The five captives received increased portions of wormy bread and olives. In the evening they were fed thin soup. Hassan slipped Luc a chunk of fresh fish.
“Thank you, Hassan,” said Luc.
Hassan shook his head and said, “Shukran, Hassan.”
“Shukran, Hassan,” said Luc.
Hassan bowed slightly to the boy and smiled.
The next morning, Hassan scrubbed each of the prisoners. He returned their seawater-stiffened clothes. Then he took Luc’s knife and shaved the heads of the others. Luc was left with his golden hair. The voyage was about to end, but the nightmare of capture was in full thunder.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bizerte
THE DHOW SAILED through a crescent-shaped natural harbor and into a wide manmade canal. It was dawn, and the sky was white. Stone quays edged the canal, shadowed by the thick ocher walls of a crenellated fortress with high watchtowers at each turn. Beyond the fortress, low gray and tan buildings lined the channel. The dhow’s sailors jumped from the deck, dragging ropes and pulling the craft into a berth. A plank was dropped, and Luc and his fellow captives hobbled ashore, where a crowd gathered. Robed and turbaned boys and gangs of young bearded men lunged, making faces and even pummeling the fettered captives as they stumbled on their weak and rocky sea legs. As Hassan steered Luc and the four other captives through the city and along the shadowed streets, the crowd followed, whistling, jeering, and threatening the prisoners. At a city square, ringed by low windowless buildings, the prisoners filed down rickety steps to an underground warren of hot, hellish cells, a matamore. A grate in the slimy ceiling opened to the street and yielded a dribble of air and less light. Moldy, lice-infested straw mats covered the mud floor. The door clanged shut. Luc listened to the sounds of the city above and the weeping of his fellow captives. He was beyond weeping, beyond thinking. Luc was empty.
Before the end of the first day ashore, the dhow captain and Hassan, now turbaned and robed in sky-blue cloth, returned to the matamore and led the prisoners up to the street. The afternoon sun blinded Luc and his fellow captives as they were prodded to a pen on the edge of the square, where a small group of men waited. All were mustached and many had pointed beards. They wore long robes with wide sleeves and had covered their heads with turbans or small round caps. A few stepped forward to examine the captives, forcing them to strip off their clothes and jump and bend and skip. Fingers poked into mouths and pulled down eyelids. Two customers admired Luc’s hair but drew back when they saw he had one ear. The captain displayed Mattie’s carved ear. For a moment Luc was flooded with memories of home, and tears streamed from his eyes. The men laughed and moved on to the next captive. At the edge of the group, a singular man watched. He was old and taller by a head then any other man, taller even than the blue-robed Hassan. The old man was thin, with a lined, narrow face and a trim white beard. He wore a white cap and a long white robe, all spotless as milk, except for his butter-colored pointed shoes. With him was a very short man with a bare, bald head and a crooked smile. He was dressed in a striped gray robe with a pointed hood that hung behind him. Although he was the height of a young boy, he had the face and the broad shoulders of a man. The old man motioned at Luc with a nod of his head, and the little man scampered over to the captain.
“How much for the boy with one ear?” asked the little man. Luc understood nothing as they began to haggle about his worth.
The captain looked down at the little man and frowned. “Two gold pieces.”
“You’re mad,” screeched the little man.
The captain drew a small, curved dagger from his belt.
The little man ducked his head and put up his hands. He simpered. “Forgive me, kind sir. I meant only the price is too high. The boy is not whole. Can he hear?”
“As well as you. Maybe better. You’re but half a man.”
The little man smiled and thumped his head. “Yes, yes. Less than half a man, sayyid, but no one says his own buttermilk is sour. Not when he wants to sell the buttermilk.”
“What?” asked the captain.
“This boy is worth little. Maybe nothing. Maybe less than nothing,” said the little man, flicking his teeth with his right thumbnail.
“His hair alone is worth the price,” said the captain, cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his dagger.
“What use is a head of hair?” asked the little man, rubbing his bald head. “Just a luxury bed for vermin.”
The captain shrugged. “Get on with it. One gold piece for the boy. That, or move on.”
