Revenge of the Corsairs

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  He kept his eyes on Rabia’s, the only feature that he could see clearly, since the lower part of her face was covered by a veil of gold translucent enough that he could just see her mouth through it.

  One of her guards tugged at the straps of his satchel. Elias lowered his arms and let the bag fall. The man picked it up and shook out the contents. Powder horns and shells dropped at his feet, only just missing his toes.

  The guard growled and pulled back his arm. The scimitar was aimed at his neck. Elias shifted the weight on his feet and raised his chin. If the man was going to strike, he’d prefer it to be a clean blow to his neck. But still, he said nothing other than make a silent recitation of The Lord’s Prayer in his mind.

  Rabia raised her hand and the guard lowered his.

  “Clean him up, feed him, and have him prepared. Toufik will bring him to my quarters at midday. I wish to interrogate him personally.”

  Rough hands grabbed Elias’ upper arms and pulled him through the pavilion. The looks on the other guards’ faces told him they weren’t happy with their mistress’ order but they either respected or feared her enough to do it. Nonetheless, he was certain he would be sporting more than a few new bruises when they delivered him at midday.

  He wondered about the servant in brown who helped him yesterday. Did she betray him to her mistress? Was she found out and punished?

  He walked with the guards unresistingly. Acquiescence at the moment would serve him better than fighting. It would give him time to think of another plan. He could think of only one.

  He slowed his pace a little, watching the four other guards move further and further ahead.

  Now!

  Elias dropped his weight, causing the men holding his arms on either side to loosen their grip. He took a swing at the closest one, knocking him off his feet, then sprinted in the direction of the cliff. If he picked his jumping off point correctly, he would drop onto a ledge he’d seen ten feet below and clamber halfway down the cliff before the guards could begin a proper hunt. Of course, if he picked his jumping off point incorrectly, he would plunge the full height of the cliff onto the rocks far below…

  His arms pumped in time with his legs. He ran for his life. Then the grass rose up to meet him as a diving pursuer grasped his ankle.

  Several other bodies piled on top of his. He gritted his teeth, afraid the men might smother him to death. Elias took kicks to his kidneys and legs before being hauled to his feet once more. Two different guards, larger and stronger, frog marched him away from the walled garden and, this time, there were guards front and back.

  If he thought the kicking he had sustained in the garden was to be all, he was disappointed.

  Shoved head first into what appeared to be a barracks, he was set upon. Held down while two men stripped him of his shoes and clothes, he was dragged to a set of wooden slave stocks where the heavy wooden yoke was locked closed over his ankles. He heard the whip-like whistle of the cane a split second before it struck the still sensitive and healing instep of his bare feet. He was familiar with the falaka, it was a popular way of punishing prisoners. Done expertly, it left few visible marks but caused days, if not weeks of agony.

  Elias cried out. The second strike sent another searing line of pain across his feet. He tried to breathe through the agony until the blows had become so numerous – thirty, forty maybe – that he lost count.

  A moment later, he was dragged to his feet once more. Everything below his ankles was an excruciating fire. Apparently his torture was to continue. Just outside the barracks was a water trough. Elias managed a small mouthful of air before the guards threw him in head first in a parody of their mistress’ instructions to clean him up.

  Now his lungs burned as much as his feet, and his attempts to struggle were thwarted by restraining hands. Fingers threaded through his hair at last and pulled him out of the water. Elias gulped in air open-mouthed as he was thrown to the ground.

  “Get up, anta kalbee – you’re my dog,” spat one of the largest men, barrel-chested with a wild black beard. Someone else doused him with a bucket of water. “When the mistress is finished, you can be my bitch, khawal. What say you, eh?”

  The man shoved Elias backwards into the arms of two more men.

  “You heard the mistress, clean him up.”

  He was pushed back inside and into a small cell before being shoved into a chair. The two men tied his hands behind him to the back of the chair, then one of them gagged him with a strip of filthy cloth while two others spread his legs apart and bound each knee to the front legs of the chair.

