Ironhand

by Hilary Green

'Can't we smuggle him back on board the Santa Christina?' Beppo asked.

  Ibn Khaled shook his head. 'If Ranulph is being looked for they will be bound to search the ship before you leave. We shall have to find another route, and you can meet up later.' He smiled at Ranulph. 'There's no need to worry yet. You are safe here. Rest and recover your strength.'

  Later that day, as he lay half dozing, Ranulph's mind returned to his meeting with Dirk and the boast he had made that the awaited spice caravan would be diverted into the Genoan funduq. It was imperative that that should be prevented. He wondered briefly if Dirk had been involved in the plot to frame him. Certainly it would be to his advantage to have Ranulph out of the way – but no, he decided, the whole thing was steeped in Viviana's malice. She would have required no outside influence. But that still left the problem of how to get hold of those spices before they disappeared into the Genoans' grasping hands. Brooding over the problem an idea began to germinate in his mind.

  When Beppo and ibn Khaled visited him later he told them about his encounter with Dirk and what he had learned and saw the colour leave the older man's face. He understood why. They had made a good bargain with ibn Khalid for their inbound cargo, but without the profit on the precious spices they had come in search of the money would be hardly sufficient to pay off the crew. Beppo, like Piet, could be dependant on the charity of friends to survive until the next sailing season.

  'I've got an idea,' Ranulph said. 'Ibn Khaled, you spoke of the route the camel train takes. Can you show me on a map?'

  'My father has maps,' the Egyptian responded. 'I can ask him to lend me one.'

  Next day Al Tayibb arrived in person with a scroll under his arm. He unrolled it and spread it out on a table.

  'See, here is the Red Sea. On this side is Egypt, on the other Arabia. Not so long ago that was part of the empire of the Fatimids, but now it belongs to the Turks.'

  'Where does the route divide, where some of the camels head west?'

  Al Tayibb pointed to a spot at the head of the narrow sea. 'Here, at Ayla.'

  'Could I get there, before the caravan arrives?'

  'In your present condition, no. But fortunately we have some time to spare.'

  Beppo looked at him sharply. 'What do you have in mind?'

  'I'm not sure. But it might be possible to persuade some of the merchants to continue north instead of coming here.'

  'That might reduce the Genoese profit, but how would it help us?'

  'If you were to sail to Tyre, or Acre, we could bargain for our share when the caravan arrived.'

  'No good,' Beppo said, 'the damned Venetians have got those markets pretty well sewn up.'

  'Is there another port we could use?' Ranulph asked.

  Al Tayyib stroked his beard. 'There are old documents that tell of a tribe of Jews, called the Rhadamites, who used to control the trade on the route through the Hejaz. They used the port of Ghaza. It's not much used now, but I suppose it might serve.'

  'You would need to be very persuasive to get them to divert from their usual markets,' Beppo commented. 'Why should they do that?'

  'It's closer, of course,' Ibn Khalid said. 'It would save them several days journey.'

  'And if they knew there was a buyer waiting, prepared to pay a good price …' Ranulph added. 'But how would we pay?'

  'That's easy,' Beppo said. 'Haven't you heard about the system of hawala? It means trust. Tell whoever you are dealing with to go to the Jew, Mosche ben Avraham, in Tyre and give him the codeword 'thunder'. Mosche will pay him, and I will settle the account later. All that is required is a handshake.'

  'Aren't we forgetting one thing?' Ibn Khaled put in. 'Even were he well enough, Ranulph does not have freedom to come and go as he pleases.'

  'But you said I needed to get out of the country,' Ranulph pointed out. 'Isn't there some way I could be smuggled across the Red Sea to intercept the caravan?'

  Al Tayibb exchanged looks with his son. 'There are fishermen who sail their feluccas from villages along the coast. A little gold might persuade them to take a passenger across to the far side.'

  'It might be done,' Ibn Khaled agreed. 'If we can get him as far as the coast without being intercepted.'

  'Good,' Ranulph said. 'Let's try it.'

  Beppo shook his head. 'I don't like the idea of you going off alone.'

