Set title

by O’Donnell, Laurel

  Their rescuers pulled on the oars, dragging the tree towards the entrance of the cave.

  Kon murmured a prayer of grateful thanks he had escaped death yet again. Had he been granted life in order to wed Zara? Or would he be punished for his disbelief? He fervently hoped when he was taken aboard the rescue ship, she would be there to welcome him back to life.

  Digging her fingernails into the railing of the forecastle, Zara stared at the opening of the cave for so long in the gathering darkness, everything became blurry.

  At first she wasn’t sure if it was the rowboat she espied coming towards the Pravda, then her spirits plummeted when she counted only two men in the boat. “They haven’t found him,” she murmured to Lupomari who stood next to her. “I was certain.”

  The captain leaned forward, as if to see more clearly. “Don’t lose hope yet. They are towing something.”

  She narrowed her eyes, trying to see what he had seen. “Is it a raft?”

  He shook his head. “No. A tree, I think.”

  Hope raced in her heart, but impatience tugged. The rowers were fighting the incoming tide and seemed to be making no headway.

  Lupomari called for hands to come to the aid of the rowboat as it finally bumped alongside. “There are two men lying on the tree,” he exclaimed. “One of them black.”

  Black? Not Kon then.

  A pulse throbbed in her throat. “Is it Kon?” she shouted down to Jakov.

  Rospo’s rare grin calmed her fears.

  The man lying face down on the tree-raft slowly turned his head to look up and a thousand winged creatures fluttered in her belly. As long as she lived she would never forget the endearing sight of Kon’s white backside glowing in the light of the rising moon.

  His endurance at an end, and confident his rescue was in good hands, Kon lay still while Jakov and Rospo undertook the delicate process of untangling him and Menas from the raft. He sensed other members of the crew had taken to the water and were holding the tree in place, assisting with the task.

  He had a vague notion the ship was the Ragusa, but couldn’t reconcile in his weary mind how that could be.

  Menas was hauled aboard the rowboat first, then helped up the rope ladder. The tree dipped alarmingly without his comrade’s weight to balance it, but Kon remained calm, despite coming close to being submerged. The prospect of climbing the ladder was daunting, but the certainty it was Zara who had peered over the side and called his name renewed his strength.

  His nakedness was of concern. He wanted Zara’s first sight of his body to be…well, not like this, beaten, starved, smeared with tar and half-drowned. God in his bounty had been generous with his male endowments. The shrivelled appendage between his legs was far from impressive now.

  Strong hands and encouraging voices got him safely into the rowboat. They steadied his hips as he clamped his trembling hands on either side of the rough rope ladder. Filled with apprehension and shivering with cold, he gritted his teeth, put one foot on the bottom rung and began the shaky climb. Jakov climbed right behind him, saying nothing, but keeping one hand on his back. He braced Kon’s waist as Lupomari helped him over the side. Someone threw a warm blanket over his trembling shoulders. He gathered it tightly to his body, teeth chattering, eyes searching desperately for one person.

  Finally, he saw her standing nearby. Uncharacteristically hesitant. Was it true she feared his wrath? She looked so bereft, he wanted to reassure her, but he had to be sure she loved him, even at his worst. He opened his arms as wide as the chain allowed and spoke her name. “Zara.”

  She stooped beneath the chain, put her arms around his waist, pressed her body to his and sobbed on his shoulder. He folded the blanket around her and nuzzled his nose in her hair, inhaling deeply of Zara’s unique aroma.

  Salt, sea, woman.

  He gently tightened the chain, pulling her closer. “You are mine, and I will never let you go,” he growled.

  Her warmth chased away the chill. His rute stirred pleasantly, putting a welcome end to any worries on that score. His knees were of greater concern. “I need to sit,” he said hoarsely, “and I am getting you wet.”

  Her eyes brimming with tears, she leaned back again the restraint, pressing her hips to his arousal. She folded the blanket back around him and raked his wet hair off his face. “Hear my confession first,” she whispered. “My pigheadedness was the cause of your suffering.”

