Chapter Five
Rabia, exalted third wife of Sheik Selim Omar, sailed from Al-Min under the cover of darkness like a fugitive.
She remained at the stern of the ship, standing as regal as a queen, the breeze catching her traveling gown. She listened to the sound of the galiot’s oars dipping in time, stoking her hatred with each stroke.
How dare the most important woman in Selim Omar’s household be treated so vilely?
Her son should have been recognized as sheik on his father’s death. She should have ruled in his name. Instead, the boy had been seized by the second wife, Amal, who claimed him as hers.
Rabia spat forcefully.
Bitch! Flea-ridden whore!
For three days, Rabia had suffered the indignity of being a runagate inside the casbah her husband had once ruled.
She knew she should consider herself lucky she had escaped with her life. The other three wives blamed her for the murder of their husband even though the deed was done by her chief concubine Yasmeen – traitorous bitch! Those evil, grasping women would have slit her throat themselves but they lacked the courage for the task.
Cowards! Fools!
They had played their hand but she had escaped. A few cuts and bruises were a small price to pay. And she would not forget. Even now, Rabia plotted her revenge against the remains of Selim Omar’s households.
More fools them. She would not have been so cowardly had the tables been turned. She would wear her bruises with pride and make them rue the day they were born.
Rabia closed her eyes. Even now, she could see the naked body of her husband on the bed, drenched in his own blood from just a single stab wound to the heart – an elegant and poetic act.
Selim Omar’s guards had failed in their duty to protect their master, but they had done the next best thing. With a single savage sweep of a scimitar, Yasmeen had been executed where she stood.
When Rabia had entered the room, the woman’s decapitated body lay on the floor, still holding the knife.
It was a sad and wasteful death – hers as well as his. But how could it have been otherwise?
Yasmeen…
Rabia shook her head. Regret ached in her breast a moment. She could almost sympathize with the woman. The Arab they had entertained that night was a vile, disgusting creature – and she had known it on sight. There was a cruelty in his eyes and the set of his mouth, but Selim Omar reveled in his reputation for lavish generosity, especially when his ego was flattered.
If Rabia were ruler, she would have sent the Arab away without an audience – and shaken the dust off her shoe after him for good measure. The motley collection of horses the man offered was not worth giving him the prize that was Yasmeen.
Rabia trusted no one, not even her husband, but she had come to rely on Yasmeen a good deal in recent years. She had been a rare jewel in the household – intelligent, organized, talented – and she was beautiful. The superficial men preferred the lighter skin of the Europeans, but the Somali woman was flawless, as though she had been fashioned from the finest walnut.
Yasmeen supervised the concubines and odalisques of Rabia’s household with rigor and discipline. Never once did Rabia have problems with her girls. Whenever Selim Omar’s other wives complained about the laziness and backbiting in their court, she took great delight in reminding them how talented, industrious and beautiful her women were. They were the envy of the royal palace. Even her husband’s cousin, the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire himself, admired them.
She cursed Selim Omar as a fool. He had no reason to have gifted Yasmeen to that sadist. It should have been one of the other women. If the Arab liked his women dark, Selim should have given him the olive-skinned, half-caste girl, Sophia Green, instead.
Sophia and her cousin, Laura…
Laura Cappleman. That was her name. A pretty girl, skin like alabaster. Light brown hair and a pleasing figure.
Rabia had chosen well with that one. She recalled the day her husband asked for her opinion on taking the girl. Laura had been first introduced to her at the rented villa at Palermo, flattered at being asked to show off her silly paintings. The English girl had even brought her cousin and her stupid brother with her.
Of course, Selim Omar would have the girl regardless of what Rabia thought. But giving her willing assent to Laura Cappleman’s kidnapping and addition to the harem was as good as making a gift of the girl to her husband, and Rabia had been rewarded for her good judgment with a sizable purse of gold.
Over the years, she had amassed quite a fortune this way, and had been careful to keep such treasure secret. One did not become a favored wife of Selim Omar without employing a great measure of cunning and guile.
But one thing she had not understood was why Selim Omar enjoyed toying with the half-caste Sophia. He had been intrigued by her, even to the point of obsession, but Sophia was dangerous. Rabia knew from their very first meeting that the woman was too clever for her own good. Little did she know she held vipers to her breast.
Kilab! Dogs!
It was always the women one had to watch out for…
Rabia abandoned her vigil looking out over the black horizon behind her and headed toward the captain’s quarters she had commandeered as her own.
It was fortunate she was not without resources. Rabia cultivated useful men just as readily as she did beautiful women. Men. Such simple creatures – money, sex and power in just the right measure would bend every single one of them to your will.
These men on board the galiot followed her for now, so long as the residual awe of Selim Omar’s power remained. The promise of a share of her wealth would stay their hand for a little while, but she was under no illusion how long that would last.
Rabia locked the cabin door behind her and regarded the young servant woman who stood swiftly at her entrance. She was the only other female on the ship, a drab, little brown mouse of a thing who did nothing but squeak.
Squeak! We’re leaving the palace. Squeak! We’re leaving Al-Min. Squeak! We’re on a ship! Squeak, squeak, squeak!
