Return to Paradise (Torres Family Saga)

by Shirl Henke

  A wry smile touched his lips. “Do you, indeed?” This is my sister. Suddenly he felt an odd sense of buoyant happiness fill him. Perhaps Española would not be so bad after all.

  Miriam was enchanted with the little girl's open friendliness, but uncertain about how they would handle the glaring problem of a daughter-in-law arriving wed to the wrong son. Before she could dwell on that dilemma further two youths, one russet-haired and fully grown, the other yet an adolescent with Aaron's golden coloring, joined the reunion.

  As Bartolome and Cristobal, the Colon brothers namesakes, were introduced to their new brother, they stopped beneath the cooling shade of a splendid oak tree and dismounted. Rigo helped Miriam from the litter. She smiled at the welcoming, eager and curious faces, feeling dusty, wilted and decidedly bewildered by her newly acquired family.

  Then a small beautiful woman, dressed simply in a gown of pale green gauze stepped from the shadows. Her long russet hair and cat green eyes quickly explained the coloring of the younger Torres children. Magdalena Torres embraced Aaron and then turned to face Rigo and his bride.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Asti on the Plains of Lombardy, April 1525

  Flamineo Battaglia walked through the crowds gathered at the fair, busily stuffing a greasy meat pastry into his mouth. “Why do you not eat, Benjamin? Tis delicious,” the corpulent little Neapolitan said.

  “You would eat anything that did not eat you first, Mineo. That pork is scarce cooked and the crust burned,” Benjamin said with a grimace of distaste. Then a pair of young jugglers came into view and he paused to admire their skills. “At home we had such. My Taino friend Gaonu could juggle marvelous little balls made of a gum of some sort. When dropped, they bounced.”

  Battaglia gave a snort of disgust. “Your Indian must not have been much of a juggler if he dropped his balls.” He gave a guffaw at his own crude humor and then gestured across the crowded plaza. “Women, look, Physician, at all the women—young, old, thin, fat. Think you any of them might require a healer's care—some magical elixir?” He rubbed his hands in glee, then pinched a plump woman bent over a stall filled with fresh wild flowers. She grabbed her ample buttocks and squeaked, only half in indignation.

  “We are here to choose a horse for you, remember, Mineo? Forget wenching. Where are these fabulous horse traders with the magnificent bargains?”

  “Do not sound so skeptical of my judgment,” Batagglia said defensively as Benjamin's grin broadened.

  “My father breeds fine horses and yours sells fish. I think, my friend, that you might do well to heed my advice.” A winsome young whore wrapped her arms around his waist. With a laugh and a swat on her rump he refused her blatant invitation.

  “I have never seen the like of it, the way women flock to you,” Mineo said in awe.

  “That kind of woman will pox you good and she flocks only where the jingle of coin summons her.”

  “Mayhap I shall borrow your magister cloak one day and see if that is the lure,” Mineo pondered aloud. Benjamin only laughed.

  “There, beyond the bear pit—see the wagons? The horse traders were showing the black there yesterday. Twas the equal of your brother's stallion. I have always wanted a high-stepping black.”

  Benjamin had grown used to hearing Pescara's men speak of Rigo's exploits over the months, but still the ache of betrayal gave his mouth a bitter taste, like stale wine drunk from a base metal flagon. They walked past the arena dug in the ground where a big brown bear, chained to a post, lashed viciously at its tormentors, sending one large hound flying with a swipe of an enormous paw. Half a dozen more dogs, bloody and crazed as the bear, lunged and tore at the great shaggy beast. “By the Almighty, I hate such barbarism,” he muttered, tugging at Mineo's leather jerkin when his companion paused to watch in fascination.

  “How can a surgeon have such a weak stomach?” Mineo asked crossly as they approached the large pen that held over a dozen horses of various colors.

  Benjamin inspected the sorry lot and sighed, then looked at the man who sat at the gate, haggling with a customer over a spavined old nag. He swore several oaths in a remarkable variety of languages. “These horse traders of yours are caraque, ” he said in Tuscan.

  The Provencal word for Gypsy was unfamiliar to Mineo, who turned with a look of confusion to his companion. “They are what?”

