Chapter Nine #2
Chantelle took one look at the food and thought she would throw up, her stomach was so in knots. “Take it away.”
“You will not be leaving the ship until late tonight, when the city is quiet. In the meantime you must eat, lalla.”
“I’d hate to tell you what you can do with that food, Hakeem.”
He smiled at her surly tone, but it was a sad smile.
Her puffy eyes gave evidence of her misery.
Captives weren’t to be pitied. They were merchandise, nothing more, though this one was much more valuable than most. And yet he did pity her.
She was such a contradiction with her eyes spitting defiance at him while her mouth quivered with a touching vulnerability.
Hakeem had unfortunately fallen a little bit in love with her, though he didn’t know it.
But there was nothing he could do about the strange feelings she stirred in him.
There was nothing he could do for her either.
He wouldn’t even be the one to take her ashore, and once she left the ship, he would never see her again.
What she needed was courage so that she wouldn’t get into trouble from her sharp tongue, which seemed to be her natural response to fear, and it was a dangerous response.
A Muslim admired courage, but not insults; spirit, but not insolence.
And Hamid Sharif, to whom she would be taken tonight, was not a man known for his understanding or patience.
“Did you not tell me you were gently bred?” Hakeem asked her, setting the tray of food down on a little stool, which thusly turned the tray into an adequate low table. “An heiress? The daughter of an English nobleman?”
“Bravo,” Chantelle retorted. “Your memory does you proud.”
“I cannot say the same about your shrewishness, lalla.” He heard her affronted gasp but went on relentlessly.
“If you had not told me these things about yourself, I would think you were a peasant. Peasants have no more sense than to bite at the hand that holds their life. A noble is wiser, having the sense to know when to give up the fight without losing one’s pride. ”
“Don’t you dare tell me how to act when you can’t possibly know how I feel!”
“No, I cannot know,” he agreed. “I can only tell you that you have value, and so will be treated well and with care. But when a slave loses value, it is nothing to have him beaten, sold, or killed. That is never likely to happen to you, because your value is not in a strong back or a special skill, but in your comeliness. Yet undesirable traits will not be tolerated, and there are many punishments that can be inflicted without marring your value.”
“Why do you tell me this?” she asked resentfully.
“So that you do not make the mistake of appearing less than you are, and therefore lower your value. You are a lady, one with pride and intelligence. It is your right to expect to be treated as such, and so you will be, if this is how you act. A certain amount of fear is only natural. But how you deal with that fear is the question. Do you show it, holding yourself up to ridicule and abuse, or do you conceal it behind a bearing suitable to your previous class and station?”
“I still don’t see—”
“Think, woman!” he snapped impatiently. “How you are perceived is how you will be treated. A village wench, no matter how comely, is known to be accustomed to hardship, and so need not be treated with the greatest care. Why subject yourself to that needlessly?”
“Why would I? I am who I say I am.”
“Anyone can say they are a lady and yet belie the point with their behavior. I know that when you insult me, you do not do it to hurt me, but to hide your own fear. But I have known you long enough to have discovered this truth. Hamid Sharif will not know you long enough to draw this same conclusion. Now do you understand, lalla?”
Subdued, Chantelle nodded, and even managed a small smile for Hakeem for caring enough to give her this warning, however unnecessary it was.
She had grown used to the little Turk. She felt free to take her anxieties out on him, knowing that he wouldn’t hurt her.
She would not be as voluble with a stranger.
Or would she? She didn’t exactly think clearly in the grips of a panic, or react as she would want.
She had learned that the hard way. A good dose of courage was indeed needed, only it still wasn’t immediately forthcoming.
“How do I not be afraid, Hakeem?” she asked in a near whisper.
He would have told her the obvious, that the one who bought her would endeavor to please her so that she would in turn please him, but he knew her well enough to know that that was the last thing to tell her, that one of her main fears was eventually having to please a master.
He could only hope that when the time came, she would think differently about it.
But what could he tell her that he hadn’t already?
“No one expects you not to be afraid, lalla. But if you remember that you will not be hurt, that you have value, is it not reasonable to find courage in that? And you are prepared, you know what to expect. You also have some understanding of the language now, which will improve with time. Few prisoners can say the same, for most captains do not bother to ensure that the adjustment will be easy, much less that the captives will arrive in the same condition as they were when they were captured. Rais Mehmed saw the wisdom in turning you over to our employer without tears or resistance, and with a knowledge of our ways that could only be beneficial to everyone involved. Hamid Sharif will be pleased, and so the rais will benefit, as will you. You truly have no reason to fear your arrival here, lalla. Everything will go well.”
“Until I’m sold,” she couldn’t resist adding.
Hakeem frowned at her, but there was nothing more he could say. “I have here the clothes supplied by the rais for you to wear to leave the ship. Please be ready three hours after the sun sets.”
He held up each piece for her inspection.
They were all in dull, nondescript colors and serviceable cotton, except for the yashmak, the veil worn by all women who ventured out in the street, and this was made of a dark gauze.
There were pantaloons that looked like long drawers, a long-sleeved tunic that she couldn’t know Hakeem himself had supplied for her modesty’s sake, a short bolero-type vest with a single button to fasten over her breasts, a wide sashed belt, and a voluminous caftan, the long coatlike garment worn in the Near East by both men and women, this one full enough to conceal her completely from shoulders to feet.
Shoes were not supplied, since her own were still wearable even after their drenching in her one bid for freedom.
Chantelle was not at all pleased by the pantaloons, which in her opinion were no better than unadorned underwear. “Couldn’t I wear the robe and veil over my own clothes?”
Hakeem shook his head, but there was a slight smile for her expression of distaste. Clothes had accomplished what all his words had not—to take her mind off her fear.
“Your dress is too foreign in design. The full skirt would bell out even with the weight of the caftan over it. It is our intention that if you should be seen leaving the ship, you will appear a Muslim woman who perhaps had passage with us, and so not draw attention to yourself. Hamid Sharif will want your presence kept secret until he is ready to announce your auction, which will be private, only for those who can afford the high price he will set for you. And besides,” he added hesitantly, “your own clothes will be denied you henceforth. In Barikah you will be dressed according to your—”
“New status?” Chantelle cut in bitterly.
Hakeem flushed, but said, “Did you think it would be otherwise, after all I have told you?”
She lowered her gaze to the floor. “No, but can’t I keep my pictures, my own hairbrush, my—”
“Nothing, lalla. A slave goes to her new master with nothing, so that what he chooses to give her she will be grateful for.”
Her head snapped up. She had been told this, but because she was faced with the immediate loss of her only reminders of home, her earlier anger returned in full force.
“A tradition that serves to undermine confidence and self-esteem, not to mention self-worth,” she bit out with contempt. “Will I be begging for my food, too, for even a change of clothes? Because I won’t, you know. I won’t beg!”
“All will be given to you without your asking for it,” he replied patiently. “Why do you persist in forgetting everything I have told you?”
“Because I hate it! Your traditions are designed to break me!”
“What you will do is forget your previous life all the sooner if you have nothing to remind you of it. You will accept—”
“Never!”
“You will, lalla,” Hakeem said with a sigh. “It is inevitable.”