I had no choice but to believe her.
Now the door was closing between her and me. I was going into the presence of the nobleman with no idea what to offer him in the way of apology or excuse. I could think of none he could not see through—and his fury might go to terrifying lengths.
But he did not look up as the door closed, causing my head to cool. It came to me that if this were a weakness on his part—the attempt to hide his anxiety—it called attention to his strength.
Perhaps it was the strength of the Devil in him that made him go to these lengths to satisfy his lusts; perhaps the lusts themselves were in his brain more than in his slight, delicate body; in any case, he was a high nobleman of Venice.
“Your Honor, the slave girl Miranda has entreated me not to sell her to you, and I entreat your pardon for causing you a visit here in vain.”
His only response for some long-drawn seconds was a slight rise of color.
“Is it your intention to keep her for yourself?” he asked presently.
“No, my lord. It is rather that she hopes for a different kind of life than she would have in your Honor’s house.”
“If the question is a proper one, what objection does she find to my ménage?”
“I think she considers it too tame. She is a member of some Germanic tribe and wants an active life.”
“I can’t exactly blame her for that. After all, if female slaves weren’t human beings, I doubt if they would interest me in the ways they do. If there is blame, it seems to me to lie on you. You did, indeed, give me a fool’s errand.”
“Again I crave your pardon. I would have gone ahead with the sale except for her threat to bring about my death. I’ve reasons to believe she would try it, and would probably succeed.”
He stood in thought a few seconds, then smothered what I felt sure was a false yawn.
“I won’t ask you those reasons. I’ll remark that my admiration for the maiden has increased greatly, and if she will consent to become my concubine, I’ll pay you my top price of three thousand lire—a thousand gold bezants. As for your yielding to her in fear of your neck, it was at least human. And I am obliged to you for not offering me some asinine excuse.”
I bowed low. He nodded his head in reply and departed. Deeply depressed rather than angry, I roamed about a few minutes, then went to find Miranda. She was lying on her bed, her eyes red and her face tear-stained. As she started to spring up I bade her lie still.
“I told my lord that if I sold you to him, you’d have me killed,” I said. “So he’s gone.”
“I’ve shamed you in front of him?”
“It would seem so.”
“Why don’t you take a stick and beat me? By every law of slavehood, I deserve it.”
“Because if I again saw your naked back, I’d lust for you.”
“What of it? You would control it as you did before. And if beating me would rid you of your anger toward me, I’d gladly stand the pain. I can hardly bear for you to hate me, master.”
“I don’t believe I understand that.”
“Whom do I have besides you? Simon and his son are gone—the old Arab is lost in his readings. My father and mother and my sisters and brother and the rest of my people are far away, where I will never lay eyes on them again. Only in dreams can I see their faces. I can’t hear their voices save in dreams.”
“I’m only your owner——”
“What else has a dog?”
I could not refrain from stepping close to her, bending down, and kissing her childish lips. Perhaps I did not try. It seemed that I was moved only by pity for her, but that was a cheat. Another passion had lain in wait for my first unguarded moment, and it blazed up like Greek fire. Her soft, warm, delicious mouth should have invoked a tenderness in me; instead I devoured it while my hands, rude as a Tatar’s, ravished her body. Then her gaze arrested mine. It was not pleading and it was not afraid, but it was sorrowful and strange. For the space of only one caught breath it made me pause. She saw no remorse in my face, but shame was there, and it was as though she leaped to my help.
With one strong upsurge, almost unbelievable in so slight a form, she broke my grasp upon her and thrust me back. Then, turning on her side so I could not see her face, she cried like a broken-hearted child.
“I should have let you go on,” she wailed. “I should have torn my own clothes to give you way. Then you’d have to keep me—and I would be saved.”
CHAPTER 6
TEMPTATION OF BEAUTY
When the morning broke I dressed in my best attire and called at the principal slave markets of the city. To the merchants, I advertised a virgin slave girl of great beauty, accomplished in music, dancing, and household arts, and priced at one thousand bezants. Although I was in no way bound to do so, myself having solved the easy puzzle, I did not reveal that she was an English girl, and gave out that she was a Germanic heathen from the great forest lands beyond the Oder River. My hearers were glad enough to let it go at that—too close inquiry into a slave’s origins often disclosed connections with Christianity embarrassing to buyer and seller alike. Actually, her secrecy troubled me more than I could justify to myself, as though it were of ominous cause.
Most of the traders threw up their hands at my price. Didn’t I know that this was their selling, not their buying, price for the most precious Circassians? So many blonde girls were being brought in from the mountains of Greater Armenia that the market was in danger of a glut! I would have thought this was mainly haggle if they had hastened to look at the property. As it was, no principal merchant and only half a dozen agents appeared in the course of the week.
During these inspections, Miranda’s behavior seemed above reproach. She stood with bowed head, answering the buyer’s questions in a low voice and with modest mien. It was their strange manner toward her that caused my anxiety. Every one took a cursory look at Miranda’s face, appeared cold to it, then kept glancing back. They appeared puzzled and quite strongly affected by it, with the one odd consequence of putting on their best manners. But they did not ask her to disrobe nor did they show any real eagerness to buy her.
A fine-looking Moor, buying for the Bey of Tripoli, heard of Miranda through some gossip, looked at her shyly, and offered six hundred bezants. I thought he could be persuaded to pay a good deal more, but for two reasons I did not now encourage him to do so. One of them was that I was no longer pressed for time. The rumor that a new Pope would be elected soon had caused the Polo brothers to delay their sailing at least an additional fortnight, by which time I hoped to see some competitive bidding. The other reason did no credit to a slave dealer with bounding ambition. If she were bought by a Moorish prince, she would certainly go into purdah—behind the harem curtain out of the world—and her least dream of freedom had better die to start with. The truth was that the English loved freedom with a passionate love.
There came to my mind a name Saul ben Simon had mentioned—Paulos Angelos. He had wanted to buy Miranda for a Thessalian duke, but she had balked. Inquiry revealed that he was a quiet-appearing Greek who supplied a few Saracens with fair-haired slaves, but whose main traffic was with the Christian noblemen and rich merchants in Eastern Europe. He was at present in Genoa, but I left word for him to call on me as soon as he returned.
About the twentieth night since Miranda’s arrival was a summer night. Although the month was still April, the soft breeze was the fag end of a hot wind off the Libyan desert, tired now from its journey across the Ionian Sea. I wakened sweating, and a flood of pale silver drew me to the window. The moon in the fullness of her reign was huge, gold-tinted, rising with great splendor over Homer’s wine-dark sea. The common run of stars dared not show themselves, but a few great lords of the host, of ancient right and glory, gleamed in their far-flung strongholds; and certain gods and goddesses who had lost their earth domains, such as fiery Mars, serene Venus, and august Jupiter, blazed their wandering way through the purple deeps.