Of Sword and Shadow, page 21
“But surely you don’t mean for me to undress in front of him.” I tilted my head toward the guard, who stood in front of the door, his arms crossed and his eyes fixed on me.
Yaroslava huffed. “I don’t know where you came from or what you’re used to, but slaves do not have the privilege of modesty.”
As the hours passed, I learned more of what slaves did not have. Slaves did not have the privilege of bathing in private. They did not have the privilege of squirming, no matter how much a concoction stung recently created lash marks. They did not have the privilege of wearing clothing while the slavers examined them. Nor did they have the privilege of stepping away when that examination involved not just eyes but hands.
“You don’t like attention from men?” Yaroslava asked me after they’d finally let me pull on a tunica. They’d also locked chains around my ankles and wrists.
“No.”
She chuckled. “Then you’re lucky you’re a maiden and they want to sell you as such. Otherwise, they might sample the wares. Breaking a slave isn’t so different from breaking a horse. I’d give you four days, at most.”
Had she told me yesterday that someone could break me in four days, I wouldn’t have believed her. Now, I wasn’t so sure. The bath and examination had been humiliating. My back was a mass of pain. And Gil—I was terrified by thoughts of what the Catalans might do to him. And I was repulsed by his sudden turn. If he thought I was worthless, that meant I had no friends, no one who cared about me beyond what I could do for them or how many hyperpyra I could bring in. He’d convinced me I was valuable for my own sake. But if he no longer believed in me, how could I believe in myself?
I was chained with a dozen other slaves. They were male and female, mostly younger than thirty. Some had the dark skin of Africans. Others had the fair hair of northern Slavs. A few were Tatars. We all had one thing in common: misery.
They fed us gruel for an evening meal, checked our chains, and locked the cell. I was on the end of the chain, next to a blonde woman who didn’t seem much older than me. She whispered something to me, but I couldn’t understand her. I tried speaking in Greek, then Catalan, but she only shook her head. How much worse this ordeal must be for her, to be in a land where she didn’t know the language.
I cried that night, silently. I wasn’t the only one.
I slept fitfully and awoke when the small sliver of sky showing in the window was gray instead of black. My ears told me the other slaves and the slaver stationed outside the door still slept. Usually, I found that my problems weren’t so bad after a night’s sleep. But that wasn’t the case this morning. I was going to be offered up at auction. By day’s end, I’d likely be warming my master’s bed. I squeezed my eyes shut. I’d enjoyed lying next to Gil, despite our desperate circumstances. He’d offered warmth and comfort. But a new master wouldn’t be offering anything. He’d be taking.
For a few brief days, I’d been free. Free to choose which jobs I took and which I refused. Free to control what happened to my body. Free to pick a future. It was all gone.
I wanted another chance at freedom. But who would help a slave girl? Few mortals. For a time, I’d trusted Gil to help me, but he was locked in a tower, and he said he didn’t care about me anymore. The rest of the crew might help—if they found out where I was. But they might not think my skills worth the price. And no one else could afford to save me.
Maybe I could pray and ask an immortal for help. Would Hermes help a slave? He might if I offered the proper sacrifice. But I didn’t even have a honey cake for him, let alone a pig or a sheep. Perhaps the Roman goddess Laverna. But I had no wine to offer her. Even if I did, the pagan gods in the stories of Thebes were rarely generous. If they’d cursed heroes like Oedipus and loyal princesses like Antigone, what would they do to a slave? I didn’t really believe in them anyway. I was just desperate.
Gil had made a promise with the Christian god, and he’d been saved from drowning. Would the Christian god make a promise with me? Simon Atumano had said Jesus was a God of second chances. That was what I needed—a second chance. Maybe it was far beyond the second, but I wanted another, and the way the archbishop had explained it, the number wasn’t as important as the desire.
