East & West- Catharsis

by David Capel

  “For thought you are honourable and decent, it is me who is weak. And knowing, as I do, that… that I love you John, who knows what might have happened? Even against our rational instinct? So you see that my mother is not wholly to blame. She is just trying to protect me. It is I who is to blame!”

  I had no time for this sort of nonsense, but I said as softly as I could, “Safia, my darling, you must not blame yourself. If anything it is I who am in the wrong. But now I must ask you, what does your father have in mind? I mean, I know what his intentions are, but where is he now? When will he return?”

  “In truth I do not know. But he could as we speak be preparing for your… your... There are certain places, a doctor... I don’t know.” She ended limply and looked away.

  “In that case I must go now,” I said. “Will you help me?”

  “What do you intend?”

  “My dear Safia, I have no option but to flee the city. I am sorry.”

  If I feared this would distress her, I had mistaken her bravery, or perhaps the depth of her affection for me.

  “No, you are right. And I have thought this through. You must have a horse. And that means I must come with you. We must go together at once.”

  There was no time to question this. My only desire was to get as far away from the house and Damascus itself as possible. Safia fetched a small bag of coins that she had stored in her room. To take any more substantial possessions with us might have aroused immediate suspicions, so we simply left by the same kitchen door that I used on my first arrival in the house six months before. In the event we saw only the housekeeper, and Safia explained in passing that she was taking me to the bazaar to fetch some clothes, and that we would be back in a couple of hours.

  “We will go by a route that my parents would be most unlikely to use,” said Safia, and she led me through the winding alleys and back streets towards the quarter near the east wall where the family kept their horses. As we approached the stables she hesitated. “There is a chance that my father or one of his friends is here. Or even that we will be questioned. But I cannot go in alone – that would look most unusual. We will just have to risk it. Are you prepared to come in with me?”

  I said that I was, and we approached the building as mistress and servant. It was quiet at that time of day, and Safia gave orders for a palfrey and one of her father’s mares to be saddled up. I could tell by her high pitch and peremptory tone that she was nervous, but if the stable hand was suspicious he knew better than to question a high born lady like Safia. I helped him prepare the horses, trying not to hurry or show my own nerves, and before long we were riding through the streets towards the east gate.

  Here it was another case of staying calm and looking servile, and we edged through the throng as it narrowed, with me just behind as I should be, and Safia looking regal in her loose fitting sky-blue cloak, with her head covered but her eyes staring straight forward, barely deigning to notice the struggling humanity all around her. Once more my heart was in my mouth, but the guards barely glanced at us, and we pushed through and in moments were free of the crush.

  Elation rose within me, and the urge rose within me to gallop off down the road and away from the city of my captivity. Safia indeed began to trot down the dusty road that curved to the North from the gate, but I shouted after her, calling her mistress, and when she stopped I explained about the store of clothing and money that I had hidden in the orange grove opposite the Circassians.

  We had not yet had time to plan the manner of our flight. But it struck me that with my merchant’s garb the two of us might make a plausible travelling couple, whereas a lady with one male servant would arouse suspicion. I explained this idea to her and she clapped her hands with joy at the pretence of it.

  “Yes, and I will cover my face and play the modest wife, walking two steps behind you.”

  She lowered her eyes and looked at me through her lashes, blushing at the thought. So I told her she would have to cover her face and play the shapeless harridan, for a poor merchant like me would have no beauty as his consort.

  She laughed again, and we rode round the city walls towards the orchards where I had hidden my gear. There I had stored some coin and what I thought would make a passable costume for a Syrian merchant. There was a kaftan and a great striped cloak, in brown and green, and long boots and a keffiyeh. I had spare garments too, a plain dark cloak that was too big for Safia, but gave her a shapelessness that might suit the wife of a trader such as I posed as.

  So before long we set forth once more, looking suitably disguised, and again fought off the urge to break into a canter. I lead us right around the city walls so that we would not retrace our steps and risk being noticed by anyone who had seen us before that morning. At last we were on the road that led north and west towards Emath, that the Arabs call Hama, and Aleppo and eventually the imperial city of Antioch.

  It was then that we let ourselves go and urged our steeds on. In moments we were at full gallop, and for a while the joy of speed and the exhilaration of flight took hold of us. We sped forward in the noontide sun, and Safia cried out for excitement and I laughed at the thrill of our escape. For though I knew that the pursuit could not be too far behind, I felt that the worst must be over. I marvelled at the ease of our departure. Only three hours before I had been sitting, stylus in hand, a good domestic slave!

  I looked behind and saw the walls and haze of Damascus disappearing behind me. By God I was glad, suddenly, to leave that city, with its cloying smells of spice and jasmine! It felt wonderful to be free from the mind-stultifying dullness of captivity. Yes, I had been comfortable, but it felt now as if the boredom would have killed me in the end, probably by tempting me into some further indiscretion. If Jalila had not been the end of me, someone else would. The thought of my erstwhile mistress filled me with anger and fear, and I spurred Ibn Khalid’s mare onwards. Thank the Lord I was now free too of her hawk-like embrace! I could scarcely credit the ghastly fate she had in store for me. I shivered at the thought of the knife, glinting and cutting. What a bitch! But she did teach me pretty much all I know about how to pleasure a woman.

