Eagle

Chapter 4

JULY TO OCTOBER 1148: BAALBEK

Yusuf stood on tiptoes and peered through the open window into the room where the Frankish slave had been brought so the family doctor could inspect him. When the slave had been delivered to Ayub’s home in Damascus, Yusuf had been whipped. Ayub had not let him keep the young Frank as a personal servant, but had ordered the new slave be brought back to Baalbek. ‘No use in wasting a slave,’ he had commented. ‘If he lives, then he can work in the fields.’

The Frank lay naked and unconscious on a table. He was well muscled and tall, taller even than Turan. His arms and chest were smooth and tanned brown — where they were not caked in dried, rust-coloured blood — but his legs and the area around his genitals were impossibly pale, the skin as white as freshly shorn wool. His long hair was the colour of ripe wheat and his jaw covered in pale blond fuzz. He was not circumcised.

The Jewish doctor stood beside the table, washing the boy with a sponge. Ibn Jumay, a thin man of almost thirty, with short black hair under a skullcap, long sidelocks and a closely cropped black beard, was the personal physician for Yusuf’s family, as well as Yusuf and Turan’s tutor. He wiped the dried blood away from his patient’s right shoulder, then dipped the sponge in a basin of water and wrung it out. Next, he sponged off the blood caked around the Frank’s stomach. There was a small gash in the lower abdomen, and as the Frank breathed, a thin stream of blood bubbled up and ran down his side. Ibn Jumay sniffed at the wound and nodded, apparently pleased. Last of all, he cleaned the blood away from the Frank’s right thigh. The flesh around the wound was angry and red. Ibn Jumay poked at the spot with his finger, then bent down and sniffed. ‘Infected,’ he muttered to himself. ‘They let the arrowhead fester inside him for three days, then expect me to perform miracles.’

Ibn Jumay bent down and picked up a brown leather bag, which he placed on the table. He opened it and carefully removed several ceramic bottles, placing them beside the Frank. Next, he took out a leather bundle and unrolled it on the table before him. Dozens of tiny pockets had been cut into the inside of the roll. Some bulged with mysterious contents. Others held wicked-looking knives and strange iron instruments. Ibn Jumay rubbed his hands together, then selected a short blade, a curved needle and a set of pincers that ended in two flat, circular disks. From another pouch, he removed a ball of string.

Yusuf moved to the open doorway, where he had a better view. ‘What are those for?’ he asked.

‘You are blocking the light, Yusuf,’ Ibn Jumay said without looking up. He nodded towards the corner. ‘Sit there if you must watch. As for these, their purpose is not hard to divine. The knife is for cutting, the needle for sewing, and these-’ he held up the pincers, ‘are for extracting.’

‘Extracting what? And why do you need to sew?’

‘Be silent and watch. You shall see.’

The doctor unstopped a square, blue ceramic bottle and poured a small amount of the contents over each of the wounds. The Frank flinched.

‘What is that?’ Yusuf asked.

‘Pure alcohol.’ Ibn Jumay held out the vial.

Yusuf inhaled deeply, then coughed. ‘It burns,’ he said, his eyes watering.

‘It will purify his wounds.’ Ibn Jumay lifted the Frank’s left arm and moved it in a circle while peering into the ragged hole in the Frank’s shoulder. ‘The tendons appear to be intact. With any luck, he should have use of his arm again.’ The doctor took up the curved needle and carefully threaded it from the ball of string. He hooked the needle through the flesh on either side of the wound and pulled the thread through. He continued, expertly sewing up the wound as if he were working with a piece of cloth.

Yusuf frowned. ‘Will he not have string stuck in his shoulder?’

‘A good question, Yusuf, but this is not string. It is called catgut, although it is made from the dried intestines of a goat.’ Yusuf grimaced. ‘It will dissolve over time, leaving only a thin scar.’ Ibn Jumay finished sewing, cut the catgut and tied it off. Next, he took out a yellowish paste that smelled of rotten eggs. He rubbed it over the wound, which he then bandaged with cotton dressings. ‘That will do for the shoulder.’ He moved down the Frank’s body and again examined the gash in his side. ‘Come, Yusuf. Since you are here, you can make yourself useful. Help me flip him over.’

