“So?” He asked aloud, “what do you have planned next?”
“I think it is time to drive a wedge between Melek Ahmed Pasha and the Jews who seem so eager to help fund him. If we can show that he cannot protect them, they will complain to Istanbul. Let me tell you about the upcoming wedding of Hannalica Castro.”
Yusuf Bey leaned toward Ebu Said.
* * *
The applause and cries of welcome echoed around the courtyard of Don Diego’s house as Hannalica Castro walked through the gate.
“She doesn’t seem as happy as I thought she would be,” Sampson said.
Lara smiled at him. The courtyard was crowded with the friends and relatives of the Castro family and Sampson, Lina, and Lara were standing at the back near the door to the kitchen.
“I know why,” Lara said. “Hannalica hates being immersed in water. She almost drowned when she was three. But the ceremony at the baths requires she submit to the tebilá, the triple immersion ordained by rabbinical prescription.”
“And if Doña Gazela forgot to cut one of her nails, she’d have to do the immersion again,” Lina said. She bumped into Sampson.
Sampson felt his face flush when Lina’s breast pressed against his arm.
She’s doing that on purpose! Be calm, Sampson. What was the phrase they used in Grantville? Deep, cleansing breaths.
“But I know another reason she’s unhappy,” Lara said.
“Pelador?” Lina said.
“Exactly.” Lara saw him looking at her and touched her eyebrows.
“The absence of eyebrows is considered a sign of beauty among the Jewish women of Salonica, Señor Gideon. Pelador, a depilatory paste, adheres to the skin and can be removed only with a great deal of force. Quite painful, I am told.”
“Good,” Lina said. “She deserves it after the way she’s treated us the past few days. She’s been horrible!”
“She’s been scared witless,” Lara said. “She’s fifteen. About to leave her home and become the wife of Hayyim Molho, future rabbi of the Aragon congregation. And before the night is done she will be a virgin no more. You can only lose your virginity once, little sister, as you well know.”
Lina bumped into Sampson again. “Sorry, Señor Gideon, it is so crowded in the courtyard.”
Sampson looked around. There was no one within three feet of them.
“Of course, Lina. I understand perfectly.” Her hand pressed into his and gave it a brief squeeze.
Well well, Sampson thought. Perhaps I will have as interesting a night as Hannalica.
“So what is your role with the wedding, Señor Gideon?” Lara asked, watching Hannalica and her entourage enter the house. “You did not attend the groom at the baths.”
“True,” Sampson said. He patted the pistol under his coat. “I’m a guard for the wedding party, at Don Issac’s request. There have been rumors that bandits would attempt to kidnap Hannalica. Since I am a Franco protected by Ottoman regulations for foreign delegations, I am one of the few Jews in Salonica permitted to carry a firearm.”
“How exciting,” Lina murmured. “You must come back after the wedding and tell me what happened.”
“It will be quite late, Lina. First the wedding, then la tadrada, which lasts three or four hours. By the time I get home I am sure you’ll be asleep.”
Lina leaned closer and whispered in his ear. “Perhaps not, Señor Gideon.”
“Lina! Stop embarrassing him.”
Lina jerked away from Sampson.
Sampson smiled. “I’m not embarrassed, Lara. Truly.”
Lara sniffed. She scowled at her sister. “Then perhaps you should be. I assure you that my sister will be fast asleep when you return from the wedding reception.”
Lina scowled back at her sister and then walked away.
Lara looked around and then leaned closer to Sampson herself.
“But if Don Diego does not require my services tonight, I am sure I will be awake.” Lara smiled and turned to follow her sister.
Sampson’s breath seemed to catch in his throat.
An interesting night indeed.
* * *
Sampson rubbed the back of his neck.
“Tired?” Don Issac asked.
“Just a bit, Don Issac. Do we have much longer to go?”
“Just the banquet,” Don Issac said. “But first we have the ritual to prepare the wedding couple for their future life of intimacy.” He nodded toward the bedroom that Hannalica and Hayyim Molho had just entered.
