“He is a prince of the Talmud,” a feverish boy whose dark eyes burned and shimmered in the smudgy light of a lamp told me
N
o one would teach a slave the alphabet.
But I knew how to read the signs.
When Brother Romegas sported a lance wound to the upper arm and a grotesque smile, it meant the corsairs had seen success in another of their violent sea skirmishes. They had captured another passing ship, plundered whatever cargo it was carrying, and taken the poor seafarers back to Malta, to be sold into slavery. The same story had brought all of us here. The same story played out often.
But a captive prince — now that was unusual.
Create a free account to keep reading.
