Caravan To Xanadu

CHAPTER 4

THE PEARL

Not once on our homeward sail did I glance at my parchment. Mostly, no doubt, this was to help keep the secret from Felix and his crew, but partly it was to maintain our fellowship as long as possible. The business of a great jewel’s paying my way to Cathay would sever us soon enough. I need not deal with it here, on the sunny deck. I almost wished we could stay together always.

I paid Felix and his crew out of the hundred bezants Mustapha Sheik had lent me. We made our farewells and I went my way to Mustapha. Then in his presence I broke the seal of the parchment.

It read, in the best Venetian language:

To Simon ben Reuben

By the Sign of the White Stag

San Stefano’s Gate

Greetings

When this parchment comes to your hands, count me among the dead.

I bid you deliver without cost to the bearer, Marco Polo of San Felice, the jewel I have put in your keeping according to the laws of your tribe.

I charge you to give him the very jewel brought from the Western Sea, a precious and most beautiful pearl. It is so fine that I have given it a name which, translated into his tongue, is Admirable. Does it not deserve the name? It is a female pearl, more soft, light, white, and lustrous than the male pearls, which are harder and redder, and Allah knows it is most admirable, which its name means.

All who have seen it admire it. But do not covet it, Simon ben Reuben, first because it is against the commandment that your God Jehovah gave unto Moses, and second because I gave you moneys to keep it safe for me.

If the pearl be broken, woe unto you, Simon ben Reuben, and to all your posterity.

Put it in the hands of the aforesaid Marco, as I bade you, for he has won it by a certain service; and he is to have it without charge or claim by you. Truly it is worthy to adorn the throne of a king, but do not lay covetous hands upon it, in the name of your father Abraham. It is my treasure, my gem, my greatest joy, my flawless pearl of pearls. But deliver it to Marco Polo, in the name of Allah.

Haran-din

Mustapha Sheik, wearing a long black surcoat and a high fur cap, went with me to claim my reward. In a high house, shabby without but elegant within, we were shown into a kind of office, where there was a long table with benches, pens and inkhorns and scrolls, lamps, forceps, and scales of different sizes, one of which was the most delicate instrument I had ever seen, capable of weighing a third of a carat, or approximately one grain. “Shall I let the parchment out of my hands until the jewel is delivered to me?” I whispered to Mustapha while we were waiting.

“Shall Simon ben Reuben let the jewel out of his hands until the parchment is delivered to him? Business would be done slowly at that rate. You may examine one and he the other. He’ll not make way with the paper. Even if he were a scoundrel he wouldn’t dare, knowing not how many folk have seen it. I’ve known Simon slightly many years. His word is better than his bond, because he himself must guard the honor of the first while the law enforces the second according only to what is written down. But since the Christians claim the right to drive them from their precincts, Jews return the compliment by driving hard bargains. With the more noble Jews, this does not permit dissembling and sharp practice. Others draw the line only at outright lies. No few will steal and shed blood—the same as no few Christians.”

In a moment a grizzled gaffer, thin and frail-looking, and wearing a gaberdine and a skullcap, came through the door. Behind him strode a handsome bold-looking Jew of about twenty-five, with large flashing gray eyes and a fine black beard, and in much finer garb. I had often seen the latter on the Rialto and knew him for Saul ben Simon—that is, the son of Simon—a moneylender for the jewelry trade. He stood back modestly while his father greeted Mustapha Sheik. It almost brought tears to my eyes to see those two old men, both aliens in Venice, both exiles from their ancestral deserts, touch hands to heart and forehead and bow so nobly.

Simon introduced his son to Mustapha. I thought that Saul might not pay proper respect to the old Arab and was as fixed for anger as tinder for lighting. On the contrary, he evinced what I could not doubt was sincere reverence. It was in greeting me—after his father had received me most cordially—that I detected barely veiled contempt. Possibly he had heard of my disinheritance by my father, a dreadful disgrace in Jewish eyes, made worse by my being his oldest son. Perhaps he looked down on all Christians.