“They’re not going to consummate their marriage now, are they?”
Don Issac laughed. “Oh no. First we sing, then we open the door and rush in and take the plates of sweets around the room. Then we sit down at the banquet tables.” He pointed at the tables around them.
Sampson sighed. “Another song?”
Don Issac nodded. “And you may find this one quite, uh, rowdy, young man.”
The door to the bedroom closed and the two dozen other guests around them started to sing as the three musicians began to play.
Avridme, galanica, que va amanecer.
Open up, my little chick? Sampson thought. Rowdy indeed.
The guests had sung only two verses of the song when a loud feminine scream came from the bedroom.
No one moved.
It was the second scream that galvanized Sampson into action.
He burst through the door and saw Hayyim slumped over on the bed. At the window two men were struggling to force Hannalica out of the room.
“Stop!”
One of the men snarled and raised his wheel lock pistol as Sampson clawed to get his revolver out of its holster.
The barrel of the wheel lock lined up on his chest.
No!
Instead of a loud bang, there was a fizzling hiss from the wheel lock.
Misfire!
Sampson raised his revolver and fired twice at the gunman’s chest. He fell.
The second kidnapper turned and forced Hannalica in front of him. His knife was at Hannalica’s throat. She was at least six inches shorter than her attacker. Good.
“Drop the pistol, or I kill her!”
A flash of an image from a Grantville television program popped into his mind.
“I choose door number three,” Sampson said. He raised his revolver and fired.
* * *
“You have placed men to discourage Ebu Said from wandering too far?” Melek Ahmed Pasha asked.
Ismail nodded. “I have. And Yusuf Bey is being most cooperative in providing the evidence we need to have Ebu Said removed as Kadi. Naturally Yusuf is shocked at what his milk-brother has done.”
Melek Ahmed smiled. “Of course. I am sure that pressure from the other landowners was a factor in Yusuf Bey’s decision. And once again it seems that Ebu Said’s plans were foiled by Sampson Gideon. An interesting young man.”
Ismail nodded. “Even more interesting than we had suspected. After the incident at the wedding reception it appears that Sampson Gideon has made up his mind to convert to Islam. Apparently he believes an amulet given to him by the hodja at the Casimiye Mosque caused one of the kidnappers’ pistols to misfire, saving his life and allowing him to kill both of the kidnappers and save Hannalica Molho’s life as well.”
“Excellent! Allah be praised. Once he has converted bring him to me. He has shown great courage and deserves to be rewarded. Perhaps his fortitude will encourage others to emulate him.”
“As you command, My Pasha.”
* * *
“But Lara, Sampson is a Muslim now!” Lina wailed.
“So? He is a Sufi, one of the Bektashi. That makes all the difference in the world.”
Lina rubbed her eyes. “It does? But I thought you said being the slave of a Muslim was worse than being the wife of a Jew. And being the wife of a Jew is—”
“Worse than being the slave of a Jew.” Lara finished. “Yes, I know I said those things. That is why we never converted to Judaism. But being the slave
of a Sufi, especially a newly converted Bektashi like Sampson, will be much better. In fact, if we please him, he may marry us. And to marry us, he will have to free us first.”
“He will?”
“ ‘May,’ I said. We will have to please him. As well as Roxelana pleased Suleiman the Magnificent.”
“And how am I going to do that?” Lina asked. “You’ve kept me out of Don Diego’s bedroom for years.”
“It was for the best, little sister. Don Diego’s desires have changed since his wife died. He even—” Lara leaned over and whispered in Lina’s ear.
Lina’s eyes flew open. “He didn’t! He wouldn’t!”
“He would and did,” Lara said. “But do not fear. I will teach you what you need to know before we move to Sampson’s household.”
“But Lara, if we convert to Islam, how will that help us? How can we make Don Diego sell us to Sampson?”
