by Zia Wesley
Inside, layers of richly woven carpets covered the floor of the sunken great room. Wide, cushioned banquettes lined two of the walls with low, round brass tray tables before them. A tall, bejeweled brass hookah stood beside one of the tables. The walls and domed ceiling were inlaid with small, vibrantly colored hand-painted tiles in intricate patterns of flowers, birds and ornate curlicues. Richly woven tapestries hung all the way from the high ceiling to the floor on two sides of the room. They had entered a household of enormous wealth and exquisite taste.
The servant motioned the men to sit, and clapped his hands for another servant to bring tea. The men carefully laid down the rolled carpet, and made themselves comfortable around one of the low tables. Another servant brought a platter of dried fruits and nuts and poured each a glass of sweet, mint tea.
The men were sipping tea and eating dates when Baba Mohammed Ben Osman, the Dey of Al Djazāir, captain of all pirates and ruler of the port, entered the room. He was a huge, opulently dressed, imposing figure whose jet-black beard and mustache were waxed into sharply curling points. His almond-shaped black eyes, generously lined with kohl, looked deep and menacing. The men knew that his vaulted position was built on thirty years of ruthless piracy and bloodshed. Despite the mighty price on his head, Ben Osman’s ships continued to plunder what they pleased with the blessings of his distant cousin, the Sultan of Turkey.
Baba Mohammed Ben Osman’s physical appearance had been carefully designed to support the legend of his persona. His vast silk caftan was heavily embroidered with gold threads, as were his leather slippers that curled up at the toes. Every finger on each hand held rings with precious jewels the size of quail eggs. Ropes of rubies and pearls cascaded from his red silk turban, in the center of which a large diamond-encrusted star held a peacock feather aigrette that shot up three feet above his head. With the turban and feathers, the enormous Turk appeared to be more than eight feet tall.
All three men rose and salaamed as he entered. He and the captain embraced in the familiar manner of men who did business together often.
“Welcome to my humble home, friend. I hope that you are well and prosperous. Sit, please.”
With great effort, he lowered himself to join them at the table, his substantial girth covering several large cushions. Glancing at the rolled carpet he asked, “Is it rugs you bring me today?”
“Not rugs, my friend, but treasure,” the captain answered with a wink.
“Excellent!” the Turk said, as he reclined back onto the cushions. “Treasure is always welcome. Show us.” he commanded imperiously.
The captain’s men approached the rug and carefully unrolled the hidden surprise. Aimée, still unconscious, rolled out and onto her back, her long blonde hair splayed around her head like a halo.
Baba’s intake of breath was audible. His eyes grew large as the jewels on his fingers. Unable to contain his reaction, he whispered “Exquisite.” then silently chastised himself. He was a ruthless bargainer, and showing too much enthusiasm this early might cost him dearly.
The Dey immediately turned his attention to the platter of dates, taking his time to choose just the right one. He took a small bite and chewed it slowly, then asked, “Where from?”
“A Spanish ship off the coast of Palma de Majorca,” the captain replied.
“Spanish, eh?” He took another bite of the date, and then popped the remainder into his mouth. Sipping his tea, he fixed the captain with a meaningful stare. “Intact?”
“Untouched by us for certain, and no ring of marriage.”
Baba considered this without comment.
“She was treated like a queen aboard my ship,” the captain added proudly.
“Well, well. A queen, no less,” Baba mused. He heaved his immense body up and slowly sauntered over to take a closer look. Using the toe of his slipper, he carefully moved aside some of Aimée’s hair that covered her face. He saw her flawless, white skin, pouty little lips and tiny upturned nose. “A princess, perhaps,” he muttered indifferently. He knew instantly what he would do with this magnificent prize, although his face betrayed none of his excitement.
“And eyes like sapphires,” the captain added in an obvious attempt to raise her perceived value.
“Better that than rubies,” Baba said, feigning indifference and lowering himself down again. “I sincerely appreciate your thinking of me, friend, but I already have more women than one old man can deal with. In fact, I am considering ridding myself of some of them.”
“But none like this, I’ll wager,” the captain said. “This one is extraordinary.”
“She might prove entertaining,” Baba said while carefully choosing another date. “But all things have their price, and between friends even extraordinary things must be properly priced.”