“It’s my father’s birthday,” Saul told Mustapha Sheik, “and if you have business with him, I pray to stand in his stead.”

“My young friend Marco Polo has business with him,” Mustapha answered, “and I doubt not he’ll accept you as his voice.”

I handed Saul the paper. He read it without the twitch of an eyebrow.

“I fear, noble youth, that Haran-din’s brain has become maggoty from his malady,” he said slowly and calmly. “He made a disposition of the pearl years ago.”

I did not fly into rage. I ached to, it seemed, but dared not. Whether by the guidance of my saints, or by some inward monitor, I strove to keep my head as clear as when computing the course of planets under Mustapha’s tutoring.

“So?” I answered, marking time.

“He gave us a paper, saying that at his death we were to sell the pearl, and devote the funds to certain uses pleasing to Allah, his God,” Saul went on. “It was the finer pearl of two—the less fine we delivered only a few days ago to another party——”

“Marco, he refers to the gentleman who left the gate open,” Mustapha told me in Arabic. But I knew by the gleam in his eyes that he was merely waiting, as I was, to hear what Saul had to say, and that he had no intention of yielding our prize without a last-ditch fight.

Perhaps Saul knew it too.

“Truly, it would take a Daniel to sit upon this case,” Saul went on, smiling with great charm, “and since none’s about, let’s judge it for ourselves.”

“Pray instruct us,” I said.

Saul looked up with a startled look, as well he might. One of Mustapha’s maxims was that there was no tool in all controversy as potent as courtesy. He had said that it not only shields its user’s passions and intentions, but suggests power. Evidently it had become pounded into my head, because I had employed it without thinking.

“That I can’t do, so I suggest we put our heads together. Mark you, he begins the document by his injunction to count him as one of the dead. In that case, isn’t it my father’s bounden duty to sell the jewel as he had previously enjoined him? Doesn’t this end the business? But reading on, I see that our supposedly dead man has changed his mind, which according to a fundamental principle of Christian, Arabic, and Mosaic law, is ex delicto. Who ever heard of a will written by a ghost, in contradiction to his living will, coming to probate?”

“I relish your wit, Saul ben Simon,” Mustapha Sheik intoned.

“But may a man declare his own death?” Saul asked me, stroking his beard. “No, it takes an officer of the Crown. Therefore, let’s take the stand that Haran-din was a living man when he penned these lines, and they constitute a revocation of his previous testament. Thus I’ve no choice but to deliver a pearl to his creditor herein named.”

“Excuse me, your Honor,” Mustapha broke in when I was breathless with relief. “Not a pearl, but the pearl.”

“I stand corrected, and before we go any further, let us all be satisfied as to the particular pearl involved. Is that agreeable to all?” And he looked with a bright smile first to Mustapha, then to me.

When we had both responded, Saul unlocked and opened a heavy wooden door. Revealed was a kind of inner closet, made of polished wood and banded with iron. A heavy brass lock of a style I had never seen gave to the turn of a delicate ivory key, and a portal half a foot thick swung wide. From this he took a foot-square box of wrought iron, which sprang open without a visible key. His strong hairy hands went into the box and brought forth a small ivory cabinet. Smiling, he took out a pearl of the size of my thumbnail and put it in my hand.

Of the thousands of pearls I had seen in and about the ships, this was one of the finest. Its shape was spherical, its skin was of very delicate texture and utterly flawless, and its orient, as the pearl dealers say, could hardly be surpassed. Although I had never heard of a “male” and “female” classification of pearls, the terms were commonly used in regard to turquoises, and I thought that describing this pearl as female was very apt. It was so white as to be almost translucent, and its iridescence was so soft that I thought of it as comparable to the radiation of the flesh of a modest virgin.

However, it was not as large as I expected and I could not believe it would bring more than six hundred pieces of gold.

