Carlo Zeno's interview with Rustan had been short and business-like,
as has been said. It was indeed not at all likely that a man of the
Venetian's temper and tastes would talk with a Bokharian slave-dealer
a moment longer than necessary.
Rustan, on hearing what was wanted, declared that he had the very
thing; in fact, by a wonderful coincidence, it was the very thing in
the acme of perfection, a dream, a vision, fully worth four hundred
ducats, and certainly not to be sold for three hundred; it had fine
natural hair that had never been dyed; its teeth were twenty-eight in
number, the wisdom teeth not having yet appeared, and Rustan would
wager that Messer Carlo could not find a single pearl in all
Constantinople to match one of those eight-and-twenty; its ankles were
so finely turned that a woman could span them with her thumb and
forefinger. Rustan felt safe in saying this, for his black wife's huge
hand could have spanned Zoë's throat; also it had a most beautiful and
slender waist, which, as Messer Carlo remarked, was certainly a point
of beauty. Moreover, Rustan would deliver a signed and sealed
certificate with it.
For Zeno was conscientious, and held Marco Pesaro's letter in his hand
while he questioned the Bokharian in regard to the various points in
succession, lest he should forget any one of them. He did not in the
least believe a word that Rustan said, of course. The East was never
the land of simple, trusting faith between man and man. He would even
have wagered that Rustan had nothing in his prison of the sort Pesaro
wanted, and at the moment of the interview he would have been quite
right. But he was tolerably sure that if he insisted on having the
best, the best to be had would be forthcoming in a week at the utmost.
Satisfied with this prospect, he dismissed Rustan and thought no more
about the matter, except to wish that Marco Pesaro had not troubled
him with such an absurd commission.
A fine young gentleman of later times would probably have thought few
quests more amusing than this, and would have dreamt that night of the
beauties he intended to see before at last deciding upon the purchase.
Doubtless, there were young Venetians even then in Constantinople who
would have envied Zeno the amusing task of criticising pretty faces,
hands, and ankles.
But he was not of the same temper or disposition as those gay youths.
He could not remember that any woman had ever made a very profound
impression on him, even in his boyish days. When he was in Greece, it
had been suggested to him that he might as well marry, like other
young men, and he had allowed himself to be betrothed to a sleepy
Greek heiress who had conceived an indolent but tenacious admiration
for his fighting qualities; but it had pleased the fates that she
should die before the wedding-day of a complication of the spleen
superinduced by a surfeit of rose-leaf jam and honey-cakes. He was
rather ashamed to own to himself that her translation to a better
world had been a distinct relief to his feelings, for he had soon
discovered that he did not love her, though he had been too kind to
tell her so, and too honourable to think of breaking his promise of
marriage.
He did not despise women either; indeed, his conduct in the affair of
his betrothal had proved that. Now and then he had paused in his
restless career to think of a more peaceful life, and in the pictures
that rose before his imagination there was generally a woman.
Unhappily, he had never seen any one like her in real life, and when
he was tired of dreaming he shrugged his shoulders at such
impossibilities and went back to his adventurous existence without a
sigh. Yet it might be thought that although he did not fall in love he
might now and then spend careless hours with the free and frail, for
he made no profession or show of austerity, and whatever he really
might be, he did not aspire to be called a saint. He had been a wild
student in Padua once, and had drunk deep and played high, until he
had suddenly grown tired of stupid dissipation and had left the dice
to play the more exciting game of life and death as a soldier of
fortune under a condottiere, during five long wandering years. But at
the core of his nature there was something ascetic which his comrades
could never understand, and at which they laughed when he was not
within hearing; for he was an evil man to quarrel with, as they had
found out. He never killed his man in a duel if he could help it, but
he had a way of leaving his mark for life on his adversary's face
which few cared to risk.
And now it was long indeed since his lips had touched a woman's, for
his character had taken its final manly shape, and the only folly to
which he still yielded now and then was that of risking his life
recklessly whenever he fancied that a cause was worth it; but this he
did not look upon as madness, still less as weakness, and there was no
one to argue the question with him. His honest brown eyes softened
sometimes, almost like a woman's, but only for pity or kindness, never
for word or look of love.
