CHAPTER V
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 theVenetian's temper and tastes would talk with a Bokharian slave-dealera moment longer than necessary.
Rustan, on hearing what was wanted, declared that he had the verything; in fact, by a wonderful coincidence, it was the very thing inthe acme of perfection, a dream, a vision, fully worth four hundredducats, and certainly not to be sold for three hundred; it had finenatural hair that had never been dyed; its teeth were twenty-eight innumber, the wisdom teeth not having yet appeared, and Rustan wouldwager that Messer Carlo could not find a single pearl in allConstantinople to match one of those eight-and-twenty; its ankles wereso finely turned that a woman could span them with her thumb andforefinger. Rustan felt safe in saying this, for his black wife's hugehand could have spanned Zoe's throat; also it had a most beautiful andslender waist, which, as Messer Carlo remarked, was certainly a pointof beauty. Moreover, Rustan would deliver a signed and sealedcertificate with it.
For Zeno was conscientious, and held Marco Pesaro's letter in his handwhile he questioned the Bokharian in regard to the various points insuccession, lest he should forget any one of them. He did not in theleast believe a word that Rustan said, of course. The East was neverthe land of simple, trusting faith between man and man. He would evenhave wagered that Rustan had nothing in his prison of the sort Pesarowanted, and at the moment of the interview he would have been quiteright. But he was tolerably sure that if he insisted on having thebest, the best to be had would be forthcoming in a week at the utmost.Satisfied with this prospect, he dismissed Rustan and thought no moreabout the matter, except to wish that Marco Pesaro had not troubledhim with such an absurd commission.
A fine young gentleman of later times would probably have thought fewquests more amusing than this, and would have dreamt that night of thebeauties he intended to see before at last deciding upon the purchase.Doubtless, there were young Venetians even then in Constantinople whowould 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 profoundimpression on him, even in his boyish days. When he was in Greece, ithad been suggested to him that he might as well marry, like otheryoung men, and he had allowed himself to be betrothed to a sleepyGreek heiress who had conceived an indolent but tenacious admirationfor his fighting qualities; but it had pleased the fates that sheshould die before the wedding-day of a complication of the spleensuperinduced by a surfeit of rose-leaf jam and honey-cakes. He wasrather ashamed to own to himself that her translation to a betterworld had been a distinct relief to his feelings, for he had soondiscovered that he did not love her, though he had been too kind totell her so, and too honourable to think of breaking his promise ofmarriage.
He did not despise women either; indeed, his conduct in the affair ofhis betrothal had proved that. Now and then he had paused in hisrestless career to think of a more peaceful life, and in the picturesthat rose before his imagination there was generally a woman.Unhappily, he had never seen any one like her in real life, and whenhe was tired of dreaming he shrugged his shoulders at suchimpossibilities and went back to his adventurous existence without asigh. Yet it might be thought that although he did not fall in love hemight now and then spend careless hours with the free and frail, forhe made no profession or show of austerity, and whatever he reallymight be, he did not aspire to be called a saint. He had been a wildstudent in Padua once, and had drunk deep and played high, until hehad suddenly grown tired of stupid dissipation and had left the diceto play the more exciting game of life and death as a soldier offortune under a condottiere, during five long wandering years. But atthe core of his nature there was something ascetic which his comradescould never understand, and at which they laughed when he was notwithin hearing; for he was an evil man to quarrel with, as they hadfound out. He never killed his man in a duel if he could help it, buthe had a way of leaving his mark for life on his adversary's facewhich few cared to risk.
And now it was long indeed since his lips had touched a woman's, forhis character had taken its final manly shape, and the only folly towhich he still yielded now and then was that of risking his liferecklessly whenever he fancied that a cause was worth it; but this hedid not look upon as madness, still less as weakness, and there was noone to argue the question with him. His honest brown eyes softenedsometimes, almost like a woman's, but only for pity or kindness, neverfor word or look of love.
He rose in the bright spring morning just before the sun was up, andwent down the steps at the water's edge below his house and swam farout in clear water that was still icy cold. Then he dressed himselfcompletely as strong and healthy men do, who hate to feel that theyare not ready to face anything from the beginning of the day. Butwhile he was dressing he was not thinking of the errand that was totake him to Rustan's house an hour before noon. Indeed, he had quiteforgotten it, till he saw Omobono folding Pesaro's letter in his neatway in order to file it for reference. As the secretary knew what itcontained, and had been actively employed in the matter to which itreferred, he had thought there could be no great sin of curiosity inreading it carefully while his master was at his toilet. It would havebeen wrong, he thought, to find out what was in it before Zenohimself had broken the seal, but since it was open, it was evidentlybetter that the secretary should understand precisely what was wantedof his employer, for such knowledge could only increase his ownusefulness. For the rest, he vaguely hoped that Zeno would take himinto close confidence and ask his opinion of any merchandise hethought of buying; for Omobono had a high opinion of his own taste inbeauty, and had wished to pass for a lively spark in his young days.