  “I love your pigheadedness,” he replied, holding onto her shoulders for support, filled with a comforting premonition he would always be able to rely on her strength.

  She fisted her hands in the blanket. “And I love you. Now you must rest. The men will help you to the bed we’ve readied.”

  Certain now of her love, his confidence in the future blossomed. Zara was indeed the grail he’d been seeking. She and a black man he’d encountered by chance had helped him rediscover who he was. “Is Menas the Nubian safe?” he asked as two crewmen took him by the arms.

  She stepped back under the chain. “Menas?”

  “My comrade.”

  “The man rescued with you is Menas of Nubia?”

  “Yes. He saved my life more than once.”

  She looked at him curiously. “He was a partner in several of my father’s African business ventures.”

  “He told me he knew your father. It was he kept the hope alive that you would come.”

  “My father described him as a man of great faith, but it cannot be him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He died three years ago.”

  A SORRY TALE

  Kon took Zara’s hand. “I admit there were times when I thought I had lost my wits, but I can assure you my comrade is Menas of Nubia. Come with me and you’ll see.”

  Buoyed by the strength of his calloused grasp, even after his ordeal, she went willingly as the crewmen helped him walk to beneath the stern-castle.

  She had met Menas once when she was a young girl, and wasn’t sure if the haggard black man crouched on the hides and shrouded in blankets was indeed her father’s friend. His gaze was fixed on the adze and chisel Jakov was wielding in an effort to break apart one leg shackle. Shattered manacles already lay nearby.

  He looked up as she and Kon approached. His broad smile dispelled any doubts. “Zara Polani,” he chuckled. “You were a child the last time I saw you. Look at you now. Konrad is a lucky man.”

  Confused and flustered, she watched as her grinning lover was lowered to the hides, then fell to her knees between him and his comrade, her hand still in Kon’s grasp. “I don’t understand. My father thought you were dead.”

  He winced as the shackle broke apart, then wrapped his long fingers around his liberated ankle. “In a way I was. I was kidnapped by slavers and taken to Egypt. You may be aware Nubia supplies the Fatimids with a large number of their slave soldiers. I’m ashamed to admit I myself once traded men to them.” He shook his head. “Never again, I assure you.”

  “Amen,” Kon replied.

  “But you disappeared three years ago,” Zara protested.

  Menas stretched out his other ankle for Jakov. “I served in the Mamluk army for almost two.”

  “Two years,” Kon exclaimed, his eyes on Jakov’s progress. “I’d have gone mad.”

  Menas nodded. “I was fortunate. My commander was a kind, devout man. Kareem of Alexandria.”

  “A Mohammedan?” Kon asked.

  Menas frowned. “Do not make the mistake of assuming all who are faithful to Islam are monsters like Nizar. It was Kareem who helped me escape.”

  “Why?”

  He leaned back on his elbows and braced himself as the remaining leg shackle fell way after one last blow from Jakov. “You must understand. The Fatimids view their slave armies as a means of providing security not only for their caliphate but for the men in those armies. They are slaves, yes, but their needs are met—good food, clothing, shelter, even wives. They have status and are allowed to carry weapons. Most of them are better off tha
n they would have been had they not been conscripted into the army.”

  Kon scoffed. “Benevolent slavery.”

  “In a way,” Menas agreed, accepting a tumbler of ale from a crewman. “But it preyed on Kareem’s mind that I was a successful trader who had brought wealth not only to myself, but to my country. My enslavement was detrimental to Nubia in his view because I was no longer of value to my fellow Nubians, Christian and Mohammedan. He regarded it as a sin.”

  Zara had doubts. “He freed you, though he was aware you were a Christian?”

  He took a long draught of the ale. “As I told Kon, Islam and Christianity have co-existed in peace in Nubia for generations. My faith was of no importance to Kareem. My stature humbled him. He risked much in freeing me, but an opportunity arose during a campaign against the Berbers in Tripolitania.”

  “In Libya?” Kon asked, splaying his hands flat as Jakov made ready to break his manacles. Zara missed the security of his grip.

