1NE
Overture
Zaide only had one picture. In those days, you had to be someone important to have one. A portrait. A talented soul painstakingly shaped and shaded each fine feature. If you had been lucky enough to have any, you wouldn’t give it away to a happenstance acquaintance. Zaide kept hers in a pocket close to her heart. She had a love/hate relationship with the portrait. It was beautiful. Everyone said she was beautiful, but this picture carried a different kind of beauty. The picture was a portrait of who she wanted to be, not one of who she thought she was.
Crowded with dirty peasants, the port streets roared of rouges and merchants. Janissary soldiers scanned from various posts. With a cloth fluttering from the top, their high, squared-off hats dared stowaways to press their luck. African eunuchs waited behind Zaide. They wore gray, collarless outfits and their faces were as stoic.
The multi-domed palace loomed high-hilled at the horizon opposite the harbor. Rows of spear-tipped cypresses surrounded the path leading to the commanding center arch. Shrubs and trees dotted the hills that surrounded the palace, clumping thicker in draws.
The docks smelled with foul smells of domesticated creatures. If only, for just one time, spices would be the only imports of the day. But, then Zaide wouldn’t have been there, for her lot was to welcome the new livestock. She stood, trying to rid herself of any emotion. Trying to let herself stay hardened. Trying not to have empathy for the new lot, caring was to be crushed by loss. The wind flailed the hem of her dress against her shins. The sea air strained through her veil filtering no muck vapors. She held her headscarf away from her eyes. She was not required to wear her coverings, but she just couldn’t do her job without it. She couldn’t bear it. The mask freed her to act cruelly.
Osmin faced the Barbary pirate ship. His arms crossed his chest as if they were stamped there. A scourge dangled from underneath his arm. It was his special whip with bits of shrapnel tied into the ends, ‘to make a good first impression.’ Beneath his curled mustache, his smile twisted at each corner parallel. His turban was red and gold. Bright colors to get them to remember him. His face carried the same glee Zaide’s cousins had held on Christmas morning.
Her home crept its way into her mind. Oh Vienna, you were not good to me, but you were a far better cage...
“Do you think there will be any beautiful ones?” Osmin asked Zaide.
Zaide scowled beneath her veil.
“I have to find a wife for an honored slavemaster among this lot.” Osmin chuckled. “I would not want to waste a beautiful one on him.”
Zaide said nothing, staring toward the ship.
Shouts and whip-cracks roared from the boat. Soon after, a line of neck chained prisoners walked down the ramp. The pirates yelled their foreign rants as if the volume meant their words were more likely to be understood.
The prisoners wore drab, dark clothes. Simple outfits without glamour.
“Puritans,” Zaide thought. “I need to go with English or Dutch.”
The pirates lined up the new lot, while Osmin negotiated with the captain.
Zaide scanned the slave crowd. Each looked down, some lips murmuring in prayer. 14 people in all. Most were men, but one was a family.
The little girl grabbed her attention first. Around 7, she was openly sobbing, not trying to be brave.
Next to her was the only woman, or girl, close to marrying age. She was around 15. Zaide eyes burned. That’s the age I was when captured. Of all these puritans, she’s in for the most horror. At least, I had someone captured with me. Someone to share my burdens. But… they were all sold to other provinces. Apart from the big ears and nose, the girl did not stand out, but she was not unattractive either. Her sandy hair was braided. Her cheeks soft and speckled. Her dark loose clothes left her body shape a mystery, but she was far from stout.
Next to the girl stood a man and a woman. Zaide assumed they were the parents. The mother was too old for the harem, and would most likely be sent to the palace kitchen, with the youngest girl. She resembled both the little girl and the older one. The father’s face hung with all sorts of emotions: brave, kind, sad (not for himself but for his family), and gentle. He looked like the kind of father, Zaide would have liked.
At the other side, a sandy-haired boy held his mother’s hand. Zaide’s breaths fluttered like a floating, lingering oboe series, at the sight of him. His face scared Zaide. She didn’t know why. She had seen that expression before. No one with it had ever survived, and that didn’t seem to bother them. But, with head-butting irony, for as long as they lived, they made the best slaves.
