Eagle

by Hight, Jack

  ‘So you have survived,’ Ayub said in Latin. ‘Allah favours you, slave. Perhaps he guards you for some purpose. I do not know. But I do know that if you ever touch my son again, not even Allah’s favour will protect you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, m’allim,’ John croaked.

  ‘You will have three days to recover. Then you will resume your duties.’ Ayub turned and walked away. The men on either side of John released him, and he dropped to the hard, sun-baked ground. He lay there for a moment, then rolled on to his back, letting the bright sun wash over him. After a time he cracked open his eyes and drank in the endless expanse of blue sky.

  ‘You look like hell.’ John looked over to see Taur walking towards him. The Norman’s nose, swollen and purple, was flattened and shifted to the right of his face.

  ‘You don’t look so good yourself.’

  Taur grinned. ‘The Jew doctor says my nose makes me look distinguished.’ He put his arms under John and gently lifted him off the ground. ‘Jesus, you’re light, nothing but skin and bones.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘And you stink. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.’

  Yusuf stood in the doorway of the kitchen and looked out on the rain beating down on the muddy courtyard. Chill weather had blown in from the north, bringing with it the first rain of the year. There would be rejoicing in the town. Yusuf wondered if it was also raining on the road to Aleppo, where his father was taking Turan. Yusuf’s jaw tightened at the thought of his brother. Turan was why he was here, peering through the rain at the barely visible form of Juwan.

  Juwan was standing in the centre of the courtyard, his arms spread wide and his head back. Yusuf had never seen such bizarre behaviour. Rain was good, a blessing from Allah, but only a fool stood outside in the cold and wet. Perhaps the Frank’s time in the cell had made him mad. Yusuf would find out soon enough. He had been waiting two days for a chance to speak with the slave alone, and now his chance had come.

  Yusuf lowered his head and ran out into the rain. By the time he splashed his way to the Frank’s side, he was soaked, his tunic heavy with water. Juwan did not move. Yusuf saw that his eyes were closed. ‘Juwan!’ he shouted. The Frank lowered his arms and snapped upright. His posture relaxed somewhat when he saw that it was Yusuf who had addressed him.

  ‘John,’ the Frank said. ‘My name is John.’

  ‘Yes—Juwan,’ Yusuf said, speaking Latin. ‘I wish to speak with you. Come.’

  Yusuf led the way across the courtyard to the shelter of the lime trees, where the dense foliage kept out most of the rain. Yusuf brushed his wet hair back from his eyes, then began to wring out his caftan. ‘What were you doing out there?’ he asked.

  ‘The rain reminds me of my home.’

  ‘And where is that?’

  ‘England. It is an island far from here.’

  ‘I have heard of it.’ Yusuf shivered as a chill wind blew a gust of rain under the trees. ‘I hope it is not always so cold.’

  John smiled. ‘No, not always.’ His smile faded as his eyes took on a distant look. ‘My home is lush and green. There is no sand, no dusty earth. Grass grows everywhere. Cold rivers flow through fields full with crops. Dense woodland abounds, with towering oaks. In winter, deep snow covers the land. It is beautiful.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  John’s eyes narrowed and his mouth hardened to a straight line. ‘For the crusade, to fight for God.’

  ‘I see.’ Yusuf paused. The key moment had come, and he carefully weighed his next words. ‘You are a great warrior, Juwan. I saw you at Damascus the day you were captured. You took on four men and killed them all.’

  ‘Yet I ended up here.’

  Yusuf did not catch the bitterness in John’s voice. ‘Teach me to fight as you do,’ he said. ‘Help me to beat Turan.’

  John watched the rain for a long time, his forehead creased in thought. Finally he shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘But you owe me your life! My father would have killed you had I not spoken out against Turan. You would have died again in that cell had I not brought you food and water.’

  ‘And Turan would have killed you had I not stopped him. We are even.’ John began to turn away, but Yusuf placed a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘No, we are not. I saved your life before, in the slave markets of Damascus. It is I who purchased you. You would have died had I left you there.’

  ‘Then it is you who made me a slave,’ John said, his voice hard and unforgiving. ‘For that, I owe you nothing.’ He stormed off.

  ‘Wait!’ Yusuf called after him. ‘Juwan, I command you to stop!’ But John kept walking and disappeared into the driving rain.

