In no circumstances could anyone utter the word money in Nicolaos Kouloughis's presence without arousing his interest.
'What do you mean?' he said, automatically, disregarding both the fact that only a few moments before he had been on the verge of strangling this woman and the undoubted absurdity of entering into this kind of argument with a prisoner lashed to the breech of a gun.
'It's perfectly simple. You said, didn't you, that you were going to hand Theodoros over to the pasha of Candia and sell me in Tunis?'
'I did.'
'That's why I tell you you are going to lose a lot of money. Do you think the pasha of Candia will pay you as much as the prisoner's worth? He'll try and bargain with you, give you something on account and tell you he needs time to get the rest together… whereas the Sultan will pay much more, and on the spot, in good solid gold! For me too. If you won't believe who I really am, or listen to reason, you will at least admit I'm worth more than the grubby harem of some Tunisian bey! There isn't a woman in the Grand Signior's harem to match me for beauty,' she declared brazenly.
Her plan was a straightforward one. If she could once get him to alter course for the Bosphorus, instead of taking her off to Africa where she would be lost beyond recall, and the very thought of which appalled her, she knew that this in itself would be something of a victory. The important thing, as she had decided once already in Yorgo's boat, was to get there, no matter how.
She studied the corsair's crafty face anxiously to gauge the effect of her words. She knew that she had touched him on the raw, and very nearly breathed a sigh of relief when he muttered at last:
'You may be right…' But in a moment the meditative tone had changed to one of anger and resentment. 'But you've deserved your punishment!' he cried. 'And you shall suffer it none the less. When the storm is over you shall know what I have decided – perhaps!
He went away forward, leaving Marianne alone on the empty deck. Was he going to alter course? Marianne had the feeling suddenly that something was wrong. She had seen how Jason's men had acted during the storm the Sea Witch had run into after leaving Venice, and it bore no resemblance to the behaviour of Kouloughis' crew.
The seamen on the brig had taken in all sail, leaving the yards bare of everything but the jib and staysail. The men on the polacca were gathered in the bows in what appeared to be some kind of conference, broken now and then by the roars of their captain. Some, the bravest probably, began taking in the more accessible canvas, without enthusiasm, glancing uneasily at the topsails to see how they were standing up to the weather. No one showed the slightest inclination to brave the perils of the shrouds that were now swinging and lashing with the pitching of the ship.
Marianne, for her part, was feeling increasingly unwell. The ship was tossing now like a cork in boiling water and the ropes binding her were beginning to bite into her flesh. She gasped as a wave broke right over her and ran away, foaming, into the scuppers.
All the same, when Kouloughis staggered past her on his way aft, she could not resist jibing at him:
'A fine lot of seamen you've got! If this is how they behave in a storm…'
'They put their trust in God and the saints,' the corsair flung back at her. 'The storm is from heaven; it is for heaven to decide the outcome. All Greeks know that.'
This talk of God was the last thing that might have been expected from a renegade pirate, but Marianne was beginning to form her own idea of the Greeks. They were a strange people, at the same time brave and superstitious, ruthless and generous, and for the most part hopelessly illogical. Consequently she merely raised her eyebrows a little and observed:
'I imagine that is why the Turks find them so easy to defeat. Their method is rather different – but I daresay you must know that, from having decided to serve them.'
'I know. That's why I am going to take the helm, even if it does no good.'
Marianne was prevented from answering this as another dollop of salt water slapped over her, sweeping the deck from end to end. She was choking for breath, coughing and spluttering to free her lungs. When she could see anything again, she caught sight of Kouloughis gripping the wheel with both hands and glaring wildly at the raging sea. The helmsman was crouched under the lee of a bulwark, clutching his beads.
Daylight had crept up slowly, a grey daylight that revealed a gloomy sea. Like a wanton woman doing penance, it had put off its blue satins for grey rags. The waves were mountainous and the air full of flying spume. For all Kouloughis' efforts at the wheel, the vessel was driving forward blindly on a course known only to herself and perhaps to the Devil, however illogically the pirates might persist in seeing the hand of God in it.
The renegade seemed to regard the prayers of his crew as perfectly normal, and it may have been that he himself was leaving it to the storm to decide the outcome of his private dilemma, whether to continue towards Crete or alter course for Constantinople.
A jib was torn off, its sheets frayed and parted, and sailed away into the murky sky like a drunken bird. It did not seem to occur to anyone to do anything about replacing it; but the clamour of invocations to heaven was redoubled, except when drowned by the spray that came on board or by the howling of the wind. The mastheads were dipping and dancing madly against the clouds.
But soon Marianne was past noticing anything. Soaked to the skin, blinded by spray and deafened by the roar of the water, with the wet ropes tightened cruelly and bruising her flesh, she was discovering that her punishment was worse than anything she had imagined. She longed to lose consciousness but could not, and this rough treatment had at least the advantage of making her forget her sickness. On the other hand, the risk of death by drowning was becoming more real every minute and it was beginning to seem to Marianne that she was bound to die where she was, like a rat in a trap.
The slave-trader may have thought the same, or feared to see his profit slipping through his fingers if he prolonged the ordeal, because when there came a slight lull in the storm he locked the wheel and came slithering down from the poop to cut the ropes that bound her.
It was not before time. Marianne's strength was almost exhausted and he had to put both arms round her to keep her from falling on to the steeply tilting deck as the vessel pitched sharply. Half-carrying and half-dragging her to the hatch, he opened it and lowered her down, letting in a fair amount of water at the same time.
The foetid atmosphere of between-decks and the overpowering stench that filled the place succeeded where the onslaughts of the sea had failed, and Marianne was violently sick. The spasms of retching were painful and prolonged, but when it was over she felt better. She groped her way in the semi-darkness to the sacks where she had lain before and stretched herself out on them.
What with the water that had entered below decks and her own sopping wet dress, the sacks were soon in a fair way to being as wet as the deck above, but Marianne told herself that she must bear her troubles patiently. At least she was no longer cold: in fact it was as hot as an oven down there.
Gradually she came to herself again, assisted by a grinding headache. In that enclosed space the sound of the sea against the hull was like the banging of a drum and it was a little while before she realized that not all the thuds that seemed to go right through her head were made by the storm. At the other end of the deck, someone was knocking.
Suddenly she remembered Theodoros and began to make her way awkwardly, more often than not on all fours because of the rolling of the ship, towards the place from which the knocking seemed to come. There was a door made out of great baulks of timber loosely nailed together, but it was fastened by a massive lock.