Chapter Ten
Rabia wrinkled her nose. She tucked the scarf around her head and checked to see it adequately covered the lower half of her face.
Ahmed Sharrouf’s compound on Pantelleria might be adequate for a one-armed sailor and his unwashed fiends, but she was used to palaces.
She reclined once again on the litter carried by selected sailors from the galiot, up the winding paths to the walled compound, keeping her eyes on the largest structure – a two-story building that, it would appear, was barely larger than her personal court quarters at Al-Min.
Sharrouf may have had wealth, but one might as well have cast pearls before swine for all the good it did him. Instead of tiled paths, they were merely gravel. The gardens did not have a loving master’s touch.
The place certainly couldn’t compare with the Selim Omar’s palace in Turkey with its whitewashed walls so clean they glowed in the sunlight. And oh, those magnificent gardens, the elegant symmetry of the garden beds, the lush foliage and vibrant flowers of plants that were both unusual and practical.
Rabia tapped the litter with a jeweled hand. Frustrated by the slow pace, she yelled for the men to lower the conveyance. She should be in Constantinople now, returned with her young son to claim his inheritance, triumphant. She clutched her fingers tightly then released them.
No crowd ever waited at the gate of patience.
The slave oarsmen picked from the galiot to serve her staggered about as though unused to walking on dry land. Toufik ordered them to erect a tent for their ladyship’s comfort and they did what they were told, some with looks of resignation, others with ill-concealed hostility.
The chief eunuch was easy to spot from among the other men. He was already a tall man and lean, a head above most, and he wore the tall, white turban of his status proudly. His tunic was of the finest white linen, over which he wore a scarlet red satin coat embellished with a geometrical floral pattern around the hem.
Rabia waited as he made his way toward her. He bowed before speaking. They both knew everyone about them watched. The impression they made now would dictate how long they could avoid rebellion.
“The slaves of this estate express their gratitude and count their blessings that you are now their mistress,” he said loudly for the benefit of her new servants. “Your quarters are being cleaned and prepared for your ladyship.”
Rabia rose from the litter. The other men about her bent at the waist, keeping their faces averted as she passed on her way to an Italianate-style garden gazebo. The structure was shaded against the sun with carpets hung to make walls on two sides. The floor was covered in cushions for her comfort.
“Do not destroy anything inside the buildings,” she instructed. “I want to look at everything personally. Let’s see if the Sharrouf was as stupid as he was tasteless.”
“I can have all his papers brought to you, my lady.”
Rabia considered the suggestion.
“No, I want to inspect them where they lie, there may have been some order to Sharrouf’s methods. I want to understand him better before I read what he had to say.”
“Very good, my lady.”
She reclined on a pile of cushions and watched the men around her bring goods up from their ship. Toufik had not bothered to order them to cover themselves. Most likely, they had no clothing anyway, other than their loincloths.
Brown Mouse made an appearance with a salver of fresh fruit. Rabia took a handful of grapes and ate, keeping her face covering in place, passing the food beneath it to her mouth.
As she ate, also she feasted with her eyes on the bounty of bared flesh among the male slaves. Some of them were young and still in good condition, muscled from their labor. Some were even handsome. She felt a stirring of arousal. It had been many months since Selim Omar had called for her and other methods of finding satisfaction hadn’t been, well, satisfying. Now to be surrounded by young, virile – whole – men who were subject to her dictates and whims…
This temporary exile might have some compensation after all.
*
Laura accepted a light shawl from Sophia but kept her gaze on the sunset ahead. The golden sun stretched out its rays, turning the wisps of clouds into ribbons of peach, apricot and orange. She had a sudden urge to be thankful for the spectacle, commonplace though it was.
It had been two years since she had lingered to watch the end of the day. There were many times when the only sunlight she saw was sharp slivers of it piercing the shadows of the harem courtyards.
Now, she no longer cared if her face colored from the sun. It felt good.
Every resident of Catallus – about fifty of them, men, women and children – had gathered in the ruins atop the headland. There was no festive bunting to be had. Instead, the ship’s spare signal flags were festooned between some of the remaining upright columns of the old plaza.