He clapped his hands and a servant appeared. “More tea,” he ordered, “and raki.” Negotiations always yielded better results when one of the parties was debilitated by strong drink and that person would not be Baba Mohammed Ben Osman.
Now the bargaining began in earnest, and continued for almost an hour, during which many plates of cakes and several glasses of raki were consumed by the guests. The young captain was no match for the shrewd Dey of Algiers, member of the royal family of Osmans, who finally agreed to buy the girl for twenty-three hundred pieces of gold.
Baba retrieved the coins and placed them into a small wooden chest, which he set before the captain. Then the deal was sealed with another glass of raki that Baba now also drank.
After he had emptied his glass, Baba’s face turned darkly serious, and he glowered at the captain, freezing the younger man with his words. “If I find her not to be the virgin I bought, I will return her body to you for a full refund.”
The captain and his men stared blankly at the Dey, seeing the infamous brigand’s true nature for the first time. Finally, the captain found words to reply. “I am sure she will delight you, sir, and as always, I stand behind the quality of my merchandise.” He hoped that his assessment of her had been correct, for her sake as well as his own.
Baba accompanied the men towards the door and salaamed. “May your next voyage be fruitful.”
“And may one thousand blessings be visited upon you and your family,” the captain replied. As he salaamed, he remembered the portrait tucked in his belt. He removed it and handed it to Baba. “You might want to give her this. And as you speak her tongue,” he added, “tell her that the next time I find such a jewel, I will buy her myself.”
“I am sure she will be flattered.” He looked at the framed likeness, thinking it did not do her justice.
When they had gone, Baba placed the portrait on a low table and returned to stand over Aimée. She looked like the angels or sirens depicted in European paintings. What an amazing surprise she is going to be. He moved away and lowered himself onto the cushions to sip more raki and wait for her to awaken.
Not long afterward, Aimée began to regain consciousness. She lifted one hand to her face and rubbed her eyes, then slowly opened them. Still lying on her back, the first thing she saw was the elaborately tiled dome ceiling floating above her. It took her almost a full minute to focus her gaze, and to realize that she was no longer in the pirate’s cabin.
Rolling her head to the left, she saw a bizarre apparition reclining ten feet from where she lay. She instantly rolled to her side and rose to her hands and knees. Seized by dizziness, she could rise no further. Her head dropped forward and she gasped for breath to quell the nausea that rose in her throat.
With her first movement, Baba had begun watching her with great curiosity. He opened both arms towards her and smiled broadly. “¡Hola, niña! ¿Cómo estás?”
Aimée did not move, nor did she understand the Spanish greeting.
“¿Habla español?” Baba tried. “¿Español?”
Aimée weakly shook her head no. She felt sick and was afraid to look directly at the frightful giant who addressed her.
“¿No español?” he aske
d disappointedly.
Still groggy from the opium and with her eyes cast down, she whispered, “Je suis français.”
“Ah, French!” Baba exclaimed happily, clapping his bejeweled hands and leaning towards her. “I speak fluent French. What luck. My French is much better than my Spanish. What is your name, child?”
Surprised to hear her native tongue and hoping that he might be impressed by her reply, she lifted her head proudly. “I am Marie-Marthé Aimée Dubucq de Rivery, sir.”
“Ah, what pride, Marie-Marthé. Utterly charming. Would you like some tea?”
Aimée violently shook her head no, which made her dizzy again.
“Some raki, perhaps? I assure you that it will cause you no harm. You see, I am drinking it,” he said offering her a glass.
Aimée refused once again. “Please, sir,” she whispered, “Where am I?”
“My fortunate little flower, you are in my humble home in the city of Al Djazāir, and I am Baba Mohammed Ben Osman, the Dey of Al Djazāir, at your service.” He salaamed from his seat.
She digested this for a moment. “Algiers? The Dey?”
“Yes, as you say in France, Algiers. And I—well let me see, in France I believe I would be uh, well, much like, uh, the mayor.”
“Please, sir, as you speak my language, take pity on me. Corsairs took me from my ship, against my will. Please help me,” she begged, and then burst into tears.