Together, they managed to roll the Frank on to his stomach, revealing another gash in his back. ‘He is lucky, this one,’ Ibn Jumay noted. ‘The sword went straight through, but appears to have missed his vital organs.’ The doctor doused the back wound with alcohol, then sewed it up. He and Yusuf flipped the body over again, and Ibn Jumay sewed up the gash in the Frank’s stomach, leaving a small gap at the end of the wound.

‘Why did you not sew it up all the way?’ Yusuf asked as he held the boy upright while Ibn Jumay applied the foul-smelling paste and bandaged the Frank’s torso.

‘The vile matter inside him must be given a place of exit,’ Ibn Jumay said matter-of-factly. ‘Otherwise, it will kill him.’ He frowned as he moved to the Frank’s injured leg. ‘Now for the unpleasant part.’ He removed the cork from a small red vial, carefully poured a small amount of clear liquid on to a cotton ball and dabbed gently at the wound. ‘This is an extract from the poppy plant,’ Ibn Jumay explained before Yusuf could ask. ‘It helps to ease the pain.’

‘But he is unconscious.’

‘I am a doctor. It is my duty to not cause unnecessary suffering. And even unconscious, he will feel this.’ Ibn Jumay took the tiny knife and held it over the wound in the Frank’s leg. He whispered a prayer in Hebrew, then made two short diagonal cuts across the wound, forming an x. Blood and pus welled up around the cuts. Yusuf looked away, fighting to keep down his breakfast. When he looked back, Ibn Jumay was just finishing sponging clean the wound. The doctor took up the pincers, then hesitated. He turned to Yusuf.

‘Grab his leg here and here-’ He pointed with the pincers to a spot just above the knee and another at his groin. ‘And hold it still.’ Yusuf did as he was instructed. Ibn Jumay moved around the table opposite him. ‘It is important that he not move, Yusuf. Hold tight.’ With his left hand, Ibn Jumay pulled back the flesh around the wound in the Frank’s leg and then plunged the pincers into the hole. The Frank moaned and his entire body convulsed, causing his leg to jerk under Yusuf’s hands. ‘Keep him still!’ Ibn Jumay snapped. Yusuf struggled to hold the thrashing leg in place, while the doctor worked the pincers deeper into the wound. Blood flowed out, dripping on the table and splattering on Yusuf’s hands and face. ‘Got it!’ Ibn Jumay exclaimed at last and pulled out the pincers. Caught between them was a short, barbed arrowhead, dripping blood. ‘A cruel piece of work, is it not?’ the doctor said. He held the arrowhead out to Yusuf. ‘Keep it, as a reminder of the nature of war. You can let go of him now.’ The Frank had stopped thrashing and lay still. Ibn Jumay began to stitch the wound closed.

‘Will he live?’ Yusuf asked, fingering the sharp point of the arrowhead.

‘God willing, no. I have never dissected a Frank, and I should like to do so. I am curious to note any differences.’ Yusuf frowned. He had purchased the slave, and he felt responsible for him. Ibn Jumay saw his expression and smiled reassuringly. ‘But he is young and strong. I fear he shall survive.’

‘When will he be better?’

‘Only God knows. If all goes well, he should be on his feet before the winter rains. But if the infection in his leg spreads, then I will have to have it off.’ Ibn Jumay finished the stitches and looked up. ‘In that case, I fear the worst.’

In his dream, John was once more on the battlefield outside Damascus. Rabbit stood in the distance, waist-deep in the crimson waters of the Barada River. A Saracen with his sword held high was approaching him from behind. John screamed and tried to run, but no matter how fast he moved, the river grew no closer. He watched in horror as the Saracen, a mad grin on his face, impaled Rabbit from behind, his bloodied blade bursting from the boy’s chest. Then the Saracen’s face twisted and transformed into the leering visage of Reynald…

John jerked awake to the sound of whistling. He was lying on the floor of a small room, lit only dimly by a shaft of light beaming through a grill in the door. He was shirtless and something warm lay on his stomach. He looked down to see a man bent over his torso. John tried to sit up but the world spun around him and he fell back. The whistling stopped.