“Noble youth, will you show the pearl to my father and ask him to identify it?” Saul asked.

I did so. Simon ben Reuben took the jewel in his long, thin fingers, held it close to his velvety old eyes, and returned it to me.

“This is the larger and finer of two pearls put in my charge by Haran-din,” he answered in his soft voice. “The other was disposed of some days ago according to his instruction.”

I handed the pearl to Mustapha Sheik. He gave it a quick inspection, then spoke in a tone of deep anxiety.

“Saul ben Simon, this pearl is not worth a thousand bezants.”

“I never maintained that it was.”

“But Haran-din did so, and in writing. He was not one to lie to me or to be deceived. Why, half that amount would be a fair price in the jewel mart.”

“Saul”—and it was Simon’s deep, soft voice—“hand me the parchment.”

“It’s some other writing that Mustapha refers to, my father. This one mentions no sum.”

“I’ll read it, just the same.”

Again Saul’s face was still as a stone, and it seemed to me he stood as still as one while Simon’s eyes moved down the page. He handed it back without comment.

“I would take a chance on it at a higher sum,” Saul remarked.

“How much higher?”

“Substantially so. What if I lose on it? My father and I have done good business with the Mohammedans, and Haran-din’s soul might be troubled if he’s promised something he can’t deliver. Let us subtract the amount of my estimation from yours and divide the remainder. I’ll pay seven hundred and fifty.”

“That’s very generous, Saul ben Simon,” Mustapha said with a deep breath.

“Shall I accept it, master?” I asked.

Mustapha Sheik hesitated longer than I expected. His lips had moved to say yes when the patriarch spoke again.

“Saul, my son, I am struck with the international character of this dealing. Haran-din was a Mussulman, so is Mustapha Sheik, you and I are Jews, and Marco Polo is a Christian.”

“It is true, my father.”

“Mohammedans are like us Jews in being aliens in Venice. They are not spat upon, as we are, but they are hated greatly. Yet Mustapha arranged for a Christian to serve his tribesman Haran-din in his need—a service so great that Haran-din thought to reward him with a thousand pieces of gold.”

Saul had turned so white that his black beard looked false.

“My father, shall I buy back this pearl with a thousand gold pieces?”

“Paying twice its worth? What kind of business is that?”

“I would have his name and acknowledged satisfaction on this document.”

“Saul, my son, I fear you have committed the very sin against which the letter warns, and coveted a jewel that’s not yours.”

“What would you have me do?”

“I would have you hold from taking advantage of the unintentional ambiguity of a letter written in terror and the shadow of death. I would bid you not fail the trust Haran-din placed in us, to read between the lines of his letter.”

“You’ve shamed me, O Father, before a Christian.”

“You have shamed both of us, and our nation. Now send for the pearl whose name is Miranda, meaning Admirable.”

2

Mustapha moved closer to me and spoke in an undertone.

“I should have anticipated this development,” he said. “Haran-din dealt in slaves, supplying the shahs and sultans of the Transcaucasus. Many traders owed him moneys or goods when he was captured, and like good Mussulmans have paid the debts since. Also, I was quite sure there was no such thing as a female or a male pearl.”

I could not reply nor would I let the others see me watching the door, so I turned my back on it and gazed through a barred casement into a flower garden. When I heard it open, I turned slowly, and my first sensation was of surprise.

I expected to see a very fine Circassian. These bright blondes from the Caucasus brought the highest prices of any girls sold in Venice, and were used almost altogether as concubines. A good many belonged to the Greek Church, but had been forced to renounce Christianity so they could be bought and sold by Christians—a queer way to beat the devil around the bush. Quite often the girls forswore themselves willingly, to have a better life. One glance, however, proved my guess wrong. Her face and form had not the Circassian molding, her hair was of different dress, and instead of a bright blonde, she was a pale blonde.

