Don Carlos de Varga de Asuncion sat straight in his saddle. He carefully placed his helmet back on and peered at the troops behind him through the slit in the shiny metal. Then he lifted his arm and lowered it abruptly. With the jab of spurs in their flanks, the fine steeds of Barcelona lurched ahead.
Dust clouds swirled everywhere. The villagers of Pansa stepped back, coughing and shielding their eyes while squires and pages cleared the way of stray pigs and chickens. The priests had resumed their chant, still making the sign of the cross as they passed, and Sinbad stood back watching while the tiny army made its way along the coastal road, slowly heading toward the walled city and other waiting forces. Soon they were gone from sight, the last roll of the drums faded into the night.
As Sinbad started to walk back to the inn, he became aware of the flurry of activity among the village elders, especially Manuel de Leon, who was busily trying to calm the anxious crowd.
“What’s the matter?” Sinbad asked of Maria Vanessa, who was the closest to him at the moment.
The redheaded girl regarded him with a measure of shock. “But didn’t you hear?” she protested. “Suliman the Filthy is close by!”
Sinbad scratched his head. “Suliman? I don’t think I know the name … ”
“You must indeed be from very far away, señor. He is the scourge of Cordoba. A murderer. A thief. An abductor and a slave trader.”
Sinbad listened and nodded knowingly; there were such as Suliman throughout the world, touching every land with their vileness and cruelties. Brigands one and all, like vultures they hovered when there was strife, and even like those foul carrions, they swept down among the dead and helpless, plucking without conscience the fruits of honest men’s toil.
Ingrained in the mariner from Baghdad was a loathing for pirates like that, and indeed he felt true anguish for the peaceful village. But he was in no position to help, he knew. With the aid of Manuel de Leon’s charming daughters, he had barely escaped one close call; he could not afford another.
*
The night was alive with sound — crickets in the grass, owls hooting from the distant trees, the occasional barking of dogs, and the soft patter of restless horses in the stables. The wind whistled its way over the hills and the surf along the beach sang a soothing and familiar song.
Sinbad turned restlessly in his bed, gazing up at the moon, filling in with his mind’s eye the missing stars among the constellations. The scent of roses was still in the air, and he smiled at the recollection of Maria Elisa’s perfumed hair. What was the hour? How close to midnight was it? he wondered. And would she still keep her secret appointment in face of the evening’s other events? Women had always been both his fortune and his bane, bringing life’s joys in fruitful abundance, but also causing him his greatest sorrows and pain. Sinbad was no philosopher, not by any means, but he had always tried to heed the advice of Baghdad’s wise men, knowing that although they spoke of theory and supposition, such wisdom could provide infinite value in an ordinary man’s life when applied with thought.
When he was young, his own parents had had him well schooled in such matters. He counted among his tutors the finest historians, mathematicians, and men of science. Not to mention his early years when he dabbled in the arts. Painting and sculpture always left him bored; ah, but poetry, that was another matter entirely. In fact, if the sea had not lured him to her bosom like an errant wife, this very day he might still be at the caliph’s court, a happy man, spinning his verse daily to the pleasure of all. Yet the men of philosophy had always held a special fascination for him, for they alone dealt with man and his imperfection striving to make sense out of a senseless world.
Sinbad mused upon his memories, wondering just what advice those aging sages might have for him now. It was a pleasant diversion, a way he frequently had passed lonely hours while sailing across the oceans. It took but a single rap on his door to yank him away from his thoughts.
“Come in,” he said in a low voice.
The wooden door slowly opened, revealing a tall, divine silhouette against the backdrop of the garden. Sinbad smiled wolfishly. She had come after all!
The girl tiptoed inside and silently shut the door behind. Then she peered down at the sailor and grinned.
Sinbad’s eyes widened. It was the wrong visitor!
“Victoria! What are you doing here?”
“Shhh,” she whispered, putting a finger to her sensuous mouth. “I couldn’t sleep, and I thought perhaps … ” Her eyes kindled spryly.
