Silver Angel by Johanna Lindsey
"Well?" she demanded. "Tell me I misunderstood you!"
Haji smiled. This was the fire of the young Rahine whom he had befriended more than thirty years ago, not the calm, unruffled control of the most powerful woman in Barikah,
"I doubt you misunderstood at all, Rahine. Jamil wants her training time cut in half. He wants her ready for him as soon as possible."
"I still don't believe it," she replied, but with less conviction.
"Did you think she wasn't for him?"
Rahine grimaced. "That was exactly what I thought after seeing her for myself. Didn't you at first?"
Haji shrugged and reached for the long stem of his hookah. "Perhaps," he allowed. "But he summoned me early this morning. He did not even trust the order to a messenger."
Rahine leaned back against the silver tasseled cushions. "I don't understand it, Haji. Was I blinded by that bright hair into missing something in the girl?"
"She's undernourished, is all. Plenty of bread soaked in syrup will remedy that quickly enough."
"I did like her," Rahine said reflectively. "She has the sardonic wit of the English aristocracy that brought back so many memories ... but you know what I meant." She turned her emerald gaze on him. "She's blond, she's skinny—"
"And she doesn't like him."
"What?"
"It's true." Haji chuckled. "She might have found him pleasing to the eye at first, but that was before one of the other two girls was unwise enough to spit on him. After witnessing the whipping that followed, Shahar was genuinely revolted by Jamil. She told him to his face that she didn't want to be owned by him. She asked him to send her back to the slave merchant."
"And what was his reaction to that?"
"He was intrigued, I think."
"Then that's it! He's never before met a woman who wasn't instantly enamored of him. She is no more than a challenge."
"I don't know," Haji said thoughtfully. "For some reason he was extremely patient with her. He allowed her to argue with him. He spoke with her at length. He even granted her two requests that she asked of him. But there was nothing in his eyes when he looked at her, not even a little spark of warmth. It was obvious he found the third girl more desirable, yet he picked this blond one instead."
"And now he's impatient to have her?"
"Not so much impatient, Rahine. I didn't sense that. I even had to remind him that he had sent for me. He couldn't recall why for a moment. And when he did, he simply gave the order, as he would any other, then went on to finish the discussion he was having with Omar."
"Very well." Rahine sighed, giving up. "So we are not to know why he wants her or what he sees in her. She will amuse him for a night or two and that will be that."
"She is different from the others," Haji warned.
"I know."
"She is going to prove difficult."
"I know that, too!" she snapped. "Why do you think this has upset me? All the trouble that is going to be caused, and just for a passing fancy."
"Maybe he has finally decided it is ridiculous to put a limit on the number of women he owns," Haji suggested.
"Do you think so?" Rahine asked hopefully, but in the next instant threw up her hands. "Ah, Haji, what is the difference? Our duty is to his pleasure. Whatever he wants, whatever the reason, he shall have it."
Even while Rahine bemoaned it, trouble had already begun, for Safiye was feeling magnanimous after the generous gift Chantelle had bestowed on her and decided to take the new slave to the baths that morning, before they became crowded. She thought Chantelle would appreciate the privacy while she became accustomed to the ritual of the baths, rather than having to endure dozens of curious eyes watching her every move.
And Chantelle was grateful when told that today was an exception, that tomorrow and thereafter she would have to go to the baths in the afternoon with the other women. "But you will come to enjoy it once you lose your modesty. Many of the women spend the entire afternoon in the baths, even eating their dinner there."
Chantelle could understand why one might not want to leave. The hammam of the harem was nothing like the single large room used for bathing at the bagnio. It was peaceful here, and immense, with countless chambers, one leading into the next. There were steam rooms, and rooms with hot and cold showers, rooms with sunken pools of cool water, and massage rooms.
The first chamber after the vestibule, where she had to leave her clothes, was the largest room. Its surprising beauty almost made her forget her nudity. It was octagonal, with a high vaulted cupola from which hundreds of tiny openings let in long bars of steamy sunlight, shooting in every direction, illuminating the green tiled walls with an illusion of being underwater. Here the concubines would gather to gossip while their slaves labored to beautify them, sitting on Turkish rugs they had carried with them or on cool marble benches, or lying on the large round slab of marble in the center of the room that was heated from below.
She was not to stay in this room, however. The four bath attendants whom Safiye had handed her over to led her into one of the smaller rooms, where she was washed thoroughly this first time with an abrasive soap until her skin felt raw all over. She stood there and let them, mostly because she was mortified when they insisted that they do the washing. She didn't even object too strenuously when the down was removed from her body with a depilatory substance. Every woman here went through the same procedure, they told her. Did she expect to be any different?