By now I was sharply alert, hard to fool. I was surprised by her appearance, but not with pleasure; considering the lengths Saul had gone to keep her, I had expected a great treat for my eyes. Instead they took in a rather odd-looking—as far as their experience went—blonde young girl. At most I would call her pretty. I could not think of her as either beautiful or gorgeous.

She might be as tall as most Circassians—perhaps as much as four inches over five feet, far taller than most Venetian girls—but she did not look it, because of her slight figure. Circassians had voluptuous figures—big white round breasts, round white arms, and boldly curved thighs. They looked at you and took your breath. This girl did not weigh much more than a hundred pounds. Her hair, instead of a bright gold, was about the color of wheat straw. She wore it in two long plaits that looked like new hemp ropes. Her eyebrows and long eyelashes were the same pale color and not very noticeable in this light, but to do her justice—and I was hunting hungrily for her every asset—they drew the attention more and more as you looked at her. Her eyes, very long for their width and set wide apart, appeared to be rather darker than I would expect to go with her pale tints—I thought that they were light brown.

The faces of Circassian and Greek girls, generally golden-haired or redheads, are almost always long and markedly aquiline with thin, high Roman noses and strong chins. Miranda’s face was rather short, and in profile appeared somewhat incurved. I could call it that. An artist about to paint her picture, and keeping his heart cold until he could draft the outlines of her face, would note that her forehead was high, curved, and set forward, her cheekbones were delicate but prominent, the bridge of her nose was slightly concave rather than convex, her upper lip short and deeply incurved, and her chin nicely fitted to the swift slope of her jaws. No doubt that kind of analysis would aid his brush. Warming to his work, he would observe that her forehead was very pure and white, and her nose the most beautiful he had ever seen.

I had never seen a beautiful nose before. Some with very high bridges had been noble-looking on highborn men and on old ladies, but on most people’s faces and on pretty girls especially, the less you need observe them, the better. Going children one better, noses should be neither seen nor heard. I could not imagine why this one was beautiful, unless it had to do with its delicacy.

The general effect was not at all spectacular. It was of wistfulness and shyness and very-youngness. However, I kept finding aspects of her face and body that quickened my thoughts and feelings. The spare flesh over her facial bones was delicately molded, and under the eyes had a lustrous appearance. Her mouth had a property that is supposed to be common but which really is rather rare. I, like I am sure almost every lover of woman, wanted to kiss it. It was not voluptuous or very full or very beautiful, and its little smile was somehow sad, yet I felt that to kiss it would be an experience of great beauty and bliss.

Quite possibly Saul had kissed it. This was not a certainty—merchant citizens of Venice had found they must never underestimate the steadfastness of a Jew in keeping patriarchal law—and the Jews of Christendom rarely owned or dealt in slaves, although girls of their own nation were bonded servants in their houses and, in many cases, virtually concubines. However, Saul certainly craved to do so, and as tricky a man as he might find a lawful loophole to keep her for his own. If so, I was sure he would pay more for her than I could get from any slave dealer in the city.

Too well I remembered a saying of their trade: “Unlike a diamond, which can be weighed and graded, unlike a rug, whose stitches can be reckoned, unlike a horse, which can be put through paces, a two-legged filly is worth no more nor less than some fool will pay.”

As I was thinking this, the maiden stood there in the kind of long sleeveless smock in which slave girls were usually offered for sale. Her eyes were cast down, her hands were folded on her breast, the lamplight glossed her pale-gold plaits and her small bare arms. And I found it best not to look at her as I schemed the best way of turning her into gold. This was not from any wanting her myself. It was a feeling, very hard to pin down, of self-distaste, almost of self-disgust. It was as though I were committing some vulgarism in the presence of great folk.

“What do you think of her, Marco Polo?” Saul asked. His voice betrayed a good deal of anxiety, but whether for me to rejoice or be disappointed in her I could not guess.

“I take it she is the ‘pearl’ that Haran-din calls Miranda,” I answered, to gain a little more time.

