The Jewel Trader Of Pegu by Jeffrey Hantover Page B

his belly and legs are not beautiful with tattoos, as all men’s should be. But he took on the danger of my blood. What he did, he did for me and not himself.
    I know some brides cry out at the pain of the first time. I didn’t, though it did hurt. I thought of the Buddha’s face. I tried to be as calm. I knew this man didn’t want to hurt me. I believe he knew the pain I felt—as if my spirit were his—and he touched my cheek to comfort me, to quiet my anxious heart. What words can I have for something that I never felt before? After he had given me the gift of his body, I lay next to him and floated away, feeling like green rice swaying in the wind. I wanted that feeling again. I wanted him inside me again. Was that wrong? Was I snared by Mara, the Evil One’s sweet song of desire? Was that the moment my husband died?
    When I wake in the morning, who can I talk to? Aunt Khaing is an old woman. What will I do in the city? There are no weeds to pull, no rice to harvest.

    Surrounded by this strange darkness, my heart is hollow as a bell. I know the bitter truth—this is the last man who will know my body.
    I go for refuge to the Buddha.
    I go for refuge to the Dharma.
    I go for refuge to the Sangha.
    I go for refuge to the Buddha.
    I go for refuge to the Dharma.
    I go for refuge to the Sangha.
    I go for refuge to the Buddha.
    I go for refuge…

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    8 March 1599
    Dear Joseph,
    Two days ago Win heard, through his many ears in the trade, that soldiers sent north had cleared the road of bandits, and a new group of stones had arrived. We were at the trading house the hour its doors opened. There were riches among these rough stones, and we pounced upon the best. A skilled cutter will harvest great value from the stones we secured this morning. Among the sapphires we bought is one as orange and pink as the sun swallowed by the ocean at sunset and two black as crow’s wings. Even an unschooled eye could see in the pinkish red spinels a necklace calling out for the white skin of a duchess. But it was the rubies that set our hearts pounding. They all shine, as if born of lightning. The queen among them has the pigeon-blood red color royalty so prizes. When I held the stone to the light, it glowed like a burning coal. I felt I was holding the beating heart of an angel in my hand.
    This is a ruby fit for the legendary helmet of Sultan Suleiman.
    When I was little and could not go to sleep, Uncle would sit on the edge of the bed and tell me the story of the sultan’s gold helmet studded with hundreds of diamonds, pearls, emeralds, rubies, and one enormous turquoise. His eyes sparkled as bright as its stones, and his voice grew hushed with reverence as he told me about the dozen Rialto workshops that fashioned a helmet to rival the grandeur of Alexander. I would fall asleep with its feathered plume fluttering before my drowsy eyes. Now a real stone to rival my dreams is ours.
    Today I finally exchanged more than a nod with the Portuguese soldier who I think is a hidden Israelite. His name is Antonio de Bri-ho; he is from Pôrto, but he has been away so long he says his home is wherever he is paid for his services. I guess he is in his midthir-ties—his hard life has left its marks on his scarred and creased face.
    If the scars on his forehead and neck could speak of their origins, I am sure they would make me tremble. I am glad I have not seen the horrors his dark eyes have surely witnessed. He is a short, squat, thick-necked man, solid as a tree trunk. His speech is blunt but not as rough as his appearance. I find his directness a refreshing change from the quiet, circuitous talk of the Peguans, who wander off the path or muddy the waters with politeness. He has been here more than a year training the king’s artillerymen in the use of arquebuses, culverins, and the newest weapons, but he has little good to say about the troops. There is no glory here for him, just silver coins for his pocket. He rattled off, like a