Chapter 9

“So, Mrs Standfield. What will you write, I wonder, when your visit to our little isolated kingdom is complete?” Degas asked.

She wasn’t quite sure whether he referred to the whole sandy sultantate, a place that few people could find on a map; indeed some atlases simply designated the whole area ‘Barbary Coast’; or was he referring to his own little kingdom?

“Both I think. You shall write of the barbaric customs and traditions on this Sultanate, and perhaps use me as an exemplar. Though if you do, I fear you will attract more young men (and women?) than you will appal.”

“I shall not insult your friendship – for I hope I may call you friend? If I use examples from your life, it will be heavily disguised. But it is true that our readers may well be interested in the true goings on here.”

“All the more reason to ignore me; I fear I am too liberal to be an example of what happens. Lady Theresa is probably more true to the life of western ladies arriving here under duress.” Lady Theresa Lamb had recently been rescued from a neighbouring state. She had been used as a bargaining chip by the Sheikh there, both with neighbours (‘stay and ravage this pure white beauty, she will satisfy your every whim or suffer the sting of the whip again’) and the British (‘recognise my kingdom and you can have this sadly ill-used lady. If you do not recognise my kingdom, I cannot be responsible for what my men will do to her’). “I only sought repayment of what I paid. And only after Sir Harry cheated did I...”

“Nicely argued, but not true. They told me that you called it rent at first.”

He had the honesty to look shamefaced at being caught out. “I realised he was not going to ... so I charged rent in advance, hahah.”

“And you won Sashille in a card game, and Tiffany actually offered herself I believe? Though from what I have pieced together, it was to protect her mother, whom you had already had right well.”

“You are a good reporting journalist, Mrs Standfield.”

“So ... you never thought to influence the story by influencing me?” she meant seduce rather than influence.

Solomon Degas could read people quite well, that was why he, a mere merchant, had amassed a fortune. He could tell when a deal might really be done and where a negotiator might simply be kicking the horse because he was bored. “Lavinia, I assure you I thought more than once of trying to bed you. You are my guest – in a different way to Tiffany – and...”

“And I am double Sashille’s age.” And the rest, thought Solomon. He said nothing.

“Nevertheless, I have enjoyed feasting my eyes on your more mature form. I do assure you.”

Lavinia Standfield had first been persuaded to enter the bathing pool when Mr Degas was not present. She had undressed from the waist up, and although she was now satisfied to bath naked with the other ladies, Solomon had never been given a view of her lower body unclothed. She had enjoyed watching the girls playing with each other, and had been drawn into their games. She once wrote a daring piece for The Times entitled ‘Travel Broadens the Mind, and the posterior’, which was well received for its self-deprecating humour; but it was true that she was not as thin as she had been. She no longer cared. If a man liked her, let him like her for her mind, not her body. Unfortunately, many Arabs liked her body precisely because it was more fleshy that the young women Degas had in his house. Mrs Standfield had her independence recognised in that more than one Arab man offered her money to come to him; only two offered to buy her from Degas. She would put that in her article. She had learnt how to negotiate and was almost tempted when the price reach gold and camels. Later Degas told her with a laugh that he thought she was overpriced.

“I rather think that the visit of Commodore Blakely indicates all will change soon. It is time to leave, unless you wish to record the depredations of the navy?”

“Which one?”

“Doesn’t matter, they are all the same. If they are sent to take this place, the rule will be anything in a veil is fair game, I’m afraid.

Actually even my ladies might not escape ... or you. Sailors have a policy of apologise after. It is too late to be meaningful then.

Shall I include you in our escape?”

“If you would, I would be indebted to you ... no, Mr Degas, NOT that indebted.” She laughed with him.

Even the most perceptive of men (or women) cannot be correct all the time, in every detail. The landing by US Marines came before Degas was ready to leave. He had planned well, he had monetised (‘why Mr Degas, what a horrible word’, ‘ah, Miss Jones, not in the elegance of the AV version of the Bible, but it describes what I have been doing very adequately’) much of his possessions. Which is to say he had sold the bathhouse to the ex-slave that ran it for him. He sold to her at a discount so she could afford it. He knew full well that any local buying it would not take well to allowing a woman to manage it and would ignore such rules as ‘no men’ days. He had sold his more expensive pieces of furniture, but foolishly kept three pieces for sentimental reasons – the bed that had seen so many and so varied sex sessions with so many people, his golden cups (bought with the profits from his first big deal) and Suleiman. He had actually offered Suleiman the choice of freedom, coming with Degas, or transferring to another owner. Suleiman opted to travel with Degas and his retinue; which pleased Degas as much as the ladies, who all liked Suleiman for his size, loyalty, and total lack of interest in their bodies.

