“I agree with you.”
“I’ve the right to ask for proof that she’s the one, but I don’t think it will be necessary if you’ll answer a few questions. How old is she?”
Saul turned to the maiden. “Miranda, tell this young man how old you are.”
She raised her eyes to gaze straight into mine. “Signor, I am sixteen.”
Thinking hard of what I would realize from her, I heard this with dismay. Virgin slave girls intended for concubines were in good demand at twelve, higher-priced at thirteen, and at their prime at fourteen. After that age they declined rapidly in value: I had never heard of a virgin of sixteen bringing a thousand pieces of gold. My comfort was that she did not look it, and no doubt I could make her conceal the fact.
“Where did she come from?” I asked Saul.
“A countryman of Haran-din’s, owing him a debt, brought her here not quite a year ago. He didn’t say where he’d got her.”
“Is she some fashion of Greek? I can’t remember seeing her like.”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“Miranda, to what nation do you belong?”
“I belong to no nation. I am a slave.”
“Were you born a slave?”
She raised her head and lifted her eyes. “No, signor, I was born free.”
“In what country?”
“On an island in the North. I doubt if you ever heard of it.”
“What’s its name?”
“Albion.”
“The name means White Land. Is it a large island?”
“It’s somewhat larger than the Rialto.”
“What country is it near? Are all the people blond like you? What is their religion? Who is the king, and what’s the name of his capital? Don’t be so short-spoken. Speak out.”
“Lord, I remember none of those things.”
“How old were you when you left there?”
“I don’t remember that either. I was sick—and found myself on a slave ship. What happened before then could have happened to some other girl, as far as I recall.”
“Then how did you know you’re sixteen years old?”
“I’ve a feeling that I am. But I will be any age you tell me.”
“Saul, has Miranda told you anything of her history?”
“No, and if you question her too closely she begins to lie. You ought to hear some of her stories—an imp gets into each of her eyes and she makes them up as she goes along. I think she was sold into slavery not long before she was put into our charge—she certainly knew very little about it. At that time she could speak not a word of Venetian. But she knew a few words of Arabic, and she let slip to one of the handmaids that she had been in Malaga.” This last was the Saracen city on the Spanish coast and the busiest slave market west of Constantinople.
Saul spoke in an irritated tone. When she paid no attention to him or to me, only stood there with her hands folded and her eyes cast down, I felt annoyance growing into ire. I was not at all sure that her wistful look was not put on. I was positive she would not bring more than five hundred pieces of gold.
“She hasn’t learned her duty as a slave even now,” I remarked. “Perhaps if you’d given her a good dose of birch oil, she could talk better.”
“Did you hear that, Miranda? He meant you should have a good whipping, and I’d have been tempted to give it to you, if my revered father would stand for it.”
“And well he shouldn’t!” Mustapha cried in a booming voice. “The idea of laying a lash on the lovely child! Marco, I’m ashamed of you. And pray what would you two strict disciplinarians expect of a delicate maiden snatched or sold into slavery? The shock was enough to erase all the tablets of her memory.”
The girl’s eyes widened and she turned, white in the face, to Simon ben Reuben.
“Lord, have I leave to speak to the venerable Arab?”
“Of course, my dear.”
At that she ran to the bench where Mustapha sat and bowed low before him, her ten fingers touching her forehead. The latter was an Arabic gesture of obeisance and entreaty. I had seen Mustapha’s servant give it on rare occasions.
“What is it, little lovely one?” Mustapha asked.
“The patriarch can’t keep me. It’s in a paper that he must sell me—he’s told me so. Will you buy me, O Sheik? I’ll serve you, body and soul, as long as we both live.”
“I cannot, young Moon of Beauty—Moon of Ramadan! Even if I had enough gold, I have sworn unto Allah never to own another slave. That my countrymen deal in them you know too well. Saul spoke of your knowing a few Arabic words—you have just made an Arabic obeisance. It’s come to me, in great pain, that it was an Arab—likely a Saracen from Malaga—to whom you first went into slavery.”
Her eyes became so bright that I expected her tears to flow. Instead she gave him a fleeting smile.
“That is true.”
“Did he buy you, or——”
“I pray you don’t be troubled by it. It’s as though it happened to another girl, one I hardly knew.”
“I didn’t know that our zebecs sailed as far as your island.”
She caught her breath, and panic seemed about to seize her. Then the gentleness in Mustapha’s face and voice reassured her.
“Then you know our island!”
“I’ve never been there, my darling, but I guessed it first from your appearance, and then very soon you confirmed my guess. If you want to keep it a secret, you mustn’t use a certain name in front of those who know Pliny and are disciples of Ptolemy.”
I had read Ptolemy with great care, and now recalled his speaking of Albion. I would have to ask Mustapha. . . .
“Will you promise not to tell anyone?” the girl asked.
“If you wish it kept a secret, it must be for some good reason, and I won’t tell a soul, even your new master.”
“My new master? I thought I was only being looked at——”
“There he stands—my chela, I wish I could say my son in blood, Marco Polo. He has title to you from Haran-din.”
Miranda turned slowly, a sheen of excitement in her eyes.
“You are Marco Polo?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard the patriarch speak of Nicolo Polo, the great traveler——”
“That’s my father.”
“Are you a merchant?”
“Remember your manners, child,” Simon ben Reuben broke in in a gentle voice.
“I entreat you to forgive my forwardness, but will you answer one more question?” the girl persisted.
“You may ask it, and I’ll see.”
“Is it your intention to sell me, or to keep me?”
“Excuse her presumption, Christian youth, for she has not been long a slave, and even a dog would ask that of a new master, if he could.”
“My father’s always making excuses for her,” Saul broke in, half sulkily.
“Since the patriarch speaks for you, I’ll answer you,” I said. “I intend to sell you to the first buyer who’ll pay a fair price.”
“And what will I do without her bright eyes and shining hair?” the old man went on. “Saul, have my handmaiden bring Rebecca’s old lute. The young merchant will be pleased that she’s so accomplished, and I yearn to hear her once more before she goes.”
“I doubt not Signor Polo is in haste to take her away.”
“Have you time to hear her play and sing, young signor? Saul only pretends not to care for it. I know from his face that he likes it very well.”
At my assent, the lute was sent for. It was proper for a slave musician to ask her master what song he preferred, or at least get his consent to her own choosing, but Miranda did not observe the amenity.
“I’ll give you ‘Young Rob o’ the Tower,’ ” she told the old man, as though she were a princess instead of a slave.
“Oh yes.” And then in a proud tone to Mustapha, “This is a song Miranda learned from an old minstrel, and has translated into the Venetian tongue.”
Miranda struck a deep, soft note and began to sing in a minor key. These were the words of her song:
Beggarman O beggarman, out on the lea,