by Hight, Jack
‘Will he live?’ Yusuf asked, fingering the sharp point of the arrowhead.
‘God willing, no. I have never dissected a Frank, and I should like to do so. I am curious to note any differences.’ Yusuf frowned. He had purchased the slave, and he felt responsible for him. Ibn Jumay saw his expression and smiled reassuringly. ‘But he is young and strong. I fear he shall survive.’
‘When will he be better?’
‘Only God knows. If all goes well, he should be on his feet before the winter rains. But if the infection in his leg spreads, then I will have to have it off.’ Ibn Jumay finished the stitches and looked up. ‘In that case, I fear the worst.’
In his dream, John was once more on the battlefield outside Damascus. Rabbit stood in the distance, waist-deep in the crimson waters of the Barada River. A Saracen with his sword held high was approaching him from behind. John screamed and tried to run, but no matter how fast he moved, the river grew no closer. He watched in horror as the Saracen, a mad grin on his face, impaled Rabbit from behind, his bloodied blade bursting from the boy’s chest. Then the Saracen’s face twisted and transformed into the leering visage of Reynald . . .
John jerked awake to the sound of whistling. He was lying on the floor of a small room, lit only dimly by a shaft of light beaming through a grill in the door. He was shirtless and something warm lay on his stomach. He looked down to see a man bent over his torso. John tried to sit up but the world spun around him and he fell back. The whistling stopped.
‘Easy, young man,’ a voice said in heavily accented Frankish, the vowels long and foreign, the consonants too guttural. A face appeared over him, darkly tanned with a short beard and kind brown eyes.
‘Who are you?’ John asked. ‘Where am I?’
‘Drink this,’ the man said, lifting John’s head with one hand and holding a cup to his lips. The liquid in the cup was cold and bitter. Despite the unpleasant taste, John drank greedily. His lips were parched, and his throat felt as if he had not had water in days. ‘There,’ the man said. ‘Now for your questions: you are in the home of Najm ad-Din Ayub, in Baalbek. And I am Ibn Jumay, a Jew and for the moment, your doctor.’ John began to speak, but Ibn Jumay shook his head. ‘Be quiet. Just for a moment.’ He took John’s wrist in his hand and held it while he looked away to the floor. ‘Good, a steady pulse,’ he murmured. He looked back to John. ‘Now tell me, what is your name?’
‘John.’
‘Ah, interesting.’
‘How did I get here?’ John asked.
‘You are a slave. You were purchased after the battle in Damascus.’ Ibn Jumay offered John another cup of the bitter liquid. ‘That was over a week ago. You suffered grave injuries, and you have been incoherent for some time. I had hoped you would die.’
John spluttered.
‘I wished to dissect you,’ Ibn Jumay explained. ‘But no matter. It seems that God has other plans for you, John.’ He smiled. ‘It occurs to me that perhaps your name is prophetic. John is a Frankish corruption of a Hebrew name. It means God is gracious.’
John closed his eyes, suddenly tired. ‘I am a slave,’ he muttered. ‘God has not been gracious to me.’
‘Ah, but you are alive.’
John shook his head. He should have died along with Rabbit. He had wanted to give his life for God. Why had He not taken it? John’s thoughts slowed. His eyelids grew heavy and his head felt hot. ‘I am burning,’ he murmured. ‘I need to be bled—’
The doctor laughed. ‘That is the last thing you need.’ He placed a cool, wet cloth on John’s forehead, and John felt instant relief. ‘You need rest,’ Ibn Jumay said softly. ‘The drink I gave you will help you sleep. Later, you will be brought food and drink. Eat everything. I will see you tomorrow.’
John tried to respond, but he was already slipping away, surrendering to sleep, returning to his dark dreams.
Weeks passed, time spent mostly in drugged sleep, battling nightmares. The visits of Ibn Jumay punctuated John’s tortured sleep. The kind doctor redressed John’s wounds and told him of his new owner, Najm ad-Din Ayub. Ayub, he said, was a tough man, but also fair and generous. John could have done much worse.
