Their fetters removed, major wounds tended, their body cleaned and re-clothed, the person then emerged from the white tent-structure to be Med-Scanned more thoroughly by the Medical Officers. The details of this scan were then fed into a databank for future analysis and any relevant treatment regime. Having completed the Reception Process, the person was then given a large bowl of hot, porridge-like, sweet Thexxian Qar’gah; a large beaker of a flavoured water-based drink and a hunk of bread. Billy well remembered the Thexxian Exodus when Chief Physician Laxxor had warned him that stomachs not used to rich foods would rebel, and the vomiting would de-hydrate the weakened person even more. Chief Medical Officer Radkor had obviously been taught that lesson too.
After a few minutes of quiet observation, the last of the Muscigny slaves was emerging from the ‘de-lousing tent’ and being presented with her food. Trotting down the metal stairway to the deck level, Billy was pleased to note that their appetites were hearty enough, even if they did scan their surroundings through suspicious and anxious eyes. Bowls were held close to mouths as the Qar’gah was shoveled in with the standard issue Alliance flat-spatula clutched tightly next to the lump of bread. Things must have been pretty rough for these people, Billy considered as he walked quickly towards the group of slaves, all of whom were seated on the deck floor.
Moving quickly through the Officers and Technicians, who snapped to attention as he passed, Billy beckoned a Medical Technician and Senior Integration Officer Gummell to follow him. As he approached the seated slaves, he noticed that despite their being nearly thirty of them, they were very quiet. Normally, a group of people made noise, even when they had their mouths shut. But, this group seemed to have lived in silence, which troubled Billy. For some slaves, brutality was a way of life. Billy hoped that this was not the case here.
“If I could have your attention, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” Billy said breezily as he swept into the group clapping his hands for their attention.
Bowls and spatulas were anxiously removed from lips and frightened eyes were turned onto this new figure followed by the two others. Scanning the group, Billy quickly noted its composition. There were seventeen men, nine women and four children who seemed to range in age from about four years to twelve years of age. There seemed to be an even mixture of European and Arab origins in the group. Most of them were painfully thin; food distribution seemed to have been a major issue on the estate, with the slaves very much at the bottom of the pile.
Still, you have to start somewhere, Billy considered.
“My name is William Caudwell, and I am the new ‘Sidi’ of this estate,” Billy announced, “no, please remain seated,” he added as several of the slaves began to rise to their feet as a mark of fear-based respect.
Sitting back down on the deck floor, the slaves, who had tried to rise, settled back down with their bowls in hand.
“Your chains have been removed from your ankles,” Billy began, “they will NOT, I repeat, NOT, be replaced whilst I am Sidi here,” he added, waiting for the expected buzz of conversation, which failed to materialise.
“As of this moment, you are all free men and women as are the children,” Billy continued, “when you have been fed and rested, you will be free to go your own ways.” He paused once again for the news to sink in.
“Sidi!?” Ibrahim, in his green overall piped up, “we will have no one to work the estate.”
“Be calm, Ibrahim. If, however, you choose to stay here, you will be put to work on the estate, except you will now be paid for your labour,” he promised. “You will be given a shelter and fuel for fires against the cold, you will be fed and we will find more suitable clothing for you once you have rested a while.”
As Billy paused, a murmur ran through the seated group of slaves. That’s more like it, Billy considered as the faint buzz of conversation died down.
“How many here can read and write?” Billy asked. “Put your hand up if you can.”
From the group of thirty, two hands were raised. One was that of Ibrahim the Steward plus that of a woman with long, light brown straggly hair.
“Very well,” Billy said, “if you should choose to stay with us, you can become Ibrahim’s assistant and learn how to administer the estate from him.”
“But, Sidi!?” Ibrahim protested.
“You are going to need all the help you can get, Ibrahim,” Billy cut the Steward off in mid-flow, “there are going to be a lot of changes here. The rest of you, if you are willing to learn, will be taught reading, writing and numbers as will your children.” Billy laid down another marker.
“I can also promise you that the work will be hard and back-breaking, but you will be building a future for yourselves here. No more slaves at Muscigny, we will grow crops, raise animals and, God-willing, your own families,” Billy paused again and heard the unmistakable silence of people thinking.
“How do we know we can trust you?” a small, weather-beaten European man asked from the group.
“You don’t, my friend, but you no longer wear leg-irons, do you?”
“I’ve seen all these tricks before. The Saracens took our shackles off and told us we were free, then killed everyone they could. I was the only one to escape.”
“Were you a soldier, my friend?”
“Yes, I was, man-at-arms to Guy of Charpelle,” he replied with an edge of loathing in his voice.
“So, how did you end up here?”
“I got wounded, sir, can’t march very far on my leg, so I was removed from service...”
“Any more soldiers, here, put your hands up?” Billy asked and eight more hands were raised.
“What’s your name?” Billy asked the first soldier.
“Maurice, Maurice from the village of Varnay.”
“Well then, Maurice of Varnay, if you choose to stay here we’ll need someone to train the men to defend this place. Are you up to that?”