  'I have to go, somehow,' Ranulph pointed out. 'You sail to Ghaza and wait for me. Either I'll bring the caravan with me, or I'll come alone.'

  21.

  The walls of the caravanserai shimmered in the heat haze, so that it seemed to float above the ground. At first sight, Ranulph thought it was one of those mirages his guides had told him sometimes appeared to travellers in the desert, but as they drew closer he saw that it was real, a four-square structure of reddish stone the same colour as the mountains that rose on either side of it, surrounded by mud brick houses and shaded by palm trees. He ran his tongue over cracked lips and shifted painfully in his saddle. There had been moments in the past days when he had attempted to distract himself by wondering which had been most unpleasant; his first day at sea, his first days on horseback or this, and he decided that riding a camel trumped both the other experiences. On the first day he had been as sick as he had been aboard the Seagull, and now the sores on his backside and his aching muscles were just as bad as they had been when he first rode with Leofric and his mercenaries and were compounded by the sting of sweat and the blisters of sunburn. He gazed yearningly towards the building taking shape before him. At last he would be able to dismount, and perhaps wash and drink … drink, that was the essential thing.

  His guide, a small man with a face dried and cracked by the sun like a prune, leaned towards him and pointed ahead with his camel goad. 'Al'Ula.'

  'Praised be Allah!' Ranulph responded piously. If the journey had done nothing else it had been a crash course in Arabic.

  The journey to the coast, disguised in Arab clothing, had been nerve racking but mercifully uneventful and it had not been hard to find a fisherman happy to accept the gold pieces which Beppo had provided. On the beach he took leave of ibn Khaled, who had accompanied him, with many protestations of gratitude. They both knew that it was unlikely he would ever be able to return to Alexandria and Ranulph embraced his friend with a full heart. Then he climbed aboard the felucca and turned his face towards the far shore.

  His fisher friends had landed him on the coast of the Hejaz and he had hired a guide and a camel to take him to the oasis of Khaybar, which he had learned was an important stopping place on the caravan route. Here he was told that the spice caravan had already passed through but was thought to be still at Al'Ula, the last resting place before Ayla. A large bribe had persuaded the guide to take him further and they had set out in pursuit.

  They rode under a gateway built tall enough to allow a loaded camel to pass through. It led into a large courtyard, at the centre of which was a small building on a stone platform, which he knew from Khaybar to be a mescit, a place for prayers. To one side a number of camels knelt, their huge yellow teeth slowly masticating. Between the gate and the mescit was a well, shaded by palm trees, around which stood or sat the men to whom the camels belonged. It seemed he had at last found the spice caravan.

  His camel knelt and he slid off the saddle with a groan and hobbled over to the well, aware that he was followed by a dozen or more pairs of curious eyes. It was a sensation he was getting used to. His height and colouring immediately attracted attention. A boy drew a bucket of water for him and handed him a beaker. He filled his mouth, swilled the liquid around to loosen the sand and spat. His throat was so dry that it was hard to swallow, but the water was cold and the sensation was as near to heaven as he was able to imagine. He sank down on the coping that ran round the well and looked about him. Most of the men had gone back to chatting or playing backgammon but one, younger than the rest, was watching him with an intensity that disturbed him. Ranulph managed a smile and he came closer. He was, Ranulph guessed
, a few years younger than himself; perhaps sixteen or seventeen. He cleared his throat and uttered the conventional greeting and the boy replied in similar terms.

  'My name is Faisal ibn Rashid. You are …?

  'Ranulph Ironhand.'

  The boy hesitated, then he said, 'You have come far?'

  'Far enough. From Alexandria.'

  'But you are not one of our people.'

  'No. I come from England.'

  'Where is that?'

  Ranulph swallowed some more water and shook his head. 'It is not easy to explain, and my throat is dry from the journey.'

  'Of course.' The boy stood up. 'Perhaps you would like to bathe? The hammam is over there.'

