by Peter Kerr
It was a pleasantly warm evening, so the area was teeming with people on their way to and from the quayside markets. Dredging up every last grain of strength, she barged her way through the crowds and on into the bustle of the harbour. She had made it! The wharfs were lined with boats and ships of all sizes and descriptions. Surely she would manage to slip aboard one of them without being seen.
Farah interrupted her narrative to draw breath, and to assess the reaction of her two young listeners.
Saleema, wide-eyed with apprehension, respond swiftly. ‘I’m not surprised you hadn’t time to see if the baby’s birthmark was real or not,’ she gasped. ‘That would have been the last thing you were bothered about. But what happened next?’
Pedrito, meanwhile, sat silent and expressionless – an anomaly that didn’t go unnoticed by Farah. Nevertheless, she adopted an air of insouciance and continued with her story…
‘Although the two guards were now only seconds behind me, I thought I might be able to give them the slip as I made my way through the crush of people on the waterfront. Then I saw them – two more soldiers, patrolling the quayside and heading straight towards me. The palace guards yelled at them to catch me. I was trapped. Nowhere to go. I knew that I was done for now, so my only concern was to save my child. In desperation, I ducked into a recess in the sea wall that was piled high with baskets, and there I hid my little baby, wrapped in the servant girl’s cloak I’d borrowed.’
Farah may not have been seeking anyone’s sympathy, but her eyes had misted over as she made this harrowing revelation.
Saleema was struggling not to burst into tears now herself. She reached out and took Farah’s hand. ‘And the baby? Was it saved? Did you manage to…?’
Farah lowered her eyes. Despite herself, teardrops began to trickle down her cheeks. ‘The guards caught me as I tried to run away. I was paraded through the streets of the city as a messenger of the devil and a disobeyer of the king’s commands. They punished me by taking me to the steps of the principal mosque, where, on the king’s orders, they cut off my right foot and left hand – in public.’
Saleema was horrified. ‘But that’s barbaric – inhuman. I mean, the agony you suffered must have been terrible, but it’s a miracle you didn’t bleed to death as well.’
Farah shook her head. ‘Ah, but that’s the whole point. They don’t want you to die. They make great efforts to keep you alive, because they want you to serve as an example. As if your screams when they’re hacking off bits of your body aren’t enough to discourage others from breaking the rules, they want you to go about as a helpless cripple for the rest of your days as well.’ Farah stifled a sob. ‘But the worst of it was that I never saw my baby again.’ She lowered her voice to the merest whisper. ‘And many are the times since then that I’ve wished I’d died with him.’
A stony silence descended on the shack once more, this time broken only by Saleema’s sniffling as she patted Farah’s hand.
Pedrito still said nothing, but the blood had drained from his face.
This was also noticed by the constantly-alert Farah. ‘You look pale, Pedrito,’ she said after a while, her tone more searching than concerned. ‘The thought of someone having their hands and feet cut off make you feel squeamish?’
Pedrito could have told her that he had seen that and worse during his years as a slave of Moorish pirates, but somehow all such atrocities now seemed to pale into insignificance. To his way of thinking, even divulging this aspect of his past would not have been appropriate at this moment. He’d felt a strange sensation gripping him ever more chillingly as Farah’s story unfolded – a feeling that had started out as fascination, but had progressed through sorrow for her plight to outrage at the brutal way she had been treated by the father of her child. But there was more to this feeling than such predictable reactions might have been expected to produce, and, painful though it might prove to be, he knew there was only one way to find out if his intuition was right.
‘A birthmark,’ he said to Farah. ‘You said your baby had a birthmark.’
Farah raised her shoulders. ‘There was a small mark, yes. But as I told you, it could have been made by the midwife. I never found out.’ She bristled slightly. ‘Anyway, as the little lady here said, it was the last thing on my mind at the time.’ She then looked at Pedrito in a way that suggested she was being stirred by a feeling which aroused her curiosity and, for fear of being hurt, also put her on guard. ‘But why do you want to know?’ she asked, cautiously.