“Dear child, of course I will help you. I am here only to help you. But first you must bathe and change into something more becoming.” He wrinkled his large nose and indicated her filthy clothes. Then he struggled up from the pillows and graciously extended his hands to help her up. “Come, my child. You have nothing to fear.”
Aimée grasped his outstretched hands, and rose to stand eye level with the center of his chest. Her legs were a little shaky, but the strangely attired giant had said he would help her, and she wanted desperately to believe him. What choice did she have? He was the first person with whom she could communicate since her abduction. Despite his forbidding appearance, there was something soothing about his voice, his heavily accented French, and the way he spoke to her as if she were his own little child.
“Ahmet will show you to your quarters and then Zahar will bathe you and help you to change into something very beautiful.”
Aimée walked across the great room as if hypnotized, holding one of Baba’s enormous hands, and looking up into a face that she found fascinating. Perhaps the opium had not lost its effect entirely, or she simply felt relief at finding someone who was going to help her.
Ahmet, a tall servant, appeared and took instructions from Baba. His eyebrows raised in surprise at Baba’s instructions to show the girl to one of the guest rooms reserved for male guests rather than to the women’s quarters. This was highly unusual. In fact, it had never occurred during the twenty years in which he had served Baba Mohammed Ben Osman.
Baba turned to look down at Aimée. “Follow Ahmet now,” he said, patting her little hand, “and later we will dine together. Then I will explain your extraordinary good luck in being brought to me.” He released her hand, salaamed, turned and walked away.
Chapter 17
Aimée followed the servant along long carpeted corridors with arched ceilings and smooth white walls. The house was remarkably cool, despite the heat of the midsummer day. Ahmet ushered her into a large room with a high vaulted ceiling. A low divan, covered with plump silk cushions, stood almost in the center of the room. Large, square cushions surrounded a polished brass tray table, and two ornately carved wooden wardrobes occupied one entire wall. A large turquoise vase, holding dozens of smooth red flowers that Aimée could not identify, sat on a low table next to the divan. Brass wall sconces and several small oil lamps lighted the room. Soft afternoon sunlight filtered through the lattice covering of a small window that opened to an inner courtyard filled with exotic flowers and plants. Unlike the décor of her aunt’s opulent house in Paris, this room exuded luxurious warmth, offered comfort in place of style for its own sake and made her want to lie down on the cushioned divan to feel the depth of its comfort. Had she not still felt like a captive, the room might have made her feel welcome.
Behind her, Ahmet clapped his hands, bringing her out of her reverie, and a tall Nubian woman entered. Ahmet spoke a few sentences to her in an African dialect and then left.
The woman wore a flowing white caftan that contrasted sharply with her ebony skin. The toes of her long bare feet each held a tiny gold ring, and thin gold bracelets graced her elegant arms. Placing her hand on her own chest, she said softly, “Za-har,” and bowed her head slightly.
“Za-har,” Aimée repeated.
They smiled at each other awkwardly before the slave approached Aimée and began to undress her. The ritual was a familiar one that reminded Aimée of Da Angelique, and her throat tightened.
She closed her eyes and made a silent prayer. Please reach home soon and tell my uncle of my plight.
Then she thought of Mr. Braugham, and her eyes filled with tears. How would she bear it until they were reunited? She stood passively, engrossed in her own sadness, as Zahar chatted quietly in a language bearing no resemblance to the one spoken by her family’s slaves on Martinique.
When Aimée was naked, Zahar dropped the last of the soiled clothing onto the floor. Aimée glanced at the ruined ensemble that had once been her finest, and thought of her aunt’s house in Paris and how unhappy she had become there. But oh, how she had loved those clothes.
She was lost in her reverie when Zahar slipped a thin, white linen dress over her head. Aimée looked down at the garment.
Zahar touched the dress lightly and said, “Caftan.”
“Caftan,” Aimée repeated.
Zahar took Aimée’s hand and led her out of the room like a little girl. They walked hand in hand to the end of a long corridor where Zahar pushed open a low wooden door. They stood in a small, very warm room, empty except for several low divans and small tables. There were carpets on the floor and ornate brass clothes hooks on the walls. Zahar indicated Aimée to recline on one of the divans, said something unintelligible, bowed and then left.
