Captive (26 page)

“He was doomed from the start,” Tubbs said quietly.

“Doomed? Yes, he was doomed—from the moment he became a captive in Barbary.” Xavier tried to tamp down the anger rising up so rapidly inside him. He stood up. The Turkish soldiers guarding the slaves tensed, and one man raised a
whip threateningly. Xavier stared coldly. “Tell Valdez that we have a dead man here.”

The Turk gazed at Xavier for a long moment, to prove that he was not taking orders from a slave, and then he turned and spat. If he noticed or even cared that the Spaniard was dead, he gave no sign. He spoke briefly to another solider, who turned and walked away. Xavier looked past the guards. Kadar had returned to Tripoli hours ago, but the foreman, Valdez, sat in the shade of a tent, smoking a pipe while a young male slave fanned him with large palm fronds.

Valdez stood and came forward slowly. He was short and wiry, a Spaniard turned Turk. Once he had been a captive himself. Xavier’s fury increased. The Spanish slave should not have ever left the bagnio that morning—the Turks were inhuman, animals. And this Valdez, having once been a slave himself, was far worse.

Xavier felt like an animal himself. He wanted to attack Valdez, tear him apart.

Valdez approached. He paused in front of Xavier, staring him in the eye, then glanced indifferently down at the dead Spaniard. He nudged him with the toe of his sandal.

Xavier trembled, fists clenched. He had an example to set. The
Pearl
to destroy. An escape to execute. He must control himself.

Valdez looked at Xavier and laughed. Then he turned and issued a command. Within seconds two Turks were dragging the dead slave away. Xavier watched, aware that they would take the Spaniard to an open grave where hundreds of other slaves were buried.

It was obscene. No decent burial, no last rites, being worked to death.

“Get back with the others,” Valdez said in stilted English. His dark eyes gleamed. He was waiting, Xavier knew, for Xavier to refuse him.

Xavier turned and walked back to the others.

Alex and Murad arrived at the quarries at noon.

Not only were they clad as bedouins, but they were leading two shaggy donkeys laden with packs that Murad had hastily purchased. They paused on the road just before the pit where the men were working. From where she stood, she was looking
down on about a hundred slaves who were attempting to elevate a monstrously large block of stone onto a sledge. She had never been to the quarries before, and her heart seemed to stop at the incredible sight she gazed upon.

“Oh, God,” was all she could manage.

The slaves were pathetic, emaciated men of all nationalities clad in nothing but rags while working bareheaded under the broiling desert sun. Alex’s stomach lurched. The block of stone had lengths of rope coiled around it. Dozens of men pulled on the four ends, while dozens of others literally pushed their bodies up against the stone in what seemed like a hopeless effort to budge it. Worse, the guards were fully armed, and also held whips, which were hissing continually, driving the men on as if they were animals. Some of the men cried out as the lash bit into their legs or arms or backs.

Alex could not stand it.

Tears streamed down her face.

“I am taking you home,” Murad cried, gripping her elbow.

But Alex shook him violently off. Clenching her fists, sweating beneath her white bedouin robes, Alex watched as the block seemed to suddenly move a few inches, one edge now resting on the sledge. A Turk called out, and immediately the block was propped up with wooden piles. The slaves all dropped to the ground, very much like flies, apparently allowed a brief period of rest.

More tears filled Alex’s eyes. She reached blindly for Murad’s hand. “This is inhumane,” she whispered. “Those men are skin and bones. It must be a hundred and ten degrees in this sun—there’s no shade, no water, nothing. I don’t understand this!”

Murad shifted so that his hip touched hers. His fingers feathered her palm. “I told you we shouldn’t have come. Please, Alex, there is nothing to be gained by watching this. Let me take you home.”

“Where’s Xavier?”

“I don’t know. Alex, let’s go.” Murad turned to leave, but when Alex remained unmoving, he sighed. “Alex?”

Alex swallowed the lump in her throat. She raised a hand to shade her eyes and searched among the resting slaves for a sign of Blackwell. He was down there, somewhere, engaged in this cruel, backbreaking labor, and she was not at liberty to
aid him. She wet her dry lips. It was time to grow up. Time to face the inevitable. She would go to Jebal. Somehow Jebal might be able to help. Blackwell could not remain in the quarries. Maybe it was time for Alex to use all of her feminine powers over her husband. Did she have another choice? Last night she should have pleased him instead of drugging herself and defying him. Alex realized that now. But how could she approach him regarding Blackwell without making him suspicious? And did she really have a choice?

