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 one 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.
Again, as if in a performance, she raised her hand to show a piece of parchment.
“Elias Winston Nash, you would be surprised what I know of you. You are an Englishman, an able commander, gifted with the guitar, a man with no obvious vices, a religious man although, alas, not of the true religion.”
Elias wasn’t sure whether she expected him to answer but he did not. Rabia put down the document and looked at him.
“You are more handsome than I expected.”
“You flatter me, my lady.”
“You don’t look like a man who would succumb to flattery. I wonder what you would succumb to? Toufik tells me you endured your rough treatment like a man.”
Again, there was nothing that required him to answer.
“Why are you here?”
Ah, a real question at last.
“You threatened my family.”
“Your family?” she said with exaggerated concern. “Then you have my apologies. I don’t want anything which is not mine.”
“Your apologies are accepted, my lady. You leave my wife and son alone, and you will never hear from me again.”
“Wife and child? No, you have no wife and child. The concubine is mine and so is any offspring she bears. I want them back.”
“No. Human life is not a product to be bought, sold or bartered.”
Rabia laughed brightly, deeply with amusement.
“My dear Elias, so naive in the ways of the world.”
“An idealist, surely,” he countered.
Her amusement ended. “An idealist carrying bombs.” She gestured at his satchel which had stood unnoticed beside the platform. Inside, he could see three shells and two powder horns.
Elias fought the leap in his chest. The count should be five, which meant two were unaccounted for. Perhaps he hadn’t been betrayed by the servant after all. He prayed that one of the bombs not found was still in the library. He turned his attention back to Rabia.
“You destroyed my home. An eye for an eye, my lady. Surely you must understand that.”
“I believe I do. So tell me where the boy is and you can keep the woman and your life.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“Liar!” she screamed, making him jump. He heard the sound of feet shuffling from within the curtained alcove. He waited for Rabia to call for her guards.
“I could torture the information out of you,” she added more softly.
“And no doubt you would succeed, but I cannot tell you what I do not know,” he answered. “You know of the Prophet Moses? As a babe, he was placed in a basket made of bulrushes and set adrift on the Nile by his sister to escape the slaughter of the innocent. Not even his mother knew where he had gone.”
Rabia frowned.
“Under torture I could lead you to the Nile, but where the current took the boy after that, only God knows.”
Elias watched Rabia struggle with the analogy, trying to decide how much was fact and how much was a tale. After a while, she gave him a smile – a serpent’s smile.
“In that case, there’s very little point in still keeping you alive. Yet you do amuse me. I might keep you for a while. I’m sure you’ll prefer being my pet to becoming Basri’s bitch.”
Once again he said nothing.
“I believe you are talented with an instrument.”
Elias forced a smile on his face and raised his shackled hands.
“Not with these on my wrists.”
Rabia’s eyes provocatively and slowly lowered until they fixed on his crotch.
“A guitar wasn’t the instrument I was thinking of…”
Rabia stepped down from the platform slowly, step by mesmerizing step. Although she was tall, he was taller still by at least two inches. She drew near and the smell of jasmine and gardenia grew stronger. She ran a soft hand across his shoulders and down to his manacled hands. She pressed her breasts against his chest.
“It has been a very long time since I felt a man’s touch.”
Elias stood stock still to prevent the revulsion he felt from rising in his stomach. He snatched her hands and held them tight. Even so, a glint of excitement lit her eyes.
He leaned forward until he was scant inches from her face before he spoke. “No.”
Rabia tugged her hand, but Elias kept the grip firm.
“One word from me and you will be dead,” she whispered.
“And the answer will still be the same.”
“I could compel you.”
Elias took an agonizing step forward, forcing Rabia to take a step back. He spoke through gritted teeth.
“Perhaps you could.”
He took another step forward and then another, until her back was against one of the balcony pillars.
“And while you take your pleasure of me, perhaps my hands would circle your throat and choke off the air. You may have had your satisfaction, but you would be dead.”
He pressed forward, feeling her body against his. He felt nothing but fire and anger.
“Would that satisfy you, my lady?”