by Jean Gill
Dragonetz left a pause, long enough for the crowd to become restless. They guessed he was out-manoeuvred, and were convinced of it when he started merely repeating Shunnar’s movements. Then, after the second stake was successfully negotiated, Dragonetz jumped to his feet, jump-turned and, balancing upright and backwards on the saddle, both man and horse completed the movement in and out of the stakes in reverse, to roars of approval from the pavilions.
Coming after the other two was both challenge and opportunity; if Dragonetz could both imagine and execute a higher level of difficulty than the man in front, and set a challenge too high to be bettered, then he would seem the best horseman. He’d already realised that Shunnar was sacrificing his own glory in setting a base which allowed Aakif to raise the level to whatever he thought within his capacity and too tough for Dragonetz. Two against one only spurred Dragonetz to crazier risks, drunk on the bond between himself and Sadeek, on muscle and agility, on audience appreciation. As if stretching after sleep, Dragonetz thrummed with life, pounded with horse-hooves, and craved danger.
The poles had been abandoned for games in the open. Scything ribbons with arabesques of steel, Shunnar and Aakif worked openly in partnership, linked by ells of ribbon as they galloped towards Dragonetz, threatening Sadeek with the billowing monster. At the last minute they whipped up the silk above the stallion’s head, where it met his rider’s blade, glittering overhead as the sword spun impossibly in the air and returned to Dragonetz’ sure hand as he rode through the silken trap and out the other side. The two Moors galloped away, each trailing behind him a perfectly sliced half of silken ribbon, curving into dust as the men spoke briefly and returned to the game, their faces grimy and determined. They signed to Dragonetz to watch and follow suit.
Aakif dismounted, part of the ribbon stretched between his hands, his left hand high, right hand low, as far away from his body as he could hold it, sideways on to the galloping approach of Shunnar. Aakif stood as still as a desert rock pillar. The horseman dipped as he passed his comrade, the steel flashed and in a second the mare had galloped past.
As the dust settled, Aakif held aloft the ribbon, sliced once more, and showed to the crowd that he was untouched. He bowed to Shunnar, acknowledging the fine control and timing of the ride, then bowed to Dragonetz, pointing him out to the crowd as the next performer, while Shunnar dismounted, carrying the loops of his ribbon, taking up the same stance as Aakif had done.
Dragonetz weighed up the distance, the control and timing needed, the dip with his sword in a right-handed swipe that sliced the silk and not the man, but most of all he weighed up the crazy courage of his two comrades and rivals. His slightest misjudgement in one direction would kill Shunnar, an equal failure in the eyes of the crowd to missing completely, but not equal to Shunnar! Why should the man think that Dragonetz cared if the sword slipped into flesh? Or was it rather that life or death held no meaning for the man himself? ‘If Allah brings you to it, he will bring you through it,’ Dragonetz murmured to himself, one of the sayings he’d heard during training. Then, after preparing himself, emptying his busy mind of distraction, concentrating on nothing but the point where his sword must meet the scarf, he let instinct take over, increasing Sadeek’s pace.
Shunnar was close enough for Dragonetz to see the eyes closed in concentration, or prayer, when he twisted in the saddle for one more act of showmanship. Attached to the horse only by his knees over the saddle, his upper body swinging further out this way, upside down, Dragonetz made the trick safer for Shunnar but at his own risk. He was already stretching out his sword-arm when Sadeek’s fear alerted him. Then he saw and heard the cause.
Half-hidden by the silk, a rat lay dangling by its tail from Shunnar’s left hand, squealing and scrabbling air with its front paws, a horse’s nightmare. Dragonetz felt his horse’s desperate urge to rear, tensing every muscle, sweat erupting rancid white on black hair, heart pounding to drown hoofbeats.
Murmuring lines of love poetry, willing Sadeek calm, demanding trust above and beyond, Dragonetz cut through squealing flesh and scarf, splattering blood on Shunnar and himself as he galloped past, twisting back up and into the saddle, completing a quatrain in soft Arabic, soothing his bright, brave Sadeek to a shivering halt.
