"So our best opportunity will be after the sale itself, but we will likely be separated by then. That presents difficulties."
"It would still be our best chance." Skiouros replied, the veil of depression falling away a little further, his mind beginning to churn the possibilities. "Until the sale we will be far too closely guarded. The situation afterwards we cannot predict, but it will still be our best chance."
"After the sale, then" Orsini nodded. "We will have to keep our wits about us and move as soon as an opportunity presents itself. Will Hassan be present, d'you think?"
"Most likely" Parmenio replied. "He has a hefty interest in the sale. If he expects enough remuneration to have diverted his voyage to Carthage and risked unfriendly territory to sell us, then he's going to want to see it through."
"Shame, else we could probably speak Greek without people understanding us. It's still likely our best option." Cesare turned to Skiouros again. "We shall look to you for our lead unless something sudden happens. Keep your chin up and your wits about you."
"And pray" Parmenio added with a bitter smile. "We could use all the help we can get."
The minutes dragged on in the cage, Parmenio and Nicolo playing some sort of betting game involving hand movements to keep their minds from the tedium and the worry, Orsini mostly sitting with his hands on his knees, eyes closed and leaning back against the bars as though sunning himself peacefully in a garden.
Skiouros was a maelstrom in a skin sack.
Cesare's keen insight was frightening. And helpful. It had certainly lifted him from the fog of despair, though it had done little to kill off the horror that had lain at its heart: the sudden discovery that he was not half the man he thought he was.
And yet it had done something to that core of self-loathing. Instead of the revulsion eating away at him as it had been, chewing on his hope, it had instead formed into a hard shape - a bullet - that had begun to drive him; to make him think; to provide new hope. Yes, he had failed his friends just as he had failed himself, but allowing it to eat him up was no use to anyone. Instead, he would redeem himself. He would put things right. He would make up for his selfish attempt at self-preservation.
"Lord" he asked silently, lips barely moving above his quiet breath. "I don't deserve your love, and I know that. But these people do. Give me some sign - some hint that there is a chance for them. If you can see a way in your infinite wisdom and mercy to lift them out of bondage, there will never be a better time."
He became aware with a strange smile that he was automatically working his way along the prayer rope at his waist, without having intended to. Wearing these vestments was starting to affect him and he wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or a bad one.
Leaning back against the bars in the same manner as Orsini, he began to reminisce in his memory about the days of sermons and services under father Simonides back in Hadrianople. In his happy recollections, he must have fallen asleep, since he did not even hear the jailors enter the room until the cell door was rattled open and the Hafsid guards snapped out commands in Arabic. Skiouros looked around blearily for the old man to translate, but there was no sign of him among the press of prisoners, who cowered back from the guards. No matter. The commands were fairly self-evident.
One by one they were led from the cage and into the open space beneath the light well, where they had their hands bound with iron shackles. This time they were not chained together - their sales would be individual - but their chances of escape yet were, as predicted, nil. More than a dozen armed guards filled the room.
One wandered across to the trough and dipped a bucket in, filling it and hefting it as though ready to throw it at them, but the man who had given the orders shook his head and gestured for his man to put the bucket down. Pungent they might be, but their clothes labelled them high class and worth far more than the average slave. Bedraggled, they would not impress as well.
"Keep your mind focussed and be prepared" Orsini said quietly, addressing all three.
The others nodded, as Parmenio was thrust towards the far door, his arms shackled like the rest, behind his back.
Despite the illumination of the light well in the large room, the four prisoners blinked in the searing, white-gold sunlight as the door opened and they were pushed through into an open courtyard. It was now mid-afternoon, past the worst heat of the day, yet still sweltering, dazzling and dry.
The courtyard sale area was little larger than the room they had left, slightly bigger than a large monastery cloister and bearing a curious resemblance in a way. A colonnade stretched around the edges, beneath which sat the richer buyers on cushions of silk and colourful rugs, their attendants and guards keeping the riffraff at bay while they supped cool drinks and ate sweetmeats. The less wealthy - farmers, merchants, craftsmen and the like - crowded in the sunny square, keeping to the edges near the colonnade.
Skiouros' practiced eye picked out the two pedestrian exits other than the door through which they had entered. Each was guarded by two men in white with swords and turbans. Those doors would likely be locked until the sale was over. They would certainly be tough to leave through in a hurry, guarded as they were.
A large heavy wooden gate stood on one side, unguarded but barred and locked in more than one place - probably an access point for animals and carts. A dextrous man could probably easily get up to the top of the surrounding colonnade, and from there onto the building's roof, but it was such an obvious route that Skiouros was certain beyond doubt that it would be protected somehow.
A large wooden podium stood in the centre, steps leading up to it. More than a dozen guards stood around it, keeping the crowd at bay and prepared to deal out damage to any commodity that decided it might try to flee. Another dozen or so guards stood around the sale table, where the deals were finalised and the coins changed hands. Skiouros noted with unpleasant interest the brazier and the branding irons that stood close to the table, attended by a leering guard.