His cheeks were soft. His nose as well. His eyes as blue as the Mediterranean. They shifted to Zaide. The kindest glance slapped her. She looked away. Her diaphragm and spine quaked, long and low as if the fluttering oboe started to weep. She had hardened herself from slaves’ pleading looks, but her quivers were akin to the fear-piercing nerves she had had when first put into the translating position.
“That’s too much. She’s not that beautiful.” Osmin’s voice rumbled. After he and the pirate agreed on a price, Osmin paid for the slaves. He had shouted a bit in the haggle, but not of anger, more like a man arguing over which sports team is better. As soon a the coin clanked against pirates palm, Osmin scanned the new lot. Pointing his whip at all the men, he said, “Take them over there.”
Slavemasters unchained the three females from the group, and dragged the men to one side.
Her face filled with confusion and fear, the lone teenage girl let the slavemasters guide her to Osmin. She kept her head pointed down. He placed his hand below her chin, forcing her face up. She resisted until fear trumped rebellion. Scanning her, Osmin laughed, low from his belly. “She goes with the eunuchs.”
The eunuchs walked over to the girl and grabbed her upper arms.
Osmin returned to Zaide’s side. “She’s pretty,” he said, pointing the tips of his mustache toward the young girl as the eunuchs unchained her. “But not beautiful enough for anyone important.”
Zaide clenched her teeth. Dog. Could there be a fouler spirited person? Even at great loss of myself, I’d destroy him if I could.
Osmin looked her way as if he had heard the grinding crack of teeth. “The slaves?” He spoke with a ‘do your job’ tone.
“Hold your tongue. I need to figure out the language. If you weren’t such a barbaric simpleton, you could do it yourself.”
“Beauty fades. Your mouth never will. The day that you fall out of favor…”
“You will sour Soliman before I.” Zaide didn’t waste her ears on him. She walked closer to the slaves.
As eunuchs dragged the teenage girl away from the rest, dreadful understanding contorted her expression. She flailed as they secured her with a new set of chains. “Why are you taking me away from everyone else? What are you going to do to me?” Her struggles did nothing to slow the slavemasters from securing her.
One of the men slapped her, mumbling shut her last set of complaints. They didn’t dare use the whip and mar the goods.
“Leave her alone.” Not yet fettered to any other slaves, the girl’s brother knocked a slavemaster to the ground. His leg chains rattled as he ran toward his sister with a galloping gait. He did not even reach half the span before a slavemaster kicked him to the ground. Scourges weren’t afraid to dig into the boy’s skin. He tried to stand as they lambasted him. Osmin joined in with a giddy smile.
Sharp cracks and meaty thwacks throbbed inside Zaide’s ears. Her guts twitched toward him, but her outer sense kept her limbs still. With each lash, her muscles seized as if she had been the one being beaten.
“That is enough.” Osmin said shortly after they started. “He has much work to do. These kind are good workers.”
Osmin walked to the docks, dipped a bucket in the sea, and returned. “Hold him down.” He said. He smiled big enough to sheen toothy yellow.
Slavemasters stretched out his arms and legs. The boy was too weak to fight.
Osmin dipped his head close to the slave. “You can let your spirit serve you well, or you can have it bring you misery. Either choice shall give me great pleasure.”
They boy did not understand the words, but could discern the tone. After a quick chuckle, Osmin dumped the saltwater over the boy. He screamed, not like a kicked-dog yelp, but more like an ‘I can endure this’ growl.
Osmin nodded with pride, as if he had just discovered a prize-racing stallion.
A deadening cold waved over Zaide’s back and neck, goading out even more tension. She tightened her fist, wishing she had the power and ability to use it.
Slavemasters yanked the boy off the ground by his chains. Although bloody and bruised, his previous peace-filled expression returned. Wrenching his elbows behind him, they forced a bar between the crooks of his elbows and the middle of his spine. His hands remained chained below his ribs.
“English.” Zaide swallowed and rotated her neck. She ached from having seized at each boy’s blow. She had seen plenty of floggings and even ordered a few herself, but none affected her like this.
