Beatrice buried her face in Pons’s shoulder. Mattie stood behind her and stroked her hair.
“You know we love you, right, Beatrice? But maybe this is the answer to my prayers,” said Mattie.
“Not my prayers,” sobbed Beatrice.
“You don’t belong here in this simple life. Maybe you should go north. To visit. Maybe this is your chance to be the lady that you are,” said Mattie.
“What’s there for me there that I don’t have here? Fancy clothes and fine meals? Parents who abandon their children? I don’t want to be a lady. I like this life just fine. We have everything. And I love you and Pons. You’d never leave me. And I don’t want to leave you,” said Beatrice, turning to look at Mattie.
“How about a husband, a fine nobleman?” said Mattie, taking the girl’s chin in her hand.
“Someone like the count, who murders the innocent and throws away his own son?” asked Beatrice bitterly. “Does this uncle whom I don’t remember think I’ll come running because he’s sent me a fur cape?”
Alain took a step toward Beatrice, but stopped. “I have delivered my message. The cloak is yours,” he said, laying it on the table. “I shall inform the count of your refusal.”
Pons was rubbing his stiff fingers and shaking his head. “Beatrice, think about what you’re doing. Turning down the count?”
“No harm will come to Pons and Mattie if I refuse?” asked Beatrice, looking at Alain, her eyes filling.
Alain answered with a shrug, “What do I know? I do what I am told. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
“I wish that were true,” said Pons. “You should have never said a word about Beatrice.”
“You’re fools, all of you,” said Alain.
“Is the count like his father?” asked Beatrice, wiping her eyes.
“All the servants say he is a better man,” said Alain, reaching for his hat.
“Has there ever been anyone worse than the old Muguet?” asked Mattie.
Alain extended his arm to Beatrice. “Return with me. Your uncle is most agreeable. He and the count hoped to share Christmas with you. Just for a visit.”
“No,” said Beatrice, standing. “This is where I shall be on Christmas. Tell my uncle and the count that I am too ill to travel.”
Alain shook his head. “I won’t do that.”
“Beatrice, you cannot ask Alain to lie,” said Pons.
Beatrice grabbed one of Mattie’s knives and slashed the cushion of her thumb. She winced and said to Alain, “Then tell the count I’ve had a small accident. I cannot accept his invitation just now. Perhaps in the spring, for Easter.”
“Lord, I hope there is no infection,” said Mattie, rushing for a cloth to wrap the girl’s bleeding hand.
“Now no one needs to lie, and I can stay. What about Luc? Did you tell the count he has a brother?” Beatrice asked Alain.
“No, because I don’t believe there is any truth to that story, my lady.”
“‘My lady’?” asked Beatrice. “Now that I am a lady, does my request that you tell the count about Luc carry more weight?”
Alain took a deep breath. “If you insist, I shall convey the story to his lordship. But think about what you are asking.”
“There may be nothing but trouble here, Beatrice,” said Pons.
“It’s Luc’s best chance. I must take it,” said Beatrice.
1502
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Geography
THROUGHOUT THAT AFRICAN winter, Luc spent less and less time helping Bes and more and more time studying under Salah. Bes was quick to remind the master and the boy that he needed no assistance. Still, sometimes Luc would catch the little man watching his lessons. Luc and Bes had come to a wary truce; the little man had begun to recognize that his master would not easily part with this special slave.
Though he had adapted and even thrived in this new life, Luc longed for home; in December he wondered whether he would ever be back for a Christmas. In the chilly months of December and then in January, the sky was often thick and even rainy, but any rain that fell disappeared into the dry earth. Throughout the winter, Luc’s thoughts would often turn to home. He wondered who was taking care of Cadeau. Was he still at the cottage? With Beatrice?
He was daydreaming, remembering the windy afternoon when he had promised Beatrice a yellow silk dress, when he became aware that Salah was drumming his fingers on his knee, watching him. It was late February, and the old man was seated on pillows on the floor of his room with a shawl wrapped about his shoulders. Before him was a low table covered with books and scrolls. Behind were more stacks of books and a large clay ball. Salah shook his head and pointed to a cushion at his right knee. Luc knelt facing the old man as Salah reached for a tusk of ivory and a white coin.
