Chapter 5 #2
put in here for repairs.”
“I will take that bet,” another answered. “Never underestimate men’s carelessness. And whoever killed those poor souls was
a monster. Such thieves have no shame.”
“Nor do the two of you, gambling over the dead,” chided a third man. “God deliver us from such perversion.”
A triumphant cheer sounded from the Marawati ; several of the soldiers were hefting metal-hued ingots in the air. There was an indignant—and familiar—cry of protest, and
then Tinbu, my most trusted first mate and sweetest of friends, was hauled out from the cargo hold.
I watched, my heart in my throat, as Tinbu was pushed before two figures in official-looking robes and turbans. Gesticulating
wildly, my friend appeared to be arguing or perhaps pleading. I was not sure which option concerned me more. Tinbu is excellent
at striking pacts with criminals, so practiced he forgets that civilian authorities occasionally have different responses
to being bribed. The other men looked stern, their arms crossed over their chests. Tinbu raised his hands in an imploring
fashion...
And was promptly smashed in the back of the head by a sword hilt.
He crumpled, and pandemonium broke out. A merchant-looking fellow in a striped blue and yellow shawl rushed to Tinbu’s side while around them, furious sailors threw themselves on the soldiers in a blur of fists.
But the fight was over as quickly as it started, Tinbu’s band outnumbered.
Aghast and helpless, I watched as they began arresting the crew, binding the men with ropes and shoving them toward one of the warships.
“Well.” Dalila reappeared at my side as though stepping out of an invisible realm. “This changes things.”
I pulled at my turban in despair. “Why are there warships?”
“Yes, that is also an unpleasant development.” Dalila clucked her tongue. “We will need to find an alternative way to travel.”
A pair of guards dragged Tinbu between them. I watched as he attempted to lift his head and was rewarded with a punch to his
stomach.
An old, dangerous anger lit inside me. “We follow.”
“Amina, ‘we follow’ plays no part in obtaining very large sums of money for discreetly—”
“No sum of money is worth such a loss to me.”
Dalila grunted in annoyance. “I knew he was your favorite.”
“I was talking about my ship. Now follow .”
***
Tinbu and his crew were marched directly to Aden’s prison, a former warehouse beside the muhtasib’s office. Whatever crime
my friend was accused of must have been serious, for a crowd of onlookers awaited him at the prison as well. They were swiftly
dispatched and replaced by a pair of baton-wielding soldiers who installed themselves outside the muhtasib’s door.
Fortunately the surrounding streets were busy, and so Dalila’s and my loitering was easy to miss. After so many years of isolation,
I found the bustle of a proper city invigorating. I have always liked meeting new people and seeing new places, and quickly
set to chatting up various vegetable buskers, leatherworkers, and a rather charming juice vendor who gave me a cup of pressed
date nectar in exchange for the gossip I shared of the beach.
The juicer lowered his voice to a hush after my whispered recollection.
“The wali is keeping it close to his chest, but rumors are a ship that normally carries pilgrims between here and Jeddah was smuggling iron ore and went missing a few weeks ago. Some say it was an accident and the boat must have broken up on the reefs, but others are claiming the bodies that washed ashore had their throats cut.”
“Pirates?” I clutched a hand to my chest. “So close to Aden?”
“Only God knows.” The juicer pursed his lips in annoyance. “The muhtasib is new and looking for any reason to seem important.
But there is not much in Aden for him to crack down on save women visiting tombs and the occasional vendor letting their sugarcane
juice ferment a bit too long. I imagine the prospect of murderous pirates, real or imagined, would be tantalizing.”
I liked this fellow. “Now, brother, surely you are not suggesting a government official would invent such a heinous crime
for his own amusement and career advancement?”
He blushed prettily above his salt-and-pepper beard, and I was reminded just how long it had been since I enjoyed a man. “God
forbid.”
I winked, finished my drink, and returned to Dalila. She had spread a mat on a patch of street that gave us a clear view of
the prison, displaying a sad array of bruised fruit for resale that we’d bought in case anyone asked what we were doing.
“Done flirting?” she greeted, shooing away a pigeon.
“For now. How is business?”
“Poor. My boss is a fool who is wasting my time on a side venture when a riper prize beckons.” Dalila stabbed her knife into
a melon, carving out a section and offering it to me on the blade. “That will be a million dinars.”
