Master of Paradise (26 page)

She tried to talk to them, to ask what was
going on, but no one spoke English or French. They simply stared at
her. If anything, she thought she detected pity in their eyes. What
was happening? She sensed these were slaves of the household, but
she couldn’t understand why she’d been brought here.

Unless...

Once again, Rodrigo’s words came back to her.
They’d get a fortune for you on the block.
A vision of the
slave market assaulted her mind. But no...it couldn’t be...

The chain at her neck was oppressive,
bringing back the old horrors. She scooted back against a cold
wall, trying not to shake, but trembling helplessly nonetheless.
She felt a mad impulse to try to disengage the shackle from her
neck—to bloody her hands in the effort—anything to get free. But
she knew the futility of such a foolish action. Instead, she
struggled to swallow her panic. Not knowing her fate made it all
the more frightening.

Shivering, she clutched the fetter at her
throat, gripping so tightly her hands went numb. And all the while
her mind cried out, What am I going to do?
What am I going to
do?

The sad realization was, there was nothing to
be done.

Somewhere in the night, one of the African
women noted her terror and took pity on her, sliding on the floor
to her side and taking the trembling woman in her arms. It touched
Gabrielle deeply. When she looked up, the African flinched away, as
if expecting to be chastised for daring to touch a white woman. But
Gabrielle gave her a tentatively grateful smile, and the African
took her into her arms again and rocked her to sleep, humming
soothingly all the while.

* * *

Gabrielle awoke feeling deadened from her
fitful doze. The guard who’d just kicked her awake passed her a
crude bowl of some foul-smelling meal. Revolted, she pushed it
aside. She wasn’t even remotely hungry.

After the bowls had been collected, an Arab
woman entered the dungeon. She was dressed in pale blue silk with a
long veil covering the lower half of her face. Of middle age, she
carried the signs of a once-great beauty. Her large, dark eyes were
rimmed in kohl, giving them a mysterious depth. She drifted in on a
cloud of perfume that made Gabrielle’s surroundings seem all the
more surreal. She was followed by a trio of guards who carried with
them buckets of steaming water, sponges, towels, and a silver tray
gleaming with an impressive assortment of oils and perfumes, all in
colorful and exotically shaped bottles. While one guard held her
still, Gabrielle was stripped completely. The woman then set about
the elaborate and drawn-out task of cleaning her while the guard
bent her this way and that to better accommodate the sponge. No one
gave a thought to the fact that a roomful of people watched from
beneath lowered lashes—people that included men and children. She
was treated without any of the dignity she’d come to expect as a
human being. She was treated in the same brusque but careful
fashion a breeder would use when bathing a prize racehorse—or a
slave-monger a slave.

She was forced to suffer the insult of having
her most intimate places scrubbed until her skin glowed.
Eventually, she ceased her struggles. Her fear, her humiliation,
the lack of food, had weakened her. She had to conserve her energy,
to keep from losing hope. Rodrigo would surely have guessed what
had happened. He could be on his way to rescue her even now.

A portable table was brought in and piled
with pillows before being draped with silk. Gabrielle was made to
lie on the table while the woman lingeringly massaged oil into
every inch of her skin. She must have worked on her for an hour
while the Africans pretended not to watch or averted their eyes in
embarrassment.

Finally she was doused in perfume and her
hair was brushed dry. It was allowed to fall free in rich chocolate
waves. Then a dress of rare indigo silk was brought in and draped
over her pampered body before a long matching veil was fastened to
cover the lower half of her face. Without having uttered a word,
the woman departed with the guards, leaving Gabrielle swathed in
the luxury of silk and rare perfumes, with manacles at her neck,
ankles, and wrists.

No one said a word. No one looked her way.
She felt ridiculously foolish, mortified beyond words. But a more
menacing thought dominated her mind.

Why was only she, of all the people in this
room, being given this special care? No one else was so much as
bathed, much less coiffed and perfumed. What was she being prepared
for?