One day, John awoke to the creak of the door opening and rolled over to see not Ibn Jumay but a slender Saracen with short, greying hair and piercing eyes. He had angular features and his mouth was set in a hard line. John sat up. He sensed immediately that this was not a man to be trifled with. The Saracen stepped into the small room, and Ibn Jumay entered behind him.
‘Up,’ the strange man said in accented Latin. John stood, wobbling for a moment on his weak right leg. The Saracen stepped close and inspected John, squeezing his arms and legs as if he were a horse. ‘Your shirt,’ he ordered.
John tilted his head in confusion. ‘Excuse me?’
The back of the man’s hand flashed out, catching John on the cheek. John ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth and tasted blood. The man leaned close and growled something harsh in Arabic.
‘You are not to speak unless spoken to,’ Ibn Jumay translated. ‘He wishes you to take off your tunic. Do as he says.’ John pulled the linen fabric off over his head, and the man leaned close to examine the scars on John’s shoulder and torso. Finally, he nodded. He turned to Ibn Jumay, and they exchanged rapid words in Arabic. Then, Ibn Jumay turned to John and spoke in Frankish.
‘This is Najm ad-Din Ayub, but you will call him m’allim, master. He has deemed you fit to begin working. Do as he says, and you will be fed, clothed and treated with respect. In time, you may even purchase your freedom. Disobey him, and you will be punished.’
‘What good is the word of an infidel?’ John spat in Frankish.
Again, the back of Ayub’s hand flashed out, stinging John’s cheek. ‘My word is true,’ Ayub said in Latin. ‘And if I choose to let Ibn Jumay speak for me, it is only because I do not wish to soil my mouth with your barbarian tongue. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ John said. Ayub raised his hand. ‘Yes, m’allim.’
‘Good. Follow me.’ John limped outside, squinting against the bright sunshine, which was blinding after weeks spent in the dim confines of his room. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that he was in a walled compound, with a sprawling, white-walled villa at the centre. The room in which he had been kept was one of several in a row built against the wall that ran down one side of the villa. Ayub stopped in front of a doorway that led into a larger room. Straw sleeping mats covered the floor, with hardly any space between them.
‘From now on you will sleep here with the other slaves,’ Ibn Jumay instructed.
John nodded, and Ayub led on to the back of the villa. He stepped through a low door, and John followed to find himself in a kitchen filled with the mouth-watering smells of roasting meat and exotic spices. The large room had spotless white walls, a red-tiled floor and a low ceiling. John had to duck to avoid the sheep haunches, ribs and even whole goats that hung there. A fireplace eight feet across took up most of the wall to the right. Wood was stacked next to it, and more wood burned in the fireplace, heating a black cauldron that hung from a chain. A thin slave girl with skin of deepest black tended the cauldron, stirring it with a long wooden spoon. Across from John, several narrow tables lined the wall, with a washbasin built into one. Shelves had been built above them, and they held dozens of clay jars. To the left of the shelves, a door led into the villa, and on the left-hand wall, another door led to a pantry filled with sacks of grain. A wide table occupied the middle of the room, and standing behind it was an attractive older woman with long hair just beginning to grey. She scowled when she saw John.
Ayub turned to John and spoke rapidly in Arabic. ‘This is Basimah, the mistress of the house,’ Ibn Jumay translated. ‘You will work for her until you are strong enough to work in the fields. You are to do exactly as she says. Under no circumstances are you to speak to her, or to any other members of the household. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’ John looked to Ayub. ‘Yes, m’allim
.’
Ayub nodded, and he and Ibn Jumay departed, leaving John alone to face Basimah. She stood with her hands on her hips, frowning at him while a fat fly buzzed around the room. ‘Mayy,’ she said at last. John shook his head to indicate that he did not understand. ‘Mayy,’ she said more loudly and kicked a wooden bucket so that it slid across the floor to him. ‘’Ajal,’ she added as John picked up the bucket. ‘’Ajal!’