“Once we convert to Islam Don Diego will have no choice but to sell us. Jews cannot possess Muslims as slaves. While Melek Ahmed Pasha is liberal in some things, in that he is as firm as the sultan himself. As for why Don Diego will sell us to Sampson—” Lara smiled. “After six years in Don Diego’s bed, I have learned enough secrets about him to twist his mind on such a minor thing.”
Lina shuddered. “Are you sure? It would be horrible if we were sold to someone else. Horrible.”
“Trust me.”
* * *
Mustafa bin Kemal walked through the doorway of Sampson Gideon’s new house and nodded. “A magnificent residence the governor-general has given you.”
Sampson smiled. “It’s not much. Six rooms. A small courtyard. A third the size of Don Diego’s house.”
“And Don Diego is one of the richest Jews in the city,” Mustafa said drily. “And where are these new slaves that I’ve heard so much about?”
Sampson waved towards the entrance into the house. “Getting my bedchamber ready.”
Mustafa chuckled. “Really? I think you will have a pleasant time tonight, my friend. But I am here on an errand from the governor-general himself.”
Sampson motioned to the chairs and table in the courtyard. “What is it?”
Mustafa sat down and looked around the courtyard. The table was under the shade of several pomegranate and jujubee trees. The two ancient Roman columns that supported the gate into the house were covered with the vines of jasmine and their perfume mixed with that of the roses along the wall.
“Mustafa?”
“Sorry,” Mustafa said. “The beauty of your courtyard made me lose the path of my thoughts.”
“Melek Ahmed Pasha? He sent you on an errand?”
Mustafa snapped his fingers. “Of course. The governor-general has a request. Your new slaves may be a problem.”
“A problem? What kind of problem?”
“The more conservative landowners suspect that the selling of the slaves once they converted was some kind of plot to keep them under Jewish control. Especially given the circumstances of your previous relationship with Don Diego.”
Mustafa held up his hand as he saw Sampson’s face turn red. “I know, I know. Ridiculous. But to ease those suspicions, Melek Ahmed requests that you marry your slaves, if that is your desire, or sell them to him. That will ease the criticism he is getting from the Kadizadelis in the city.”
Sampson smiled. “Anything to please my patron. You may tell Melek Ahmed Pasha that I will marry the slaves.”
A lilting, seductive voice came from the house. “Oh master, your bedchamber is ready.”
Sampson leaned closer to Mustafa. “But we don’t need to tell Lara and Lina just yet. Agreed?”
Mustafa laughed. “Agreed, agreed. My lips are sealed.”
The Sound of Sweet Strings:
A Serenade in One Movement
David Carrico
Grantville
December 1633
The music came to an end. Atwood flipped a switch on the board and leaned forward to the microphone on the table.
“And that was the beautiful ‘Nimrod’ movement from Variations on an Original Theme for Orchestra, Opus 36, called the ‘Enigma’ Variations, by Edward Elgar. That was a foretaste of things to come. We will play the work in its entirety some time next month. I think you will like it.”
Atwood had a smooth bass voice, and he had put it to use over the years from time to time serving as a radio disc jockey. He’d never expected to be doing it in this situation, however, over three hundred years before he had been born. But he’d been assured that there were plenty of crystal radios out there in Thuringia to tune into his show, so he’d agreed to do it.
He looked down at his notes. “To close out this evening’s program, we’re going to play a very different piece of music in a very different musical style. It’s what we call ‘bluegrass’ music. Those of you who listen to Reverend Fischer’s morning devotionals have already heard music like this. This particular piece features an instrument that wasn’t invented for close to another two hundred years, called the banjo. This is ‘Foggy Mountain Breakdown.’ ”
Atwood cued up the CD. After a moment the music began to sound. He leaned back and just listened to Earl Scruggs’ picking. Atwood could play the banjo, but it wasn’t his best instrument and he enjoyed hearing it played by a master.
All too soon the music was over, and he leaned forward again. “That was ‘Foggy Mountain Breakdown,’ and I hope you enjoyed it.