“But, my leg...”
“Maurice, any old soldier will tell you that you don’t need a leg to shout instructions or orders, do you?” Billy smiled, and was rewarded with the first stifled laughter of the day from the other ex-soldiers.
“I can teach the sword and the shield, Sidi,” Maurice offered adding the honorific almost instinctively.
“What about the rest of you, any bowmen?” Billy asked, and two hands went up.
“I used to carry a spear, Sidi.”
“So did I, sir.”
“I worked the Trebuchet, Sidi.”
“Good,” Billy praised, “we have need of all of you now. I suggest that you enjoy your meal and then rest. We have temporary bed cubicles for you here until we can set up your new accommodations on the estate.” Billy indicated a long row of force-shielding cubicles with cots inside each section.
The ex-slaves now began to murmur; the possibility that the promises Billy had made could actually be real starting to excite them.
“All that we ask is that you take one of those showers every day, and we will provide you with clean linen,” Billy instructed. “The Medical people wear this symbol on their sleeves,” he added motioning the Medical Technician to offer up her right upper arm where she wore the white and red diamond patch, “and the Integration people wear this symbol,” he motioned to Gummell who showed the white circle on his upper right arm.
“If you need any help, then speak to the people who wear these symbols,” Billy instructed. “Please, be aware that there are areas of this ship where it is dangerous for you to go,” he added, “so, you must follow any instructions that the crew might give you.” He waited for the information to sink in before dismissing the Medical Technician.
“Enjoy your food, if you want more there’s plenty of it, just ask one of the helpers,” Billy began to wind down his speech. “Then, when you’ve rested, let one of the white circles know if you wish to stay or go.” He nodded to the group politely and took his leave, followed by Gummell.
The once silent, frightened group of anxious slaves
now began to buzz with conversation as they discussed their thoughts and feelings about what Billy had just explained. The freed slaves were suddenly more vocal and expressive than they had been previously.
When Billy and Gummell were clear of the group, Billy turned to the Senior Integration Officer.
“Only thirty?” he said shaking his head with disappointment. “Less whoever decides to go,” he added sadly, “it’s not going to be anywhere near enough to get this place functional after we’ve gone.”
“No, sir.”
“We need more people for the estate. Gummell, I’ve got a little job for you.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Tomorrow morning, before first light…”
Chapter 11
The Port of Marseilles.
Standing at the quay, Arnold of Torroja watched intently as the supplies were loaded into the first ten ships of his fleet to the Outremere. It had been a hard-fought battle with the other senior Knights of the Order. However, with a little persuasion, coercion, argument and a few dropped hints of the Pope’s approval, the plan had been accepted. Even his greatest rival, the surly Jacques of Grenard, had reluctantly been forced to agree to the expedition. Scratching at his great bushy beard, Jacques had warned that if the expedition failed, the Order would take many years to recover the prestige and influence that had been built up under Grand Master Odo. However, it took Arnold only a few moments to remind the meeting that Odo de Saint Armand was gone. And, what better way to build on Odo’s hard work than by strengthening the Order’s position by replacing the cursed King Baldwin with someone more sympathetic to their ideals. Many of the senior Knight, recognising which way the wind of change was blowing, had nodded silently in agreement.
As Arnold watched the fevered activities of the dock workers, he considered that the Chair of the Order would soon be his. The expedition to Jerusalem would remove Baldwin and replace him with one of the more powerful Lords in the Kingdom. Amalric of Lusignan may have been a loud-mouthed braggart, and a little too fond of his wine for Arnold’s stricter Templar sensibilities, but his position and influence in the army made him the obvious choice for the new King. It was, however, a matter that Arnold would have to give a great deal more consideration to.
“Watch what you’re doing there, you idiot!” a Templar Sergeant-at-Arms bellowed at a dock worker who was pushing a large barrel unsteadily along the quay towards the gang plank of rapidly loading ship.
Stepping nimbly side, Arnold watched the wretchedly thin dock worker struggling with the enormous barrel to bring it to the cargo net.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” the Sergeant approached Arnold, “but would you mind moving aside so we can get her loaded up, sir.”
“Of course,” Arnold smiled, not wishing to impede the loading of the ships of his expedition.
My expedition, Arnold thought, savouring the enjoyment of leading what would be another successful Templar enterprise. Without a second thought, Arnold stepped away from the gangplank and watched as the huge barrel was lifted over the high-sided rail of the ship. The thin and exhausted dock worker shuffled away to gather his next burden with the voice of the hectoring Sergeant burning in his ears.
“My Lord Arnold.” The well-dressed Captain of the first flotilla interrupted Arnold’s moments of imagined triumph.
“Yes, Pierre?” Arnold replied, turning to face the tall, elegant sea-farer.
“We’ll have to get a move on if we’re going to catch the afternoon tide, sir.”
“Yes, of course, I’ll have my baggage brought over right away.”
“Yes, very good, sir. What I mean, sir, is we’ll need more men to load the ships if we’re going to sail this afternoon.”
“More men?”
