by Martin Lake
A small table stood at the far end. This was laden with bottles of wine and a large cauldron with a fume billowing from it, presumably the food the torch-boy had warned them about.
Lounging on mats to the side of the table were filthy, scrawny women, either very young or very old. At the sight of the newcomers they brushed the traces of food from their clothes and flicked their hair in what they thought was an enticing manner.
Simon felt Gregory turn towards him with a look of astonishment.
'We're here on business,' Simon muttered. 'We don't touch the whores.'
'That is good news,' Gregory said.
William, on the other hand, looked rather less happy.
Simon told Gregory to go to the bar for a jug of red wine. He found a corner of the bar which looked slightly less full of bodies and shouldered his way towards it with William.
They had no sooner perched themselves against a wall when two women slid through the crowd towards them. One looked about sixty years old with breasts hanging low, hooked nose and hairs curling from her chin. The other appeared to be about fourteen or so. Simon peered beneath the grime on her face and saw that she was pretty. He was shocked to see such a girl in such a situation.
'What would you like?' said the old woman. 'Straight sex, mouth, arse or something unusual?'
'Nothing with you,' Simon said.
'In that case, how about my grand-daughter? She'll do anything you please. Beat her if that's your pleasure, flog her even. But don't mark her face. It's bad for business.'
Simon pushed the old woman away. 'You disgust me,' he said.
Gregory arrived with the drinks and the old whore grabbed one of the cups and swallowed it down.
'Thanks very much, my darling,' she said, grinning to reveal blackened teeth. 'But next time buy me the white wine.'
Gregory glanced at Simon but he shook his head to let her be.
The old woman clicked her fingers and the young girl stepped forward.
'What'll it be then, sir?' she said. 'Don't worry. You don't have to say. Have her for all night and you can do what you want with her.'
'Really?' Simon asked.
'A half dinar,' she said, holding out a hand.
Simon nodded. He dropped the coin onto the old woman's palm and it shut like a trap.
'Gabriella, ' she said, 'make good and sure you please the gentleman. Anything he wants.'
'Yes, Grandma,' the girl said.
She looked at Simon anxiously. 'Where will you take me, sir?'
'I don't know.'
'We could go back of the alley, by the latrine. I'd take you home but my brothers will be deep in drink and they might attack you.'
'How many brothers do you have?'
'Just the six. And four sisters, all young.'
She fell silent, as if realising what she had said. 'They're too young for business,' she said anxiously, pawing at Simon's arm. 'Please, sir, far too young.'
'I've no interest in your sisters, or your brothers. Just you.'
He nodded towards his companions. 'Let's go.'
William led the way out of the den and into the alley.
'Where we going, my lord?' he asked.
'Back to the house,' Simon said. 'And keep your eyes skinned for anybody following us.'
'You're not going to do away with me, are you?' Gabriella asked.
Simon laughed. 'Why would I pay good money if I was going to harm you?'
They had only gone a few steps when a shape stepped out in front of them. Their hands went to their knives.
'It's only Theo,' Gabriella cried.
The torch-boy showed his face. 'I thought you might want a light back home,' he said, holding out his hand.
The small party hurried up the alley and soon arrived at the grand house which had been allocated to Eraclius and his staff.
Simon hesitated. Now that he had brought the girl back here he began to doubt the wisdom of it.
He beckoned his men over. 'I have procured this girl,' he said softly, 'in order to find out information about the city. For no other purpose.'
Gregory and William nodded earnestly. Simon stared at them, certain they did not believe a word of it. 'This goes no further, understand.'
Again, the two men nodded. William tried to hide a smirk but failed.
'Don't be so pathetic,' Simon said. 'You can both go now but remember, not a word.'
Gregory and William nodded and hurried into the house.
Simon turned to the torch-boy. 'You must know a lot of what goes on in the city?'
'What I don't know I can find out,' Theo answered.
'Good. Meet me at the cross-roads tomorrow at noon and we will talk further.'
The boy held out his hand.
Simon shook his head. 'That may feel coin again if you meet me. Not until.'
