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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 simply want to 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 head 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 pickaxe miming out the new responsibilities. The youth nodded respectfully, but not submissively. He picked up his pickaxe 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 that 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. The slaves hammered away behind her, making music with their thrusts. The tune had a melancholy voice, trying to make the best of a situation.
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. 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. Breathing in the earthen smells, she imagined the boy’s plight. I don’t know his name. Why do I even care?
“He was right. I have it worse.”
Shouts and whip crackles echoed from the valley. Zaide sat up a turned around.
An older man lay on the ground. Osmin thrashed him with his whip. “Get up, you useless pile of oxen dung. Get up!” Osmin lashed with every word.
Bleeding and weak, the man collapsed.
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. She jerked up to her feet. “No. Not him. What are you doing?”
The boy threw himself between Osmin and the slave.
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.”
Zaide’s outer sense didn’t stop her this 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.
Osmin lifted his scimitar above his head.
“Stop. Stop!” Zaide shouted.
Lowering his weapon, Osmin turned around.
Zaide reached the man, panting. Her words couldn’t come.
“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. Zaide 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? 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.”
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.
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 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. 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 didn’t hurt much. I have to be cruel. 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 laugher. 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’re not confident. That is fine.”
“No. I know I will win. I accept.”
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