Devil's Daughter by Catherine Coulter
“A lie, highness,” Hajj shouted.
Kamal raised his hand for quiet. He gazed closely at both men, then turned to speak softly to Hassan, who stood beside his chair.
He said nothing more, and Hassan directed the two men to wait in the antechamber. Kamal rendered his judgments on two other cases, both involving matters of personal status, and thus under the Our’anic law. He then turned to Hassan and nodded to him.
A sloe-eyed young man, with the beginnings of a paunch as noble as his sire’s, strode into the hall of justice with Hajj Ahmad. Kamal turned to Hajj Ahmad. “This is the son you sent to deliver the spices to the shopkeeper?”
“Yes, highness.”
Kamal looked closely at the young man and smiled. “Tell us what happened,” he said.
The young man glanced briefly toward his father, and told the same story that Hajj Ahmad had recounted, embellishing upon it at the seemingly sympathetic smile from the Bey.
Kamal said quietly when he had finished, “And you serve your father so well that you would leave his goods with another, without payment?”
“The shopkeeper said he could not pay me, highness. He said he would send payment the next day to my father, but he did not.”
Kamal stared down at the huge emerald ring upon his third finger. “Hassan,” he said at last, “the bastinado for the son.”
“Highness,” Hajj shrieked. “He is my son. He is of my flesh. All his life he has served me faithfully.”
“Your son has stolen from you, Hajj Ahmad. If under the bastinado he does not admit where he has hidden the shopkeeper’s payment, I will still consider that justice has been rendered. It appears that you are not a good judge of men. You misjudged your son and you have misjudged me. Do not again attempt to bribe me.”
Hassan clapped his hands, and two of the Turkish soldiers, their scimitars glittering silver at their sides, dragged the young man away. “Do not let them beat the fool to death,” Kamal said to Hassan. “He is a coward. When he tells his father what he has done with the money, release him. Hajj Ahmad will treat him then as he should be treated, I would wager.”
When Kamal had finished with the last case, a dispute over a young bride’s dowry, Hassan’s wizened face crinkled into a smile of pride. “I feared, highness,” he said softly, “that a man who has spent so many years away from us would not see truth among us as would one born to it.”
Kamal laughed. “But you still pray that I will grow wiser as the years pass, do you not, Hassan?”
“Yes, highness. It is inevitable.” Hassan paused a moment as a slave handed Kamal a glass of fruit juice. “There is another matter, highness,” he said softly.
Kamal cocked his head in question, dismissing the slave with a wave of his hand.
“The reply you made to the English earl some weeks ago, highness, the Earl of Clare.”
“The missing ships. I told him that I knew nothing of it, Hassan, as you know. You have since discovered something?”
“Yes, highness. One of our captains, Bajor, was responsible.”
“We have broken tribute,” Kamal said after a moment, his voice blank with disbelief.
“Bajor claimed, highness, that your seal was on the order he received to destroy the ships.”
“The man lies,” Kamal said flatly. “Only you and I use the seal.”
“There is another, highness, if you will recall.”
Kamal could only gaze, appalled, at his minister. When he had gathered his thoughts, he said in a calm voice, “Please have Raj inform my mother that I will dine with her this evening in her chambers.”
“As you wish, highness,” Hassan Aga said.
Kamal left the hall and walked thoughtfully through the ornate passages and chambers that led to his suite of rooms in the west wing of his palace. The two spacious chambers had belonged to Hamil, and Kamal had not disturbed the memories of his half-brother. Precious tapestries from Egypt, spun in brilliant colors, fell from ceiling to floor on the whitewashed walls. The floors were covered with Persian carpets, each woven with swirls of blue, gold, and crimson. Low sandalwood tables, inlaid with ivory, elegant and simple, were surrounded by thick embroidered cushions. A long, narrow sofa stood along one wall, one of Kamal’s few concessions to his own comfort.
He shrugged out of his clothes as he walked into his bedchamber and tossed them into the waiting hands of his personal slave, Ali. He was a slender, black-eyed boy of seventeen whose origins were Moorish. Kamal had seen him in the slave market some five months before, and knew that the boy would likely be castrated by his new owner. There was such hopeless terror on the boy’s face that Kamal could not help himself. Ali was fanatically loyal, and his whimsical personality usually brought a smile to Kamal’s face.
“It is warm,” Kamal said to Ali. “I hope the water is cool.” He walked naked from his bedchamber to his bath. Its walls and floors were set with hand-painted mosaic tiles, each tile depicting individual scenes, some of battles, some of splendid banquets, and a few of men with their female slaves. The bath was a sunken pool, some three feet deep and eight feet wide, set between marble tables covered with white linen cloths. Kamal stood quietly as Ali soaped his body and rinsed him with warm water from a painted urn. He slid into the cool pool and let the clear water close over his head, until he felt the tension in his body begin to ease. He thought lazily that the Europeans could benefit from this Muslim custom of the daily bath.