Theo grinned and hurried off to find more customers.
Simon turned towards Gabriella. 'I meant what I told my men,' he said. 'I need to find out everything I can about the city. You strike me as being someone who could tell me much of what I need to know.'
'Of course, sir,' Gabriella said.
Such falsehoods were often told to her and she always pretended to believe them. Whatever the story she knew she was only wanted for sex.
'Come on then,' Simon said, 'and be sure to be silent.'
Simon led her into the house and up the stairs towards his tiny chamber in the rafters. It was warm and dry but contained nothing more than a bed, a small cupboard, a chamber pot and a basin and ewer. A candle was guttering in its holder and he hurried to light a fresh one before it went out completely. The room was plunged into darkness for a moment while the wick caught and then the flame strengthened and a dim glow lit the room.
He turned to where Gabriella was standing nervously by the door. 'Don't worry, child,' he said.
He picked up the candle and held it to her face in order to examine her. Yes, she was pretty beneath the grime. She looked nervous but attempted a smile. She had an oval face with a little nose and full lips. Her hair was so dirty and matted that he had no idea what colour it might be. She was slightly cross-eyed which gave her a rather vulnerable look. He sniffed. She clearly had little familiarity with water.
'You're very dirty,' he said.
Her eyes blinked and filled with tears. 'Sorry sir, I don't mean to be.'
'Forgive me,' he said. 'It is I who should apologise.'
She looked at him in wonder as he put the candle back on the cupboard and reached for the ewer.
He turned to her and stared at her more closely. It's not just her face, he thought. He found that he was trembling with excitement.
He picked up the basin and placed it on the floor. Then he gave the girl a cloth.
'I want you to wash,' he said. 'Take off your clothes and step into the basin.'
She nodded and stepped into the basin. She reached down and pulled the tunic over her head. He felt his throat tighten.
Slowly he poured water from the ewer over her head and watched it cascade over her shoulders and down her breasts and belly.
'Use the cloth,' he said and was surprised at how thick his voice sounded.
The girl rubbed the cloth gently as the water played over her. The dirt began to wash away although there were streaks of shadow still left upon her skin when Simon had poured the last of the water. It did not matter. She looked beautiful.
Simon gave her a towel and she dabbed herself dry.
He could not take his eyes off of her.
She stepped out of the basin and climbed onto the bed. She went on all fours and peered round to look at him.
'I'd like it this way, please, sir,' she said. 'I'm young and I don't want to be with child.'
Simon nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and climbed onto the bed behind her.
CHAPTER 38
YOUNG MUSLIM LORDS
Baghdad
Claude-Yusuf turned to look at Gerard and then at the Muslim boy who was waiting patiently for his
response.
'You are the son of the Caliph?' he asked nervously.
The boy nodded. 'If you doubt me, just look there.'
Claude-Yusuf turned to where Habib and Dawud remained prostrate upon the ground.
'You may rise now,' the boy said.
The two adults struggled to their feet and bowed once more to the boy.
'What is your name, again?' Gerard asked. 'It sounds strange.'
'I am al-Dahir, son of Caliph al-Nasir,' the boy repeated. 'It is only strange to uncivilised ears. What are you called?'
'I am Gerard. My father is Bernard Montjoy of Jerusalem. He owns an inn and is now a knight.'
'A knight?' al-Dahir grinned with delight at this.
'Yes, he was knighted by Lord Balian to fight the infidel Saladin.'
He felt a sharp clip around his head. He turned to see Dawud's eyes blazing at him.
'And what about you?' al-Dahir asked, turning towards the older boy. 'What is your name?'
Claude-Yusuf stared back with a hint of belligerence. 'My name is Claude-Yusuf Godwin. My father is a soldier of King Guy.'
'Not a knight?'
Claude-Yusuf shook his head.
Al-Dahir folded his arms and considered the cousins closely. 'If your fathers are such warriors,' he said finally, 'how are you prisoners in Baghdad?'
The two young boys gazed at each other, uncertain for a moment how best to answer.
