by Nina Clare
His young master was gone.
Bellchior had heard the conversations between young master and Master Lopo. He had seen the crushed look in young master’s eyes as his uncle had warned him away from all thoughts of a career in trading. And he had seen the new brightness in his young master’s eye the past days, and the new tautness that showed in his figure as though he were holding in a hidden tension, as though he were harnessing his will, his energy, ready to spring forwards at a calculated time. Why had he underestimated his young master’s will? Of course he had left to join the merchant ship he had spoken of so excitedly. It was in his character to do so. He had seen it, but he had failed to anticipate his actions.
Bellchior strode swiftly on his long, lean legs out of the mansion house. He must reach the harbour before the merchant ship sailed.
But he was too late. The ship had already set sail.
Lord Amando sat with his head in his hands staring at, but not seeing, the tiled floor beneath his feet. He saw his young nephew, reckless, feckless, foolish, foolhardy, rash, rogue of a nephew! How could he do this to his family? What would he tell Magdalena? What would he tell the boy’s grandmama? He was responsible for him, he was his godfather, his guardian, his uncle – he had let him slip away from under his nose – let him run off with a merchant ship – bound for who knew where? What was he going to do?
Bellchior voiced exactly what they would do.
“We must go after him,” he said; giving an order to a master for the first time in his life.
Lord Amando still gripped his black hair tightly, but he nodded his head slowly. It was the only thing to do. He could not tell Mama. He would inform the servants to tell her that they had been urgently called away. There was no time to lose. They must find out where that merchant ship had sailed to, and they must be on the next ship that would take them to the same destination. They must bring back that idiotic, stupid – may all the saints of heaven have mercy and preserve him – mule of a boy.
There were differing accounts of which route the merchant ship that had sailed on the dawn tide had taken. There had been more than one ship leaving port that morning, and the name of Danilo Afonso was not known by all.
Lord Amando and Bellchior boarded a caravel that was taking the most common trade route. It was all they could do. But when they docked at the port of Marko three days later, the captain would travel no further until the king had sent out naval ships to protect the waters. The port was full of seamen’s talk of another spate of Corsa attacks. Corsa pirates had seized a Portguan carrack the previous day, and had raided nearby coastal villages, carrying off men, women and children. After much desperate questioning of every sailor and trader that Lord Amando could find, after seeking out and piecing together the fragments of information that revealed the facts of Felix’s journey, the appalling nightmarish fear that Lord Amando had been trying to stifle became a cold, iron-bound reality.
If his beloved nephew, the youth he had solemnly promised to watch over as godfather, if his own namesake had survived the brutality of the Corsas, then it was quite certain he had been captured as a slave.
Part II
Shula-Jane
“Shula, where are you?”
The high-pitched voice pierced through the peace of the oleander garden.
“Shula, where are you?”
The short, plump figure of Emmi Rashida appeared from between the date palms. She was panting from the exertion of walking hurriedly from the house.
“Shula, what is it you are doing? Why is it you are on your knees in your blue silk? Get up, get up, you cannot be dirtying your blue silk – Shula, just look at your hands! I do not know what it is you are thinking of, on your knees, your hands in the dirt – you – the daughter of a milki-sikritir – doing the work of a servant – get up! Go and wash your hands, and get Lumusi to re-tie your head scarf and brush off your silk, Toufik will be home soon, and so will your father!”
The kneeling object of Emmi Rashida’s remonstrations gave a resentful frown at the name of Toufik, and a resentful pout at having to leave her gardening. She stood up and brushed the loose dirt from her hands. Though only of fourteen years she stood taller than her short, plump Emmi who was now swatting at her blue silk gown, examining it to see if it would need changing before Abu Sabri came home from the palace. It displeased Abu Sabri greatly to see his daughter looking shabby or dirty. Abu Sabri insisted that his only daughter should wear nothing but silk all her days, cotton was too good for her, and shell jewellery was not grand enough – her bracelets and anklets must be of imported glass beads, and her necklaces and earrings must be of gold from Ghuna. And so it had been since the child had been born.
But what a trouble, what a worry it was to Emmi Rashida to fulfill her brother’s wishes and keep such a child looking tidy and presentable in silk when such a child had always insisted on doing all that was not fitting for the daughter of Abu Sabri to do, such as this crazy passion for putting plants into the dirt. Abu Sabri had no idea the trouble she had with such a child.
She gave the girl a little push towards the pair of date palms that made the entrance way into the oleander garden. All the way back to the house she gave little prods in the girl’s back in time with her chiding and scolding on the subjects of silk and dirt and the correct etiquette of a daughter of a milki-sikritir, and more importantly, a daughter who would be married to such a man as her Toufik. She would certainly not have chosen such a girl for her Toufik, but it was right that as cousins they should be married, it was how it should be, family was everything, but, oh, if only she could have seen her son married to a girl who was truly worthy of him, instead of this troublesome child.
