Monte Cristo 3: Arabian Nights

The room was large enough and dimly lit or rather swirling whirls of purples and gold hovered in the air above him. They created mesmerizing kaleidoscopes of color, pleasing to the senses and nearly hypnotic with their beauty. Every item, be it a divan or a duvet was richly crafted from the finest silks and cloths in the world. There were rare artifacts ranging from Arabic weapons to swords from Asia – intricate designs that boggled the mind and had his senses reeling at the surrealism of it all. What kind of person could live in such luxury and yet not be known to Italian high society? Where had such items been found and imported without the knowledge of the press? Simply put…it was all…incredible.

In his shock and state of constant amazement, Franz failed to notice the silent figure seated upon one such divan with a look of amusement on his strong but handsome features. Dark eyes flashed with wicked intent as they admired the youth without shame. Franz d’ Epinay did look a bit older than his age and the white silk shirt he wore barely concealed the strength in the young man’s shoulders. The simple but expensive black pants hugged slender hips and long legs and to complete the picture, the young man’s flaxen locks, which looked like spun gold, seemed eager to be touched. The silent man noticed all of this in a few minutes and having had his fill of his visitor, he finally allowed his presence to be known.

“Ah, I see that my meager collection dazzles you, monsieur.”

Franz spun around so fast, he was almost sure he had given himself a whiplash in the process. He found himself staring at a pale-skinned man dressed in a simple but silk-printed caftan with a red tassel cap on his head. Even sitting down, he could tell that his host was quite tall and fit for his age. Franz could see that the man was smirking in amusement and felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment at being so obvious in his inquisitiveness. This was not the way to behave in the home of a guest for he was sure that this man was the one who had invited him. He lowered his head in a small bow of apology.

“Ah, forgive me, monsieur…?”

“Sinbad,” came the simple reply that had Franz blinking in surprise at the choice of name used. “You may call me Sinbad the Sailor as many of my good friends over the years have addressed me, good sir. And what may I call you?”

Franz wondered why his blush hadn’t faded away or why Sinbad’s deep voice, which seemed so confident and eloquent, made him feel slightly flustered. Of course trying to keep his heart from pounding too fast was another task in itself.

“If you are Sinbad,” he finally replied with a small smile. “Then you can call me Signor Aladdin for I believe I must have stepped into the very castles so often described in many Arabian tales.”

Sinbad threw back his head and laughed – a rich sound full of mirth but with an underlying tone of danger that had Franz shifting restlessly.