Chapter 10 #2
Xavier nodded, knowing the bashaw lied.
“Tripoli. A land of slaves, gold, and sunshine.” The bashaw smiled widely. “Have you ever been here before, Captain Blackwell?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” But my brother died here, he thought. He refused to entertain the quick slabbing of grief.
“But you know our coast so well.”
“Pilots can be bought.”
“Ah yes, gold can buy anything, everything, can it not?” The bashaw gestured expansively.
Xavier wondered if the bashaw had bought Fernandez, paying him to lead them into an ambush.
He did not think so. He wasn’t sure who his worst enemy was.
Farouk seemed clever enough to arrange such a plot.
Jovar had equal motive, and greater lust. Or, perhaps, he had been sabotaged from more distant shores.
“You are by far the best captain these seas have ever seen,” the bashaw continued.
Jovar slammed down his knife. He was seated just across the table from Xavier and he glowered murderously.
Xavier did not respond.
“Jovar, you understand, is not from Tripoli. He is from Scotland.”
Xavier listened.
“He was once a captive, as you now are. But he chose to embrace the Moslem faith and he has since married one of my daughters,” the bashaw continued. “He has a big house, many slaves, horses, concubines. He has many jewels and much gold and silver—and an entire fleet to command.”
Xavier folded his arms.
“A good life, eh, Jovar? Fifteen percent of every prize is directly his,” the bashaw stated.
“A very good life.” Jovar looked at Xavier. “We want you to join us, Blackwell. You will lack for nothing.” His expression did not match his words.
Xavier would never turn renegade, forsaking his country, his kin, and his faith, not in a hundred years, but he could not say so yet.
And a double cross was not possible. The bashaw would never put him to sea with his crew, in which case they could simply escape.
He’d sail after his own people with a crew of Turks, closely watched.
If he did not perform as a true renegade, he would quickly be incarcerated, or worse.
“I will have to consider your offer,” Xavier said dispassionately. “I will do so carefully.”
The bashaw was pleased. He clapped his hands. “We shall find you a rich Moslem wife,” he promised. “After you embrace Islam. And I shall personally oversee the construction of a large home for you. You may command the vessel of your choosing.” The bashaw smiled. It reached his dark eyes.
Jovar glowered.
Xavier managed a smile. “A very enticing proposal,” he said.
The bashaw folded his arms and grunted. “Consider it swiftly, Captain.”
Jovar leaned forward. “While you are considering whether to turn renegade or not, keep in mind the alternatives.” His blue eyes flashed.
Xavier stared into Jovar’s eyes. Jovar’s smile widened and he turned and lifted a manacle from behind. He dangled it from his hand, which was badly scarred.
Xavier understood. The alternative was to remain in captivity, to become enslaved.
For how long could he put the bashaw off?
And in the interim, could he accomplish what he must—a ransom for his men and any Intelligence gathering that would help his country destroy Tripoli’s sea power?
And how could he engender his own release—or escape? “I understand,” Xavier said.
“Good,” Jovar laughed.
“Now there will be music and dancing,” the bashaw said, clapping his hands loudly.
Xavier’s eyes widened as two beautiful girls entered the room.
They were no more than thirteen or fourteen, olive skinned with long black hair, their bodies slim and coltish.
He could not help but stare. They were more naked than clothed.
Each wore transparent gauze trousers and small, beaded vests.
An opaque triangle of cloth hid their loins, but barely, from public view, and they began to sway to the strains of a stringed instrument.
He forced his expression to remain neutral. Whores who were little more than children existed all over the world, but he found it appalling.
All the men at the table were watching the two dancers. Jebal leaned across the table and touched Xavier’s arm. “They are slaves. But eager to please. We can send one to warm you tonight, or both of them if you prefer.”
“No, thank you.”
“You wish to choose a different woman?” Jebal asked, his smile friendly.
Xavier waited a moment before responding. “In my country, we do not lie with women so young. It is forbidden.”
“Really?” Jebal laughed. “Here a virgin is a great prize—the greatest prize, actually, A man will pay much gold to lie with one.”
“Virgins have no skill,” Xavier remarked.
“A good point,” Jebal laughed.
Farouk interjected, “Let him choose whom he wants.”
Xavier looked up and met Farouk’s black eyes. How opaque they were.
“Unless you do not wish a woman,” Farouk said blandly.
“Perhaps he prefers boys,” Jebal laughed. “Shall we send you a boy, Blackwell?”
He thought again about the Moslem woman who had been disguised as a bedouin in the slave market. “I do not like boys. Although I understand that here many men prefer boys—and guard their male lovers more jealously than their wives.”
Jovar stiffened. “In some cases that is true. I myself have four concubines—all of them young and female.”
“How good for you,” Xavier said coolly.
“Please, this bickering is unseemly,” Jebal cried.
“Enough, Jovar,” the bashaw growled. His fist hit the table, knocking over a glass, which broke. A slave hurried forward to repair the mess. The bashaw said, “Send him women. Let him choose. We are giving you new quarters, Captain Blackwell. I want you to be pleased.”
Xavier bowed his head.