Oh, how she would curse the day – if it were not an evil thing to do – curse the day that her brother first set eyes on that thin, white girl, who had looked as fragile as a turtle-dove, and indeed, had not survived long. That weak, pale creature with the strange foreign tongue who only lived long enough to produce this troublesome child and then lay mostly bedridden for seven years of the child’s life. And even then, though she could not understand why, even then her brother doted on his frail, pale slave-wife, doted on the child, though she were only a daughter. And when the pale girl died, her brother had aged by ten years in one day.
Abu Sabri arrived home first, and as always his daughter insisted on bringing him his cup of pomegranate syrup by her own hand. She knelt down on the woven carpet near to his seat and asked him of his day at the palace. She found his talk of all the ministers and their policy making and their factions and their attempts at self-aggrandisement rather tedious, for it seemed to her that there was a lot of talking and a lot of scheming and very few of the ministers of the king actually served their master well. But she would always ask her father of his day out of respect, and she was very proud that her father was an honest man who did all he could to serve the king well. And she considered that though she had never met the king, he must be a man of some wisdom, for he could see the integrity of her father and had promoted him and rewarded him well in the years he had served him.
Footsteps were heard on the tiled floor in the outer hall. The girl sitting at her father’s feet tensed, and the light in her eyes was veiled over as the footsteps grew closer, entering the room and coming to a halt very near to her.
“Toufik, my son, come and be seated,” said Abu Sabri. Emmi Rashida came in with more syrup and a cup for Toufik. She would bring the customary welcome cup to her son always by her own hand, and never by the hand of a servant.
Toufik took the cup from his mother without a word. His eyes kept flickering to the girl in the blue silk dress, with the blue silk scarf wound about her head. He wanted her to look up at him, for he knew that when she wore blue it caused her eyes to deepen in colour. Such fascinating eyes – sometimes a soft blue, the colour of the distant hills of Idan, at other times, such as when she wore deep blue silk, they were the colour of lapis lazuli. And when she was angry, they were the colour
of the sky before the monsoons came. But today she would not look at him. And he felt her snub. It angered him, but it was no matter. When she fully belonged to him he would learn how to crush her indifference. He would be the one who decided what colour her eyes would be when he had the right to make her look at him with a command. He drained his cup and held it out for his mother to take away.
“I have something to show you, my father,” said Toufik. “And to show Shula-Jane also.”
He did not miss the flinching movement Shula-Jane made at hearing him address her indirectly.
Toufik flicked his hand to make a gesture to his servant. The boy hastened forward and held out to his master a scroll of thick paper. Toufik untied and unrolled the scroll and held it up so both Shula-Jane and her father could see it.
“What is it, my son?” said Abu Sabri, leaning forward. Shula-Jane could see immediately what it was and she shrank back, her eyes darkening with distaste.
“It is the plans I have had drawn,” said Toufik. “See, my father, the plans for the extension, for the new rooms for when we are married.” He looked at Shula-Jane as he said the word “married.” She refused to look at him. Refused to look at his plans. She would only look at her father.
“This will be the inner courtyard,” Toufik was saying, pointing to lines on the heavy paper. “These will be columns, and these marks are the archways that will lead from the courtyard. This room will lead out onto the garden; it will face west, so it will be very pleasant to rest in in the evenings. And here will be a north facing room to sit in comfort at midday, and this will be the library, and this room will be the sleeping room.” He was pleased to see Shula-Jane flinch again when he said the words “sleeping room”.
“It looks like a great deal of work to be undertaken,” said Abu Sabri.
“I should like to begin the work very soon, my father,” said Toufik, gazing at the plans with a gleam in his eye, as though he could see the beautiful tiles, the mosaic floors, the carved pillars, the rich fabrics, the costly scrolls in the library, and the great hand-carved bed...
“Then I give you leave to begin.”
“Thank you, my father, you approve of the plans, then?”
“I trust to your judgement.”
“And when the work is completed,” Toufik glanced at Shula-Jane, “when all is made ready, then the marriage may take place?”
He saw how anxiously Shula-Jane looked at her father to hear his answer.
“Certainly the marriage will come to pass as soon as the new rooms are ready,” answered Emmi Rashida in her shrill voice. “That is the tradition, and the house of Abu Sabri will always do what is seemly,” she declared, ignoring the glaring omission in her brother’s past conduct in making that weak, white slave-girl both his wife and free woman once she had borne him a child – that had not been the seemly thing to have done, and Rashida still recoiled within at the gossip his actions had generated.
But that was in the past. Her brother would do the right thing now; he would marry Shula to her son, and secure the family property and the wealth he had accumulated from the king’s beneficence. It was just and seemly that her son should be enriched by becoming his heir, for had she not raised his daughter for him all these years? Had not her son been obedient to his uncle as any good son was obedient to his father?
“The marriage will come to pass,” promised Abu Sabri, “but there is no urgency. Shula-Jane is young. When the new rooms are completed, then I will set a day for the wedding. Not before.”
Rashida’s mouth shrank into a tight grimace of annoyance. Her son’s countenance was equally grim for a few moments. Only Shula-Jane gave a small sigh of relief, as though she had been holding her breath. She leaned forward and dropped a soft kiss upon her father’s hand.