  “Zingari. ” Benjamin used an equally unflattering Tuscan word.

  Mineo shrugged dismissively. “They are splendid horsemen, but I know how sharp and crafty are their dealings. That is why I brought you along.”

  As they neared the pen, a large swarthy man attached a lead rope to the halter of a prancing black horse and led him from the enclosure toward them.

  “Look you at the black. Well? What do you think? Is he not magnificent?”

  Benjamin's eyes narrowed as he observed the agitated horse. “Well, he is black,” Benjamin replied wryly. He approached the shying animal and stretched out his hand. “Then again, mayhap he is not.”

  “Are you blind? Of course the beast is black.”

  Benjamin shook his head. “Smell. He fair reeks of walnut dye. Tis often used to cover a graying, faded coat.”

  Django Janos listened to the conversation with increasing anger as Mineo replied to his friend. “This horse is not old or grayed! Look at how proudly he carries his tail and how frisky he prances.”

  The big Rom bowed before the soldier while eyeing his richly attired companion, who wore a miniver-trimmed cloak that would command a fine price. “Barosan, I am so pleased you have returned,” he said to Battaglia.

  Benjamin patted the black and spoke soothingly to him in several Italian dialects, then Castilian, even Provencal, but the animal continued to toss his head and swish his tail in skittering agitation. “Tis odd, horses usually respond to me better than this,” Benjamin said.

  “Smell how sweet his breath,” Django offered, pulling on the black's hackamore. The sunlight glinted on the Rom's inky locks, spilling from beneath a filthy red silk scarf tied across his head. When it suited him, Django could be charm itself. He smiled as the Italian smelled the horse's muzzle.

  Benjamin, too, smelled and then inquired of the Rom politely, “May I look at his teeth?” Without waiting for assent, he deftly peeled the black's lip back. Before either horse or owner could react, he had extracted what appeared to be several darkened pine needles. “Rosemary,” he said. “Any apothecary will prescribe it to sweeten breath—animal or human.”

  “When we agreed upon the selection of this splendid stallion for your mount yesterday, Barosan, I did not think you would recant,” Janos said to Battaglia. His obsidian eyes glared at the blond stranger.

  Benjamin took off his cape and handed it to Mineo. “Hold this while I check one last matter.” With that he moved slowly near the horse's rump.

  “This is a spirited stallion. If he tramples you, gadjo, tis no fault of mine,” Django hissed.

  “Spirited?” Benjamin asked as he seized the horse's swishing tail with one hand and reached beneath it with the other. In the blink of an eye he tossed a small brownish object resembling a fecal-stained carrot onto the ground. The horse's tail drooped almost instantly and the animal ceased his prancing.

  Mineo swore as the stallion seemed to wilt before his very eyes like a fragile rose cast onto scorching sand. “What did you do?”

  “Removed what your caraque friend here placed in the poor beast's arse—ginger root. It burns most fearfully,” Benjamin added as he met the hate-filled glare of the burly Rom. “You should not be so cruel to your animals.”

  “You should not meddle in business that is not your own. As to cruelty, gadjo, you should see how I train my bears—with hot coals. Perhaps you would like to take a stroll across them?”

  Django was heavier than the lean yellow-haired aristocrat but their height was even and the stranger was well armed. Some instinct warned the Rom not to cross this one openly. Later, gadjo, I will repay you and drape your fi
ne cloak about my woman!

  Benjamin let his hand rest lightly on his sword hilt for a moment. He had made a dangerous enemy, but there was no help for it. He gave the hawk-faced Gypsy a curt nod and retrieved his cloak from his gaping friend.

  They strolled around the crowded fair with Mineo offering to buy Benjamin a tasty meat pie or a flagon of wine in reward for saving him the princely sum he would have paid for the horse. The physician declined the unappetizing foods but accepted a flagon of passable wine from a wizzened stall keeper.

  “Look at that one!” Battaglia said as they passed a flickering campfire at twilight.