I’d seen people pray before, but I didn’t know how. I mimicked the kneeling I’d seen from Gil, Sebastie, and Rasheed as best I could in chains. Gil had made promises, and then God had saved him. His promise to be chaste seemed ironic. Perhaps it was a sacrifice for a man who was both healthy and handsome to eschew intimacy before marriage, but that was what I wanted—the ability to be chaste, the freedom to tell someone no and have it mean something.
“Will you save me, God? I want to make the same bargain Gil did. If I’m sold to someone who uses me in the fields until I’m naught but skin and bones, I’ll accept it with gratitude. But please don’t let someone buy me for use in the bedchamber.”
God didn’t answer. But though I wasn’t religious, I knew immortals didn’t always speak to mortals, at least not in a way that mortals could hear. The light of dawn shining through the narrow window gave me hope that maybe my prayer had been heard. For the first time since setting out to find Francisco, I didn’t feel frightened. Somewhere nearby, a swallow sang—lilting notes of hope and freedom. It was close, even if I couldn’t see it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Fear sent my fragile hope fluttering away when the slavers roused us. Yaroslava checked my lash marks and added more of whatever she’d used the day before. It burned, and by the time she finished, my porridge was cold.
“You will wear this.” One of the slavers handed me a stola. “The only reason you have clothing is to hide the lash marks on your back. You will show prospective buyers whatever they wish to see, or you’ll be beaten, and I’ll tear the fabric from you.”
I held it up. The material was sheer, nearly see-through. Nor was there much to the cut, especially once I put it on. There were no sleeves—it left my shoulders bare. And the neckline was low. Greek women rarely showed more than their collarbones in public. Western women might show more skin, but the cut of this plunged far lower than any respectable woman would be comfortable with. The slavers were clearly not dressing me to be sold as a field hand. So much for my clumsy prayer and attempted bargain with the Christian God.
“What about the bruises on her neck?” Yaroslava asked.
One of them handed over a long strand of glass beads. “Cover it with these.”
She looped the scarlet strands around my neck over and over again into several layers. The unpolished edges poked and irritated my bruised skin. They weren’t as ugly as the bronze collar, but they meant the same thing, at least to me.
Before the auction, we were led into a flagstone courtyard so prospective buyers could take a closer look at us. Plenty of people—Thebans and foreigners—were there to gawk and prod. I felt naked. I went around without a hair veil from time to time but never with knees, elbows, shoulders, and upper chest showing. It wasn’t quite as bad as the day before when the slaver had watched me bathe, but there were more people now, and the humiliation was just as strong. Still, I was fortunate, in comparison. The other female slaves had only a thin cloth to wrap around themselves that they had to remove whenever someone was interested in seeing more.
The leers and laughter were enough to make me look at the ground and avoid eye contact with anyone. So I had no warning that someone was interested until I heard a familiar chuckle. I looked up to see Bessarion standing before me.
“One of the slavers said they had a girl I might be interested in breaking. We best keep it our little secret, how long I’ve been wanting to buy you. I wouldn’t want him to drive up the price.”
The way his eyes moved over my body made me want to punch him, but my hands were chained. He continued staring, and my impulse for violence morphed into an urge to vomit.
He ran his hands down my face and across my neck. I flinched and pulled away, but one of the slavers stepped behind me and kept me from retreating. I remembered his threat to make me go naked if I spurned the buyers, and I stayed still for the rest of Bessarion’s distasteful and thorough examination.
“I know the training you received from Thomas. Combined with the training I can give, you will seduce the rich and the powerful. You’ll bring me their secrets, and I’ll find ways of turning that knowledge into profit.” He caught the end of my hair and leaned closer, burying his nose in my freshly washed locks. “Yes, this is something I’ve wanted for a very long time. To break you, to force you to do my will.” He chuckled again as he walked to the blonde woman and examined her.
I shuddered. I could think of few fates worse than being sold to Bessarion, and he seemed determined to buy me. I could try to escape, but he knew my background. He’d take precautions.
Could I kill him? I’d told Gil the truth when I’d said I’d never seduced or killed anyone. I didn’t want that to change, and yet, if it could mean my freedom, would it be worth it? Bessarion was evil. But was I much better? I was just a thief. I didn’t want to be a thief and a murderer, but the alternative seemed to be becoming a thief and a harlot.