A Gift
Shula-Jane sat by the pool throwing crumbs to the fish that darted and flashed gold and copper in the water. The white empress bird saw the familiar movement of Shula-Jane’s hand and slowly made her way over to her to have her share of the crumbs. Her white tail feathers trailed along the ground like a queen’s train
“Shula, where are you?” came the familiar shrill cry. Shula-Jane rolled her eyes, could she never have a moment’s peace?
“Shula, what are you doing? Sitting on the ground in your yellow silk, get up! Get up – there is much to be done for tonight.”
“Oh, Emmi, must you scold me even on a grand feast day?”
“Get up, child, help me make the garlands, the servant girls have no way with the arrangements, they are all useless! Shoo, shoo!” Her last words were directed at the empress bird who shook her feathers at the shrill voice and the clapping of Emmi Rashida’s hands at her delicate, crowned head.
Shula-Jane got up and scattered the last of her crumbs into the water.
“Remember to be very gracious when you receive your gifts this evening,” Emmi Rashida counselled Shula-Jane as they threaded heads of desert-rose blossoms into garlands. “Do not disgrace your father’s house again as you did that time when you burst into tears at Abni Alem Shadna’s gift to you.”
“Oh, Emmi, I was but five years old, and what kind of a gift is a shrunken head for a child?”
“It was one of his ancestors; he was deeply affronted at your rejection.”
“He should keep his ancestors within his own house. I hope he has not been invited tonight?”
“He departed this world on the eve of the hisad festival.”
Shula-Jane held her tongue from expressing her relief that the wizened old second cousin of her great-grandfather would not spoil her father’s feast night with his gummy slurping at the dishes set out before the guests. In her opinion, no one should attend a feast if they could not eat and drink without putting their fellow guests off their food.
“I suppose your father will spoil you again with his gift,” grumbled Emmi Rashida, gesturing to a servant boy to come and take the garland from her and climb up on the stool to tie it in place on the wall.
“I have asked Papa for just one thing,” said Shula-Jane. “There is only one thing that I desire.”
“Ah, yes,” said Emmi Rashida, threading her needle to begin another garland. “A foolish gift.”
“What is foolish about wanting a dog?” said Shula-Jane, holding out her needle for her Emmi to thread it for her. “I have always wanted a dog.”
“Dirty, lice-ridden, greedy things,” said Emmi Rashida with distaste. “No dog will ever come into this house while I am house-keeper.”
“It can sleep in the courtyard outside my bedroom,” replied Shula-Jane. Ibram can make me a shelter for it.”
“Ibram will be very busy with the work on the new rooms.”
Shula-Jane scowled over her desert-roses at the mention of the new rooms.
“Toufik has gone to see the merchants to begin ordering the materials now your father has approved his plans.”
Shula-Jane scowled more deeply.
The festival began at sunset; the lanterns were lit, and looked magical to Shula-Jane’s eyes. They flickered in the soft evening breeze in a line all the way from the double gates at the road to the pillars and open door of the house.
Servant boys in their clean gowns and close-fitting caps stood welcoming the guests into the entrance hall with trays of sweets and cups of pomegranate syrup. Servant girls greeted the guests who passed from the entrance hall to the dining hall with the gift of a flower garland. The house was aglow with flickering lights and the scent of desert-roses and the spices wafting in the warm air from the cooking room – saffron and ginger, cardamom and cinnamon, fennel and coriander.
The guests wore their brightest and most highly patterned of robes; necklaces and bracelets of shells adorned their necks, their arms, and their ankles. The wealthiest guests wore gold.
Abu Sabri sat in the chair of the host and graciously received the gifts his guests brought him. His daughter knelt on a floor cushion beside him and graciously received hers as the lady of the house. T
he singers took their places and began the feasting songs, and at the sound of their voices Emmi Rashida began directing the servants to carry forth a procession of wooden platters and glazed pottery bowls, bearing the many dishes that she had been organising the preparation of for days.
Abu Sabri was about to rise from his host chair and take his place at the head of the full-laden table when Toufik hurried in, looking pleased with himself, with two of his servant boys following behind. He bowed down before Abu Sabri, apologising for his late arrival and desiring to offer his father his customary gift.
Abu Sabri touched Toufik’s bent head to signal acceptance of his apology and his gift. Toufik motioned the first servant boy forward and took from him a linen-bound object, which he then presented.
It was a costly scroll, a very valuable book for Abu Sabri’s library. The gift was well received.
Shula-Jane caught herself considering that her father had given Toufik a sizeable sum of money that morning to place orders with the merchants for building materials; she felt a cynical disbelief in the generosity of Toufik’s gift. What was a gift that was paid with money earned by another man? She quelled her thoughts and hoped in vain that she would not have to endure accepting a gift herself from the man kneeling before her father. But she knew that she hoped in vain, for it was the custom.
Toufik motioned to his second boy, and he stepped forward carrying something covered in a linen cloth. Was Shula-Jane imagining things, or did the linen bundle in the boy’s arms just wriggle?
”My sister, my cousin, and my bride-to-be,” Toufik was saying loudly, so that all guests present would be reminded that he was not just the nephew of the notable Abu Sabri, but was also his future heir and son by marriage.
“Please do me the great honour of accepting from my hand a small gift.”
