The Promise of Pain

by David Penny

“And came once a week, or every other week, and they knew where we were if any of our menfolk tried to rebel.”

  “You don’t know what has become of them, do you?” Thomas asked, and Jamila shook her head, her expression serious after the earlier flirting.

  Thomas continued to walk without seeing the street, thinking of what the captured man had told him. Most of it had been rambling in his desperation to answer, most of it useless, but not all, and what he had said fitted with what Jamila was telling him. They reached a corner and the roadway dropped away again. From their position Thomas could see over the town wall to the south. He watched the play of light and shade as it etched each ridge and valley in clear relief. Far in the distance the light changed to indicate where the Mediterranean lay, billowing clouds marking the coastline. Thomas found it difficult to believe he had woken in Jamila’s small village. A village that no longer existed.

  “How many towns lie between here and the sea?”

  “None of any size. Some are bigger than here, but most are smaller. A lot of people, though. Farmers mostly. There is al-Marilla to the east and Malaka to the west. Do you know them?”

  Thomas nodded. “Yes, I know them.” He looked around, back to the falling land. “Why don’t people just leave? Malaka is in Spanish hands now, but al-Marilla is still Moorish the last I heard.” He stopped and looked at Jamila, taken by her strength, afraid of the attraction he felt for her.

  “Because just as we are hostages to our menfolk’s good behaviour, so is our good behaviour the same to them. Any hint of resistance or escape results in them being punished.”

  “How do you know this?”

  Jamila looked away, a tension in her body. “Sometimes women are taken to witness the punishment. A beating is the least of it. Others are crucified until they can no long draw breath. These are not idle threats being made.”

  “The man I questioned said he couldn’t run away because if he was caught he would be executed, his family also punished. Imagine what it would be like—to die knowing the same fate, or worse, awaited your loved ones. What if these people have recruited men in each town and village to keep watch? It might explain where Luis went to if he was one of them.”

  Jamila made a noise and crossed her arms beneath her breasts.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “The man I questioned told me his leader calls himself The Warrior. He said it like it was a title of some kind.”

  “I take it the man you questioned is dead, is he?”

  “No. I let him go.” Thomas looked at her. “What, do you think I would kill him in cold blood? He told me what I wanted to know and I let him go. He might be stupid enough to go back to his master, but with luck he’ll return to his family,. If what you’re telling me is true he might have a day, two at most, to find them and flee.”

  Jamila smiled. “You are not as harsh as you pretend to be, are you.”

  Thomas didn’t understand what she meant and started to descend the road again. They were near the bottom now, a level area before the land descended once more. Somewhere nearby running water sounded. To the left a high, long building ran along the far side of the level roadway, steam venting from ornately fashioned holes in the walls, some in the shape of crescent moons, others as stars and circles.

  “Is this why you brought me all this way?” Thomas said. “I know I must stink, but there are more important matters to deal with than my cleanliness.” He glanced the way they had come. “And now I have to climb all the way back up there again.”

  “It will not take you long to bathe.” Jamila smiled. “Even less time if I help.”

  Thomas laughed, the feeling of doing so strange, the emotions it raised unwelcome. “Oh, I think if you helped it might take a lot longer.”

  “But you would be clean everywhere.” Jamila faced him, her face serious. “I make no jest, Thomas. They have private chambers, and it is a long time since I pleasured a man—and I like you.”

  “You like me.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Even you must be able to tell I do.”

  “You should ask Jorge, not me, for he will almost certainly know. He is a far better lover than I could ever be.”

  “It is not the skill, but the man that is important.”

  “Not according to Jorge. And this man is saying no.”

  Jamila let out a deep sigh but didn’t seem annoyed at his refusal. “Then I might as well show you the real reason I brought you all the way down here.” She turned away.

  Thomas watched her go—her lithe body, the glint of evening light in her hair. He felt an unwelcome stirring and wondered how long he could resist her. Or even if he wanted to.

  Lubna’s memory filled his mind. His hands recalled the touch of her skin beneath them, but the memory made resistance more difficult, not less.

  He wondered what Lubna would say if she was here now. Though if she was here there would be no need for words.

  He waited a moment for her voice, but nothing came.

  Thomas felt a wave of loss crash through him. He staggered, and a groan escaped his lips. Jamila was too far away to hear and continued walking.

  “No,” Thomas said to himself.

  This time his cry was loud enough to halt Jamila. She turned and started back. Thomas held up a hand, dropping his head so he couldn’t see her anymore.

  “No,” he said again, and this time the demons invading his thoughts fled. He shook his head. “I am going mad.” The idea didn’t surprise him. The loss of Lubna had tipped him across some divide, he knew. He had come to the mountains to end his life, but something had stopped him. And now … now life was making itself known to him once more, and he was unsure whether he welcome it or not. He needed some distraction, one that didn’t involve tearing Jamila’s clothes from her body.

  “What else do you want to show me?” he said.

  Jamila smiled and turned away.

  The house sat square at the end of the street. Wide steps led from the roadway to an arched terrace.

  “It’s a fine house,” Thomas said. “But I have seen many fine houses. Why this one?”

  “The Governor lives here.”