As they were led towards the block, Skiouros' eyes roved around the crowd. The exits were difficult, to say the least, so perhaps there was hope among the audience? The people watched with interest - some with hunger or desperation. Etci Hassan stood near one of the doors, beneath the colonnade, two of his crewmen with him, present to watch their profits increase and see their transaction complete.
In a small knot, half a dozen other slaves selected for the afternoon auction ahead of them were already being checked over prior to their sale and a careful listen suggested that more were being prepared back in the room inside. The four prisoners were roughly shoved over to join their naked slave counterparts, where an Arab doctor started to look in their eyes and ears, a guard gesturing them to open their mouths so that the doctor could look inside. Muscles were tested, limbs moved around. Skiouros closed his eyes momentarily as the doctor grasped one of his wrists and yanked his arm this way and that, horribly aware of the small pouch of black powder that nestled in his armpit. An image of the branding brazier passed across his vision and he smiled for a moment.
As soon as the doctor had finished and given the guards a nod of approval, the four captives watched intently as the first of the naked slaves was pushed at the stairs and made to walk up onto the block. A man in a rich, fine, embroidered gown stepped out from the sale table and climbed onto the podium next to the slave, a small black stick in his hand. Taking a deep breath, the auction master began to speak to the crowd, his Arabic fluid and musical with the pitch and tone of a born salesman, rattling out all the information the crowd could wish for in an almost theatrical manner, his stick pointing at various facets of the goods to illustrate his words. The crowd listened quietly, the richer buyers in their shaded positions nodding their interest and understanding, some already counting through their coin purses with their assistants.
Finally reaching the end of his river of words, the auctioneer took a deep breath and snapped out a short phrase which clearly opened the sale.
One of t
he richer men beneath the colonnade shouted something and received a reply from the auctioneer. Two of the less wealthy, yet reasonably dressed patrons - merchants perhaps - near the front began to shout, attempting to outdo one another, the auctioneer pointing back and forth between them. The rich man called out another number and one of the merchants gave in, falling silent. The other continued on for a moment, but another offer from the rich man clearly outweighed his purse and he finally fell silent.
All through this exchange, which lasted less than a minute, the slave had stood silent and unmoving, like a side of salted meat hanging in a shop. Skiouros felt at once sorry for the poor creature, his lips mouthing a plea to the Lord to look after the man, and angry that the slave did nothing, simply standing and accepting his fate meekly.
But then, had Orsini not chosen to rant at him, that poor figure who even now was being pulled down the stairs towards the branding irons could easily have been Skiouros.
There was barely even a whimper as the slave had a mark sizzled into his flesh, the smell of roasting pork adding to the whiff of sweat, spice and dust that formed the bulk of the atmosphere.
The procedure was repeated for the next prisoner and then the next, these 'cattle' presumably lower grade, since only the lesser bidders put in offers, the rich visitors remaining silent. Skiouros could see nothing different from the first lot, so it must have been something in the auctioneer's words that prompted the change.
The fourth slave was apparently more special, prompting something of a bidding war between two of the wealthy, cushioned buyers, and he had the effrontery to smile in satisfaction as he was brought down from the podium. He was a handsome, clean-shaven young man with a lithe physique and Skiouros noted the lascivious look on the buyer's face as his factor moved to the sale table, leaving him in no doubt as to what the destiny of this young man was.
Again, the last two slaves were led up one at a time and raised a reasonable sum from the mid-range buyers, leaving only the four of them waiting, the next bunch still being prepared inside. Skiouros took a deep breath.
"Now's the time for us all to pray" he hissed.
The others nodded, their eyes darting around the courtyard.
"You be show together."
Skiouros blinked in surprise as the auctioneer addressed the four of them in stilted Italian.
"Sorry?"
"Four. Show together. Sell not together."
Skiouros frowned in response.
"Show together!" snapped the man again, irritably, gesturing to the podium with his stick.
"Come on" Parmenio said, taking a breath and stepping forward. The others fell in behind him as he approached the steps and they clambered one at a time up to the podium, carefully and aware that with their arms shackled behind them, a misplaced foot could lead to a very painful fall. As the four men stepped out onto the flat surface, the dry timbers creaking beneath their feet, a murmur of interest passed through the crowd.
The auctioneer started a rolling announcement in his sing-song cadence, using his stick to gesture to one or other of them here and there, pointing to their heads, their shoulders and chests, their feet and so on - and fairly disturbingly at Skiouros' crotch more than once. Though he could understand none of it, the gist of what the man was saying was clear. The four men were being presented together as a great find, which might then increase their individual value.
A number of the wealthier buyers looked shrewdly at one another, gauging their opposition and preparing for the coming sale. As the man's speech finished and the four were gestured towards the steps once again, a voice from the depth of the crowd shouted something and everything went ominously silent.
The auctioneer turned to the collection of buyers, seeking out the source of the voice. Skiouros caught a glimpse of the salesman's expression as he turned, and he frowned. The man had been almost struck dumb with astonishment, but behind the surprise and interest there, Skiouros had recognised overtones of overwhelming greed.