No, of course not. She wanted to be the same, to blend in, to be unnoticeable and so forgotten. And if they had stopped there everything would have gone all right, and she would have finished the purification process. But they didn't stop with just the pale blond down covering her body, and Chantelle raised holy hell when they went after her pubic hair, intending to pluck out every curly strand.
When Safiye arrived after being hastily summoned, it was to find Chantelle backed into a corner with a pot of hot melted wax in one hand and the brazier of coals that had heated it in the other.
"And just what do you think this will accomplish?" Safiye demanded. "I have only to summon a eunuch or two, and you will be subdued."
"They wouldn't leave me alone," Chantelle replied angrily, glaring at the now nervous slaves who had refused to listen to her objections.
"So you intend to burn them?"
"Whatever it takes, madame."
Safiye sputtered furiously at this calm retort. "You're mad! Mad! What do you think you protect, you stupid girl? Your hair is to be removed, not your hymen!"
Chantelle blushed but did not back down. "I let them remove enough of my hair already. No more."
"It is not up to you. Your body is no longer your own, and pubic hair is sinful! It must—"
"Who says so?" Chantelle demanded. "My body is as God meant it to be, so how can anything that grows on it be sinful?"
"A very good point," Lalla Rahine said quietly from the doorway, having come in unnoticed. "And when you learn our ways, Shahar, you may see our point, too. But for now, all this fuss is unnecessary." Then she frowned, adding reproachfully, "You have burned your hands, haven't you?" She snapped her fingers, and a slave immediately ran for salve. "Come, Shahar, put those down and let us attend your burns before they blister."
Chantelle had barely felt the stinging on her fingers. "They're not plucking any more of my hair," she insisted stubbornly.
"No, they will not. You will finish your bath and return to your room, where your training will begin."
"But—" Safiye began, to be silenced by a sharp glance of those emerald eyes.
Only now that the controversy was over did Chantelle realize she had been standing there stark naked with her two meager weapons. "Could I have a robe or something—"
"Of course, my dear." Rahine flicked a wrist and another slave ran off. "But you really must work toward abandoning this modesty of yours, especially here in the hammam, where many of the odalisques lie about unclothed for the better part of each day. Go now with
As soon as Chantelle was led off to the next room, Rahine's tone changed to frigid displeasure as it lashed into Safiye. "You fool! There is ample time to take care of such things before she is summoned by my son, and ample time for her to adjust to the changes expected of her. There was no point in letting her become so upset that she feels she must fight us. In future if she balks over something, bring the matter to me." And she swept out of the room without allowing Safiye any defense at all.
Chapter Twenty-two
"Well, what do you think?" Adamma asked.
Chantelle picked up the hand mirror to study her face thoughtfully. She was not surprised that she could hardly recognize herself under so much cosmetics. It was the kohl lining her eyes, giving her an exotic appearance, that would take time getting used to.
"It looks like someone punched me in both eyes."
Adamma giggled. "It does, doesn't it. You are just too fair. I think all you need is a very thin line, yes, just enough for emphasis."
Chantelle would prefer nothing at all. "What's the point of all this?"
"You want to be beautiful, don't you?"
"No, I don't."
"But every woman does."
"I'm not every woman, Adamma," Chantelle replied patiently.
"Ah, I see. You want to look different, to stand out-"
"No," Chantelle interrupted hastily, for that was the last thing she wanted. "Go ahead and do your worst."
Adamma smiled with satisfaction, thinking she had made her point. Chantelle let her think what she would. She had already discovered it was not easy arguing with Adamma. The girl was just too cheerful and easygoing. Nothing fazed her.
Adamma had been brought to her that morning, before the unfortunate incident in the baths. She was skilled in the art of applying cosmetics, or so she claimed. Her mother was a Nigerian slave who worked in the kitchens. Her father was one of the palace guards, though neither she nor her mother knew exactly which one he was. That this didn't seem to bother the girl was not surprising. It was just another of the many differences in outlook here that would take getting used to.
She was pretty, with her exotic coloring and delicate features. She might not know who her father was, but he had to have been fairly light-skinned to bequeath the African girl her golden coloring and light amber eyes. And she was sweet, eager to please, and ecstatic about her new position. Chantelle had liked her immediately.
Adamma had previously worked in the hammam more or less as a maid, running back and forth from the kitchens with refreshments for the concubines who lazed the day away in the baths. It perhaps explained why her young body was still so coltishly thin at her age of sixteen, giving her a certain clumsiness. Chantelle certainly wouldn't run her so ragged, but that wasn't the only reason Adamma was delighted to belong to her now. Being the personal slave of one of the Dey's concubines was a position to strive for among the slaves not so lucky to be bought to share the master's bed.