  A Gypsy girl with a long mane of snarled raven hair danced, shaking a tambourine. She was tiny but sleekly curved in a low-cut blouse of sheer gauze and a skirt with multilayered petticoats in rainbow hues. Her feet were bare and small, stamping a fierce primitive rhythm on the hard-packed earth as her jingling gold coin necklace, bracelets and long ear loops kept time with the wild dance.

  Benjamin, his vision and brain becoming a bit fogged with wine, looked at the golden-eyed Circe and thought her vaguely familiar. “Must be too much strong drink,” he muttered as she twirled near and he caught a whiff of acrid, unwashed flesh. “I have never fancied dirty females.”

  “She is enchanting,” whispered Mineo, wiping his greasy chin whiskers with the back of his hand, which he then rubbed on his badly soiled jerkin.

  Rani danced near the golden one several times, noticing with practiced eyes that he had drunk overmuch. Still it annoyed her that he did not recognize her in her fine dancing costume. She picked up the layers of brightly colored skirts and tossed them high, revealing slim ankles and shapely calves as she twirled away once more with a toss of her hair.

  His fat companion was enthralled. Perhaps he had a ducat or two in that wrinkled uniform. She danced close, slowly, languidly, then picked his pocket with great finesse, all the while eyeing the golden-haired man whose cool blue eyes watched her with amused detachment. He thinks me a child! The realization hit her suddenly, filling her with a hot, forbidden urge to seduce and tease him, not as a pigeon to be plucked like his friend, but as a man she desired. That was forbidden. Romni never lay with gadjo and Rani had never lain with any man.

  As she whirled and beat her tambourine she recalled the old phuri dai's warning. This man could influence her life for good or for evil. Rani decided to speak with Agata once more. Perhaps in the past months the old woman had seen more visions that could explain this beautiful, dangerous stranger. Her dance concluded, she leaped up and landed on the hard-packed earth in a split, with her skirts flying like gaudy banners all about her body. She bowed her head, almost touching the ground, and then rose to vanish amidst the cheers and clapping from her enthusiastic spectators.

  When she reached the encampment outside the bustling noise of the fair, her pockets were heavy with coins filched from unsuspecting revelers in the jostling crowds. Vero was waiting to welcome her with several slurping licks before she climbed into her wagon. Rani deposited her loot in a small battered leather chest, then climbed down to seek out the phuri dai and tell her of seeing the golden man a second time. She debated about confessing his apparent lack of interest in her, but decided his wine consumption was responsible for that. It was not worth mentioning.

  As she approached Agata's large, well-patched tent, she heard the voices of Django and Rasvan, her brothers, in whispered conversation with the old woman. The hair on the back of her neck prickled a warning and she and her wolf both grew still as statues, creeping slowly nearer so they could overhear what was being discussed within. Perhaps Agata is right. I do sense things. Am I gifted to be the next phuri dai?

  Django's voice was strident as he said, “I will gut him with my dagger from belly to throat. The damned gadjo laughed at me!”

  “And cost us uncounted loss—not only the sale to his fat friend, but a dozen others as well. Now word has spread of our tricks with the horses and no one at the fair will buy from us,” Rasvan added in disgust. “Kill him tonight.”

  “Do not act rashly,” Agata replied in her papery, rasping voice. “You did well to come to me first for advice. This man is a Barosan, a great one, and he is dangerous. If you kill him at the fair and his body is found, the Imperial soldiers will come slaughter us all.”

  “He will not escape my vengeance!” Django's cry was shushed boldly by the old woman.

  “I did not imply he should go free...or escape what fate has in store for him. But there is a better way.”

  “What is that, old woman?” Django asked scornfully.

  “I have a philter that will render him unconscious—as if very drunk. Then you can bring him under cover of darkness to our camp. By the time he awakens we will be far away. Tis no loss to leave since he has ruined our business opportunities at the fair. Then he can be dealt kriss.”

  Kriss! Rani's heart skipped a beat. Rom justice was fierce and terrible, the rules completely different than the law of the gadjo.

  “How can we drug him? He would not touch anything either of us offered him,” Rasvan said sourly.

  Agata cackled and replied, “Bring me Michel. He shall do the deed.”