“Do you know what these are?”
Luc took the tusk and turned it, sliding his thumb along the perfect surface.
“This is the tooth of an elephant,” said the boy.
Salah nodded. “The elephant is a noble beast, but it is his tusk that men covet. You have seen carvings of ivory?”
“Yes. I have dusted yours. But ivory is not known in my country.”
“Not widely known. It is very valuable, so it is known only to those of wealth.”
“Not to a fisherman.”
“No. Probably not, although there are whales with teeth of ivory.”
“We fished for anchovies, not whales,” answered Luc.
“Now, we fish for something larger than whales,” said Salah. “What’s this?” asked the old man, offering the boy the white disk.
“It looks like a coin,” said Luc, taking it and turning it over. “But it isn’t made of gold or silver. It’s just a disk of salt.”
“No, it is a coin made of salt. South of the desert, below the great Sahara, salt is traded as gold. Weighed out equally, measure for measure, and sometimes even struck into coins like this.”
“In Bizerte’s souks, this coin would buy very little,” said Luc, handing it back to Salah.
“Salt always has value, but far less here, where it is more abundant than gold. Things that are rare are more valuable.”
“Not always,” answered Luc, pointing to his ear. “A boy with one ear is nearly worthless.”
“Your singular ear is no exception to that rule. Had you two ears, you might have been worked to death in a salt mine or ended up as a eunuch in a rich man’s harem.”
“Had I two ears, I would have fetched a better price. I would be more valuable.”
“Yes, I see your argument, but it is not responsive.”
“I do not understand.”
“Because you were cheap, I purchased you. That was of more value to you.”
Luc bowed his head.
“Perhaps you are luckier than you think, Luc.”
“What do you mean?”
“Throw a lucky man into the sea, and he will come up with a fish in his mouth.”
“I miss your lesson here,” said Luc.
“Only because you choose not to listen. There is luck, and there is what you make of it. Who we are is not in our control, but what we make of ourselves is. Allah has given me the right of ownership of you, Luc, but I never forget that he could have given you the ownership of me.”
Luc grinned. “I am grateful that I was not given to Bes.”
“You have much to be grateful for. One hand is not enough to clap with. A single ear?” Salah shrugged. “It is why you are here. Be thankful. I am thankful that my bargain turned out to be a scholar and more. Of course, the nut does not reveal the tree it contains.”
Luc looked down at his knees and his hands. He spread his fingers, and then he surveyed Salah’s room, with its books and instruments. He turned his head and saw that the old man was watching him. Salah smiled.
“I understand,” said Luc.
“Geography is today’s subject,” said the old man. “Nine hundred years ago, there was a rare Christian scholar in Seville named Isi
dore.”
“Rare?” asked Luc, sitting back and drawing his knees to his chest, leaning forward to listen.
“Yes, a Christian scholar has always been rare. The Egyptians, the Greeks, and even some of the Romans were great scholars, but their learning would have been lost without my people. Isidore, unlike most of his primitive race—”
“Primitive like me, you mean?”
“Oh yes, Luc. And like you, Isidore was unusual. He was a Christian who appreciated and studied the ancients, a remarkable scholar. Isidore described the world as having four parts, three of them known: Asia, Europe, and Africa. And a fourth part, beyond the ocean, unknown.”
“Beyond the Mediterranean?”
“Beyond the Atlantic. Lately, the greed of some Christian explorers has impelled them to venture boldly into the unknown in their quest for gold. Some believe that on the other side of the Atlantic is the rich land of Asia. I suspect these Europeans have miscalculated the size of the world. Fetch my scissors.”
Luc jumped to his feet and retrieved the steel tool—a single piece of metal, forged into a loop with opposing blades that closed when the loop was squeezed. Luc had never seen scissors until he came to live with Salah, but then, he had rarely seen paper, and he had never held a book.
