Eagle

Chapter 5

NOVEMBER AND DECEMBER 1148: BAALBEK

John raised the scythe and its curved blade flashed against the midday sun before beginning its downward arc, cutting the stalk of wheat off at the base. John straightened as he placed the wheat in the heavy woven basket slung over his shoulder, stuffing it in amongst the hundreds of other sheaves. Then he bent down and grasped the next stalk, the last on the row. He swung down, and the sheaf of wheat came free in his hand to join the others in the basket. With a sigh of relief John eased the basket to the ground and dropped the scythe. He straightened and reached around to touch his back, which was still tender from the whipping he had received. As he stretched, he turned to look out over the twelve rows he had just cut. Where once there had been a sea of golden wheat nodding in the cool breeze, now there was only dark soil dotted with cut-off clumps, stubble on the face of the earth. In the distance other fields of wheat still swayed in the wind, and tiny figures moved through them, their scythes flashing in the sunshine. Past the fields rose the walls of Baalbek, and further still, towering grey clouds loomed over the craggy mountains, promising rain for the first time in months.

John stared at the distant peaks, calculating for the hundredth time his chances of surviving a trip over them. Ever since his encounter with Turan, he had been hiding food under his sleeping mat, in a hole he had dug in the earth floor of the slaves’ quarters. He had managed to steal a waterskin and some rope from the stables. He could use the wool blanket he slept with for warmth in the mountains. With another waterskin and a little more food, he would be ready. Getting out of the villa would be easy. As for the city wall, it was built to keep people from getting in, not out. It would be lightly guarded at night, and he could lower himself down with a rope. With any luck, he would reach the mountains before Ayub’s men ran him down. Then, he would have to trust in God to make it to a Christian town before he ran out of food and water. But escape was for the future. John had business to finish first. Before he left, he would kill Turan. And before that, he would have to finish with this accursed field.

John gave a final stretch, groaning in relief as he arched backwards, arms stretched over his head. Then he shouldered the basket once more and began the next row. He was half done when he heard the rumble of horses’ hooves. He rose to see Ayub riding towards him, flanked by three of his men. As they drew closer, John saw that they had been hunting; a spotted leopard lay draped over the back of Ayub’s horse. John lowered his scythe and bowed as Ayub reined in before him.

Ayub looked to the harvested field and then back to John. ‘You work well, slave. You outpace my other workers. Remind me: what is your name?’

‘John, m’allim.’

‘Juwan,’ Ayub said, mispronouncing John’s name as all Saracens did. ‘I have a task for you, a reward for your hard work. I leave this afternoon for Damascus. Run to the stables and prepare four horses. If you have them saddled and packed when I return from inspecting the fields, then I shall give you one dinar.’ A dinar was a gold coin. It could buy John enough food and water for the long trek to the kingdom of Jerusalem. ‘If you fail,’ Ayub added, ‘you shall receive ten lashes. Go!’

John shrugged the heavy basket off his shoulders and began to run towards the city. ‘Juwan, stop!’ Ayub called. John skidded to a halt and turned. Ayub was pointing to the basket of wheat. ‘Do not leave my tools and grain in the field for the thieves. Take them with you.’ Ayub spurred his horse off into the fields, followed by his men.

John ran back and grabbed the scythe. Then, with a grunt, he lifted the heavy basket. Gritting his teeth as the weight settled against his sore back, he set off for Baalbek at a jog.

‘Of thee did I dream while spears flashed between us, and of our blood full deep did the ashen shafts drink,’ Yusuf read, his lips moving soundlessly. He sat against the wall in the shade of the lime trees, a fat book of poetry perched upon his knees. His father was out hunting and Turan had disappeared somewhere, probably practising swordplay with his Frankish slave, Taur. Yusuf had taken advantage of their absence to enjoy a rare moment alone with the Hamasah, a book of poetry that Ibn Jumay had lent him. ‘I know not — by Heaven I swear,’ he continued reading, ‘this pang, is it love-sickness, or wrought by a spell from thee? If a spell it be, then free me from my heartache. If some other thing, then none of the guilt is yours.’ He closed his eyes and repeated the poem aloud from memory. He was just finishing when he heard a woman’s voice raised in a high-pitched, muffled cry. His eyes flashed open and he cocked his head. But he heard only the rustle of leaves in the lime tree.