‘Easy, young man,’ a voice said in heavily accented Frankish, the vowels long and foreign, the consonants too guttural. A face appeared over him, darkly tanned with a short beard and kind brown eyes.

‘Who are you?’ John asked. ‘Where am I?’

‘Drink this,’ the man said, lifting John’s head with one hand and holding a cup to his lips. The liquid in the cup was cold and bitter. Despite the unpleasant taste, John drank greedily. His lips were parched, and his throat felt as if he had not had water in days. ‘There,’ the man said. ‘Now for your questions: you are in the home of Najm ad-Din Ayub, in Baalbek. And I am Ibn Jumay, a Jew and for the moment, your doctor.’ John began to speak, but Ibn Jumay shook his head. ‘Be quiet. Just for a moment.’ He took John’s wrist in his hand and held it while he looked away to the floor. ‘Good, a steady pulse,’ he murmured. He looked back to John. ‘Now tell me, what is your name?’

‘John.’

‘Ah, interesting.’

‘How did I get here?’ John asked.

‘You are a slave. You were purchased after the battle in Damascus.’ Ibn Jumay offered John another cup of the bitter liquid. ‘That was over a week ago. You suffered grave injuries, and you have been incoherent for some time. I had hoped you would die.’

John spluttered.

‘I wished to dissect you,’ Ibn Jumay explained. ‘But no matter. It seems that God has other plans for you, John.’ He smiled. ‘It occurs to me that perhaps your name is prophetic. John is a Frankish corruption of a Hebrew name. It means God is gracious.’

John closed his eyes, suddenly tired. ‘I am a slave,’ he muttered. ‘God has not been gracious to me.’

‘Ah, but you are alive.’

John shook his head. He should have died along with Rabbit. He had wanted to give his life for God. Why had He not taken it? John’s thoughts slowed. His eyelids grew heavy and his head felt hot. ‘I am burning,’ he murmured. ‘I need to be bled-’

The doctor laughed. ‘That is the last thing you need.’ He placed a cool, wet cloth on John’s forehead, and John felt instant relief. ‘You need rest,’ Ibn Jumay said softly. ‘The drink I gave you will help you sleep. Later, you will be brought food and drink. Eat everything. I will see you tomorrow.’

John tried to respond, but he was already slipping away, surrendering to sleep, returning to his dark dreams.

Weeks passed, time spent mostly in drugged sleep, battling nightmares. The visits of Ibn Jumay punctuated John’s tortured sleep. The kind doctor redressed John’s wounds and told him of his new owner, Najm ad-Din Ayub. Ayub, he said, was a tough man, but also fair and generous. John could have done much worse.

One day, John awoke to the creak of the door opening and rolled over to see not Ibn Jumay but a slender Saracen with short, greying hair and piercing eyes. He had angular features and his mouth was set in a hard line. John sat up. He sensed immediately that this was not a man to be trifled with. The Saracen stepped into the small room, and Ibn Jumay entered behind him.

‘Up,’ the strange man said in accented Latin. John stood, wobbling for a moment on his weak right leg. The Saracen stepped close and inspected John, squeezing his arms and legs as if he were a horse. ‘Your shirt,’ he ordered.

John tilted his head in confusion. ‘Excuse me?’

The back of the man’s hand flashed out, catching John on the cheek. John ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth and tasted blood. The man leaned close and growled something harsh in Arabic.

‘You are not to speak unless spoken to,’ Ibn Jumay translated. ‘He wishes you to take off your tunic. Do as he says.’ John pulled the linen fabric off over his head, and the man leaned close to examine the scars on John’s shoulder and torso. Finally, he nodded. He turned to Ibn Jumay, and they exchanged rapid words in Arabic. Then, Ibn Jumay turned to John and spoke in Frankish.