Salah rolled the clay ball toward him. “Now we shall build the world.”
Luc raised his eyebrows. “Surely that is not the job of an old man and his slave?”
“Most assuredly that is the very task at hand.”
The old man tossed Luc the scroll that he was holding in his lap.
“On this, you will find a map. An unusual map, printed on gores across the width of the paper. Cut each gore carefully along its outside lines.”
When Luc had twelve strips carefully cut from the sheet, the old man handed him a crock of wheat paste.
“Paste each piece carefully on that clay ball. The edges should just meet: I will hand them to you in correct order.”
Luc pried open the crock’s stopper; the paste smelled sour and was cold to his touch. He worked carefully, pasting the strips to the ball and scraping the excess glue with his nail. Once Luc had fitted the final strip, the surface was completely and perfectly papered.
“There, we have the world. Wonderful! Look at it, Luc!” said the old man, his eyes sparkling.
Luc hoisted the papered globe high above his head and smiled broadly. Then he brought the globe down to eye level and turned it, studied it.
“And the fourth part, Luc?” asked the old man, looking up from his cushion on the floor.
“Is a blank,” said the boy.
“Precisely,” said Salah, clapping his hands. “Precisely! Here I have collected maps and books—all the works I can find of explorers and travelers, of merchants and scholars,” he said, turning his shoulders and waving at the stacks of manuscripts and folios. “I have the learning of the ancients, of Ptolemy and of Pliny. I have histories from the great Temujin, known as Genghis Khan, who ruled an empire bigger than a year’s journey.”
Salah signaled for Luc to sit, and the boy put the globe on the floor in front of the old man and sat across from him. Salah grabbed a small blue leather book and hugged it for a moment against his chest.
“Here is the account of Ibn Battuta, a Berber from Tangier who spent thirty years exploring Africa. He traveled the length of the rivers Nile and Niger, to Mombassa, and then he journeyed across the sea and over the deserts of Arabia, on to India and through the land of the Tartars to China.”
He put the blue book on the low table and rooted around the manuscripts.
“I have logs from Arab seamen describing and mapping the Indian Ocean. And now, I have the writings of Christians who have begun to travel beyond their muddy villages. Here is a book of the journey east by a Venetian merchant family.”
Salah handed a book to Luc.
“Learn to read well, Luc. You will know the world.”
The old man pointed to a heavy folio bound between wooden boards, with a leather spine and heavy brass clasps. “There I have the works of a Frankish map maker, Henricus Martellus. That treasure was sold to me by the very man who found you.”
“I wasn’t lost,” answered Luc hoarsely.
“Dawn does not come twice to wake a man,” said the old man. “Luc, you learn so easily, and yet you do not change.”
Luc shook his head. “When I think of my old life, when I remember it, I ache to be home. I try not to think of it, but I can’t help it.”
The old man pointed to his books and papers. “This is where you are. And there is so much here.”
From the minarets of the city, the cries of the muezzins floated through the window. Salah turned to the boy. “Are you too childish, too stubborn to appreciate all you have gained? Shall I be disappointed?”
Salah stroked his beard. Luc struggled, searching for words, searching for calm. He felt his temper searing through his tight throat. He gazed at the old man and knew that he had disappointed him. And yet Luc was angry. Salah had given him so much; that was indisputable. But when Luc looked down at the bands around his ankles, he could not escape the reality of his life: he was another man’s property. Yet the man was a good man, and maybe that counted for something.
“See to your work in the kitchen. I expect important guests today,” said Salah, struggling to rise from the pillows.
Since the morning months ago, when Luc stitched the camel bite, Salah was increasingly weak and had trouble with his legs. Luc assisted him to his feet. Before he left, the boy put his right hand over his heart and bowed.
“I am better for all that you have taught me.”
Salah lay his right hand on his own heart and nodded. “I am not nearly finished teaching you, Luc. Now leave. It is time for my prayers.”
In the kitchen, Luc found Bes browning strips of veal with cinnamon and pepper in a large iron pan over the fire.
