Doctor Who and the Crusaders

by David Whitaker

  ‘What about this place? Shall we set fire to it?’

  ‘What for? This is our business, and there’s money here. But, Selim, let us be careful.’ He dropped his voice and looked at his companion conspiratorially. ‘The others may try to take her from us.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ replied the other anxiously. ‘Let us get her down as secretively as we can, and hurry her to the Palace.’

  The two men bustled Barbara out of the room, out of the building and ran with her down the stone stairs outside, each one holding on to her arms tightly.

  They passed the shattered window which the unfortunate Haroun had been knocked through, just as he was picking himself wearily to his feet. He was just in time to see the three figures disappearing down the steps and turning a corner at the bottom, identifying Barbara grimly. He wiped a trickle of blood that seeped down his face from a cut on his head. And then he shrugged wearily, clambered out of the window and made his way up to the room, a desperate fear in his heart for Safiya. As soon as she recognized his quiet voice, she flung open the secret door and embraced him, tears rolling down her cheeks in an agony of unhappiness, stammering out the story of how Barbara had deliberately sacrificed herself to stop the men setting the place on fire.

  Haroun patted her head and comforted her as best he could, resolving now to force an issue which had lain too heavily on his heart for so long, the name of El Akir echoing and re-echoing in his head like the steady beat of a drum, until the name became not just the title of his enemy but seemed to be the incarnation of every evil under the sun.

  Swiftly and silently, the two guards conveyed their captive through the Old Quarter of Lydda, stopping and hiding whenever they came across any other soldiers. Soon they moved into the better part of the town and it was all Barbara could do to keep up with them as they raced through the streets, each one gripping hold of an arm, pulling her forcefully along between them.

  Then, gasping and panting for breath, they raced into the palace, through the great entrance gates, past startled guards and into the vast entrance hall of the Palace itself. Up a curving flight of marble stairs and down a long corridor they rushed her, until her feet could respond no longer. So great was the pain in her lungs and so sharp the agony of her leg muscles that she sagged and allowed herself to be dragged along. Finally they burst into a room and El Akir jumped up to his feet, at first enraged at such an arrogant intrusion by common soldiery. Then, when he saw their captive, he put his hands on his hips and gave forth a huge burst of laughter, throwing back his head and filling the room with the sound of malevolent joy. The two eager and excited soldiers dragged her over to their master and dropped her. She rested painfully on her knees, breathing as deeply as she could to ease the stitches in her side.

  El Akir bent down suddenly and grasped her face cruelly with his right hand. Barbara shook her head away from him, brought her hand up swiftly from the ground and slapped him across the face as hard as she could. He stepped back, stunned with the force of the blow, then a smile twisted his mouth.

  ‘This defiance promises well for me. It means it will take a long time to make you scream for pity.’ His voice dropped quietly, a shudder of pleasure running through him and Barbara felt a quiver of fear.

  ‘I shall sit here and devise some entertainment for you. Take her to the harem,’ he ordered the two guards, throwing them a purse from his belt. ‘She will learn a little of what to expect from the other women there.’ He turned his black, fathomless eyes to Barbara’s again. ‘But nothing will be so bad, so painful, so shaming, or so terrifying as what is to happen to you.’

  For the first time in her life, Barbara fainted.

  Chapter Seven

  The Will Of Allah

  Ian left the small retinue which had accompanied him from Jaffa with strict instructions to sound out as much as they could about Saladin’s opinion of King Richard’s marriage proposals between his sister and the Sultan’s brother, urging them to remember every detail and make the return to Jaffa as speedily as possible. Ian had already discovered that Saladin would not exchange Sir William des Preaux at any price, a point about which the Saracen leader was totally adamant. However, he promised that the Knight would be well treated and that he would reconsider his decision at some future date, and with that Ian had to be content. Saladin, did, however, lend a most favourable ear to Ian’s plea for permission to follow El Akir and rescue Barbara. Much as he might not wish to quarrel with a potential ally, Saladin had no objection to a third party intervening, though he confessed that Ian stood very little chance on his own. His acute sense of judgement told him that Ian would have to be forcibly restrained, so he ordered that a clearance be given to him to travel unmolested to Lydda, plus a declaration that Ian and ‘the lady, Barbara’, should have a safe journey back to Jaffa.