Yusuf closed his book and stood. The cry had come from the direction of the slaves’ quarters, and Yusuf headed that way. The slaves’ common room was empty, the slaves having gone to work in the house or fields. All save one. Taur was leaning against the closed door of one of the private rooms, his bulging arms crossed over his chest. Yusuf stopped before the towering Frank.

‘What are you doing there?’ Yusuf demanded.

‘This is my room.’

‘Where is your master?’

‘Gone to town.’

‘Why didn’t he take you with him?’

Taur shrugged. ‘Ask him when he returns.’

‘I will.’ Yusuf was turning away when he heard shouting from the room behind Taur. ‘ Stop! Stop!’ It was Zimat’s voice, shrill and panicked. ‘Allah forbids this!’ Yusuf moved to open the door, but Taur blocked him.

‘Out of my way, slave!’

Taur did not move. ‘You cannot enter. My master forbids it.’

‘I thought your master was in town.’ Yusuf stepped close and looked the Frank in the eye. ‘If you do not step aside, I will beat you. And do you know what will happen if you strike back? Have you ever seen a man stoned?’ Taur’s eyes flicked to the side, betraying a trace of fear. ‘Move!’

Taur shook his head. ‘Do your worst, little one.’ Behind him, Zimat screamed, then her cry was cut short.

Yusuf reacted immediately. He kneed Taur hard in the crotch. As the Frank bent forward in pain, Yusuf brought the heavy book of poetry up, catching him in the face. Taur’s nose exploded in a fountain of blood. Yusuf dropped the book, shoved him aside and kicked the door open.

Turan stood at the far side of the room, his back to Yusuf and his leather riding breeches down around his ankles. He had Zimat pressed up against the far wall and had torn her tunic down the front, revealing one of her breasts. Blood ran from Zimat’s lip. When she saw Yusuf, she gasped and tried to cover herself. Turan turned, and his eyes widened.

‘What are you doing?’ Yusuf demanded. ‘She is your sister!’

‘My half-sister. And this is none of your business, little brother,’ Turan snarled as he pulled up his pants. ‘Leave!’

Yusuf looked past Turan to where Zimat now sat crouched on the floor, sobbing. ‘I will not. And if you do not let her go, I will tell Father.’

‘You will tell no one!’ Turan growled as he crossed the room to Yusuf. His face was flushed and his eyes were bloodshot. His breath reeked of alcohol. ‘Remember, little brother, I saved your life. I can take it, too.’

‘Do what you will to me, but leave Zimat alone.’

‘I will do as I wish,’ Turan said and shoved Yusuf hard, sending him tumbling backwards out of the doorway to land hard on his back. Turan was on him immediately, kneeling on his chest. Yusuf squirmed and held up his hands, trying to ward off the blows as Turan began to punch at him. A blow slipped through, and Yusuf’s face exploded in pain as Turan’s fist slammed into his right eye. A second later, Turan’s other fist connected with Yusuf’s mouth.

‘ Akh laa!’ Turan cursed, shaking his hand. He had cut his knuckles on Yusuf’s teeth.

Yusuf took the opportunity to wriggle away. Turan moved to get back on top of him, and Yusuf kicked out, catching his brother in the face. Turan fell back, and Yusuf scrambled to his feet. He could feel his right eye beginning to swell shut, and his lip was split. He stood unsteadily as Turan got to his feet, spitting blood.

‘You little bastard,’ Turan hissed. ‘You’ll pay for that.’

‘You wouldn’t dare. Father will whip you raw.’

Turan sneered, showing teeth red with blood. ‘Father doesn’t care two straws for you. He wants a son who can fight. What are you good for?’

‘Shut up.’

‘Father hates you, Brother. He hates your weakness, your snivelling, you-’

‘ Shut up!’ Yusuf roared and charged his brother. At the last second Turan stepped out of the way and stuck his leg out, sending Yusuf sprawling face first in the dust. He was beginning to rise when Turan kicked him hard in the side. The air whooshed from Yusuf’s lungs, and he lay gasping for breath. But the more desperately he tried to suck in the air, the more elusive it became.

