Chapter Fourteen
Jeanne Mauriac glanced curiously around the large room into which she had just been escorted.
Pallets lined the floor, most occupied by women with nothing better to do than lie about, counting the passing minutes of each hour even though it was only the middle of the afternoon.
Boredom, apathy, fear—she saw it all, but it was nothing new to her.
She had gone this route before, three times before, sold and sold again.
The only thing surprising to her was the cleanliness of Hamid Sharif’s bagnio, the building where slaves were confined together before they were sold.
Most bagnios in which slaves already sold were kept as a work force to be hired out, were as filthy as pigsties.
But here even a fountain bubbled in the center of the room, and the fretted windows along two walls let in sun and fresh air for what would have made a very nice atmosphere—if it weren’t for the boredom, apathy, and fear.
Jeanne found an empty pallet and began to take note of the women.
They were her competition, and it was a matter of competing, at least for her.
She knew from experience that the best home to go to was a rich home, and the richer buyers bid only on the prettier women.
Happily, she saw there weren’t that many women in the room, and none appeared really exceptional except for a black beauty who reeked hostility and was, in fact, chained to the wall.
If she was as hostile as she looked, it was doubtful she would be put on the block, but would be sold privately.
Jeanne expected to go on the block. She had done so before, and it was an experience she didn’t find quite as humiliating as the other women did; she was proud of her attributes, and having the dark gold hair and blue eyes that were so prized here didn’t hurt.
She knew that with the right posture and a few sensual looks, she could fire the lust of the bidders and thereby raise her price.
She also knew from experience that the more her new owner was forced to pay for her, the more fortunate he would feel in having attained her, and the better she would be treated in his household.
A flash of silver caught her eye and she glanced across the room to a woman she had previously dismissed as being too old, with hair like silver moonbeams. But now that her head was raised, Jeanne gasped, for it was a girl, a very young girl, an incredibly beautiful young girl.
Resentment started to rise, then quickly ebbed away as Jeanne realized that this one, like the magnificent black one, wouldn’t be put on the block.
Beauties such as these were usually always sold by private auction.
She wouldn’t have to compete against them.
Jeanne stared at this girl, unable to help herself. She was pale, and growing paler by the second. From this distance her large eyes seemed like two black coals against such white skin. They were rounded wide, staring out the window in what was unmistakable horror.
Jeanne followed the direction of the girl’s eyes and made a sound of disgust in the back of her throat.
In the large, enclosed court outside the room, a public auction was taking place.
Jeanne had seen it earlier but had paid it no mind.
She had been told she wouldn’t be sold until later in the week.
Slaves were never sold the first day of their arrival, usually because they arrived in such poor condition they were virtually worthless.
That was not the case with Jeanne, but rules were rules.
Jeanne had also been told that twice weekly Hamid Sharif opened his gates to the city for these public auctions, often selling between twenty and thirty souls at a time, more if he happened to be overcrowded with new arrivals.
This was undoubtedly why there were so few women left in the women’s quarters now.
Those to be sold had already been taken out to await their turn on the block.
And it was a block, a tall, square platform in the center of the court that allowed the crowd below to have an excellent view of the merchandise.
Slaves came cheap, because there was such an abundance of them.
Even a poor man could conceivably save enough to buy a slave or two to make his life easier.
A young woman could go for as little as seventy piasters, a strapping man for only slightly more.
Eunuchs fetched the most, upward of two hundred piasters, because they were so much in demand and because the Muslims would not castrate a man themselves, castration being forbidden by their religion.
The use of eunuchs in a man’s harem was not even a Turkish custom, the idea having come from the Byzantines, who had previously ruled Istanbul when the city was still known as Constantinople.
The cheap slaves were those who would be put to manual labor.
A woman of fetching beauty was quite a different matter.
She would be bought as a concubine and for no other reason, and her price would be determined by how badly a man desired to own her.
Jeanne had been sold for five hundred piasters her first time, when she had still been a virgin.
But prices had been known to go much higher than that for rare beauties.
She wondered if the silver-haired blonde knew that.
Chances were she hadn’t been told she wouldn’t have to go up on that block, and that was why she was so appalled by what she was witnessing now.
A woman and a young child, likely related, were being turned about so the crowd could view them from different angles.
Both had been stripped of their clothes; both were crying pitifully.
Jeanne wondered if it was better to know exactly what would happen to you by being able to see the auctions firsthand, as these women could, or to be kept away from the slave block and not know in advance what you would have to endure.
She made up her mind and crossed the room, sitting down next to the girl on her pallet. “You won’t have to go through that,” Jeanne said gently.
“I know,” was the anguished reply in Jeanne’s own language, though with a slight accent.
“Then why do you look so horrified?”
“It’s so degrading, so utterly humiliating. It shouldn’t be allowed. It’s barbaric and—”
“You’re in for a lot of heartache if you go on taking everyone else’s misery to yourself, petite. You’re here. That won’t change. And the only way you can get though this is to worry about no one but yourself.”
The girl finally looked at her, and Jeanne saw that the eyes weren’t black at all, but a dark, glistening violet. “You’re not afraid?”
Jeanne almost smiled, but shrugged instead.
“I am an old hand at this. It’s been nine years since I was first captured and sold in Algiers.
I was known as Jeanne Mauriac then, though I’ve been given other names since.
They always change your name, Lord knows why, but to myself, I’ve kept the name I was born with. And you?”
“Chantelle Burke.”
“English or American?” When Chantelle hesitated in answering, Jeanne chuckled. “So you must be English. But don’t worry, petite. I may be French and our countries may be at war, but we will leave the fighting to the men, yes?”
Chantelle smiled slightly in answer. “How is it you’re here if you’ve already been sold?”
“Ah, a long story that, but then I’ve time to tell it.
My first owner was so infatuated with me that he married me when he didn’t have to.
Ah, I had it so easy then, my every wish granted, silks and jewels laid at my feet.
Unfortunately, he had a first wife who despised me, and when he died, she had me sold into a brothel.
Don’t look so shocked, petite.” Jeanne grinned.
“I was having none of that. My very first night there, I set fire to the house and escaped. And I almost made it to the French consulate, too, when who should I run straight into but that very son-of-a-dog who first captured me.”
“You were taken prisoner again?”
Jeanne nodded with a look of disgust. “And taken right back to the same filthy bagnio that I was first sold from. This time I was bought by a merchant from Istanbul and I spent the next two years in his large harem, completely ignored. Ah, that was nice, too, for a change, to not have to compete with all the other women for the master’s notice.
He was old, so I didn’t particularly want to be noticed.
The trouble was, I didn’t earn any gifts that way, and so when he died and I was set free, I didn’t have the money to buy my passage home. ”
“You were actually set free at his death?” Chantelle asked in amazement.
“You didn’t realize that was possible?”
“No, Hakeem failed to mention that,” Chantelle replied with a frown, and at Jeanne’s raised brow, added, “He was the one to instruct me on the voyage here, the only one of the corsairs who spoke English. He taught me some of the language, and what to expect.”
“Ah, so that is how you knew you wouldn’t have to go on the block.”
“Yes, but there will still be an auction,” Chantelle said miserably. “Hamid Sharif put the word out as soon as I arrived.”
“The auction will be private, attended only by those who can afford you, and that will not be so many, petite. You will not have to face the hundreds of spectators who just come to watch.” At a visible shudder from Chantelle, Jeanne added, “Truly, it will not be so bad, and certainly not like what you see out there in the yard. You will probably not be stripped at all, for these men, serious buyers indeed, will each hope to be the one who will own you, and they will not want you viewed by the others. Do you know when it is to take place?”
“In two more days.”