He rose in the bright spring morning just before the sun was up, and
went down the steps at the water's edge below his house and swam far
out in clear water that was still icy cold. Then he dressed himself
completely as strong and healthy men do, who hate to feel that they
are not ready to face anything from the beginning of the day. But
while he was dressing he was not thinking of the errand that was to
take him to Rustan's house an hour before noon. Indeed, he had quite
forgotten it, till he saw Omobono folding Pesaro's letter in his neat
way in order to file it for reference. As the secretary knew what it
contained, and had been actively employed in the matter to which it
referred, he had thought there could be no great sin of curiosity in
reading it carefully while his master was at his toilet. It would have
been wrong, he thought, to find out what was in it before Zeno
himself had broken the seal, but since it was open, it was evidently
better that the secretary should understand precisely what was wanted
of his employer, for such knowledge could only increase his own
usefulness. For the rest, he vaguely hoped that Zeno would take him
into close confidence and ask his opinion of any merchandise he
thought of buying; for Omobono had a high opinion of his own taste in
beauty, and had wished to pass for a lively spark in his young days.
But Zeno evidently considered himself qualified to decide the matter
without help, for when it lacked an hour of noon he set his secretary
at work on a fair copy of a letter he had been preparing, ordered his
horse and running footman, and went upon his errand without any other
attendant or companion. Omobono looked out of the window and watched
him as he mounted, innocently envying him his youth and strength. The
greatest fighting man of his century moved as such men generally do,
without haste and without effort, never wasting a movement and never
making an awkward one, never taking a fine attitude for the sake of
effect, as the young men of Raphael's pictures so often seem to be
doing, but always and everywhere unconsciously graceful,
self-possessed, and ready for anything.
He rode a half-bred brown Arab mare, for he was not a heavy man, and
he preferred a serviceable mount at all times to the showy and
ill-tempered white Barbary, or the rather delicate thoroughbred of the
desert, which were favourites with the rich Greeks of Constantinople.
He was quietly dressed, too; and his bare-legged runner, who cleared
the way for him when the streets were crowded, wore a plain brown
tunic and cap, and did not yell at the poorer people and slaves or
strike them in passing as the footmen of great personages always did.
Zeno had picked him out of at least a hundred for his endurance and
his long wind.
So they went quietly and quickly along, the man and his master,
following very nearly the way which Omobono had taken on the previous
afternoon, till they came to the long wall crested with sharp bits of
rusty iron and broken crockery, and stopped before the only door that
broke its blank length. Zeno looked at the defence critically, and
wondered just how great an inducement would make him take the trouble
of getting over it, at the risk of cutting his hands and tearing his
clothes. Before any one answered his footman's knock, he had decided
that it would be an easy matter to bring his well-broken horse close
to the wall, to stand on the saddle, draw himself up and throw a heavy
cloak over the spiky iron and the sharp-edged shards with one hand
while hanging by the other. The rest would be easy enough. It was
always his instinct to make such calculations when he entered or
passed by any place that was meant to be defended.
This time the door was opened by Rustan Karaboghazji in person, and he
bowed to the ground as Zeno got off his horse and stood beside him.
Still bending low he made way and with a wide gesture invited his
visitor to enter. But Zeno had no intention of wasting time by going
in till he was assured that there was something ready for his
inspection in the way of merchandise.
In answer to his question Rustan turned up his face sideways and
smiled cunningly as he gradually straightened himself.
'Your Magnificence shall see!' he answered. 'Where is the letter?
Every point is perfect, as I promised.'
'Were you really speaking the truth?' laughed Zeno. 'I expected to
come at least three times before seeing anything!'
Rustan assumed an expression of gentle reproach.
'If your Splendour had dealt with Barlaam, the Syrian merchant, or
with Abraham of Smyrna, the Jewish caravan-broker,' he said, 'it would
have been as your Greatness deigns to suggest. Moreover, your Highness
would not have been satisfied after all, and would have come at last
to the house of your servant Rustan Karaboghazji, surnamed the
Truth-speaker and the Just, and also the Keeper of Promises, by those
who know him. It must have been so, since there is but one treasure in
all the Empire such as your Mightiness asks for, and it is in this
house.'
Zeno laughed carelessly, and entered.
'Your Unspeakableness is amused,' said Rustan, fastening the outer
door carefully with both keys. 'But if it is not as I say, I entreat
your High Mightiness to kick his humble servant from this door to the
Seven Towers and back again, passing by the Chora, Blachernæ, and the
Church of the Blessed Pantokrator on the way.'
'That would take a long time,' observed Zeno. 'Open the door and let
me see the girl.'