  ‘I give you these passes,’ he told Ian, ‘because I admire your bravery and courage, Sir Ian. Secondly, the lady Barbara had believed she was under my protection and I would have that belief honoured. Lastly, El Akir has presumed upon my situation in this war, and his value to me in it, and I would have that rectified. His main army, of four thousand men, it is true, is placed with the body of my fighting men in front of Jerusalem, but he has a personal guard in Lydda of several hundred. One thing and one thing alone can bring success to your enterprise... the Will of Allah.’ He smiled at Ian wryly.

  ‘But of course, you are a Christian, and my words mean nothing to you.’

  ‘On the contrary, Your Highness, if you will forgive my contradicting you, the names and the phrases differ but the purpose is the same in all races of intellect and culture. You say “the Will of Allah” where we would say “the Hand of God”.’

  ‘I see you have made some study of the subject, young man, ’ murmured Saladin approvingly, ‘but surely the conflict still remains? The gulf between our separate faiths is too wide to be bridged by such a simple explanation.’

  ‘I have a friend, a very wise, well-travelled man who spoke to me on the subject of religions once. In the West, three main streams dominate: Mohammedanism, Judaism and Christianity. In the East, the Hindu, the Buddhist and the Moslem rival Janism, Sikhism, Parsee and Shinto. But what is the sum total? That all people, everywhere, believe there is something mightier than themselves. Call it Brahma, Allah or God – only the name changes. The little Negro child will say his prayers and imagine his God to be in his colour. The French child hopes his prayers will be answered – in French. We are all children in this matter still, and will always be – until colours, languages, custom, rule and fashion find a meeting ground.’

  ‘Then why do we fight? Throw away Life, mass great continents of men and struggle for opposing beliefs?’

  Neither could provide an answer so Ian took his leave as decently as he could, although Saladin was now keen for him to Hay and hear the arguments put forward by the many wise men and philosophers who filled his court. Ian’s only regret was that he had had to speak for the Doctor and knew that his friend would eternally regret not meeting the great Sultan.

  He rode hard out of Ramlah, following much the same route that El Akir and Barbara had taken, until the fierce heat of the sun warned him how unused he was to the climate. His horse’s head was weaving slightly from side to side, its body covered with lather, and finally he reined the animal on top of an incline and gazed round the countryside. Nothing stirred in the merciless heat which had by no means risen to its peak. The land was quarter desert, tracts of sand broken by hard-baked ground, occasional scrub grass and here and there little clumps of trees. It looked like a dead world. He urged his horse towards one of the nearest clumps of trees, where he knew he would find a water pool. For a moment he thought he saw a movement but then, when he searched the place with his eyes and saw no other signs of life, took it to be imagination.

  He dismounted near the trees, leading the horse gratefully through them, both man and animal enjoying the shade. The horse was flaring its nostrils now, smelling the w
ater ahead and needed no urging. Soon, both came to a small pool of crystal-clear water. Ian bent down and scooped some of it into his face, enjoying the trickles that ran down his neck and under his clothes. Then he drank with cupped hands and moved away to the shadiest spot he could find and sat down. His horse lapped at the water then raised its head, shuffling its hooves uncomfortably.

  ‘What is it, old chap?’ asked Ian. The horse stood absolutely still, except for a slight movement of its ears, and Ian had an immediate sensation that someone’s eyes were watching him. He started to get to his feet, his hand reaching for the sword at his side, when something hit him a sickening blow on the back of his neck. For a second he believed he could fight the pain and the dizziness and tried to get to his feet, but then everything was blotted out in a sparkle of light that flashed from somewhere behind his eyes, and he started to fall. Before he touched the ground he was completely unconscious.

