Eagle

by Hight, Jack

  ‘Yes, but Nur ad-Din is far away, and the Seljuk Sultan is paying us well for Tell Bashir – one thousand dinars.’

  Yusuf looked Qaraqush in the eyes. ‘I will give you two thousand.’

  ‘And where will you find two thousand dinars?’ Qaraqush scoffed.

  ‘That is my concern, but I promise: you will have your money.’

  Qaraqush frowned. ‘I think you lie.’

  ‘I do not expect you to believe me. But you have nothing to lose. If I am defeated by your champion tomorrow, then you will be rid of me. If I win, then you can hold me hostage until the sultan’s men arrive. If I do not get you the money before then, you can sell me to the sultan. But if I do succeed, then you will swear loyalty to me and to Nur ad-Din.’

  Qaraqush grinned. ‘You are a bold one, Yusuf. You will make a great leader, if you do not die first.’ He placed his hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘If you defeat my champion and find the money, then I will gladly swear loyalty to you.’

  ‘I have one more condition,’ Yusuf warned. ‘Until the sultan’s men arrive, you and your men must do as I say. I will be in command here, as Nur ad-Din has decreed.’

  Qaraqush burst out laughing, his head tilted back and his shoulders shaking. ‘By Allah, you are brash. First win your fight. Then we shall see.’

  ‘Wake up!’ John jerked awake to find Yusuf shaking his shoulder. It was morning, and pale sunlight streamed through the cell window. John sat up. He could hear dozens of voices outside. Occasional snatches of conversation floated through the window. ‘The little one won’t last one minute—’ ‘The Frank either—’ ‘Al-Mashtub will fight. I saw him kill a man with one blow—’

  ‘They started gathering after morning prayers,’ Yusuf said. He smiled. ‘One minute? They’re in for a surprise.’

  John shook his head. ‘Just make sure you don’t get yourself killed. Remember what I taught you.’

  Outside, the crowd began to roar, and a moment later, John heard the rasp of the door’s bolt. The door swung open, and he blinked against the sudden brightness. A mamluk stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the morning light.

  ‘Come,’ the guard said. ‘It is time.’

  John followed Yusuf out of the cell. The courtyard was crowded with dozens of mamluks, who stepped aside to create a narrow path. As John passed, they leaned close, spitting insults: ‘Frankish bastard!’ ‘Son of a donkey!’ ‘Male whore!’ ‘Your mother is a slut!’ John thought back to Acre, when, newly arrived in the Holy Land, he had fought the Saracen prisoner. Now he was the one being led to the slaughter. John shook the thought from his head. He would not die in this god-forsaken frontier town, not if he could help it. He walked on stone-faced, following Yusuf into an impromptu ring that had been marked off in the dust of the fortress courtyard.

  Qaraqush was waiting for them in the centre of the ring. He pointed to John. ‘You first.’

  John stripped off his tunic so that he wore only his breeches. ‘Remember,’ Yusuf told him, ‘fight to the end. If you lose, you die.’ John nodded. Yusuf clasped his arm. ‘Good luck. Allah yasalmak.’ God keep you safe. Yusuf stepped back to the edge of the ring, and John turned to await his opponent.

  ‘Nazam!’ Qaraqush called.

  The crowd cheered as the young, bald-headed guard from the night before stepped forward. He had already stripped to his waist, and his well-defined stomach and chest glistened with oil. That would make it hard for John to grab hold of him. John could hear men in the crowd placing bets over how long the fight would last. Then Yusuf shouted, ‘I’ll take the Frank to win! I will take all comers!’ He was immediately crowded about by mamluks.

  Qaraqush chuckled and turned to John. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘John.’

  The mamluk commander frowned at the foreign-sounding name. He turned and gestured to John’s opponent. ‘I present to you Nazam!’ he roared to the crowd. ‘Our fiercest warrior, he has already killed six Franks. Today, he fights another: Juwan. They will fight until one of them is unconscious, or dead.’ Qaraqush stepped out of the circle. ‘Fight!’

  Nazam circled left, his movement smooth and assured. John shadowed him, keeping the ring between them. The crowd was close behind him, yelling insults. Someone shoved John in the back, and he stumbled into the centre of the ring. Nazam attacked immediately, stepping forward and levelling a straight right at John’s chin. John ducked the blow and slammed his shoulder into Nazam’s gut. He tried to wrestle the mamluk to the ground but slid off his oiled skin. Nazam spun away and moved to the far side of the ring.