The gold, he then arranged to transfer (at something of a discount again) via the Jewish banking network. His letters of credit meant that Rothschild would reimburse him in London. Travelling with large quantities of gold was a good way to arrange terminal surgery on one’s neck, he had explained to Caroline, who had taken a little while to understand the allusion.

Then the marines arrived. Perhaps Degas’ luck still held. These were mostly well-organised and professional in their approach. The Sultan’s castle was reduced to a mound of muddy bricks. The slave bazaar was burnt down. The slaves were freed from their ships and the ships were sunk. It was these slaves who went on their (understandable) rampage. The Sultana was raped fifteen times; sometimes in all three places at once, and the other wives received their attention too. Degas locked and bolted his heavy door, conscious that his neighbours would happily sell him out to preserve their own skins. The marines did not, and would not, interfere. Their role was to stop the Sultan, after that the mayhem that resulted was not part of their remit.

Suleiman and Degas sat near the door, armed to the teeth. Brothers in arms. Degas had not found a way to explain to Suleiman until that time the principle of freed men as paid servants; so he spent the night explaining how Suleiman could not be a slave in London, but could be a servant. It was as if he was explaining the principle of photography to a Neanderthal, the concepts had to be covered in the round, then built upon. Suleiman finally grasped that he would be free to come and go, free to leave if he wished, but free to stay too. He could not be given away or sold. He trusted that Degas would not abandon him; Degas had already made provision for him in his will. The other slaves would be transferred to those that Degas thought trustworthy; though he was aware that it might be true that no-one would be a slave any more. He had given each a small bag of silver coins, they could use that for their own benefit, slave or free.

No-one battered at the door. He was pleased, he wasn’t so sure Suleiman was. He had the strong idea that Suleiman would relish a good, no-holds barred, fight.

“I must go to the sisters, they might be in danger.” Tiffany said. For one brief moment, Solomon thought of Drusilla and Caroline, then he realised.

“Fuck! You will be in danger if you step out. The place will be chaos.” Tiffany was already putting her cloak on, she was free and independent and - “Very well! I shall go with you! Suleiman, stay and protect the ladies.”

Suleiman explained that he was now free, so he could not take orders that were pointless, he would accompany the master (he hadn’t got used to saying ‘Mr Degas’. Perhaps in another month or so).

“And we women are so weak and wimpy that we could not defend our honour, though there isn’t much left to defend.” Drusilla said as she appeared, sporting two pistols and a sword. The others were with her. “We shall lock the door. Knock five times, then a break, then three times.”

He was partially right, the place was a mess. But there was no actual mayhem. In the remains of the palace, concubines, wives, daughter and sons were still giving sexual satisfaction to increasingly desperate men. They had done all the normal stuff when they were ready for sex after waiting for years. Now these same men were milked dry and were trying perversions to get one more erection and spend. The palace was a place to avoid.

The port was less damaged than might be imagined. Warehouses had been ransacked, but not burnt down. Merchants had made themselves scarce, which meant there weren’t the people to vent anger against. Such bodies as there were, were hideously maimed and mangled. Some were halved or quartered. Their faces suggested they were still living when it happened. One man – a ship owner who had been less circumspect than the others – was impaled at the fountain. He was still struggling weakly.

At the small building that doubled as hospital, church and hostel, two nuns were inside praying. The place was untouched. Solomon Degas was almost willing to believe in miracles. “Young man!” he hadn’t been called young for a while “You should not be here, it is unsafe.”

“I should say the same for yourselves, sisters.”

As if their arrival burst a spell, three men burst through the door waving cudgels. Suleiman flattened one with a punch and then grabbed a second and threw him bodily at the third. He had wanted to do that for so long. That these were ex-slaves like himself made no difference, sometimes adrenaline just needed using. He smiled as the attackers came in again and were rebuffed again and again. When it was over, the nuns went to tend the wounds of the injured ex-slaves. Solomon shook his head in disbelief.

“As you see, we are safe. God protects us. Mr Degas, and Suleiman is it? Yes, please, go to safety. We are not in danger.”

It was amazing to Degas. Catholics and Evangelicals both had this childlike belief that they were somehow protected; and if they weren’t, well that was God’s will. And when he was involved, he was a tool for God. He just thought he’d stick to relying on luck and a bit of skill.

“Please, sisters, come with us.”

“Who will help the sick if we leave?”

“You three,” he turned on the three rioters “stay and protect them. They are good people. I WILL check, and if you fail them, I WILL track you down.” He didn’t say what he would do, but they assumed it would not be pleasant. “If you look after them, I will give you some money tomorrow. Sisters, we will be leaving tomorrow. We will call in before. May you be blessed for your work. Come on Suleiman.”After he left, he said “I pray they stay safe.”