  A moment later, it seemed to him, his eyelids fluttered open and he was aware of the dull ache at the base of his skull. He tried to get up and found that he had been pegged out, away from the little oasis, lying directly underneath the full power of the sun. He realized he must have been unconscious for some time because all his clothes had been removed except for his trousers and boots. He tugged at the ropes around his wrists without any success then tried to move his legs, but they were also very firmly secured.

  He closed his eyes tightly to shut out the overhead glare. His mouth was dry and the perspiration the sun had drawn from his naked chest had long since dried. His whole body felt as if the skin had shrunk. He heard a movement from the direction of the grove of trees and turned his head.

  A most extraordinary spectacle greeted his eyes, for shambling towards him was an Arab dressed in horrible looking rags which hung in such shreds on his body it was almost impossible to imagine their original shape and colour. The man had a frayed patch over one eye, which made him hold his head rather to one side, and in his hands he clutched a small jar with a stick of wood protruding from it.

  ‘Ah! My Lord, you are awake,’ he said, grinning with delight and showing a mouth full of broken teeth.

  ‘I suppose you were the one who knocked me out?’ asked Ian, even more conscious of how dry his mouth was.

  ‘The same, the very same.’

  ‘No chance that you’ll untie me?’

  The Arab looked at him in hurt surprise.

  ‘Well, how about some water then?’

  ‘Now that would be as rare to you as ivory, My Lord, I know it would. Of course, there is plenty of water – and it costs nothing at all.’

  ‘Bring me some, then.’

  ‘You see, it is the carrying of the water, My Lord. I would have to do that, and very difficult and arduous work it would be, too. What would you pay for such service?’

  Ian restrained his temper, knowing it wouldn’t do him any good to start shouting or blustering. It didn’t seem to him as if threats were going to have any effect, either – not in this deserted part of the country, where the majority of people would be hiding in the shade.

  ‘How much do you want?’

  The Arab sat down on his knees with a chuckle of pleasure, for all the world as if he were about to start a conversation with a close friend.

  ‘I am such a simple man. I want everything you have.’

  ‘Now listen to me carefully...’

  The Arab put on his most serious expression and bent forward attentively.

  ‘Yes, My Lord.’

  ‘I have no money with me...’

  ‘That is a great pity.’

  ‘But take me to Lydda and I will pay you there.’

  The Arab sat back on his heels in absolute astonishment.

  ‘You want to go to Lydda, My Lord?’

  ‘Yes.

  ‘But that is a most peculiar thing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ he replied, with rising excitement, ‘I live in Lydda.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Truly, I would not lie to you.’

  ‘But this is very fortunate.’

  ‘It is kismet, My Lord, there is no other way of explaining it.’

  The Arab clapped his hands together with such pleasure and chuckled so loudly that a smile edged at the corner of Ian’s lips, and he nearly forgot his own situation.’Then you’ll take me there?’

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot, My Lord,’ replied the Arab, with a heavy sigh of disappointment.

  ‘But... but why not?’

  ‘Because you are tied up on the sand here, you see, and it such an expensive business to undo the knots... and you have no money.’

  He smiled at Ian apologetically. Ian let his head rest back on the sand, realizing he had no simpleton to deal with. ‘Then I shall just have to lie here and go mad in the sun, my friend, for all my money is in Lydda and that’s that.’

  The Arab peered at him with exaggerated anxiety.

  ‘Surely, My Lord; you do not think I am such a terrible fellow as to spreadeagle you out in the sand like this just to deprive you of water, or to let the sun melt your mind into fantasy.’ He clicked his tongue reproachfully. ‘That is a very unworthy thought, My Lord, and it is not the sort of thing I expect from you at all.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ murmured Ian sarcastically.

  ‘Quite right, because it is all very well for you. Here you are, fixed in this position and able to say what you like to me, and I can do nothing because you have no money. Really, My Lord, that is hardly my fault, now, is it?’

  Ian glanced at the man blankly.

  ‘Not your fault! Who put me here in the first place?’