Perhaps she was being taken to the sultan
after all. In spite of the ominous implications, she consoled
herself with the thought. If she was taken to him, she may see
Cullen again. And then...If only she could come up with a plan of
escape.

They came for her some indeterminable time
later. First, all the Africans were herded together with a long
length of chain connecting the leg irons one to another. Then two
guards seized her, one on either side, and fastened a set of chains
to her neck brace. These they each held as they guided her along
through the fortress behind the row of Africans, like a dog on two
leashes, divided by two masters. She didn’t know why she was
accompanying the Africans or why she was being guided along
separately. It took all her courage to steel herself.

They were led through a maze of corridors,
then suddenly came upon the front hall. With a start, Gabrielle
realized they were being led outside. The bright African sun
pierced her eyes so she had to lower her head. Instantly, the guard
cuffed her chin so her head was held high. Then they guided her
down the steps and out into the street.

A crowd was gathered and, as they neared, let
out a cheer. She was shoved ahead, creating a path between the
bodies that lined the way. The mob moved with them, staring,
calling out things she didn’t understand. She only knew they were
gaping at her. As if she were the starring attraction in some
bizarre carnival.

She was pushed along through the crowds in
the debilitating Zanzibar heat. The veil was sucked into her mouth
as she attempted to breathe the thick air, so her lips were visible
through the gauzy silk. The sandals at her feet skipped over the
stones as she was pushed this way and that.

She was paraded through the streets like a
mare for sale. Then suddenly the crowd seemed to part and she saw
before her the terrifying possibility she’d been forcing from her
mind on this long trek—the notorious slave market of the sultan of
Zanzibar. She knew, of course, what her future was now. Someone
would buy her, and once she was in his clutches, he’d be free to
use her at his will. Arab law treated women as chattel without
rights. But slaves weren’t even considered. Her new master could
kill her if she displeased him, and the law would condone his
actions.

As she gazed ahead at the slave block, and
realized the sight she must make. A diaphanous silk gown clinging
to her body. Her golden skin and sultry cobalt eyes. Blue eyes, the
prize of the East. Defiant eyes that no doubt challenged every man
there to tame her to his will. In a matter of moments, she’d be
thrust up those stone steps and put on display for all comers to
bid.

She was forced to watch, held in place by her
guards, as one after the other the Africans were put on the block
and sold. She observed with mounting horror as each was stripped
and perused by prospective buyers, poked and prodded like an
animal. They were made to open their mouths so their teeth could be
inspected. Women’s breasts were tested, their legs parted so new
owners could feel inside.

Gabrielle felt incensed that anyone could
treat fellow human beings with such persecution and contempt.

She held her head high even as she suffered
for the others. Her gaze scanned the jeering mob and she felt the
impossibility of her situation. There were hundreds of robed men in
headdresses that hid most of their faces. Even if Rodrigo was here
in the crowd, there was no way he could rescue her in front of all
these people. It would be folly to try.

Time dragged. The Africans were sold one
after the other, carted off in chains by their new owners. Some
carried whips and cracked them against flesh to make their new
property dance to their will. It sickened Gabrielle, but she made
herself look.
This is what Rodrigo’s fighting
, she thought.
This inhuman display. From her ordeal was born an empathy she would
never otherwise have felt. She was one of them now, a piece of
flesh to be bartered to the highest bidder. She’d felt their pain,
their terror, and made it her own. Now she understood.

The sun was fierce above in a cloudless sky
of blue. As blue as Gabrielle’s eyes. People stared at those eyes
as they would covet a priceless jewel, so she lowered them and
tried not to think. But she could see from beneath her lashes that
there were few Africans left in the line to be sold. Obviously,
they were saving her.