'My father fought at a great battle,' Claude-Yusuf said. 'He fought hand to hand with Saladin himself and was terribly wounded by Saladin's guards. He has been taken to the coast to find healing. He wanted to ride after us but his doctors forbade him and hid his horse.'
Gerard turned to Claude-Yusuf, his brow furrowing.
'Gerard's father,' Claude-Yusuf continued, 'fought at the siege of Jerusalem and has been captured by the Saracens. I expect he is in prison and being tortured as otherwise he would have rescued us.'
Gerard was astonished and horrified at this news. It had obviously been kept from him until now. He began to sob at the thought of his poor father's sufferings.
Al-Dahir pulled a silk handkerchief from his trousers and handed it to Gerard. 'Do not weep,' he said. 'I expect your father will bear his torment bravely. If you like I will get my father to send a message to Saladin to stop the torture.'
'Would Saladin agree?' Gerard asked, his face a mixture of doubt and hope.
'My father is the master of Saladin and his command is law. Saladin would not dare to refuse.'
Claude-Yusuf gave a doubtful look. 'Are you really saying that your father is more powerful than Saladin?'
'Of course. Saladin is always asking him for aid in his wars against the Franks. That's true, isn't it Habib?'
'It is, my lord,' Habib answered. 'He asks and the Caliph refuses.'
Claude-Yusuf scratched his head. 'Why does your father refuse to help?'
Al-Dahir shrugged. 'My father must have his reasons. He is the Caliph.'
'What is a Caliph?' Gerard asked.
Al-Dahir laughed. 'You don't know?'
Gerard shook his head.
Al-Dahir looked at a loss for a moment. He glanced at Dawud. 'You tell him,' he said.
'The Caliph is the leader of the Muslim world,' Dawud answered. 'He is the head of the faith…'
'Apart from the Shia,' said Habib.
'He is the head of even them, although they do not admit it,' said Dawud, sharply. 'The Caliph rules the lands around Baghdad directly and allows emirs like Saladin to rule other lands in his name.'
'Administer other lands,' corrected Habib. 'Not rule, administer.'
'That is what I said.'
'You said rule. The vizier will have your tongue branded for such a statement.'
'Only an idiot like you would think I meant rule,' Dawud said. 'You must learn to sift words, to understand figures of speech.'
'Enough,' said al-Dahir.
The two men fell silent.
'I asked if you wanted to be my friends,' al-Dahir reminded them.
Both boys nodded eagerly.
'Good. It is so. But first I will sponsor you to join my futawwa.'
Gerard clapped his hands with excitement. 'You mean you are a member of one of them?' he cried. 'You are like a Hospitaller.'
Al-Dahir shrugged. 'I don't know what you mean by Hospitaller,' he said.
Now it was the turn of Claude-Yusuf and Gerard to give disparaging looks.
'The Hospitallers are knights of God,' Gerard said. 'And so are the Templars.'
'The futawwa are the champions of God,' al-Dahir said. 'I have never heard of your knights. The champions delight in warfare and hunting as well as the worship of Allah. They sing songs and wrestle.'
'I told you about the fatuwwa,' Dawud said. 'You are honoured if his Excellency will sponsor you to be a fata in the Caliph's fatawwa.'
Habib put his hand fondly upon Claude-Yusuf's head. 'You will be grateful that Dawud and I prepared you so well for this honour,' he said, with a quick glance towards al-Dahir.
'They might not be so grateful,' Dawud muttered. 'Not when they meet Sheik al-Djabbar.'
Al-Dahir dismissed Habib and Dawud and led Claude-Yusuf and Gerard out of the palace to a huge lawn which was fringed by large buildings gleaming in the sun. Half a dozen guards strode after them, at a distance, unnoticed by any of the boys.
'I didn't know that my father was being tortured,' Gerard said to his cousin. 'Why didn't you tell me?'
'Because it's not true,' whispered Claude-Yusuf. 'I didn't want al-Dahir to think our fathers are cowards who wouldn't rescue us. And whatever you do, don’t ever say anything different to anyone.' He pinched Gerard's arm and made him yelp.
