Post by Raphaele di Terracina on Dec 24, 2009 17:31:57 GMT -6
The storm lashed the waters in the harbor, and brought commerce to a standstill. White-capped waves gnashed at the pylons, but a few sailors stared contemplatively out at the thick, roiling black clouds now bearing down upon the city, the worst of them lurking a garish green-yellow over the heavily fortified residential quarters. A sane man would have gone inside to have a drink, but such luxuries were nonexistent in this ancient city.
Her glories were now upstream the channel in Cairo, a city on this wintry eve four centuries old. Cairo, being the preferred port and lap of luxury, even to the alcohol-deprived Europeans who docked here, was not a port Raphaele di Terracina liked. The men were more brutal, the dhimmi higher, and goods he came to sell barely sold. The world of the Arabs contained far more treasures than Europeans had to counter, but certain essentials did almost as well as those goods he returned to Venetian-held Candia, and from Candia, through the Italian states and into the Christian world. It boggled the mind imagining where all the luxuries went, and who wore those big bolts of gold-spun damask, whose boots muddied the Turkey rugs, and what fat fingers grasped the jelly candies in their ornate boxes.
His trade was in spices, and though a few sailors kept a weather eye quite literally on the storm overhead, spice merchants were all keeping their merchandise dry. In preparation for the noon prayer, no one did business, shop fronts were boarded up, and there was a disturbing sense of vacancy that sat in his stomach in a nameless feeling he nonetheless dreaded.
When the first crack! sounded, he looked up in alarm. It was not loud enough to be lightning. It was not chased with the boom of thunder. It was, however, chased with balls of ice raining from the heavens the size of a child's fist, and Rafe went dashing for shelter, his curses far more mild than the others caught on the docks, but just as heartfelt.
Thunder rolled in as if it would not cease; one, long rumble that seemed to shake the earth beneath his feet. He was a man who knew nothing of geology, much less the surrounding terrain of the Arab city. Were the sands encroaching? Would the city just crumble underfoot and slide gracefully into the harbor, the two fortresses disappearing under the waves with an impolite belch?
It was the roll of thunder that filled his ears, not the low thrum of conversation in the tea room, populated by Europeans, entirely. Smoke was acrid in the air from the morning meal, and the hot, stifling air was a direct contrast to the mild temperature outside. He almost preferred being belted by the hail to the mixture of old sweat, tobacco, rancid meat, and the dirty linen of unwashed sailors, but the hum of conversation was amusing. They had not yet lapsed upon the pidgin common to port cities. Men stood in tight gatherings -- there was no choice for sprawling, given the immensity of the storm outside the door, and lack of space inside -- muttering worriedly in respective tongues about their common delay. He heard Greek, mostly, of various dialects but still recognizable. Some French, the staccato of the Italian voices, and even a knot of some Germanic peoples. They stuck out from the masses, with tall builds and brightly-colored hair of a variety even the world-traveling Rafe only rarely saw.
The noise, the storm, the smells -- it was all heady, distracting, and his stomach rumbled in protest to the overwhelming sense of not belonging here. He turned back to the door, deciding to brave the storm temporarily to find other shelter, when a hand clapped him solidly on the shoulder.
"Raphaele!"
He whirled, and his dark eyes widened at the sight of the last two men he ever expected to see. "Ben? Is?"
The two brothers looked nearly identical. Israel, the younger by a year, was an inch taller. Ben had the stronger arms, and it was his hand on his shoulder, bearing down enough to catch his attention, though it could have easily snapped the thinner Rafe in two without much more effort. Luckily, both were smiling.
Another boom of thunder, now. Louder, closer, temporarily stilling conversation in the tea house. In the flashing of lightning outside, he could really see his cousins. They were close enough to be brothers, and all of a similar age, but there were striking differences, which Is pointed out by grabbing for Rafe's head with an annoyed flick of his hand. "Where is your hair? Your peyot? Raphaele ben Angelo, your mother will be -- "
"Terribly disappointed," Ben finished with a frown to match Israel's, as Rafe swatted both of them away.
Both men had the long, dark curls around their faces. Their hair was unshorn, their heads covered, and both were dressed -- Rafe noticed with a twinkle of amusement in his dark eyes -- in far too much fabric for even this mild Mediterranean day. Salt clung to their dark, plain clothes in glittering waves, undulating along seams, though there were no corners to be found, only plain black tassels.
Rafe, in jerkin, tunic, breeches, and a pair of dark leather boots up to his knees, countered nearly every scripture his family in Candia held to, but he had not seen his family in Candia in years. Not to say he hadn't been. He was quiet when he was in port, gaining a room in a friend's house, and waiting for his business to be concluded. Stella had come to see him once or twice, but he'd not let even her through the door, lest their father throw her out, too. He was a spiteful, mean old man who hadn't listened to a word Rafe, Ben, or Is had to say about the terrible events that led to Abramo's death. He was still a spiteful, mean old man, but he wouldn't deprive Stella of her relationship with him, the family, or their tightly bound (and stuffed) community. He had her letters, though.
They were pressed up against his breast pocket right now, her handwriting letting him know all was well with their family. She sent her love, and told him his youngest sisters, who had been puzzlingly annoying children last he saw them, had turned down their latest suitors, to their father's unending chagrin.
"We need to talk," Ben said softly. "Somewhere quiet." Is hovered over Ben's shoulder now like a ghoul, his eyes wide with sincerity. Rafe felt his heart jump into his throat. It had nothing to do with the sudden clatter of hail against the walls, or the awful howling of the wind over the empty space of the harbor waters. That sick, absent feeling of dread returned to his stomach. He wished it would go away.