“You heard my father order her summoning.”

“Haran-din valued her at a thousand pieces of gold. That is a large sum for any slave girl.”

“I agree with you.”

“I’ve the right to ask for proof that she’s the one, but I don’t think it will be necessary if you’ll answer a few questions. How old is she?”

Saul turned to the maiden. “Miranda, tell this young man how old you are.”

She raised her eyes to gaze straight into mine. “Signor, I am sixteen.”

Thinking hard of what I would realize from her, I heard this with dismay. Virgin slave girls intended for concubines were in good demand at twelve, higher-priced at thirteen, and at their prime at fourteen. After that age they declined rapidly in value: I had never heard of a virgin of sixteen bringing a thousand pieces of gold. My comfort was that she did not look it, and no doubt I could make her conceal the fact.

“Where did she come from?” I asked Saul.

“A countryman of Haran-din’s, owing him a debt, brought her here not quite a year ago. He didn’t say where he’d got her.”

“Is she some fashion of Greek? I can’t remember seeing her like.”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“Miranda, to what nation do you belong?”

“I belong to no nation. I am a slave.”

“Were you born a slave?”

She raised her head and lifted her eyes. “No, signor, I was born free.”

“In what country?”

“On an island in the North. I doubt if you ever heard of it.”

“What’s its name?”

“Albion.”

“The name means White Land. Is it a large island?”

“It’s somewhat larger than the Rialto.”

“What country is it near? Are all the people blond like you? What is their religion? Who is the king, and what’s the name of his capital? Don’t be so short-spoken. Speak out.”

“Lord, I remember none of those things.”

“How old were you when you left there?”

“I don’t remember that either. I was sick—and found myself on a slave ship. What happened before then could have happened to some other girl, as far as I recall.”

“Then how did you know you’re sixteen years old?”

“I’ve a feeling that I am. But I will be any age you tell me.”

“Saul, has Miranda told you anything of her history?”

“No, and if you question her too closely she begins to lie. You ought to hear some of her stories—an imp gets into each of her eyes and she makes them up as she goes along. I think she was sold into slavery not long before she was put into our charge—she certainly knew very little about it. At that time she could speak not a word of Venetian. But she knew a few words of Arabic, and she let slip to one of the handmaids that she had been in Malaga.” This last was the Saracen city on the Spanish coast and the busiest slave market west of Constantinople.

Saul spoke in an irritated tone. When she paid no attention to him or to me, only stood there with her hands folded and her eyes cast down, I felt annoyance growing into ire. I was not at all sure that her wistful look was not put on. I was positive she would not bring more than five hundred pieces of gold.

“She hasn’t learned her duty as a slave even now,” I remarked. “Perhaps if you’d given her a good dose of birch oil, she could talk better.”

“Did you hear that, Miranda? He meant you should have a good whipping, and I’d have been tempted to give it to you, if my revered father would stand for it.”

“And well he shouldn’t!” Mustapha cried in a booming voice. “The idea of laying a lash on the lovely child! Marco, I’m ashamed of you. And pray what would you two strict disciplinarians expect of a delicate maiden snatched or sold into slavery? The shock was enough to erase all the tablets of her memory.”

The girl’s eyes widened and she turned, white in the face, to Simon ben Reuben.

“Lord, have I leave to speak to the venerable Arab?”

“Of course, my dear.”

At that she ran to the bench where Mustapha sat and bowed low before him, her ten fingers touching her forehead. The latter was an Arabic gesture of obeisance and entreaty. I had seen Mustapha’s servant give it on rare occasions.

“What is it, little lovely one?” Mustapha asked.

“The patriarch can’t keep me. It’s in a paper that he must sell me—he’s told me so. Will you buy me, O Sheik? I’ll serve you, body and soul, as long as we both live.”