  John turned to face him, careful now to keep distance between himself and the crowd. He edged towards Nazam. Suddenly the mamluk sprang forward and snapped off two quick jabs. John stumbled back, his right eye already swelling. Nazam grinned, and the crowd roared, calling for him to finish the Frank. Nazam pressed the attack, delivering another left jab that caught John on the chin. The mamluk put all his weight behind a straight right, but this time John knocked the blow aside with his left arm. He stepped inside Nazam’s reach and threw a vicious uppercut that caught the mamluk in the jaw, snapping his head back. Nazam stood unsteadily, blood running down his chin from where he had bitten his tongue. Then his knees buckled and he collapsed. The crowd fell silent.

  John rolled Nazam over and knelt on his chest. He raised his fist threateningly, but Nazam did not respond. He was already unconscious. John rose. The mamluk warriors around him were looking on wide-eyed. Qaraqush entered the ring, his brow knit. Then he grabbed John’s right wrist and raised his arm high. ‘The winner!’ he shouted. Several of the men spat. John walked over to Yusuf amidst silence.

  ‘You just made us ten dinars,’ Yusuf told him, sliding a handful of coins into a pouch and handing it to John.

  ‘Be careful out there,’ John replied. ‘My opponent was over-confident. Whoever you fight, he’ll be ready for you.’ Yusuf nodded and pulled off his tunic. He was thin, his ribs showing clearly, but John knew that he was stronger than he looked. ‘Allah yasalmak,’ John called as Yusuf stepped into the ring.

  ‘Al-Mashtub!’ Qaraqush yelled. ‘You’re next.’

  The crowd parted, and a bear of a man stepped forward. He was easily a foot taller than Yusuf and perhaps twice as heavy. He had thickly muscled shoulders, a barrel chest, and his biceps were thicker than Yusuf’s thighs. The giant grinned when he saw Yusuf, revealing a broad gap between his front teeth.

  ‘Mary, Mother of Jesus,’ John whispered.

  ‘You said you wanted to face my best man,’ Qaraqush told Yusuf. ‘Allah save you.’ He stepped out of the ring. ‘Fight!’

  The crowd roared. Al-Mashtub raised his huge fists – like twin mallets – and headed straight across the ring. Yusuf began to circle away, and Al-Mashtub charged, moving surprisingly quickly for his size. Yusuf just managed to jump aside, and the huge man went barrelling into the crowd, bowling over three men.

  Yusuf waited in the centre of the ring while Al-Mashtub turned and lumbered back into the circle. The huge mamluk advanced more slowly this time. Yusuf tried to circle away, but Al-Mashtub shadowed him, keeping the smaller man in front of him. Yusuf was running out of space, and Al-Mashtub was almost on top of him.

  ‘Move!’ John shouted. ‘Don’t let him get a hold of you!’

  Yusuf stepped forward and snapped off a jab, catching Al-Mashtub in the chin. Al-Mashtub swung, but Yusuf ducked and got off two more quick blows to his gut. It looked like he had punched the side of an ox. Al-Mashtub did not even wince. He tried to grab Yusuf, but the smaller man ducked away and sprinted past him.

  ‘He’s a slippery bastard,’ the mamluk to John’s right spat as he handed a few coppers to the next man along. ‘I was certain that runt wouldn’t last a minute.’

  Al-Mashtub moved in again, and Yusuf hit him with a quick combination – two left jabs to the chin and a right to the gut – before dancing away. The giant mamluk’s lower lip was split and bleeding, but he kept bulling his way in, trying to ge
t a hold of Yusuf. Yusuf continued jabbing and slipping away. As the fight wore on, John noticed that some in the crowed had started to cheer for Yusuf.

  Al-Mashtub closed again, swinging in a wide arc for Yusuf’s head. Yusuf ducked the blow and delivered an uppercut to the chin, then two quick blows to the gut. ‘Get out!’ John yelled, but it was too late. Yusuf stayed in close to deliver another right to the head. Al-Mashtub caught the blow in his huge hand. He jerked the smaller man towards him and then locked his arms behind Yusuf’s back, hugging him to his chest and lifting him off the ground.

  Yusuf’s arms were pinned to his side, and he struggled in vain to break his opponent’s grip. He kneed Al-Mashtub in the groin, and although the huge man’s eyes widened, he did not release Yusuf. Yusuf smashed his forehead into Al-Mashtub’s face, splattering blood as he crushed the giant man’s nose. Al-Mashtub grinned despite the blood running down his face, and he squeezed Yusuf tighter, forcing the air from him. Yusuf’s face shaded scarlet, then purple. He tried to head-butt Al-Mashtub again, but this time the mamluk pulled his head back out of the way. Yusuf thrashed wildly, desperate to escape. The veins on his forehead and neck bulged as he gasped for air.

