Chiara – Revenge and Triumph Read online

  Two men were standing on its prow and several more along its starboard side. When I saw the ship change course toward me, I lowered the oar, but remained upright, my heart beating fast. I was so glad to see them and know that rescue was at hand that I did not even worry about what to tell them, nor did it cross my mind that they might be pirates. I could hardly wait to be hauled onto its deck.

  As the ship got closer, I managed to read its name: Santa Caterina. Something looked familiar about the flag flying on its aftercastle, but I could not put my fingers upon it. Only when one of the two men on its prow turned his face toward the sun and I saw the black patch over his left eye did it strike me. Signor Sanguanero! No, God would not be so cruel as to deliver me into his hands, not after I had gone through all the agony of leaving my father and suffering the hardship of the sea.

  Maybe he would not recognize me in my boy’s disguise. But even that hope was quickly shattered. Hardly had they lowered a rope ladder that I heard Niccolo’s outburst of laughter.

  "Now look what pretty fish we have caught," he shouted with obvious glee. "Welcome on board, her ladyship, or is it master Chiaro?" He continued grinning from ear to ear.

  Abruptly, I sat again, letting go of the rope. I was not going on board of that ship; I would rather drift along for many more days than this.

  "Come up, girl, or do you need a special invitation?" He turned to the dark-skinned sailor next to him and said: "Moro, bring her up!"

  I could hear his renewed laughter, as he disappeared behind the side of the deck. The sailor slid down the rope ladder like an ape. One look at him and I knew that he meant business. Before I could even react, he had snatched my knife from its sheath. He grabbed my belongings and pushed me so roughly toward the ladder that I almost fell overboard. Once on deck I faced father and son Sanguanero, both smirking. The sailor handed my bag and knife to the father.

  "So you are running away," he said as he fingered the knife. "Nice," he added, giving it to his son, and then he emptied the contents of my bag onto the deck. "Or were you by chance so eager to get into your betrothed’s bed that you came looking for us?"

  I did not answer, but my face must have betrayed my fear. Niccolo picked up the book and the wooden box.

  "I see, the lady can read." He opened the book. "Or do you only look at the pictures?" He frowned and exclaimed: "Look father, isn’t this the one you had wanted to get your hands on?"

  The older Sanguanero took it. "Indeed. What a fortuitous coincidence." He began leafing through it.

  When Niccolo opened the box and pulled out a diamond necklace, his eyes lit up. "Esteemed Signorina, how thoughtful of you to bring me so valuable a present."

  My fear suddenly turned into anger. I was not going to give him the satisfaction of reacting to his sarcasm.

  "What shall we do with her, father?"

  "We will decide later. She looks parched. Give her a drink and then lock her into our cabin."

  He was right. I was terribly thirsty and glad that I did not have to beg for water. Nor did I mind being locked in the cabin as long as I was away from them. The humiliation of it all was almost more than I could bear.

  Moro called to one of the sailor to bring water. How strange life is, so full of surprises! Although I did not know it then, I was going to meet your father. The man who brought me a cup filled to the brim was in his mid-twenties, tall, a rugged face, with a mane of golden locks that shone brightly in the afternoon sun. Our hands touched as I took the cup. It felt like something undefinable passed from him to me. I said "thank you" and met his gaze. I had never seen eyes like this before, blue as the sky, deep as the sea. They expressed both curiosity and something else. Was it pity or sympathy? I wrestled mine away and emptied the cup in one go. When I returned it, I thanked him again, losing myself once more in those deep pools.

  "Prego, Signorina," he replied in a deep sonorous voice, before he turned away. Moro shoved me into the captain’s cabin, locking the door behind me.

  So was this to be the end of my quest for freedom? I was sure they would return me to my father and that now there was no hope left of escaping that marriage.

  How wrong I was going to be on all points. But first I was going to discover in the most shameful way what it meant to be a woman. I cannot talk of what the older Sanguanero did to me, nor do I wish to burden you with an account of my dishonor, except that from bits of conversation I overheard by accident I knew that they planned to let me drown in the sea, and that the reason for their interest in me was a rich treasure, its hidden location only known to my father and supposedly revealed in the little book.