'Your Grandeur shall see, indeed!' answered Rustan, smiling
confidently as he led the way. 'Rustan the Truth-speaker,' he
continued, as if to himself while walking, 'Karaboghazji the faithful
Keeper of Promises!'
He gently caressed his beautiful black beard as he went on. He took
Zeno through the small part of the house which he reserved for his own
use, far from the larger rooms where he kept his stock of slaves. In
an inner apartment they met the negress, resplendent in scarlet velvet
and a heavy gold chain, her red hair combed straight out from her
head. When Zeno appeared, she at once assumed what she considered a
modest but engaging attitude, crossing her great hands upon her
splendid coat, and looking down with a marvellous attempt at a simper.
Rustan stood still and for a moment Zeno thought that the dealer had
ventured to jest with him, by showing him the terrific negress in her
finery as the incomparable treasure of which he had spoken. But
Rustan's words explained everything.
'My Life,' he said, speaking to his wife in a caressing tone, 'is the
girl ready to be seen?'
'As my lord commanded me,' replied the negress, keeping her hands
folded and bending a little.
'This lady,' said Rustan to Zeno, 'is my wife, and my right hand.' He
turned to her. 'Sweet Dove,' he said, 'pray lead his Magnificence to
the slave's room. I will wait here.'
Zeno seemed surprised at this arrangement.
'My wife' explained Rustan, 'understands the creatures better than I.
My business is buying and selling; it is her part to keep the
merchandise in good condition, and to show it to the customers who
honour us.'
He smiled pleasantly as he said this, and remained standing while Zeno
followed the negress out of the room. As he walked behind her he could
not help noting her strong square shoulders, and the swing of her
powerful hips, and her firm tread, and he conceived the idea that she
would be a match for any ordinary man in a tussle. He was certainly
not thinking of the slave-girl he was about to inspect.
Another door opened, and he was in a room flooded with sunshine and
sweet with spring flowers; he stopped, and unconsciously drew one
sharp breath of surprise. Zoë had been sitting in a big chair in the
sun, and had half risen as the door opened, her hand resting on one of
the arms of the seat. Her eyes met Zeno's, and for a moment no one
moved. If Rustan had been present he would have raised the price of
the merchandise to five hundred ducats at least; the black woman only
grinned, well pleased with the appearance of the girl whom she had
herself dressed to receive the customer's visit of inspection.
Zoë's hand tightened a little on the arm of the chair and she sank
quietly into her seat again as she turned her eyes from Zeno's face,
forgetting that she had promised herself to stand erect and cold as a
slave should when she is being exhibited.
If the Venetian still doubted that by some mysterious chance of fate
the girl he had come to buy at the slave-dealer's was as well born as
himself, her movement as she sat down dispelled his lingering
uncertainty. He had entered the room carelessly, still wearing his
cap. As Zoë resumed her seat, he took it from his head, bowing
instinctively, as he would have done on meeting a woman of his own
class. A faint colour rose in the girl's cheeks, as she looked at him
again.
Rustan's wife laughed silently, standing a little behind him. Zoë
spoke first.
'Pray, sir,' she said, 'be covered.'
'His High Mightiness uncovers his head for coolness,' said the
negress.
Zeno gave her a sharp glance and then turned to Zoë.
'It is not possible that you are a slave,' he said, coming a little
nearer and looking down into her face.
But she would not meet his eyes.
'It is the truth, sir,' she said. 'I am a slave and any one may buy me
and take me away.'
'Then you have been carried off by force,' Zeno answered with
conviction, 'in war, perhaps, or in some raid of enemies on enemies.
Tell me who you are and how it happened, and by the body of blessed
Saint Mark, I will give you back free to your own people!'
Zoë looked at him in silent surprise. The negress answered him at
once, for she did not like the turn affairs were taking, and though
she had never heard of Carlo Zeno, she judged from his looks that he
was able to make good his promise.
'Your Splendour does not really believe that my husband would risk the
punishment of a robber for carrying off a free woman!' she cried.
'I am a slave,' Zoë said quietly. 'Only a slave and nothing else.
There is no more than that to tell.'
She drew one hand across her brow and eyes as if to shut out something
or to drive it away. Zeno came nearer and stood alone beside her.
'Tell me your story,' he said in a lower tone. 'Do not be afraid! no
one shall hurt you.'
'There is no more to tell,' she repeated, shaking her head. 'But you
are kind, and I thank you very much.'
