"And what did happen?"

"I found you, Jack, standing upright in that ghastly, but delightfully cool space, pounding on the lid of the agha's sarcophagus and repeating certain English words. I knew not what they meant, but they went something like this: ‘Be a good fellow there, sirrah, and bring me a pint of your best bitter!' "

"I must have been out of my head," Jack muttered, "for the light lagers of Pilsen are much better suited to this climate."

"You were still daft, but there was a certain spark about you that I had not seen in a year or two—certainly not since we were traded to Algiers. I suspected that the heat of your fever, compounded with the broiling radiance of the midday sun, under which you'd lain for many hours, had driven the French Pox out of your body. And indeed you have been a little more lucid every day since."

"What did the hoca el-pencik think of this?"

"When you walked out, you were naked, and sunburnt as red as a boiled crab, and there was speculation that you might be some species of ifrit. I have to tell you that the Turks have superstitions about everything, and most especially about Jews—they believe we have occult powers, and of late the Cabbalists have done much to foster such phant'sies. In any event, matters were soon enough sorted out. Our owner received one hundred strokes, with a cane the size of my thumb, on the soles of his feet, and vinegar was poured over the resulting wounds."

"Eeyeh, give me the bull's penis any day!"

"It's expected he may be able to stand up again in a month or two. In the meanwhile, as we wait out the equinoctial storms, we are careening and refitting our galley, as is obvious enough."

DURING THIS NARRATION Jack had been looking sidelong at the other galley-slaves, and had found them to be an uncommonly diverse and multi-cultural lot: there were black Africans, Europeans, Jews, Indians, Asiatics, and many others he could not clearly sort out. But he did not see anyone he recognized from the complement of God's Wounds.

"What of Yevgeny, and Mr. Foot? To speak poetically: have insurance claims been paid on them?"

"They are on the larboard oar. Yevgeny pulls with the strength of two men, and Mr. Foot pulls not at all—which makes them more or less inseparable, in the context of a well-managed galley."

"So they live!"

"Live, and thrive—we'll see them later."

"Why aren't they here, scraping barnacles like the rest of us?" Jack demanded peevishly.

"In Algiers, during the winter months, when galleys dare not venture out on the sea, oar-slaves are permitted—nay, encouraged—to pursue trades. Our owner receives a share of the earnings. Those who have no skills scrape barnacles."

Jack found this news not altogether pleasing, and assaulted a barnacle-cluster with such violence that he nearly stove in the boat's hull. This quickly drew a reprimand—and not from the Turkish whip-hand, but from a short, stocky, red-headed galley-slave on Jack's other side. "I don't care if you're crazy—or pretend to be—you keep that hull seaworthy, lest we all go down!" he barked, in an English that was half Dutch. Jack was a head taller than this Hollander, and considered making something of it—but he didn't imagine that their overseer would look kindly on a fracas, when mere talking was a flogging offense. Besides, there was a rather larger chap standing behind the carrot-top, who was eyeing Jack with the same expression: skeptical bordering on disgusted. This latter appeared to be a Chinaman, but he was not of the frail, cringing sort. Both he and the Hollander looked troublingly familiar.

"Put some slack into your haul-yards, there, shorty—you ain't the owner, nor the captain—as long as she stays afloat, what's a little dent or scratch to us?"

The Dutchman shook his head incredulously and went back to work on a single barnacle, which he was dissecting off a hull-clinker as carefully as a chirurgeon removing a stone from a Grand Duke's bladder.

"Thank you for not making a scene," Moseh said, "it is important that we maintain harmony on the starboard oar."

"Those are our oar-mates?"

"Yes, and the fifth is in town pursuing his trade."

"Well, why is it so important to remain on good terms with them?"

"Other than that we must share a crowded bench with them eight months out of the year, you mean?"

"Yes."

"We must all pull together if we are to maintain parity with the larboard oar."

"What if we don't?"

"The galley will—"

"Yes, yes, it'll go in circles. But why should we care?"

"Aside from that the skin will be whipped off our ribcages by that bull's pizzle?"

"I take that as a given."

"Oars come in matched sets. As matters stand, we have parity with the larboard oar, and therefore constitute a matched set of ten slaves. We were traded to our current owner as such. But if Yevgeny and his bench-mates begin to out-pull us, we'll be split up—your friends will end up in different galleys, or even different cities."

"It'd serve 'em right."

"Pardon me?"

"Pardon me," Jack said, "but here we are on this fucking beach. And I may be a crazy Vagabond, but you appear to be an educated Jew, and that Dutchman is a ship's officer if ever there was one, and God only knows about that Chinaman—"

"Nipponese actually, but trained by the Jesuits."

"All right, then—this only supports my point."

"And your point is—?"

"What can Yevgeny and Mr. Foot possibly have that we don't?"

"They've formed a sort of enterprise wherein Yevgeny is Labor, and Mr. Foot is Management. Its exact nature is difficult to explain. Later, it will become clear to you. In the meantime, it's imperative that the ten of us remain together!"

"What possible reason could you have for giving a damn whether we stay together?"

"During the last several years of touring the Mediterranean behind an oar, I have been developing, secretly, in my mind, a Plan," said Moseh de la Cruz. "It is a plan that will bring all ten of us wealth, and then freedom, though possibly not in that order."

"Does armed mutiny enter into this plan? Because—"

Moseh rolled his eyes.

"I was simply trying to imagine what rôle a man such as myself could possibly have in any Plan—leastways, any Plan that was not invented by a raving Lunatick."

"It is a question I frequently asked myself, until today. Some earlier versions of the Plan, I must admit, involved throwing you overboard as soon as it was practicable. But today when fifteen hundred guns spoke from the three-tiered batteries of the Peñon and the frowning towers of the Kasba, some lingering obstructions were, it seems, finally knocked loose inside your head, and you were put back into your right mind again—or as close to it as is really possible. And now, Jack, you do have a rôle in the Plan."

"And am I allowed to know the nature of this rôle?"

"Why, you'll be our Janissary."

"But I am not a—"

"Hold, hold! You see that fellow scraping barnacles?"

"Which one? There must be a hundred."

"The tall fellow, Arab-looking with a touch of Negro; which is to say Egyptian."

"I see him."

"That is Nyazi—one of the larboard crew."

"He's a Janissary?"

"No, but he's spent enough time around them that he can teach you to fake your way through it. Dappa—the black man, there—can teach you a few words of Turkish. And Gabriel—that Nipponese Jesuit—is a brave swordsman. He'll bring you up to par in no time."

"Why, exactly, does this plan demand a fake Janissary?"

"Really it demands a real one," Moseh sighed, "but in life one must make do with the materials at hand."

"My question is not answered."

"Later—when we are all together—I'll explain."

Jack laughed. "You speak like a courtier, in honeyed euphemisms. When you say ‘together,' it means what? Chained together by our neck-irons in some rat-filled dungeon 'neath that Kasba?"