‘This is Najm ad-Din Ayub, but you will call him m’allim, master. He has deemed you fit to begin working. Do as he says, and you will be fed, clothed and treated with respect. In time, you may even purchase your freedom. Disobey him, and you will be punished.’

‘What good is the word of an infidel?’ John spat in Frankish.

Again, the back of Ayub’s hand flashed out, stinging John’s cheek. ‘My word is true,’ Ayub said in Latin. ‘And if I choose to let Ibn Jumay speak for me, it is only because I do not wish to soil my mouth with your barbarian tongue. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ John said. Ayub raised his hand. ‘Yes, m’allim.’

‘Good. Follow me.’ John limped outside, squinting against the bright sunshine, which was blinding after weeks spent in the dim confines of his room. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that he was in a walled compound, with a sprawling, white-walled villa at the centre. The room in which he had been kept was one of several in a row built against the wall that ran down one side of the villa. Ayub stopped in front of a doorway that led into a larger room. Straw sleeping mats covered the floor, with hardly any space between them.

‘From now on you will sleep here with the other slaves,’ Ibn Jumay instructed.

John nodded, and Ayub led on to the back of the villa. He stepped through a low door, and John followed to find himself in a kitchen filled with the mouth-watering smells of roasting meat and exotic spices. The large room had spotless white walls, a red-tiled floor and a low ceiling. John had to duck to avoid the sheep haunches, ribs and even whole goats that hung there. A fireplace eight feet across took up most of the wall to the right. Wood was stacked next to it, and more wood burned in the fireplace, heating a black cauldron that hung from a chain. A thin slave girl with skin of deepest black tended the cauldron, stirring it with a long wooden spoon. Across from John, several narrow tables lined the wall, with a washbasin built into one. Shelves had been built above them, and they held dozens of clay jars. To the left of the shelves, a door led into the villa, and on the left-hand wall, another door led to a pantry filled with sacks of grain. A wide table occupied the middle of the room, and standing behind it was an attractive older woman with long hair just beginning to grey. She scowled when she saw John.

Ayub turned to John and spoke rapidly in Arabic. ‘This is Basimah, the mistress of the house,’ Ibn Jumay translated. ‘You will work for her until you are strong enough to work in the fields. You are to do exactly as she says. Under no circumstances are you to speak to her, or to any other members of the household. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’ John looked to Ayub. ‘Yes, m’allim.’

Ayub nodded, and he and Ibn Jumay departed, leaving John alone to face Basimah. She stood with her hands on her hips, frowning at him while a fat fly buzzed around the room. ‘Mayy,’ she said at last. John shook his head to indicate that he did not understand. ‘Mayy,’ she said more loudly and kicked a wooden bucket so that it slid across the floor to him. ‘’Ajal,’ she added as John picked up the bucket. ‘’Ajal!’

John hurried outside, bucket in hand. Did mayy mean water, he wondered, or perhaps milk? He looked about, but saw neither a well nor any animals. The space behind the house was a broad expanse of sun-baked earth, closed off on three sides by a high wall. Small trees filled with bright-green fruit grew along the wall opposite John. Buildings lined the wall to the left and right, their red-tile roofs slanting upwards to within four feet of the top of the wall. John started to lug the bucket around the left side of the villa, then froze. If he climbed atop one of those buildings, he would be able to clamber over the wall.

John carried the bucket over to the nearest building and placed it upside down on the ground. He looked around to make sure that no one was watching. Then, standing on the bucket, he jumped and managed to get his chest and arms on to the tile roof. His injured shoulder screamed with pain, but John gritted his teeth and pulled himself the rest of the way up. He lay on the hot tiles, gasping for breath. He had not realized how weak he was. He pushed himself up and crawled to where the roof met the wall. He rose and peered over. A dusty city of narrow streets and closely packed buildings stretched away before him, running down to a square, where there stood a huge Roman temple, its tall columns dwarfing the surrounding buildings. Beyond the temple, the streets sloped down towards a thick wall. Beyond the wall lay a green valley, bordered on both sides by towering mountains. John noted the position of the morning sun, over the mountains to his right. That meant that the kingdom of Jerusalem lay to his left, over the far mountain range.

