Chapter 16 #2
“I can write my own letters,” Xavier said, feeling a pang of homesickness as he thought of his father and Sarah.
He had to communicate to them, reassure them, for they would be worried sick when they learned of his captivity.
And he had to communicate with the Danish consul, Neilsen, although a meeting did not seem likely now.
He stared at Pierre. This man was a slave, regardless of his clothing, but was he a spy or a potential ally? He was French, and France and England were at war, but the United States was neutral. Yet relations between the United States and France were not particularly good.
But Xavier sensed possibilities. Instinct told him that Quixande was not a spy, but a survivor.
Pierre might have sensed them, too. “Our rations are meager, but a few coins buys an added portion—perhaps a bowl of broth with a few pieces of onion and mutton. Would you join me tonight, Captain? I will share what is mine with you.”
Xavier nodded slowly. “How long have you been in Barbary, Quixande?”
“A dozen years,” the scribe replied. “Anything that you wish to know, I can undoubtedly tell you.”
Their gazes met. And Xavier thought about the American captive, Alexandra.
“I have to go to him,” Alex cried. “Please, Murad.”
Murad did not answer her. He stood beside her bed, where Alex lay, covering her face with her hands.
She dropped her palms and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Is it as bad as they say?”
“It is not good.”
“What does that mean?” she shouted at him.
“Alex, there is little you can do.”
“I want to see him.”
“Alex, that is impossible.”
“Is it?” she challenged. Alex stood. She was so terrified. “I’ve lived here for more than a year. I do know one thing about the Middle East, something that hasn’t changed in two hundred years.”
“What’s that?” he asked carefully.
“Grease. Money greases everyone, Murad. I refuse to believe that we cannot bribe the guards to let me inside the bagnio in order to visit him. And while we’re at it, we can bring him some things that he might need.”
Murad stared at her, his expression dismayed. “That would take gold, Alex, a lot of gold.”
“I will sell all of my jewelry,” she gritted. “I am determined.”
“Allah protect her, protect us.”
Alex wet her lips. She was sick, like a dog, and it had nothing to do with any medical condition. She knew what a beylik slave was, and she had heard all about the bagnio.
Beylik slaves were worked as if they were not human.
In the quarries, where conditions were intolerable.
Today Xavier was in the bagnio, where the conditions were wretched, inhumane.
Alex had never seen the prison, but she imagined it to be like a twentieth-century concentration camp.
Tomorrow Xavier would be sent to the quarries, and forced to labor like an animal.
Alex was determined to help Xavier in any way that she could.
She wanted him out of the quarries before the grueling labor killed him.
“Will it kill him? Working in the quarries?”
Murad hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“What does that mean, goddamn it!”
He blanched. “Don’t talk that way, not even to your Christian God. It’s means that I don’t know. Men die there all the time. But usually from starvation. Sometimes, though, there are accidents.”
Alex stared, her pulse skipping. “Accidents? Real or contrived?”
“Usually real.” Murad wet his lips.
“Oh God. Do you think they will kill him there? What a convenient way to get rid of a political prisoner.”
“I don’t know.”
“You are not helping!” Alex shouted.
“What do you want me to do?” Murad shouted back.
“I don’t know! Something! Anything!” Alex began to cry.
Murad went to her and held her.
And Alex was fully aware that she did not have a lot of time on her side. Jebal was expecting her to dine with him, alone, that night. It was the celebration of their first wedding anniversary. He had made it clear that he also intended to sleep with her.
Alex trembled whenever she dared to think of the upcoming evening. Which was why she resolutely kept pushing it from her mind. Xavier came first.
Yet nothing was happening the way it had happened in recorded history.
Nothing thus far was happening the way that it should.
Alex felt as if any control she might have had, due to her foreknowledge of the future, was slipping rapidly through her fingertips.
She could no longer be certain of what would happen. It made her afraid.
But Blackwell was not going to die in the quarries. Alex was resolved.
Xavier stared down at the bowl of steaming broth.