But Zeno evidently considered himself qualified to decide the matterwithout help, for when it lacked an hour of noon he set his secretaryat work on a fair copy of a letter he had been preparing, ordered hishorse and running footman, and went upon his errand without any otherattendant or companion. Omobono looked out of the window and watchedhim as he mounted, innocently envying him his youth and strength. Thegreatest fighting man of his century moved as such men generally do,without haste and without effort, never wasting a movement and nevermaking an awkward one, never taking a fine attitude for the sake ofeffect, as the young men of Raphael's pictures so often seem to bedoing, 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, andhe preferred a serviceable mount at all times to the showy andill-tempered white Barbary, or the rather delicate thoroughbred of thedesert, which were favourites with the rich Greeks of Constantinople.He was quietly dressed, too; and his bare-legged runner, who clearedthe way for him when the streets were crowded, wore a plain browntunic and cap, and did not yell at the poorer people and slaves orstrike them in passing as the footmen of great personages always did.Zeno had picked him out of at least a hundred for his endurance andhis 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 previousafternoon, till they came to the long wall crested with sharp bits ofrusty iron and broken crockery, and stopped before the only door thatbroke its blank length. Zeno looked at the defence critically, andwondered just how great an inducement would make him take the troubleof getting over it, at the risk of cutting his hands and tearing hisclothes. Before any one answered his footman's knock, he had decidedthat it would be an easy matter to bring his well-broken horse closeto the wall, to stand on the saddle, draw himself up and throw a heavycloak over the spiky iron and the sharp-edged shards with one handwhile hanging by the other. The rest would be easy enough. It wasalways his instinct to make such calculations when he entered orpassed by any place that was meant to be defended.
This time the door was opened by Rustan Karaboghazji in person, and hebowe
d 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 hisvisitor to enter. But Zeno had no intention of wasting time by goingin till he was assured that there was something ready for hisinspection in the way of merchandise.
In answer to his question Rustan turned up his face sideways andsmiled 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 tocome at least three times before seeing anything!'
Rustan assumed an expression of gentle reproach.
'If your Splendour had dealt with Barlaam, the Syrian merchant, orwith Abraham of Smyrna, the Jewish caravan-broker,' he said, 'it wouldhave been as your Greatness deigns to suggest. Moreover, your Highnesswould not have been satisfied after all, and would have come at lastto the house of your servant Rustan Karaboghazji, surnamed theTruth-speaker and the Just, and also the Keeper of Promises, by thosewho know him. It must have been so, since there is but one treasure inall the Empire such as your Mightiness asks for, and it is in thishouse.'
Zeno laughed carelessly, and entered.
'Your Unspeakableness is amused,' said Rustan, fastening the outerdoor carefully with both keys. 'But if it is not as I say, I entreatyour High Mightiness to kick his humble servant from this door to theSeven Towers and back again, passing by the Chora, Blachernae, and theChurch of the Blessed Pantokrator on the way.'
'That would take a long time,' observed Zeno. 'Open the door and letme see the girl.'
'Your Grandeur shall see, indeed!' answered Rustan, smilingconfidently as he led the way. 'Rustan the Truth-speaker,' hecontinued, as if to himself while walking, 'Karaboghazji the faithfulKeeper of Promises!'
He gently caressed his beautiful black beard as he went on. He tookZeno through the small part of the house which he reserved for his ownuse, far from the larger rooms where he kept his stock of slaves. Inan inner apartment they met the negress, resplendent in scarlet velvetand a heavy gold chain, her red hair combed straight out from herhead. When Zeno appeared, she at once assumed what she considered amodest but engaging attitude, crossing her great hands upon hersplendid coat, and looking down with a marvellous attempt at a simper.
Rustan stood still and for a moment Zeno thought that the dealer hadventured to jest with him, by showing him the terrific negress in herfinery as the incomparable treasure of which he had spoken. ButRustan's words explained everything.
'My Life,' he said, speaking to his wife in a caressing tone, 'is thegirl ready to be seen?'
'As my lord commanded me,' replied the negress, keeping her handsfolded and bending a little.
'This lady,' said Rustan to Zeno, 'is my wife, and my right hand.' Heturned to her. 'Sweet Dove,' he said, 'pray lead his Magnificence tothe 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 themerchandise in good condition, and to show it to the customers whohonour us.'
He smiled pleasantly as he said this, and remained standing while Zenofollowed the negress out of the room. As he walked behind her he couldnot help noting her strong square shoulders, and the swing of herpowerful hips, and her firm tread, and he conceived the idea that shewould be a match for any ordinary man in a tussle. He was certainlynot thinking of the slave-girl he was about to inspect.
Another door opened, and he was in a room flooded with sunshine andsweet with spring flowers; he stopped, and unconsciously drew onesharp breath of surprise. Zoe had been sitting in a big chair in thesun, and had half risen as the door opened, her hand resting on one ofthe arms of the seat. Her eyes met Zeno's, and for a moment no onemoved. If Rustan had been present he would have raised the price ofthe merchandise to five hundred ducats at least; the black woman onlygrinned, well pleased with the appearance of the girl whom she hadherself dressed to receive the customer's visit of inspection.