“Yes, sir. We’ll need another hundred, if that’s all right, sir?”
“By all means, round up as many as you need.”
“Yes, sir,”
“Oh, and Pierre...” Arnold called out, his attitude suddenly hardening.
“Sir?”
“Don’t be afraid to lay-on the lash, whatever it takes to catch the tide.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pierre de Montressard was not the kind of man who approved of the lash, except for punishment when it was well-deserved. To start thrashing dock workers out of hand would achieve nothing except surly workers and half of the cargo floating in the harbour. Pierre de Montressard had known that Arnold was inexperienced in matters nautical and military. He also knew that Arnold had very little respect for those who served under him. That was part and parcel of the Templar Order, Pierre understood. But, cruelty was another matter entirely. If Arnold of Torroja had a liking for laying-on the lash, it did not bode well for a long sea journey.
“Don’t be afraid to lay-on the lash…” Pierre mumbled anxiously as he walked away from Arnold. “May the Lord and the Saints preserve us,” he said, crossing himself.
And, then he added a silent prayer, hoping that he would be proven wrong!
Chapter 12
The Leper Colony, St Lazare, Jerusalem, March 27th
It was just before daybreak that young Daniel, known as Daniel the Keeper, made his morning journey down the rock face into the colony.
The night before, Daniel, dressed in his usual collection of rags, had scoured the markets of Jerusalem for the cheapest foodstuffs he could find to make the meagre monies given to him by the Hospitals, the holy orders and the people he had managed to beg a few coins from stretch that little bit further. And, having spent every last coin, he stored the food in his lean-to shelter to be distributed to the people of the colony the following morning. Twice per day he would make his journey to distribute the food to the people who were forbidden by law to leave this place of misery and death. Twice per day, he scaled down the rocks carrying food; and, more often than not, returning with the remains of some poor soul who had finally succumbed to the most horrible of diseases, for some form of decent burial.
No one had ever asked Daniel to carry out this most thankless of tasks. He simply did it because someone had to care for the people who could not take care of themselves. He expected no praise, took no stipend and ate as sparely as he could from what he had gathered the night before.
Now, as he scrabbled down the rocks, he could see the dark shrouded shapes of the people in the colony gathering for what meagre morsels Daniel could provide. Warily, he slipped and scrabbled his way downwards, the huge basket strapped around his waist and across his forehead for stability. Glancing upwards, Daniel was relieved to notice that Lothar and his brigands had not managed to drag themselves out of bed yet. The bane of Daniel’s life, Lothar had a habit of appearing just as the young man was about to descend into the colony laden down with food. When he did appear, Lothar made sure to relieve the young man of the choicest morsels before discarding the rest over the rocks just for the sheer fun of it.
This morning, Lothar had not appeared, and the lepers would be able to eat something that had not been strewn through the dirt and the dust first. But, this particular morning, the pre-dawn tranquility was rudely shattered by the shrill whine of Thrust Engines from a pale-blue Universal Alliance Troop Transporter and five black Landing Trooper Med-Evac Shuttles. Not being familiar with Troop Transporters and Med-Evac Shuttles, or flying ships at all for that matter, Daniel pressed himself close to the rocks his eyes wide with terror as the larger blue flying object, lit up by powerful navigation lights, landed in a huge cloud of whirling dust close to where he had climbed down the ledge. The smaller black objects were landing down in the colony itself, where shadows dressed in black with silver faces scurried out of the objects and began running in every direction.
“You there!?” a commanding voice sounded from above him on the ledge. “What are you doing here?”
At first, Daniel tried to hide himself amongst the rocks, but the basket gave him away.
“I said you there, what are you doing here?” the voice demanded again.
Slowly
, the terrified Daniel stood up, feeling the weight of the basket trying to pull him over.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Daniel, Your Lordship,” he said nervously wondering if he could possibly try to run away from this nightmare.
“What do you think you’re doing here?”
“I feed the lepers every day, Your Lordship.”
“Come up here!”
With his knees shaking, and his heart hammering in his chest, Daniel slowly began to re-trace his steps.
“Come on, we haven’t got all day.”
Struggling with the weight of the basket, Daniel clambered unsteadily up through the rocks until he reached the ledge where strong, powerful black-clad arms reached down and pulled him up with astonishing ease. Standing in front of the pale-blue clad creature, Daniel felt very scared and very vulnerable, especially with the black-clad creatures with the blank, shining silver faces around him.
“You feed them with this?” Senior Integration Officer Gummell, the pale-blue clad creature, asked delving into the basket Daniel had struggled back to the ledge with.
“Yes, Your Lordship, it’s all I can afford with the coins they give me…”
“Who gives you the coins?”
“Well, the holy brothers and sisters give me some, but the rest I beg...”
“You beg for coins to feed these people?”
“I do what I can to help them, Your Lordship.”
“Take that thing off,” Gummell ordered Daniel to remove the basket. “Technician,” he summoned one of the nearby Medical Technicians over, “scan him.”
The Master of Muscigny (The First Admiral Series Book 5) Page 9