Handing Luc a long fork, the little man sniffed and said, “So the scholar is again the lowly slave?”
Luc said nothing. He was thinking about the geography lesson and how he had disappointed Salah. He was in no mood for Bes’s banter.
Bes danced from one foot to the other; he had three pots on the fire, including a perforated kettle filled with ground wheat that he was steaming over a pot of broth for couscous. He tasted each dish and added salt or a spice.
“Brown the meat,” he chittered to Luc. “Clean the birdcages, sweep the floor. Then beat the pillows.”
Luc said nothing but closed his eyes and bowed. When the meat was done, he left with his broom.
When Luc finished his chores, Bes asked, “Do you know who our guests are?”
Luc said nothing.
“Tariq and his only son, Mohammed.”
Luc sighed and shrugged. The names were meaningless to him.
Bes shook his head and hissed, “The old man and you spend all your days poring over books. You draw pictures of birds and leaves, and copy numbers and play with puzzles, but you don’t know who Tariq is?”
Luc answered, “No.” He closed his eyes and wished for quiet.
“Albino lizard,” said Bes, and he spit into the fire. The gob sizzled, and he watched it before continuing.
“Tariq is the wealthiest merchant in the world. He has more camels than there are stars in the sky. When his caravan marches across the desert, the line is so long that you can see neither the beginning nor the end. And in his harem, there are countless women, all beautiful.”
Bes put his hands on his hips and said, “Such a pretty lad. Perhaps I can persuade Tariq to buy you as a toy for the harem.” He smiled crookedly. “The boat captain wanted to cut your neck, but me? I would cut you elsewhere.” Bes raised his voice to a very high pitch. “You could be the fairest eunuch in the land, with your sun-yellow hair and your blue-sky eyes.”
Luc said nothing.
Bes chewed the nail of his pinkie and tilted his head. “Or maybe I will sell you to Tariq’s son. Mohammed has a s
table of slaves whom he rents out by the day. They break stones and dig ditches. Sometimes his slaves are harnessed to pull heavy wagons like oxen. The worst work for whoever will pay the most. Mohammed cares nothing if the slave dies, so long as he is paid for the full day.”
Bes floured a board and rolled dough to create pies of pigeon and fig. He grilled eggplant slices slathered in garlicky olive oil. He baked almond cakes with honey and currants. The little man had never taken more care, and Luc, meanwhile, busied himself in the courtyard, where a low table was set for Salah and his honored company. The late-February afternoon sun was hot, but the shaded courtyard was cool; the fountain water tinkled and pealed, and the birds chirped and trilled. Dust puffed from the pillows that Luc beat; he fetched extra cushions. He scrubbed the floor tiles until the iridescence of the blue and green glazes caught the light. He collected every lantern in the house, filled each one with oil, and trimmed every wick. Bes produced a saffron-and-aqua cloth to cover the table. With the candles and lamps, the pots of night-blooming jasmine, and the bright pillows, the courtyard was enchanting, and all was ready.
Luc found Salah asleep, and he gently woke the old man as the call for evening prayer sounded from the minarets of Bizerte. With Luc’s help, the old man changed into a freshly laundered white caftan. Luc filled a basin with water, and Salah washed his face and his arms to his elbows. After he washed his feet, he knelt on his prayer rug with Luc’s help.
“Leave me now,” murmured Salah. “There is dirt under your nails. The Prophet said that cleanliness is half the faith. Surely you can accept that much of my religion.”
Luc went out to the courtyard and scrubbed his hands and his face. Ever since the morning when Salah was ill, months earlier, Luc had helped him walk to a nearby bathhouse, a hammam, where both the man and his slave were scoured and steamed. A bath had been a rare event in Luc’s old life, but in this world, bathing was weekly. Not just for the wealthy, but for everyone. Hammams peppered the city; they were centers of the community. And Salah’s faith called for him to wash before each of the five daily prayers, as well. Salah repeatedly reminded Luc that Allah loved those who accepted him and those who were clean.
The Unfortunate Son Page 14