Taking the fruit, I asked, “Any updates?
“I have not heard screaming, so presumably he is not being tortured.”
“Tinbu would stay for you,” I pointed out as I squatted beside her.
“I would never require saving.”
There was little argument I could offer against that, so instead I studied the prison. It looked secure; the stone building
had probably been there for at least a hundred years and its few windows were little more than narrow, barred slits. I had
already scouted the perimeter, but a rear entrance was bricked over, leaving the guarded door as the only way in or out. We
could tunnel below; we’d done so with similar buildings before. But tunneling took time and equipment, and we had neither.
I turned my attention to the nearby streets. This was a commercial neighborhood, crowded with workshops and offices, along
with shops and food stalls that catered to hungry laborers and clerks needing to run errands before returning home. The closest
mosque was distant, its minaret hazy above the maze of rooftops. In all, it seemed like the kind of place that emptied out
at night. I rose on my toes to peer farther down the street, and my gaze fell upon a foul scene. A young girl, barely older
than Marjana, was being crudely examined by two men dressed in rich garments several buildings away. She wore a sackcloth
tunic that skimmed her thighs, her hair hanging in loose, uncombed waves. One of the men motioned for her to open her mouth
so he could check her teeth, the other squeezing her belly as though evaluating a fatty piece of meat. I hissed.
Dalila glanced up to see what had earned my ire, and her expression grew stormy.
“Hypocritical bastards,” she said in disgust. “Those men would probably die of shame before allowing their wives to take a
lover, but force yourself on a girl who has no say because you bought her and suddenly all is fine and permissible before
God.”
“I do not believe that,” I said firmly. And I don’t. Slavery is an abomination, no matter what excuses we find for it. There
are people who will say the Quran allows such bondage; that many slaves are sold by their own parents and leave primitive,
famine-struck villages for lives of ease and advancement in palaces and mansions and the enlightenment of God.
I wonder how many such defenders have spoken to those enslaved?
Because I have. My crew never consisted of fewer than a third freemen, and they had more horror stories than pleasant memories.
I have stowed away girls whose hands were still wet with the blood of masters who raped them and seen lash scars on sailors’ backs so bad they could no longer move without pain.
And yes, I know what the Holy Book says—but does it not also tell us to use our eyes and our hearts?
How can one say Paradise lies under the feet of a mother if one may steal away the child in her arms?
Dalila touched my hand—I had reached for my dagger without meaning to. “You cannot save them all.” Indeed, the men were already
exchanging coins and leading the girl away. “Dunya, Amina. Tinbu .”
Tinbu. Another who had been enslaved, taken captive in a raid when he was a teenager. My friend was a cheerful, lighthearted
man, but he rarely spoke of those years, and I could only imagine how he felt now, shackled again.
I dropped my hand with a curse. Dalila was right. I couldn’t save everyone, but I would be damned if I left Tinbu in prison.
“Does that mean you’ll help me break him out?”
Dalila made a sour face. “This is probably a trap.”
“You think everything is a trap. Perhaps God has placed us here on purpose.”
“If you are na?ve enough to believe that, I would like to go back to my workshop.”
Raised voices came from inside the prison.
“I am telling you Tinbu was not involved in such a heinous crime!” It was the man in the striped shawl who had rushed to Tinbu’s
side on the boat. A soldier was escorting him forcefully to the door, followed by an older man in officious dress. “You cannot
charge him without proof!”
“What we can or cannot do is not your concern,” the older man rebuked. “Were he Jewish, he would be released to your community to handle. As he is not, I will get the answers I need.” He lowered his voice. “Think of your family’s reputation, Yusuf. Steer clear of this.”
They shut the door in his face.
The man—Yusuf—stood there, wringing his shawl. He was thin, his skin the pale brown of a man who did not spend his days toiling
in the sun. His clothes were of fine flax, the hems embroidered with dancing hares in silver thread, and his beard tidily
groomed. A well-off man, from one of the Jewish merchant families that had long held prominence in Aden, if I had to guess.
He looked about a decade younger than me, and if he wasn’t traditionally handsome, there was an earnestness in his green eyes
I suppose would be endearing if that was your type.
It was not mine—I make terrible decisions and thus prefer men with a bit more mischief, which has only ever turned out well.