves from the way they were shoved around by the Greeks.
He might be destined for a life of forced military service but the prospect seemed preferable to the hell these wretches must endure every day of their lives.
The rowers were prodded back into a line. The Greek slaves brought out a pot the size of a toddling child and loaded it onto the back of the first rower, securing it in place by means of a strap around his forehead that was attached to the pot’s handles. The man’s legs nearly buckled, but a Fatimid pushed him on his way back to the ship. He staggered down the path and out of sight, the Arab on his heels.
When Kon’s turn came, the slaves carried out a smaller pot, but Nizar shook his head, pointing to the largest vessel. They retrieved the pot he indicated and Kon had to go down on one knee, gritting his teeth as they struggled to lift it onto his back. When the strap was placed around his forehead he leaned forward, fearing his neck might break. He swallowed his revulsion when tar spilled onto his skin, determined not to give Nizar the satisfaction of seeing fear or weakness. His prayer for the strength to stand was answered when he managed to get to his feet, though pain arrowed through every muscle. He braced his legs, gripped the strap and set off towards the ship, escorted by one of the Fatimids. If he tripped on the leg shackles and fell he had no doubt he was a dead man.
He eventually staggered up the gangplank and was relieved of the heavy pot by two of the other rowers. His aching back suddenly felt chilled without the warmth of the pottery pressed against it. Panting hard, he turned to see Menas shuffling up the gangplank with a burden not much smaller than his own.
“Seems we’re the favored ones,” the Nubian muttered as Kon helped remove the load from his tar-spattered back.
The new cargo was being stowed under the stern-castle, which meant less space for the slaves, but no murmur of discontent rose from the ones remaining.
Any hope all the tar had been delivered to the ship was dashed when Nizar appeared and gave the order the rowers be herded back to the shed.
/> Zara paced back and forth on the forecastle of the Pravda.
“You’re making us dizzy,” Jakov complained, though she sensed in his own way he was trying to reassure her.
“We should be doing something,” she replied, “not simply sitting here hidden behind a rock.”
“One option is to sail to the southern tip of Zante and try to see what’s going on,” Lupomari suggested. “If we knew the size of the Feloz’s crew we might contemplate boarding her.”
Zara shook her head. “We’d loose a lot of good men, and the Fatimids might kill the slaves rather than surrender them.”
She’d always been proud of her ability to make difficult decisions, but now her head was stuffed with the wool of a thousand sheep. She sensed Kon’s presence nearby, yet was helpless to do anything to help free him. Dread trickled in her veins.
She looked heavenward. “Dio, come to our aid,” she whispered.
She gradually became aware that seabirds soaring on the breeze had ceased their constant, raucous calls. Only the creak of the Pravda’s rocking timbers broke the eerie silence. Lupomari and Jakov exchanged frowning glances. Doom hung in the suddenly still air.
Gooseflesh marched across her nape when Rospo bellowed from the stern-castle. “Weigh anchor.”
Lupomari echoed the order without hesitation and Zara had no objection. They’d both learned over the years to trust Rospo’s instincts.
The oarsmen scrambled to their thwarts.
“Row,” Rospo yelled. “Row hard.”
As the Pravda slowly pulled away from the rock into deeper water, a deafening roar stopped Zara’s heart.
She covered her ears and looked back to Zante in the distance. Her mouth fell open. It was as if the cliffs had risen up to shake off the forests covering them.
“Terremoto,” she breathed, recalling her father’s description of the destruction earthquakes had wrought in the Greek islands in the past. Kon was caught up in the terror somewhere amid the uprooted trees, the crumbling rocks, but her immediate concern had to be for the Pravda. Rospo’s intuition had given them a chance to outrun a tidal wave if one came.
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