If his victory gestures to the crowd took too long, as he wiped blood spots from his skin; if an abandoned blue ribbon was now lumpy and stained, who would notice after such a feat? If there was an odd quietness surrounding the three performers, who would be surprised after the physical and mental demands of the previous two hours?
As always after intense strain, Dragonetz felt the onset of shivering fatigue but he drew on his experience to postpone it. ‘Later,’ he disciplined his mind, as he had no need to discipline his beautiful horse, to whom he sent only waves of love.
Between himself, Aakif and Shunnar there was no need or desire to speak. Brothers in arms. They had expected to show him up. They hadn’t. Theirs be the glory, for training him too well. Now they would return to the plan, an enjoyable display of cow work, the three of them forming a team, to round up the cow and the display. Nothing too difficult. Aakif stood in his stirrups, raised his sword high in the signal to servants unseen to release the cow and like a bolt from a crossbow it charged onto the training ground - black, horned and unmistakeably male.
One glance at the Moors told Dragonetz this was none of their doing. One glance at an enraged bull, wild-eyed and trickling blood where he’d been goaded, made it equally clear that cantering in circles as planned, reining-in to make neat patterns around the beast, would be suicide. The bull lowered its head, mad with fear and too confused to act, waiting. The sensible thing would be to admit defeat and quietly walk the horses as far away from this craziness as possible, leaving someone else to deal with it. An ignominious end to a spectacle. Like the bull, Dragonetz waited, and was not disappointed.
Walking his mare slowly up to Dragonetz, close enough to be heard, Shunnar told him what they were going to do. Dragonetz nodded. The plan was clear enough, even if impossible. Shunnar said it had never been done with three riders. But there was no time for what-ifs or pretty farewells.
Shunnar backed to join Aakif and the two Moors carefully reversed their mounts far enough away to be outside the bull’s range, leaving Dragonetz the focus of red-eyed rage about to erupt. It crossed his mind that his death, gored by a bull, while Aakif and Shunnar looked on from a safe distance, might be their finale of choice, and would certainly please the crowd.
‘Among the deeds most beloved by Allah is making a Muslim happy,’ he quoted to himself, and prepared to make hundreds of Muslims very happy indeed. Then he shortened the reins and told Sadeek to rear up, balancing on his hind legs, pawing the air with his forelegs, challenging the monster in front of them.
Afterwards, men argued over what happened first and who played the best part. In a flurry of dust and movement, the bull charged, Sadeek dropped to the ground and side-stepped, a cross-footed dance whose elegance was not fully appreciated at the time. The bull’s lowered horns met air and as it charged on, from sheer impetus, it was flanked by two sweating mares and men, equine beside bovine, body pulsing against body, trading fears. Aakif and Shunnar had circled wide while the bull was distracted by Dragonetz. They had galloped alongside the creature, were hemming him in, protected from the lethal horns as long as they were so close to him that he could not lower or toss the huge head in their direction.
Then Dragonetz and Sadeek joined them, adding the stallion’s extra strength to the constraint on the bull’s movements, delicately manoeuvring into place from behind, allowing Shunnar to join Aakif. Slowing the pace to a canter by physically blocking and containing the bull, moving always forward but wheeling a little to take the animal left of the tents, the knot of horsemen reached their destination in an eternity that lasted seconds. Sadeek on one side, the two mares on the other and the dynamics of forward movement took riders and bull to a crowd of youths, shouting and waving spears.
‘We all peel away, but not till I give the word,’ warned Shunnar. The others didn’t need to be told that bad timing would leave one of them to the bull. Anticipating sport, the youths were vying with each other to see who’d get the first touch, but luckily they had enough sense to fall to either side of the bull’s path, leaving it a view of freedom.
‘Now,’ yelled Shunnar and, as if forming one animal of three men and three horses, the riders wheeled away, with a whack on the beast’s rump to propel it forward into an army of lethal spears and whoops.
Gathering the last of their strength, the three riders halted side by side in front of their ruler and his distinguished guest. They bowed obeisance, received a gracious nod in response. It had been a good show. Men were already squabbling over their wins, some claiming it was all fixed, when Nur ad-Din spoke in the ear of a boy beside him, sent him over to Dragonetz.