“A fair bargain,” said the little man, bobbing his head up and down. “Do we agree, you will pay my master a gold piece to take the boy?”
The captain spit on the ground. “Infernal dwarf. Be gone.” He tucked his dagger back into his belt and turned to walk away.
“The boy has one ear. He is bad luck. It is risky to bring such a thing into a household,” the little man called loudly.
The captain’s face reddened, and he turned around. “A piece of silver, and the boy is yours, but take him and get out of my sight before I use my knife on your ear.”
The little man nodded and pulled a silver coin from a leather sack. The captain motioned to Hassan, who removed the shackles from Luc’s scabbed and bleeding ankles. The tall sailor patted Luc’s head gently before he tied a rope around the boy’s neck. When he tried to hand over the rope, Hassan was ignored. Instead, the little man pulled at the captain’s robe.
The captain narrowed his eyes. “Now what?”
The little man held out his hand and cocked his head.
“What?” asked the captain again.
“You have our boy’s other ear.”
“You did not buy the other ear. You bought the boy with one ear.”
“My master bought the boy. Surely the wooden ear belongs to the boy. Now both belong to my illustrious master.”
“Who is your master?”
The little man pointed to the tall man in white, who stood apart from the crowd. The old man nodded, and the captain touched the tips of the fingers of his right hand to his forehead and bowed slightly. He tossed the ear to the little man.
“Your master is a very respected man. But you are nothing. Stay out of my sight, or beware, insect.”
The little man dropped the wooden ear into his hood and winked. As he led Luc away, he looked over his shoulder at the captain. With a wide smile and a second wink, he whispered loudly, “The right answer to a fool is silence.”
“What? What did that troll say?” asked the captain.
But Hassan, who heard every word, spit out a red kola seed and shrugged. Then he called to the little man.
“His name is Luc.”
The little man stopped and turned. He pointed a thumb to his own chest. “Bes,” he said, and he bowed to Hassan. Bes turned to Luc, tapped his chest again, and repeated his name. When Luc said nothing, he frowned and jerked the rope. Luc stumbled after Bes, who trotted a few paces behind the tall man in white.
Bes pulled Luc through the narrow streets, yanking the leash and causing Luc to stumble and sometimes fall to his knees. Bes laughed each time until the old man turned, wagged his finger, and clicked his tongue. Bes shrugged and cocked his head to one side. “Yes, master,” he said. But when the old man turned, Bes jerked Luc one last time and stuck out his tongue at the boy.
Along crowded streets, through narrow alleys and under covered archways, the three passed stalls selling leather slippers, copper cauldrons, and bolts of cloth. They passed mountains of almonds and dried dates and bushels of grains and green vegetables. There were tables stacked with brightly colored sweets, round loaves of bread, and noisy pens of hens and chicks. Blood-spattered butchers called from beneath fly-covered hooks of skinned lambs and goats. The trio stepped aside to let donkey carts pass, and everywhere they went, people bowed to the old man, calling out, “Salaam alaikum.”
Although the sun was hotter than home, Luc was shivering. He inhaled the scents o
f cumin and turmeric and burned sugar; he saw bolts of cloth in shades of saffron, orchid, and indigo. He heard people talking, arguing, and singing, in words he could not understand. Nothing was familiar to Luc. Nothing was identifiable. Then, as he hobbled along, he noticed a man carving wood with a pointed chisel, etching an intricate design of vines and flowers. Luc stopped to watch. Bes tugged at him. The rough rope scratched and burned Luc’s neck, a harsh reminder of his status. He was naked and leashed.
Like a pig, Luc thought. A pig to be slaughtered.