“Won’t your father be angry?”
Maria Victoria shrugged carelessly. She tilted her head so that her long hair tumbled over her uplifted breasts. Then she came closer and seated herself at the corner of the bed.
Sinbad straightened up, eager to have her gone before her sister arrived, yet not wishing to make her feel unwelcome. “You should be long asleep by now,” he told her in a brotherly fashion.
The girl shook her head and faced him sharply. With a degree of surprise, he realized that there were tears flowing from her black eyes. Ever the gallant gentleman, he offered her the handkerchief from the bed table and put a hand to her soft shoulder, saying: “What’s wrong? Is there anything I can do?”
Victoria sniffed and forced a smile, reclining so that she rested against the propped pillows. “I’m frightened,” she admitted, looking at him like a lost child.
“Of what? Suliman?”
Maria Victoria scoffed, waving a contemptuous hand. “Never of him — or any others like him.”
“Then what?”
She reached out and placed the palm of her hand over his own. “Take me away from here,” she pleaded. “I don’t want to spend my life in Pansa. I want to be free, like you.
I want to see the world, feel that I’m alive — oh, please, won’t you take me with you? I’ll do anything. Anything!”
“It wouldn’t be possible, Victoria,” he said gently, aware of her sensitivity. “You wouldn’t be happy on the sea, never seeing your family or loved ones. And as for me,” he sighed, “you don’t even know me. Don’t know anything about me.”
“I know that you’re a sailor. And I know that you’re as daring as you are handsome … ”
“Little enough to want to leave your home for,” he pointed out.
But Maria Victoria remained undaunted. “I saw your face when Don Carlos made fun of you. A lesser man would have groveled at his feet. You didn’t. If it wasn’t for me and my sisters, you would have fought him man to man, isn’t that so?”
Sinbad nodded. “You’re very astute,” he observed.
Victoria smiled. “That alone told me many things,” she continued. “Few men would face up to so esteemed a nobleman on his own terms. But you did. Why?”
“I sought no confrontation,” Sinbad stressed. “And I’m not as brave as you make me out to be.”
At this her eyes rekindled with renewed flame. “I know one other thing,” she said coyly. “I know that you’ve been purposely holding back information about yourself. You won’t even tell me your name!”
Sinbad’s casual manner suddenly vanished into a mood of deep concern. His hands took a firm grip on her arms and he gazed deeply into her luminous eyes. “I would gladly tell you everything there is to know about myself,” he said. “I only fear that knowing about me might cause you and your sisters harm. And that is something I don’t wish to see happen. You’ve been good to me, Victoria, and I’ll never forget. But having one such as me in your house could cause great problems for your father — ”
“Why, because you’re not a Christian?”
His face grew impassive, and he studied the girl with a growing sense of trepidation. “How do you know that?”
Maria Victoria smiled like a cat. “I’ve suspected it from the very beginning. This morning, when I told you you were in Barcelona, I could see the shock on your face. And then again tonight, when Barcelona’s army appeared so suddenly.” Her smile deepened. “And earlier today I heard
you swear by Allah. It was not so difficult to figure out. You’re a Moor, stranded against his will in a land as alien to you as yours is to us.”
Sinbad ran a dry tongue over drier lips. “Does … does anyone else share this discovery?”
Victoria’s smile disappeared. “Elisa suspects, I’m sure. But she hasn’t said anything, and neither shall I. There is no need for you to worry, your secret is safe.”
Sinbad nodded gratefully, but inwardly he groaned. For all of his painstaking care, the girls had found out anyway. It wasn’t that he did not trust them; quite the contrary, he did. But how long might it be before Manuel de Leon began to suspect? And would his reaction be quite so calm as that of his daughters? Then it was only a matter of time until others in the village started to wonder about the stranger in their midsts; it wouldn’t take much for some reward-seeking villager to light out for Don Carlos’ campsite and inform the already inflamed noble that a follower of Islam was hiding, and spying, in Pansa.