  ‘But what could I do? You arrive beside the water pool, and I can see you are a rich Lord, so I am tempted to knock you out and search your clothes. The temptation was your fault, for you are obviously rich and I am obviously poor. So I search through your clothes and I find nothing. Again, My Lord, am I at fault? I most earn my living and Allah has decided that my profession is to be a thief. I can tell you I was very frustrated, My Lord, very frustrated indeed.’

  ‘So you tied me up?’

  ‘I could scarcely leave you where you were. What profit is there in that? I would be a poor thief if I didn’t do my job properly. Besides, you are much bigger and stronger than I am,’and would undoubtedly attack me when you recovered if I didn’t render you helpless.’

  Ian thought it might be worth trying a threat or two, to see what this would do to the Arab’s confidence.

  ‘Now, listen, you scoundrel, I have papers personally signed by the Sultan himself at Rautlah, giving me free travel permission through this country.’

  ‘I know, My Lord, and very important they look too. But only of value to you. My Lord, I want you to travel. I am most anxious for you to be happy and to do the things you have set your heart on doing.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘It all is so expensive.’

  ‘Take me to Lydda then.’

  ‘Ah, I am cursed with the affliction of disbelief. And you have done me an injustice already, when you thought I had placed you out here on the sand for the torture of sun or lack of water.’

  Ian looked at him thoughtfully. The Arab held up the little pot he had placed beside him gleefully.

  ‘A pot of honey, My Lord. Made from pounded dates, and very sweet. Now if you turn your head to the left you will see a mound. Look as closely as you can and you will be able to see little creatures hurrying and scurrying about. Oh, it is a hungry little home, My Lord, and its inhabitants go wild for honey.’

  Ian turned his head sharply in horror and saw the mound not more than ten feet away from his outstretched left hand, which was firmly tied, like his other limbs, to a stake buried deep in the ground.

  The Arab stepped across his body and knelt beside his left wrist.

  ‘Now what we do is daub a little of the honey on your hand, My Lord, and spread a little trail to the ant-hill. And then I will retire to the shade of the trees and dream of the treasure y
ou will give me – when the ants discover you.’

  ‘I haven’t any money,’ Ian said sharply, trying to keep the panic out of his voice, ‘I swear to you I haven’t.’ The Arab ignored him and started to daub honey on Ian’s hand with the stick and letting the runny mixture drip down on the sand in a line towards the ant-heap. Ian strained and struggled at the stakes in a vain attempt to wrench himself free, but the Arab had done his job too well, and in a moment Ian had to lie still, exhausted in every muscle. The Arab returned, still with the smile on his face, his one eye beaming out cheerfully.

  ‘There we are, My Lord – all done. Now remember all you have to do is call me. I shall not be far away.’

  He walked away to the trees and settled himself down in the shade of one of them, waving in a friendly fashion to Ian.

  Ian turned his head and looked at the ant-heap. Already he could see a dark mass of the little insects investigating the honey at the base of their city, and one or two were moving now to investigate the sudden vein of fortune which had appeared from nowhere. Ian tore his eyes away and tried desperately to think. He wondered if he could get a purchase on either of his wrists by arching his body, and he tried it, so that just his head and his heels were touching the sand, but all it did was strain his muscles. Then he tried to turn on to his right side, hoping he could drag out his left hand, and the stake, by sheer sinew. But this attempt had just as much success. Obviously the Arab knew exactly what he was doing.

  He suddenly felt a thrill of horror as something began to run over his hand and he turned his head quickly, his throat tightening in fear. The line of honey was nearly obscured now by the long, dark line of ants, all struggling and threshing, running and working away, transporting the honey back tthe nest. Another ant ran over his fingers and he agitated his hand violently in a desperate attempt to shake them off or frighten them away. He knew it wasn’t going to be any good. When they reached the end of the honey they would then be attracted to the salt in the pores of his skin and start digging for that. He imagined them gradually spreading up his arm, could almost hear the signals going back to the nest, calling for more workers to mine this rich harvest spread out so conveniently near. He pictured the wave of insects travelling slowly up his arm to his shoulder, fanning out on the plain of his chest. He felt them running along his neck and up his chin. He thought about them invading his mouth and his nostrils, packing into his ears... his eyes.