  Menas scratched under his chin. “Too anxious to return to Nubia, I made an error in judgement. I hired on as a crew member of a ship bound for Alexandria. I believed the Coptic Patriarch would grant me sanctuary and help me get back to my homeland.”

  She helped Kon sip his ale while Jakov tackled his restraints. “What happened?”

  “The Mediterranean can be treacherous. We were caught in a violent storm and carried far from shore. The boat broke apart. I would have drowned but for another Mohammedan, a crew member who helped me cling to a piece of wreckage for hours.”

  Zara had a dreadful premonition. “You washed ashore in Italy.”

  “Indeed. We were discovered half dead on a beach by peasants. They recognized their good fortune in stumbling upon two black men and sold us to our friend Nizar.”

  She frowned when Kon choked on his ale. This was the second mention of the name. “Nizar?”

  Menas shook his head. “Don’t ask.”

  “What happened to your companion? The one who saved you?”

  Menas clenched his jaw. “I watched him die in the stinking hull of the Feloz after Nizar’s henchmen cut out his tongue. I was powerless to do anything to aid him.”

  Zara trembled as Kon and Menas stared silently into the hell they’d shared, the only sound the metallic thud of the adze as it struck the chisel.

  She accepted that the man she loved might never reveal to her what had happened aboard the slave ship. She made a solemn vow to fill his remaining days with a love so fierce and all-consuming that the horrors he’d endured would fade into a forgotten memory.

  Kon had faltered before under the weight of adversity and sorrow. But now he had Zara Polani to share his burdens and she looked forward with relish to the challenge.

  OLIVES

  Three days later Kon stood with his arm around Zara’s waist on the forecastle of the Pravda as Jakov guided the cog into Bari under the watchful eye of Lupomari. The rechristening of the Ragusa seemed to have expunged the horrific memories of his confinement, though he still preferred to keep his eyes averted from the thwarts.

  Disaster seemed to stalk him in the port town, yet he looked forward to their arrival, aware of Zara’s nervous excitement.

  It was the first day he’d been strong enough to remain on his feet for more than an hour and he wanted to share in her joy when she set eyes on her beloved flagship again.

  She’d fussed over him during the entire voyage from Zante. Before they left the stricken island, Rospo had insisted on undertaking an excursion onshore. They supposed he intended to search for survivors, but he returned with the news he had found only death and destruction. However, the crewmen who accompanied him carried handfuls of olives. He gave Zara a terse explanation. “Tar.”

  Apparently, a five year acquaintance with the man had given her insights into his thoughts, and she understood at once. The oily fruit would help soften the hardened tar.

  She pitted and mashed the olives then patiently bathed the soles of his feet and his back with repeated applications of the stuff.

  He experienced a ridiculous surge of jealousy when she daubed the mush on Menas’s back, feeling especially foolish when his grinning friend shot him a mocking wink.

  Slowly, the tar came off, the last of it removed by a gentle rubbing with a holystone. He’d been sceptical, but having the soles of his feet massaged with the rough stone turned out to be an arousing experience.

  He tucked the revelation away for the future.

  He lusted for her as much as he ever did—mayhap more now he was sure she was his. However, he’d learned patience and was reconciled to waiting for what they both desired—to surrender their virginity to each other in a sweet-smelling bed as man and wife.

  It was what his parents would have expected of him. The certainty of it led him to a decision. “After we dock,” he whispered in her ear, “and you and Lupomari have hugged and kissed your beloved Nunziata…”

  “Don’t forget Rospo,” she interrupted with feigned seriousness.

  “And Rospo,” he conceded. “Then we must go to the Venetian church you told me of.”

  “I intended for us to go there. They will be relieved you are safe.”

  “Good. I need to beg the services of a scrivener and the means for a missive to be sent to Wolfenberg in the hope my father is still alive. It may be many months before I can travel to Saxony and I want him to know I am safe and well.”

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Will you tell him about me?”

  He circled her waist and pulled her to his body. “If I had the ability to conjure some alchemy to spirit us both to Saxony this moment, I would. My Papa will love you.”