‘You, slave! What are you doing there?’ John turned to see a dark-haired boy staring up at him from the ground. ‘Come down at once!’ the boy demanded in passable Latin. John turned away and placed his hands on top of the wall, preparing to hoist himself over. ‘You will never escape that way,’ the boy called up to him. ‘Even if you get past the city guards and across the valley, you will never survive the mountains. There is no water and the nights are freezing.’

John hesitated. He knew the boy was right. And besides, what did he have to return to? He had fled his home in England with blood on his hands. The Franks had betrayed him. There was nowhere for him to go. There was nowhere he belonged. He turned and scrambled back to the edge of the roof, then dropped down. He landed a few feet from the boy, who was olive-skinned and thin, with deep, intelligent eyes. ‘I am Yusuf,’ he said. ‘What is your name?’

‘John.’ How, he wondered, could this infidel child speak Latin?

‘Ju-wan?’ the boy sounded out, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘A strange name for a man. It means perfume in our language.’

‘It’s John.’

He looked from John to the roof above. ‘I do not advise trying to escape, Juwan. If my father catches you, he will have you stoned to death as an example to the other slaves.’

John felt the blood drain from his face. ‘I was not trying to escape,’ he lied.

Yusuf clucked his tongue. ‘Careful. The punishment for a slave who lies is twenty lashes.’ He picked up the bucket and held it out to John. ‘My mother will be wondering where you are. There is a well that way, near the stables.’ He pointed to the front of the villa.

‘You are not going to punish me?’

‘Not this time.’

‘Thank you.’ John took the bucket and headed towards the front of the villa. When he looked back, the boy was gone.

The sun glowed golden red, like iron fresh from the forge, as it set behind the distant mountains. In the dying light John trudged across the courtyard, a stack of wood in his aching, trembling arms. Sweat ran down his face and stung his eyes, for even this late in the day the searing summer heat remained, the air burning his lungs and the ground hot through the leather of his sandals. He moved slowly, every step bringing a stab of pain in his right leg, where he had been injured. His muscles were weak after more than two months of inactivity, and his labours that day had brought him to breaking point. His hands were raw from a morning spent pulling bucket after bucket from the well, and then staggering back to the kitchen, the pail hanging awkwardly between his legs. His lower back ached from mucking out the stalls that afternoon. And he had lost count of the trips he had made to replenish the stack of wood in the kitchen. He gritted his teeth and pushed on through the pain and exhaustion. Escape might not be possible, but the Jewish doctor had said that if John worked hard, he might some day buy his freedom. He clung to that hope.

John trudged into the kitchen to find that Basimah and the kitchen slave were gone. Head down, he headed straight for the wood pile. As he was lowering the wood, his tired arms gave way and the logs fell and rolled across the floor. He began to gather them up when behind him he heard shouting from somewhere inside the villa. He turned to see a girl — no, a young woman — storm into the kitchen. She had high cheekbones, a delicate nose, full lips and flawless, golden-brown skin, the colour of the desert John had passed through on the way to Damascus. Her dark eyes were filled with tears, which she wiped away upon seeing John. He stared, his mouth open. She was more beautiful than Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, or even than the Madonna in the painting that hung behind the altar of his church in Tatewic.

‘Are you well?’ John asked finally. The girl straightened and then looked down her nose at him. She snapped something in Arabic. John spread his hands. ‘I don’t understand.’ He took a step towards her.

The girl frowned and stepped back. She pointed imperiously towards the door. ‘Barra. Barra!’

John did not move, and the girl’s eyes widened. Her posture softened as she tilted her head to examine him. John tapped his chest. ‘John,’ he said and smiled. ‘I am John.’ The girl smiled back, her teeth dazzlingly white against her brown skin.

