The Promise of Pain

by David Penny

  “A year ago I was married with a wife expecting our first child. Men change.”

  “That is more than clear. I will stay. Someone has to provide a civilising influence.”

  Thomas saw concern on his friend’s face and wondered if he had really changed so much. He assumed he had, but didn’t see it himself. Yes, he had changed, of course he had, but not in the way Jorge meant. His emotions had closed down, for to allow them full rein would send him howling at the moon, but he still considered himself a good man. Except, in this moment, he needed answers and was impatient for them.

  He stepped closer to the prisoner. A man of medium height, thin to the point of emaciation, his cheekbones harsh on a face that reflected Moorish heritage.

  “This can go easy for you or hard. Which is entirely up to you.”

  “I have done nothing.” The man spoke Arabic, because that is what Thomas had used, but it was a bastard variant native to these mountains.

  “You came here for plunder. For men of fighting age.” Thomas reached out and tugged at the rope angled over the beam. The man cried out as his feet left the ground.

  “Make it easy for me! I was following orders, nothing more. I will tell you whatever you want to know.”

  “Fetch a chair,” Thomas said to Aban, who stood in the corner watching, his face impassive but a manic brightness in his eyes. The boy hesitated, then turned and left the small room which was all the building consisted of. It stank of animals, and their dried droppings littered the floor.

  Thomas stood in front of the man. He said nothing, waiting, staring into his eyes as if he might see into his soul. He glanced briefly to one side where Jorge leaned against the wall, apparently relaxed, but Thomas knew he would be watching and learning.

  The man breathed heavily, and Thomas wondered why he had been sent. He was not an impressive physical specimen, but perhaps his companions had been more skilled, though he had seen little sign of it. If this man was an example of the kind that raided the towns and villages of the region it was surprising they had managed to capture anyone at all.

  Aban returned with a three-legged stool and set it beside Thomas, who unknotted the rope where it was attached to a hook in the wall. The man’s arms dropped, still tied at the wrists. Thomas kicked the stool toward him.

  “Fetch another seat for me,” he said, without taking his eyes from the man, who reached for the stool and sat. He rubbed at the rope binding him, pulled at a tight knot.

  “Leave it where it is,” Thomas said.

  Aban returned with a chair and Thomas sat. He stared hard for a time until the man’s eyes looked away, then he leaned forward.

  “Why did you come here? There are no men left of fighting age in this village.”

  “He is here, isn’t he?” The man nodded toward Aban, who had returned to his spot in the corner of the room. “For now.”

  “But you didn’t know that.”

  The man smiled. “Oh, we knew, we just didn’t know how to catch him.”

  “Why do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Don’t make me string you up again.”

  “We are given orders, of course. Nobody questions them.”

  Thomas studied the man a moment. “When were you taken?”

  “Taken?” The man looked away, not toward Jorge or Aban, but to where a blank wall waited his inspection.

  “I’m not stupid,” Thomas said. “I’ll assume you’re not, either. When?”

  “Four months.”

  “From where?”

  “Pampaneira”

  “Were others taken?”

  The man nodded. “There were six of us then, more later. I was unlucky—they don’t take men from there anymore.”

  A thought occurred to Thomas. “How many have been taken altogether?”

  Again the man’s eyes sought an empty space and his lips thinned.

  “Tell the truth and you will be free to go. Free to return to Pampaneira.”

  “You don’t understand. None of us are free to return to our homes. None of us are free to run away or cross the sea. Our families keep us from running. That and the punishments.”

  Thomas glanced toward Jorge, who nodded that he understood, which was more than Thomas did.

  “Explain about your families.”

  The man leaned closer, less afraid, as if he was starting to believe he might be able to escape from the situation he was in.

  “Our wives and children, girls and the young boys until they grow older, are free to live their lives, but without us. Should one or more of us try to escape they are punished as well as us. To run and be captured seals a terrible fate.”

  “You know the families are punished? How?”

  “I have…” The man’s body tightened and he looked away.

  “You have helped to do this deed yourself, haven’t you,” said Jorge. “Is that what you were going to say?” He remained as relaxed as he had throughout, but the man grew even more agitated. His gaze dropped to the floor, as if preferring the detritus there.

  “I do what I am told. I have to do what I am told. If I don’t it is my family who will be punished for my disobedience. Most of us are the same, but not all. Some men are his favourites.”

  “There are always men willing to kill,” Thomas said. “Often enough for no reason at all. What is it that turned you into what you are? Four months is no great time to corrupt a man.”

  “You don’t understand what it is like in the camp. We are not men anymore. We are animals. He has his own soldiers and they are treated well, but the rest of us have to obey. It takes a toll. Turns us into something less than men.”

  “This man you speak of, the leader, describe him to me.”

  Thomas thought he already knew but wanted confirmation.

  “He is tall. Handsome. Unlike his father.”

  “There are many tall, handsome men—one of them is standing over there. Does this one have a name?”

  The man shook his head. “No name I know of, but he calls himself The Warrior.”

  Thomas sat forward. “The Warrior?”

