When the Turks were no longer in sight, we slowed our pace to a brisk walk. We couldn’t run forever. My shoes were an imperfect fit—Cecilia’s too—and the pain in my leg was the worst it had been in years.
I made sure we walked along ground that would leave no visible tracks, and I strained my ears, hearing ocean waves and cicadas but not the sound of pursuers. Drops of water lay across Cecilia’s cheeks. They couldn’t be from the sea because the wind and our rush had dried her hair almost completely. Her skin would have dried long before her hair. They were tears. Maybe she was scared.
“There’s no need for fear,” I told her. “I think we’ll make it if you can hang on a while longer.”
She gave me a sharp look, then swiped at her tears. “It is grief, not fear. I know Madonna Cornario. She is not much older than I, and she will greatly miss her husband. It was my idea to jump overboard. I called the time. If I’d done it sooner, the arrow might not have hit him. Maybe I was selfish to suggest escape. We could have waited, and someone might have ransomed us.”
“Had we waited, he probably would have ended up a galley slave, and then his wife would still miss him.”
She was quiet for a time before speaking again. “Messer Cornario was loyal to my father. And loyal to me. As you and your friends are loyal to each other.”
She’d picked out the depth of devotion my friends and I had for each other quickly. Perceptive. “Then your grief is heavy, and I am sorry for it. You can honor his memory by making good the escape he sacrificed so much for.”
She stumbled. The chain yanked at my leg.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Just weary, but we ought to press on.” We walked in silence for a time, and then she spoke again. “Do you think your friends will search for you?”
“Yes, but I hope they don’t run into the Turks while it’s dark. Gil could handle any of the men I fought in the daylight, but he has trouble seeing sudden movements in the dark. But Sebastie knows that. They’ll plan accordingly.”
“You know them well.” A hint of a smile played on her lips.
“Yes. I’m blessed to have people like Gil, Eudocia, and Sebastie in my life. Someday, I hope I’ll be able to say the same thing about my brother.”
“I also hope your brother will change his mind about you.”
Aban’s hatred had waned in key moments since he arrived, but it had also flared. “He might forgive me for kissing Zubiya and lying to protect her, eventually. But I imagine it will be harder for him to forgive my converting to Christianity.”
“You were not born Christian?”
“No. I was born Muslim. And my father did not follow any of the more tolerant strands of Islam. That is what Aban has been taught, all about strictness and punishment.” Other Muslims were different, less judgmental, but my father’s family had a self-righteous streak that held others to a stringent standard.
“What made you change?”
I grew up around Christians, attended them at the bathhouse on the days reserved for men of their faith. Once stripped of their distinctive clothing, the majority of Christian patrons had been much like the Muslim ones, but a few had been different, like Rodrigo, a cloth merchant who had often passed through our town. He’d ended up saving both my life and my soul. “When I was exiled, I didn’t know where to go. I ran into a caravan of Christians. I had seen them before at the bathhouse my father ran, and they were kind enough to take me in. I helped with their animals, and they shared their food and gave me a bedroll. One of them would tell stories around the fire at night. Stories of Jesus, but not Jesus the mortal prophet. He spoke of Jesus the immortal Savior, and something about those stories changed my heart. That was who I wanted to follow—a God of healing rather than a God of wrath. It felt right to become a Christian. My family had rejected me, but Jesus never would.”
“God has a purpose for you, Messer ibn Musa. He must, to have led you to the caravan at just the right time.”
I studied her face and trusted the sincerity I saw there. Rodrigo had told me much the same thing, and he’d meant it. So, it seemed, did Cecilia.
She tripped again, and I held out a hand to her. She shook her head in embarrassment but took my offered hand. “I’m not usually so clumsy. But I am not used to these shoes or these chains.”
“Perhaps my purpose tonight is to help you walk.”
Her lips parted, but she hesitated a moment. “Thank you for coming after me. You could have stayed in the camp with your friends. Instead, you pursued and ran into an ambush.”
“When I rode off, I didn’t know that the Turks had so many reinforcements.”
“Would you have stayed had you known?” Her voice was timid, as if she wasn’t sure she should ask.