Pedrito first apologised for prying, then answered her question with one of his own. ‘Did you notice if the mark had a particular shape, or was it just a –?’
‘It was a cross!’ Farah cut in, a tremble of anger in her voice now. ‘A cross – a tiny cross – the sign of the Christians, the sworn enemies of the Muslim people!’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘Why else do you think the king said my baby was the work of the infidel’s god?’ She lowered her eyes, unable to stem the tears any longer. ‘My baby’s life, and all for the sake of a tiny cross!’
While Saleema did her best to console Farah, Pedrito sat in silence, trying desperately to untangle the confusion of his thoughts. He realised that pressing the subject of the birthmark with Farah must have rubbed salt into old wounds, while also making him seem needlessly insensitive in Saleema’s eyes. Nevertheless, just one vital detail remained to be broached, and the only way to go about it was to be blunt. Easier said than done, however, when on the verge of breaking down yourself.
‘And where,’ Pedrito began, his own voice quavering now, ‘where on the – on the baby’s body was the…?’
Slowly, Farah looked up at him, her tear-filled eyes revealing nothing now but a sort of pleading vulnerability – a look that Pedrito had seen many times in the eyes of pirate-galley captives when about to be sent to unknown fates in the slave markets of North Africa. In this case, it distrubed him to think that Farah’s answer to his final question might result in her being condemned to even greater depths of pain than she had already been subjected to in life.
And what of his own feelings? Did he really want to face the heartbreak of hearing something that would shatter the hopes which, despite his efforts to resist them, were now invading the most guarded corners of his mind?
‘Behind my baby’s ear,’ Farah whispered. ‘A tiny cross behind his left ear.’ She rested hear head against Saleema’s shoulder. ‘Christian god or Muslim god,’ she sobbed, ‘– I prayed to any god who was listening that my baby’s life would be spared. Then I kissed him on that little mark, the very mark that threatened to rob him of his life. And then – and then I said goodbye.’ With a great shuddering sigh, Farah wiped her eyes on her sleeve, then looked directly at Pedrito again. ‘But I never found out if that final prayer was answered … or even listened to.’
Pedrito was in tears now himself. His tears weren’t of sadness, however, but of a joy he thought he would never know again, following that black moment, just a few days earlier, when old Baltazar had broken the news of his family’s tragic demise.
Smiling through the tears, he spread his arms. ‘Well,’ he said to Farah, ‘do you like how your little baby turned out?’
She was still staring at him. ‘You?’ she gasped, the look in her eyes flitting back and forth between disbelief and a kind of bridled euphoria. ‘No, it – it can’t be!’
But it was, and Saleema didn’t hesitate to prove it.
Pedrito felt like a present being unwrapped by a little girl on her birthday, as Saleema, giggling and weeping in a jumble of emotions, hurriedly pulled off his head scarf and fumbled with a shock of his shoulder-length hair.
‘It is! It’s true!’ she piped in an eruption of excitement. ‘Look!’ she beamed, tears of delight glinting in her eyes while she yanked Pedrito’s head round as if expecting it to rotate like an owl’s. Blissfully unmindful of the discomfort it might be causing him, she then pulled his hair aside and jabbed a finger behind his left ear. ‘See, Farah! See �
� a little cross, just like you said! It’s him! It’s really him – your little baby boy!’
Farah and Pedrito continued to sit motionless, their eyes locked, seeing everything, yet revealing nothing. Then, hesitantly, like a child afraid to disturb her reflection in a pool for fear of destroying it, Farah reached out and tenderly touched his cheek.
20
‘THE FLIGHT FROM THE CITY’
SOME HOURS LATER – IN FARAH’S SHACK …
The first cockcrow was already heralding a new day by the time Pedrito had recounted his own story to Farah and Saleema. So, here they were, three people with similarly humble origins, thrown together by diverse quirks of fate that had threatened to destroy their lives, but now offered glimmers of hope which none of them could have dreamt of just a few hours earlier. Glimmers of hope, but hazy ones. For, no matter how warm their feelings towards one other, all three were caught up in a war that could have dire consequences for everyone in the vicinity of Medîna Mayûrqa, on both sides of the conflict and on either side of the city walls. Saleema’s problems, however, were even more acute, in that her escape from the Moorish king’s harem would surely be rewarded with punishment commensurate with such a contemptuous act – if she were caught.