  “That is what I said, isn’t it?” It was the first sign of defiance from the man.

  Jamila entered the room and Thomas turned at the interruption. “I told you to stay outside.”

  She glanced at the man slumped on the stool, her face expressionless. “There is something you need to see.”

  “I’m busy here.”

  Jamila gave a shake of the head, and Thomas knew he was being stubborn. She wouldn’t have disturbed him if it wasn’t important.

  “Draw him up again,” he told Aban as he stood. “Perhaps it will persuade him to be more talkative when I come back. Set his feet on the stool, let’s see how long he can balance on that.”

  Jorge followed him, an expression of distaste on his face.

  “What?” Thomas said.

  “There’s no need to torture him further, he’s answering your questions.”

  “Did you not see when I mentioned his master? It made him bold. He needs a lesson in humility, and then I intend to feed him—perhaps even allow him to take a bath. He certainly needs one. But first I need to speak to you before Aban joins us. What is the Spanish word for warrior?”

  Thomas watched a slow realisation come to Jorge, who shook his head. “It can’t be, it’s too obvious.”

  “Only if you speak Spanish. He will call himself muharib in Arabic.”

  “But he doesn’t speak Arabic.”

  “Or claimed not to when I knew him last year, but enough time has passed since. He may have learned the language, will have had to learn some if he wants to lead a band of reluctant men who all speak a bastard version of that tongue. But I suspect he spoke it already. This is not recent—it has been planned for years.”

  “How long are you going to leave him strung up?”

  Jamila waited to one side, arms crossed over her chest, a look of impatience on her face.

  Thomas glanc
ed at the sky. “Until after noon, until the day begins to lose its heat.” Though this high on the flanks of the Sholayr the day took longer to gather heat to it, and it was quickly lost.

  “And if he dies?”

  “Why would he die?”

  Jorge shook his head. “He’s not a young man, nor a fit man.”

  “He won’t die,” Thomas said. “And when we go back, he will answer every question I ask of him.”

  “And afterward? What becomes of him?”

  “I haven’t considered that yet, but I will think on it if it worries you so much.”

  Jorge stared at him so hard Thomas turned away before he could say anything else and walked to where Jamila waited. “Show me what is so important, then.”

  She led the way to where the last houses stood on the northern edge of the village. She stopped in the shade of a wall and caught Thomas’s wrist to prevent him going further.

  He glanced at her, then turned to scan the far hillside, for that was the obvious reason she had interrupted him. Jamila continued to grip his wrist, her hold strong, and Thomas saw what she had brought him here for. The men who had fled had not gone far. Two sat on horseback, the third not visible, and a knot of anxiety coiled in Thomas’s chest.

  “Did you see where the other went?” he asked.

  Jamila released his wrist, as if satisfied he would not turn and leave now.

  “Three of them sat there for a long time, as if trying to decide whether to attack again or not, then they argued and one rode away north. That was when I came for you.”

  Thomas wondered how far away reinforcements might be. They could be an hour, or they could be a day, but he suspected the shorter time rather than the longer.

  “Is there some place you can go? A larger town?”

  “Pampaneira is an hour south,” said Jamila. “It’s not a city, but it is the biggest town in the area, and safe. The Governor there has come to an arrangement with the raiders of late, or they consider it too big to attack.”

  “Get everyone together and start out. I’ll catch up with you in a while.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I need to finish questioning the man, then I’ll take care of the soldiers on the hillside. I should have done it before. I was weak.”

  “Take care of them?”

  “Just do as I say.”

  Thomas saw anger on Jamila’s face. He waited for her to see the logic of what he proposed. He was aware he had lost something since Lubna died. She had softened him, made him consider the opinion of others. Now her influence was gone, and the anger he had suppressed for too long could be given full rein. Thomas knew he had lost any patience Lubna had ever instilled in him. He stared at Jamila, waiting without expression until she realised there was no alternative but to do as he said.

  Thomas watched her go, her shoulders tense, and knew that something else had changed inside him. Before Lubna, he had taken women when he needed them, more often than not paying for their services. As a young man he had been harsher, taking what he wanted—often not even needing to take, for he was aware he possessed something that attracted women and had used the power it gifted him. As the years passed he had changed, softened, become more considerate of the needs and opinions of others. When he had been with Lubna he had never wanted anyone else. And now, he knew, he wanted Jamila. He also knew the old Thomas, the compassionate Thomas, would never have acted on such an impulse, even if, as he suspected, Jamila would not reject his advances.

  Perhaps dealing with the men on the hillside would distract his thoughts.

  Perhaps he should discuss how he felt with Jorge, a man who understood sensuality better than anyone else in the world. Except Jorge would tell him to lie with Jamila, that to abstain from pleasure was also a sin. But first he had a man to question, and a decision to make.

  Chapter Nine

  “You didn’t have to be so hard on him,” said Jorge, as he and Thomas stood on the edge of the village and watched a small caravan of people, donkeys and carts move away along a rough track that would eventually lead them to Pampaneira. Jamila had told Thomas how to find the town when he was ready, and that she would arrange accommodation for him and Jorge.