Bessarion was stronger than me, but if I got hold of a knife . . . Would I do it? Could I do it?
Bessarion’s presence at the auction had been the worst kind of surprise, but the next person I saw was a surprise of the opposite sort.
Rasheed.
He glanced around the courtyard before walking toward me. The slavers watched him. He didn’t blend in with the crowd, not with his long scar, Moorish skin, and athletic build.
“If you’d like to examine her more thoroughly, I can remove this.” A nearby slaver put his hand on the bit of fabric that kept my stola on my shoulders, ready to tear it if needed.
Rasheed quirked an eyebrow. “That won’t be necessary. I’m in search of a scribe. I heard this one can write.”
The slaver moved his hand. I couldn’t see him, but I heard the surprise in his voice. “She can write?”
“I can.” I kept my voice meek, hoping I wouldn’t be punished for speaking.
“Perhaps some paper and a reed, and we can check?” At Rasheed’s suggestion, the slaver went to fetch the items, leaving the two of us to talk in private.
“Where’s Gil?” he whispered.
I looked down, adopting a posture similar to what I’d had with Bessarion. I didn’t want the slavers to realize I might have an ally. “I saw him last in the tower of the Proitides Gates.”
“Alive?”
“As of yesterday, yes. The slavers are watching you. Pretend you’re thinking of buying me, or they’ll get suspicion.”
Rasheed gently took the ends of my hair and pretended to examine them. “What happened? Why did you let go of the rope?”
“They shot Gil with a crossbow. But I’m sorry I let go. You probably had just as hard a fall as I did. Did you all escape?”
Rasheed nodded. “And Gil’s wound?”
“His arm. I bandaged it the best I could, but he needed better care. And then they beat and flogged him.”
Sorrow showed in Rasheed’s eyes and the lines of his mouth, but he continued the ruse. “Let me look at your teeth.”
I played the part of an obedient slave.
“Has anyone else expressed interest in buying you?”
“Yes. Bessarion.” I swallowed. “He’ll send me to the fleshpots. Can you help? Please?”
Rasheed fingered his purse. “As long as the bidding doesn’t go too high. I brought enough to buy both of you at an average price. Don Oliverio said it’s an advance on your share, if we succeed. But he also said I wasn’t to use force, not at the slave market. I’ll have a little leeway if Gil isn’t here.”
That sounded promising, but Bessarion had been obsessed with me for over a year. He wouldn’t give up while I was at an average price, and I wasn’t sure the price of a male slave would be enough of a cushion. “You could let him buy me, then attack him after he’s left.”
“He has formidable security. I saw them arrive.”
I hesitated but decided on speaking. “You could spread a rumor that I’m diseased.”
Rasheed’s lips twisted in surprise. “They’re selling you as a maiden. I don’t think anyone would believe it.”
“Gil told Ballester and Pertusa that I gave him the clap, and they believed it.”
Rasheed’s surprised expression turned to shock. “Gil doesn’t have the clap. He’s never had a woman, unless . . .” He gave me a questioning look.
I shook my head. “I don’t know why he said it. It’s not true. But it might drop my price.”
The slaver returned with paper, reed pen, and ink. Rasheed didn’t read Greek, so I couldn’t write out a message for him. Instead, I wrote out the names of the city’s gates.
Rasheed pretended to examine it, then nodded and moved on. I wasn’t sure what he would do. He might not even bother to buy me, because it sounded as if he’d expected to find Gil, not just me. Alone, I might not be worth the attention he’d draw when he tried to outbid Bessarion.
The slaver kept the paper with my writing. He showed it to a potential buyer with a leather houppelande and a large belly, then led him over. “You expressed interest in a domestic slave and in a scribe. This one could serve both purposes.”