He shuddered at the thought. It could cost not only his own head, but those of the three sisters as well. “I must leave here at once,’’ he stated flatly.
Maria Victoria shook her head. “It’s foolish to run while you’re still weak from your ordeal. Stay here. You’ll be safe, I promise. And when the time comes, I’ll help you in every way I can.’’
Sinbad was in a quandary. What was he to do? Events were becoming more complicated by the minute, and he cursed his ill-fortune.
Victoria wet her lips pensively, and her young heart looked with hunger to the man from the forbidden world she had been taught to mistrust and hate. Moonlight filtered through the branches of the trees, falling unevenly across her generous breasts like a sash of silver. Drawing a deep breath, she leaned over and kissed the sailor softly. “Trust me,” she whispered. “Trust me … ”
The knock on the door startled her and she half jumped off the bed. “Quick,” said Sinbad, thinking fast. He pulled the sheet off himself and quickly covered her. As the girl squirmed nervously, he got up and walked silently to the door.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” came a familiar whisper.
Sinbad put a hand to his forehead and moaned. It was Elisa.
“Let me in,” she demanded.
Maria Victoria poked her head out from under the sheet and stared with startled eyes. “It’s my sister!” she squealed. “The bitch!”
“Shhh!” Sinbad quickstepped back to the bed and pulled off the cover where Victoria lay waiting. He pointed to the open window. “Better get out before you’re caught.”
Maria Victoria fumed. “I’m not leaving,” she rasped. “Tell Elisa to go away.”
“Is someone inside there with you?” came the voice from behind the door. Elisa held her ground, tapping a foot nervously against the pebble-strewn path. “Are you letting me in or not?”
“Yes, yes. Just a second.’ Then he turned back to the girl planted firmly upon his bed. “Please, Victoria. Don’t cause me problems. You promised to help me, right? If Elisa finds you here, she could get so angry that she’ll tell your father everything.” He gazed down at the girl pleadingly but sternly. “That wouldn’t help either one of us very much, would it?”
Victoria chewed stubbornly at her lip; she was furious at this unexpected turn of events. Absolutely livid. Enraged to the point of wanting to tear out her sister’s hair. But her house guest was right, she knew. If Papa were to hear about this, it would be the worst possible thing that could happen. She would most likely find herself confined to the kitchen for a month, and cause the sailor to be thrown out of the villa tied to a burro.
As Sinbad waited anxiously, she said: “All right, I’ll go — if you give your word to help me leave Pansa also.”
Without thinking, Sinbad agreed, feeling that by tomorrow he could talk her out of it. Then, with a heave of her shoulders, Maria Victoria got up; she threw him a hasty kiss and hurried to the window, through which she climbed into the night without making a sound. Sinbad watched for a moment as she ran along the row of hedges and finally reached the darkened house. With a long sigh of relief, he wiped the perspiration from his brow and opened the door for the waiting Elisa.
The girl came in mumbling about his delay in receiving her. Sinbad, feigning being woken from a sound sleep, half listened, his eyes widening as he realized that Victoria had left her scarf where it had fallen to the floor at the side of the bed.
Elisa glanced about the dark room, and noticed the askew sheets. “Has someone been here?” she asked.
Sinbad shook his head.
She looked at him thoughtfully, trying to decide whether to believe him or not. Then, as she basked in the slanting moonbeams, she grinned and held out her arms. Sinbad’s eyes were glued to her scanty nightdress and the exposed mounds of her breasts gently rising and falling with her quick breaths. He drew her close to him in a tender embrace, carefully kicking the fallen scarf under the bed.
Elisa moaned softly as his mouth came down upon hers; she dug her fingernails into his muscles. At the feel of her supple flesh pressed so closely against him, Sinbad felt his sapped energies beginning to return.
“It seemed the night would last forever, mi amor,” Elisa whispered in his ear. The moon rode high on the back of a passing white cloud as he arched her body forward, leading her gently to the bed. She looked at him breathlessly, passionately, her eyes smoldering with liquid fires.