  “He told us everything he knew,” Thomas said. “Some of it was even useful. And I let him go, didn’t I? We needed answers fast, not tomorrow, not even later today.”

  “Yes, you let him go, but he could barely walk.”

  “Then he should have answered my questions sooner.”

  “You hardly gave him time.”

  Thomas wondered whether he should have sent Jorge with the others. He could do what needed to be done just as easily on his own. It was still not too late to send him, but something told him Jorge would take a long time to forgive him if he did. Were they not partners? The only partner Thomas had in the entire world? He glanced at the sky, judging the afternoon to be half gone. Time enough for everything to happen as it must.

  “Stay here, I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Jamila had told him Ibrahim had decided to stay rather than be carried miles by women, and that he also wanted to see Thomas. He walked fast to the small house on the edge of the square where he knew the old man remained—the man he was meant to be helping, the man who was beyond all help.

  Thomas found him sitting on an upright chair, his face pale

  “Jamila tells me two of the men are waiting on the hillside,” said Ibrahim.

  Thomas nodded and sat on the edge of the narrow cot. He wondered if he should try to persuade the old man to leave but knew there was little logic in it. He would die soon anyway. Let him die where he had lived.

  “They are waiting for others to come, aren’t they?” said Ibrahim.

  “It makes sense. There’s nothing else to keep them there. Are you sure you want to stay?” Thomas asked the question, knowing the answer he would receive.

  “I stay here, where I belong. I know I am dying, and I choose to die here. There will be a great deal of pain, won’t there?”

  The old Thomas might have softened his answer, but the reborn Thomas had no time for such. He had been called butcher in the past, now he had moved beyond such a title.

  “You will live a month at most.”

  “You are not going to try to persuade me to change my mind?”

  “I can make it all end now, if you ask.” Thomas looked into Ibrahim’s eyes. “I will make it quick, and as painless as possible.”

  “I will not see the sun set today, but not at your hand. There is something I want you to do for me, though not that.”

  Thomas thought he knew what Ibrahim was about to propose, and approved.

  “Ask it.”

  “You are going to let him sacrifice himself?” Jorge’s face was sweat-streaked, as was Thomas’s, their hands stained by the black powder they had brought on a small cart, dragged from the hut in the quarry where Ibrahim had worked his trade his entire life.

  To Thomas it seemed fitting he should end his life in the same way, in the village he called home.

  He rolled the last barrel of black powder off the cart and stood it beside two others. Another four sat on the far side of the doorway to Ibrahim’s house. More were set against surrounding houses where the stone walls would concentrate the force of the explosion toward the middle of the square. Trails of powder ran dark across the dry earth, each leading to where a chair was set, empty for the moment. What had taken longer than fetching the barrels had been collecting scattered rock from the quarry floor and piling it on the cart to haul to the square. It had taken even longer because of the need to bring them by a way that was not visible to the two men who remained above the village. Now the rocks had been set around the barrels of powder, partly obscuring them from a casual observer.

  “What if I told you he had asked me to end his pain?” Thomas said. “A pain that will never lessen, only grow worse day by day. You would tell me to do so, wouldn’t you?”

  Jorge stared at him, si
lent.

  Thomas sighed. “I thank you for your help, but if you’re going to be stubborn over this I’d prefer you follow the others. I can finish what needs to be done on my own.”

  “You would send me away?”

  “Rather that than have you nag me the entire time.” Thomas pushed at Jorge’s chest, sending him staggering back two paces. “Go after them. I don’t need you here and they need your protection.”

  “You know I can’t fight,” said Jorge. “Usaden tried to teach me when he trained Will, but he says I lack the instinct to kill. He’s right, I’m sure, for which I’m glad. I want to kill nobody.”

  “But you’re big, and you can look mean. I’ve seen you do it. Go. Now. Before we fall out over this.”

  Jorge shook his head. “Before we fall out?” He turned and stalked away, shoulders hunched, and as Thomas watched him go he wondered why he had been so harsh on him, and where his own anger had come from. No doubt Jorge could tell him, but it was too late for that.

  A call came from within the small house and Thomas turned away from Jorge’s retreating figure and went inside to find Ibrahim attempting to stand. Thomas went to him, took his arm and then, feeling the frailness of the man, lifted him like a child and held him against his chest.

  Ibrahim smiled. “I remember when I could lift my wife this way. Where is your friend?”

  “Gone to join the others.” Thomas turned sideways to carry Ibrahim through the doorway then set him in the chair outside. He went back and brought pillows, tucked them around the man.

  “I thank you for your kindness in allowing me this last duty.”

  “Do you have everything you need? It doesn’t have to be this way, you know. It’s not too late for Jorge to take you to the others. I can lay a trail of powder and set the fuse from a safe distance.”

  Ibrahim patted the small table beside him, where a flint and oil lamp rested.

  “And spend a month dying in agony? I prefer to leave this life in a blaze of glory, my friend.”

  Thomas stared at Ibrahim, an unfamiliar sensation in his chest, and it took him a moment to realise it was admiration. He wished he could have spent more time with the old man.