Drunken laughter came to my ears, a welcome sound. The crew might return at any moment, but one could not fret over what might be. One does what one can, solving problems as they appear.
I heard a soft snore. The Finnveden was asleep. The others conversed in a desultory fashion, nursing the last bottle of wine. For them it was a lazy, easy time. They were in port, the vessel lay at anchor.
There was slack in my bonds, but pitifully little, yet by shrinking myself as small as possible, rolling my shoulders inward and bringing my arms as close together as possible, I gained a little room in which to work.
As they talked, I worked my fingers around until I could pluck at the knots. By the time another man was asleep, my hands were free. Impatient of delay and fearing the return of the crew, I worked swiftly to free my ankles. A sword lay beside the sleeping guard. Carefully, I got to my feet. Selim was watching, his eyes hard and bright.
Measuring the distance to the sword, I started toward it. One of the guards turned and looked straight into my eyes. Shocked, he was for the moment immobile, then as he started to rise, I kicked him. It was a style of fighting we in Brittany had long known where the feet were used as well as the hands. My kick was sharp, accurate, and it caught him under the chin, snapping his head back as if it were hinged. I seized the sword as the other guard grabbed for it.
The razor-sharp edge of the scimitar swept up, slitting his clothing and slicing through his chin as if it were butter. He fell, trying to scream from a throat already choking with blood.
Selim cried out, and I spun about to see the Finnveden fumbling with his bow and an arrow, still befuddled by sleep and wine. It was too far to jump. Tossing the sword up, I caught the blade in my fingers and threw it like a javelin. His bow came up, arrow lining on me, but in the instant he would have let go, the thrown blade struck home and sank deep.
The struggle had been swift, silent, almost noiseless. Glancing shoreward, I saw no boats upon the bay. Sunlight sparkled on the water, but nothing moved. Quickly, I bound the sleeping guard and then ran to the armorer’s chest for tools.
With a bar I ripped away the hasps that bound Selim, and then we crossed to Red Mark. Slaves caught at our garments, begging to be freed, but Red Mark came first. In part because he was my friend, but still more because I needed another strong man beside me to enforce discipline necessary to our survival.
Suddenly, as Selim and Red Mark were freed, my plan matured, and I knew what I must do. As the men came on deck, I caught Red Mark’s arm. “I want the galley cleaned, stern to stern.”
“What?” He was incredulous. “We must escape!”
“Look at them! Look at yourself! If you go into Cadiz like this, you will be known for what you are, and you will be enslaved again.
“Listen to me! I know what I do! First, we will clean the galley, then we will clean ourselves. There is clothing, bales of it, from the goods we have taken. Each of us will have an outfit, each will have gold, then you shall hear what I have in mind.
“But no wine! No drinking of anything more than water. Trust me!”
With a careful watch kept for any approaching boat, the slaves worked swiftly. The galley was given a thorough cleaning, and the decks were sluiced down with salt water hoisted by buckets from the bay.
Selim and another man, on my orders, went below to calculate the value of the cargo. He had just returned to the deck with his report when we saw a returning boat. Instantly, the slaves returned to their stations. Two others took their places as guards.
The boat bumped alongside, and a man on board called out. When there was no response the man swore. “Sleeping!” he said angrily. “Wait until Walther hears of this!”
Over the side they came, and into our hands. The surprise was complete. One elected to fight, and Red Mark’s sword spitted him like a pheasant over a fire. Two others were seized, thrown down, and bound. One of the slaves raised up and put an arrow into the neck of the boatman.
The ship was ours so swiftly that it worried me, yet the crew had been a bunch of louts. The wonder was they had even thought of relieving the guards. Half drunk, the returning crewmen had no warning, no readiness for what took place.
The rest of my plan remained, yet each moment was an invitation to disaster. Why not forget what I planned, divide the money, and let each go his way?
The Moors of Cadiz would not be friendly to escaped slaves, and Walther would certainly enlist their aid in our recapture. “Use your wits,” the pockmarked one had said.
Moreover, I had a score to settle. If my plan worked, I could send each slave on his way a modestly rich man, and I should have taught Walther a needed lesson.
“You are in charge,” I told Red Mark. “I shall take Selim and go ashore. If any of the crew return, make prisoners of them.”
What I needed now was a beggar, a beggar with a certain face.
6
Once ashore I left the waterfront and proceeded to the narrow streets of the city. The plan was one that must be quickly completed, and it was not the Moslem habit to hurry in such matters.
Delay could mean disaster. Again, I hesitated. Why not simply free the slaves and allow them to make their own way out of the country? Were they my responsibility? They were not, yet well I knew that, freed and with gold to spend, they would be lured by the fleshpots of Cadiz, would attract attention, and in no time be discovered as escaped slaves and be in chains again.
My clothing had been carefully brushed and cleaned so that once again I looked the young man of fashion. The scimitar was mine again, and I had recovered my knife, yet to accomplish my purpose I appeared too young. What was needed was an assistant of age and dignity whose appearance would command respect. Selim, who accompanied me, was at once too fierce in appearance and too piratical to inspire trust.
Cadiz in this year of 1176 was one of the great ports of the world, and to her bazaars came merchants with silks, spices, camphor and pearls, frankincense and ivory. The wools of England, the furs of Scandinavia, the wines of France, the carpets of the Levant were here and exhibited for sale.
Among the crowds were men of all nations and every manner of dress. Merchants mingled with pirates, soldiers, slave dealers, and scholars. Long had Cadiz been famous for shipping and trade. My old tutor, of Greek-Arab family, told me of a manuscript, left by Eudoxus, which described finding the prow of a ship from Cadiz floating in the sea off the coast of East Africa, and that long before Christ.
A beggar tugged at my sleeve. “Alms! Alms! For the love of Allah!”
It was a lean hawk’s face into which I gazed, piercing eyes and a beak of a nose, a face ancient with evil and shadowed by cunning, yet there was something more, a touch of wicked humor, was it?
“Oh, Father of Lice,” I said, “what claim have you for alms? You look to be a thief and a son of thieves!”
His shrewd old eyes held a gleam of satanic amusement. “A thousand pardons, Noble One! Pity, for my poverty and weakness! Alms, for the love of Allah!”
The face, the manner … now if he were clean?
“Conveyor of Vermin,” I said, “I give no alms, but if you would have a gold piece, then we shall talk. A gold piece,” I added, “or an edge of steel if you betray me.”
“A gold piece?” His eyes gleamed maliciously. “For a gold piece I would smuggle you into the finest harem in all of Spain! For a gold piece I might—ah, I know just the wench! A devil she is, a fiend out of Hell, but wise in the ways of pleasure, and she has a—”
“I said nothing of women. Follow me.”
Outside a public bath we paused. A muscular Negro with huge gold rings in his ears stood there. Gesturing to the beggar, I said, “Take this bag of fleas and dip it, scour it, clip it, and comb it. I would have it resemble a gentleman!”
“By Allah.” The slave spat into the dust. “Am I a djinn, to perform miracles?”