  I do not know where I found the strength to fight and punish the old Sanguanero before jumping into the water myself, rather than be thrown overboard by them. Never again will he feast his eyes on a woman. Every step he takes, groping in the blackest of darkness for the rest of his miserable life, must remind him of what he did to me, such were my thoughts, as I was floating away from the boat in the blackness of the night and the sea. Why would the opening of Dante’s La Commedia come to my mind? And only when I recited it aloud did I notice that I had changed the verses subtly.

  "Al inizio del cammin di mia vita

  Mi ritrovai per una notte oscura

  Che la diritta via era smarrita

  Ah quanto a dir qual era è cosa dura

  Quel mare salvaggio si aspro e forte

  Che nel pensier rinnova la paura!

  Tant’è amaro, ch’in poco me ve’ morte …"

  * * *

  At first, Chiara simply slumped down in the far corner of the cabin, bemoaning her misfortune. Why did the rescuing vessel have to be Sanguanero’s? After this, her father would never dare to break the contract, even if he might have been inclined to do so before out of pity for her. Had God ordained that she be married to Niccolo? If she had only despised that man before, she now hated him.

  Exhausted both physically and mentally she dozed off. Discomfort woke her. She felt stiff all over and got up. Through the small glass window, she watched the last sliver of the sun sink into the sea. The colors of the water were getting darker by the moment. Pieces of flotsam floated past. Putting her face right onto the glass, she saw her rowboat trailing behind. It had been a mistake to take it. She should have tried to hail a passage to Piombino from Ferraio or Porto Longone.

  The cabin air was stifling. She opened the window and took several deep breaths of the sea breeze. It felt refreshing. Voices trickled down from the deck above, and she put her right ear closer to the opening.

  "Is our bird still asleep?" It was the older Sanguanero.

  "Yes, I just checked on her a short while ago," she heard Niccolo’s reply. "I’m surprised she can sleep."

  "Exhaustion and the relief of being rescued. But have no illusions. She dislikes you strongly. If looks could kill, you would be dead."

  "Do you really think that she tried to run away? From me?"

  "Oh, there is no doubt about that. Why would she have taken her mother’s jewels along? You will have your hands full to tame her."

  "But why should I still take her as my wife? If she disappears, you’ll be the only one left who can legitimately claim da Narni’s estate. Her old man won’t last that much longer. The grief of losing his precious daughter may even kill him. Anyway, who knows what could happen. And now that we even have that little book, the treasure will be ours. So why marry her?"

  What treasure? she wondered, but the father’s answer distracted her from that thought.

  "I am puzzled why she took that particular book along, the very book that is to lead us to the treasure, unless she knows something … which I doubt… And how would you make her disappear? Throw her into the sea or sell her to a Saracen slaver? As a virgin, she would fetch a good price in Tunis."

  Chiara heart jumped to her throat. Would they kill her in cold blood or sell her to pirates? The older man’s chuckle left little doubt. She needed a weapon, but what use would a weapon be. She would n
ever be able to overpower either of them. And what about the crew? Right now she must discover their plans for her. She put an ear back to the window.

  "… safer to let her drown," she heard the older Sanguanero’s last few words. "We dump her boat too. Then, in the unlikely event her body is ever found, it will look like a tragic accident."

  Again that sarcastic snigger.

  "If we do it tonight, we are still far enough out to sea, but maybe it would be a shame to throw her away before tasting her young flesh."

  "What a splendid idea! I would never even have thought of that."

  Tasting me? What does he mean by that? Chiara’s mind went blank. Then it dawned on her with sudden horror. They intended to rape her. Her hands holding the window sill started to shake. "Oh God, save me," she whimpered, as she sank to the ground, paralyzed.