Pedrito had already confessed to the two women that he’d given his word to the Christian King Jaume that he would return to his camp with news of the city’s garrison and defences. He’d explained that, although he owed no allegiance to this crusade against the Moors, and would have preferred, in fact, that the war had never been started, his return home to Mallorca had come about because of it, albeit indirectly. In the process, he had been befriended by a young king who trusted him to keep his word, and nothing would prevent him from trying to honour that trust, even if the military information he was able to pass on would matter little either way to the eventual outcome of the conflict.
Neither woman had indicated that they bore him any grudge for this. Indeed, they had admitted that, like him, they wished that people of the two religions could have continued to live in relative harmony on the island, just as they’d done for centuries. But if that wasn’t to be, what, they wonderd, would happen to Muslims like them if the Christians should win this war? And what, Pedrito asked in return, would happen to Christians like him if they didn’t? But, for the moment, the answers to such questions were secondary. First, Pedrito pointed out, they had to survive, and under present circumstances, that might prove to be fairly problematical.
‘It’ll soon be dawn,’ he said, ‘then all manner of rocks and things will be raining down on the north of the city, and it may not take long for the bloodshed that follows to spread down here.’ He then addressed Saleema directly. ‘In any case, we have to get you out of the city before the palace guards come looking for you, so we’d better get going before daybreak.’
Farah’s hand had been resting on Pedrito’s all the while. Her fingers now gripped his tightly.
‘Take care of the little lady, and look after yourself too. I can only pray that whatever god brought you back to me will protect you both.’ She smiled through her tears and whispered, ‘And promise me you’ll come back to see me again one day. Who knows – maybe the soldiers will leave a haggard old crone like me alone, hmm?’
‘You won’t be here to find out!’ Pedrito countered.
Farah frowned. ‘I don’t understand. There’s nowhere else I can go.’
‘Yes there is. You’re going where we’re going – wherever that may turn out to be.’
Farah uttered a forlorn little chuckle, then nodded towards her crutch, which was still propped against the donkey’s stall. ‘I’d only slow you down, and I wouldn’t be able to go far anyway.’ She gave Pedrito a stern look. ‘No, you and Saleema must go alone – and now! And don’t worry about me, because –’
‘Because you’re coming with us,’ Pedrito affirmed.
Farah was about to object again, but Pedrito put a finger to her lips. ‘You’re coming with us.’ He then gestured towards the donkey. ‘And on his back, you won’t slow anyone down.’
‘Yes! That’s a great idea!’ Saleema chirped.
To emphasise her disagreement, Farah both shook her head and wagged a finger. ‘Absolutely not! The donkey belongs to my landlord!’
‘So what?’ Pedrito shrugged.
Farah was appalled. ‘I may be reduced to begging, but I’ll never steal from anyone!’
Pedrito was already in the donkey’s stall and untying his tether. ‘Depending on how long the seige lasts, Lucky here could either starve to death or be eaten by the starving – probably both.’ A cock crowed again. ‘Now, no more arguments. Let’s get out of the city before the sun comes up.’
*
As chance would have it, the Gate of Chains turned out to be only a short distance from Farah’s shack, and the prune-faced gatekeeper proved to be in an even less pleasant mood than when Pedrito had crossed his threshhold the previous evening. He was fast asleep, slouched on a chair in the open doorway of his little gatehouse.
Farah poked him on the shoulder with the tip of her crutch. ‘Wake up, Shafeeq!’ she hissed. ‘Wake up, you lazy old goat, and open up! I need to be on my way!’
‘Farah?’ he blinked. ‘Farah! What in the name of Allah’s beard are you doing sitting on a donkey?’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘And what’s the idea of disturbing me in the middle of the night?’
‘You’re supposed to be minding the gate, not sleeping, so open up or I’ll report you to the captain of the guard!’