For the most part, she was immune from receiving a beating, only the Sultan was allowed, but he never touched her. At least that way. And the ways he did touch her, didn’t happen too often. He had big selection. Above all, Sultan Soliman loved Zaide, and he wanted her to be happy—within his confines. She had two responsibilities. Spend the night with the sultan at his request, and translate orders to European slaves. Otherwise, she had free reign of the palace.
She’d rather spend the night with the sultan, than crush captured soul’s spirits. Comparing her lot to that of the other slaves, she bore her nights with Soliman chiding herself. “I deserve this. I deserve this, for what I have done to these people.”
Zaide cleared her throat and spoke with as much domineering as she could muster. “Slaves. Welcome to your new home. I am Sultan Soliman’s fav…” Zaide spotted the boy staring at her with kind-hearted pity. Blood trickled beneath a blue eye.
Zaide’s heart plucked her vocal chord as sharp as a harpsichord quill. She murmured her lips silently for a bit.
“Well.” Osmin scowled.
“Calm yourself. It has been a while since I have had to do English.” She faced the slaves again avoiding eye contact with that boy.
“As I said. I am the sultan’s favorite. An insult against me, would be as if you attacked Sultan Soliman himself. You no longer belong to yourselves. Your children, your wives, your friends now belong to the sultan. But, despair not. Sultan Soliman is a kind man. He does not treat his slaves as other nations. Do well, and you will be rewarded. Many of the highest officials and viziers are slaves. Disobey, and you will perish.”
“Do they understand us?” The boy asked.
A slavemaster scourged him where his elbow met the bar. He gnashed his teeth and kept looking at Zaide.
“Slave. You are not to speak unless spoken to.”
He nodded with his lips, followed with a compassionate grin-frown.
“But, no. They do not understand you.”
“Can you do anything to allow families to say goodbye?”
A slavemaster lifted his whip.
“Stop,” Zaide said in Turkish. “I asked the slave a question.”
She turned back to the boy. “No. That would not be possible.”
“Thank you for allowing me to ask. I do not envy you. Your lot is worse than ours.”
Zaide whipped around, flinging her hands into the air, a sign ordering the men to take the slaves away.
She covered her face, leaving the slightest slit in her veil. As tears and slime slathered her face, Zaide paced away, holding in her choking throat, looking for a safe place to weep.
2WO
Brüder, lasst uns lustig sein
Brothers, Brother, be now merry
Find your courage, swallow your gripes
The Earth is cursed, we’re all doomed
Everyone, too, is wrought with strife
Let us sing
Let us laugh
You can’t make it any different
This world, this pain, it doesn’t matter
No one, no where is free of pests
A mirth-coerced tune droned around the valley bend.
Zaide sat on the dewy hillside in her drabbest green dress. She didn’t want to simply blend into her surroundings, she wanted to become her surroundings. Her dress was wet from the grass. Her face from tears. With the impending heat, it would not be long before either dried. Having not had eaten since the new slaves arrived, her stomach ached, growling dull.
Like ticks in a workhorse crevice, rocks dotted the valley floor, waiting to be plucked. Three wagons sat at the boundary of stoneless and stony fields. The first arch of the sun rose out from the hills. Without the full force of light, the grass hues carried grey in their greens. Colors didn’t even like to get up that early.
The song grew louder. Chains rattled in accompaniment. Where a hill spur met the valley floor, slaves rounded the bend. Osmin walked to the side waving his scourge like a conductor’s baton. He had the joy of an amateur composer debuting in Vienna.
Let us sing
Let us laugh
Fear pushed Zaide to her feet. “What is Osmin doing here? This isn’t his command.”
Bringing her hand to her forehead to block out the rising sun, Zaide scanned the slaves as they reached the wagons. Slavemasters unchained the slaves from each other. A lone set of shackles remained on their feet. “There you are,” Zaide spotted the boy among the group. She heard the rumbles of a slavemaster yelling him, but not the words. The slavemaster pointed to rocks and a pick-axe miming out his responsibilities. The youth nodded respectfully, but not submissively. He picked up his pickax and thrust it into the earth, prying out rock after rock. Others carried them to one of the wagons. This was the pattern for the next several hours. From time-to-time, the group came upon a rock too large to carry. The slaves broke them into smaller ones.