I forced myself not to ignore the Catalan noble who wanted both a scribe and a concubine, nor did I ignore the next five men who came to examine me. I gave them as much attention as I’d given Rasheed to keep the slavers from being suspicious. I also swiped two of their purses, but I wasn’t sure how to get the extra money to Rasheed.
The auction began when the slavers hauled a muscular man with black skin into the center of the courtyard and placed him on a bench. He stood with his head bowed while three people bid for him. He sold for sixty-five hyperpyra. A eunuch was sold next for ninety.
Two women were offered up after that. First, a middle-aged brunette, then the blonde woman who had been chained next to me. Bessarion bought her for ninety-three hyperpyra, a price that was lower than I’d expected for such an exotic beauty. I hoped the purchase would deplete his funds, but I wasn’t sure the blonde’s price had been high enough.
I was next. One of the slavers gripped my arms and led me to the bench. I slouched and looked at the ground, hoping that would make me less desirable and, therefore, less expensive. The slaver ran his hand along my back, aggravating the lash wounds.
“Stand up straight and look your best, or I’ll strip you down to nothing.”
I stood to my full height and looked at the crowd. I still held the extra coin pouches in my hands—the stola I wore didn’t have the sleeves I needed to hide them. The chains on my wrists made them less noticeable, but they weren’t completely hidden, and I was the center of attention.
Bessarion started out the bidding. “Ninety-three hyperpyra.” It was the same amount he’d paid for the blonde woman. Blonde hair was extremely desirable, but no one had claimed she was still a maiden.
It soon became clear why she hadn’t sold for more. Everyone had been waiting to bid on me.
“Ninety-four.”
“Ninety-seven.”
“One hundred.”
“One hundred and five.”
The numbers kept escalating, and Rasheed had yet to place a bid. Bessarion and the fat Catalan soon took the price to one hundred and fifty, and the other bidders dropped out.
I met Rasheed’s gaze. He held up his pouch and gave me a helpless sort of gesture. He didn’t have enough.
But I did, if I could only get him to understand that.
“One hundred and sixty.” Bessarion shifted his position as he made his latest bid, blocking Rasheed from my view.
Panic flared in my chest. Rasheed and the others were willing to help, but they couldn’t have known Bessarion and the Catalan would make this an expensive rather than an average purchase.
I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping the Catalan would outbid Bessarion. He didn’t know Thomas, didn’t know me, so he’d be easier to escape from. And if not, I’d rather be one man’s plaything than subject to Bessarion and whomever he ordered me to seduce. But the Catalan’s bids came with greater and greater hesitation. He’d wanted one slave who could be both a scribe and concubine, but if the bidding went much higher, he’d be able to buy two slaves for the same price. He’d soon drop out, and Bessarion’s determination wasn’t waning.
I felt a prod and opened my eyes. The slaver had nudged me. Perhaps he didn’t like my lack of enthusiasm. Rasheed had shifted his position in the crowd, looking between me and Bessarion.
I closed my eyes again, and when the slaver prodded me in response, I pretended to collapse. I didn’t care if the slaver beat me, and I did my best to ignore the pain that came when I overturned the bench, scraped my knees, and jostled my back.
I didn’t want Bessarion to buy me, so I needed a distraction. It was risky—the Catalan would surely drop out if he thought me unhealthy, but I doubted Bessarion would give up.
In the confusion that followed, the auctioneer paused, and the slavers surrounded me. Rasheed crept closer, on the edge of the crowd that had gathered. I caught his eye, then I stood. I stumbled forward, running into Rasheed and leaving the pouches in his hands before one of the slavers gripped my arm and led me back to the now-upright bench.
The auctioneer called for new bids.
The Catalan shook his head. The price and my show of weakness had ended his interest. Bessarion had made the most recent bid, but I saw suspicion instead of confidence as he eyed me.
Rasheed cleared his throat. “One hundred ninety.” It was an exorbitant price for a slave, even now when war between Venice and Genoa had shrunk the supply.
A few murmurs went around the crowd. Bessarion glared at Rasheed and glared at me. How much had he deduced? He hesitated, and I silently prayed he would remain silent.
