Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Zoë turned her face away on the pillow.

  ‘I had not thought of that,’ she answered.

  ‘Heaven forbid that I should myself,’ returned the woman, relapsing into her obsequious manner again, ‘if it were not to save the young Kokóna from any trouble or annoyance with our customer! If it will but please her to call herself my mistress and me her slave, she shall not be disappointed. If I am rough or clumsy she shall box my ears whenever she pleases, and I shall not complain!’

  The little maids devoutly wished that Zoë would avail herself of their tyrant’s extraordinary offer, but they dared not smile. She still turned her face away and was silent.

  ‘See!’ coaxed the African. ‘I take off my coat!’ She suited the action to the word and divested herself of her outer garment, which was the long coat and skirt in one, worn only by free women. ‘I cover my head, in the Kokóna’s presence!’ She quickly flattened her wild red hair under a kerchief which she knotted at the back of her neck. ‘I roll up my sleeves! Am I anything but a slave, a bath-woman? Why will the beautiful Kokóna not let me wait on her?’

  Zoë turned her eyes and saw the change, and suddenly her objection vanished; for Rustan’s wife looked precisely like the black slave-women who used to attend the ladies in the Roman bath in Rhangabé’s palace. The association of ideas was so strong that the young girl could not help smiling faintly.

  ‘As you please,’ she said, raising herself upon one hand and preparing to get up.

  CHAPTER V

  CARLO ZENO’S INTERVIEW with Rustan had been short and business-like, as has been said. It was indeed not at all likely that a man of the Venetian’s temper and tastes would talk with a Bokharian slave-dealer a moment longer than necessary.

  Rustan, on hearing what was wanted, declared that he had the very thing; in fact, by a wonderful coincidence, it was the very thing in the acme of perfection, a dream, a vision, fully worth four hundred ducats, and certainly not to be sold for three hundred; it had fine natural hair that had never been dyed; its teeth were twenty-eight in number, the wisdom teeth not having yet appeared, and Rustan would wager that Messer Carlo could not find a single pearl in all Constantinople to match one of those eight-and-twenty; its ankles were so finely turned that a woman could span them with her thumb and forefinger. Rustan felt safe in saying this, for his black wife’s huge hand could have spanned Zoë’s throat; also it had a most beautiful and slender waist, which, as Messer Carlo remarked, was certainly a point of beauty. Moreover, Rustan would deliver a signed and sealed certificate with it.

  For Zeno was conscientious, and held Marco Pesaro’s letter in his hand while he questioned the Bokharian in regard to the various points in succession, lest he should forget any one of them. He did not in the least believe a word that Rustan said, of course. The East was never the land of simple, trusting faith between man and man. He would even have wagered that Rustan had nothing in his prison of the sort Pesaro wanted, and at the moment of the interview he would have been quite right. But he was tolerably sure that if he insisted on having the best, the best to be had would be forthcoming in a week at the utmost. Satisfied with this prospect, he dismissed Rustan and thought no more about the matter, except to wish that Marco Pesaro had not troubled him with such an absurd commission.

  A fine young gentleman of later times would probably have thought few quests more amusing than this, and would have dreamt that night of the beauties he intended to see before at last deciding upon the purchase. Doubtless, there were young Venetians even then in Constantinople who would have envied Zeno the amusing task of criticising pretty faces, hands, and ankles.

  But he was not of the same temper or disposition as those gay youths. He could not remember that any woman had ever made a very profound impression on him, even in his boyish days. When he was in Greece, it had been suggested to him that he might as well marry, like other young men, and he had allowed himself to be betrothed to a sleepy Greek heiress who had conceived an indolent but tenacious admiration for his fighting qualities; but it had pleased the fates that she should die before the wedding-day of a complication of the spleen superinduced by a surfeit of rose-leaf jam and honey-cakes. He was rather ashamed to own to himself that her translation to a better world had been a distinct relief to his feelings, for he had soon discovered that he did not love her, though he had been too kind to tell her so, and too honourable to think of breaking his promise of marriage.