A Turk called out sharply. The slaves groaned, standing. It was then that Alex saw him.

He stood a head above the others, at the fringes of the group. He was waiting, with the others, for the next command.

Alex was hardly aware of striding forward and leaving Murad behind. He cried out, reaching for the leads on both donkeys, quickly following. Alex increased her stride, stumbling down the incline, her robes billowing around her. She passed two Turkish soldiers who eyed her with little or no curiosity, and then she stopped short. A harsh cry of shock and horror escaped from her mouth.

She was close enough to see Blackwell clearly, and his back was a raw, bleeding mass of welts.

At the sharp sound of her cry, his head whipped around. He saw her and all the color drained from his newly sunburned face.

Their gazes locked. His was wide-eyed.

He had recognized her. Alex ached for him. She felt as if her own heart were being physically ripped out of her body. She clenched her fists so hard that her nails bit into her palms. She wanted to run to him. She wanted to hold him, comfort him, heal him.

And then she realized that he was staring, and that his eyes were blazing. Alex could not identify the emotions mirrored there.

Murad grabbed her from behind. “There’s nothing you can do,” he snapped, dragging her backward. “We are returning to the palace.”

Alex knew that Murad was right. Remaining a witness to this torture was dangerous in the extreme. For Alex did not trust herself. Exposing herself now by acting rashly would not help anyone.

Alex allowed Murad to pull her away, but she craned her head, watching as Blackwell moved forward with the others, pressing his shoulders against one side of the block. An order was issued and all the slaves pushed and heaved. The huge limestone block shifted, moving another few inches onto the sledge.

Alex pressed her fist against her mouth.

And then the big block shifted again. Suddenly.

“Hasib! Hasib!”
someone cried out, a warning.

The block suddenly moved with a spurt of speed, sliding off of the sledge.

Alex screamed.

The huge, twenty-ton block went crashing down onto the ground—on top of at least fifty men. Her cry went unnoticed amidst the agonized screams filling the quarry pit.

The two bedoin stood silently in the guardroom of the bagnio with two soldiers. Alex kept her gaze lowered, but the images of the manacles and fetters and terrible-looking clamps, vises, whips, and barbed wire, all hanging on the walls, continued to assail her. She was ill, imagining the torture inflicted within the thick, impenetrable walls of the bagnio. She had lived in Tripoli for over a year, but within the cloistered, pampered sanctuary of the palace, and she’d had no idea about what really went on in Barbary. The stories had seemed to be just that, stories—events she’d read about in the twentieth century. Alex was appalled. She could not shake what had happened that morning from her mind. Forty-two men had died instantaneously, completely crushed beneath the twenty-ton slab of limestone, while another seven had been put to death, their tower limbs and other body parts mangled beyond description and any and all medical repair. Blackwell, she knew, had not been hurt in the horrendous accident.

But she had never, ever in her life witnessed such a disaster before. She would never forget the death and pain and anguish. She could still hear the men screaming witlessly for mercy, for God, and for death.

She heard approaching footsteps echoing in the far corridor and she tensed.

Alex quickly looked up as a big, bald Turk entered the guardroom. It was late afternoon; the slaves had already returned
to the bagnio, their laborious day done. The guardian pasha regarded her closely; quickly Alex looked down. His eyes had been peculiarly blank. But had he seen through her disguise? Realizing that she was a woman and not a young man?

Murad had already bribed Kadar. Now he bowed his head, murmuring, “Oh, Kadar, esteemed one, again, thank you for allowing us to enter here, and may Allah keep you and those you love in good fortune and good health.”

Alex glanced sideways at Murad and saw that he was smiling as he bowed obsequiously.

Kadar grunted. He had just received a fortune in the form of the ruby and diamond necklace. Alex had not been privy to the exchange, but Murad had told her in advance that he thought that he could obtain special privileges for Blackwell as well as a guarantee of his safety. Alex warned Murad that she wanted the right to be able to visit him when she could. Murad had not responded to that. Alex would kill him if that was not a part of the deal.