She raised her clear brown eyes gratefully to his for a moment. There
was sadness in them, but he saw that she had not been weeping; and
like a man, he argued that if she were very unhappy she would, of
course, shed copious tears the live-long day, like the captive maidens
in the tales of chivalry. He looked at the beautiful young hand, now
lying on the arm of the chair, and for the first time in his life he
felt embarrassed.
The negress, who was not at all used to such methods in the buying and
selling of humanity, now came forward and began to call attention to
the fine quality of her goods.
'Very fine natural hair,' she observed. 'Your Gorgeousness will see at
once that it has never been dyed.'
She took one of Zoë's plaits in her hand, and the girl shrank a little
at the touch.
'Let her alone!' Zeno said sharply. 'I am not blind.'
'It is her business to show me,' Zoë answered for her, in a tone of
submission.
[Illustration: 'Tell me your story,' he said in a lower tone. 'Do not
be afraid! no one shall hurt you.']
'It shall not be her business much longer,' replied Zeno, almost to
himself.
He suddenly turned away from her, went to the open window, and looked
out, laying one hand on the iron bars. It was not often that he
hesitated, but he found himself faced by a very unexpected difficulty.
He was executing a commission for a friend, and if he bought a slave
with his friend's money, he should feel bound in honour to send her to
her new master at the first opportunity. On the other hand, though it
was perfectly clear from the girl's behaviour that she expected no
better fate, he was intimately convinced that in some way a great
wrong was being done, and he had never yet passed a wrong by without
trying to right it with his purse or his sword. Clearly, he was still
at liberty to buy Zoë for himself, and take her to his home; yet he
shrank from such a solution of the problem, as if it were the hardest
of all. What should he do with a young and lovely girl in his house,
where there were no women, where no woman ever set foot? She would
need female attendants, and of course he could buy them for her, or
hire them; but he thought with strong distaste of such an
establishment as all this would force upon him. Besides, he could not
keep the girl for ever, merely because he suspected that she was born
a lady and was the victim of some great injustice. She denied that she
was. What if she should persist in her denial after he had bought her
to set her free? What if she really had no family, no home, no one to
whom she could go, or wished to go? He would not turn her out, then;
he would not sell her again, and he should not want her. Moreover, he
knew well enough that it was not his nature to go on leading the
peaceful life of a merchant much longer, even if the threatening times
would permit it. He had always been as free as air. As he was now
living, if it should please him to leave Constantinople, he could do
so in twenty-four hours, leaving his business, though at a loss, to
another merchant--for he had prospered. But it would be otherwise if
this girl were in the house, under his protection, and it never
occurred to him, after he had looked into her eyes, that she could
live under his roof except in order that he might protect her--protect
her from imaginary enemies, right imaginary wrongs she had never
suffered, and altogether make of her what she protested that she was
not.
It was absurd to think of such a thing, and having come to this
conclusion in a shorter time than it has taken me to describe his
thoughts, he turned abruptly with the intention of buying her for
Marco Pesaro's account.
Unfortunately, when he saw her face he could not do it.
'I will send a palanquin for you in an hour,' he said hurriedly, and
he made for the door in evident anxiety to get away without exchanging
another word with Zoë.
The negress followed him quickly into the next room, very much
surprised at his way of doing business.
'If it please your Glory,' she began, overtaking him with difficulty,
but he would not listen, and hurried on.
'I will settle with Rustan,' he said.
But in the room where he had left her, Zoë was leaning back in her
chair alone, gazing at the sunlit window. At that very moment, so far
as she knew, the gold was being counted out that was the price of her
young life. In an hour she would be taken away in a closed litter, as
she had been brought last night, she would be carried into another
house, the slide would slip back, and she would be told to get down.
The voice would be a man's. Who was he? What was his name? What was
she to be to him? He was a Venetian, she guessed by his dress, and she
felt that his blood was gentle, like her own. But that was all, though
she was already his property. It was dreadful; or, at least, it should
be dreadful to think of! She felt that she ought to long for death
now, a thousand times more earnestly than last night.
But she did not. For she was a most womanly woman already, though not
nineteen, and there are few women of that intensely feminine temper
who cannot judge at a first meeting with a man whether they can gain
power over him or not. Moreover, this strength is greatest with men
who are most profoundly masculine, because it is not the influence of
one character over another, but the deeper, stronger, more mysterious
power of sex over sex.