Zoe's hand tightened a little on the arm of the chair and she sankquietly 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 aslave should when she is being exhibited.
If the Venetian still doubted that by some mysterious chance of fatethe girl he had come to buy at the slave-dealer's was as well born ashimself, her movement as she sat down dispelled his lingeringuncertainty. He had entered the room carelessly, still wearing hiscap. As Zoe resumed her seat, he took it from his head, bowinginstinctively, as he would have done on meeting a woman of his ownclass. A faint colour rose in the girl's cheeks, as she looked at himagain.
Rustan's wife laughed silently, standing a little behind him. Zoespoke first.
'Pray, sir,' she said, 'be covered.'
'His High Mightiness uncovers his head for coolness,' said thenegress.
Zeno gave her a sharp glance and then turned to Zoe.
'It is not possible that you are a slave,' he said, coming a littlenearer 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 meand take me away.'
'Then you have been carried off by force,' Zeno answered withconviction, '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 blessedSaint Mark, I will give you back free to your own people!'
Zoe looked at him in silent surprise. The negress answered him atonce, for she did not like the turn affairs were taking, and thoughshe had never heard of Carlo Zeno, she judged from his looks that hewas able to make good his promise.
'Your Splendour does not really believe that my husband would risk thepunishment of a robber for carrying off a free woman!' she cried.
'I am a slave,' Zoe 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 somethingor 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! noone shall hurt you.'
'There is no more to tell,' she repeated, shaking her head. 'But youare kind, and I thank you very much.'
She raised her clear brown eyes gratefully to his for a moment. Therewas sadness in them, but he saw that she had not been weeping; andlike a man, he argued that if she were very unhappy she would, ofcourse, shed copious tears the live-long day, like the captive maidensin the tales of chivalry. He looked at the beautiful young hand, nowlying on the arm of the chair, and for the first time in his life hefelt embarrassed.
The negress, who was not at all used to such methods in the buying andselling of humanity, now came forward and began to call attention tothe fine quality of her goods.
'Very fine natural hair,' she observed. 'Your Gorgeousness will see atonce that it has never been dyed.'
She took one of Zoe's plaits in her hand, and the girl shrank a littleat the touch.
'Let her alone!' Zeno said sharply. 'I am not blind.'
'It is her business to show me,' Zoe answered for her, in a tone ofsubmission.
'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 tohimself.
He suddenly turned away from her, went to the open window, and lookedout, laying one hand on the iron bars. It was not often that hehesitated, but he found himself faced by a very unexpected difficulty.He was executing a commission for a friend, and if he bought a slavewith his friend's money, he should feel bound in honour to send her toher new master at the first opportunity. On the other hand, though itwas perfectly clear from the girl's behaviour that she expected nobetter fate, he was intimately convinced that in some way a greatwrong was being done, and he had never ye
t passed a wrong by withouttrying to right it with his purse or his sword. Clearly, he was stillat liberty to buy Zoe for himself, and take her to his home; yet heshrank from such a solution of the problem, as if it were the hardestof 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 wouldneed female attendants, and of course he could buy them for her, orhire them; but he thought with strong distaste of such anestablishment as all this would force upon him. Besides, he could notkeep the girl for ever, merely because he suspected that she was borna lady and was the victim of some great injustice. She denied that shewas. What if she should persist in her denial after he had bought herto set her free? What if she really had no family, no home, no one towhom 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, heknew well enough that it was not his nature to go on leading thepeaceful life of a merchant much longer, even if the threatening timeswould permit it. He had always been as free as air. As he was nowliving, if it should please him to leave Constantinople, he could doso in twenty-four hours, leaving his business, though at a loss, toanother merchant--for he had prospered. But it would be otherwise ifthis girl were in the house, under his protection, and it neveroccurred to him, after he had looked into her eyes, that she couldlive under his roof except in order that he might protect her--protecther from imaginary enemies, right imaginary wrongs she had neversuffered, and altogether make of her what she protested that she wasnot.
It was absurd to think of such a thing, and having come to thisconclusion in a shorter time than it has taken me to describe histhoughts, he turned abruptly with the intention of buying her forMarco 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, andhe made for the door in evident anxiety to get away without exchanginganother word with Zoe.
The negress followed him quickly into the next room, very muchsurprised 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, Zoe was leaning back in herchair alone, gazing at the sunlit window. At that very moment, so faras she knew, the gold was being counted out that was the price of heryoung life. In an hour she would be taken away in a closed litter, asshe had been brought last night, she would be carried into anotherhouse, 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 wasshe to be to him? He was a Venetian, she guessed by his dress, and shefelt that his blood was gentle, like her own. But that was all, thoughshe was already his property. It was dreadful; or, at least, it shouldbe dreadful to think of! She felt that she ought to long for deathnow, a thousand times more earnestly than last night.
But she did not. For she was a most womanly woman already, though notnineteen, and there are few women of that intensely feminine temperwho cannot judge at a first meeting with a man whether they can gainpower over him or not. Moreover, this strength is greatest with menwho are most profoundly masculine, because it is not the influence ofone character over another, but the deeper, stronger, more mysteriouspower of sex over sex.