‘Having another of your fits, little brother?’ Turan taunted. ‘Can’t cry for help now, can you?’ He kicked Yusuf again, catching him in the ribs. Yusuf curled into a ball to protect himself, his arms over his head. His ribs burned and he was suffocating, unable to draw in air. Turan bent over him, and Yusuf could feel his brother’s breath hot on his face. ‘You’re pathetic. I should have let you die in Damascus.’ He grabbed Yusuf and rolled him on to his back, then sat on his chest. ‘Tell me, little brother,’ Turan sneered as Yusuf’s face grew red, then purple. ‘What is Frankish for pathetic little bastard?’

Yusuf barely heard him. The world was dimming, fading to black. The last thing he knew was Turan’s fist slamming into his face.

John strode as fast as his aching legs would carry him through a narrow alleyway in Baalbek, dodging past veiled women and bearded men. He muttered under his breath as he walked, cursing Ayub for making him bring the basket. His lower back ached from the weight and his shoulders were on fire where the leather straps bit into them. He gritted his teeth and kept going. A golden dinar was worth a little pain.

He left the alleyway and entered a dark square that sat in the shade of the ancient Roman temple. He glanced up at the towering marble columns as he hurried past; he had never seen anything so monumental, not even in Constantinople or Acre. Past the temple, John broke into a jog as he turned into the street that wound up hill towards Ayub’s home. He circled around to the back gate, where one of Ayub’s mamluks stood bored, his spear resting against his shoulder. The man pulled open a small door cut into the larger gate, and John hurried through. He headed across the courtyard towards the granary, a squat building that abutted the right-hand wall. Then he froze.

Ahead of him, Taur sat in a doorway, his head cradled in his hands, blood dripping between his fingers. Past him, Turan knelt over Yusuf. Yusuf was unconscious, his face a swollen, bloody mass, but Turan kept pounding away at him. Beyond them, Zimat stood in another doorway, her lip bloody and her tunic torn. She saw John and moved towards him, but Turan rose and grabbed her arm. ‘Where are you going?’ he growled. ‘I’m not done with you.’ He shoved his sister back into the room behind her.

John dropped the basket of wheat and broke into a run. Turan heard him coming. He turned and raised his fists, showing knuckles red with blood. John stopped ten yards away and raised the scythe. At the sight of the curved blade, Turan’s eyes widened with fear. He backed away, and John stepped towards him. ‘Fight me, you coward,’ John snarled, but Turan continued to retreat. ‘Fight me!’ John shouted as he tossed the scythe aside and raised his fists. Turan stopped retreating.

‘Come, dog,’ he sneered in barely comprehensible Frankish.

John charged. At the last second Turan stepped to the side, trying to avoid him, but John had anticipated the move. He veered and planted his shoulder in Turan’s gut, bowling him over. He landed on top, but Turan used John’s momentum to throw him off. John sprang to his feet, and the two boys faced off. John was thickly muscled after months of hard labour, but Turan was larger, with a broad chest and shoulders. His weight would tell if the fight became a wrestling match.

John raised his fists and adopted a fighting stance. He stole a glance over his shoulder to Taur. He did not want to be taken by surprise again. Taur sat watching, his nose a wreck and his face covered in blood. He would not intervene. John turned his attention back to Turan, who held out his right hand, palm down, and made a clawing motion, beckoning John to him. ‘Whore. Shit-for-brains,’ he sneered in Frankish.

John stepped towards him, and Turan’s right fist flashed out for his head. John ducked the punch and swung up, connecting with an uppercut to the chin. Turan stumbled backwards, his sneer replaced by a wide-eyed look of surprise. He shook his head clear and then charged with a roar. John let him come, then delivered a stinging right cross that snapped Turan’s head back, stopping him immediately. Turan swung out wildly, and John stepped away.

