The waiting girl stared up at the sailor. “Well?” she asked in a half-command, “aren’t you coming?” She threw back her head and stood with her tiny hands placed upon her well-rounded hips, impatiently tapping her sandaled foot.
“You’re certain it will be all right?”
Her eyes sparkled with her mirth. “Oh, yes,” she said. “There is plenty of room, for you and your — er — friend both.”
Sinbad met her steady gaze for a long moment and then took her arm to leave.
“Wait a moment!” called the rotund merchant, who had been standing quietly and observing all the while. “What about the knife? Have we a bargain for it or not?”
Sinbad slapped a careless hand against his head. “Ah, me, I completely forgot! How much did you say?” And he turned back toward the stall with his hand upon his purse.
“Three pieces of silver,” said the merchant, his pudgy hands prepared to receive payment.
“Just a minute,” said the girl, stepping brazenly between the two men. She held out her own hand. “Let me see the merchandise,” she demanded.
The merchant handed it over reluctantly, then grew nervous as recognition of who she was finally dawned. “Yes, yes, my lady,” he stammered, placing the knife in her open palm. “A fair price is all I’ve asked.”
Ignoring his remarks, the girl subjected the knife to a thorough inspection. Sinbad looked on with puzzlement, wondering just who his sudden benefactor might be that she so frightened the clever merchant.
“Two pieces of silver shall suffice!,” she said with an air of finality.
The merchant reddened. “But my lady — ”
“Two is the price,” she snapped, haughtily adding, “Deliver it this evening. Your money shall be waiting.” The shopkeeper gritted his teeth and nodded. “As you wish, Lady Avilia,” he answered. “It shall be an honor.” Avilia smiled; she gave Sinbad her arm again, turning her back on the bowing merchant. “It’s getting late,” she said.
Sinbad grinned. “Lead and I shall follow,” he said. “I’ve never been one to keep a woman waiting.”
Sinbad stood on the terrace of his spacious rooms, in the magnificent house to which Lady Avilia had brought him. It was a huge stone structure in a neighborhood of incredible wealth, and Sinbad marveled that such opulence could exist side by side with the terrible squalor he had seen earlier.
Here, within sight of the sultan’s palace glimmering in the early evening light, lay lands as beautiful as he had ever seen. Rolling hills of green were capped with tall fruit trees and tended hedges. Little gardens resplendent with blooming flowers dotted both sides of the walk. A winding bridle path led to large stables stocked with the best stallions of Arabia. Corinthian columns stood stoically beside the bronze entrance doors, servants constantly scurrying in and out of the house to do their mistress’s bidding.
The shallow water of the garden pond reflected the ebbing sun as Sinbad smiled at the sight of Don Giovanni, frolicking away along the banks beneath the shade of a tall oak. It was a peaceful pastoral setting, the likes of which Sinbad had yearned for. Yet he found himself feeling restless, not at all sure that coming here was the proper thing to do. Still, he had accepted the invitation and now he was Lady Avilia’s guest. He only hoped to learn something more about her later.
Since being brought to this fashionable home some hours earlier, he had not seen his hostess at all. A cheerful Cypriot slave had taken him to his rooms, whereupon he had bathed luxuriously in a marble bath, then napped upon a handsome feathered bed, browsing afterwards at leisure through the multitude of books in the adjacent library. It was quite an impressive collection, Sinbad soon discovered, with volumes not only in Arabic but many in classical Greek and in Hebrew as well, rare books covering a wealth of knowledge and philosophy. Thoroughly fascinated, he thumbed among the well-worn pages of both the familiar and unfamiliar, contentedly passing the time until he was to be called for supper — a grand supper in his honor, the servant had said.
As the last minutes of daylight ticked away, Sinbad paced back and forth across his balcony, his body refreshed and his mind alive with ideas. It was while musing upon a new poem that he suddenly stood still and forgot his verse.
At the end of his balcony, where a broad stone staircase with carved balustrades led down to the garden, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure dashing between the lengthening shadows. Although the light was poor, he had little difficulty in discerning that the figure belonged to a woman — a youthful woman hastily making her stealthy way across the estate grounds.