  John sneezed violently, holding the pitchfork with one hand while he wiped his nose with the back of the other. His eyes watered as he took the pitchfork and scooped up another pile of hay, dropping it down from the loft to the stable floor. ‘Ha-choo!’ John sneezed again. He had been back at work for a week, and before he left, Ayub had removed him from the fields, assigning him full time to the stables. John loved being around the horses but dreaded feeding them; he was violently allergic to hay. He wiped his nose again, then turned and thrust the tines of the pitchfork into the high pile of straw.

  ‘Salaam,’ a woman’s soft voice called out. Greetings. John turned to see Zimat standing just inside the stable entrance. She wore a belted caftan of saffron yellow, with red silk embroidery around the neck and sleeves. Her long black hair cascaded down her shoulders, a stray strand hanging over her veiled face. Her eyes were downcast.

  ‘Sa—sa—ha-choo!’ John replied, an explosive sneeze cutting off his greeting. Zimat giggled. John could feel his cheeks starting to burn. ‘Salaam, Zimat,’ he managed. Her laughter faded, and they stared at one another in silence, John gripping the shaft of the pitchfork as if he were drowning and it were a lifeline.

  ‘Ija la-taht,’ Zimat said at last, motioning for John to come down. He tossed the pitchfork on the pile of hay and climbed down the ladder from the loft. When he reached the stable floor, he found Zimat waiting for him, close enough that John could smell her heady scent of spice and citrus, close enough that he could have reached out and smoothed back the lone strand of hair that fell across her face. He met her eyes, and she looked away, then back to him. She took a deep breath and began to speak, a flood of Arabic rushing out. John’s rudimentary understanding of the language was not up to the task. He found himself staring at her dark eyes, her slender waist, the curves of her hips beneath the tightly belted caftan. He wondered why she had come to him. What would her mother think? She stopped speaking, and John’s eyes snapped back to her face. Zimat was looking at him expectantly, her eyes wide.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand,’ John said in Latin. He shrugged his shoulders to signal his incomprehension. ‘Lâ ‘arabi.’ No Arabic.

  Zimat lowered her eyes and shifted from foot to foot. Then she looked up at him through her thick eyelashes. ‘Shukran,’ she whispered as she pulled down her veil. She stepped forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek, her lips soft and warm. John stood dazed as she turned and hurried away. At the door of the stable, she turned back to him and smiled. Then she was gone.

  Yusuf stood in the courtyard behind the kitchen, a bow in his hands. The bow was a compact but formidable weapon, formed in the shape of a rounded m. It had a wooden core reinforced with layers of horn on the inside of the curves and of sinew on the outside. Yusuf took an arrow from the quiver on his back, nocked it, and strained to pull back the bowstring as he focused on his target, a small circular shield that hung on the wall thirty paces off. He inhaled and let his breath escape slowly as he sighted along the arrow. He let fly and the arrow hit the centre of the target with a satisfying thwack, the steel tip driving straight through the shield. Yusuf smiled and reached back to grab another arrow.

  He sighted along the shaft and was about to release it when out of the corner of his eye he saw Juwan approaching. Yusuf lowered his bow. ‘Salaam, Juwan.’
<
br />   ‘John,’ the slave replied. ‘My name is John.’

  ‘Ja-ahn,’ Yusuf said, struggling with the strange vowels.

  ‘John,’ the Frank repeated.

  ‘John,’ Yusuf managed.

  ‘Good. You should know my name if I am going to teach you how to fight.’

  Yusuf grinned. ‘You have changed your mind?’

  ‘There is one condition.’

  Yusuf’s smile faded. ‘What is it?’

  ‘If I teach you to fight, then you must teach me Arabic.’

  Yusuf nodded. ‘Done.’

  John presented his right hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Yusuf did likewise. The Frank grabbed Yusuf’s hand and squeezed it tight. ‘It’s a deal.’

  ‘Then let us waste no time,’ Yusuf replied, rubbing the hand that the Frank had gripped as if it were dirty. ‘Let us begin.’

  ‘First, a question: what does shukran mean?’

  ‘Thank you. It means thank you.’