  The kiss he planned to bestow on her tempting lips was thwarted by a shout from Rospo. “Nun-zee-ata,” he sang from the stern-castle as if he’d set eyes on a long lost lover.

  “We can’t go at this moment,” she replied, wriggling with excitement in his arms, straining to catch a first glimpse of her ship.

  The Venetians of Bari welcomed the travellers warmly and offered accommodations in the dormitorios. A smith was located who carefully removed the neck collars Jakov had been unwilling to tackle with his adze.

  Kon dictated a letter to a scrivener and Lupomari found a captain who undertook to take it as far as Genoa then pass it on to traders heading north into Germany.

  They lingered a fortnight to give Kon and Menas time to recover from their ordeal, and to prepare both ships for a long voyage. Zara’s intention was to spend time securing a cargo for the Nunziata to transport to Venezia, but the opportunity to spend time with Kon won out. She left the task in the capable hands of Lupomari and his crew.

  Jakov had been persuaded to sail the Pravda to the republic before going on to Croatia. At first he’d been reluctant to agree to her urgings that he take his case against the Venetian slavers to the Doge, claiming he and his men simply wanted to get home.

  However, the invitation to attend a wedding eventually convinced him.

  He spent most of his time on the docks with his men and they saw little of him during the day.

  She and Kon and Menas strolled in the church’s quiet courtyard, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. Born into different cultures, they shared tales of their lives before they met.

  She had never candidly discussed Bruno with anyone before, not even Ottavia, who barely acknowledged she had a brother. Strangely, she was at ease telling the two men of the joys and difficulties of having a grown brother with the mind of a child. She admitted often being more at odds with her younger sister.

  Menas spoke with pride about Nubia and the fertile valley of the River Nile. Folk eyed them curiously when Kon and Zara tried to follow the steps of a traditional Nubian dance he demonstrated. Or mayhap the loud chanting caught their attention.

  Kon talked at length of his family, especially of his English-born mother, and Zara sensed he had become reconciled to her loss.

  It was gratifying to see both men regain their strength, and she
marvelled neither had lost his sense of humor. Indeed, Kon seemed to have acquired a mature serenity. The impetuous intensity was gone. The fires of hell had forged a man of the strongest steel.

  Yet he wasn’t afraid to show his emotions, as evidenced by their parting with Menas on the fourteenth day. Lupomari had arranged passage for him on a reputable ship with an experienced captain, another Nubian. “Let us hope I make it safely to Alexandria this time,” he quipped.

  Splendid in flowing new robes of gold and purple purchased from African traders in the market, Menas had a kind word and a farewell embrace for everyone—the captain, Jakov, even Rospo. He bestowed a courtly kiss on Zara’s hand and finally faced Kon. No words were exchanged. The two men who had helped each other survive unspeakable hardship simply embraced for long, silent minutes until Menas broke away and strode up the gangplank of the waiting ship.

  Kon put an arm around Zara’s waist and raised a hand in salute as the cog was shoved away from the dock. “Go with God, my friend,” he shouted in a voice hoarse with emotion.

  Menas waved back. “God is always with me,” he replied with a bright smile.

  WELCOME TO VENEZIA

  Fair winds prevailed throughout the voyage from Bari to Venezia. Zara took it as a good omen. She loved being at sea, but was overjoyed to reach home port. It meant a reunion with the man she loved who had sailed as steersman on the Pravda while she had remained aboard the Nunziata.

  The separation had been Kon’s suggestion. She’d missed him more than she thought possible, but accepted it was for the best. Five days in close quarters on the same ship with no opportunity for privacy would have been worse than exchanging an occasional distant wave across the watery expanse between the two ships.

  When the Nunziata pulled into the lagoon, it was evident from the loud cheers of men on the docks that news of their adventures had already reached Venezia. Her crew added to the hubbub when they disembarked and shared tales of the voyage with welcoming comrades. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” she remarked to Lupomari. “I’ve always said nothing goes on anywhere in the four corners of the earth that the republic’s ships don’t report back in short order.”