Walid shook his head. “How do you manage to remember all of that Prankish gibberish in its proper order. Sir Ali? Never mind, here’s the kahvay—let’s have a cup so we can at least trust each other here, on board my ship.”
When one seaman had set up the elaborately chased silver tray-table on its carven ebony legs, when another had set it with a a trio of tiny gold-washed and bejeweled silver cups, then a brass brazier full of glowing coals was passed up from the firebox in the waist and a hideously scarred and pockmarked man of late middle years set about the preparation of the ceremonial food and drink.
In the center of the table was set a smaller silver tray on which rested a few soaked and softened ship’s biscuits and a bowl of coarse, brownish salt. First Walid, then Fahrooq took up a bit of biscuit between the fore and middle fingers of their right hands, dipped them in the salt, and proffered them to Sir Ali. The herald, for his part, accepted and slowly ate the offerings, then did the same to Walid and Fahrooq, in turn.
Meantime, the man at the brazier had dropped a generous handful of dried coffee beans into a small, preheated iron skillet, wherein he had thoroughly roasted them, then dumped the almost scorched beans into a marble mortar and rapidly reduced them to coarse powder. The powder he had poured into a brass pot with a long wooden handle, adding some pint or so of water and a piece of a sugarloaf. When he had nestled the pot into an iron trivet above the bed of coals, he began to alternately blow upon the coals and carefully watch the contents of the pot.
As the coffee came to its initial boil, the man adroitly took it from the heat, added three cardamom pods, then replaced it over the coals. As the mixture boiled up the second time, he again took it up and this time spooned a generous measure of the rich brown froth into each of the three waiting silver cups.
On the third boiling, the man removed the pot from the heat, dashed into it a large spoonful of unheated water, then filled the three cups with the fragrantly steaming, thick, syrupy, stygian-black brew.
“It is many years since I have savored dhwah in the Turkic style,” the herald commented politely, still speaking Arabic.
Walid shrugged. “Thank you for the compliment, Sir Ali, but I understand, believe me, \ more than understand. You will have noticed that 1 did not dignify it by calling it dhwah. I shipped this sorry Turk aboard in Izmir, after my own cook was killed in a dockside brawl. And dhwah or even a simple kuskus simply baffles him.
“But now, I am a blunt seaman, Sir Ali, so let us get down to business, eh? For what purpose did this Bey Sebastian send you to me? This galleon is his for the taking, already; even a landsman could see that she cannot be steered. The bread of slavery is bitter at best, but forced to it, I imagine that the most of my crew would prefer becoming slaves to becoming corpses, today. As for me, after the loss of this vessel and the guns, I’d as lief remain as far as possible from Sultan Omar’s domains … for reasons of bodily health, you understand.” Sir All grinned briefly. “Yes, I’ve heard that he’s possessed of a foul temper, though exceeding generous to those who can please him. But tell me this—how is it that one of Sultan Omar’s fine war galleons is escorting ships sent by the Pope of the West? Is all the Church allied against England, then?”
Walid snorted scornfully. **Not hardly, Sir Ali! Our Pope’s last word on the matter was that anyone simpleminded enough to go west and risk his fortune and/or neck to try to help put a bastard-spawn usurper onto the throne of England at the behest of old Pope Abdul would probably have been killed by his own stupidity sooner or later anyhow, wherever he chanced to be.
“No, bad luck and illegal coercion brought me and mine here to this sorry pass. Nor have that Moorish dog who styles himself Pope of the West and his criminal Roman cohorts heard the end of the coercion business, either, not if 1 ever get the ship back to Turkey, they haven’t.
“The Turkish ambassador to the court of King Giovanni, in Napoli, having died—he and all his family, of a summer pestilence—I had conveyed the new ambassador and his household to Napoli and was asea enroute to the Port of Marsala to take aboard certain cargo consigned to Sultan Omar’s chamberlain when, of a late, dark night, a freak, unseasonal tempest all but swamped the galleon, killed or injured several of my crewmen, and seriously damaged my rigging. When all was done, I found my position to be far nor’-nor’west of where I’d been at the start, and somehow I managed to get the vessel into the Port of Gaeta, a small port on the mainland . . . and squarely into the claws of Pope Abdul, the blackhearted bastard sibling of those noisome canine creatures that subsist on thrice-vomited camels’ dung.
“Now understand, Sir Ali, all that I required was a few score fathoms of decent rope, some small items of hardware, some good, seasoned hardwood lumber, and a few pinewood spars, for all of which I was prepared to pay fair value in new, undipped golden omars. And for all of my first day in that port it seemed that I would soon be accommodated at a better than good price; indeed, I was received and feted in the manner of some visiting bey. But one Unavoidable’ delay followed on the heels of another for more than a week. Finally, I was informed that materials of the quality and in the quantity I required simply were not available anywhere in the environs of Gaeta-port.
“At that juncture, I offered to hire a few of the larger coasters and crews to tow my galleon south to Napoli, which port I knew was well enough stocked to effect my repairs and which lay less than sixty sea miles distant. But, Sir Ali, not one coaster captain or fishing-boat master would look at my gold, though I offered enough to all but buy their wallowing little tubs outright.
“Then, when I was making ready to sail out under a juryrig and follow the coastline down to Napoli as best I could, the damned two-faced Dago harbormaster, claiming most piously to be in fear for the safety of me, my crew, and the sultan’s ship, sealed my moorings with armed guards on the dock, and most sadly informed me that if I should try to leave the port without his say-so, the fort gunners hacj orders to hull me with their demicannon! Can you credit it?”
“It sounds not like a friendly act,” Sir Ali commented dryly. “So, what happened then?”
With a strong tinge of sarcasm, Walid said, “Lo and behold, two days later, a Roman Papal galleon—that same one that your galleys blew up and sank earlier today, for which may God always love you all!—came bowling into Gaeta-port and I was shortly given to understand that the only way I would get out of that overgrown fishing hamlet with my ship and crew intact and before we all grew* long, white beards was to allow the Roman to take us under tow and convey us thus to the Port of Livorno, some days’ sailing to the north.”
The Arabian knight nodded, brusquely. “And you agreed.”
“What else could I do?” Walid shrugged and shook his head. “On the way north, I must admit, I toyed with the thought of possibly contriving a broken tow cable, then maneuvering my ‘benefactor’ into position to hull him with my main-deck battery. Then I could cripple his rigging and sweep his decks with my nines and swivels, and possibly serve him up a few red-hot shot for good measure, before I tried to make it down to Napoli alone. But then, the second day out of Gaeta, a brace of big galleases beat down from the north and I realized that at these new odds, resistance would be suicidal.”
The seaman padded over on his bare, dirty feet and refilled the tiny cups with more of the strong Turkish kahvay, while another man removed the ceremonial tray of bread and salt to replace it with another small tray of black, wrinkled, sun-dried olives, dried Izmir figs, raisins, and similar oddments. Walid sipped delicately at the boiling-hot liquid, then went on with his tale. “The harbor basin at Livorno was packed with Vessels like stockfish in a cask, Sir Ali. There was at least one vessel moored at every slip, with others moored to the starboard of those, where there was room. Every type and size of vessel in all the Middle Sea was there to be seen— cogs, caravels, carracks, galleys and galleases, coasters of every conceivable shape and rig, all engaged in lading, preparing, arming, victualing, and manning yonder fleet your arms have just captured. They—”