Not once did the boy slow down. At each water break, he was the last to drink and the first back to work.
As the noon sun started its descending arc, Zaide lay stomach down in the grass staring over the hilltop, watching the sparse clouds. Seeing the powdered wigs of Vienna floating pridefully, Zaide sighed and closed her eyes. Scents of the bakeries hummed with her memories. The slaves hammered away behind her, making music with their thrusts. Lake a cab horse clacking cobblestone streets, the tune had a melancholy voice, trying to make the best of a situation. Oh, to see street performers one more time. Fire breathing gypsies. Dogs balancing on balls. Or to hear concertos in the park. Vienna you were not good to me, but you were a far better cage.
Zaide opened her eyes.
She pulled out her portrait. The colors were understated and soft, yet they suggested passion. It was a restrained vibrancy. Her lips smiled the color of a freshly plucked plumb. It had to have been a contrived smile. She simply couldn’t believe she had been smiling at any point since being there. Though, her happiest moments in Turkey came from an Italian artist’s sessions. He came to the palace one day, charming her with his poetic words. When Soliman saw her smile at the suggestion of a portrait session, he let her pose. The Italian knew how to make the right amount of fuss without flattering. She believed his words. Zaide almost smiled at the memory. Maybe he did coax out a smile.
The finished product was a masterpiece. Her soft cheek line was reddened just right. Enough to add charm without making her look like a pretentious harlot. Her smile was gentle. Kind. It was a beautiful portrait. So beautiful, it made her sick at times. It was not the hues or the shapes that bothered Zaide the most about the picture. It was her eyes. The softest cinnamon brown. Filled with compassion, confidence. “How could he see that in me? I’m a vile dog.”
Dropping her face into the grass, she let herself cry some more. I don’t know his name. Why do I even care? Breathing in the earthen smells, she imagined the boy’s plight. His freedom is stolen in every sense. He is without choice. He toils, unable to rest, unless given permission. He is not even allowed be miserable in his miserable state. They force mirth. Why? Why is it not enough for them to do what they say? Why do they need to control moods as well as behavior? Does such complete dominance bring them pleasure? Oh Zaide. I’m not different. A slave. Forced to carry out the cruel will… Forced… Or, allowed?
“He was right. I have it worse.” Her face dry, Zaide forced a swallow down her drier throat. She’d gone all day without water, and the heat left her vision hazy.
Shouts and whip crackles echoed from the valley. As if she had heard a boom of thunder in the middle of a deep sleep, Zaide groggy and not fully aware sat up a turned around. She focused her eyes into the valley.
An older man lay on the ground. Osmin thrashed him with his whip. “Get up, you useless pile of oxen dung. Get up!” He lashed with every word.
Bleeding and weak, the man collapsed. Fellow slaves looked on with dopey expressions.
Pulling out his scimitar, Osmin said, “Useless slave.” He raised the sword in the air.
“Wait. Wait!” A voice yelled in English. “Stop.”
Zaide’s throat stopped her breathing. Her vision cleared. She jerked up to her feet. “No. Not him. What are you doing?”
With blond hair flaring with the wind, he ran Osmin’s direction. The brave, yet stupid boy. He threw himself between Osmin and the slave, one hand on the man, the other pointed at slavemaster.
Osmin thrashed the youth with his whip. “Get out of my way, slave.”
Lash after lash thrashed. The boy tried to block the scourges with his hand, as he remained standing.
The stubborn stance of the boy caused Osmin to throw his whip. Grabbing his sword with two hands, Osmin raised it into the air. “I chop down trees that get in my way. I don’t walk around.” He flinched several false hacks.
Zaide’s outer sense didn’t stop her that time. Her inner desires shoved her down the hill at a full sprint, as Osmin continued to shout at the slave. They were the shouts of a man not desiring to shoot his strongest stallion, but willing.
Zaide hurdled stones, her dress catching nearly tripping her. Her lungs lost their ability to breathe, but she kept running. Her vision, black around the edges, but she kept running.
Osmin lifted his scimitar above his head, with a ‘this is for real’ determination.
“Stop. Stop!” Zaide shouted.
Lowering his weapon, Osmin turned around.