  Chapter 6

  AUGUST AND SEPTEMBER 1149: BAALBEK

  Yusuf ’s sword arced downwards and met John’s blade with a metallic ring that echoed off the walls of the ancient Roman temple. The two swords locked, and Yusuf stood face to face with John. After months of practice, Yusuf had added muscle to his wiry frame. The sword, which just a year ago he had struggled to lift with one hand during the battle for Damascus, he now wielded with ease. Still, he was no match for John’s size. Yusuf strained, but the two swords inched closer to his face. He gave a final push, then disengaged and spun away, but not before John’s sword snaked out and caught him a stinging blow on the side. The weapons were blunted, and Yusuf wore a leather vest for protection. But the blades could still bruise well enough, and Yusuf was sure that this blow would leave its mark. He refused to acknowledge the stinging pain as he circled with his sword held high. One of the first things John had taught him was to show no weakness.

  ‘You must act more decisively,’ John said, wiping sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. The stones of the temple were hot under the summer sun. John had stripped down to his leather breeches, but he was still glistening with sweat. ‘Always keep your distance when fighting a larger opponent. Keep moving.’

  Yusuf nodded. They were inside the Roman temple that sat at the heart of Baalbek. Walls composed of huge blocks of stone rose high all around them, reaching up to the clear blue sky. The peaked roof of the temple had long since collapsed, the rubble carted off and incorporated into the walls of the surrounding buildings. What remained was a perfect practice arena: a space some twenty yards by thirty, close to the villa of Yusuf’s father, and best of all, hidden from prying eyes. In the afternoon, while the other boys played polo on the fields outside Baalbek, Yusuf came here to practise. As soon as he had finished his work in the stables, John sneaked over the villa wall to join him.

  John wiped more sweat from his eyes, and Yusuf took advantage of the distraction to attack. He feinted a low thrust, which John moved to block. Then Yusuf spun right and slashed down at John’s side. But John had already moved. He sidestepped the blow and punched Yusuf hard in the shoulder, knocking him stumbling backwards.

  ‘Don’t let your opponent trick you into an off-balance attack,’ John cautioned. ‘And never over-extend yourself.’ Yusuf gritted his teeth and nodded. He knew John was right, but his constant advice grated. ‘And never forget this,’ John added, ‘the most important lesson my father taught me: an angry warrior is one step away from a dead warrior.’

  Yusuf grunted in response and attacked with a vicious overhead chop that John parried. Yusuf brought his sword down, cutting at John’s shins, but he jumped the blow, then slapped the flat of his sword against Yusuf’s knuckles. Yusuf dropped his blade, shaking his hand and cursing.

  ‘You must never allow your emotions to get the better of you.’ John tossed his sword aside and raised his fists. ‘Let’s continue.’ They began to circle, mirroring one another’s movements. Yusuf was breathing hard after half an hour of swordplay, but John was hardly winded. ‘Don’t be in a hurry,’ John advised. He stepped forward and jabbed, but Yusuf skipped back out of the way. They continued circling. ‘Remember: find your opponent’s pattern, break it down, then attack.’

  John charged as he finished speaking, his arms out to grab hold of Yusuf. Yusuf stood his ground. He hit John with a quick jab to the jaw, ducked his arms, then spun away, a smile on his face. ‘You move like an ox,’ Yusuf taunted in Latin.

  ‘Good,’ John grunted, feeling his lower lip. His hand came away red with blood. ‘Taunting is a good way to unbalance your opponent.’

  ‘And you are as dumb as an ox, too,’ Yusuf added in Arabic.

  ‘Don’t overdo it,’ John growled. He approached Yusuf more slowly this time, keeping his hands up. Yusuf let him come, ducking and bobbing his head as John had taught him, so that he would not present an easy target. John swung high, and Yusuf ducked the punch, stepping in and delivering a right to John’s stomach. Yusuf stayed in close, hitting John twice more in the gut. But Yusuf’s fourth punch never hit home. John’s hand clamped down on his wrist. John spun Yusuf around and twisted his arm behind his back, wrapping the other forearm around Yusuf’s throat. Yusuf struggled to escape but could not break John’s iron grip.

  ‘When fighting a larger opponent, you must rely on quickness and deception,’ John spoke into Yusuf’s ear. ‘Strike and then move away. If you let him get close, you are lost.’