  “You may need to explain a little more.”

  “I believe he has made a pact with the raiders. That is the reason this town is used as it is. Why the soldiers believe they can get away with whatever they like.”

  “The men I saw working fields were none of them young. The same for those going to pray.”

  Jamila turned her head, gaze sharp on him. “Jorge told me you are looking for someone. The man who killed your wife.”

  “Are you saying the man I seek lives in this house?” It half made sense to Thomas. Mandana or Guerrero. Or both.

  Jamila shook her head. “No, of course not. But I believe the man who does knows of who you seek. I believe he either works alongside him or is forced to work for him. More likely the latter. Don’t you want to capture this man and punish him?”

  “That is what I came to the mountains for, but I have lost my way since. Now … now I don’t know why I’m here anymore. Escaping, I think, but escaping what I have no idea.”

  “Except you cannot escape, can you? The one you lost will always be with you, as she should be.”

  Thomas narrowed his eyes. Jamila could have no idea of how strongly the vision of Lubna had filled him, but her words offered some small confirmation he wasn’t going mad.

  “It is too early to confront this Governor,” Thomas said. “Night will be better. Tell me more about him while we eat. I have allowed myself to grow weak. That ends today.”

  Jamila fell in close to his side as they climbed the steep roadway back to the square. Thomas tried not to show how much the climb tired him. They found Jorge standing in the square, Aban to one side, Dana on the other. There was a scowl on his face.

  “These men are inhuman. Why did you keep us waiting here?”

  “It was your choice,” Thomas said. “Besides, you are tall and look st
rong. I expect they avoided you.”

  “Not altogether. And Aban said we were to meet here then go to eat. I can’t remember the last time I ate a good meal.”

  “There is food being prepared for us now,” said Jamila. She led them back to the house they were staying in, tucked in the alleys behind the Mosque, more climbing involved. They came out into a small square. On the far side tables were set on the street, but only one of them was occupied, by a group of five men. Jamila entered the building, and after a moment Thomas followed.

  He stopped just beyond the doorway, breathing in air rich with the odour of spices he had not tasted since Jorge’s lover, Belia, and Lubna had worked their magic in the kitchen. Jamila embraced a woman a little older than herself. There was no resemblance other than the way they held themselves—confident, assured of their own power, and he wondered if it was this woman’s house they had taken over.

  After a brief conversation Jamila turned and beckoned Thomas to follow. She led the way into a small courtyard where a table had been set. Lamps swung from wooden beams stained by their smoke. A small rill flowed along one side, and the walls were tiled in Moorish style. Thomas looked around, reminded of his own house in Gharnatah.

  He was the last to sit, taking the only place left at the head of the table. Despite the Moorish surroundings two flagons of wine were set on the table, glass goblets ready to be filled. It took Jorge no time to be the first to try the wine. He smiled and nodded his approval before reaching across the table to pour for them all. Two girls appeared with trays and laid out meat, rice, sauces, flatbreads, roasted birds, even a platter of small fried fish, most likely the darting trout Thomas had seen in the tumbling streams that cut through the southern slopes of the mountains. For a moment he experienced a moment of nostalgia for the fields of England, for the clear water of the Lugge, the fish reminding him of the trout that swam there, of the bulky backs of salmon forcing their way upstream in the autumn to spawn. He had no idea where the sudden emotion came from. He missed that land not at all. His home was here now, beneath the sun of al-Andalus.

  “Tell me what you know of this Governor,” Thomas said, as he spooned a rich sauce onto his plate and dipped flatbread into it. The spice filled his mouth and rose to make his eyes water. He smiled and took more. “I take it you brought us here not just for the excellence of the food. We can talk in safety, can we?”

  “It is why we are here and not outside on the street. We will not be disturbed unless we ask for more food.” Jamila smiled. “Jorge, I think, will ask for more.”

  “Jorge always asks for more, of everything. So, tell me what you know. Does this Governor have a name? Is he a Moor, a Spaniard, a Jew?”

  “He is Moorish,” said Jamila, “though he speaks the local dialect, and has good Spanish as well. But they say the man he works for is a Spaniard.”

  “I suspect I know who that might be,” Thomas said. “The man who killed my wife. The man I intend to kill in turn.”

  A silence fell around the table.

  Thomas looked at Jorge. “You knew this already, didn’t you?”

  “Of course … but not your intention. You still plan to destroy him?”

  “And his army.”

  “Then you’ll need help, and more than just mine.”

  “Perhaps. Jamila, tell me more. This Governor is a link, the first I have discovered.” Thomas shook his head. “I had lost my way, I see that now, but I have found it again thanks to you.”

  “I will help you fight them,” said Aban, bringing a worried glance from his mother.

  Chapter Twelve

  As Thomas descended the precipitous roadway toward the bathhouse he carried a coarse sack in one hand which held clean clothes. Not new, for that would have required a wait of several days, but they were barely worn. He tried to remember the last time he had changed the clothes he wore and failed. It might have been as long ago as the day he set a torch to Lubna’s funeral pyre, and he wondered how Jorge and the others had managed to put up with him.

  “Do I smell?” he asked Jorge, who walked beside him. His clothes were clean, though old for Jorge.