  The prospect was inviting. Ranulph had encountered the public baths in Alexandria and taken great pleasure in them. He had always disliked being dirty, so much so that his mercenary colleagues used to tease him about his willingness to drench himself in cold water at every opportunity. The discovery of hot rooms that made the final douche a joy rather than a penance had been one of the delights of his stay. But for a moment he hesitated. He had been warned that the hammam could be the venue for intimate encounters, in which he had no desire to engage, and he had found that his fair skin and hair attracted unwanted attention. But the boy was already heading in the direction of the bath house and he saw that he could not refuse without discourtesy.

  He soon realised that his apprehension had been unjustified. Faisal was eager to talk, but that was all. As they lay side by side under the hands of the masseurs he plied him with a stream of questions about where he had come from and what he had done. It was obvious that he knew very little beyond the regular route followed by the caravan and was desperate to discover more of the world beyond it. Then came the inevitable question.

  'Why are you here?'

  Ranulph explained that he was a merchant and that he wished to purchase the spices the camel train was carrying, adding, 'I need to talk to whoever is in charge. Can you tell me who I should speak to?'

  The boy's expression changed and the eager excitement faded. 'My father is the leader.'

  'So can I speak to him?'

  'I fear not. He is unwell. He has had a fever for some days and is too sick to travel. That is why we are still here.'

  'I am sorry to hear that. I hope he will soon recover.'

  That was bad news. Ranulph wondered if some of the merchants might decide not to wait, and if that happened, should he go with them, or wait for the rest of the group. He was not sure how much authority the leader had. It was even possible that, if his sickness continued, the whole caravan might decide to turn round and head for home – wherever that might be.

  As he thought, he became aware once again of the sores that the long ride had inflicted on him and remembered that before he left Al Tayubb had pressed into his hands a case of medicaments which he might find useful on his journey. He sent one of the servants to fetch the leather bound box from his pack and when it arrived chose an ointment compounded of myrrh and St John's wort to smear on the affected areas. It was, he discovered, remarkably effective. He saw the boy watching him intensely but he asked no questions and, for his own part, Ranulph had had enough of talking.

  Next morning he woke to the call of the muezzin. He could hear that the whole caravanserai was astir and had a moment's panic at the thought that they might have decided to move on. Looking out from the dormitory where he had slept he saw that the sound was simply that of the men assembling for morning prayer and he gazed over a mass of kneeling figures and bowing heads. He decided that his only course was to seek out the leader and hope that he might be allowed a few minutes conversation, so when prayers were over he enquired where he was to be found and was directed to a private room in one of the towers which stood at each corner of the building.

  Outside the door he found Faisal squatting against the wall and was shocked to see the change in him. His eyes were hollow, as if he had not slept, and his face was streaked with tears.

  Ranulph knelt by him. 'What is it? What has happened?'

  The boy gulped. 'My father.' His voice was hoarse. 'They say he may die.'

  'Die!'

  'Last night the fever grew much worse. He does not recognise anyone, and he talks nonsense …'

  'Do you not have a physician with you?'

  'A physician? No.'

  Ranulph remembered the case of medicaments. Had Al Tayubb included any remedies for fever? Even if he had, dared he try it? Fever could have so many causes.

  'Has your father suffered like this before?'

  'Yes, twice, no three times. But never as badly as this.'

  Ranulph straightened up. 'I may have some medicine that could help. Can I try?'

  Faisal looked up at him. 'I do not know if they will let you ..'

  'They?'

  'The elders who are with him.'

  'We could ask. Shall I fetch the medicine?'

  The boy nodded and Ranulph ran back to where he had left his pack and returned with the case. He opened it and examined the labels on the bottles and jars. He recalled Al Tayubb saying, 'You probably will not require this. You're a healthy young man and not likely to be stricken with fever, but you never know...' Which bottle was he talking about? This? Yes, surely this must be the one – a tincture of yarrow and willow bark.

  He looked at Feisal. 'I cannot promise, but this may help. Shall we go in?'

  The room was dark and suffocatingly hot. The shutters had been closed and a brazier near the bed sent scented smoke towards the ceiling. As his eyes grew used to the dimness Ranulph made out three figures clustered about the bed, on which lay a man covered with a blanket. All he could see of him was a disordered tangle of grey hair and beard, matted with sweat, and between them closed eyes and livid skin which clung to sharply outlined cheekbones. The man twisted and turned his head on the pillow and a continuous mutter of incomprehensible words issued from the depths of the beard.

