Alex had the awful feeling that she was digging herself into a hole. She closed her eyes briefly. “If only Preble were here,” she muttered under her breath.
“What?” he demanded. “What did you just say?”
She backed up. “Nothing.”
“You said, ‘If only Preble were here.’”
Alex kept her mouth shut. She could not remember when Morris was relieved of his command, or when Preble attained it, but she must not reveal all that she knew. “I said, if only it were possible.”
It was clear that he did not believe her.
“And you expect me to trust you, Mrs. Thornton?” He was openly mocking.
“Yes! And I expect us to work together.”
“Never,” he replied. And he turned his back on her, returning to his cubicle, his strides swift and hard.
Alex stared after him, shaken. She almost called him back. To blurt out the truth. But he would be even more skeptical then. He would laugh in her face.
Blinking back sudden tears, Alex whispered, “Let’s go, Murad. There is no point in remaining here.”
The sun was higher, hotter, than the day before. Every inch of Xavier’s body burned. Sweat streamed down his naked, sinewed torso in small rivulets. On his back, it burned every newly opened wound. Blood mingled with perspiration, dirt, and grime.
It was only noon. As Xavier moved away from the sledge where they had finally loaded the twenty-ton block, he wondered again how any man could survive for very long in this kind of labor, in this kind of heat, without sustenance and medical attention. How cruel and inhuman it was. How barbarous.
Tubbs dropped to the ground at Xavier’s feet, panting. It had taken the hundred-odd slaves a day and a half to load up this block. The first mate blinked up at Xavier. “Good God, sir. I don’t think I can make it.”
“You can make it,” Xavier said firmly. “Rest for another minute, but then you will get up.” Xavier turned to study the rest of his men. One by one, like flies, they had all fallen to the hot desert ground to rest, oblivious to the burning heat they lay upon.
Timmy still stood. His face was badly sunburned, flushed with exertion as well, but he was young and strong. He was gulping hot air, though, the way one might gulp cool water.
Xavier looked up and immediately gauged the sun. It was not yet noon. Dear God, Pierre Quixande was right. The slaves were considered less than human, beasts of burden, valueless and replaceable. The Tripolitans worked them to death with purpose and deliberation. And when this lot was dead, there would be new captives to take their place—captured in acts of bloody piracy committed on the high seas. Hatred filled Xavier.
Thank God Robert had died before ever being doomed to such a living hell.
It was the first time Xavier had ever had such a thought. Never before had he ever seen Robert’s violent, untimely death as positive, as an event to be thankful for. For the first time in almost two years, tears did not fill Xavier’s eyes as he thought about his younger brother.
Robert had been sparedthis.
“Up with you, up with the lot of you,” the Turks began shouting. Whips cracked. Someone cried out, someone else moaned. The slaves quickly got to their feet.
Xavier knew what awaited them now. He squinted at the huge block of stone, now tied to the sledge. The sledge was man-drawn.
The entire herd of slaves was moved into the traces attached to the sledge. Slaves had some choice about where they were positioned, and there was much jostling amongst them for advantage. Xavier immediately recognized that to be at the very back of the human herd, closest to the sledge, was the most dangerous place to be. If, on a downhill slope, the sledge slipped forward, out of control, the men closest to the sledge would be crushed first.
And there was a good section of downward slope between the quarries and Tripoli.
“Timmy, you and Tubbs go to the front,” Xavier ordered.
“I want to stay with you, sir,” Timmy protested, his blue eyes on Xavier’s face, his freckled nose wrinkling.
“To the very front,” Xavier said firmly. He shot Tubbs a glance and watched as the bowlegged first mate guided the thirteen-year-old boy to the front ranks, not an easy task. Xavier strode resolutely toward the back.
“You, Blackwell, halt.”
Xavier recognized Kadar’s voice and he turned slowly, which was not quite the same as halting. He tensed slightly, waiting for the lash of a whip.
But Kadar did not use his whip. “I want you in the front,” Kadar said, his black eyes gleaming.