  **

  We rode on, and after our initial elation my worries resurfaced. I voiced them to Safia. How long did she think it would be before her father returned and discovered our flight? Safia did not know his intentions for the day. Once again I was caught in the dilemma of the fugitive. Where are the pursuers? Their ghosts crowd and catch up long before they do themselves, until all one can think of is running and hiding.

  Yet I knew that we must keep our cool, save the energy and fitness of our steeds and play the part we had set ourselves. Travelling merchants do not gallop across the country as if the hounds of Hell are upon their heels.

  It seemed to me that Ibn Khalid might not guess the direction of our flight. While Antioch was the obvious choice for me, he might not make the same assumption. For all he knew I was hiding, desperate, in or near Damascus with Safia an unwilling captive. I might make for the coast at Beirut, or even turn due north to search for the imperial army. His primary concern would be for his daughter, and we could assume that he would search the city first, to see if she was on some innocent errand, and then if I had her hidden nearby.

  It would take him time to organise the pursuit – to question the stable hand and gate guards, and look for other witnesses. Even if he returned to the house by noon, I guessed that no-one would come riding up the northward road until the following morning. With that in mind I decided to stop for the night in any town or sizeable village that we approached so that we could rest and buy provisions for the rest of the journey.

  We rode hard all of the rest of that first day, and as dusk approached the road passed a great monastery on the hill to one side. A large village sprawled beneath it. Nabuk it was called, and there we found an inn to rest our weary bodies. I rented the largest room they had, which was above the stables and so conveniently close to our horses. I ordered a boy to wash down
and feed our beasts, and installed Safia in our quarters. She was even more tired after our journey than I was, and we were both sore after an unaccustomed day in the saddle.

  So I left her to rest and slipped out into the town to find some food for us both. The people of Nabuk were Christians for the most part, and I quickly felt at ease there, though the local Syrians followed some heretic rite that would no doubt have caused horror at home. The town existed to serve the great monastery above, which was dedicated to some barbarous saint from Numidia. It had been rebuilt in recent times and now hosted a great multitude of monks, many of whom scurried to and fro in the darkening streets before their evening prayers.

  The food market was closed for the evening, but I found a street vendor with a brazier who sold me some cooked meat, bread and goat’s cheese, and I bought a jar of wine in a tavern. I returned to our room in high spirits once more. The homeliness of the little town had uplifted me, despite my fatigue, and I was suddenly excited at what the evening might hold in store.

  Safia had cast aside her cloak and stood nervously in her robe as I entered the room.

  “Where have you been, I have been worried…” but I shushed her with a kiss on her mouth and told her that all was well.

  I laid out my finds on a table in the corner of the room, and the smell of the meat and bread filled the space around us. I poured us both a cup of wine and handed one to her.

  “But I cannot drink this! It is forbidden!” she said.

  “Not from what I could see of you mother’s behaviour,” I replied. “Come on, try some, it’ll relax you after our journey. I don’t know about you but I feel as if I have been placed in a box and shaken by a giant all day long.”

  She giggled. “But my mother is a sinner, and very fierce as you know. I still cannot believe what she intended for you. My poor John!”

  She contemplated her mug thoughtfully for a few moments and sniffed at the liquid within. “Oh well. I suppose that I am not much better than her, given that I have run away with you. She was right about us, was she not? And if am to be with you, a Christian, then I must learn the ways of your people.”

  She took a good swig and her nose wrinkled. “Eugh! It tastes like the medicines of Dr Abdullah when I was a girl!”

  “Not so fast,” I replied. “you must drink it slowly. Then, with every sip its taste improves.”

  We fell upon the food like vultures, for we were famished after our long journey. So we ate, and drank, and chatted about the day’s events. We laughed about our costumes, and the guards at the gate, and our assumed roles as merchants. I tried to steer our talk away from the perils of the days ahead, or how her father might be arranging the pursuit.

  It was a golden evening, there in the firelight, Safia lounging on the couch, and I seated at the table nearby. The taste of the delicious grilled lamb mingled with the feeling of companionship that shared adventure brings, free from the constraints of mistress and slave in a formal household. We talked of our pasts and laughed at tales of our first impressions of each other. Safia shuddered at my account of the battle at Manzikert and the dreadful march into captivity. She touched my knee in sympathy when I told her of my branding, and looked wide-eyed at the scar on my calf. She told me of her family life, and of her father’s previous high regard for me.

  “And I think, you know, that mother had a similar regard. In fact,” she continued, managing to sound both pompous and demure, “my belief is that she was jealous of you, sensing our feelings for each other. And this is why she acted as she did. Out of resentment of me, as much as you.”

  She was starting to muddle her words slightly, having taken to the wine with gusto. And that was not the only way she took after her mother, for she looked at me with shining eyes and added, “I think even now she would perhaps prefer to be in my position than hers. I mean, with you, here.”