‘Zimat!’ It was Basimah, who strode into the kitchen and began to scold the girl in Arabic. John went to restack the wood next to the fireplace. When he had finished, he turned to find that the girl had gone. Basimah stood staring at him, her arms crossed and her mouth stretched in a tight line. Finally, she turned away and went to the cauldron over the stove. She scooped a ladleful of thick, steaming stew on to a plate, added a piece of flatbread and shoved the dish across the table towards John.

‘Rah,’ she said, nodding to the plate. John took it. Basimah nodded and pointed out the door. ‘Rah!’ John moved away slowly, expecting to be called back any second, but Basimah let him go. Outside, night was falling rapidly now that the sun had set behind the mountains. A cool breeze brought the scent of ripening fruit. John stumbled through the darkness to the slave quarters, already crowded with a dozen men hunched over their evening meals. Most were dark-skinned Africans, although there were one or two native Christians amongst them. They all eyed John with ill-disguised hostility as he grabbed a mat from near the door and picked his way past them to a space in the far corner. He threw down his mat and sat with a grateful sigh, his back against the wall.

John sniffed at the food he had been given. It had a sweet, pungent smell that was unlike anything he had ever known. He tore off a piece of bread and poked at the stew, revealing tender chunks of lamb amongst the lentils. Using the bread, he scooped some of the stew into his mouth. ‘’Sblood!’ he whispered, his mouth aching as it filled too quickly with saliva. He greedily ate the rest of the stew and had hardly finished when he drifted into an exhausted sleep, the plate still on his lap. For the first time in many nights he did not dream of blood and battle, of Rabbit or of his brother. Instead, he dreamt of the beautiful girl, of Zimat.

That night, Yusuf ate his stew in silence. The family meal was a tense affair, with no one speaking. It should have been a joyous occasion. Mansur ad-Din, the emir of Baalbek and father of Yusuf’s friend Khaldun, had visited that afternoon and reached an agreement with Ayub that Zimat would marry Khaldun when he came of age. It was a good match, but Zimat did not look happy. Her eyes were red from crying. Basimah had pushed for the marriage, but she too was upset. She snapped at the kitchen servant when she brought the dishes — this one was too cold, that one not adequately spiced — and ate with her brow furrowed, her eyes burrowing into Ayub. As for Ayub, he avoided her gaze. Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke. ‘Turan, tell me of your slave. He serves you well?’

Turan nodded. ‘I call him Taur ’ — ox — ‘because he is so strong. We practised sword-fighting today. He is good, but not as good as me,’ Turan smirked.

Ayub turned towards his wife. ‘And you, Basimah? What of the young Frank?’ Yusuf looked up.

‘Sell him,’ Basimah said. ‘I do not wish to have him in my household.’

‘Why is this?’ Ayub demanded.

‘He is a savage, a Frank,’ Basimah said, her voice trembling with passion. ‘He was alone with Zimat today. He saw her unveiled.’ Zimat blushed.

‘He is a slave,’ Ayub said. ‘There is no shame in this.’

‘But he looked at her brazenly, like a free man,’ Basimah insisted. ‘Can you imagine what might have happened?’

‘I will beat him,’ Turan said suddenly, his eyes on Zimat. ‘How dare this Frank look at my sister!’

‘I do not need you to protect me, Turan!’ Zimat snapped.

‘Enough!’ Ayub looked to Basimah. ‘The slave is only a boy,’ he said gently. ‘Not all Franks are savage.’

‘Is that what you will tell Khaldun and his family? Our daughter has been promised and she must be protected.’

Ayub nodded. ‘You are right. Zimat, you will stay away from this slave, and you must remember not to show yourself outside the house unveiled.’

‘But I was in the house!’ Zimat protested. ‘And why am I being punished? I did nothing wrong!’

‘You will do as I say,’ Ayub said with finality. He turned back to Basimah. ‘Did the Frank work hard?’

Basimah nodded grudgingly. ‘Like a mule. I thought he would work himself to death.’

‘There, you see. He will be a good slave. Treat him with kindness, Basimah. Do not seek to take your revenge on this boy. He is not the one who killed your family, who-’

‘Do not speak of it,’ Basimah snapped. She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘I will treat the boy well.’ She looked to her daughter. ‘But if he so much as touches Zimat, he will die. I will see to that.’

‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!’ John awoke to the strident call of the muezzin, beckoning the faithful to morning prayer from his post in a minaret high above the city. Reluctantly, John rolled over and opened his eyes. Most of the other slaves were already gone. Through the open door, John could see that the clear night sky had begun to take on the silvery blue of twilight. Dawn was only a little while off. John squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his rough wool blanket more tightly about him. Nearly a month had passed since his first day of work, and the nights had turned cold. He huddled there for a moment longer; then, with a sigh, he threw back the blanket and sat up. Basimah expected him before the sun rose above the hills. If he were late, then she would work him harder.

He rose, stretching his arms high above his head to loosen his aching muscles, and then headed outside in only his sandals and tunic, shivering against the early morning chill. Taur, a taciturn Norman slave who had been purchased at the same time as John, was just emerging from his private room, which he warranted due to his position as servant to Ayub’s oldest son. Without a word, they fell in beside one another, heading towards the front of the villa. They walked past the stables and turned into a large room built against the wall. The floor was tiled, and on the far wall water flowed from a small opening and splashed into a pool, from where it would flow underground to the fountain in the entrance way of the villa. Other slaves were already busy washing themselves. They were all circumcised, and when John and Taur pulled off their tunics a few still pointed and laughed. Taur growled at them, and they fell quiet.

John took a clay jug from a shelf on the wall, filled it, and dumped the water over his head, gasping at the shock of the cold. Then he picked up a bar of soap and began to scrub himself resolutely. When he was sure he had removed every last trace of dirt and grime, he took up the jug again and rinsed, shivering in the cold. This bracing experience had become a daily ritual; his master, Ayub, gave ten lashes to any of the slaves who failed to maintain a sufficient level of cleanliness. John had already felt the sting of the whip once and was not eager to do so again.

After bathing, John hurried back to his room, pulled on the loose linen pants he had been given, belted his tunic about his waist with a length of rope and headed for the kitchen. Several other slaves were already standing outside, chewing on their breakfast of hot flatbread and talking quietly in a variety of languages. The head slave — a white-haired, black eunuch named Harith — handed John a piece of bread. He stood apart from the others and ate slowly, watching the mountains where the sun would soon rise. His thoughts drifted to Zimat. He had seen her only twice more, both times at a distance. She was unlike any of the women he had known. He thought back to his home in England, and then of his father. His forehead creased; he could not recall the features of his father’s face. It seemed a lifetime since he had last seen him. John added up the weeks and months. It had been less than two years. Less than two years since his life had been shattered.

‘Those baths will be the death of me,’ Taur muttered as he joined John. He tore off a piece of bread with his teeth and continued: ‘It’s not natural, all this washing.’

‘At least we don’t have lice any more,’ John said. Taur, his mouth full of bread, grunted sceptically. John looked to the nearby mountains, where the sky had lightened to a clear blue. At any moment the bright edge of the sun would rise above the horizon. ‘I should go.’ Taur grunted a farewell, and John entered the kitchen, where he found the servant girl feeding wood into the fire and Basimah kneading dough. She ignored him, and he stood waiting. He had learned better than to speak first. Finally, she looked up from her work.

‘You, stables,’ she said, pointing towards the door for emphasis. John sighed. Yakhur — stables — was one of the first Arabic words he had learned. He had mucked them out more times than he cared to remember in the past two weeks. ‘Then water and wood.’

‘Aiwa, m’allima,’ John replied. Yes, my lady.

Yusuf sat cross-legged in the shade of one of the lime trees that bordered the rear wall of his home, his hand on his chin and his forehead creased as he struggled to remember the Frankish for bird.

‘ Merde?’ Turan suggested with a sneer. ‘ Putain?’ Ibn Jumay scowled at him. It seemed that Turan’s skill in languages stopped at foul words like shit and whore. Behind Turan, his Frankish slave, Taur, guffawed.