Growing curious, Sinbad slipped behind a pillar and peered down. The girl proved to be younger than Avilia but certainly no less lacking in beauty. She leaned against the trunk of an oak, her face half cast in shadow, panting and catching her breath. She wore a softly brocaded yellow dress, Persian in design, and a golden Egyptian shell necklace that hung below her breasts. Unbound cocoa-colored hair cascaded over slim shoulders and down her back. With slightly slanted eyes that made Sinbad wonder if perhaps she had a touch of Far Eastern blood, she glanced across the gardens before preparing to run back inside the house.
Sinbad moved from the pillar and continued to watch, admiring her profile and wondering who she might be. He would have thought little of this episode of uncertain intrigue had he not suddenly noticed the tears welling within her hazel eyes. As she turned to leave, she cast her gaze momentarily toward the balcony. For just an instant their eyes met, hers wet and wide, his as dark and brooding as always. She squealed slightly, startled at his presence, and then ran off. Sinbad stepped fully into the open to call her back, but turned at the sound of his name.
The servant stood meekly inside the room, indicating the hour had come to dine. Sinbad shrugged, then smiled, putting the incident out of his mind. But as he was led down the grand steps into the dining hall a nagging thought played around the corners of his mind He wondered what peculiar doings might be taking place within Lady Avilia’s household.
The dining hall itself was somewhat smaller than Sinbad might have anticipated, though by no means lacking in finery. Tapestries from places as diverse as Cathay and Algiers hung from the yellow-painted walls, and great intricately designed braziers bathed the room in soft, delightful light. As in Dormo’s home, there were delicately painted figurines and statues placed randomly about, each in itself a fine and unusual piece of art.
Except for two, each of the seven seats at the long oak table had been taken. Several servants moved gracefully among the guests, spreading rare delicacies, filling wine glasses and anticipating every want.
At sight of the mariner, Lady Avilia burst into a laugh of joy. “Ah, Captain,” she cried gleefully, standing and holding out her hand. Sinbad kissed it, looking deeply into her eyes, waiting politely for her to regain her place before he sat.
“Here, do sit beside me,” she said, gesturing to the comfortable leather-cushioned chair at her right. And then in quick succession she introduced the others. A mixed lot, Sinbad observed, all close friends of Avilia. Present were the renowned ambassador from Tripoli with his wife, he a celebrated and eloquent spokesman for his land, she a vital and vibrant woman whose looks must have hidden her true age by at least a decade. Also on hand was a youth called Dionatus, a poet at the sultan’s court and an engaging wit. Sinbad took a liking to him right away. Of the last guest, though, he reserved his judgment. The fellow was about his own age, dark-complexioned and masculine. He looked at Sinbad with mistrustful, if not envious eyes, and greeted the mariner coldly. It did not take long for Sinbad to realize that this fellow, Argulo he was called, was Lady Avilia’s lover.
Avilia pretended not to notice the hostility, and, raising her glass, toasted both her house guest and Baghdad, to which all but Argulo eagerly drank. Sinbad put his goblet to his lips and downed the sweet brew, thinking his hostess was lovely indeed and that Argulo was a fortunate man.
The banter was moderate and cheerful as the various courses of duck and meat
were served, with Sinbad cheerfully answering a hundred questions of Baghdad and his own famous voyages, tales of which had evidently reached the sultan’s court. The mariner spoke truthfully on all matters under discussion, although carefully avoiding any mention of his recent downfall.
“You are a lucky man, Captain Sinbad,” said the poet Dionatus with a sigh. “I do envy you.”
Sinbad laughed, avoiding Argulo’s icy stare. “I think perhaps I envy you more,” he replied. “I too love poetry, and would be more than content to give up the bridge of a ship for pen and paper to recount my thoughts.”
Dionatus flushed with the compliment. Argulo growled, saying: “A man’s duty is to protect his home, his king, not to waste his life in dreams.”
Avilia shot him an angered glance. “What I think Lord Argulo means,” she broke in, “is that art can only be a secondary concern while a nation seeks to build its strength.”
“But my lady,” protested the poet, “man needs beauty as surely as he needs the ability to laugh at himself. A warlike people is an unhappy people.”