This Adamma had happily explained to Chantelle while she was applying her makeup. Chantelle felt the girl was more lucky not to have to share the Dey's bed, but she didn't say so. That she would rather be a simple servant like Adamma was not going to be understood, so there was no point in trying to explain it.
Adamma had just finished removing most of the black kohl from Chantelle's eyes when another young girl entered the room. This one was no servant, however, or so her clothes and jewels indicated. Chantelle was instantly annoyed that she had just walked in, without asking for permission to enter.
"I am here to explain sex to you."
"You must be joking," Chantelle said dryly, for the girl looked several years younger than she.
"This is normal, lalla, " Adamma piped up. "She will explain all things sexual to you."
Chantelle frowned to see her sitting there avidly waiting for the instruction to begin. She might have to listen to this scandalous information, but sixteen-year-old virgins did not.
"You may go, Adamma."
"But-"
"Go!"
Chantelle regretted her tone instantly, for Adamma scurried out of the room so quickly she didn't have a chance to tell her that she wasn't displeased with her, but with this lesson she must endure. She would apologize later. She wasn't going to have a servant of hers living in fear of displeasing her mistress, which every other slave in the palace did. When death could be the result of such displeasure, this fear was understandable, but Adamma would learn mat was one fear she need no longer have, at least while she remained Chantelle's servant.
She returned her attention to the girl, who had plopped down on a pillow across the low table from her. Bangles clinked loudly on her wrist as she reached for a sweetmeat that Adamma had provided earlier. There was about her an air of superiority and condescension, a petulancy around the soft mouth. She was voluptuous, for all that she looked so young.
She had a round, full-bodied figure that was truly on the plump side, with heavy breasts, thighs, and hips, and a thick waist. That this was supposed to be a desirable figure Chantelle found amusing. Safiye had already told her that she would have no hope of being summoned by the Dey until she gained some weight.
Understandably, Chantelle had not touched a single one of the rich sweetmeats Adamma had tried to tempt her with. She knew she had lost a considerable amount of weight since her ordeal began, and she fully intended to gain it back, but not an ounce more. Exercise was the key, and she would throw herself into it each night after she was finally alone. Let them wonder why the rich diet they had planned for her wasn't working. She would keep her exercising a secret.
"You were expecting me, were you not?"
"I suppose," Chantelle replied with a sigh. The sooner this was over, the better.
"I am called Vashti," the girl supplied, adding haughtily, "It means 'the beautiful.' "
She was that, Chantelle had to allow, but the girl's attitude was rubbing her on the raw. "How nice."
Vashti shrugged, mistaking sarcasm for a compliment, but no amount of flattery was going to endear the Englishwoman to her. She despised her already, for she had been bought by Jamil himself, while Vashti had been purchased by his mother and had enjoyed his bed only once in the eight months since she had entered the palace harem. She was jealous of his wives, jealous of his favorites because she had not become one of them, and jealous of this newcomer who was causing such a stir of speculation.
She thoroughly resented being given the chore of instructing a virgin on what to expect in her master's bed. She needed instruction herself, for she had obviously not pleased Jamil enough to be summoned back, but had Safiye taken that into consideration? No. She had simply snapped at Vashti to tell the English bitch what it was all about. Very well, she would tell her, and she hoped she would worry herself sick in anticipation of it as Vashti had done after that spiteful Yasmeen, her own tutor, had made sex sound so horrible.
Vashti smiled smugly, thinking about it. She didn't know that her very lack of experience was what had prompted Safiye to choose her for this instruction; the older woman was furious with Shahar after what had happened in the hammam and the setdown she had received from Rahine because of it. If she hadn't already given her Adamma, she would have supplied the most lazy, good-for-nothing slave she could find. Vashti was the next best thing, for the girl's spiteful-ness and jealousy were well known.
Chapter Twenty-three
The moment Derek entered his new bedchamber, he tossed off his turban and heavily jeweled caftan. Omar, following him, smiled to see him shed the unaccustomed raiments of the role he had finally assumed.
"It was a successful diversion, will you not agree?" Omar remarked.
"Oh, ho," Derek snorted. "For someone who argued as loud and long against it as you did, you're sounding mightily pleased now."
The diversion had been Derek's idea, and Jamil had gone along with it, though Omar had not. But it had worked splendidly, with Derek appearing in t
Just showing himself was all that was necessary to be the immediate center of attention, for it had been months since Jamil had appeared in public. But Derek had gone one better, mounting the white stallion and spending nearly an hour putting him through his paces, to the delight of the surprised crowd, and thereby allowing Jamil ample time to reach the harbor and the ship that would take him to Istanbul. But this also gave any would-be assassin the opportunity to kill him, if any were fanatic enough to try it with so many guards about. None were, and Omar had nothing left to complain about.