“I cannot, young Moon of Beauty—Moon of Ramadan! Even if I had enough gold, I have sworn unto Allah never to own another slave. That my countrymen deal in them you know too well. Saul spoke of your knowing a few Arabic words—you have just made an Arabic obeisance. It’s come to me, in great pain, that it was an Arab—likely a Saracen from Malaga—to whom you first went into slavery.”

Her eyes became so bright that I expected her tears to flow. Instead she gave him a fleeting smile.

“That is true.”

“Did he buy you, or——”

“I pray you don’t be troubled by it. It’s as though it happened to another girl, one I hardly knew.”

“I didn’t know that our zebecs sailed as far as your island.”

She caught her breath, and panic seemed about to seize her. Then the gentleness in Mustapha’s face and voice reassured her.

“Then you know our island!”

“I’ve never been there, my darling, but I guessed it first from your appearance, and then very soon you confirmed my guess. If you want to keep it a secret, you mustn’t use a certain name in front of those who know Pliny and are disciples of Ptolemy.”

I had read Ptolemy with great care, and now recalled his speaking of Albion. I would have to ask Mustapha. . . .

“Will you promise not to tell anyone?” the girl asked.

“If you wish it kept a secret, it must be for some good reason, and I won’t tell a soul, even your new master.”

“My new master? I thought I was only being looked at——”

“There he stands—my chela, I wish I could say my son in blood, Marco Polo. He has title to you from Haran-din.”

Miranda turned slowly, a sheen of excitement in her eyes.

“You are Marco Polo?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve heard the patriarch speak of Nicolo Polo, the great traveler——”

“That’s my father.”

“Are you a merchant?”

“Remember your manners, child,” Simon ben Reuben broke in in a gentle voice.

“I entreat you to forgive my forwardness, but will you answer one more question?” the girl persisted.

“You may ask it, and I’ll see.”

“Is it your intention to sell me, or to keep me?”

“Excuse her presumption, Christian youth, for she has not been long a slave, and even a dog would ask that of a new master, if he could.”

“My father’s always making excuses for her,” Saul broke in, half sulkily.

“Since the patriarch speaks for you, I’ll answer you,” I said. “I intend to sell you to the first buyer who’ll pay a fair price.”

“And what will I do without her bright eyes and shining hair?” the old man went on. “Saul, have my handmaiden bring Rebecca’s old lute. The young merchant will be pleased that she’s so accomplished, and I yearn to hear her once more before she goes.”

“I doubt not Signor Polo is in haste to take her away.”

“Have you time to hear her play and sing, young signor? Saul only pretends not to care for it. I know from his face that he likes it very well.”

At my assent, the lute was sent for. It was proper for a slave musician to ask her master what song he preferred, or at least get his consent to her own choosing, but Miranda did not observe the amenity.

“I’ll give you ‘Young Rob o’ the Tower,’ ” she told the old man, as though she were a princess instead of a slave.

“Oh yes.” And then in a proud tone to Mustapha, “This is a song Miranda learned from an old minstrel, and has translated into the Venetian tongue.”

Miranda struck a deep, soft note and began to sing in a minor key. These were the words of her song:

Beggarman O beggarman, out on the lea,

Did you pass a bold knight of high chivalry?

I gave him a kiss, I gave him a flower,

For he’s my true lover, Young Rob o’ the Tower.

Fair maiden, I passed him, and bright was his shield,

And mighty his motto, The Foeman Shall Yield!

But cold will grow kisses, and wilt will a flower,

So wait not too long for Lord Rob o’ the Tower.

Sailorman O sailorman, home from the sea,

Did you pass a bold knight of great gallantry?

When Saracen’s spy him in coverts they’ll cower,

For he’s my true lover, Young Rob o’ the Tower.

Fair maiden, I passed him on tall horse-of-tree,

And loud roared the tempest, and louder laughed he.

And mirth it hath healing and prayer it hath power,

So break not your heart for Lord Rob o’ the Tower.

Pikeman O pikeman, red from the fray,

Did you pass a bold knight in battle to-day?