He shuddered, and his hands were icy. Bes jerked the rope, and Luc fell to his knees. The old man had turned down an alley ahead. Bes grabbed a handful of Luc’s hair and yanked the boy to his feet. He hurried Luc along, catching up with the old man at a long whitewashed wall; swallows nested in every hole in the wall, and twigs and grasses jutted from every fissure. Bes dragged Luc to a carved doorway and swung open an iron-studded cedar door. The huge hammered hinges squealed. The old man entered, and Bes jerked Luc over the threshold into his new home.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Master
THE STREET WAS dusty and hot, noisy and smelly, but when Luc stumbled across the threshold, he passed into a different world. Behind Luc was the closed door and the windowless, thick white wall that muffled the city outside. The old man and the little man slipped out of their shoes and left them by the entry. A scalloped archway opened to a spacious blue-and-green tiled courtyard, planted with tall leafy trees and edged with a rose garden. Cages of songbirds hung from tree branches, jasmine tumbled from blue urns, and in the center of the tiled yard, sparkling ribbons of water splashed from a white marble fountain into a green stone pool. Twisted, fluted columns ringed the courtyard, and a covered walkway with colorful mosaic bands led off into the rooms of the house.
“Scrub him well,” said the old man to Bes.
“Shall I shave his head?” chirped Bes, examining a lock of Luc’s hair. Luc cringed at the little man’s touch.
Luc had understood nothing of what was said, but the old man’s voice was as deep as he was tall, and when he spoke it rumbled from down within his chest, forceful but not loud. “You shall not cut his hair, though the color is unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate?” asked the little man.
“A red apple invites the thief. Be gentle, Bes. The boy has suffered.”
Bes smirked and pushed a bewildered Luc to the ground near the fountain. He blinked at the songbirds; he had never before seen a caged bird. Bes pinched his nose, made a face at Luc, and scampered away though a doorway on the far side of the courtyard. He returned wearing a copper bowl on his head and carrying a dish of black greasy soap, a bristle brush, and a yellow sponge. Behind the little man, a sleek white cat with yellow eyes, ginger ears, and a ginger-tipped tail padded on fat round paws.
Bes poured several bowls of water over Luc’s head. He slapped globs of soap on the boy and scrubbed Luc’s skin with the brush. The soap burned, and the brush scratched. Bes rubbed soap through Luc’s hair with his fingers. Now and then he pinched Luc or pulled his hair. Luc flinched, but he did not cry out. The runoff water changed gradually from gray to clear as each bowl rinsed away more filth. Bes dipped the sponge in olive oil and soothed the boy’s reddened skin.
The old man returned and dropped a short beige tunic over the damp boy’s head; he handed Luc a pair of wide trousers that tied at the waist. Luc pulled on the trousers. Then he smoothed his wet hair, straightened his shoulders, and stood tall, taller than the little man.
“Much better.” The old man nodded. “Feed him bread and dates. Give him milk. Goat’s milk. Almond milk. Whatever we have. Then bring him to my room. And keep Cat away from my songbirds. I don’t want to see that infernal creature, Bes. Ever.”
“Yes, master,” said Bes, who waited until the old man was gone before he kicked Luc once, grabbed him by the sleeve, and dragged him to the kitchen. It was a high square room, separated from the house by another courtyard, where there was a garden of vegetables and herbs and a large cistern to collect the rare rainwater. A wide hearth with a large chimney took up one corner of the kitchen. The deep shelves that lined the walls were crowded with baskets, bright copper pans, heavy earthen pots, and red and yellow glazed jars. Bes pushed Luc down on the stone floor near the hearth. He tore off a large hunk of bread and tossed it to the boy. He poured milk into a small bowl that he set down in front of the white-and-ginger cat. Then he poured Luc a cup of water and handed him three olives. The bread was fresh and smelled yeasty and clean, and the water was sweet. Luc gobbled and gulped. For the first time in weeks, he was washed and fed. He closed his eyes for a moment and savored his relief. Bes squatted with his arms wrapped about his knees, and watched the boy. He threw Luc another big hunk of bread. Luc finished and waited for more, but Bes winked and gestured for him to follow. They passed through the central courtyard to a double-wide doorway.
Inside the large room, thick, colorful woven rugs covered the tile floor. The old man sat in a carved chair behind a long table strewn with jars and cloth packets tied in string, instruments and tools. On the floor behind his chair were high stacks of parchments and piles of leather-bound books. The old man beckoned Luc around the table; Bes shoved Luc from behind. The old man pursed his lips and shook his head at Bes.