‘Ya Allah,’ Turan muttered, wiping blood from his nose with the back of his hand. Then he sneered. He was standing next to the scythe. Turan reached down and picked up the curved steel blade. He growled something in Arabic, then sprang forward, swiping the scythe at John’s throat. John jumped backwards, avoiding the blade but tripping over Yusuf’s prone form. He fell, and Turan pounced, the blade flashing down towards John’s face. John rolled left, and the scythe bit into the earth. The two combatants rose and faced off over Yusuf, who stirred, raising a hand to his face and moaning. John and Turan began to circle his body, each shadowing the movements of the other.

Turan lashed out again, the scythe arcing towards John’s face. John ducked the blow, and Turan reversed his attack, swinging backhand. John jumped back, but the scythe grazed his chest, drawing blood. Turan grinned in triumph, but as he completed his swing, John stepped in and grabbed the arm that held the scythe. Then, with this free hand, he punched Turan hard in the jaw. As Turan slumped to his knees, John twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him to drop the scythe. John picked it up and held the sharp blade to Turan’s throat. John was facing Zimat, who was still watching. She nodded, encouraging him.

‘You killed my friend, you Saracen bastard,’ John whispered in Turan’s ear. ‘May Allah piss on you in the afterlife.’ His knuckles whitened around the scythe’s handle as he prepared for the finishing blow.

‘Stop!’ a voice commanded in Latin. John looked up and saw Ayub riding into the courtyard, flanked by two of his men with bows drawn. Zimat hurried away towards the house, her cheeks flushed. John watched her go, then turned his attention back to Ayub.

‘Release my son!’ Ayub ordered as he reined in before John.

John paused. Why should he let Turan go? John would die either way. He spat at Ayub, then began to draw the scythe across Turan’s throat. But John had waited too long. The blade had only just drawn blood when two arrows sank into his shoulder. He dropped the scythe and sank back on his knees in agony. Turan grabbed the blade and whirled on him. But Ayub had dismounted, and he held his son back. Ayub strode up to John and struck him across the face with the back of his hand.

‘What have you done?’ he demanded in Latin. He pointed to the house, where Zimat had fled. ‘What did you do to my daughter?’

Turan, a trickle of blood running down his neck, said something to his father in Arabic, and Ayub’s eyes widened. He drew his sword.

‘Turan lies!’ Yusuf had staggered to his feet. ‘It was Turan who tried to rape Zimat,’ he said in Latin. ‘The Frank saved her.’

Ayub looked from Yusuf to Turan, weighing their arguments. Then, his gaze settled upon John.

‘Kill me,’ John said. ‘I do not care.’ Ayub raised his sword, and John closed his eyes. His eyes were still closed when the butt of the sword hilt slammed into his temple, knocking him unconscious.

A shaft of sunshine penetrated the cramped space where John sat slumped unconscious against the wall. He awoke, blinking against the light, and groaned as a wave of pain swept over him. His shoulder throbbed, and his back burned as if it were on fire. He reached back to touch it: the skin was rough and sticky with blood. He had been whipped. He looked about and found himself in a narrow space, too short to do more than crouch and not long enough to lie flat. Across from him, a heavy wooden door had opened just enough to allow someone to slide in a bowl of boiled wheat and a waterskin. Once the food was inside, the door slammed shut, leaving John in total darkness.

‘Wait!’ John yelled. His stiff joints cried out in agony as he fumbled his way towards the door, his right hand stretched out before him. He cursed as he accidently put his hand in the bowl of boiled wheat. He found the wooden door and began to pound on it with his fist. ‘Come back!’

‘Quiet!’ someone hissed from the other side of the door. ‘You’ll get us both in trouble.’

John lowered his voice. ‘Who are you?’

‘Yusuf. I wanted to thank you for what you did. You saved my life.’

‘I did not do it for you.’

‘Nevertheless, you have my thanks.’

‘When will I be released?’ John asked.

‘My father has declared that you will be kept here for a week with no food and water.’

‘Why didn’t he just kill me?’

‘Were it not for the intervention of my mother, Basimah, he would have. You saved her daughter, Zimat, and that saved your life,’ Yusuf explained. ‘And do not fear, I will not allow you to starve. But you must conserve the food I have given you. I do not know when I will be able to bring more.’ There was a pause. ‘Someone is coming. I must go.’