  A straight razor glinted in a shaft of sunlight.

  “Keep your legs apart unless you fancy joining the ranks of the eunuchs, dog.”

  Sweet Jesus! Elias squeezed his eyes shut and fought the leaping of his heart trying to escape his chest. Did he want to see this? It might be worse if he didn’t, so he forced himself to open his eyes, holding as still as possible as first his chin was shaved, then all of his pubic hair.

  Oh, dear God, it was bad enough having it done to him, but the thought of Laura repeatedly suffering a similar indignity in the harem speared him through.

  Before long, everything itched and burned and hurt where the careless barber had cut him. He was helpless to do anything about it while still tied to the chair. At least his heart had stopped hammering in his chest and each breath was more than a wheeze.

  Time passed in a haze of pain. He managed to find a trance-like state to submerge himself in. In his mind, he saw Arcadia. He dreamed of rebuilding his home stone by stone. He would start with the terrace that overlooked his lawns into the valley, down to the sea in the distance. Next would be Laura’s art studio where—

  The door to his cell opened, and a small bowl of couscous was placed on a shelf by a man who held some clean clothing over his arm. The man was tall, equally as tall as Elias, if not more so by an inch. His grey hair was in marked contrast to his dark olive skin. Whoever this man was, he was not bearded and was too elaborately dressed to be a guard. A special advisor? A eunuch?

  The man shouted and one of the guards, a young man who Elias hadn’t seen before, untied his arms and legs before resuming his duties outside the door. That made the count eight guards in all, Elias deduced.

  “You have five minutes to eat and get dressed before you are presented to my Lady Rabia,” the tall man said. “One untoward movement toward the mistress and the guards will slay you where you stand.”

  Elias stood, gritting his teeth. The pins and needles running through his released limbs were an additional torture over and above the ill use to his feet.

  “Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Eat.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Laura touched a hand to her hair, her white lace mantilla tugged by the breeze as she ascended the steps to the cathedral.

  She was barely aware of the presence of Kit, Sophia and Morwena at her side until Sophia put an arm around her waist.

  Kit was soberly dressed – for Kit. Morwena, dressed as all the women were with her hair covered, marched slightly ahead of them, looking for a deacon.

  She found the man dressed in his robes of office. “I wish to speak to someone about a baby boy found here recently.”

  The middle-aged man, short with black hair thinning, did not give a hint of recognition. “Senora, lots of babies are abandoned here. Why are you concerned about this one?”

  “This is the boy’s mother,” said Morwena, indicating Laura, “and she is here to reclaim him.”

  Laura fell under the man’s scrutiny and imagined his contempt. Irrational, mercurial, capricious woman. The heavy weight of judgment fell on her shoulders. And it was right to do so. She had abandoned Benjamin, yet now she wanted him back.

  Morwena seemed to feel the judgment also but it would appear she was not having it. “Senora Nash was visiting relations in England when the boy was taken,” she proclaimed.

  The
look in response was not encouraging.

  “Taken by whom?”

  Remember, all you can do is make the least worst choice…

  Something shifted within her. The stirrings of anger. To hell what anyone else thought. When she left for England, she was making the best decision she could at the time.

  They followed the deacon into one of the church offices. It was plain and austere compared with the soaring columns and medieval golden glass mosaics which filled the sanctuary with color and light.

  “Do you have anything to identify the child?”

  Kit reached into his coat pocket and produced a signed extract from the Villagrazia church register, signed by the local priest.

  The deacon scanned it and looked up at Laura. “This tells me you are a mother of a child, but it does not tell me you are this child’s mother.”

  Laura pulled out the broken locket and prayed their hunch was correct.

  “My son is Benjamin Edward Nash. He has dark brown hair and blue eyes. He may have the other half of this locket on him. The miniature inside it is a painting of my mother who looks very much like me.”

  The deacon held his hand out for the locket. He adjusted his spectacles and peered at it, seeming to pay particular attention to the damaged hinge. Laura held her breath.