“Hear, hear,” agreed the ambassador.
“Bah,” grumbled Argulo. He looked sharply at Sinbad. “I would have thought a man of your stature had little time for such foolish diversion.”
Sinbad was not sure if he was being purposely goaded. In any case, while under Avilia’s roof he was not about to get himself into a brawl. “A pen is no less foolish than a sword,” he replied to the dour man opposite. “One is an instrument of man’s anger, the other of his soul.”
Argulo laughed contemptuously. “And when the war comes,” — he leaned across the table — “shall you fight it with a pen or a weapon?”
Sinbad held his temper.
“Then you fear this war?” interjected the ambassador. Avilia’s lover’s face darkened and he nodded grimly. “These madmen of the south seek nothing else. From Acre to Jerusalem — ”
“Of what war are we speaking?” asked Sinbad with interest.
“Ah, forgive us,” said the ambassador. “We forget that you are from so far away; our petty strife is of little concern to Baghdad. But you see,” he explained, “Damascus finds herself faced with tribes of fanatics from across the Jordan river, intent on destroying the will of Allah.”
“Hebrews?”
The ambassador shook his head. “Karmathians. Heathens, worse than the Christians, worse than the Turks. Their tactics are not very pleasant; they attack mostly at night, preying upon innocent victims, butchering them like goats.”
The ambassador’s wife shivered. She glanced at Avilia. “Must Diona leave for Jerusalem under these conditions?” she asked.
Lady Avilia nodded. “The marriage cannot be postponed.”
“Where is Diona?” the ambassador said suddenly, looking to the single empty chair. “Your cousin will not be present at our table?”
At this, Avilia smiled apologetically and sighed. “My cousin is not feeling very well, she tells me. She’s spent the entire day inside her room and asked your forgiveness for tonight.”
“A pity,” commented the young poet, looking to Sinbad. “Diona’s company is something to be cherished.” He smiled and turned to his hostess. “Should perchance this offer of marriage not work out to your satisfaction, I know another interested party more than eager to ask for her hand.”
Except for Sinbad, everyone laughed.
Avilia reached out and placed her hand on top of the poet’s. “Poor dreamy-eyed Dionatus,” she cooed, “in love with my cousin since childhood. But alas, the bargain is all but sealed. Diona leaves for Jerusalem in three days’ time; Sheik Kahlil is not the sort of man to be kept waiting.”
“Especially when his dowry is most handsome,” added Argulo with a measure of scorn which was not lost on Sinbad.
Lady Avilia looked at him sharply, briefly reddening. “We don’t want to bore our special guest with matters as trivial as these,” she rebuked. “Particularly when life affords us so many other diversions.” She snapped her fingers, calling for more wine to be brought. “A very special brew,” she told Sinbad while the servants began to pour. “A secret concoction of Alexandria.”
Sinbad gleamed. “Ah, dear lady! I know it well — and I promise not to be disappointed.”
From the very first goblet of the potent and heady stuff, the atmosphere at the table became more relaxed. Chatter increased, laughter abounding at the ambassador’s clever jokes. Even stolid Argulo let down his guard and enjoyed the company. And soon it was well into evening, the moon obscured by thick clouds rolling in from the west, the air growing stagnant and clammy.
At length Avilia stood up and bade them all to follow. She led them from the stuffy chamber to an adjoining one where thick ostrich-feathered cushions lay scattered across the floor and a large water pipe in the center provided the only furniture. A soothing cool breeze blew through opened windows, and one by one the guests took places in the dimly lighted room.
“Come, Captain,” whispered Avilia, beckoning to Sinbad as she stretched out seductively over three cushions. “Come and sit beside me.”
Sinbad took her hand and sat, the others forming a semicircle around him. Several servants slipped inside the room, one bringing more Egyptian wine, the other filling the water pipe and lighting it. Avilia was the first to smoke. She drew in deeply, filling her lungs and then blowing a cloud of blue-tinted smoke toward the ceiling. Then she passed the pipe around. Sinbad had never been a partaker of hashish, knowing its prolonged effects clouded the mind. But in the company of these noble Damascans it would be too impolite to refuse. He took several lungfuls of the weed and then declined more, preferring instead to nurture his huge goblet of the Alexandrian wine.