  He did not despise women either; indeed, his conduct in the affair of his betrothal had proved that. Now and then he had paused in his restless career to think of a more peaceful life, and in the pictures that rose before his imagination there was generally a woman. Unhappily, he had never seen any one like her in real life, and when he was tired of dreaming he shrugged his shoulders at such impossibilities and went back to his adventurous existence without a sigh. Yet it might be thought that although he did not fall in love he might now and then spend careless hours with the free and frail, for he made no profession or show of austerity, and whatever he really might be, he did not aspire to be called a saint. He had been a wild student in Padua once, and had drunk deep and played high, until he had suddenly grown tired of stupid dissipation and had left the dice to play the more exciting game of life and death as a soldier of fortune under a condottiere, during five long wandering years. But at the core of his nature there was something ascetic which his comrades could never understand, and at which they laughed when he was not within hearing; for he was an evil man to quarrel with, as they had found out. He never killed his man in a duel if he could help it, but he had a way of leaving his mark for life on his adversary’s face which few cared to risk.

  And now it was long indeed since his lips had touched a woman’s, for his character had taken its final manly shape, and the only folly to which he still yielded now and then was that of risking his life recklessly whenever he fancied that a cause was worth it; but this he did not look upon as madness, still less as weakness, and there was no one to argue the question with him. His honest brown eyes softened sometimes, almost like a woman’s, but only for pity or kindness, never for word or look of love.

  He rose in the bright spring morning just before the sun was up, and went down the steps at the water’s edge below his house and swam far out in clear water that was still icy cold. Then he dressed himself completely as strong and healthy men do, who hate to feel that they are not ready to face anything from the beginning of the day. But while he was dressing he was not thinking of the errand that was to take him to Rustan’s house an hour before noon. Indeed, he had quite forgotten it, till he saw Omobono folding Pesaro’s letter in his neat way in order to file it for reference. As the secretary knew what it contained, and had been actively employed in the matter to which it referred, he had thought there could be no great sin of curiosity in reading it carefully while his master was at his toilet. It would have been wrong, he thought, to find out what was in it before Zeno himself had broken the seal, but since it was open, it was evidently better that the secretary should understand precisely what was wanted of his employer, for such knowledge could only increase his own usefulness. For the rest, he vaguely hoped that Zeno would take him into close confidence and ask his opinion of any merchandise he thought of buying; for Omobono had a high opinion of his own taste in beauty, and had wished to pass for a lively spark in his young days.

  But Zeno evidently considered himself qualified to decide the matter without help, for when it lacked an hour of noon he set his secretary at work on a fair copy of a letter he had been preparing, ordered his horse and running footman, and went upon his errand without any other attendant or companion. Omobono looked out of the window and watched him as he mounted, innocently envying him his youth and strength. The greatest fighting man of his century moved as such men generally do, without haste and without effort, never wasting a movement and never making an awkward one, never taking a fine attitude for the sake of effect, as the young men of Raphael’s pictures
so often seem to be doing, but always and everywhere unconsciously graceful, self-possessed, and ready for anything.

  He rode a half-bred brown Arab mare, for he was not a heavy man, and he preferred a serviceable mount at all times to the showy and ill-tempered white Barbary, or the rather delicate thoroughbred of the desert, which were favourites with the rich Greeks of Constantinople. He was quietly dressed, too; and his bare-legged runner, who cleared the way for him when the streets were crowded, wore a plain brown tunic and cap, and did not yell at the poorer people and slaves or strike them in passing as the footmen of great personages always did. Zeno had picked him out of at least a hundred for his endurance and his long wind.

  So they went quietly and quickly along, the man and his master, following very nearly the way which Omobono had taken on the previous afternoon, till they came to the long wall crested with sharp bits of rusty iron and broken crockery, and stopped before the only door that broke its blank length. Zeno looked at the defence critically, and wondered just how great an inducement would make him take the trouble of getting over it, at the risk of cutting his hands and tearing his clothes. Before any one answered his footman’s knock, he had decided that it would be an easy matter to bring his well-broken horse close to the wall, to stand on the saddle, draw himself up and throw a heavy cloak over the spiky iron and the sharp-edged shards with one hand while hanging by the other. The rest would be easy enough. It was always his instinct to make such calculations when he entered or passed by any place that was meant to be defended.

  This time the door was opened by Rustan Karaboghazji in person, and he bowed to the ground as Zeno got off his horse and stood beside him. Still bending low he made way and with a wide gesture invited his visitor to enter. But Zeno had no intention of wasting time by going in till he was assured that there was something ready for his inspection in the way of merchandise.