John heard the slap of Yusuf’s sandals as he hurried away, then nothing. He began to lean back, then winced as his raw back came in contact with the wall. He sat forward, his head against his knees. It would be a long week.

‘You will not make the young ladies of Baalbek swoon any time soon,’ Ibn Jumay said as he finished unwrapping the bandages covering Yusuf’s face, ‘but you are healing nicely. See for yourself.’ He handed Yusuf a small brass mirror.

Yusuf frowned at his reflection. His face was still a swollen mess, purplish red around his eyes and almost black around his broken cheekbone. His nose was two sizes too big and now had a kink halfway up. Clear fluid oozed from around stitches that ran under his right eye and above his left. ‘I look like a monster.’ Yusuf gingerly touched his nose and winced. ‘Can you fix my nose?’

‘I think it looks rather distinguished, but if you insist, I can reset it. There will be a great deal of pain.’

Yusuf took another look at his nose in the mirror, then nodded. ‘Do it.’

‘Very well. Hold still.’ Ibn Jumay gripped Yusuf’s head with both hands, placing his thumbs against either side of Yusuf’s nose. ‘Ready?’

‘Yes.’

Ibn Jumay wrenched the nose back into place. Yusuf’s vision went black, and he nearly fainted as pain washed over him. When the wave of agony receded, he looked up to see Ibn Jumay smiling and holding out the mirror. Yusuf’s nose was straight once more.

‘There you are,’ Ibn Jumay said. ‘Now here’s something to ease the pain of your bruises.’ Ibn Jumay produced a clay jar, scooped out a greenish, translucent ointment with his fingers and began to smear it on Yusuf’s face. The ointment created a pleasant cooling sensation, bringing instant relief.

‘What is it?’

‘It is an extract from the aloe plant,’ Ibn Jumay said as he placed the lid back on the jar.

‘Does it bring relief to cuts? Torn skin?’

‘Yes, although it is most effective in dealing with sunburn.’

‘Can I have some?’

Ibn Jumay tilted his head quizzically. ‘What do you need it for?’

Yusuf looked to the ceiling, searching for a plausible answer. ‘For later, if the pain returns.’

‘You are a poor liar,’ Ibn Jumay noted as he handed Yusuf the jar of ointment. He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘You want this for the Frankish boy, I imagine?’ Yusuf’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘Do not worry. I will not tell your father. The young Frank deserves my thanks for saving my best pupil. Tell him to apply a thin layer twice a day. And you will want to give him some of this as well.’ Ibn Jumay produced another jar, from which he scooped out a foul-smelling, yellowish paste, which he applied to Yusuf’s face.

Yusuf wrinkled his nose. ‘What is this? And why does it smell so bad?’

‘The smell is sulphur. It will help prevent infection.’ Ibn Jumay handed the jar to Yusuf. Then he took a long roll of cotton bandages and began to wrap it carefully around Yusuf’s head. ‘Remember: leave the bandage on and do not pick at your wounds, or those scars will never heal.’ Yusuf nodded his understanding. Ibn Jumay rose and opened the door. ‘Now send in your brother.’

Yusuf took the two jars and left the room. Turan was waiting in the hallway, standing stiffly upright. Ayub had whipped him mercilessly for what he had tried to do to Zimat, and Turan’s backside was so torn and bloodied that he could not even sit without pain. He sneered when he saw Yusuf. ‘How’s your face, traitor?’

‘It’s your turn,’ Yusuf said tersely, ignoring the barb. He tried to walk past, but Turan stepped in front of him.

‘I saved your life at Damascus, and you betrayed me to save a slave, a Frank. I will not forget what you have done, little brother.’ He pushed past Yusuf and entered the room where Ibn Jumay waited.

‘I would to it again, big brother,’ Yusuf whispered to himself as he turned and headed down the hallway towards his room. He was passing the closed door of his father’s bedroom when he heard the loud voices of his parents. Yusuf caught Turan’s name, and curious, put his ear to the door.

‘What would you have me do?’ Ayub was exclaiming. ‘He is my son!’

‘You have other sons,’ Basimah retorted.