The effects of the drug were not long in coming upon them. Flushed, the supple-bosomed wife of the ambassador began to unfasten the clasps of her garment until both cleavage and nipples were well exposed. Avilia’s feline smile to Sinbad assured the sailor that the long night’s enjoyments had yet to begin.
Argulo leaned back with closed eyes, the pipe to his lips. His own contented smile told of most pleasant and fanciful dreams dancing within his mind. As for the ambassador, he nestled his cherubic face against his wife’s breasts, his forefinger drawing invisible images into the haze-filled room.
Avilia closed her eyes and leaned back dreamily, purring and sinking deeper into the cushions as she pulled Sinbad closer to her. Sinbad stirred as her long fingers began a slow catwalk down his neck and over his throat, a most subtle touch of gentle caresses filled with promise. The mariner glanced to see what effect this affection might have upon Argulo, and was relieved to find that the jealous lover was now fast asleep with his dreams.
The room was swimming in a delightful mist, the single flame of the candle swaying in the breeze, shadows cascading colorfully over the walls and ceiling. Avilia clapped her hands once, and a young girl deftly slipped into the room, a small flute to her lips. The melodious tune hung in the air as the girl expertly raised and lowered the pitch. All the candles had now been blown out by the attending servants, and only dim starlight tempered the darkness. Avilia ran her fingertips over Sinbad’s lips and, cradling his head into her bosom, kissed his brow.
Unsteadily, Dionatus lifted himself and stood erect before Avilia. “I … I have composed a new poem in honor of this night,” he announced haltingly, gazing at the still couple through red, bloodshot eyes.
Lady Avilia grinned. “A poem of love, Dionatus?” she asked.
The youthful poet smiled shyly.
His hostess laughed grandly. “Then begin!” she replied with a sweeping gesture.
Dionatus folded his arms and east his gaze toward the night.
Tis the promise of heroes unscarred,
To drink of nature’s golden privilege, so oft Wasted upon the young …
Avilia listened attentively, smiling as the poet began to slur in his verse and sway tipsily from the combination of Alexandrian wine and the water pipe. Suddenly Dion
atus chuckled to himself, then, closing his eyes and sighing, dropped to the floor, verse unfinished.
The ambassador rose up on one elbow. “The dancers, my lady?” he mumbled.
Avilia snapped her fingers and a black-haired Bedouin girl came inside. Scantily clad in long veils of scarlet and amber, she moved enticingly among the drowsy guests, swinging her hips in slow, rhythmic fashion. Her jeweled navel quivered.
“Do you like her?” Avilia asked the watchful sailor beside her.
“A very lovely girl, my lady. An asset to any household.”
Avilia smiled coyly. “Take her if you like. She is yours as a gift.”
Sinbad returned her smile and shook his head. “Thank you for the offer, but as I must soon leave Damascus it would be better if I declined.”
The dancer shook her shoulders before the mariner, swinging a veil above her head, brushing her breasts fleetingly against him, teasing him with outstretched arms. Sinbad, his eyes glued to her shapely form, gulped.
“Are you certain you won’t change your mind?” said Avilia.
The sailor from Baghad sighed. “I have sworn off women, my lady,” he admitted. “A broken heart has caused me to take a vow of celibacy.”
Avilia raised her brows. “Chastity is a dubious virtue,” she remarked. “It bodes no man or woman well.”
“Alas, that may be true. But true love cannot be denied. I shall remain constant to my Sherry for as long as I live.”
With a decidedly feline smile Avilia began to run her hand gently along the inside of Sinbad’s thigh, briefly brushing her palm against his crotch. “Your heart is of one mind, your body another,” she wryly observed. And she poured his goblet to the brim with the exotic sweet wine of Egypt. “Share this with me,” she whispered, sipping and putting the cup to his lips. Sinbad drank a long draught, feeling the brew burn through his veins.
“You must forget this jilting lover,” said Avilia, stroking his chest with her fingernails.
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 54