Two chunks of onions, a piece of carrot, and a forkful of lamb floated in the soup.
The other slaves in the bagnio had been given a single small, coarse loaf of bread and a few spoonfuls of vinegar for their supper.
Pierre Quixande had also placed a loaf of finely ground white bread on the table where they sat, as well as a bottle of red wine.
“Eat, mon ami,” Pierre said, tearing off a hunk of bread and pouring them both mugs of wine.
“I cannot,” Xavier said. He stood, taking the bowl of soup with him, and stepped outside of Pierre’s chamber, which he ‘rented’ from Kadar.
Timmy and Tubbs were wolfing down their meager rations just beyond the open door.
Xavier smiled at them and set the bowl in front of them.
“Share it and enjoy it well, lads,” he said.
Timmy’s face brightened. “Cap’n, sir?”
“I order the two of you to eat that entire bowl of soup.”
Timmy began to dig in. Tubbs’s brows lifted. Xavier smiled at him and returned to Pierre’s table.
“You are a very noble man, Captain,” Pierre said, regarding him over the rim of his glass of wine.
Xavier shrugged, reaching for the white bread.
“If you wish to live a long life, you must think of yourself first. In the bagnio, a man needs his wits and his strength in order to survive.”
“My men rely on me. The boy is starving.”
“Everyone here starves, except for those clever enough to find a way to pay off Kadar for ‘privileges.’”
Xavier shrugged.
“In any case, your nobility is refreshing.” Pierre stood, left the table, and returned with another bowl. “I will share my broth with you, Captain. But this time I insist you eat your share.”
Xavier smiled. “I think I can manage that.”
The two men devoured their rations, then began to sip the wine. Xavier’s eyes brightened. “My friend, this is French wine—I do not think I can be mistaken.”
Pierre grinned. “You are right, a full-bodied Bordeaux—1799 … a very fine year.”
“In Tripoli?” Xavier took another sip of the full-bodied, smooth-as-satin wine. “My God, this is heaven.”
Pierre laughed. “Occasionally the corsairs bring home a prize filled with a cargo that is quite interesting.” He sipped. “And the Moslems do not drink.”
“How convenient,” Xavier murmured, the wine going straight to his head.
Pierre refilled their nearly empty mugs. “I have a dozen more bottles, Captain. I love each one more than I have ever loved a single woman.”
Xavier laughed. Then a pair of green eyes came to his mind. His laughter died.
“Woman troubles, Captain?”
Xavier put his mug down and met the Frenchman’s brown eyes.
“Quixande, while I was at the palace I met a woman, an American captive. At first I thought her a mere slave girl. She introduced herself as Vera. But she told me that was her Moslem name, and that her real name was Alexandra.” Xavier felt the tension riddling his body.
“The next time I saw her she was fully dressed and veiled like any noble Moslem lady. She has red hair and green eyes. What, if anything, do you know about her?”
Pierre stared, “There is only one American captive in Tripoli, and she does reside in the palace. They have named her Zohara, however, not Vera. Which, in any case, is not an Islamic name.”
“Go on,” Xavier said tersely.
“But her Christian name is Alexandra. Alexandra Thornton.” Quixande stared. “She is Jebal’s wife.”
Xavier knew that he must have misheard the scribe. “I beg your pardon?”
“She is Jebal’s wife. His second wife. He fell in love with her at first sight, the moment she arrived in Tripoli, aproximately thirteen or fourteen months ago.”
Xavier was frozen.
“They say that she is quite extraordinary. Beautiful, as tall as many men, and very clever. Already she is fluent in the crude lingua franca, and can converse quite well in Arabic, too. She is inseparable from her eunuch slave, which Jebal gave to her when she first arrived at the palace. It is also said that Jebal is besotted with her still.”
She had lied. She had deceived him. She was not who, or what, she had said. She was the bashaw’s daughter-in-law, the wife of his son and heir.
“Captain, are you all right?”
Xavier was on his feet. “No,” he said harshly. “I am not well, not at all.”