Sinbad pressed his lips to the cleavage of her breasts, feeling her heartbeat quicken as he slipped the flimsy strap from her shoulders. The nightgown tumbled to the floor; she stood naked before him, a silver silhouette, perfectly carved, like a perfect living sculpture.
Elisa groaned deep in her throat, slitting her eyes as Sinbad’s hands gently explored her secrets. In these moments of shared desire, time and circumstance lost all meaning. Entwined in each other’s arms, they fell to the bed, bodies glistening with the heat of their need. Hips swaying rhythmically, Elisa gasped at the feel of him, living in a moment of ecstasy that rose to heights of burning emotion hungrily aching to be consumed.
Like a volcano their passion exploded, and down, down they descended, still tingling with the afterglow. Then side by side they lay, unspeaking, gazing deeply into each other’s faces.
Sinbad closed his eyes contentedly; Elisa purred as she snuggled her head in the crook of his arm. She had wondered what being with this nameless stranger would be like; dreamed about it since the moment she had seen him. Now those questions had been answered and she smiled with satisfaction. She had not been disappointed.
“Are you asleep, amor?”
Sinbad drew a deep breath of the crisp night air and shook his head. Elisa drew little circles on his chest with her finger. Then she reached out and touched his cheek. “When will you leave?” she asked.
The question caught him off guard. In these past minutes he had all but forgotten his surroundings and dangers, losing himself completely to Elisa’s gentle touch. Suddenly — and regretfully — he had been snapped back to reality, to facing decisions he must not delay.
“Tomorrow, if I can,” he answered.
Elisa sighed. “So soon? Must it be so? Can’t you stay just a few days longer?”
“The longer I stay, the worse for all.” He kissed the top of her head and mussed her hair.
Elisa, eyes open wide, grinned girlishly. “And I can’t … er … persuade you otherwise?”
He laughed, fondly slapping her on the buttocks. “I think not, my Barcelonian princess. Tomorrow it must be.”
“Where will you go?”
“South, where I’ll be safe. And then perhaps I can look for my ship. Our destination had been the Pillars of Hercules, but likely as not my crew has taken to harbor for repairs. With luck I can rejoin them before they set sail again.”
“They say there is only the edge of the world beyond the Pillars of Hercules,” she told him.
Sinbad laughed again and shrugged. “Who knows? A ma
riner will sail any sea that lies before him.
“And if there is no sea to sail, then what?”
“Then, maybe we shall go home at last.
His eyes had brightened noticeably at the mention of home, Elisa saw, and it was a wistful, if not sad, smile that came to his lips. Elisa propped herself up and, resting her chin in an open hand, she looked at him with a woman’s curiosity. “I think you must miss you home very much,” she said.
“More than I can tell you, Elisa. No matter how many leagues a man may travel, no matter how many years of his life he spends in other cities or climes, home is still the center of a man’s universe. Without it, he is lost.”
Elisa smiled, touching his face lightly with her fingertips. For all his courage and daring, he struck her as a gentle man, of far deeper emotion than appeared on the surface. Such sensitivity was unusual in a sailor, she thought, but then, everything she had so far learned about him assured her he was no ordinary mariner. But exactly what — and who — he was remained a mystery.
“Where is this home of yours?” she asked suddenly.
“Very far away, Elisa. Across the world … ”
“Then you are not a Moor of Cordoba?”
Sinbad seemed genuinely amused. “Hardly. Their land is as far from mine as Barcelona is.”
Elisa became more intrigued than ever. “Won’t you speak to me of it?” she entreated. “Tell me all about this place you miss so dearly? About your life and the loved ones you left behind?”
His smile turned sour. “I left only one person behind,” he admitted. “Only one. But even should I return, there would be no one waiting.”
“Why must you speak in riddles? Has your land not a name? Have you not a name?”
Sinbad was forced to laugh; this girl was determined in having her way with him, one way or another. The more questions he answered, the more she found to ask. Still, it could do little harm, he reasoned, and he owed her far more.
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 48