  ‘You haven’t defeated me yet,’ Yusuf growled. He bit down on John’s forearm.

  ‘’Sblood!’ John cursed. He pulled his bleeding forearm tight against Yusuf’s throat, choking him. ‘A wise warrior also knows when to admit defeat.’

  Yusuf’s face turned bright red, but he continued to struggle. Finally, when his vision dimmed and he began to see spots of light swimming before his eyes, he went limp. ‘You win,’ he croaked. John let him go, and Yusuf fell to his knees, gasping for air. From the mosque nearby, the muezzin began his rhythmic chant, calling the Muslim faithful to their evening prayers.

  ‘I must go,’ Yusuf said between heavy breaths. He rose and collected the swords, hiding them under one of the loose flagstones that formed the floor of the temple. ‘I never miss evening prayers.’

  John nodded as he picked up his tunic and pulled it on. ‘I should return as well, or I will be missed at the evening meal. You fought well today, Yusuf.’

  Yusuf smiled. Compliments from John were hard-earned.

  ‘Tomorrow we will meet in the stables,’ Yusuf said. ‘And I shall teach you.’

  ‘Until tomorrow, then. Ma’a as-salaama.’ Go with safety.

  ‘Allah yasalmak.’ God keep you safe.

  John poured a bucket of water into the horse’s trough, and the chestnut stallion came to the edge of its stall and bent its head to drink. John scratched the horse between its ears, and it nuzzled at him, searching for a treat. Disappointed, the horse returned to the water. John leaned against the stall and watched it drink. He loved the compact, graceful Arabian horses. They were smaller than the bulky European chargers he had grown up with, but were surprisingly strong for their size. Yusuf said that they could carry more weight because their bones were denser. For the same reason, they rarely went lame.

  John gave the horse a final pat, then hung the bucket from a hook next to the stall. His work in the stable was done. He still had to restock the kitchen’s wood supply, but he would have plenty of time to do so after his lesson. John climbed into the hayloft and sat to wait for Yusuf. Almost immediately, he began to sneeze. The loft was not the ideal place for their studies, but at least it was private.

  A moment later, Yusuf entered the stables carrying two leather-bound tomes. ‘Greetings, John,’ he said in Frankish, then clambered up into the loft, the heavy books clutched under one arm.

  ‘Salaam, Yusuf.’ John had always had a gift for languages; he had learned Latin and Frankish with a rapidity that astonished the monks who had taught him
as a child. His gift had not deserted him, and he had picked up Arabic quickly. Yusuf’s Frankish had improved just as fast. Now, they spoke to one another in a mixture of the two. ‘More reading?’ John sighed, eyeing the books.

  ‘If you can speak but cannot read, then you are little better than a savage.’

  ‘I can read Greek, Latin, Frankish and English.’

  ‘But not Arabic, the holy language.’ Yusuf handed the larger of the two books to John. Graceful, curving Arabic letters had been carved into the leather of the spine.

  ‘The Chronicle of Damascus,’ John spelled out. While he spoke Arabic well enough, he found it devilishly tricky to read. The flowing, snaky script seemed to blend together, making it difficult to determine where one letter ended and another began.

  ‘It is a history written by one of our greatest scholars,’ Yusuf told him. ‘Today’s topic will be of some interest to you; we shall read of the first crusade and the siege of Jerusalem.’

  John opened the book at the marked page and squinted at the ornate, flowing script. ‘The army of the Franks—’ he read slowly, ‘more than ten thousand men strong, arrived before the walls of the Holy City on the ninth day of Rajab in the four hundred and ninety-second year since the flight of the Prophet Mohammed from Mecca to Medina.’ Yusuf nodded and smiled encouragement. ‘The Frankish . . .’ John’s eyebrows knit in frustration.

  ‘Warriors,’ Yusuf supplied.

  ‘We would say chevaliers – knights,’ John murmured. He turned back to the text. ‘The Frankish warriors are said to have—’

  ‘Wept.’

  ‘—to have wept to see the city that they had travelled so long to reach. They were led by Raymond of Toulouse, a giant of a man and a fierce warrior, and Godfrey of Bouillon, who would become King of Jerusalem. The Franks surrounded the city and lay—What is this word, here?’