  The three watchers turned as Ranulph and Feisal entered and one of them said, 'Who is this? Why have you let him in here?'

  'His name is Ranulph Ironhand,' the boy said. 'He has medicines that may cure my father.'

  Another man moved closer and peered into Ranulph's face. 'He is a stranger, not one of us. We know nothing of him.'

  'I am a merchant, like you,' Ranulph said. 'I only wish to help if I can.'

  'He is a mountebank, out to sell us some useless potion,' said the first. 'How much do you want?'

  'Nothing. I am not trying to sell anything.'

  'Please,' Feisal broke in. 'Let him try.'

  'How do we know he hasn't been sent here by a rival to poison our sheik,' one of the men said.

  'I don't like the look of him,' the third man added. 'Hair that colour is not natural. He could be a djinn!'

  'No!' Feisal said vehemently. 'I have talked with him. He has travelled far and knows much. I am the sheik's son and I demand that this man be allowed to help him if he can.'

  This seemed to be an argument that could not be gainsaid. There was some suspicious muttering but the men stood aside and Ranulph was allowed to approach the bed.

  'Hark,' said the first man, 'if any harm comes from your treatment, we shall exact retribution. A life for a life, is it not so?'

  For a moment Ranulph was tempted to walk away, but he told himself that Al Tayibb's medicines would never harm anyone, even if they did no good. He took the yarrow tincture out of the case and looked around.

  'It is too dark in here. Open the shutters.'

  Grudgingly one was opened a crack and he saw a ewer of water on a table near the bed with a beaker beside it. He poured some out and unstoppered the bottle. His mind was racing. What had he learned in his reading with Al Tayubb? What was the correct dose? Too little would have no effect; but too much could kill. Cautiously he tipped a small quantity of the tincture into the water and turned to Faisal.

  'Raise your father's head so he can drink.'

  The boy did as he
was bidden and Ranulph held the cup to the sick man's lips. It was difficult to get him to drink. He kept twisting his head away and muttering; but at last Ranulph succeeded in getting a few drops into his mouth. The cracked lips parted and he opened his mouth and took in the rest of the draft.

  Feisal laid him back and looked expectantly at Ranulph. 'It will take some time,' he said. 'But we can make him more comfortable. Tell them to take that brazier away. He does not need more heat. Get someone to fetch fresh water from the well, and find me a cloth of some sort to wipe your father's face. And does anyone have a fan?'

  The water was brought, and Ranulph soaked the cloth and gently sponged the sheik's face and neck, then wrung it out and laid it over his brow. A fan of ostrich feathers had been found and Feisal was given the job of wafting it over his father's body. Long moments passed, while the three men muttered together in the background, and Ranulph began to fear that he had not made the draft strong enough; but at last the restless twisting and mumbling grew less and then ceased.

  One of the men, the one who had accused Ranulph of wanting to kill the sheik, stepped forward. 'You see! He is dead! This man has killed our sheik.'

  'No!' Faisal said. He laid his cheek against his father's chest. 'I hear his heart beating. He is not dead. He sleeps!'

  For the first time Ranulph was glad of the regular call to prayers. After each one he administered another draft of the medicine and in between he and Feisal took turns to bathe the sheik's face and fan him. Slowly the fever abated, and when the evening came the sheik opened his eyes and called for something to eat. Two days later he got out of bed and gave orders for the caravan to be ready to leave at dawn on the morrow. Ranulph tried to persuade him that he should rest longer but he shook his head with a smile.

  'We are already late. If the merchants from Venice and Genoa have given up hope and sailed away we shall be left with all our goods unsold. You have given me new life. Now, what can I offer you in return?'

  The Santa Christina was beached in the tiny, half forgotten port of Ghaza, her captain and crew enduring long hours of heat and boredom. Then one day the watchman on duty gave a shout. Far away there was a dust cloud, which came ever closer and out of it materialised a long train of camels, led by a tall man in Arab dress. He brought his camel to the stern of the ship and caused it to kneel and Beppo, looking down, said, 'Ranulph?'