‘No,’ Ibn Jumay corrected in Latin. ‘ Merde is what you seem to have between your ears, Turan.’ Turan stared at him uncomprehendingly while Yusuf and Selim laughed. Turan punched Yusuf’s shoulder.

‘What did he say?’

‘I said that you need to pay more attention to your studies, Turan,’ Ibn Jumay said in Arabic. He pointed again to the sparrow that perched low in the lime tree above them. ‘Yusuf? Selim? Can you enlighten your brother?’

Selim shook his head. Yusuf closed his eyes to concentrate. He might not be able to beat Turan when they practised swordplay or wrestling, but at least he could defeat him here. ‘ Un oiseau,’ he said at last. ‘A bird is un oiseau.’

Ibn Jumay nodded. ‘Good. Now, use it in a sentence.’

‘The bird shat on Turan’s head,’ Yusuf said in Frankish. Ibn Jumay and Selim laughed, and Taur joined in, braying like a donkey.

‘What?’ Turan demanded. He turned on Yusuf and shoved him, knocking him over. He pounced on top of him and raised his fist. ‘What did you say!’

‘Calm yourself,’ Ibn Jumay said, placing a hand on Turan’s shoulder.

Turan shoved him away. ‘Quiet, Jew!’ Turan’s face was red, his eyes blazing. He punched Yusuf hard, then leaned close. ‘Tell me, little brother,’ he whispered. ‘What did you say?’

John strode along the side of the villa towards the kitchen, a stack of logs cradled in his arms. After weeks of hard labour, his arms no longer burned with each load of wood he carried. As the work became easier, he began to reconsider his plight. The Saracens fed him well; indeed, it was the best food he had ever eaten, a far cry from the flavourless meats, black bread and boiled vegetables he had grown up with. And he was treated with respect, if not kindness. The Saracens were not as he had expected.

John was entering the broad space behind the villa when he heard shouting from the trees on the far side of the courtyard. Yusuf, the boy he had met while trying to escape, was pinned to the ground beneath a young man. And not just any man. As John drew closer, his eyes widened in recognition. The thick build, dark hair and broad face with a scraggly adolescent beard: it was the Saracen who had killed Rabbit.

‘You bastard!’ John growled. He dropped the wood and, fists clenched, headed straight for the man. He was only a few steps away when the young Saracen looked up, and his eyes widened in surprise. John raised his fist to strike, but then someone slammed into his side, knocking him from his feet and landing on top of him. John managed to roll on to his back and found himself staring into the face of Taur. ‘What are you doing?’ John roared. ‘Let go of me!’

‘Are you mad?’ Taur demanded. ‘If you touch him, they’ll kill you.’ He grabbed John’s arm and twisted it painfully behind his back as he rolled him over. ‘I’m saving your life,’ he whispered as he pulled John off the ground, holding him immobile.

Rabbit’s killer had risen to his feet. His face was mottled red and he had a murderous look in his eye. ‘Kalb!’ he spat in Arabic and then punched John hard in the stomach. John doubled over, but Taur pulled him back upright. ‘Kalb!’ the man snarled again as he swung out and caught John in the jaw, snapping his head back.

‘Turan, waqqif!’ a voice called out. John looked up to see Ayub striding towards him. Ayub went to Ibn Jumay, and the two exchanged words in Arabic. Then Ayub turned to John and spoke in Latin. ‘Take off your shirt.’ While John pulled off his tunic, Ayub drew his sword and cut a long branch from one of the lime trees. ‘Face the wall.’

John stood with his hands against the wall. He gritted his teeth as Ayub began to thrash him with the branch. The rough bark bruised and cut John’s skin. After ten blows, he cried out in pain, unable to hold silent. Ayub stopped, and John slumped to his knees.

Ayub stood over him. ‘You are a slave, property. I have control over your life. Never threaten one of my family again. If you will not obey, then you will be broken, like a horse. If you cannot be broken, then you will die. Do you understand?’

John looked to Rabbit’s killer, Turan, and then back to Ayub. ‘Yes, m’allim,’ he lied.