  After a while, her sense of survival got the upper hand again. She had to do something. Would she be able to squeeze through the narrow opening of the window and try to swim away? If she had to drown, better drown without being disgraced. A key being turned in the lock interrupted her thoughts. She turned away from the window and stood at the wall, dreading what was to come.

  The older Sanguanero entered, holding a bottle of wine in his left, followed by the blonde sailor who carried a tray of steaming food. He briefly looked at her, his eyes expressing concern.

  "Via, Selvo," Sanguanero barked, after the sailor had placed the tray on the table.

  "Si, Signore," he replied and hurried from the cabin.

  Sanguanero locked the door and slipped the key into a pocket.

  My last meal? Chiara remained frozen at the wall.

  He turned to her. "Come figliola, let us enjoy this meal together. I am sure you must be hungry after your misadventure. How many days have you been drifting in that little boat?"

  When she did not answer nor move, he exclaimed with a benign smile around his one good eye: "There is no need to be so frightened, my poor girl. We are family. You are like a daughter to me."

  She could have almost believed him.

  "Look, I especially asked the cook to roast this chicken in your honor." Saying that, he took a leg and held it out to her.

  Her mind suddenly started scheming. Maybe she could get hold of his knife. Summing up all her strength, she came closer and took the crisp leg. He poured two cups of red wine, taking a sip of his and handing her the other.

  "Why stand? Come, let us be civil. Sit next to me."

  He pulled her down and smiled again. Her first reaction was to shrink away, but then she caught herself, her gaze automatically returning to his eye patch.

  "My missing eye intrigues you, doesn’t it? Would you like to hear the tale of how I lost it?"

  She nodded. How could he chat away like this when he intended to rape and kill her? But she welcomed any reprieve. It increased her chances for escape. He started telling her about the encounter with the Saracen pirates. She did not really listen, simply nodded from time to time. Her mind was working furiously. Something had clicked: The missing eye and the fine, pointed splint bone of the chicken leg in her hand. Sticking that bone into his good eye would blind him, and then she should be able to escape through the window. They would have difficulties finding her in the dark. The thought that this would almost certainly also be her death did not enter her mind. Just one step at a time.

  She slowly ate the meat and drank some wine. When he briefly turned away to reach for the bottle and refilled his cup, she slid the sharp thin bone into her cheek. All she needed now was the right moment — a moment when he would be sufficiently distracted. He had eaten little so far, but was already on his third cup of wine, and had moved closer.

  "Drink," he said, making her take the cup.

  She emptied it, careful not to shift the bone hidden in her cheek. He immediately refilled the cup.

  "Here, have some more. It will help you relax."

  He forced the cup onto her, coming even closer.

  "What a magnificent belt you got," he said, touching it. "Why don’t you take it off? You will be more comfortable, and that is what we want to be, don’t we?"

  Before she could put her cup on the table, he unbuckled the belt and admired it.

  "Is it your mother’s?"

  She nodded. So far she had not voiced a word. All sound seemed to be stuck in her throat. Suddenly, he grabbed her left arm. Instinctively, she pulled away, but he held her firmly.

  "Shy, are we?" This time his smile looked devilish. "Would you not like to be taught the pleasure of the flesh by an experienced man?" His face was only inches away. The smell of heavy wine buffeted her. Panic seized her. She dropped her cup, spilling it over her tunic and breeches.

  "Now, now, that was clumsy —"

  "Please, honorable Signore, have pity on me. Please, don’t harm me," she cried out, interrupting him.

  "There is no need to be afraid. I will not hurt you. Look at you. You are all wet. Take that tunic off."

  Both hand on the hem, he yanked it over her head as she tried to writhe free. She retreated to the wall, crossing her arms over her chest. "Please, Signore, don’t."

  He got up slowly and hemmed her into a corner, a stubborn expression set in his face. He tried to grab her arm again. She ducked and he got her hair instead, forcing her to stand. He slapped her face, not hard but forcefully enough that it stung.

  "Look, girl, we can do this peacefully, like two adults, or I can force you."