  In answer to his question Rustan turned up his face sideways and smiled cunningly as he gradually straightened himself.

  ‘Your Magnificence shall see!’ he answered. ‘Where is the letter? Every point is perfect, as I promised.’

  ‘Were you really speaking the truth?’ laughed Zeno. ‘I expected to come at least three times before seeing anything!’

  Rustan assumed an expression of gentle reproach.

  ‘If your Splendour had dealt with Barlaam, the Syrian merchant, or with Abraham of Smyrna, the Jewish caravan-broker,’ he said, ‘it would have been as your Greatness deigns to suggest. Moreover, your Highness would not have been satisfied after all, and would have come at last to the house of your servant Rustan Karaboghazji, surnamed the Truth-speaker and the Just, and also the Keeper of Promises, by those who know him. It must have been so, since there is but one treasure in all the Empire such as your Mightiness asks for, and it is in this house.’

  Zeno laughed carelessly, and entered.

  ‘Your Unspeakableness is amused,’ said Rustan, fastening the outer door carefully with both keys. ‘But if it is not as I say, I entreat your High Mightiness to kick his humble servant from this door to the Seven Towers and back again, passing by the Chora, Blachernæ, and the Church of the Blessed Pantokrator on the way.’

  ‘That would take a long time,’ observed Zeno. ‘Open the door and let me see the girl.’

  ‘Your Grandeur shall see, indeed!’ answered Rustan, smiling confidently as he led the way. ‘Rustan the Truth-speaker,’ he continued, as if to himself while walking, ‘Karaboghazji the faithful Keeper of Promises!’

  He gently caressed his beautiful black beard as he went on. He took Zeno through the small part of the house which he reserved for his own use, far from the larger rooms where he kept his stock of slaves. In an inner apartment they met the negress, resplendent in scarlet velvet and a heavy gold chain, her red hair combed straight out from her head. When Zeno appeared, she at once assumed what she considered a modest but engaging attitude, crossing her great hands upon her splendid coat, and looking down with a marvellous attempt at a simper.

  Rustan stood still and for a moment Zeno thought that the dealer had ventured to jest with him, by showing him the terrific negress in her finery as the incomparable treasure of which he had spoken. But Rustan’s words explained everything.

  ‘My Life,’ he said, speaking to his wife in a caressing tone, ’is the girl ready to be seen?’

  ‘As my lord commanded me,’ replied the negress, keeping her hands folded and bending a little.

  ‘This lady,’ said Rustan to Zeno, ’is my wife, and my right hand.’ He turned to her. ‘Sweet Dove,’ he said, ‘pray lead his Magnificence to the slave’s room. I will wait here.’

  Zeno seemed surprised at this arrangement.

  ‘My wife’ explained Rustan, ‘understands the creatures better than I. My business is buying and selling; it is her part to keep the merchandise in good condition, and to show it to the customers who honour us.’

  He smiled pleasantly as he said this, and remained standing while Zeno followed the negress out of the room. As he walked behind her he could not help noting her strong square shoulders, and the swing of her powerful hips, and her firm tread, and he conceived the idea that she would be a match for any ordinary man in a tussle. He was certainly not thinking of the slave-girl he was about to inspect.

  Another door opened, and he was in a room flooded with sunshine and sweet with spring flowers; he stopped, and unconsciously drew one sharp breath of surprise. Zoë had been sitting in a big chair in the sun, and had half risen as the door opened, her hand resting on one of the arms of the seat. Her eyes met Zeno’s, and for a moment no one moved. If Rustan had been present he would have raised the price of the merchandise to five hundred ducats at least; the black woman only grinned, well pleased with the appearance of the girl whom she had herself dressed to receive the customer’s visit of inspection.

  Zoë’s hand tightened a little on the arm of the chair and she sank quietly into her seat again as she turned her eyes from Zeno’s face, forgetting that she had promised herself to stand erect and cold as a slave should when she is being exhibited.

  If the Venetian still doubted that by some mysterious chance of fate the girl he had come to buy at the slave-dealer’s was as well born as himself, her movement as she sat down dispelled his lingering uncertainty. He had entered the room carelessly, still wearing his cap. As Zoë resumed her seat, he took it from his head, bowing instinctively, as he would have done on meeting a woman of his own class. A faint colour rose in the girl’s cheeks, as she looked at him again.