He promised to wed, I gave him a flower,

O fetch him to me, my Young Rob o’ the Tower.

I fear he’ll not wed you, fair maiden of Devon,

He died in the battle and rode on to Heaven;

And gifts that you gave him in sweet unbless’d hour

Will fetch you to Fire, not to Rob o’ the Tower.

3

I listened and looked at her, and never before had my eyes and ears so joined as though to create a new sense. Her voice was low and sweet, and I saw it shaped in her small, lustrous throat. The melody was a lovely thing, soft and sorrowful, and I thought it accompanied a loveliness in her mouth and eyes I had not seen before, and a loveliness of hands moving in stately measures.

I wondered if she had given a flower to some lover, whereby she had fetched up in slavery. . . . But I must be jealous only for my thousand pieces of gold.

“I know now what land she came from,” I told Mustapha in Arabic. “She lied when she said it was a little island.”

“She said it was bigger than the Rialto, and it is.”

“Did you believe her when she said she had forgotten——?”

“She wants to forget, I think. And as the song said truly, ‘Mirth it hath healing and prayer it hath power.’ Be kind to her, Marco my son.”

The entertainment was over. Apparently it had pleased Mustapha and Simon more than Saul and me; perhaps this was because they were both old men with not much to win or lose from life, and hence they could devote their ears and eyes without prejudice. Perhaps they were more moved by youth and loveliness than in the days when they could possess it themselves, and it was possible that, having more experience, they recognized worth and rareness that we young men missed. They were exulting together, their eyes moist with emotion.

Saul was waiting for me to announce our departure with my property. He was trying, not too successfully, to resign himself to it. I did not go yet; there were two matters on my mind that I felt compelled to settle before we left. One of them, involving the law, could cause a great deal of trouble if what I feared was true; yet I thought best to confront the danger now.

“Miranda, are you a Christian?” I asked. It was an unlawful act for a Venetian Christian to own Christian slaves.

The girl looked me calmly in the eyes.

“No, master. When I was in Malaga, I renounced Christianity and took Allah for my God.”

I was quite sure this was a downright lie, but I heard it with vast relief. Afterward it seemed to me that I had taken a heavy and foolish risk in asking her the question in front of witnesses. If she had answered yes, what action could I have taken? As it was, my title to her had become almost unassailable.

The other matter was simply one of good business. Both Jews would count me a fool if I did not pursue it; if they were remiss, they might be subject to suit. My undoubted reluctance to broach it made me angry with myself—certainly I was not going to renounce my rights, and perhaps be cheated, because of a wistful face and a kind of grace.

“The parchment describes the jewel as flawless,” I remarked, glancing over the writing. “I suppose he meant that just as a perfect pearl is of beautiful shape and unmarred skin, the maiden’s form is without fault and she has no hidden canker or witch’s mark.”

“That was Haran-din’s statement,” Saul answered irritably. “We don’t have to warrant it. All we must do is deliver on his order the chattel he put in our care. As for any disfigurements, you can look for them in privacy as soon as you get to your lodgings—as I don’t doubt you will.”

“Your latter remark is uncalled for, Saul my son,” the patriarch chided him.

“I’ll grant that point,” I said. “But there’s another that involves your care of her. The parchment reads, ‘If the pearl be broken, woe unto you.’ ”

“We guarded her as well as we could,” said Saul, “but that’s a danger from which a legion of dragons couldn’t guarantee to protect her. I trust that the goods are undamaged. If otherwise, I express the wish that no charge be made against me personally, directly or indirectly. She was put in my father’s charge. Such a reflection on my honor I’d be bound to avenge.”

He had tried to cheat me less than an hour before. But there was no doubt now that he meant every word he said, although for a Jew to take up arms against a Christian would condemn him to death by torture.

“Master, I beg leave to speak,” Miranda broke in.

“It’s granted.”