  I knew the cue when I got it. As most men realise sooner or later, it is all a question of waiting for the right moment. Too early and there is the risk of shock and angry denial. Too late and the moment goes cold. Wine always helps, of course, though in truth I was pushing at an open door with Safia. The poor girl had clearly been spooning after me for weeks, if not months. It just goes to show the risks of keeping an only daughter in rarefied circumstances. Eventually they will fall for anyone.

  The only wonder was that I had not noticed before our flight, but girls can be uncommon subtle in hiding their true intentions. I was probably lucky in that. God knows what trouble I would have found myself in if I had noticed her affection for me two months previously.

  But I made up for lost time that evening. I knelt at her side, took her hands in mine and kissed her full on the lips. She gave a little gasp, as if of mock horror, but I kissed her again, and this time she responded lustily, pulling me towards her and lying back, her robe hoisting up to show her long, shapely legs. The sight and feel of her beautiful young body against me was like a heady wine, and I kissed her all over, revealing more of her silken skin until she was naked in the soft candlelight.

  She had no experience of what was happening, of course, and tried to hold back, but I touched her gently in her secret places and brushed my lips against her hardened nipples. We kissed again, and by this time she was pushing her body against me in abandon, wanting me, so I entered her and soon after she cried out and we were both spent.

  Safia snuggled up to me in the dim light, and for a few moments it was bliss to lie there with my mind empty of all thought, just enjoying the physical calmness and sense of completeness with nothing but silence to accompany us.

  But then the inevitable happened. Safia started to talk, of love, and the future, asking me where we would go and where I would lead her. She looked into my eyes and ran her fingers gently down the scar on my cheek. And at the same time that worm of thought entered my mind, asking what was I doing and how could I get out of my predicament. Such is the way that love twists its way from the bedside, and two lovers, so lately joined in body, depart each other in mind seconds after the act.

  So I ignored her questions, and fetched the flask of wine, which mercifully was still half full. So we sat there companionably enough, her prattling, and me sipping, until at length the evening wore on, and to silence her more than anything else I kissed her again, and we made love once more, more slowly this time, and I taught her some of the tricks I had learnt from her mother, which she picked up remarkably quickly.

  τ

  I rose early the next morning to buy provisions for our journey ahead. I slipped out wearing my simple servant’s tunic, for the merchant I posed as would not have been found haggling in the market for groceries at first light.

  There were already stalls set up selling food that had been collected the day before. I bought enough to fill our saddle bags – dried fruit, cured meat, unleavened bread and some hard cheese made locally by the monks.

  I hurried along, not pausing to argue over prices. I suddenly had the feeling that we were in the final lap of our race to freedom, but still far from the finishing line. I cursed myself for stopping for the night in such comfort at the inn. We should have pushed on past Nabuk and picked up some food along the road. We would be ten miles ahead by now. It was not safe to take risks, with the timing of the pursuit unknowable.

  I scurried along the main road of the town, pushing past the early morning bustle of men and women finding their way to work and the day’s chores. A gap emerged in the crowd ahead of me, made by two men loitering with big horses who had caused the flow of people to swirl around them.

  I made for the space, thankful of a chance to hasten my return to the inn, and I was nearly upon him when the man turned. He looked straight at me and I knew him instantly – the sallow, sharp face, the black eyes and cruel down-turned mouth.

  I froze in shock, and that is what saved me. My world was collapsing, my worst fears confirmed. The wolf had already overtaken its prey.

  He uttered something in Turkish, recognising me instantly,
but unable to place me for a split second. And in that moment I knew that I had a slim chance. If I had had the reactions to flee, or if he had spoken first in Greek, I would not have realised that our meeting was pure chance. Accursed luck, but a chance meeting nonetheless.

  “Lascaris! Lascaris, isn’t it? What in Hell’s name are you doing here?”

  “Shopping, sir,” was all I had the wit to say.

  And of course I was. Dressed in the garb of a household servant, and carrying goods from the bazaar, I must have looked the picture of innocence. But he was still suspicious.

  “Shopping? In this benighted place? What for?” and he narrowed his eyes and tapped the pommel of his sword.

  “We’re travelling. To see my mistress’ cousin in Aleppo.”

  “Travelling? You and who? I have forgotten your master’s name.”

  This left me in something of a dilemma. Travelling with Ibn Khalid was one thing, but alone with his daughter was quite another. Yet if I tried to hide this fact and he discovered her presence alone on the road, he would be sure to intervene.

  “Ibn Khalid. But I am escorting the lady Safia to Aleppo.”

  “Safia? I thought his wife was called something else. Jalila, or something.”

  “Safia is the daughter of the house, sir.”

  He walked right up to me and looked me up and down.

  “Really, Lascaris, you have almost learnt some manners in that house of yours. You were never so respectful to me on the road from Manzikert. I distinctly remember having to use strict measures with you. And when I heard that you had ended up in the house of a scholar, I have to admit that that I was somewhat regretful. Something more... rigorous might have suited you better. I should have sold you to work in the fields like those other men.”

  He turned again and looked at his companion, a ruffianly figure with one eye whom I remembered from the long journey to Damascus. Erkan issued some gravelly orders to him in Turkish, and then faced me once more.