‘A poet and a whimpering child,’ Ayub said, his voice thick with disgust. ‘Turan is a man, a warrior.’

‘He is an abomination!’

‘You have never liked him. You always preferred your own children.’

Basimah said something in a low voice, which Yusuf could not hear. Then: ‘I raised him as my own after his mother died, but this is too much. Look at what he did to Yusuf, what he tried to do to Zimat. I will not share my house with that animal!’

‘You will do as I say, wife!’

‘Or what? You will beat me as Turan beat Yusuf? Or perhaps you will rape me as he tried to do our daughter?’

‘Turan is a man, filled with young blood. And you know how Zimat teases him.’

‘How dare you!’ Basimah screamed, and Yusuf heard a loud slap. ‘Do not pretend that this is her fault. It is your son who has defied Allah.’

‘And he has been punished: thirty lashes from my own hand.’

‘That is not enough.’

‘What then? What would you have me do?’

‘Send him away. Let Shirkuh deal with him in Aleppo.’

There was a long moment of silence. Yusuf was just beginning to move away from the door when he heard his father’s voice again. ‘Turan is my first-born son. I will not send him to be raised by another. But you are right; something must be done. It has been too long since I attended Nur ad-Din’s court. I will go next week to Aleppo, and I will take Turan with me. We will be gone for several months. I will speak with Turan. I will teach him to rule his passions. And I swear to you by Allah that when we return, he will never touch our daughter again.’

‘Very well,’ Basimah said. ‘But if you are wrong, Ayub, then I promise you, I will kill Turan myself.’

Yusuf moved away from the door and headed down the hall to his room. He had heard enough. Zimat would be safe from Turan. Now, Yusuf only had to find a way to prove his father wrong. He, too, would become a warrior.

John sat slumped against the wall shivering despite the heat. ‘One hundred sixty-five’ he rasped, his throat so dry he could barely speak. ‘One hundred sixty-six.’ In the blackness of the tiny cell, which stank of his piss and shit, time seemed to expand and stretch with no beginning and no end. Some time ago — maybe hours, maybe days — John had begun to count his breaths as a way of keeping track of time. When he reached a thousand, he would make a scratch on the dirt floor with his fingernail. Eventually, he had lost track of the number of scratches in the darkness. But that did not matter. The counting had taken on a meaning of its own. ‘One hundred and seventy-six-one hundred and seventy-seven.’

Yusuf had not visited for days, and John, with no sense of time to guide him in his rationing, had run out of medicine, then food, then water. First, the fiery burning in his back had returned, along with shooting pains that spread out from his left shoulder, where the arrows had struck. Then came a ravenous hunger that gradually transformed into a gnawing pain in his gut, accompanied by uncontrollable shivering. But worst of all was the thirst. John’s mouth became so dry that even swallowing hurt. His lips swelled and cracked. His skin crawled, and his head ached with a searing pain, as if someone had driven a hot iron deep into his brain. Then the visions had begun.

Shapes appeared to John in the darkness. He had seen Zimat, flashing her brilliant smile and beckoning him to come to her. The image had been so real that he had fumbled towards her, smashing his forehead against the door. Zimat’s image had dissolved, to be replaced by others. John had seen Turan, his knuckles covered in blood, sneering at him. He had seen his father, his face pale and stretched in agony as he hung from the gallows, but living still, his eyes burning into John. And he had seen his brother, Harold, his face bathed in blood, his finger pointed accusingly at John. John had squeezed his eyes shut, but the images remained. He sought refuge in fitful slumber, but the ghosts of his past continued to haunt him.

Counting helped to keep them at bay. ‘One hundred and ninety-nine-two hundred,’ he croaked, focusing on the numbers. But another image intruded upon him regardless. He saw the door flung open, then daylight flooding the cell. John closed his eyes and shrank back. ‘Two hundred and one,’ he rasped, desperately trying to hold on to his sanity. But this was no vision. Rough hands grabbed him, pulling him out into the light and holding him upright. His stiff legs, bent for so long, refused to straighten. He kept his head down, away from the sun, and his eyes squeezed shut. Someone slapped him, jerking his head to the side. John cracked open his right eye and saw Ayub standing before him.