Whoever it was had made an offer impressive enough that it had halted the proceedings. Seeking confirmation, Skiouros turned and scanned the colonnade. The looks on the faces of the rich bidders clearly backed up that theory: astonishment, tinged with disappointment. One or two of them were struggling with the decision as to whether to make a counter offer, but the fact than no one spoke suggested the sum offered had been an undreamed of figure.
Skiouros felt a rush of excitement. Whatever was happening, it had to be better than a slow, calm sale to some fat nobleman for his personal use and abuse.
The other three were now facing the same way.
"What's happened?" Parmenio asked, voicing the question that was also clearly hovering on the lips of the others.
"Someone's made an offer - one that can't be refused too, by the sound of it."
"For who?"
"I guess for all of us, since they didn't wait for the individual sales to begin."
Skiouros' eyes rose to meet those of Etci Hassan, standing in the shade by the door. The captain's cold basilisk stare was only slightly tinted with avarice and satisfaction, though the surprise and pleasure was more evident on the faces of his two sailors, who were sure of a small cut of all profits.
"It's unbelievable. Which fat bumhole was it?" Nicolo asked, scanning the faces in the shade.
"Not one of them. Someone from the main crowd."
Skiouros' eyes roved around until he spotted the figure now pushing his way forward, holding a sack of money, a few gleaming gold coins displayed in his other palm - enough to buy him attention and preferential treatment even over the rich men under the colonnade.
"Him… look" the Greek said, pointing, and as he looked back along his finger, he realised that he recognised the man with the pouch and the coins. Wearing a very utilitarian smock of a local cut and a small turban, he easily blended in with the local crowd - he looked as good as native after all. But even without his earlier liturgical vestments and the three-bar cross, Skiouros recognised the priest that had called after them near the city gate and almost facilitated their escape. His hair was bound up in the turban, but the white beard was very evident, and he made a very passable Muslim. But how could he possibly have so much money?
The guards were now hurrying them from the podium and towards the sale table. The local 'priest' was converging on the same spot, along with the auctioneer, the heavy bag of coins hanging from his hand and attracting hungry looks from the buyers around him.
The auctioneer gave a few quick orders and the next set of slaves was brought out of the cage-room door to the courtyard, freshly washed with a thrown bucket of water and miserable as hell. Most of the crowd, disappointed at having no chance to bid for these interesting specimens, turned their attention to the fresh meat. As soon as the four reached the sale area, the auctioneer lost interest and returned to his task on the podium. Now, two clerks took over the sale at the table, surrounded by Hafsid guards to be sure of their safety. The priest approached the clerks at the table, hefting his bag and displaying the coins.
The clerk asked something and gestured to the brazier. The priest shook his head and Skiouros noted with relief the disappointment on the face of the guard with the branding irons as he placed them back in the sizzling coals.
The priest rattled something off in Arabic to the clerks and gestured to the three figures who came to his sides. They were dressed as locals, with curved knives at their waists, but Skiouros was fairly sure they had been the faces he had seen alongside the priest a couple of hours ago, struggling along a crowded street.
In response to whatever he was saying, one of the guards unfastened the shackles on Cesare, who stretched his arms as much as he was capable after the heavy beating he had taken an hour earlier, rubbing the wrists. Another reached for Skiouros.
"Christ is risen" the priest said in conversational Greek to Skiouros.
"Indeed, he is risen" Skiouros replied, the rote reply inflected with real feeling. Had his prayers done
this?
"We will have to move fast" the man replied as the clerk examined the sample gold coins the priest handed him.
"Why?" Skiouros hissed, almost disbelieving. "How did you manage to get so much money?"
The priest placed the sack on the table and rolled his shoulders.
"I didn't."
Skiouros stared at the priest, his eyes widening. The old man smiled. "Run!" he snapped.
Before Skiouros realised what was going on, the old priest and his three companions were pushing aside the buyers around them, making a space through the crowd.
Skiouros stared at them as the clerks and guards frowned in confusion. The men at the table grasped the coin bag and tipped it up, releasing a torrent of shale and flat pebbles that slewed out onto the surface. The guards were equally slow on the uptake and by the time the first shouted in alarm, Orsini had grabbed Nicolo and Parmenio and almost thrown them after the priest into the crowd, their arms still painfully jammed up and fastened behind their backs. Skiouros felt his shackles fall away, unlocked just in time, as he leapt out from behind the table. His hands went into his vestment sleeves and pulled down with a jerking motion.
He was already in the crowd, barrelling after the priest and his companions as well as the other three captives, when the two bags of black powder ignited among the coals of the branding brazier. The Hafsid guard who had been reaching for his sword and shouting a warning looked down to see what had been thrown by the escaped priest and his eyes widened for a fraction of a second before his face disappeared in an explosion that shredded his entire body, almost obliterating his head. The sale table was blasted twenty paces across the courtyard, the guards and clerks around it killed or badly wounded not only by the explosion of the powder, but also by the flying orange-hot coals and the shards of sizzling metal which were all that was left of the brazier. Men staggered around screaming, clutching faces from which slivers of black iron jutted, the blood spraying from some, cauterised by the searing explosion on others.
Priest's Tale Page 15
