Xavier ignored the insult, shuffling forward, which was all the movement his chains would allow. “Where are we going, Peter?”
Jovar stopped in midstride. His blue eyes blazed. “Peter no longer exists.” He smiled his icy cold smile again. “The bashaw wishes to see you.”
Xavier stiffened. An instant later his eyes narrowed, and exultation swept through him.
Xavier was not expecting a feast.
Jovar lead him through the cool, dark palace, past large rooms decorated with intricate mosaics, colorful rugs, and stunning tapestries. Everywhere Xavier looked he glimpsed blooming gardens replete with marble benches and water fountains. They entered another huge, high-ceilinged, domed room. Marble stairs at one end led to the bashaw’s dais, while a large, open courtyard rested at the hall’s other end. The hall was filled with fifty or sixty people, not including slaves and servants.
The bashaw sat upon a gilded throne on the raised dais. His clothing was resplendent, for he wore layers of silks and velvets, each layer designed to reveal the intricate stitching and embroidery of the gown beneath. His outermost coat, which was sleeveless and floor length, was heavily encrusted with gems and pearls. His turban had a huge diamond brooch pinned in the center. Three men stood beside the dais and just below it. The youngest one, almost too pretty, was also fantastically dressed, wearing a huge turban with a diamond brooch. Xavier guessed him to be the bey of Tripoli, the bashaw’s only son and heir, Jebal.
A feast had been laid out on the long, low table in the center of the room. Splendidly clad guests, all male and Moslem, were already partaking of various fish and vegetable dishes; Xavier also sniffed succulent lamb. He had not eaten in two days and his stomach roiled loudly.
The bashaw stood, grinning widely, as Jovar moved Xavier forward through the many attendant slaves, most of whom were black and wearing nothing but vests over their bare torsos, with loose trousers. Gold slave collars gleamed against their ebony skin. Xavier noted that they were barefoot.
Other slaves were Moors. Scanning the room, Xavier noted that several bedouins were present. As he sighted their pale, flowing robes and headdresses, Xavier’s pulse leapt. Foolishly, because he knew the woman with the intense eyes would never dare appear in the bashaw’s hall in disguise, much less within the palace.
“Get down on your knees, dog,” Jovar said, his blue eyes frigid.
Xavier glanced coolly at the Scot who had given up his country and his religion in order to war upon the Christian world for the bashaw of Tripoli and gold. Jovar slammed him in the shoulder. Xavier fell to his knees.
“No, no, you may rise,” the bashaw said in accented English. “Captain Blackwell, please, rise.”
With some difficulty because of his chained wrists, Xavier stood. His hooded gaze met the bashaw’s gleaming black eyes.
“Remove the irons, Jovar,” the bashaw said jovially. He was still smiling at Xavier, who did not smile back. What did the bashaw want? Unfortunately, Xavier could guess.
Jovar snapped out a command, and the two soliders with him quickly divested Xavier of his bonds. Xavier did not rub his raw wrists. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said, inclining his head. It took great will for him to address this barbarian thief, this greedy criminal, this violent murderer, as a royal personage.
The bashaw put his arm around Xavier. “Come, let us eat, let us drink. We have much to celebrate, you and I.”
Xavier allowed the bashaw to guide him to the end of the table, where they sat down on velvet cushions together, flanked by the two other men. The bashaw turned, introducing his son. He then offhandedly introduced his minister of state, Farouk, a fat man who sat across from Xavier. Farouk stared at Xavier. His eyes were coolly assessing—the eyes of a clever, manipulative man.
Slaves were already filling his glass with aqua vitae, a locally brewed alcoholic spirit, his cup with coffee, and his plate with roasted vegetables, exotic grains, and pit-roasted lamb. Although close to starving, Xavier did not reach for the food.
“Please, eat,” the bashaw said affably, breaking off apiece of flat, round bread and dipping it into a vegetable dish. He stuffed it into his mouth, smiling. Tomato remained on his beard.
Xavier began to eat, determined to replenish his body. He was aware that many stares kept coming his way, but he ignored them. He did not drink the aqua vitae.
“Does our fare please you, Captain?”
Xavier jerked to meet the brown-green eyes of the bashaw’s son, Jebal. His gaze appeared somewhat sympathetic. “The food is delicious,” he said, without expression. “I am, of course, hungry.”
“I hope you will not blame us eternally for the rude welcome you received upon arriving on our shores,” Jebal said affably. “We are trying hard now to make amends, as you can see.”
“Grudges are for fools,” Xavier said. “Will my men receive amends, as well?”
Farouk spoke before Jebal could reply. “Anything is possible, Captain.”
Xavier did not smile. He resumed eating until he had finished a second plate. An attractive, young female slave removed his plate.
“We have many beautiful slaves here,” Farouk commented.
Xavier realized that he had eyed the girl’s barely clad body. A pair of green eyes came to his mind. “I have been at sea a long time,” he said cautiously. Did they think to entice him with women? The idea was laughable.
“There is much we have here in Tripoli,” Farouk said.
Xavier met his regard and said nothing.
