But it was for this that I came with you, Uncle. I can only trust my instincts. If I do not feel it is Dickon, I shall tell you.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘You said that he hardly spoke to you—do you think he might tell me more?’
‘Perhaps he does not remember,’ Charles said. ‘Signor Santorini believes that he has been a slave for many years, perhaps not always in the galleys. He might have been a house slave for a while and sent to the galleys for some misdemeanour. It is the way of things. Youths make amusing slaves for some men, but when they grow older and stronger they become too dangerous to keep in the house. I shall not tell you of the things these youths are forced to endure, for it is not fitting, but it may be that a man would prefer to forget rather than remember such abuses.’
Kathryn’s eyes were wet with tears, for she could guess what he would not say. She brushed her cheek with the back of her hand. ‘How can men be so cruel to one another?’
‘I do not know, Kathryn,’ Charles said with a deep sigh.
‘How can anyone survive such terrible things?’ Kathryn asked. ‘It seems impossible. Yet this man has done so and deserves our kindness, if no more.’
‘Yes, you are right,’ Charles said, looking thoughtful. ‘I must leave you now, Kathryn. Go into your aunt, my dear, and do not dwell on this too much. I think it unlikely the poor wretch I saw today is my son, but I should value your opinion.’
Kathryn kissed his cheek, doing as he bid her.
She spent the evening with Lady Mary, working on her sewing, for they had purchased many materials before they left England and had not had time to complete their wardrobes. One or other of the servants they had brought with them did much of the plain sewing, but they liked to finish the garments with embroidery and ribbons themselves.
Kathryn was not tired when she retired for the night. She felt a restless energy that would not let her sleep, and sat by the open window looking out over the courtyard. The sky was dark, but there were many stars, besides a crescent moon, and she found it fascinating to look at them, for it was possible to see far more here than at home where there was so often clouds to obscure them.
She became aware of someone in the sunken courtyard. A man just standing there alone, staring at the little fountain that played into a lily pool. He was so still that he might have been one of the beautiful statues that adorned his house and garden, and yet she knew him.
What was he thinking? Was he too unable to sleep? He was such a difficult man to understand, and sometimes she wanted to fly at him in a rage, though at others…she liked him. Yes, despite herself she had begun to like him.
Sighing, Kathryn turned from the window as the man moved towards the house. It was time she was in bed, even if she did not sleep, for Aunt Mary wished to go exploring again in the morning. They were to be taken in a gondola through the waterways so that they might see more of the city.
Lorenzo unbuckled his sword, dropping it on to one of the silken couches that he preferred about him, something he had learned to appreciate at the house of Ali Khayr. A wry smile touched his mouth, for his friend had tried hard to convert him to Islam, though as yet he resisted.
‘You are more at home here with us than in the Christian world,’ Ali Khayr had said to him once as they debated religion and culture. ‘And no one hates the Inquisition more than you, Lorenzo—and yet you resist the true faith.’
‘Perhaps there is good reason,’ Lorenzo said and smiled as the other raised his brow. ‘I do not believe in a god—neither yours, nor the Christian variety.’
‘And yet it was by the will of Allah that you came to me and my son was saved,’ Ali Khayr said. ‘Why do you not accept the teachings of the Prophet? It might help to heal your soul and bring you happiness.’
‘I think I am beyond redemption from your god or the god the Inquisition uses as an excuse for torture and murder.’
‘Hush, Lorenzo,’ Ali Khayr told him. ‘What a man may do in the name of religion may not be called murder, though it would not be our way. We use our slaves more kindly, and those that convert to Islam may rise to positions of importance and a life of ease.’
‘You may choose that way,’ Lorenzo said, a glint in his eyes, ‘but others of your people are less tolerant.’
‘You speak of pirates and thugs,’ Ali Khayr said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘There are men of all races in that fraternity, Lorenzo: Christians as well as Muslims. They say that Rachid, your enemy, was from the Western world, though I do not know if it be true.’
‘It is true,’ Lorenzo said. ‘He wears the clothes of Islam and he speaks the language like a native, but a clever man may learn many languages. I have seen him close to, though he did not look at me, for I was beneath him—a beast of labour, no more.’
‘You have good cause to hate him,’ Ali Khayr said. ‘And I do not condemn you for what you do—but I would bring ease to your soul, Lorenzo. If you put your faith in Allah, you might die a warrior’s death safe in the knowledge that you would be born again in Paradise.’
‘And what is Paradise?’ Lorenzo smiled at him. ‘You would have it a place of beautiful women, and wine such as you have never tasted? My business is fine wines and if I cared for it I could have a beautiful houri when I chose.’
Ali had laughed at his realism. ‘You are stubborn, my friend, but I shall win you in the end.’
Now, alone in his private chamber, Lorenzo smiled grimly as he removed the leather bracelets from his wrists, rubbing at the scars that sometimes irritated him beyond bearing—the badges of his endurance and his slavery. The three years he had served as a slave in Rachid’s personal galley had almost ended his life. Had he been taken sick at sea he would no doubt have been thrown overboard, for there was no mercy for slaves who could not work aboard Rachid’s galley. His good fortune had been that they were near the shores of Granada and he had been taken ashore when the men went to buy fruit and water from traders on the waterfront. He had been left where he fell on the beach, left to die because he was no longer strong enough to work.
It was luck, and only luck, that had brought the Venetian galley to that same shore later that day. He had no memory of how it happened, but he had been taken aboard the personal galley of Antonio Santorini and brought back to life by the devotion of that good man—a man who had also suffered pain and torture, but at the hands of the Inquisition.
Lorenzo recalled the time shortly after he was brought to his father’s house. He had been broken in body, though not in spirit, and it was the gentleness, the kindness of a good man who had brought him back to life. Antonio had taken him in, treating him first as an honoured guest and then as a son, adopting him so that he had a name and a family. For Lorenzo did not know his own name. He had no memory of his life before the years he had spent as a galley slave.
This was the secret he so jealously guarded. No one but his father had known of his loss of a past life, and only Michael amongst his friends knew that he had served in Rachid’s galley, though some might guess. There was a look about him, a hardness that came from endurance. For, once he had regained his strength and health, Lorenzo had worked tirelessly to be the best swordsman, the best galley master, the best judge of fine wines. No softness was allowed into his life. On his galleys he lived as his men lived, worked and trained as hard as they did,