After a relaxing fifteen minutes, Kamal stepped out of the pool. He allowed Ali to shave his jaws smooth, then stretched on his stomach on one of the marble tables.
“When do you go out with the rais, master?” Ali asked him as he massaged warm, scented oil into his back.
“You think I grow too soft as Bey, Ali? You want me to brandish my scimitar and capture infidel ships?”
“No, highness, you are not soft,” Ali said honestly, glancing at his master’s lean, fine-honed body. “I only fear that you will grow bored, and relieve your boredom by beating me.”
“I will give you warning, Ali,” Kamal retorted.
As he massaged Kamal’s broad back, Ali kept up his usual stream of chatter. “There is a representative from the Sudan come to see you before your evening meal, highness. I hear that he brings a girl for you, a virgin of great beauty captured near Alexandria, a gift from his master. Perhaps you will find her more to your liking than Elena.”
There was a hint of contempt in Ali’s voice when he spoke Elena’s name, but Kamal chose to ignore it. He stretched and turned over on his back. “Just how do you know the girl is a virgin?” he asked.
Ali held up two fingers. “The Sudanese—I heard him talking to that old graybeard Hassan—he tested her.”
“Hassan or the other man?”
“Hassan, that licentious old goat.”
“Careful, Ali.”
Ali cast a furtive glance at his master, knowing he had said too much. Hassan and his master’s witch of a mother were two people no one could insult, even in jest. “Ah, master, will you have me bastinadoed?”
“Perhaps,” Kamal said easily. “Or perhaps I shall repeat to Hassan what you said, and let him decide your punishment.” His eyes remained grim until he saw fear in Ali’s eyes.
“Young fool,” he said, and rose from the marble table. He continued in disgust, “I feel as oily smooth as a girl.”
“Ah, master, but you do not smell so sweet.”
“You have a quick tongue, Ali,” Kamal said as his slave dressed him.
“It serves me well with the women, highness,” Ali said, grinning.
“So you would like to have tested the new slave yourself?”
“I would have done as well, highness.”
“I should have made you a eunuch,” Kamal remarked, but Ali merely smiled, secure in his master’s goodwill.
Kamal allowed Ali to finish dressing him, then sat on a bench to have him brush his thick hair. When Ali was done, Kamal rose, resplendent in a white wool tunic and
“I am told that you greatly resemble your father,” Ali said with satisfaction.
“Yes, though I am even more fair than was he. There must have been a Norse princess in our lineage years ago.”
“I am also told that the famous Khar El-Din delighted in favoring more than one of his harem girls at the same time. It is said that their cries of pleasure could be heard all over the palace.” Ali shook his head, as if confused. “Odd, master. Could he have had more than one tongue?”
“Perhaps I shall have your tongue removed, Ali,” Kamal said, and buffeted the boy on his slender shoulder. Even his light blow sent Ali tumbling to the floor.
“Dammit, boy, when are you going to grow some muscle?” Kamal leaned down and dragged Ali to his feet.
He grinned down into Ali’s face. “A man has full measure of pleasure for a woman between his legs.”
“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.”
“I listen, madam, and as yet I do not hear anything I do not already know. You have spent half your life here, as my father’s second wife. You have given me no reason to assume you were displeased with your station in life.” He gazed about the richly furnished chamber.
“But a slave nonetheless. You have lived many years in Europe. You know that European women liv
Kamal heard trembling anger in her voice. “You digress, madam. I trust this vendetta in some way gives meaning to your foolishness.”
“I will tell you what happened, my son,” Giovanna said. She saw Raj from the corner of her eye, standing silently near the doorway, and drew to an abrupt halt. She had no idea how much the eunuch knew, but she did know he disliked and distrusted her, though he had never shown her any overt disdain. She dismissed him with an angry wave of her hand.
She stretched her slender hand over the small table and clasped her son’s wrist. “Twenty-six years ago, I was to wed a wealthy man, half Italian and half English, a man who was a peer of the English realm. His name is Anthony Welles. His title, the Earl of Clare. He is a man of substance in banking and shipping. He spends half his time in Genoa and half in England. It is he who was responsible for my capture.”
Kamal frowned at her unexpected words, but his voice was calm. “And why did the Earl of Clare do such a thing?”
Giovanna drew a convincingly shuddering breath and forced a furrow of pain to her brow. “It was not actually he, my son, but rather the harlot he had brought from England with him. You see, I was to wed him, but this little English slut, one of his mistresses, knew of it, and offered a great sum of money to your father to remove me permanently. The earl wed the woman, while I languished here, a slave.”
Kamal’s frown did not ease. “This Earl of Clare, did he know what his wife had done?”
“Yes, but only after he had wed her. Your father told me that.”
“The earl made no inquiries? Made no attempt to right the wrong done to you?”
“The little harlot had spun her web about him by that time and was to bear his child. He did nothing.”
“How was an Englishwoman able to contact my father?”
“I do not know, but the fact remains that I am here, and have been for more years than I care to count. Both of them merit my hate, Alessandro, and yours, as my son. They must be punished for what they did.”