  Rustan’s wife laughed silently, standing a little behind him. Zoë spoke first.

  ‘Pray, sir,’ she said, ‘be covered.’

  ‘His High Mightiness uncovers his head for coolness,’ said the negress.

  Zeno gave her a sharp glance and then turned to Zoë.

  ‘It is not possible that you are a slave,’ he said, coming a little nearer and looking down into her face.

  But she would not meet his eyes.

  ‘It is the truth, sir,’ she said. ‘I am a slave and any one may buy me and take me away.’

  ‘Then you have been carried off by force,’ Zeno answered with conviction, ‘in war, perhaps, or in some raid of enemies on enemies. Tell me who you are and how it happened, and by the body of blessed Saint Mark, I will give you back free to your own people!’

  Zoë looked at him in silent surprise. The negress answered him at once, for she did not like the turn affairs were taking, and though she had never heard of Carlo Zeno, she judged from his looks that he was able to make good his promise.

  ‘Your Splendour does not really believe that my husband would risk the punishment of a robber for carrying off a free woman!’ she cried.

  ‘I am a slave,’ Zoë said quietly. ‘Only a slave and nothing else. There is no more than that to tell.’

  She drew one hand across her brow and eyes as if to shut out something or to drive it away. Zeno came nearer and stood alone beside her.

  �
�Tell me your story,’ he said in a lower tone. ‘Do not be afraid! no one shall hurt you.’

  ‘There is no more to tell,’ she repeated, shaking her head. ‘But you are kind, and I thank you very much.’

  She raised her clear brown eyes gratefully to his for a moment. There was sadness in them, but he saw that she had not been weeping; and like a man, he argued that if she were very unhappy she would, of course, shed copious tears the live-long day, like the captive maidens in the tales of chivalry. He looked at the beautiful young hand, now lying on the arm of the chair, and for the first time in his life he felt embarrassed.

  The negress, who was not at all used to such methods in the buying and selling of humanity, now came forward and began to call attention to the fine quality of her goods.

  ‘Very fine natural hair,’ she observed. ‘Your Gorgeousness will see at once that it has never been dyed.’

  She took one of Zoë’s plaits in her hand, and the girl shrank a little at the touch.

  ‘Let her alone!’ Zeno said sharply. ‘I am not blind.’

  ‘It is her business to show me,’ Zoë answered for her, in a tone of submission.

  ‘Tell me your story,’ he said in a lower tone. ‘Do not be afraid! no one shall hurt you.’

  ‘It shall not be her business much longer,’ replied Zeno, almost to himself.

  He suddenly turned away from her, went to the open window, and looked out, laying one hand on the iron bars. It was not often that he hesitated, but he found himself faced by a very unexpected difficulty. He was executing a commission for a friend, and if he bought a slave with his friend’s money, he should feel bound in honour to send her to her new master at the first opportunity. On the other hand, though it was perfectly clear from the girl’s behaviour that she expected no better fate, he was intimately convinced that in some way a great wrong was being done, and he had never yet passed a wrong by without trying to right it with his purse or his sword. Clearly, he was still at liberty to buy Zoë for himself, and take her to his home; yet he shrank from such a solution of the problem, as if it were the hardest of all. What should he do with a young and lovely girl in his house, where there were no women, where no woman ever set foot? She would need female attendants, and of course he could buy them for her, or hire them; but he thought with strong distaste of such an establishment as all this would force upon him. Besides, he could not keep the girl for ever, merely because he suspected that she was born a lady and was the victim of some great injustice. She denied that she was. What if she should persist in her denial after he had bought her to set her free? What if she really had no family, no home, no one to whom she could go, or wished to go? He would not turn her out, then; he would not sell her again, and he should not want her. Moreover, he knew well enough that it was not his nature to go on leading the peaceful life of a merchant much longer, even if the threatening times would permit it. He had always been as free as air. As he was now living, if it should please him to leave Constantinople, he could do so in twenty-four hours, leaving his business, though at a loss, to another merchant — for he had prospered. But it would be otherwise if this girl were in the house, under his protection, and it never occurred to him, after he had looked into her eyes, that she could live under his roof except in order that he might protect her — protect her from imaginary enemies, right imaginary wrongs she had never suffered, and altogether make of her what she protested that she was not.