I thought for a moment, making sure I spoke truth. “No. I have heard and seen enough of the horrors of slavery that I could not in good conscious leave you without any aid. Gil and Eudocia have made promises to help the innocent. I haven’t made a vow in the same sense they have, but perhaps that is part of my purpose.” I checked behind us and found no sign of Turkish pursuers. “That is why I hold out hope for Aban. He was taught by our father, so he knows only a God who must be obeyed as a way to escape punishment. I wish him to know the God of love and forgiveness, one who is obeyed as a sign of trust and gratitude. But my brother is making it difficult.”
“I think that someday he will admire his older brother the same way I admired mine.”
I thought back to an earlier conversation. “They died at war?”
“Yes. Eleven years ago. Piero was the eldest. He was captured at the battle of Pola. Usually, the Genoese traded or ransomed prisoners, eventually. But after Pola, they beheaded eight hundred of them, including Piero. It was a difficult time. My mother was sick. My father and the Sea Maiden were sailing with Carlo Zeno and his half of the fleet, chasing Genoese shipping, and no one knew where they were. Venice was cut off, almost starving. We have no city wall to protect us, and only a handful of ships survived the battle of Pola. The Genoese refused offers of peace—they were determined to conquer. There was even talk of abandoning the lagoon, moving everyone to Candia or Constantinople.”
She leaned heavily on me as I helped her over a rock. Then she continued. “But our Arsenale had not stopped producing galleys. The doge himself helped oversee the training of all those who volunteered to man them, including my brothers Lenuzo and Facio. They would row every day from the Giudecca to the Lido. They were raw and inexperienced when they started, but they gave everything they had to be better. They would come home so tired but so proud. They felt that was their purpose, throwing everything they had into saving Venice.”
Her admiration and loyalty for them was evident in her voice. That was something I’d lost with my own family but something I’d found with Gil and Eudocia. “How old were they?”
“Lenuzo was seventeen. Facio was fifteen. I remember Facio’s arms shaking with exhaustion when he came home at night. I would rub out the knots in his muscles and tell him how strong and brave he was. No matter how much they hurt or how tired they were, they always went back the next day. I’ll never forget their determination.” She took a deep breath and blinked away a tear. “Venice won in the end. My father returned with Zeno, and the Genoese who had taken Chioggia surrendered. But Piero, Lenuzo, and Facio did not live to see our victory. Nor did my mother.”
“I am sorry for your loss.” I’d had three siblings taken away from me, in a way, when I’d been exiled. But I’d been free to assume they were happy, and now I had Aban back, for better or for worse. Cecilia’s grief must have been overwhelming, to lose them all in war. “Your uncle said your father took you sailing with him after that.”
“Yes. Life on board the Sea Maiden gave us a future after our family had been taken. Rebuilding after the war gave my father purpose again.”
“And did you find your purpose, too, Signorina Bertaldo?”
Her face softened in thought. “Those years when I was by my father’s side were the best of my life, even with the grief. I felt like I had purpose then. I loved sailing across the sea and going to new places. Sometimes we were with a large convoy and sometimes by ourselves, but there was always something new. And I loved being with my father, helping him, learning from him.”
She stepped over a piece of driftwood, using my arm to help her balance. “I felt lost when he died. Since then, my uncle has found a purpose for me. I do not know if it is God’s purpose or just Uncle Giacomo’s.” She frowned. “When we were chained on the beach and it seemed the Turks might sell me into slavery, I couldn’t help but wonder if it would be much different than marriage. The Turks would sell me to whoever paid the highest price. My uncle would marry me to whoever he thought would make the best alliance for our family.”
She was like Zubiya in that way, told by her family to marry a man she had not chosen.
She stumbled again.
“Let’s find somewhere to hide and rest.”
She nodded. “You’re limping. Is that from what happened today?”
The answer was yes and no. “It’s an old injury. It tends to act up when the weather changes. Or when I ride too long or fight too much.”
Perhaps God was looking out for us, because we soon found a cave on the shoreline. The entrance was low and what lay beyond that was dark, but it would hide us from the Turks. I helped Cecilia over the rocks at the front. Then we climbed back as far as we could, curled up, and, despite the hardness of the cave floor and the dampness of our clothes, soon fell asleep.