Zaide reached the man, panting. Her words couldn’t come. She bent over huffing and nearly retching.
“What are you doing here?” Osmin raised a brow, with anger and a bit of joy--knowing that Zaide may have done something to get herself in trouble.
How are you going to talk your way out of this one? Zaide looked into Osmin’s interrogating eyes. She sucked in a swallow of air. “I like to see new slaves work from time-to-time. Mistresses and I often make wagers to see how long some will last. Don’t you slavemasters and traders dabble in such sport?”
“Have you bet on either of these two?”
“No.”
“Then why do you interfere?”
“I would not want the Sultan’s resources destroyed so soon.”
“We can just buy more slaves.”
“What if none come for a spell? I’ve seen this one at work.” Zaide pointed. “Do you often see such quality?” With a fierce, cruel grasp Zaide grabbed his cheeks, squeezing apart his lips. “Look at his teeth. A fine specimen. Let me see if I can get him back to work. It is not as if you are a slavemaster. Slave traders have nothing but loud words and quick scourges. They can’t actually get any work done.” She released the boy.
Osmin’s face flared. He picked up his whip and flinched it at her.
“Oh kind Osmin. Do me the most excellent favor, and strike me, so I can tell the sultan of your cruelties.”
“I will tell the sultan of your troubling yourself in my affairs.”
“Shall we see who he believes?”
Osmin stayed silent, pursing his lips.
“I’ve not come to meddle. But, I do want Osmin to maximize his efficiency. If I can’t get this slave back to work, you have my permission to kill him. What is it to me if they live?”
“As if I need your permission.”
“But, it is to your benefit, that I get the lot back to work.”
Osmin nodded with his head, but not with his eyes. His tongue tucked behind his tense upper lip.
Zaide turned from Osmin to the boy. She switched to English. “Shall two die for the sake of one?”
“His fate with be the same as mine.”
“Spare yourself,” the old man said, barely able to lift his head.
“His death was declared with this assignment,” said the boy. “Maybe if you lose some good workers alongside the frail, you’ll rethink you priorities.”
“All slaves must meet quota. How can I change your mind?”
“Tell him,” the boy pointed his face to Osmin. “That I will do this man’s share.”
“Surely, that is not possible.”
“Don’t tell me what is possible.” His eyes smacked hers with an odd intensity. They were as hard as the rocks and as soft grass all at the same time. As if they were a solar eclipse, Zaide tried to look at his eye, but it hurt too much to look directly at them. She had learned the power a woman has looking into the eyes of a man. A power that could be used for either intimidation or seduction. But, for some reason, she couldn’t do it with this boy. She looked down.
“Alright.” Zaide faced Osmin. “The slave says, he will bear the old man’s load.”
Osmin bellowed. “Such a feat is not possible. We make quotas, because we know a man’s limits.”
“It is to your advantage to let him try. If he fails, you still get more work done, than if you kill him now.”
Still laughing, Osmin pointed his scimitar at the boy. “I can’t wait until he fails. I have yet to sharpen this.”
With a high, circular wave of his whip, Osmin ordered everyone back to work.
Zaide faced the boy once more.
He looked back at her. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Coming down. I saw you up there. You didn’t have to come down.”
“Slave. You have it wrong. I am out to protect the sultan’s property. A few months ago I caught him beating one of the sultan’s finest steed. He was docked a weeks wages for that, yet he has learned nothing. Osmin is careless with the things of the sultan’s kingdom.”
The boy smiled. “Yes. Things.” He started to walk away.
Zaide picked up a scourge and ran after him. “Slave.”
He turned.
As he faced her, Zaide struck him across his chest. I hope that did not hurt much. I’m asking too many questions. “What is your name?”
His nodding seemed to suggest he understood why she struck him. “Gomatz.”
She struck him again. “Get back to work.”
Zaide crossed her arms at her chest. She stared at Gomatz with her eyelids nearly shut.
Gomatz nodded, grabbed his pick and went back to work. He hacked each rock as if it were rushing to kill his family. His muscles were as intense as fists. As minutes passed, Zaide spotted red seeping through the back of his shirt.
Her teeth ached, but she stayed staring his way.