  With that he pulled her by the hair and pushed her onto the low bunk. He tore her fine silk breast band off, as she squirmed away from him. Dragging her back by a leg, he hit her again, this time with more force, and then pulled her breeches down, ripping the thin strings that held up her hose. Suddenly, he was on top of her. He pinned her arms to the mattress and forcefully spread her legs. A sharp hurt. She cried out. Paralyzed, she kept her eyes shut tightly, as pain tore through her with every thrust. He let go of her right arm. She opened her eyes and saw his single glazed eye, as he arched himself above her. Fight! Now! a forgotten voice cried. With her thumb and index finger she retrieved the sharp bone from her cheek, and as his eye rolled up and a croaking moan escaped his throat, she struck, ramming the pointed end with all the force her hand could yield all the way into his pupil.

  His screams shook her to the core. He rolled off her and reached for his eye. For a split second she saw the end of the bone protrude from his iris. She scrambled off the bunk, grabbed her breeches, the silk band, and tunic, and ran to the window, still only wearing her soled hose, while he continued hollering and thrashing around himself, searching for her.

  "Bitch, where are you? I will strangle you. I will strangle you. Aiuto, aiuto!"

  She had to fetch a chair to reach the little window. Somebody was trying to open the door, banging at it forcefully.

  "Open up! Open up! What the hell is going on?"

  She pushed her upper body through the window and let her clothes drop into the water. For a second, she was caught in the narrow opening, struggling to get free, oblivious to the scratches she inflicted upon herself, and finally fell head first into the dark. The waters, surprisingly warm for this time of the year, felt like a cocoon. After surfacing, she quickly looked up to the deck. The blonde sailor was leaning over the railing. When he saw her, he raised his hand once and then walked away. Was he going to report her? But why would he have waved as if to say good-bye? However, there was nothing she could do, except disappear in the darkness as fast as possible. She searched for her clothes, floating a few feet behind, quickly grabbed them and then swam away from the vessel, into the light breeze. The enraged screams of the older Sanguanero, now and then joined by angry shouts from his son, grew slowly fainter. By the time she saw lights held over the stern of the boat, she was already several hundred feet away.

  After resting a while, simply staying afloat, she struggled back into her tunic and breeches. How long will I be able to swim? she wondered. Is this the way my short life wil
l end? Like my brother’s? That was when the opening verses of Dante’s La Commedia rose unbidden in her mind and only when she spoke the words, did she notice how she had changed them to fit her fate:

  "Barely begun is my life’s journey

  when I found myself in a dark night,

  For the straight path had been lost.

  As for what it was is a hard thing to say

  This savage sea, so rough and harsh,

  Which in the very thought renews the fear!

  So bitter it is that shortly it will be my death…"

  What was the use of fighting the water? Sooner or later it would be her grave. You must not give up, commanded a voice in her mind. Then, she remembered the flotsam she had seen from the cabin. Maybe she might be lucky and find a piece big enough to help her stay afloat, if she kept a watchful lookout whenever she crested over a wave, particularly once the moon was out which could not be much longer.

  The boat had vanished into the dark. Orienting herself by the stars, she started swimming slowly in the direction she remembered the coast to lie, resting regularly by floating on her back. The water seemed to have a soothing and cleansing effect, both on her hurting body and her battered mind. Whenever her thoughts threatened to stray back to what happened in that cabin, she banished them forcefully. Think only of survival, of reaching dry land, she admonished herself. Most of the time it worked, but the horror had a way of sneaking back.

  * * *

  A growing band of faint light along a distant chain of hills heralded the long awaited rise of the moon. She was still swimming in the right direction. Once the moon threw its bluish light over the sea, she soon spotted something floating a short distance away. It turned out to be a waterlogged tree branch, a few leaves still clinging to its ends, far too unwieldy for her purpose. However, the second piece she spotted was just what she needed. It was an oblong section of bark from a cork oak, large and buoyant enough to put her upper body on it and float. She decided to have a long rest.