Alex fled.
Murad had stolen a veil from a merchant in the bazaar and he had draped it over Alex’s head, mostly concealing her face, although she had not paused or even noticed what he was doing. They rushed through the narrow alleys and side streets of Tripoli until they came to the main road that left town by the southern gate. A crowd had gathered on that thoroughfare, the women waving banners and veils, the men and boys waving knives and spears. The crowd was loud, angry, and volatile. They hissed and jeered. Fifty janissaries kept the crowd back. Three captains were mounted, the rest on foot.
Alex moaned deep in her throat, shoving through old and young women and children and toddlers, grown men and boys. A constant stream of invectives was enough to tell Alex that the parade of prisoners was either just passing or soon to come.
She was vaguely aware of Murad holding her elbow very tightly, as if he was afraid of losing her—or afraid of what she might do. He spoke to a fat woman, and Alex heard her say that the prisoners had just marched by. She spat at Murad’s feet and laughed. “We showed the American dogs, we did.” She spat again. “Never again, praise Allah!”
Alex pushed forward to the fringes of the crowd. Murad still holding her from behind. She began to run along the edge of the stomping spectators. She ignored the soldiers, who were chatting idly now in the middle of the street. Ahead, a short distance down the dusty road, she could see a blur of figures and movement. Alex ran faster, raising one hand to shield her eyes from the sun, squinting. She made out a group of marching men.
“Alex,” Murad warned, his hand slipping from her elbow.
Alex ignored him, running now on the side of the street. She tripped but did not fall. Murad ran with her. “You don’t want to do this,” he said in her ear.
She did not answer. The men were marching at a very slow pace, and she was rapidly closing the distance between them. She began to understand why they were marching so slowly. Only the guards were marching. The group of shackled men in their midst were staggering, hardly able to stand upright.
Alex’s heart lurched with sickening intensity. Dread filled her. She stumbled and almost went down.
She continued to run, finally rushing past Murad with a burst of strength she did not know she still had.
“Alex!” he shouted.
Alex lengthened her strides and she caught up with the last line of soldiers, who turned to look at her with incredulous expressions, clearly thinking her nothing but a crazy woman and not a menace or a threat. Alex ran past them, trotting alongside the group, searching the faces of the tottering Americans. In that horrible instant she saw that they were badly hurt, bloody and beaten. And then she saw Xavier.
She screamed.
He wasn’t able to walk. His head lolled to one side. His face was grotesquely swollen, one eye completely shut. Blood dripped down one side of his face, down his chest, and down his back. He was stark naked. Two Turks dragged him; his feet did not move. He was unconscious—or already dead.
“Xavier,” she screamed.
Murad reached her from behind, locking his hands around her and wrestling her backward. “There is nothing you can do,” he shouted at her.
“Xavier!” Alex screamed, struggling wildly to escape Murad.
Murad’s grip was iron. “I’m taking you back to the palace.” He began to drag her backward. Alex fought him furiously, desperately, landing a blow to his chest, his face. But Murad was determined. He finally wrestled her arms behind her and held her in an iron embrace.
Tears streamed down her face. Alex slumped in his arms. Her heart felt shredded, ripped in two, torn out of her chest. She looked up, her tears blinding her. The dust of the street choked her, adding to the surrealism of the scene.
But the marching band of prisoners was in the distance now. Alex fought to see. But he was gone.
She collapsed, weeping.
And only Murad saw Jovar staring down at them from where he was mounted on horseback on the edge of the crowd.
PART THREE
THE SLAVE
28
Tripoli
May 1804
“SHE WILL DIE.”
Absolute silence greeted the physician’s words.
Then Murad moved past the small Turk in his voluminous robes. Swiftly he sat beside Alex on her bed, taking both of her hands in his. She lay limp, her face waxen. She had been unconscious since last night. Murad closed his eyes.Alex could not die!