The children took advantage of the long afternoon and the celebration to play among the fallen stones; some adults played folk tunes on concertina, guitars and violin. Laura didn’t recognize the songs, but everyone else did – even Sophia who sat opposite her. She wasn’t sure what language they sang; Italian, perhaps Greek.
Although she had forced herself to learn Arabic, Laura was not fluent in any other languages, apart from some French. And she was too uncertain of her command of a little bit of Italian to guess at the lyrics.
Someone called on Kit to dance, but he shook his head. It was only then Laura noticed the black ebony cane by his right leg. He danced flamenco – or at least had, according to Sophia who sat at his side, holding his hand. Kit pointed to Jonathan, called something out, and began a slow clapping. Everyone joined in, and the clapping became faster and faster. Cheers erupted as Jonathan stood.
One of the musicians gave him a fiddle. It looked ridiculously small in the hands of such a large man as Jonathan. He placed it to his shoulder and plucked a few strings before adjusting the tuning.
“Get on with it!” Elias yelled and everyone laughed. The man who had handed Jonathan the violin now furnished him with the bow, and the crowd fell silent. Jagged, dramatic notes struck against the strings, over calling sea birds. Jonathan played a few more bars and Laura recognized the piece as one of Bach’s most challenging compositions. The crowd sat spellbound during the performance; it was of a skill that could have graced the finest concert halls of Europe, but here it was, being played impromptu in the afternoon sun on a little Mediterranean island.
She wiped away a tear that slipped down her cheek as she listened. It had been so long since she had heard the music of home rather than the alien, arrhythmic music of the oud and rebab.
She imagined how she might paint such a scene. It was ridiculous, absurd – a muscular, black man playing violin in the open air for an audience of unschooled fishermen, all surrounded by the remains of an ancient Roman villa. But, strangely, it made perfect sense. The glacier that froze her heart since her ordeal shifted, and the break in the ice let in light and warmth.
At the end of the performance, Laura cheered and applauded as loudly as everyone else.
Jonathan bowed and returned the violin to its owner. He beckoned for another instrument.
“Your turn, Brother!” he called out to Elias, holding out a guitar. The gathering applauded once more.
Elias accepted the instrument and approached Laura. He gave her a smile and took a vacant stool by her side.
“They’ve heard me play often enough,” he said. “Would you join me in a duet? You sang so beautifully that night on the Calliope, it would be an honor.”
“I wouldn’t know what to sing.”
Elias looked thoughtful for a moment, as though rummaging through a music book in his head.
“Do you know The Last Rose of Summer?”
“Thomas Moore?” she asked. But as soon as she had heard the title, she knew it. It was one of the last tunes she had been taught before leaving England. The bittersweet Irish melody came flooding back. She followed Elias’ lead before she had a chance to second guess herself.
He played the verse through once, and she nodded, accepting the key he had chosen. Looking up, she saw the sky was now the softest pink, just the color of the Old Blush rose said to have inspired the song.
Together, they sang of a love lost, and their harmonies, once again, set off a seismic shake in her soul. She looked to him in panic; his tawny eyes offered nothing but warmth and understanding, and she let him sing the last verse alone.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love’s shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
The applause broke her out of her thoughts. She smiled out of habit. Elias picked up her hand and kissed it. She curtsied to the crowd and allowed Elias to escort her to Sophia’s side.
“Darling!” Sophia exclaimed. “I’ve never heard you sing better!”
Laura kept her attention on Elias. “Thank you… I…”
Words failed her. He smiled again and left, returning the guitar to its owner.
The vibrating in her chest subsided now that he was gone. Laura looked at Sophia who stayed close to Kit’s side. Did she feel this way when Kit was courting her? Laura really didn’t want to “inhabit this bleak world alone”. Perhaps, in time, she might feel certain enough to allow someone to make the journey with her.
Twilight ebbed but the music continued. Even Kit was persuaded to dance with Sophia, a simple country dance, none of it as demanding as the flamenco. Laura found herself looking for Elias and found him with the guitar, once again, smiling companionably at an older woman playing a squeeze box. She was clearly in charge of the other musicians. Toward the end of the tune, Elias looked over and found Laura watching him.
She caught his brief smile before he returned to concentrate on his guitar. She felt color rise on her cheers.