It was obvious that this pair of kasbah characters knew each other well, although Farah had warned Pedrito and Saleema that the gatekeeper would still be an awkward old rascal to deal with.
‘I’ve seen you somewhere before,’ he grunted at Pedrito. ‘Begged your way in through this gate not that long ago, didn’t you?’
Pedrito was tempted to vehemently dispute the ‘begged’ element of that question, but he thought it best to hold his tongue.
The gatekeeper then squinted at Saleema, who was standing, head bowed, in an old hooded cloak Farah had given her. ‘Who’s this tramp? And where do the three of you think you’re going anyway?’
Farah jerked her head in Pedrito’s direction. ‘The little one’s the big lad’s young brother. They’ve decided to take their chances back at their farm after all.’
‘Half-witted peasants!’ the gatekeeper muttered, then glowered at Farah. ‘And what about you?’ he sneered. ‘Not going to stay and help fight off the Christian army, eh?’
Farah gave him another poke with her crutch, though a bit more energetically than before. ‘This stick might be useless against a Christian sword, Shafeeq, but it’s good enough to take your eye out, so open up and let us out!’
‘Why are you going with these two bumpkins anyway? You’d be safer staying right here in the city.’
‘Not that it’s any of your business, but I just happen to be related to them. Their mother’s my sister, and I want to see if she survived when the Christian armies overran their farm.’
The gatekeeper gave a gutteral laugh. ‘None of you are going anywhere unless I say so, and I only say so for a price – as your big, pea-brained nephew here already found out to his cost.’
Farah rounded on him. ‘You know very well I haven’t any money, and even if I had, you’d be the last person I’d give it to! And to think your parents called you Shafeeq – the kind, compassionate one. What a joke!’
But Shafeeq wasn’t about to allow a little insult like that deter him. ‘If I wasn’t kind and compassionate, I’d be shouting to the guards on the ramparts up there – telling them to come down and arrest you three for trying to leave the city without permission.’
Farah hunched her shoulders. ‘Go ahead. I’ll report you to their captain for taking bribes.’
But this only evoked another mocking laugh from the gatekeeper. ‘And who do you think I’m sharing the money with, you silly old bat?’ He turned to Pedrito. ‘So, come on, big boy –
get that money bag of yours out and buy a little more of my kindness and compassion, huh!’
Pedrito knew there would be no point in objecting to this old bandit’s demands. It was almost dawn, they had to leave the city fast, the Gate of Chains postern was the only way out for them, and old prune face here had the key. Without further ado, then, Pedrito produced his purse, pulled out the same number of coins it had cost him to get in and handed them over.
A snort of derision escaped the gatekeeper’s nostrils. ‘That’s the price for one. Seems to me there are three of you now, no?’ He made a come-hither gesture with the fingers of his right hand. ‘Cough up!’
Pedrito duly counted out the required amount.
Smirking, the gatekeeper shook his head. ‘No, no, no, boy! I can hear more money jangling in your pouch.’ He then repeated the same hand gesture as before. ‘I’ll have the lot!’
It was Farah who took it upon herself to baulk at this. ‘You can’t just send us out there with nothing in our pockets. In Allah’s name, have a heart, man!’
‘You’ve never had anything in your pocket anyway, Farah, so don’t give me that.’ The gatekeeper fixed his beady eyes on Saleema. ‘But who’s to say this one hasn’t got a bit of money tucked away somewhere?’ He stepped towards her. ‘Maybe I should do a body search, eh? Take off that hood so I can see your face, and then raise your hands above your head, boy!’
Pedrito’s heart was in his mouth. How were they going to get out of this one? While his brain retreated into panic mode, Farah stepped coolly into the breech.
‘We all know about your disgusting little perversions, Shafeeq. Nothing you like better than groping young boys, right? Hmm, but you won’t get your grubby hands on this one.’ She prodded the gatekeeper in the belly with her crutch. ‘Now back off, or you’ll feel the point of this where it really hurts!’ She turned to Pedrito. ‘All right, give him all the money you’ve got. It’ll be worth it just to see the last of his depraved, wizzened face.’