‘So you have survived,’ Ayub said in Latin. ‘Allah favours you, slave. Perhaps he guards you for some purpose. I do not know. But I do know that if you ever touch my son again, not even Allah’s favour will protect you. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, m’allim,’ John croaked.

‘You will have three days to recover. Then you will resume your duties.’ Ayub turned and walked away. The men on either side of John released him, and he dropped to the hard, sun-baked ground. He lay there for a moment, then rolled on to his back, letting the bright sun wash over him. After a time he cracked open his eyes and drank in the endless expanse of blue sky.

‘You look like hell.’ John looked over to see Taur walking towards him. The Norman’s nose, swollen and purple, was flattened and shifted to the right of his face.

‘You don’t look so good yourself.’

Taur grinned. ‘The Jew doctor says my nose makes me look distinguished.’ He put his arms under John and gently lifted him off the ground. ‘Jesus, you’re light, nothing but skin and bones.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘And you stink. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.’

Yusuf stood in the doorway of the kitchen and looked out on the rain beating down on the muddy courtyard. Chill weather had blown in from the north, bringing with it the first rain of the year. There would be rejoicing in the town. Yusuf wondered if it was also raining on the road to Aleppo, where his father was taking Turan. Yusuf’s jaw tightened at the thought of his brother. Turan was why he was here, peering through the rain at the barely visible form of Juwan.

Juwan was standing in the centre of the courtyard, his arms spread wide and his head back. Yusuf had never seen such bizarre behaviour. Rain was good, a blessing from Allah, but only a fool stood outside in the cold and wet. Perhaps the Frank’s time in the cell had made him mad. Yusuf would find out soon enough. He had been waiting two days for a chance to speak with the slave alone, and now his chance had come.

Yusuf lowered his head and ran out into the rain. By the time he splashed his way to the Frank’s side, he was soaked, his tunic heavy with water. Juwan did not move. Yusuf saw that his eyes were closed. ‘Juwan!’ he shouted. The Frank lowered his arms and snapped upright. His posture relaxed somewhat when he saw that it was Yusuf who had addressed him.

‘John,’ the Frank said. ‘My name is John.’

‘Yes-Juwan,’ Yusuf said, speaking Latin. ‘I wish to speak with you. Come.’

Yusuf led the way across the courtyard to the shelter of the lime trees, where the dense foliage kept out most of the rain. Yusuf brushed his wet hair back from his eyes, then began to wring out his caftan. ‘What were you doing out there?’ he asked.

‘The rain reminds me of my home.’

‘And where is that?’

‘England. It is an island far from here.’

‘I have heard of it.’ Yusuf shivered as a chill wind blew a gust of rain under the trees. ‘I hope it is not always so cold.’

John smiled. ‘No, not always.’ His smile faded as his eyes took on a distant look. ‘My home is lush and green. There is no sand, no dusty earth. Grass grows everywhere. Cold rivers flow through fields full with crops. Dense woodland abounds, with towering oaks. In winter, deep snow covers the land. It is beautiful.’

‘Why did you leave?’

John’s eyes narrowed and his mouth hardened to a straight line. ‘For the crusade, to fight for God.’

‘I see.’ Yusuf paused. The key moment had come, and he carefully weighed his next words. ‘You are a great warrior, Juwan. I saw you at Damascus the day you were captured. You took on four men and killed them all.’

‘Yet I ended up here.’

Yusuf did not catch the bitterness in John’s voice. ‘Teach me to fight as you do,’ he said. ‘Help me to beat Turan.’

John watched the rain for a long time, his forehead creased in thought. Finally he shook his head. ‘No.’

‘But you owe me your life! My father would have killed you had I not spoken out against Turan. You would have died again in that cell had I not brought you food and water.’

‘And Turan would have killed you had I not stopped him. We are even.’ John began to turn away, but Yusuf placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘No, we are not. I saved your life before, in the slave markets of Damascus. It is I who purchased you. You would have died had I left you there.’

‘Then it is you who made me a slave,’ John said, his voice hard and unforgiving. ‘For that, I owe you nothing.’ He stormed off.