Aimée sat down on the edge of a divan and surveyed the room. Why is it so hot?
Intricate patterns of porcelain tiles covered the walls and ceilings. She glanced at the door several times, expecting Zahar to return. When she did not, Aimée got up and walked around the room. Should I try to escape? If I manage to find my way out of the house, where would I go? Remembering that she was naked beneath the flimsy gown, she sat back down.
The heat began to overpower her and she lay down on the divan. What are they going to do to me? Zahar did not appear to be malicious or have evil intent, but she was just a slave, carrying out the wishes of the giant, Baba, who had promised to help her. She reached for her little gold cross to pray for guidance and found it gone. They took my cross. Aunt Lavinia had given it to her after her mother died, and the only time she took it off was while Signore Cavalieri painted her portrait. He said it “takes the eye away from your magnificent skin.” Now it was gone forever and she must pray without it.
Mother Mary, full of grace, please guide me in my time of need. Please deliver me from these walls, from my captors and return me to my family.
She prayed until Zahar reappeared and took her hands to help her stand up. As Zahar tried to slip the caftan over Aimée’s head, she met with fierce resistance. Aimée clung to the flimsy shift until Zahar finally let go and heaved a big sigh. The slave put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to the side, perplexed by the girl’s resistance. Then she got an idea and smiled, raising one finger to Aimée as if to say, “Wait a minute.” She walked across the little room where she pushed an invisible lever that opened a hidden door, so cleverly concealed by the intricate design of the tile that Aimée had not seen it. Zahar beckoned, and Aimée cautiously took a few steps towards the door. The view made Aimée’s jaw drop.
; She looked into a huge oval-shaped, high-domed room surrounding an indoor lake, large enough to hold several rowboats. At one end, water poured into the lake from two huge pipes and at the other, flowed out like a waterfall. The floor, walls and ceiling were tiled in ornate painted scenes of other rooms that looked like this one—and flowers, and clouds and naked women. Steam rose off the surface of the pool just like mist rising off a lake and wide, tiled steps led down into the water all around. Several tall Nubian women stood against the walls like statues, ready to serve as needed. Long, low banquettes lined the walls and several large, woven baskets held piles of folded fluffy towels. Huge, square pillows covered in soft woven cotton lay on the floor, interspersed with some low divans.
Aimée surveyed the room with abject wonder. Was this a place to bathe? Bathing at the convent was performed in a small copper tub that had been hand-filled with hot water, and the bather wore a long, muslin gown. Everyone in France believed that bathing more than once or twice a year could cause any number of illnesses that eventually led to death. These thoughts flew through her head while Zahar gently removed the caftan, and then disappeared through an open archway into an alcove.
Aimée realized that she was standing naked in a very strange place. She quickly covered her breasts with one arm and her sex with the other. She surveyed the room to find that she was alone except for the statuesque slave women. Cautiously, she walked the perimeter of the pool, peeking behind palm trees and huge potted plants until she ascertained that she was, indeed, alone.
The pool certainly looked inviting. Maybe there was something special about this water that rendered it harmless, but how did they make it hot? Feeling more curious than scared, she approached the pool and gingerly dipped in the toes of her right foot. It felt just a bit warmer than body temperature, so she stepped down onto the first tile step with both feet. Liking the feel of the water around her ankles, she negotiated two more steps, then carefully sat down, submerged to her waist. It was an extraordinary sensation to feel the warmth between her legs and on her belly. The water felt silky smooth and gave off an exotic, sweet fragrance. Dipping both hands in, she cupped the water and brought it to her face to sniff. The fragrance was intoxicating, and she immediately lowered the rest of her body into the pool. The water came to just under her chin, and she stretched out her arms and gently waved them back and forth enjoying the sensual, luxurious feeling. Suddenly, she realized that she was smiling; she covered her mouth to suppress a giggle. The sensations reminded her of bathing in the warm ocean on Martinique as a child, when Da Angelique would let her run naked into the surf. She would splash and play and beg to stay longer when it was time to leave. She hadn’t been allowed to play like that since she was ten, and couldn’t believe how wonderful it felt now. If this was how the barbarians bathed, she could grow to like it. It seemed to wash all of the sad thoughts from her mind.