“He has a fire.” Osmin’s voice spooked her from behind.
“Not enough.”
“Oh?”
“He won’t last more than two weeks.”
“Shall we wager? If that is really your sort of sport.”
Zaide bit her tongue. “What are the terms?”
“I say he lasts a month.”
“And your reward?”
“Odalisque services rendered.”
Zaide conjured laughter. She suppressed a retch at the thought of Osmin touching her. “I’ll give you services for each week past one month he survives, but, if you dare accept the wager, I will require a great reward if I win.”
“What?”
“You resign your post.”
“What kind of wager is that?”
“As I thought, you are not confident. That is fine.”
“No. I know I will win. I accept.”
3HREE
Ruhe Sanft
Gomatz smashed his pick into the dirt. His palms burned as if the shaft was a smelted rod. The rest of his muscles grew past pain into numb-deadened weakness. Nothing but will was moving them. He tried not to let himself think. Only nasty thoughts slipped into his head when he did. His jaw ached from teeth gnashing when he let his thoughts think. He breathed, as the dieing would breathe. Slow moaning strums of violas and accompanying strings. Whenever he caught glance of Osmin, breaths akin to violent violin lashings drove him into a presto paced frenzy, filled with anger fear. It instilled resolve and he sledged away--eager to kill or ready to die.
As his mood switch from brooding to violent, Gomatz looked to the hillside. A drab green dress fluttered with the grass. The woman who had saved him watched over the slaves. His last glance at her, stirred his brain. Why is she watching us? Is this a game to her? Foul creatures everywhere. Enjoy the pain of others. Or could… The brooding string section mood switched to that of a lone, hopeful oboe. Does this girl care? Is she… Darker moods returned. Back and forth, hopeful, weaker tones clashed with brooding moans. It couldn’t be. How could she care? Why should I care? Stuck with criminals. Forced into slavery. Why didn’t I just let grandfather die… No… No.. Stop such laments. But, why? To what end. Why should we both die? His soul’s prepared so is mine. If I remained here longer… I could… But, it is too late. I’ve made my bargain. I may keep up with the work today, and even possibly tomorrow, but surely at this pace, I will die. Ah, but death could only ease my sufferings. Death shall be my salvation. I could have ignored my grandfather’s plight. Only to have swallowed more misery for a longer time. Yes. Gomatz. You have chosen correctly. Freed from guilt today. Freed from a life of slavery tomorrow, or at least soon. Oh. My head. My eyes. They are growing black. I shall die among criminals, as my savior. Faint… Go ahead just faint. It would be a sweet release right now.
Gomatz trembled. He swooned and began to collapse.
“Time to go everyone,” Osmin yelled.
Gomatz woke from his nearly fainted state as slavemasters gathered everyone and chained them neck and neck. And now I must bear that dreadful tune once again. He trudged toward the rest, muscles resisting. Aching.
Osmin yelled at Gomatz. A ‘I told you so’ toned shout. Gomatz understood it to mean, he had been successful, but the following days would be difficult.
Cool, almost refreshing, the shackles went around his neck. Gomatz took one last glance over to the hillside. The woman was gone.
***
Brothers, Brothers, be now merry
Find your courage, swallow your gripes
The Earth is cursed, we’re all doomed
Everyone, too, is wrought with strife
Let us sing
Let us laugh
You can’t make it any different
This world, this pain, doesn’t matter
No one, no where is free of pests.
The slaves trudged through the valley like a mud-thickened river. Osmin swung his arms as he marched along side. His face beamed with the pride of a hard days work.
Zaide followed from the hilltops using that song as her guide. The sun’s last crest dipped below the horizon. The valley was dark. The hilltops glowed. Having still not eaten, Zaide’s legs slugged through the grass. Her stomach gave up its ache, knowing she wasn’t going to feed it. Her head turned to complaining instead. He is going through much worse. I can bear this for a day. Zaide chided her headache.
Let us laugh
Let us sing
The music stopped, down deep in the dark valley. Zaide trotted to the top of a hill. Reaching a lone cypress tree, she leaned her chest against it, staring down into the valley. Surrounded by darkness, a light shone from the barn, a stone building dug into the hillside. The stones came from the fields, built by the slave that stayed there. The large opening without door glowed, torches burned on each side. The slaves marched just inside and waited to be unchained.
