“Mercury?”
“Yes. Having the choice of booty or curative, it was the
medicinal mercury these Turks went for first when they captured our sail. I
was quick to realize, naturally, that I should be the one to
demonstrate
they could inhale mercury, take it by pill, or even swallow a
decoction. Till then these corsairs—who understand my French, by the way— only knew to mix the element with fat and rub it on different body parts. I’m therefore a revered healer to these barbarous dogs.”
“Healer?” Jacques said. “If mercury does not poison a man outright, it will rot his teeth and guts.”
“You should know.”
“I do know.”
“And did the great cure make you piss blood?”
“Too many times,” admitted Jacques. Both men laughed.
Brose offered a sip from his bottle and Jacques accepted—Brose dispensing the liquor to Jacques’ lips.
“Well, in a world where two sword thrusts, a broken leg, and
bad water have not killed me, I’ve been favored by fortune to be
missing only a nose.”
“Yes, and I avoided the smallpox, yellow fever, influenza,
bubonic plague, and other assorted pestilences so that I might end my days
as a captive of piratical Turks and the confidant to a poxy
adventurer. Carlo Brose, we’ve both been favored by fortune.”
Laughing aloud, Brose again pushed on Jacques’ hammock.
After his gaiety subsided, he spoke softly. “I’m a favorite with
the crew. They look at me, realize what may happen when the
disease goes too far, and they take their mercury cure like good schoolboys.” He coughed into his fist. “So it’s true, I’ve actually witnessed these
renegadoes take sensible action on occasion. Nevertheless, it
appeared to me that, even though I administer the cure, it was possible they might enslave me at some future date. So I supplied them with two further reasons that keep me securely aboard.”
“Which were?”
“A miraculous demonstration convinced them I could convert glass into diamonds.” Brose’s eyes danced with devilish merriment. “You know the trick, fellow, do you not?”
Jacques grinned and nodded his head. “You’d previously
secreted gems in your anus that they could not—or chose not to—recover?”
“Yes. And reason number two that keeps me aboard?” Brose
lingered, his faltering speech indicating a confession of sorts. “I
turned Turk. I converted, Jacques, to Muslim.”
“Apostasy? Catholics and Protestants alike will roast you alive when they get their hands on you.”
Brose took a long draw from his bottle and waited an even
longer time before he spoke. He then bent to whisper, his deep bass rustling Jacques’ ear. “Let’s not equivocate. I’ve not long to live. My nose is gone. I feel the sickness in my bones. My mind, I must tell you, is baneful. I rant on occasion. Nevertheless,” he said, giving Jacques’ hammock another slight push, “why should I not accept Allah? I
believe Jesus the Christ is the Son of God—while I acknowledge
Allah as the true God. In essence, I’ve adopted a variation of Monsieur
Pascal’s wager. I’ve accepted two gods and therefore double my odds that this riddled body will be healed and this diseased soul
may be saved.” Emotion fogged the voice of Carlo Brose. He looked away.
“So your soul may be saved?” Jacques smirked. “What soul?”
A sudden roll of the ship produced a gasp from the nearby prisoners.
“You did what you had to do,” Jacques said with kindness.
Brose gave a neat, sad smile.
Jacques knew it was time to voice his concern for Dominique. “Carlo Brose, I’m troubled for the safety of the woman in the hammock behind me as well as my Spanish manservant, who has been taken topside.”
Brose glanced at Dominique, who lay with her eyes shut.
“Yes, I recall your blonde beauty. But as for your servant, I make it a point not to have a valet in my hire. That way I’m certain I’ll not be robbed nor have a spy at my heels.”
“I tell you, I’m anxious for the both of them.”
“Why, I’ve never known Jacques Casanova to be unselfish.”
Carlo Brose finished off the bottle and plunked it to the floor. “You’re much changed.”
“Doubtful,” Jacques said. “Find out how I can be released. And discover what you can about the tall Turk who to me appears to be primo lieutenant. More especially, uncover the corsair captain—what’s his name—Piccinio?—uncover his aim.”
“Herr Adventurer, you may be assured I shall put spurs to my
flank.” Brose took a last look at the passengers bound in their
hammocks
and, leading with his disfigured face, stumbled toward the deck
ladder and the streaming light from topside.