“Itfeduhl,”
Kadar said.

Alex’s heart thumped hard against her ribs.

Kadar turned. “Follow me.”

Trembling with anticipation and apprehension, unable to forget the blazing look she’d last seen in Blackwell’s eyes, which she did not understand, Alex fell into step behind Kadar with Murad and they followed the Turk down a long, dimly lit, vaulted tunnel. At the other end huge doors were unlocked and Alex entered a courtyard. Instantly she was assailed by the odor of dirty, unwashed bodies. The courtyard was so crowded that Alex felt suffocated. Men sat and slept on the ground everywhere—the exhaustion of the slaves was more than apparent. She gripped Murad’s arm, glancing around wildly.

And from the hundreds of men contained in the prison, one man emerged crystal clear, in vivid focus. Blackwell was sitting cross-legged on a mat on the fringes of a long, rectangular area, within which were spaces for various craftsmen, now vacant. He was with three other men, but Alex did not really see his companions. She only saw him.

Her pulse felt explosive. Pressure building, increasing. She could hardly breathe.

Without realizing it, she began walking toward him.

Blackwell slowly stood. His expression was stunned, his dark eyes wide—clearly he was shocked to see her.

“Xavier,” Alex said hoarsely. She trembled. She wanted to leap into his arms.

His jaw ground down, his temples visibly throbbed. His gaze had narrowed and he stared at her. Suddenly Alex had the oddest feeling that he was not pleased to see her—that he was angry with her—but that, of course, was impossible.

Kadar moved between them. “Blackwell. You can move to the terrace, or take one of the chambers beneath it.”

Blackwell’s gaze darted swiftly to Alex and their eyes locked. He turned abruptly, following Kadar.

Alex winced at the sight of his back. It had been tended with salve, but not with bandages, and the welts were a mélange of new, ugly scabs and raw, red abrasions. She followed the two men, aware that Murad trailed after her, too.

Xavier was ushered into a small, empty chamber no more than four feet wide and six feet long. He tossed his straw mat down, then turned, arms hanging, facing Alex, who stood upon the threshold. Kadar gave them a brief, parting glance, one impossible to comprehend, and left. Murad stood outside, rocking back and forth on his heels uneasily. He was careful not to look at them.

Blackwell’s hands found his hips. “What are you doing here?” he asked very brusquely.

Alex stiffened. “I was at the quarries today. I saw what happened.” Her voice was broken.

His jaw flexed more firmly, the muscles in his face tightening. “Does Jebal allow you to roam about the city dressed as a bedouin?” Sarcasm laced his tone.

Alex’s eyes widened; her heart felt as if it had stopped. Ohmygod, he knew. “No. He does not.”

His eyes suddenly clashed with hers. “And if he discovered your violation of the harem rules?”

She wet her lips. “How did you find out?”

His smile was menacing. “Apparently it is common knowledge, Mrs. Thornton. Or do you prefer Lilli Zohara?”

“You’re angry,” Alex managed, frightened.

His laughter was harsh. “Now, why would I be angry? Why
would I mind being deceived? Used? Lied to? Manipulated? By the only American in this country.”

Alex could not believe what he was saying, she could not believe what was happening. “You don’t understand.”

“You are correct. I do not understand. Why don’t you explain yourself and your purposes to me, Alexandra?” His gaze was black. “That is your real Christian name?”

“Yes.” she whispered.

“Well?”

Alex hugged herself. “I could not tell you I was Jebal’s wife. I was afraid of discovery. Afraid, too, that you would refuse to see me if you knew the truth.”

“Did Jebal send you to me?” he demanded.

“No!” she cried, shocked. “Xavier, I swear, he did not!”

“Then why did you come to me? Or are you in the habit of taking lovers under the very nose of your husband?”

“No!” Alex cried.

“It is obviously one or the other,” he said coolly.

She backed up against the wall. “I have been waiting for you for a very long time.”

“What?”

Alex’s mind raced frantically. What was she doing? The truth had been about to roll off of the tip of her tongue. He would never believe her; she was positive of that. “What, exactly, are you accusing me of?”

“I am accusing you of being in league with your husband, of being a seductress sent to entice me to betray my country in a time of war.”