  “I know nothing of such a child,” said the deacon, handing the locket back to her. “I am sorry.” He rose from the desk and exited, leaving the four of them alone.

  Laura closed her eyes. She felt the broken hinge piercing her palm as she clutched the broken locket tightly.

  Beside her, Kit gave a heavy sigh. “I think we should take you back to Catallus. You’ll be safer there than anywhere on Sicily.”

  “What about Elias?”

  “Well, he’s not stupid,” Kit replied grimly. “The locket and the painting must have meant something. I’ll tear heaven and hell apart to find him if I have to, and your child, too. I won’t lose my closest friend.”

  Not one lost.

  She recalled the anguish on Kit’s face when he brought Marco’s lifeless body back to the Calliope. In her mind, the body in Kit’s arms became Elias’ and panic came knocking on her heart once more.

  “Perhaps Jonathan has come back with news,” said Morwena, taking her arm.

  “Let’s hope so,” said Kit.

  It was a prayer Laura said, too.

  It was late when Jonathan returned to the home over the shop on via Ballaro. Sophia had already gone to bed. He smelled of sour wine and smoke. Morwena touched his hand as she went past to prepare him supper.

  Laura also rose but Jonathan didn’t enter any further than the threshold of the sitting room. She knew hope was written on her face, but the Calliope’s navigator shook his head. He attracted Kit’s attention. Again the two men seemed to exchange words without speaking.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Go to bed, Laura.”

  “I will not.”

  “It’s fine, Kit,” said Jonathan, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “But let’s talk in the kitchen. I haven’t eaten all day.”

  Laura mastered her impatience while Jonathan ate nearly half of his dish before speaking.

  “Rafiq was found murdered two nights ago. His throat was slit.”

  Jonathan helped himself to another mouthful of food.

  “That man was always living on the edge,” said Kit. “It doesn’t surprise me he met that end.”

  “Elias met with him a week ago at the tavern. Liana said Elias was there disheveled and agitated, but he wouldn’t tell her why, only that he needed to talk to Rafiq.”

  Liana? Laura frowned. Elias had never mentioned anyone named Liana.

  “Shit.” Kit glanced an apology over to Laura. “Tell the crew of the Calliope to be extra vigilant. No one goes out alone, only in pairs. We don’t know if Rafiq’s death is related to Elias’ visit, but we’re safer to assume it is.”

  “Already done. Giorgio has also doubled the watch onboard ship. There’s something else. Liana said she went downstairs while they were talking but couldn’t get close enough to hear their conversation over the hubbub. She only heard one word clearly – Pantelleria.”

  Kit raised an eyebrow. “Ahmed Sharrouf’s old lair…”

  “Who was this Rafiq?” Laura asked, interrupting.

  “A criminal, an informer,” said Jonathan.

  “Why would Elias meet with such a man?”

  “Sometimes we wouldn’t wait for the corsairs to take ships, sometimes we would learn of impending raids before they happened,” Kit answered. “Men with such information are dangerous to know.”

  “Elias was also always concerned about what happened to Ahmed Sharrouf’s compound after his death. We never properly dealt with it,” Jonathan added.

  “No. We never did. Perhaps we should have done.”

  “Kit,” said Jonathan, “I had one of the other men check our powder store on a hunch. Five shells and four powder horns are missing.”

  “Enough for an army of one.” Kit closed his eyes tight in concentration. “But not a lot of powder, which means very little time to escape. Elias must have planned to be in close quarters to the quarry – this is, if he’s thinking at all.”

  Laura watched with increasing concern as Kit leaned forward, fists together at his forehead, elbows on the table. He muttered to himself with eyes squeezed tight. “Talk to me Elias, what are you up to? Show me.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jonathan motion to Morwena who approached and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Come with me, Laura. We will rest and leave them to plan.”

  *

  Elias eyed the dish a moment, his stomach warring with the rest of him for first satisfaction.