“Oh poor Gomatz. I have to help. I have to do something. With such despair, it is impossible for you to survive. What can I do to give you strength?”
As slavemasters unlocked the group, Zaide trickled down to the barn. Her lungs found it hard to digest her breaths. Her ears heard every step as thunder. Her throat seemed as if it was eating itself. Zaide reached the outside wall, throwing her back into the rock and mortar. She found a shadowy nook where a pillar blocked the torch light. Closing her eyes, she listened.
Slavemasters shouted orders, laughing from time to time. Most were ready to be done for the night.
“Finish locking them up,” Osmin said. “Give that one some extra food. I want to keep him alive for one month. I must leave. Allazim will be back tomorrow.”
Zaide held her breath as Osmin walked outside the door and down the dirt road. He didn’t look back. Rubbing the rock grains with her palms, she exhaled, waiting for Osmin to move out of sight.
With small, shifting steps, Zaide shimmied closer to the door. Once to its side, she peered around the support beams. The livestock scents of hay and filth hit her. Cages of rusty iron were spaced far enough apart to make whispering between impossible. Gomatz chewed a dry hunk of bread, as a slavemaster guided him toward his cage. A tear dripped from Zaide’s eye as she studied his haggard head. Extra bread, will do no good. She had learned to tell when death was stalking a slave.
The slavemaster didn’t throw Gomatz into his prison. They didn’t need to. As soon as his feet hit the heather, Gomatz collapsed.
Sparse, yet intervaled, metallic clanks echoed throughout the barn as the rest of the slaves settled into their beds. Once everyone was locked up, the bulk of the slavemasters left. One lone guard watched the lot for the night. He usually tucked himself in the back of the barn and slept. No one was worried about anyone escaping. Even if they managed to get out, slaves had nowhere to go.
Once the guard trickled to his place, Zaide snuck in. All the torches but one had been snuffed. It cast dancing shadows between the cages. Zaide tiptoed toward Gomatz’s prison. Half-snore breathings calmed her, letting her know everyone was likely sleeping.
At Gomatz’s cage, Zaide dropped to her knees. His face rest on the bars. Belly down, he breathed heavy into the heather. A patch of fuzz fluttered beneath his nose. Zaide reached a hand through, stroking his soft, oily hair. Leaning her forehead into the bars, she began weeping, tears falling on Gomatz. They struck him both sharp and soft, like a viola string plucked with the meaty portion of a finger.
“How can anyone be so good? So pure? So noble? I will never deserve someone like this. I have my reward in Soliman. But, if only… Oh Gomatz. Why should you die, because of your pure heart? Can I do anything to give you strength?” Her whispers seemed to flow in harmony with his breathing. Zaide placed her hand on her aching chest, grabbing her dress, clenching tight the cloth. The pocket underneath stirred a hint of hope. Hope akin to a lone oboe calling out from a melancholy orchestra.
Reaching in, Zaide pulled out her pocket. Crafted from the finest lace, it held her most priced possession. She pulled out her picture, staring a briny stare, examining her ideal self. “This is the kind of girl you should have.” Zaide folded the paper and tucked it into Gomatz’s hand.
Raking her fingers through his hair, she nearly sung as her cries spoke to him. “Sleep, my dear. Sleep like you have never slept before. Sleep until your strength has returned. I give you my portrait. Let it penetrate your dreams.” She kissed his hand. “See my smile. My tender smile. A smile I have never smiled, but want to. Let that smile fill you with the sweetest dreams. If your spirit is renewed by the photo, then I too will be renewed.”
She let a few more tears fall on Gomatz and left.
***
Patterned mosaics covered the seraglio walls. A bath of several hues of blue tucked itself beneath window well. The stained-glass slept for the night. Torches flickered, their lights catching the glossy strips of tile. Zaide dropped her veil. Jasmine floated in the air, but it couldn’t quite kill the humid stale smell. Wives and odalisques giggled, their echo cackled against the arched ceilings.