The boy’s clear voice, not yet broken, carried across the dry earth between the pavilion and the black stallion. ‘My master Nur ad-Din invites you to his pavilion this evening, my Lord Dragonetz, when you have bathed and recovered from your exertions. He would mark your courage with a feast in your honour.’
‘It is I who am honoured.’ Dragonetz replied, looking steadily towards the Guardian of Allah’s Country before bowing polite thanks. He wondered if he was imagining the words mouthed by Bar Philipos, ‘And so to market.’ He wasn’t imagining the slight to Aakif and Shunnar in ignoring them. Nor was he imagining the words quoted by one of the guards before they all parted, ‘A friend cannot be considered a friend until he is tested on three occasions; in time of need, behind your back, and after your death.’ Whether Shunnar spoke to Aakif or to Dragonetz, or both, was not clear, but the quotation from Ali ibn Talib echoed in the knight’s mind as he soaked in a hot tub, letting go of the death that had passed him by.
Chapter 11
Freshly robed, the swathes of fine linen around his head now second nature to him, Dragonetz was as ready to meet Nur ad-Din as he would ever be. Instead of guards, he now had servants, who could be distinguished from the former only by the fact that their faces were new to him and maintained the respectful blank expression common to servants of all races. What kept him in his chamber now, when the door was open, and he had a sword at his side? His oath to Bar Philipos? The missing book and another oath? Or just the desire to see how the game would play out?
As he waited, cross-legged on the cushions, spooning lemon sherbet and waiting for a summons, he mulled over what he knew of the man called ‘light for the true faith’ and ‘fire for the infidels’. Clearly Nur ad-Din had a reputation for piety, amongst those who held ‘the true faith’. In the name of Allah and all Muslims, this Turkish Atabeg preached a dangerous new idea, Jihad, a holy war. He also spoke of Jerusalem as the Holy City in the Holy Land. Such thoughts had never come from his father Zengi’s mouth. Nur ad-Din had his warrior-father’s spirit but religion was ever his first word. Perhaps the Crusaders had imprinted some aspects of their Christianity on their enemies after all.
A Sunni Muslim like the majority, Nur ad-Din was more at odds with the minority Shiites than with his theoretical enemies, the Christians. There were no circumstances in which Nur ad-Din would form an alliance with Shiites but even during the Crusades he had joined forces with Raymond of Tripoli against cousin Bertrand of Toulouse, now a guest of Aleppo’s dungeons. Nur ad-Din’s prisons were sometimes convenient for the Christians not actually incarcerated there. At least Bernard kept his eyes, unlike Joscelyn of Edessa, in that same impregnable prison.
Dragonetz had little respect for Comte Joscelyn, who had deserted his city, and - some said - betrayed his own father, but the story of his capture still had the power to shock. It was also likely to make a dinner guest think very carefully about what he might, or might not, say during the evening. When brigands captured Joscelyn, ruler of Edessa, on the road, and sold him to Nur ad-Din, the Muslim leader’s response was unequivocal. With due ceremony, in Aleppo, Joscelyn was publicly blinded before being confined to a dungeon, in perpetuity. Nur ad-Din had made it clear that he had no respect for Joscelyn either.
A reputation for piety and justice, in hands that wielded more power than any Muslim had previously known. The sort of power that won battles, sent a man’s head as a present to an ally, and bathed in the Mediterranean to show sovereignty of all the lands the water touched. In the name of piety and justice, such power could only be hungry for more, and the most glittering prize was Damascus. Just as the city had enticed the Crusaders three years earlier, so it shimmered its silks now, before the very man who’d helped keep it from them.
Would Damascan troops fight against Nur ad-Din if he made a move to take the city or would they see him as the answer to their problems? How independent would Damascus remain, under Mujir ad-Din as leader, with the Christian Franks and Nur ad-Din always vying for the city? Mujir ad-Din had already faced one rebellion from a rival inside the city and uncertainty was bad for trade. If Nur ad-Din was strong enough to unite the different factions in the city and protect it against the Franks, then his rule would end the uncertainty.