  “You stink like something dead a week.”

  “I suspected so. I apologise.”

  “No need. At least you’re about to do something about it.”

  One final turn and the bathhouse lay ahead. It was early evening and the building sat in long shadows cast by the surrounding mountains. Smoke rose from a tall chimney at the rear and steam emerged from carved vents along the top of the walls. A number of men stood outside, talking the meaningless words of all men after a day’s work. Two of them looked like soldiers, standing a little apart and watching everything.

  Thomas asked for a private room, ignoring the knowing look of the owner who glanced between him and Jorge. A small pool sat in the centre of the space they were shown to, a single stone spout projecting from the wall. The boy who brought them showed Thomas how to use it, splashing water across his feet, then left.

  Jorge stripped, laying his clothes on a high shelf, then stood beneath the spout and let hot water cascade over his head. There were soaps and oils, and he lathered his hair before washing every inch of himself. Thomas removed his old clothes and piled them on the floor. When they were finished he would ask the boy to take them away and burn them. The sack containing his new purchases went on the shelf beside Jorge’s.

  He sat on a stone bench, not wanting to taint the water in the pool yet, and watched Jorge with a detached interest. He hadn’t seen the man naked in a long time and noticed he had lost weight, his muscles more delineated. His body, once scrupulously denuded of all hair, now showed dustings here and there, but not as much as a full man would.

  “Do you like what you see?” Jorge asked.

  “You’re thinner.”

  “Worry over you, no doubt.” Jorge pulled the handle and let water flow across him before stepping away. “It’s all yours. I only hope there’s enough hot water. Gods, you look terrible.”

  Thomas stood. “My thanks.” He knew he was painfully thin, his skin stained with dirt, but even worse was the weakness. He was aware age had sapped some of the strength he once possessed, but the months since Lubna died had taken a far bigger toll. Too little food, too much time sitting in a ruined hut staring at a noose hanging from a beam, whispering its insidious message of oblivion.

  Jorge slipped into the warm water of the bath and stretched his arms out. His legs half-floated so he took up almost all the space.

  “Jamila will no doubt want you to pleasure her once you no longer smell like the arse-end of a donkey.”

  “Perhaps in that case I had best not wash myself at all.”

  “Then do it for me,” said Jorge. “Please, do it for me. I would pleasure her on your behalf, but she has no interest in me. I suppose there must be a first time for all things. These are indeed strange times we are living through.”

  Thomas wetted his body then used the soap, scrubbing himself hard, over and over until his skin was raw. He sluiced then lathered again, working more soap into his hair, wondering if he needed someone to check it for lice. There would be someone in the baths to do the searching, he knew, and he should get it cut, his beard too. He sluiced again until he felt almost human, then slid into the bath on the opposite side to Jorge. They had lain together in water this way more times than he could recall, and each time Jorge would tease him, except not today. Today he was serious.

  “Are you convinced Mandana is involved in this?”

  “And his son. Perhaps his son more so than him. You heard what that man called him. The Warrior. Guerrero in Spanish.”

  “Why him?”

  “Why Guerrero and not Mandana? Because he is the younger, the stronger, perhaps even more vicious than his father.”

  “That, yes, but why are you so sure it is them? The Warrior is a good name for a leader of men to call himself. It has a strength to it. The pair of them were working for Fernando the last we knew.”


  “Perhaps they still are,” said Thomas. His body was languid, at ease, and he had trouble concentrating. He knew, soon, he would need all his wits about him. For now he drifted, almost floating in the water. “The entire area, the whole of al-Basharāt, sits in the shadow of Gharnatah, but this is not a land controlled by Muhammed. It is not controlled by anyone. Take this region and Gharnatah becomes vulnerable. Now that Malaka has fallen there is no escape to the south. Spain controls all of the north. An army here, to the east, another to the west. That is what Fernando wants.”

  Jorge shook his head, stroked his hand through the warm water. “If your theory is correct then you can’t fight an army alone. Not even you, Thomas.”

  “I wonder how many of this army consist of captured men—a quarter, a half, more than a half? Would captured men fight as hard for their captors?”

  “It might be wise to know a little more before launching a foolish attack.”

  “Yes, it might. But I can’t put from my mind that it was Guerrero killed Lubna.” Thomas sat up and leaned forward. “He hunted her down and killed her because of what I did. He blamed me for the death of his wife, even though it was entirely his own fault. He killed Lubna because I uncovered his plans to steal Malaka’s gold. Am I meant to turn my back on that like the Christian God says I should? Turn the other cheek? No.”

  “I agree, he must die. Mandana too, father and son are as bad as each other. But to kill them you have to stay alive. We need to have a better plan. Or a plan, at least.”

  “We?” Thomas said.

  “Yes, we. Did you think I would let you do this alone? Lubna was your wife, but did I not love her too?”

  Thomas sank back into the water, floating again, trying to still the harsh beating of his heart that sent tiny ripples across the surface.

  “Is Usaden still in Gharnatah?”

  “Of course. You asked him to look after your family, and he will. He is your man now. But you will need more than just Usaden, however good he is.”

  “There is none better,” Thomas said.