  Vulnerability won out. He put on the clothes but did not feel much more dressed. The loose-fitting, wide-legged, white linen trousers did not come with undergarments. The sleeveless puce vest, a mintan, did not come with a shirt either. He was barefoot and bare chested.

  He reached for the bowl and sniffed. It seemed appetizing enough. He scooped a small amount into his hand and ate. It was surprisingly good.

  And, as though he were carrying a watch, the eunuch returned punctually, along with the young guard who carried shackles.

  “Your hands, Elias Nash.”

  A fleeting thought of resistance and escape flew through his head but, already, his own weight was agony on his feet – so he held his arms forward, offering no resistance as the manacles folded over his wrists. An iron spike was tapped into place to fasten them.

  The guard bowed to the tall man and left the cell.

  “I am Toufik,” the eunuch announced in English, pulling Elias’ attention away from the departing guard. “I was the chief aid to his Excellency Selim Omar and trusted confidante to his wives. You will have the honor of meeting Lady Rabia, the third and most important of those wives. You will show her courtesy. Be a gentleman, as you English say. One sign of disrespect and your head leaving your shoulders will be the least of the indignities you will suffer.”

  Elias kept his silence and lowered his arms, the swag of heavy chain pressed at his wrist.

  “Tell me, how many men did you bring with you?”

  “None.”

  Toufik considered the answer a moment, then gestured with a small cane.

  “Come with me.”

  Elias hesitated. Surely his feet would be shackled, but as soon as he took one step forward, he realized how effective the falaka had been. Every step was agony, even the uneven surface on the stone floor seemed designed to torture him.

  He was surprised by how few servants he saw in the house. Perhaps this place wasn’t as impregnable as it seemed. How much here was for show? Enough to give one man a good beating, he thought ruefully, but perhaps not enough to withstand a strategic assault by the crew of the Calliope.

  No – there was no good to be had in going there. He had no way of telling when the Calliope would return and, besides, no o
ne knew where he was.

  He was directed up a wide, stone staircase and he dutifully but slowly climbed.

  He recognized the two guards at attention in front of a set of double-doors that looked less like a grand reception hall as much as a master’s bedroom. Correction – a mistress’ bedroom.

  The way forward was enclosed by a heavy wall hanging that created an antechamber. Elias waited with Toufik until the doors were closed behind them. The curtain before them parted.

  Inside the room was the little woman in brown, but she kept her eyes to the floor. He wanted to draw attention to himself, to speak to her, but he was prodded in the back by Toufik’s swagger stick, pushing him past the woman, toward and then through another curtain.

  The room would have once been a main entertaining hall. Large ottomans and oversized cushions sat on elaborately woven rugs that covered most of the floor. The carpet felt like a thousand razor-sharp knives in the soles of his feet.

  The widest part of the room opened up to a balcony that ran full length. Cream silk curtains covered the entrance and shimmered in the breeze, bringing with it a sweet scent of jasmine and gardenias. Through the curtains, he could see the azure blue of the sky where it met the ultramarine of the sea. The short wall to his right was raised to form a platform. Another curtain covered part of the wall, behind which Elias suspected lay another room.

  Cushions and a settee adorned the platform which looked more like it was dressed for a stage performance than a real room. Amongst the swathes of fabric, he saw something move. A tall, slim, elegant figure moved to the fore. She wore scarlet balloon pantaloons and a fitted coat like a long redingote, buttoned to show off a trim waist and an elegant bust, modestly covered in a patterned fabric of pale blue and yellow.

  The woman removed the scarf from her head and, for the first time, Elias could see her face. Without question, Rabia, third wife, now widow, of Selim Omar, was a beautiful woman. She was older than he was by some years. The maturity in her face was arresting.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Toufik bow, and a glance sideways back at him prompted Elias to imitate the gesture. With a wave of Rabia’s hand, Toufik was dismissed, but Elias suspected the man lurked within the curtained off antechamber.