  Then Yusuf went still. Al-Mashtub grinned in triumph. Suddenly Yusuf opened his mouth wide and sank his teeth into the mamluk’s thick neck. Al-Mashtub tried to jerk away, but Yusuf did not let go. Blood ran down the huge man’s neck, and he roared out in pain. He released Yusuf and began trying to push him away. But Yusuf clung to him. When Al-Mashtub finally managed to throw Yusuf off, the boy fell back with a piece of flesh in his mouth. Al-Mashtub stood wide-eyed in the centre of the ring, his hand to the ragged wound in his neck, blood oozing between his fingers.

  The crowd had fallen silent. Yusuf stood and spit out the piece of flesh. He snarled, showing teeth stained red with blood. Then he clenched his fists and went on the attack, pounding four quick blows into Al-Mashtub’s stomach. Al-Mashtub swung at Yusuf’s head, but he ducked the blow and threw a wicked uppercut, followed by two more straight rights to the head. He skipped back out of the way at the last second, avoiding another wild punch from the mamluk.

  Al-Mashtub was staggering now, covered in his own blood. In one last effort, he roared and charged. Yusuf was ready. He jumped aside and punched Al-Mashtub hard in one of his kidneys. With a cry of pain, the huge man fell to his knees, and Yusuf sprang on him from behind, wrapping his arms around his opponent’s throat. Al-Mashtub pawed feebly at Yusuf’s arms, but he was too battered and weak to put up much of a fight. His lips tinged blue and his eyes bulged. Then the huge man collapsed, unconscious. Yusuf rose and stood unsteadily, his chest heaving.

  John stepped forward and put his arm around Yusuf to keep him from falling. ‘I can’t believe you bit him. I have never seen you fight like that.’

  ‘I did what I had to do to win.’

  Qaraqush stepped into the ring. ‘By the prophet, I can’t believe it,’ he murmured as he took Yusuf’s hand and raised it. ‘The winner!’

  As the crowd of mamluks cheered, Qaraqush turned towards Yusuf. ‘You’re a tough one, all right, Yusuf. Nur ad-Din was no fool when he sent you here. I will follow you, at least until the Seljuk Sultan’s men arrive.’ There were murmurs of approval from the crowed. ‘What is your first command?’

  Yusuf gestured to Al-Mashtub. ‘Bring a doctor for your man and see that he is looked after.’ He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and it came away streaked with blood. ‘I need a drink. I command you all to the tavern.’ He took the pouch with his winnings back from John and held it up. ‘I’m paying.’

  Qaraqush slammed a cup down in front of Yusuf and filled it with wine from a clay jug. He slapped Yusuf on the back. ‘Drink your fill!’

  Yusuf raised the cup and peered at the murky, red contents. He had never tasted alcohol; it was forbidden by the Prophet. The moment he drank it, he would be unclean. Yusuf’s grip tightened around the cup. He could hear Shirkuh’s final words to him: if he wanted to lead his men, then he first had to be one of them. Yusuf tilted his head back and drained the cup of wine, grimacing at the bitter taste. The men cheered and emptied their cups. They began to pound the long table with their fists. ‘More! More! More!’

  ‘Another cup for our brave commander,’ Qaraqush roared as he refilled Yusuf’s cup, splashing wine on the table in the process. Yusuf took a deep breath and drank it. The taste was not so horrible this time. Perhaps alcohol was not as bad as he had feared.

  An hour later, as he slammed down yet another drained cup, Yusuf felt the world spin around him. He began to slip off the bench, but Qaraqush reached out and held him upright. ‘More!’ the men roared. Yusuf fumbled in the pouch at his belt and pulled out his last two dinars. He tossed one of them on the table. ‘Another round!’ he shouted. The men cheered, and the tavern keeper – a pot-bellied, smiling man named Zarif – brought more jugs of wine to the table. He set one down before Yusuf.

  John came forward from his place in the corner and whispered in Yusuf’s ear. ‘I think you have had enough.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Yusuf stood, gripping the table to steady himself, and held his cup high. ‘To my new men, the brave warriors of Tell Bashir. I shall lead you to riches and glory.’ The men roared their approval and pounded on the table. ‘From Tell Bashir, we shall conquer Damascus, Cairo—’

  ‘Jerusalem!’ one of the men suggested with a laugh.