“I swear by Blessèd Jesus——”

“That oath has no warranty unless made by a Christian.”

“I swear by Allah, the great, the glorious, that I’m a virgin.”

“I will consider it established. Saul, you evinced awhile ago a desire to keep her. I’ll ask if you’d like to buy her.”

The room became exceedingly still. Saul tried in vain to control his countenance. He was deeply shaken.

“As a matter of curiosity only,” he said, “what price are you asking?”

“A thousand gold bezants.”

“It’s far too much. Since we’re used to having her here, and would miss her singing and the like, I might be persuaded——” He paused, and he could not keep his eyes from wandering to his father’s face.

“My son, is there no balm in Gilead?” the old man asked solemnly.

“I only meant——”

“Better the sight of the eyes than wandering of desire.”

“I entreat your forgiveness.”

A moment later, the patriarch called me to him and began to ask me kindly, civil questions about my conditions and ambitions, such as an old man may properly put to a young one. I had a hard time answering them, because Saul and Miranda were talking in low tones halfway across the room. I was trying to separate their voices from Simon’s to hear what they said.

At first they seemed to be speaking sorrowfully of their parting. The maiden’s eyes were big and I could not doubt that she felt a deep affection for the handsome young Jew, if not ardent love or carnal passion. Although I believed her claim to virginity in the narrow meaning of the word, the two could have very easily indulged in dalliance, and the mere thought enraged me. I repeated to myself that I was not going to be taken in by her touching appearance and manner, combined with some other quality I could not identify. Beneath these she could be lascivious as a witch child. Perhaps because my senses were sharpened by suspicion or I strained harder than before, I began to catch their words.

“I’m sorry that you were shamed in front of your father and the old Arab,” she was saying. “I wouldn’t worry about the opinions of the young slave trader.”

“The young slave trader is now your master. He can sell you to a baboon who has enough gold to buy you. If you’d confided in me, maybe I could have saved you.”

“I told you it was impossible. But I want you to tell the patriarch what your motives were in trying to keep me here.”

“Even if it was hopeless, as you say, I could have done better for you than this. I could have sold you to Paulos Angelos this very morning, if you’d let me. Haran-din became officially dead when he was taken from the lazar house, and our first order from him would have held in court. But no, Paulos’s promise that you’d become the favorite of a Thessalian duke didn’t move you. Yet you sang your prettiest for a Venetian bravo.”

“Why do you call him that?”

“I grant he’s gentle-born, but you can see he’s of a violent, ruthless nature. Obviously he led the party that delivered Haran-din from the lazar house——”

Miranda gave me a covert glance. “Are you going to turn him in?”

“You know I can’t, even if I wished to. Haran-din was my father’s client and Mustapha Sheik his friend. But I probably was mistaken in one thing I told you about him.” Saul’s voice grew somber. “He’ll probably not sell you. He’ll keep you a few years for his own plaything, and then sell you for a field worker. That will be the end.”

I had heard the talk unmoved, contemptuous, not really trying to understand. My attitude was that they knew I was listening, although of course they did not. Then I saw what shook me more than I wanted to confess. As Saul turned away, his eyes brimmed with tears.

A moment later Miranda was kneeling before Simon ben Reuben, her eyes wide but dry. Christian children in Venice were rarely taught to kneel to their parents or to anyone except princes or priests; I thought she was observing a Jewish custom. The patriarch raised her up, kissed her between the eyes, and spoke to her in his low, old, yet deep, rich voice.

“I wish I could set you free and adopt you into my nation, but that’s beyond my power. But I’ll entreat Jehovah to guard your ways, and I’ll give you what we call a mezusah, a little gold shell containing our God’s promises to us, which we hang on our doorpost. Wear it on a cord over your heart. It’s not a good-luck charm or a talisman of any sort. It’s only a symbol of my own faith, wherewith I bless you. For I’ve learned to love you, my child. And to whatever faith that has brought you to this pass, I know that you’ll be true.”