As for herself, she was content to remain in the shadows and watch the festivities around her. For the first time since her abduction, it felt nice to be amongst a crowd and not feel fear. Even singing with Elias held none of the terror that performing before Selim Omar’s guests did.
If she hadn’t been told, she’d never have guessed everyone here had suffered some tragedy, each experienced “their own version of hell”, as Sophia had described it. Yet, they lived and laughed and carried on. Perhaps she could as well.
“Thank you for indulging me earlier this evening. It was a pleasure to hear you sing.”
Elias had come to her and he bowed, his manner flawless. Had they been in England, if this had been a ball, she would have smiled becomingly to him and fluttered her fan.
They would begin a game of sorts. She would act demurely; he would ask if she cared to dance, and she might accept, depending on who else was there to watch. There was nothing better than the color green on a rival – or a prospect – when in the arms of an eligible would-be suitor. Then again, if she were back home enceinte, to put it politely, she would not be out in public, let alone dancing. And coupled with the fact she was unwed…
“Will you dance with me, Mr. Nash?”
The surprise in his eyes was worth the breach in formal etiquette. He reached out his hand. In the lamplight, the healing wound on his right palm was evident.
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Miss Cappleman.”
*
For a duplicitous snake, Ahmed Sharrouf was quite the organized bower bird.
Rabia decided to spend the entire morning in this room, Sharrouf’s repository of records. His archives were more comprehensive than she thought they’d be, and his account ledgers even more so. They included names of his informers and their prices, as well as funds to be solicited from those he blackmailed.
This estate she had commandeered had its own accounts, too.
Rabia smiled as she turned the pages, totaling up in her head the late Sharrouf’s true worth. Avarice was such a curse. So, too, was overweening ambition. If Sharrouf had minded his own business, this vineyard alone would have satisfied the desires of many another man.
But ambition killed him.
Wealth comes like a turtle, and runs away like a gazelle.
Never mind. His loss; her gain. She would not make his mistakes. Rabia considered the way forward. In the first place, she would see Toufik well compensated. She would not rely on his loyalty alone. A share of the estate would suffice.
She grinned. Yes, let him have the larger share of the estate’s profits. No one knew she was here. He could deal with the day-to-day running of the compound; she could remain hidden where her enemies would never imagine to look. And, thanks to Sharrouf’s network of spies, she could bide her time until she was ready to attack her enemies.
So much had been stolen from her. She would repay them – a hundred fold.
Rabia looked out into the garden, casting her eyes over the workmen who labored in the sun. One caught her eye. He was a young man, only a bit older than a youth. He was lean with black hair nearly to his shoulders. She would demand he attend her this afternoon.
Under the largest of the windows, which ran hip height up to the ceiling, was a bookshelf filled with ledgers in black and green leather.
She opened one at random and skimmed a right hand page filled with sinuous Arabic script, then she looked at the left. A name in English caught her eye.
The Calliope.
A familiar name. The book told her the Calliope’s home port was in Palermo. She rested the ledger on top of the bookcase and flicked through the pages. She found another name known to her. The Calliope’s captain, Kit Hardacre.
Toufik said Hardacre may have been killed in the warehouse explosion and fire at Al-Min. But the Englishman had been declared dead before and still lived. He was supposed to have perished at sea along with Kaddouri, and yet he’d turned up to free Sophia Green and Laura Cappleman on the day Selim Omar was murdered.
Hardacre was a revenge-seeking troublemaker. If he had escaped the trap of Ahmed Sharrouf, he might cause trouble for her, too.
The ledger dated back two years. It listed the names of the officers on the ship. Along with Hardacre, there was Elias Nash, another Englishman, and Jonathan Afua, an African from Ethiopia.
Toufik said two of Sharrouf’s men swore to seeing the Calliope itself heading out to sea after the explosion at Al-Min, but that was no guarantee Hardacre and his little whores still lived.
Rabia kept reading the ledgers looking to glean more on him. Resentment of Green and Cappleman, too, burned deep. No one left her household. No one.
She checked the pay ledgers and found a man based in Sicily, noting his name. It wouldn’t do any harm to check to see what became of the ship and her crew. In fact, it might be very useful, indeed.