“You more than others, master,” Ali said.
“Impertinent young fool,” Kamal said without heat. He was silent for a moment, then said without enthusiasm, “I will see the representative from the Sudan first, before the evening meal.”
Ali nodded in agreement. “A man should have his pleasures, highness. You must, after all, put your women to use, if only to let the people know that you are potent as your father was. You have not yet even taken a wife.”
Kamal only shook his head. He did not wish to take a wife. He thought briefly of the virgin it would be his responsibility to take to his bed tonight. Another addition to his harem, another woman to reflect his power and wealth. He wondered idly how a European man would react if he suddenly found himself with a willing virgin in his bed. He would likely think he had gone to his heaven.
He dismissed Ali, and his thoughts quickly returned to his mother. When he had arrived in Oran, he had given her freedom no Muslim woman could have dreamed of. By all that was holy, what had she done with it?
Chapter 4
Kamal walked through the huge central courtyard that set off the harem from the main palace. The evening was warm, but not unpleasantly so. A quarter-moon, just beginning its ascent, lit the darkening sky with a few of the brighter stars.
Guards were placed discreetly along the perimeter of the harem walls, and two eunuchs stood at its double gate. The harem walls were nearly twelve feet high, to prevent anyone from seeing in, and the women from seeing out. The two eunuchs bowed low to him and opened the gates.
A central courtyard opened before him, lined with full-branched willow trees, their narrow leaves and tassellike spikes of flowers drooping downward. A fountain and pool stood in its center, decorated with flowers, marble benches, and at least a dozen of his harem girls. They were all young and lovely, dressed in a rainbow of color. Their tinkling conversation and laughter blended with the lapping of the fountain. Directly beyond the courtyard through high-arched doorways were the harem suites.
The courtyard was suddenly silent. The women had seen him, and were watching him in awed, wide-eyed consternation. He was not expected. He nodded toward them, and they dropped their eyes from him. Several of the girls were unfamiliar to him, girls who had likely shared Hamil’s bed.
“Highness.”
Raj, his head eunuch, waddled toward him, shooing away the girls. Kamal was not displeased to see them disperse.
“You should have told me when you intended to come.”
Kamal smiled at Raj, an older man of mammoth girth, baby-smooth cheeks, and a head as bald as an egg, shaved, Kamal suspected, to lend him more dignity. He knew Raj to be as intelligent as he was loyal. He ran the harem with a minimum of fuss, and dealt well even with Kamal’s mother.
“I know my way, Raj,” he said. Still, Raj walked at his side toward his mother’s suite of rooms, rooms as royally appointed as were his own. Raj stopped in the doorway and bowed deeply toward Giovanna.
“His highness,” the huge eunuch said.
Kamal glanced about at his mother’s apartment. She had made many changes in the last six months that had left the chamber an odd mixture of Arab and European. The far wall was hung with a dark green velvet tapestry, ornamented with colored silk damask flowers. The doorway was inlaid with the finest Italian marble. Choice china and crystal encircled the room on a molding near the ceiling, with large looking-glasses framed with gold placed beneath. The floor was matted and covered with thick woolen carpets. Familiar loose cushions were on the floor, but his mother had added several curved-armed Italian chairs. On another wall there were numerous paintings, anathema to Muslims. His mother was seated in one of her chairs, but quickly rose when Kamal strode toward her.
“My son,” she said softly. “I am delighted you wished to join me for my evening meal.”
“It is my pleasure, madam.” He lightly kissed her proffered cheek.
“You are kind to your lonely mother.”
“You have no reason for loneliness,” Kamal said.
His mother did not reply, but nodded to Raj, and he, in turn, clapped his hands softly. Three slave girls carried in covered silver dishes and laid them on the low table. Fine bone china, napkins, forks and knives were already set upon the table, another European custom Muslims disdained.
The meal was a refreshing change to Kamal. He enjoyed the rare steak and the stewed potatoes, but drank none of the wine. They spoke little until he sat back, his belly comfortably filled, and accepted a cup of coffee served in a small cup from China, placed in a gold filigree bowl. A slave handed him a peeled pomegranate on a silver plate. He watched his mother wave dismissal to the slaves and daintily sip at her wine. Muslims were forbidden to drink wine, particularly women. But his mother was Italian, after all, even though she had accepted Islam to become his father’s second wife.
Giovanna eyed her son over the edge of her crystal wineglass. She regretted that he looked like his father, that rutting old stud. But Alessandro was her son as well, and she had ensured that he would be every bit as Italian as he was Muslim. But she did not know him well.
“Alessandro,” she said in her soft Italian, “I must ask you for a favor.”
Kamal held up his hand. “Before you ask me anything, Mother, there is a matter I must broach with you. You will tell me why you used my seal and instructed my captain, Bajor, to destroy two of the Earl of Clare’s ships.”
So he had at last learned of it. She had hoped he would not until she was ready to tell him, but it made no difference now. She would appeal to his man’s honor, as a helpless woman. She smiled a bit to herself at the thought, but answered him seriously enough, “It is a vendetta, my son. I have had to wait over twenty-five years to have . . . justice rendered. Now that you are the Bey and a powerful man, I ask that you help me.”
His thick brow remained arched. “Vengeance, Mother? You are responsible for making me a liar and breaking tribute with a powerful English nobleman. By God, madam, do you know what you have done?”
Giovanna lowered her eyes to her smooth hands, for Alessandro, like his father, was talented in reading people’s eyes. She frowned a moment at the several small brown spots.
“Yes,” she said quietly, “it was I, and I know what I have done.” She raised her eyes and saw cold, disbelieving anger on his face. “Alessandro, before you judge me harshly, please listen. Twenty-five years ago I was captured by your father and brought here to Oran as a slave for his harem. A slave, my son,” she said, her voice rising, “and I was a contessa, a noblewoman, in Genoa.”