  Rani heard their laughter as they set out to follow the phuri dai's detailed instructions. She ran swiftly from behind the tent with Vero silently shadowing her. The headlong dash led her deeper into the woods surrounding their camp until she stumbled over a decayed log and fell face forward onto some slimy moss. Sitting up, she hugged the wolf as he licked at the mud on her face. “What shall I do, Vero? I cannot betray my people...yet I do not want the golden man killed. If I go to him and warn him he may send the soldiers to raid our camp—or he may not even believe me!”

  Tears trickled in muddy furrows down her dirt-encrusted face and she smeared them across her cheeks with the back of her hand, making an even greater mess than the wolf's wet tongue had. All her life she had been taught Rom law and abided by it. All her loyalty lay with the band, even if she did not like the cruel ways of her brothers. Yet she felt an incredible pull to the golden stranger who had saved her life and her honor. It was more than gratitude, but she feared to name it. Warning the gadjo would cause her to be cast out of the band, and life alone for a Rom was unthinkable.

  “I must do something. Agata said he might be a force for good and such must be true, for already he has saved my life.” A sudden inspiration came to her. She would let them bring the stranger to their camp. Once he was their captive and they were far from the army, she could find a way to free him or somehow protect him from Django and Rasvan's vengeance. “If only I could win Agata to my side.” The phuri dai's motives were always clouded in mystery, never more so than regarding her fate and that of the golden gadjo.

  * * * *

  Benjamin awoke slowly, his temples throbbing in an agonizing rhythm. He attempted to open his eyes only to find his eyelids weighed so much he could not do so. God, am I dead with coppers upon sightless eyes? His throat felt sewn shut, and he had an incredibly sour and foul taste on his seared tongue. He could not identify the poison, which caused him alarm, yet not half as much as the pounding in his head. I cannot be dead and hurt this much.

  Again he struggled to open his eyes and this time was rewarded with...darkness. Then flames flickered dimly into his peripheral vision and he turned his head. God's teeth, small wonder his head ached. He was lying on the cold hard earth, trussed up hand and foot while some infernal heathen ritual was taking place around the fire—accompanied by the beating of drums. Mama, why did I not heed you and attend church with you more often? Surely this was hell and the dark figures cavorting to the hideous pounding were its fiends.

  Benjamin took a deep breath and manfully decided he must face his punishment. With a shake of his head, his brain and vision unfogged the tiniest bit. One dancer was female, clad in garish multicolored skirts. She looked vaguely familiar. He let out a muffled curse as his memory began to return.

  A scraggly youth had come up
to him and Mineo at the fair, offering to share a fresh flagon of good red wine. By that time too much swilling had already dulled his judgment. When Mineo passed out, Benjamin left him with two other soldiers and stupidly followed the boy to a quiet place near the river where he drained the flagon dry. He had been taken captive by the caraque! That girl with the tangled mass of night-dark hair had danced earlier at the fair. He struggled to sit up and look about without attracting attention from the revelers.

  His hands and feet were securely tied and numb. He wondered how long he had been unconscious. The darkness impeded his view, but the contours of the land looked distressingly unfamiliar in the eerie moonlight. They had traveled a considerable distance. When he tried to move his arms, pain lanced through his whole body, eliciting a groan, which in turn brought on a fit of coughing. His aching throat felt ready to close off permanently as he struggled to breathe.

  Rani saw the movement of his golden head from the corner of her eye and quickly rushed from the fire to his side. Merciful Mother, he was alive and at last awake! Agata had said he would live, but after three days Rani had not been so certain that Michel had not overdosed him out of spite.

  “Here, let me help you sit up. Do not struggle so. I will bring water,” she whispered as she leaned him back against a wagon wheel.

  Django saw her leave the fire and rush to the gadjo's side when he finally awakened. He followed her quickly. When she stood and turned to go for the promised water, he blocked her path. “The cur gets nothing to drink unless I command it.”

  “He has nearly died from Michel's stupidity. Agata is displeased with you. The elders will mete out kriss, not you and your lackeys, brother.” She ducked past him, but he grabbed a fistful of her hair, causing her to swear with pain.

  Vero suddenly materialized out of the darkness beneath the wagon and growled at Django. “Call off your wolf else I will kill him.”