Alex knew that Murad was right. Remaining a witness to this torture was dangerous in the extreme. For Alex did not trust herself. Exposing herself now by acting rashly would not help anyone.
Alex allowed Murad to pull her away, but she craned her head, watching as Blackwell moved forward with the others, pressing his shoulders against one side of the block. An order was issued and all the slaves pushed and heaved. The huge limestone block shifted, moving another few inches onto the sledge.
Alex pressed her fist against her mouth.
And then the big block shifted again. Suddenly.
“Hasib! Hasib!”someone cried out, a warning.
The block suddenly moved with a spurt of speed, sliding off of the sledge.
Alex screamed.
The huge, twenty-ton block went crashing down onto the ground—on top of at least fifty men. Her cry went unnoticed amidst the agonized screams filling the quarry pit.
The two bedoin stood silently in the guardroom of the bagnio with two soldiers. Alex kept her gaze lowered, but the images of the manacles and fetters and terrible-looking clamps, vises, whips, and barbed wire, all hanging on the walls, continued to assail her. She was ill, imagining the torture inflicted within the thick, impenetrable walls of the bagnio. She had lived in Tripoli for over a year, but within the cloistered, pampered sanctuary of the palace, and she’d had no idea about what really went on in Barbary. The stories had seemed to be just that, stories—events she’d read about in the twentieth century. Alex was appalled. She could not shake what had happened that morning from her mind. Forty-two men had died instantaneously, completely crushed beneath the twenty-ton slab of limestone, while another seven had been put to death, their tower limbs and other body parts mangled beyond description and any and all medical repair. Blackwell, she knew, had not been hurt in the horrendous accident.
But she had never, ever in her life witnessed such a disaster before. She would never forget the death and pain and anguish. She could still hear the men screaming witlessly for mercy, for God, and for death.
She heard approaching footsteps echoing in the far corridor and she tensed.
Alex quickly looked up as a big, bald Turk entered the guardroom. It was late afternoon; the slaves had already returned to the bagnio, their laborious day done. The guardian pasha regarded her closely; quickly Alex looked down. His eyes had been peculiarly blank. But had he seen through her disguise? Realizing that she was a woman and not a young man?
Murad had already bribed Kadar. Now he bowed his head, murmuring, “Oh, Kadar, esteemed one, again, thank you for allowing us to enter here, and may Allah keep you and those you love in good fortune and good health.”
Alex glanced sideways at Murad and saw that he was smiling as he bowed obsequiously.
Kadar grunted. He had just received a fortune in the form of the ruby and diamond necklace. Alex had not been privy to the exchange, but Murad had told her in advance that he thought that he could obtain special privileges for Blackwell as well as a guarantee of his safety. Alex warned Murad that she wanted the right to be able to visit him when she could. Murad had not responded to that. Alex would kill him if that was not a part of the deal.
“Itfeduhl,”Kadar said.
Alex’s heart thumped hard against her ribs.
Kadar turned. “Follow me.”
Trembling with anticipation and apprehension, unable to forget the blazing look she’d last seen in Blackwell’s eyes, which she did not understand, Alex fell into step behind Kadar with Murad and they followed the Turk down a long, dimly lit, vaulted tunnel. At the other end huge doors were unlocked and Alex entered a courtyard. Instantly she was assailed by the odor of dirty, unwashed bodies. The courtyard was so crowded that Alex felt suffocated. Men sat and slept on the ground everywhere—the exhaustion of the slaves was more than apparent. She gripped Murad’s arm, glancing around wildly.
And from the hundreds of men contained in the prison, one man emerged crystal clear, in vivid focus. Blackwell was sitting cross-legged on a mat on the fringes of a long, rectangular area, within which were spaces for various craftsmen, now vacant. He was with three other men, but Alex did not really see his companions. She only saw him.
Her pulse felt explosive. Pressure building, increasing. She could hardly breathe.
Without realizing it, she began walking toward him.
Blackwell slowly stood. His expression was stunned, his dark eyes wide—clearly he was shocked to see her.
“Xavier,” Alex said hoarsely. She trembled. She wanted to leap into his arms.
His jaw ground down, his temples visibly throbbed. His gaze had narrowed and he stared at her. Suddenly Alex had the oddest feeling that he was not pleased to see her—that he was angry with her—but that, of course, was impossible.
Kadar moved between them. “Blackwell. You can move to the terrace, or take one of the chambers beneath it.”
Blackwell’s gaze darted swiftly to Alex and their eyes locked. He turned abruptly, following Kadar.
Alex winced at the sight of his back. It had been tended with salve, but not with bandages, and the welts were a mélange of new, ugly scabs and raw, red abrasions. She followed the two men, aware that Murad trailed after her, too.
Xavier was ushered into a small, empty chamber no more than four feet wide and six feet long. He tossed his straw mat down, then turned, arms hanging, facing Alex, who stood upon the threshold. Kadar gave them a brief, parting glance, one impossible to comprehend, and left. Murad stood outside, rocking back and forth on his heels uneasily. He was careful not to look at them.
Blackwell’s hands found his hips. “What are you doing here?” he asked very brusquely.