“Leave us, Bes. Go find shoes for the boy. And a cap.”
“A cap?” asked the little man.
The old man nodded. “And halvah for yourself. Maybe that will sweeten you, for a moment.”
Bes bowed and smiled. “Am I not sweet enough for you, sir?”
“No, you are not, Bes.”
Bes backed out of the room, quickly turned and, with a skip, was gone.
The old man motioned to Luc to come closer. He examined the boy from head to toe. Gently he prodded Luc’s scalp where the ear should have been and checked the other ear. He examined the boy’s eyes and his teeth, and he felt his neck and checked his spine. The old man dabbed ointment wherever Luc had welts and insect bites, and he bandaged the sores where the shackles had rubbed off his skin. Then the old man fastened thin steel bands around the boy’s ankles.
“These show you are mine. They will protect you.”
Luc blinked and stared at the man. He was confused by the gentleness and care. He looked down at the metal bands. Though he understood nothing of the man’s language, he understood that the rings showed he was a slave, that they demonstrated that, despite the kindness, Luc was now the property of this stranger. The boy felt dizzy and swayed.
The old man pointed to a cushion on the floor and motioned to Luc to sit. He began to speak. His words continued to be meaningless until, suddenly, Luc understood. For the first time in five weeks, he heard words that he knew, and he put his hand to his mouth.
“Ah!” said the old man. “You understand?”
Luc nodded. And then he wept.
The old man twirled his beard and waited, tapping his fingers on the table. Luc sucked in a few breaths of air, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and was quiet.
“This is the language I learned in the city of Marseille. I thought I would find your tongue. I have spent many years in different foreign lands.”
The old man pointed to the table and his chair.
“I have even learned to sit like a European, one of their few admirable habits. Now, I know you are not deaf, boy. You can speak. Yes?”
Luc nodded.
“You have survived the worst. Tell me one thing about yourself. Anything.”
“My name is Luc.”
“I am Salah. Now, Luc, tomorrow and for the nine days that follow,” said Salah, holding up ten fingers, “I will address you in your language. I will tell you the words in my language as well. After ten days”—the old man folded down his fingers one by one—“I will speak only the language of this city, Bizerte. You are on the Maghreb coast of Africa now, and you must learn Arabic. I hope you are quick and careful. And I hope you are kind. Bes is quick and careful, an
d he is trustworthy, but he is not always kind. I want more kindness in my household. I am an old man. Every sun has to set. You are my property, Luc, but if you are a good servant, I shall be fair and generous. If you are not a good servant, I will sell you. I have sold boys who were lazy or dishonest or useless. Prove yourself worthy. Do your best. I am a good master. You could do worse.”
Luc bent down and touched one of the bands on his ankle. He looked up at the old man.
With a voice that cracked, he asked, “Am I never to go home again?”
The old man paused.
“This is your home now, Luc. Do not speak again of the life you had. It is gone.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sunday
SIX WEEKS HAD passed since Luc’s disappearance. Mattie and Pons had asked throughout the village. Whatever happened to those taken by the Saracens remained a mystery: no one had ever returned. One Sunday morning in early May, Pons tarried after church to speak with the owner of the saltworks, Oubert. Oubert was the richest man in the village, and traded with merchants from other towns and from faraway cities. Oubert was also a recent widower with grown children, and he had asked Pons for Beatrice’s hand in marriage. He told Pons that Beatrice was the most beautiful young woman he had ever seen. Oubert was an honest man, but he was merciless in his bargains, and Pons thought he was neither young enough nor generous enough for Beatrice. But Pons had never given Oubert an answer and usually avoided the man.
“Do you know anything about these Saracens?” Pons asked him on this Sunday.
“Oh yes. These pirate raids are the fault of the Spanish king. He banished the Jews and the Muslim Moors from Spain. Now the sea is full of both. More than a few fishermen have disappeared. In Sardinia, a large island to the southwest, I heard that people were taken from their villages. Women and children, too. Stolen from their houses and fields in the middle of the day. The captives are sold into slavery and worked until death. Imagine the horror,” said Oubert, shaking his head.
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