‘Wait!’ Yusuf called after him. ‘Juwan, I command you to stop!’ But John kept walking and disappeared into the driving rain.

John sneezed violently, holding the pitchfork with one hand while he wiped his nose with the back of the other. His eyes watered as he took the pitchfork and scooped up another pile of hay, dropping it down from the loft to the stable floor. ‘ Ha-choo!’ John sneezed again. He had been back at work for a week, and before he left, Ayub had removed him from the fields, assigning him full time to the stables. John loved being around the horses but dreaded feeding them; he was violently allergic to hay. He wiped his nose again, then turned and thrust the tines of the pitchfork into the high pile of straw.

‘Salaam,’ a woman’s soft voice called out. Greetings. John turned to see Zimat standing just inside the stable entrance. She wore a belted caftan of saffron yellow, with red silk embroidery around the neck and sleeves. Her long black hair cascaded down her shoulders, a stray strand hanging over her veiled face. Her eyes were downcast.

‘Sa-sa- ha-choo!’ John replied, an explosive sneeze cutting off his greeting. Zimat giggled. John could feel his cheeks starting to burn. ‘Salaam, Zimat,’ he managed. Her laughter faded, and they stared at one another in silence, John gripping the shaft of the pitchfork as if he were drowning and it were a lifeline.

‘Ija la-taht,’ Zimat said at last, motioning for John to come down. He tossed the pitchfork on the pile of hay and climbed down the ladder from the loft. When he reached the stable floor, he found Zimat waiting for him, close enough that John could smell her heady scent of spice and citrus, close enough that he could have reached out and smoothed back the lone strand of hair that fell across her face. He met her eyes, and she looked away, then back to him. She took a deep breath and began to speak, a flood of Arabic rushing out. John’s rudimentary understanding of the language was not up to the task. He found himself staring at her dark eyes, her slender waist, the curves of her hips beneath the tightly belted caftan. He wondered why she had come to him. What would her mother think? She stopped speaking, and John’s eyes snapped back to her face. Zimat was looking at him expectantly, her eyes wide.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand,’ John said in Latin. He shrugged his shoulders to signal his incomprehension. ‘La ‘arabi.’ No Arabic.

Zimat lowered her eyes and shifted from foot to foot. Then she looked up at him through her thick eyelashes. ‘Shukran,’ she whispered as she pulled down her veil. She stepped forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek, her lips soft and warm. John stood dazed as she turned and hurried away. At the door of the stable, she turned back to him and smiled. Then she was gone.

Yusuf stood in the courtyard behind the kitchen, a bow in his hands. The bow was a compact but formidable weapon, formed in the shape of a rounded m. It had a wooden core reinforced with layers of horn on the inside of the curves and of sinew on the outside. Yusuf took an arrow from the quiver on his back, nocked it, and strained to pull back the bowstring as he focused on his target, a small circular shield that hung on the wall thirty paces off. He inhaled and let his breath escape slowly as he sighted along the arrow. He let fly and the arrow hit the centre of the target with a satisfying thwack, the steel tip driving straight through the shield. Yusuf smiled and reached back to grab another arrow.

He sighted along the shaft and was about to release it when out of the corner of his eye he saw Juwan approaching. Yusuf lowered his bow. ‘Salaam, Juwan.’

‘John,’ the slave replied. ‘My name is John.’

‘Ja-ahn,’ Yusuf said, struggling with the strange vowels.

‘John,’ the Frank repeated.

‘John,’ Yusuf managed.

‘Good. You should know my name if I am going to teach you how to fight.’

Yusuf grinned. ‘You have changed your mind?’

‘There is one condition.’

Yusuf’s smile faded. ‘What is it?’

‘If I teach you to fight, then you must teach me Arabic.’

Yusuf nodded. ‘Done.’

John presented his right hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Yusuf did likewise. The Frank grabbed Yusuf’s hand and squeezed it tight. ‘It’s a deal.’

‘Then let us waste no time,’ Yusuf replied, rubbing the hand that the Frank had gripped as if it were dirty. ‘Let us begin.’

‘First, a question: what does shukran mean?’

‘Thank you. It means thank you.’