One, then another, then another were forced
up on the block. That left only one remaining, a black youth of
fifteen or so. She couldn’t understand the bidding, but she could
comprehend the meaning. The boy’s muscles were fussed over.
Obviously he was being sold to work in the fields. Her heart went
out to him. So young, with so little life ahead. She thought of her
years of servitude in her father’s home. It had been awful, but
she’d always had the knowledge that she could leave. What must it
be like to know you have no say in your own destiny for the
remainder of your life?

She reminded herself she was about to find
out.

The youth was led away and the guards
tightened their hold on her chains. She was escorted through the
crowd to the podium. At the foot of the stairs she stopped, her
blood freezing in her veins. She couldn’t make herself take another
step.

The move was made for her. She was shoved
toward the steps so she stumbled up them, aware of all eyes on her,
hardly believing what was happening. The auctioneer stepped forward
and began to point as he spoke, highlighting her finer qualities,
no doubt. She was turned so they could see her back. A hand ran
itself over her backside and patted her like a filly. In another
moment, she would be bought and paid for like all the rest.

Someone in the crowd called a command,
accompanied by a rousing cheer. As if in a nightmare, Gabrielle
felt herself being stripped of her silk sheath in this most public
of places. The silk slipped from her with a swish and she felt the
parched air on her skin, the sun beating down on her tender
breasts. She heard men, women, children giggling as she was
revealed to them. She forgot her earlier determination and began to
struggle, becoming panicked, and they laughed again. Small boys
jeered at her. Men licked dry lips and began to call out bids.

She’d never felt more completely degraded.
Her face flushed as men came closer to inspect her. They touched
her and she flinched away. Angered, the guards jerked her back on
her chain. Her display of spirits only caused the men to pursue her
more. The auctioneer said something and the others laughed and
nodded their heads. As if he’d said, “She’d be fun to tame,” and
they’d all agreed.

With mounting hysteria, she scanned the
crowd, wondering who among them would own her, body and soul.

A frenzy of bidding mounted around her. She
could tell by the gleam in the auctioneer’s eyes that she was
fetching a handsome price. For perhaps a quarter hour, there was a
constant calling of bids as the auctioneer looked her over with a
satisfied gaze. Then, as the price escalated, most of the men
dropped out, groaning their disappointment, but taking the
opportunity to ogle her just the same.

The bidding eventually narrowed down to two
men—an Arab in white robes and an Indian with an immaculate turban
on his head. They juggled back and forth for a few minutes, but as
the price increased, they took several moments to consider their
next bids. There was a long pause after the Arab replied, then a
gasp of astonishment as the Indian offered another sum. It seemed
that time stood still. The mob was rapt in suspense, waiting to
hear how the Arab would reply.

Silence hung over the square where once
bedlam had reigned. Not even a stir of breeze broke the deadly
quiet. Gabrielle’s nerves throbbed and screamed.

With infinite deliberation, the Arab walked
forward and mounted the stairs to the block, his long white robes
trailing in the dust. She could see little of his face, except for
a strong brown jaw and finely shaped lips. His robes hid his body,
so it was difficult to tell his physique, but he stood erect, with
the bearing of one who’s accustomed to getting his way. In his
strong hand he held a walking stick, elaborately carved from a
stalk of ebony. He walked with straight, sure strides, leading her
to believe the stick was purely for decorative purposes.

With a graceful arrogance, he stepped before
her. He didn’t so much as look her in the face. Instead, his eyes
fell to her exposed breasts. With his walking stick he prodded
them, testing their firmness, letting them bounce a little on his
stick. Her humiliation caused her to back away. But with a jerk of
his head, the Arab let it be known he would brook no such
rebellion. She was brought back in place.

Then, abruptly, he nodded to the auctioneer.
Without turning, he held out his hand to the man below him and
accepted a heavy white bag of gold. This he tossed to the
auctioneer without even looking to see if he’d caught it.

Something in the gesture reminded her of
other times. Of a pirate lord strutting across the deck, roaring
orders he knew would be obeyed. Not even bothering to check that
they were. Rodrigo! Of course! He’d disguised himself as an Arab
and bought her so he could take her safely away.