Al-Dahir paused outside one of the buildings. It was a long, low structure with many doors and a veranda running all of its length. Sitting underneath this was a group of young men who all rose and salaamed to the Caliph's son.
Al-Dahir acknowledged them with a wave of his hand and turned towards the cousins.
'This is the headquarters of futuwwa my father and I belong to,' he said. 'I will take you to the chief of the order, Sheik al-Djabbar.'
He led them into cool and light building. It felt calm and pleasant and the boys immediately felt at ease.
Many chambers led off of the central hall but al-Dahir did not turn into any of these. He led them through an arch which came out into a central courtyard. It was flagged with stone but in the middle was a lawn with a fountain and a pavilion to provide shade.
Two elderly men sat beneath this shade, intent upon a game of chess.
Al-Dahir led the boys across the courtyard to the pavilion. He waited there in silence, unacknowledged by either of the two old men. Claude-Yusuf and Gerard looked at each other, wondering what would happen next.
Finally, one of the old men looked up. Gerard took a step backwards at the sight of him.
He was very old, or so it seemed, and his face was very lined. He had a large nose which thrust out from his face like a raised fist. His lips were thin and clamped tight with a downward droop which made him look resolutely bitter. A large red scar ran from his neck, up his chin and to his left eye.
He stared at them in silence. His gaze was sharp and searching and cold.
'Greetings, my Prince,' the old man said at last, ducking his head slightly. 'To what do I owe the pleasure?'
'Sheik al-Djabbar,' answered al-Dahir. 'These are my friends, Claude-Yusuf and Gerard. Their fathers are knights of the Frankish emirates to the west. I desire that they join our futuwwa, if you are willing.'
The sheik sniffed. It was a loud, wet, gurgling sniff which seemed to hang in the air, almost as if it were listening to the conversation and had a view upon it.
He turned to look at the boys. 'Why would I want such puny weaklings to join the order?' he asked.
'Because they are my friends.'
'Is that a good enough reason?' he asked.
'That depends on who is making the request,
' said the other man in a voice which squawked like that of a bird, something he seemed, in fact to resemble. 'If it was a beggar on the street then it is no reason whatsoever. If it is a prince then it requires no reason; it is reason enough.'
'Silence,' the sheik said. 'When I desire comments from a fool with a washer-woman's brain I will ask you.'
His hand lashed out like a snake's and Claude-Yusuf and Gerard felt the stinging cut of a thin cane across their cheeks.
'Don't touch,' the old sheik commanded in a chill voice.
They dropped their hands instantly. The pain on their cheeks, though intense, was not as forceful as the old man's cry.
He turned his snarling eyes upon them once again.
'Do you want to join the order?' he asked.
Claude-Yusuf nodded eagerly. Gerard was not sure and bobbed his head once, miserably.
The old man chuckled. 'Let me make a prophecy,' he said. 'Even if you do want to join the order I doubt you want to join it enough. And if I allow you to join you will, by the time I have finished with you, crawl on your knees from here to the Hindu Kush to be allowed your freedom from it.'
A little tinkling noise followed fast upon his words. Gerard was wetting himself.
The two old men cackled with pleasure at the sight.
The sheik picked up two dates from a plate beside the chess-board and gave one to each of the cousins.
Gerard immediately popped the fruit into his mouth and received another slash of the cane in rebuke.
'I did not command you to eat,' said Sheik al-Djabbar. 'Spit it out onto your hand.'
The second old man giggled. 'I remember this now, Excellency,' he said. 'A very good choice.'
The sheik turned to him and gave a thin smile.
His friend returned it, nodding like a bird pecking at crumbs.
'How long do you think you can hold this little date in your hand?' the sheik asked the boys.
Neither of them dared to answer so he beat the cane upon the table.
'For as long as I'm asked to,' answered Claude-Yusuf, trying to fight back the tears.
'And how long might that be? One hour, two, three? It is such a little thing, a date; so dainty, so light in weight.'
'I could hold it for three hours, I'm certain,' said Claude-Yusuf.
'He is certain, Excellency,' cried the other man. 'The little infidel is certain.'