John hurried outside, bucket in hand. Did mayy mean water, he wondered, or perhaps milk? He looked about, but saw neither a well nor any animals. The space behind the house was a broad expanse of sun-baked earth, closed off on three sides by a high wall. Small trees filled with bright-green fruit grew along the wall opposite John. Buildings lined the wall to the left and right, their red-tile roofs slanting upwards to within four feet of the top of the wall. John started to lug the bucket around the left side of the villa, then froze. If he climbed atop one of those buildings, he would be able to clamber over the wall.
John carried the bucket over to the nearest building and placed it upside down on the ground. He looked around to make sure that no one was watching. Then, standing on the bucket, he jumped and managed to get his chest and arms on to the tile roof. His injured shoulder screamed with pain, but John gritted his teeth and pulled himself the rest of the way up. He lay on the hot tiles, gasping for breath. He had not realized how weak he was. He pushed himself up and crawled to where the roof met the wall. He rose and peered over. A dusty city of narrow streets and closely packed buildings stretched away before him, running down to a square, where there stood a huge Roman temple, its tall columns dwarfing the surrounding buildings. Beyond the temple, the streets sloped down towards a thick wall. Beyond the wall lay a green valley, bordered on both sides by towering mountains. John noted the position of the morning sun, over the mountains to his right. That meant that the kingdom of Jerusalem lay to his left, over the far mountain range.
‘You, slave! What are you doing there?’ John turned to see a dark-haired boy staring up at him from the ground. ‘Come down at once!’ the boy demanded in passable Latin. John turned away and placed his hands on top of the wall, preparing to hoist himself over. ‘You will never escape that way,’ the boy called up to him. ‘Even if you get past the city guards and across the valley, you will never survive the mountains. There is no water and the nights are freezing.’
John hesitated. He knew the boy was right. And besides, what did he have to return to? He had fled his home in England with blood on his hands. The Franks had betrayed him. There was nowhere for him to go. There was nowhere he belonged. He turned and scrambled back to the edge of the roof, then dropped down. He landed a few feet from the boy, who was olive-skinned and thin, with deep, intelligent eyes. ‘I am Yusuf,’ he said. ‘What is your name?’
‘John.’ How, he wondered, could this infidel child speak Latin?
‘Ju-wan?’ the boy sounded out, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘A strange name for a man. It means perfume in our language.’
‘It’s John.’
He looked from John to the roof above. ‘I do not advise trying to escape, Juwan. If my father catches you, he will have you stoned to death as an example to the other slaves.’
John felt the blood drain from his face. ‘I was not trying to escape,’ he lied.
Yusuf clucked his tongue. ‘Careful. The punishment for a slave who lies is twenty lashes.’ He picked up the bucket and held it out to John. ‘My mother will be wondering where you are. There is a well that way, near the stables.’ He pointed to the front of the villa.
‘You are not going to punish me?’
‘Not this time.’
‘Thank you.’ John took the bucket and headed towards the front of the villa. When he looked back, the boy was gone.
The sun glowed golden red, like iron fresh from the forge, as it set behind the distant mountains. In the dying light John trudged across the courtyard, a stack of wood in his aching, trembling arms. Sweat ran down his face and stung his eyes, for even this late in the day the searing summer heat remained, the air burning his lungs and the ground hot through the leather of his sandals. He moved slowly, every step bringing a stab of pain in his right leg, where he had been injured. His muscles were weak after more than two months of inactivity, and his labours that day had brought him to breaking point. His hands were raw from a morning spent pulling bucket after bucket from the well, and then staggering back to the kitchen, the pail hanging awkwardly between his legs. His lower back ached from mucking out the stalls that afternoon. And he had lost count of the trips he had made to replenish the stack of wood in the kitchen. He gritted his teeth and pushed on through the pain and exhaustion. Escape might not be possible, but the Jewish doctor had said that if John worked hard, he might some day buy his freedom. He clung to that hope.