Zaide walked through the gaggle of gossiping woman. “Hail. The Sultan’s favorite. Enters as late as she pleases.” The oldest wife said. She was just over thirty.
Zaide closed her eyes, rolling them in their sockets. I can’t deal with these women. “Quiet, or I’ll tell Soliman you beat me.”
The woman scowled. “The day you run out of favor…”
“The haggard buzzard seeks prey. The ugliest of birds can’t kill on its own, so it has to wait for something to die.”
Wiggling her finger at Zaide, the woman’s mouth dangled open. Her raging lips trembled toward shut and then back open as if they were trying to say something, yet couldn’t find the right words. After a sneering shake of her head, she whipped around and left. The rest of the women gawked at Zaide as if their throats were stuck shut, mid gulp. They parted, letting the young girl through.
Untying her sandals, Zaide sat at the bath’s edge, lowering her dirty cracked feet into the water. Oh. Zaide. You have to be more careful. You can get in trouble letting your feet spoil. Digging the corner of the soap in the her feet, Zaide massage each sore spot. The cracks were small, barely breaking the skin. Once she dried off, she rubbed her feet with oil. The jasmine scented oil wafted into her breaths. She relaxed and closed her eyes. The raw area lost their burn as she massaged for a few minutes.
Feminine chatter softened, as doors opened and closed. Zaide stood and stretched her legs. They ached a dull and deep, with viscous weakness.
Huhhh. Ffft. Huhhh.
Sniffling sobbed from the other side of a pillar. The cries from someone young.
Standing, Zaide walked toward the pillar of blue and gold, to cool, smooth tiles soothed her bare feet. At the side of the pillar, she spotted sandy hair dangling over the knees of the fetal sitting girl. Her arms pulled her legs tight against her chest.
“That’s the new girl.” A fellow odalisque said, lounging on the nearby couch. “She was given to her new husband.”
“Hmmm.” Zaide stepped to the side of the pillar and leaned against it. She stared straight ahead, not daring to look at the girl. Forcing her tone callous, she said, “She’s going to have to get used to it.” Then she switched to English. “It doesn’t get any easier, you just get harder.”
Even from her peripherals, Zaide recognized the girl. She looked up, her makeup smeared black and blue. Her crimson dress with gold trimmed hem was a far leap from her previous drab black and dingy white outfit. “He didn’t touch me.” She sniffled.
Zaide’s brows dropped as she looked a hint more toward the girl. “Why are you crying then?”
“They touched me all over when they washed me and forced me to wear these dreadful clothes and makeup. For what purpose?”
“You belong to someone. You must please your master. Who were you given to?”
The girl shuddered. “I… Um. He was older. Alli… Alla.. Some name of that sort.”
“Allazim?”
“Yes. Yes. That is it.”
Ah, that is why he was not in the fields. “Blessed are you among us.”
“How am I blessed?”
“You could not have been given to a better man.”
“But, I am still owned.”
“Isn’t everyone? Better to belong to someone good.”
“Could anyone good, own another?”
Zaide shrugged. “So what did Allazim do?”
“When he saw me in bed crying, he patted me on the back, said something I couldn’t understand, and left. A few hours later, they brought me back here.”
Zaide stared forward, quiet.
Although Zaide had been no comfort, the girl inhaled and wiped her eyes as if she felt better. She let her legs drop forward and stared forward in the same manner as Zaide.
“What is your name?” Zaide sighed.
“Abigail. Yours?”
“Zaide.” She look down at the girl. Having supposed to have been form-fitting, her top hung on her frail, flat figure, like sackcloth. With the awkwardly fitted outfit, the girl looked even younger than Zaide had guessed. She still seemed just a child.
Sliding down with her back against the wall, Zaide sat. “How old are you?”
“14.”
Zaide huffed from her nose. “I was 15, when they got me.”
“How old are you now?”
“17.”
“Where are you from?”
“Austria.”
The two stay quiet for a spell. Water splashed toward the bath. A wife had come for an evening cleansing.
Abigail faced Zaide. “Do you know how my family is doing?”
“I have seen your brother.”
“How is he?”
“He is brave.”
Abigail smiled. “I know.”
“It will probably get him killed.”
Abigail dropped her grin. “I know.”
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