“Thank you for being with us this Sunday evening for Adventures in Great Music on the Voice of America Radio Network, sponsored by the Burke Wish Book, where you can order anything you need or want. I look forward to joining you next Sunday evening.
“I’m Atwood Cochran, and good night.”
A few weeks later
Lucille Cochran turned from the front door’s peep hole. “It’s for you, dear.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, there’s only one of him, he’s a down-timer, and he’s carrying something that looks like one of your old gig bags. He doesn’t look like a lawyer, so I don’t think he came to see the probate judge. That leaves you.”
Atwood levered himself from his recliner, muttering something about people coming around on Saturday evening when a man should be able enjoy some peace and quiet. He opened the door. “Yes?”
“Herr Cochran?” The man on the doorstep was short, dark-haired, dressed in reasonably fine but not new clothing, including a large hat with a bedraggled feather. And he did have what looked for all the world like one of Atwood’s old soft-sided guitar gig bags on his back. Atwood guessed it had a lute in it. The man appeared to be in his forties, and by his accent he was not from the Germanies.
“That’s me.”
“I am Giouan Battista Veraldi. I was in Magdeburg when I heard your radio program with the music of the...banjo?” He pronounced the last word with care, as if he wasn’t sure how it should sound.
“Come in, Signor Veraldi.” Atwood opened the door wider. The Italian beamed at the up-timer’s recognition and stepped through the door. Lucille appeared in the door to the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Dear, this is Signor Giouan Battista Veraldi...did I get that right?” The still beaming Italian swept his hat from his head and made a very courtly bow to Lucille. “Signor Veraldi, this is my wife, Lucille.”
“I am very pleased to meet you, Frau Cochran.”
“So, at a guess you would like to know more about the banjo.” Atwood’s curiosity was piqued.
“Yes, please.” Veraldi’s smile widened.
“Come with me, then.” Atwood led the way through the kitchen and opened the door into what used to be the garage. Veraldi sniffed in appreciation as he passed by the stew simmering on the stove. Atwood followed his guest down the step into his studio.
The late afternoon light flooded through the windows at the end of the room. There were posters of famous guitars and famous guitarists on the walls. The room was furnished with a couple of stools and music sta
nds, plus a table under the windows and another at the other end of the room. There was a black cabinet in one corner, and leaning up against it were several odd-shaped cases.
“Where are you from, Signor Veraldi?”
Atwood gestured to one of the stools, but the Italian stood looking around with eyes wide. After a moment, he started and replied, “As you guessed, I am from Italy originally, but I was a lutenist at the Swedish court for a number of years. I left not long ago. The pay was good, but the weather...” He shivered, and they both laughed. “I have been working my way back to Italy. I’m not in a hurry, but it will not be long now before I am back in the land of fine music and olives. I miss olives...”
Veraldi’s German was better than his own, Atwood decided. His accent gave it a lilt that neither up-timers nor native down-timers gave it. “It is always good to return home,” Atwood said.
“True; and I have been gone for a long time,” Veraldi replied. His eyes had by now gravitated to the open case lying on one of the tables. “Such a large vihuela I have never seen,” he breathed.
“Vihuela?” Atwood asked.
“Do you know guitarra, or guiterne?” Veraldi replied without looking around.
“Oh, guitar. Sure. It’s a classical guitar.”
Veraldi caressed the guitar with his eyes, then turned to Atwood. “May I...”
Atwood gestured in reply. Veraldi set the instrument bag he was carrying down on the table and picked up the guitar. He held it up to the light and peered at it closely, then ran his hand all over the body. At last he plucked a string, and his eyebrows rose at the strong resonant sound. With a sigh he replaced the guitar in its case.
“Very fine vihuela; very fine guitar.”
“Thank you. Please, have a seat.” Atwood waved at one of the stools and sat on the other. Instead of doing so, Veraldi opened his bag and took out a lute, which he handed to Atwood.