And what would happen to Bar Philipos and his ilk if Nur ad-Din took Damascus? How welcome would the Syrian Christians be within its walls?
A boy interrupted Dragonetz’ thoughts, bowed and spoke softly. ‘My master bids you join him.’
What any of this had to do with Dragonetz, he was about to find out. He followed the boy to where Bar Philipos awaited him. Accompanied by a small corps of guards, no-one Dragonetz recognized, the torchlight procession made its way to the city wall. The Watch accepted the password, and the men continued, on foot through the orchards, to the very river bank where Dragonetz had planned the taking of Damascus, three years earlier. The hoof-clop of their laden pack-horses rang warning of their coming over the criss-crossed irrigation channels to where fires flickered in the dusk and Nur ad-Din’s camp came into view. As in Dragonetz’ memories, there were grand pavilions pegged in the grey soil but this time their striped silks and alien pennants proclaimed a quite different provenance.
The austerity inside the tent was unexpected. Where Louis of France had transported on campaign all the luxuries his Commanders could strap to camels and pack-horses, his enemy travelled like any soldier, with blanket and wine-skin. Seated cross-legged on his blanket, the wine-skin beside him, was Dragonetz’ host for the evening, the most powerful leader in the Muslim world, in embroidered slippers and a simple robe, tied loosely at the waist. His face was dark tan, firm-mouthed and strong-boned above the shaped black vee of his oiled beard, Turkish Seljuq origins showing clearly in his face. In his early thirties, with five years of command under his woven belt since his father Zengi’s murder, Nur ad-Din wore leadership as his birthright.
After a pause that marked his choice to show respect by standing up, he uncoiled gracefully, rising to his feet in the courtesies of greeting. The fluidity of his movement suggested the tone of the muscle beneath the concealing robe. Even as he bowed and murmured the expected formulae, Dragonetz couldn’t help wondering what the outcome would be of wrestling this man. It was a thought to be quickly dismissed before his imagination distracted him. A half-smile at an inappropriate moment in this Court would not earn him approval from a lady but rather the slice of a scimitar, severing head and neck.
‘Not what you expected,’ Nur ad-Din observed, gesturing at the plain interior, and confirming the need for Dragonetz to be on his guard.
‘I knew not what to expect, my Lord,’ he hedged.
‘I have heard of your King Conrad’s excesses, his need of jewelled clothing and cushioned beds.’ His lip curled in disdain.
Dragonetz couldn’t help himself, despite the shocked gasp of disapproval from Bar Philipos beside him at anyone contradicting Nur ad-Din. ‘I owe allegiance to King Louis of France, not King Conrad,’ he pointed out politely.
Apparently as unmoved by such presumption as by the very existence of Louis, Nur ad-D
in swept the Frankish King into a tent-corner with one gesture of his arm and another sardonic curl of the lip. ‘Louis, Guy, I don’t remember all these Frankish names. Conrad brought an army to take our lands and then he took the army away again. Enough! We have no need to talk of the distant past but rather to celebrate a man’s courage today and break bread together. Sit.’
A little disconcerted at this dismissal of events which seemed all too recent to Dragonetz, he nevertheless curbed his response and sat. Nur ad-Din’s entourage was introduced to him as each sat down on the coarse weave blankets.
‘My uncle, Chirkouh,’ announced Nur ad-Din. Who killed the Prince of Antioch in full combat, and presented the body to his nephew, Dragonetz mentally added while his mouth spoke the words of greeting.
When the full complement of Dragonetz’ enemies had joined him for dinner, he took a moment to look into the shadows, at the invisible ones, the guards and servants. Eyes cast down, the shadow people formed three times the number of men eating. Those waiting to serve food were all young boys, as in Christian halls, where it was a stage in their progression to manhood.
Pre-pubescent, the boys were pretty as girls, long-lashed and dark eyed, smooth and gold-skinned, dark curls covered only by woven caps, slim arms shooting out from their robes like frightened rabbits and then hiding again in the folds. Even a man such as Dragonetz could appreciate such innocent beauty aesthetically but he could sense the less objective response in Bar Philipos, who was also appraising the boys. All so beautiful, all but one.