Jacques lay still, hoping the base fellow would remember his drunken promise.
***
Later that morning, two of the crew came round with a sponge of water and a few bites of porridge for each prisoner. Many begged
for release from their berth, but no deliverance came. What did come for many was vomiting and defecation—and the vile stench from
those acts.
If there remained anything tolerable, it was that the ship sailed smoothly. The sea was quiet.
During the course of the day, Dominique spoke with Jacques, who was beginning to pale in face and spirit. The conversations she held, she figured, becalmed others around her and allayed her own fears as well. To be sure, she was grateful to God that she still had
her wits—which was much more than many of the others.
But
Jacques and I must make a plan. We must.
In guarded talk, Dominique let Jacques know he’d been spouting Fragonard’s verses aloud in his sleep the night before.
“Most likely, it eases the chatter in my brain, Dominique. But I’ll
think on Fragonard’s verses here and now during my waking
hours.” He closed his eyes. “My salvation in previous times, especially in I Piombi hellhole, was my imagination. I’ll yet use that resource, weak as I feel.”
“We’re being propelled toward the ineffable rewards of the
Lord,” Dominique answered.
During the afternoon, the gentle rock of the hammock, the
creaking
of the ship’s timbers, and the warmth of the hold encouraged
Dominique to nap. But before the light began to wane, her eyes flickered open. What she smelled put a quiver on her lip: the musty sweet scent of moldering blood.
A tall man stood with his back to her. Tied across his shoulder with a thick cord was a cloth sack caked with dark red blood. Peeking from the open end of the sack was the instrument causing Dominique’s abhorrent feelings: a cat-o’-nine-tails. She’d never felt the sting from the lead tips of a scourge, but she’d seen it in action. To witness the flaying of a human being was one of the sharpest regrets of her life. The experience had bred nightmares for years.
Sensing that Jacques was fast asleep, Dominique dared another look at the profile of the corsair who carried the foul, bloody sack. Judging from the embroidered red waistcoat and red felt hat, he was the Turk who earlier that day Jacques had styled the “primo lieutenant.” The man had undistinguished eyes, black hair and mustache, and a complexion burnt rough and dark by the sun. He strutted back and forth between the hammocks before motioning to a squat mate.
A moment later, Dominique felt rough burlap ride between her teeth. She choked on the gag. It seemed her head was exploding but her mind worked frantically.
Maintaining his swagger, the tall primo lieutenant surveyed the prisoners, all of whom were now gagged as well as bound. Wheeling about, he wiped his mustache with his hand, then stuffed his hand into his bulky pants. Daylight in the hold was quickly fading, but enough light remained for Dominique to catch the glint in his eyes when he stared at Jacques.
The primo lieutenant signaled his friend. Moments later, Jacques was double gagged. With bound legs and arms, Jacques—now fully awake—struggled to no avail.
The squat mate climbed above deck, leaving the primo
lieutenant alone with the prisoners. The man moved to Jacques and bent over, grabbing Jacques’ throat with both his hands.
Jacques! Dominique tried to scream but her gag made it
impossible. Streams of sweat burned her eyes while she watched the corsair loosen his grip.
The scroll
, she feared.
The scroll!
The corsair lowered himself to his knee to tighten the rope that
restrained Jacques. He gently drew his hand across the adventurer’s
face.
With his remaining strength, Jacques arched. The lieutenant
clamped Jacques’ nose and mouth. Jacques stopped his struggle. The corsair released his hold.
Jacques panted through his gag, his frenzied wheeze slicing like razors through Dominique’s heart.
The primo lieutenant—bulbous eyes pitching back in his head—paid no heed to the muffled cries of the passengers when he tore open Jacques’ shirt and began to caress his flesh.
The primo lieutenant’s hand continued its slithery journey.
Dominique thrashed against the hammock, infuriated to a
degree she’d never felt before. She squeezed her eyes shut.
When at last she persuaded herself to look, she saw, in the last daylight of the ship’s hold, the corsair stroking himself.
Jacques’ face was hidden from view, but Dominique saw from
his taut neck and stiff shoulders—his seething. A vast rage boiled in
her.