Rabia supposed one could not be too choosy about a retinue when on the run for one’s life.
“Prepare a bath and my bed,” she ordered. Fortunately, the girl didn’t squeak this time, she just bowed her head and left to do as she was bid.
The door swung open. Waiting just outside about to knock, was Toufik, the chief eunuch. He was a middle-aged man and tall; his silver hair contrasting handsomely with sun-darkened skin. He exuded a casual virility that belied his obvious deficiencies in that regard.
“Enter.”
The man did so with an elaborate bow. Rabia bade him sit with a sweeping gesture of her hand. He did so, but did not lose his alert though deferential posture.
Rabia liked Toufik more than she trusted him. He was pleasant to look at and, so far, had proven himself loyal. But he was ambitious. So throwing in his lot with her instead of remaining to deal with the aftermath of Selim Omar’s death he considered a surer bet.
Interesting.
“You are safe, my lady. No one followed us.”
“You disturb my rest to tell me this? That is not news. I expect you to keep me safe. So why are you really here?”
Toufik smiled slowly as though she had passed some kind of test.
“Two men on board this vessel have news which may interest you, your ladyship,” he said. “With your permission…” He left his seat to open a small, leather case sitting among the hastily assembled collection of valuables they were able to take with them. He withdrew a jeweled decanter and two small glasses and poured a measure of clear liquid into each, then added water which turned the drink a cloudy white.
Rabia could smell the anise before the glass reached her hand. Toufik returned to his seat. Rabia sipped and welcomed the heat of the raki trailing its way down her throat – “milk for the strong”, indeed.
“At least one, if not two, little doves have flown from your aviary.” He paused and sipped from his glass. “The men who told me this were employed by Ahmed Sharrouf.”
Her eyes narrowed. She had known of Sharrouf although they had not met. The man had proven useful to her husband on a number of occasions. In fact, Sharrouf was instrumental in delivering both Laura Cappleman and Sophia Green…
“Which two doves?”
Toufik smiled and downed the rest of his drink. “I believe you have guessed already.”
“And these men, they are certain?”
“I made them swear on their lives. And both avow they saw Sophia Green with their own eyes. She was with the English captain… Kit Hardacre.”
The little brown mouse servant returned to turn down the bed.
“Get out!” Rabia screamed at her. The girl squeaked once and scurried back out the door.
Rabia could keep it in no longer. She burst out laughing – the first piece of genuine mirth for days.
Oh, how had Selim Omar fumed every time the name Hardacre was mentioned!
Ah yes, her husband had made the mistake of underestimating that kafir. Selim Omar had been at a British Embassy party and had unwisely spoken to his aide about his lust for the two English women – unaware Hardacre knew the language.
In his own tongue, Hardacre offered him the very worst insult. The only way the man could have offended Selim Omar more was if he had removed his shoe and beat His Excellency with it.
And there was nothing Selim Omar could do about it – certainly not in front of a roomful of guests and before the British ambassador.
Three days! Three whole days Selim Omar had spent raging over his impotence.
Rabia laughed so hard, she actually held her waist to stop the ache.
“And yet,” she said at last, wiping a tear from her eye, “Hardacre lives despite Sharrouf’s assurance he had squashed the gnat. No wonder the man refuses to show his face.”
“Sharrouf will only be showing his face at the resurrection of the dead.”
Rabia raised an eyebrow. “Hardacre’s doing?”
Toufik shrugged. “These two men are certain he is dead, but who knows how many else? Remember the explosion at the warehouse that day when His Excellency was killed?”
Rabia nodded.
“Ahmed Sharrouf and his men caught one of Hardacre’s crew setting up with black powder. They killed him and lay in wait for Hardacre – who just happened to return with the half-caste woman. It was she who told him of Selim Omar’s murder. Sharrouf dispatched these two men to me for confirmation. Not long after, the warehouse exploded.”
“All killed?”
“Impossible to say, but likely. The storehouse burned for days. In fact, it was through the cover of smoke I could evacuate your ladyship.”
“I see.”
“I hope I did well, Your Excellency.”
Rabia noted Toufik’s deferential tone and suspected the sincerity of it. She decided not to answer immediately. She opened the cabin door and found, as she expected, Brown Mouse trembling outside. She ordered her to be quick about fetching the hot water.
“Escape is one thing,” Rabia said to the eunuch. “To be out at sea without a destination – that is as bad as being trapped at Al-Min.”
“Where is it you wish to go? This ship, as am I, are yours to command.”
That’s better. That’s what I want to hear.
The servant girl returned with a large ewer of hot water. Rabia ignored her and turned her attention to Toufik.
“Ahmed Sharrouf must have had a den. Where is it?”
“The island of Pantelleria, my lady. We’ll be there at first light,” he answered.
Rabia would never show weakness before a man who might turn on her at a moment’s notice, but she did not like the sea. She preferred solid ground beneath her feet. A faint smile flitted across Toufik’s lips as though he were privy to her thoughts. Rabia waited a moment to see if the eunuch might confess, but he did not.
“Be sure that we are,” she snapped.