  ‘Jerusalem!’ Yusuf agreed. ‘I shall be king, and I shall make you all lords.’ More pounding. ‘To glory!’

  ‘To glory!’ the men chorused.

  Yusuf drained his cup and sat down with a thud, almost falling backwards off the bench. His stomach grumbled ominously as he straightened. ‘I do not feel well,’ he murmured.

  Qaraqush clapped him on the back. ‘Nothing a woman cannot cure. Zarif! Let us have entertainment!’

  ‘Of course, yâ sîdi.’ Zarif clapped his hands. ‘Dancers!’

  Yusuf heard the sound of tambourines and turned his attention to a beaded curtain at the far end of the room. A tall, lithe Frankish woman emerged, a tambourine held high over her head. ‘Faridah,’ Qaraqush whispered. She had long auburn hair and creamy-white skin. Her large breasts and narrow hips were covered by strings of shining copper discs that showed flashes of curly pubic hair and pink nipples. A brilliant jewel hung from her gyrating belly-button. She was veiled, but her eyes were visible – bright green and highlighted with kohl. They locked immediately upon Yusuf.

  Three more women followed, beauties all, but Yusuf could not take his eyes from Faridah. She slowly crossed the room, her hips swaying in time to the beat of her tambourine as she weaved between the crowded tables. She came tantalizingly close to some of the men, but when they reached out to grab her, she spun away and continued dancing. And always, her eyes came back to Yusuf.

  ‘She’s got her eye on you, boy,’ Qaraqush winked.

  Faridah reached Yusuf’s table, and he turned to watch her. She stopped before him, her hips still rotating, the tambourine held high as she slowly turned. Qaraqush reached out to grab one of her perfectly shaped buttocks, and she slapped his hand away. She turned back to face Yusuf, placing a hand on his shoulder and sitting on his lap so that her breasts were only inches from his face.

  Yusuf flushed as Faridah’s eyes moved to the prominent bulge in his breeches. She leaned close and breathed in his ear, ‘Come.’ Then, she took his hand and led him from the table.

  ‘Lucky bastard,’ Qaraqush grumbled.

  The rest of the men cheered as Yusuf followed Faridah through the curtain of beads and up a dark stairwell. He stumbled after her into a small room, where a single candle cast a flickering light over a wide bed. Faridah closed the door behind Yusuf and turned to face him. He did not move. He had no idea what to do next. She stepped close and pulled his tunic over his head. His breathing quickened as she proceeded to unlace his breeches. She gestured to the bed, and he sat. Faridah knelt before him and removed his boots. Then she took hold
of his breeches and pulled them off. Her eyes widened when she saw his fully erect zib. Yusuf felt the room spin around him as the blood pounded in his temples.

  Faridah stepped back and untied the string that held the dangling copper disks in place around her chest. It dropped to the floor, revealing her firm breasts. She untied the string around her waist and then removed her veil last of all. She was striking, her lips full and her cheeks soft curves. Her eyes had the faintest hint of wrinkles at the corners. She was older than Yusuf had expected, perhaps thirty.

  She sat beside him. Yusuf’s hand trembled as she took it and placed it on her warm, soft breast. She met his eyes. ‘This is your first time?’ He nodded, and she smiled. She gently pushed him back down on the bed and straddled him. She bent forward, and Yusuf gasped as she kissed his neck, her tongue flicking over his skin. He reached out tentatively and ran his hand down her side.

  Faridah moved down, kissing his chest, his stomach. Yusuf closed his eyes, dizzy with pleasure and wine. Then there was an ominous grumbling from his stomach. Faridah pulled back as Yusuf rolled over and vomited over the side of the bed.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he mumbled as he rose and hurriedly dressed, pulling on his leather breeches and tunic without even bothering to tie them.

  Faridah remained on the bed. She reached out and touched his arm. ‘You do not have to go,’ she said softly. Yusuf nodded and sat, his head in his hands. Faridah rubbed his back. ‘You are not used to drink?’

  ‘It is my first time,’ Yusuf said without looking up.

  ‘You are celebrating something?’

  Yusuf shook his head. ‘I am trying to earn my men’s trust, to show that I am one of them.’

  ‘You will do so with deeds better than with drink,’ Faridah advised.

  ‘What do you know of such things?’ Yusuf snapped, pulling away and standing. ‘You are only a whore.’ He moved to leave.

  ‘A whore yes, but not a fool. I know more than you would imagine. I know why the Franks are waiting for you outside town. I know why they want you dead.’