For what seemed to Dominique an eternity of debasement and horror, the mustached corsair continued his depraved work. When his pleasure slaked in a deafening groan, scalding tears shot down Dominique’s cheeks.
While the primo lieutenant plodded toward the deck ladder, Dominique choked back her revulsion.
Her long night overflowed with desolate and desperate loathing.
***
“Who put these nauseating gags in your mouth?” croaked Carlo Brose.
Dawn’s rays snuck into the hold while he leaned close to
Jacques, inspecting the filthy cloths. “I likely risk my life if I remove these. Well, remove them I shall.” He scratched the patch on his face and undid the cloths.
Jacques sucked hard breaths into his lungs.
“Quick! Untie Dominique’s,” Jacques said. “See to it.” Jacques paused. “I ask your help.”
“What has come over you?” Brose grinned. “You again
ask
my help?” He moved to Dominique’s hammock, loosed her gag, then scuttled back to Jacques. “She sleeps peacefully,” he gestured. “As for the Turk you wondered about, Jacques—your primo lieutenant—I found out he’s out of favor with most of the Algerine crew,” he said, standing over Jacques’ hammock. He narrowed his eyes, then sputtered. “What goes on? Ah, nose or no nose I smell the situation. That swarthy heathen! Thought he had the look about him. Well, for
the Muslims to have a young boy—their religion does not
discourage that. To have a man of your years—well, I see you inspired the Turk’s fancy,” he sniveled gleefully. “May I tell him you’ve amused yourself with others before him?”
Jacques glanced over his shoulder. Dominique still slept.
“It’s true, isn’t it? With the handsome Duc de Longueville and also with …” Sweat bubbled Jacques’ forehead, but he said nothing.
The two men glared, each daring the other to speak.
Then Brose’s eyes softened. “I recall you liked it rough, Jacques.”
Color rose in Jacques’ cheeks. His tone was gentle. “You’re
mistaken, Carlo. A fond nature was more to my liking.”
“I remember. We could afford to be tender to one another. We were young and did not know the devilish world as we do now.”
Jacques nodded.
“You broke my heart,” said Brose. He looked away. When he
returned to Jacques’ gaze, he had a playful gleam in his eye.
“So shall I relay to the primo lieutenant that you have experience?”
“No, do not tell him, Carlo. It would lessen my worth with him. Let him think that he means to possess me, the maid.”
Brose placed his palm on Jacques’ cheek before he spoke.
“One thing else. It would be helpful to your cause if you yourself turned Turk.”
“I will not. I prefer to—”
“You’re not a Christian! Well, you might die like a Christian.” Brose coughed. “Let me be honest, Jacques Casanova. I came to you this morning already knowing you’d caught the big Turk’s fancy—for I overheard certain things late last night. You now may as well know that a ransom for you was agreed upon by the crew and paid by the lieutenant.”
Mindful of any signs or sounds of captors on the deck above, Jacques spoke quietly. “Ransom me? What does the captain say?”
“As nearly as I can gather, there are no rules to govern this particular circumstance, but these corsairs—who fancy themselves a floating republic—cast votes on most all issues. The corsair captain? His response was ‘Keep the prisoners alive. No one will ransom dead men.’ He also forbids the rape of women and children because he knows rich Muslims relish unsullied Christian prisoners for their bagnios and harems. Practical man,” Brose repeated softly. “So if you, Jacques Casanova, are as impoverished as I suppose, and with no one on the mainland to pay for you, the Turk lieutenant has ransomed you from certain slavery.
“To be a private, special slave.”
SHORTLY AFTER BROSE SLIPPED AWAY,
two corsairs entered the hold, released Jacques from his hammock, manacled him, did the same to a dozen other prisoners, then led all topside. Before long, other male and female prisoners were brought on deck, some glaring at the red half-moon flag that fluttered on the mast, some staring blankly out to sea.
Squinting sullenly into the bright sun, Jacques found he could hardly stand. His legs wanted to fold in two. But glimpsing the pale blue sky, he saw a magnificent morning on the Mediterranean—blustery, but beautiful. He wondered if this would be his last day as a free man.