John trudged into the kitchen to find that Basimah and the kitchen slave were gone. Head down, he headed straight for the wood pile. As he was lowering the wood, his tired arms gave way and the logs fell and rolled across the floor. He began to gather them up when behind him he heard shouting from somewhere inside the villa. He turned to see a girl – no, a young woman – storm into the kitchen. She had high cheekbones, a delicate nose, full lips and flawless, golden-brown skin, the colour of the desert John had passed through on the way to Damascus. Her dark eyes were filled with tears, which she wiped away upon seeing John. He stared, his mouth open. She was more beautiful than Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, or even than the Madonna in the painting that hung behind the altar of his church in Tatewic.
‘Are you well?’ John asked finally. The girl straightened and then looked down her nose at him. She snapped something in Arabic. John spread his hands. ‘I don’t understand.’ He took a step towards her.
The girl frowned and stepped back. She pointed imperiously towards the door. ‘Barra. Barra!’
John did not move, and the girl’s eyes widened. Her posture softened as she tilted her head to examine him. John tapped his chest. ‘John,’ he said and smiled. ‘I am John.’ The girl smiled back, her teeth dazzlingly white against her brown skin.
‘Zimat!’ It was Basimah, who strode into the kitchen and began to scold the girl in Arabic. John went to restack the wood next to the fireplace. When he had finished, he turned to find that the girl had gone. Basimah stood staring at him, her arms crossed and her mouth stretched in a tight line. Finally, she turned away and went to the cauldron over the stove. She scooped a ladleful of thick, steaming stew on to a plate, added a piece of flatbread and shoved the dish across the table towards John.
‘Râh,’ she said, nodding to the plate. John took it. Basimah nodded and pointed out the door. ‘Râh!’ John moved away slowly, expecting to be called back any second, but Basimah let him go. Outside, night was falling rapidly now that the sun had set behind the mountains. A cool breeze brought the scent of ripening fruit. John stumbled through the darkness to the slave quarters, already crowded with a dozen men hunched over their evening meals. Most were dark-skinned Africans, although there were one or two native Christians amongst them. They all eyed John with ill-disguised hostility as he grabbed a mat from near the door and picked his way past them to a space in the far corner. He threw down his mat and sat with a grateful sigh, his back against the wall.
John sniffed at the food he had been given. It had a sweet, pungent smell that was unlike anything he had ever known. He tore off a piece of bread and poked at the stew, revealing tender chunks of lamb amongst the lentils. Using the bread, he scooped some of the stew into his mouth. ‘’Sblood!’ he whispered, his mouth aching as it filled too quickly with saliva. He greedily ate the rest of the stew and had hardly finished when he drifted into an exhausted sleep, the plate still on his lap. For the first time in many nights he did not dream of blood and battle, of Rabbit or of his brother. Instead, he dreamt of the beautiful girl, of Zimat.
That night, Yusuf ate his stew in silence. The family meal was a tense affair, with no one
speaking. It should have been a joyous occasion. Mansur ad-Din, the emir of Baalbek and father of Yusuf’s friend Khaldun, had visited that afternoon and reached an agreement with Ayub that Zimat would marry Khaldun when he came of age. It was a good match, but Zimat did not look happy. Her eyes were red from crying. Basimah had pushed for the marriage, but she too was upset. She snapped at the kitchen servant when she brought the dishes – this one was too cold, that one not adequately spiced – and ate with her brow furrowed, her eyes burrowing into Ayub. As for Ayub, he avoided her gaze. Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke. ‘Turan, tell me of your slave. He serves you well?’
Turan nodded. ‘I call him Taur’ – ox – ‘because he is so strong. We practised sword-fighting today. He is good, but not as good as me,’ Turan smirked.
Ayub turned towards his wife. ‘And you, Basimah? What of the young Frank?’ Yusuf looked up.
‘Sell him,’ Basimah said. ‘I do not wish to have him in my household.’
‘Why is this?’ Ayub demanded.
‘He is a savage, a Frank,’ Basimah said, her voice trembling with passion. ‘He was alone with Zimat today. He saw her unveiled.’ Zimat blushed.
