by David Capel
“I would like to meet this Safia, Lascaris. Make sure she is quite safe in your blood-stained hands. Lead her to me please.”
I muttered something about the hour being early, and my mistress not prepared for visitors, but he frowned in suspicion, so I shrugged my shoulders and bade him follow me.
On the short way back to the inn I thought desperately about how to approach our room without Erkan noticing that something was amiss. Imagine if Safia ran from the door to hold me in her arms! Or if the innkeeper accosted me in a way that made it clear that we were occupying the room together. Luckily he spoke only Syriac, and it had been a struggle to communicate with him the night before.
We approached the inn, and I stepped quickly through the arched gateway and into the stable yard beyond, hoping to gain a few paces on my unwelcome companions. I could think of nothing better than to yell at the top of my voice: “Mistress! Mistress Safia! It is Lascaris. We have visitors. The slave merchant Erkan and his men!”
It must have sounded most odd, and Erkan muttered, “you could at least knock, you oaf.” Then, to my consternation he started towards the stair leading to our door. I could just imagine the scene within – an empty wine flask next to the ruffled bed of love, with Safia no doubt drowsy and confused.
I saw a brief movement in the window, and before Erkan could mount the stairs the door opened wide, and there she stood draped from head to toe in the demure costume of the pious mahomedan lady. I saw she had used our sheets and her cloak to concoct her costume.
“Lascaris, where have you been? And why are you shouting so? Who are these people you have brought to me? We have no time for social calls. We must be on our way!”
Before Erkan could say anything I interjected,
“I’m so sorry, my lady. I was buying provisions for the journey to your cousin in Aleppo. This man is a well known slave-trafficker who sold me in Damascus. He said he wanted to check on your safety.”
“A trafficker?” she wrinkled her nose in disgust. “What would I want from him? You sir, explain yourself.” This last was to Erkan, in her haughtiest tone. My God, for a moment I loved her then – how many in her position would have acted with such aplomb? She was a slip of a girl, but had the spirit of a lion.
Erkan was nonplussed
“I… I just wanted to ensure that you were safe, Madam. The roads can be dangerous, especially travelling in small numbers. I happen to know this slave, and...”
“And what?”
“Well, in the past he was a soldier of the Roman Emperor, a dangerous man.”
“A soldier?” she interrupted, “dangerous? And I suppose that you are less dangerous. You look to me like a common bandit. I would rather be in the company of someone who was a soldier of the Roman Emperor, who may be an infidel, but at least I hope an honourable one. Now if you please we must be on our way. John, please saddle the horses and make ready. We have wasted enough time already.”
And with that she turned back into the room and slammed the door.
“What a bitch,” muttered Erkan, and I tried to suppress a smirk. I hurried past him into the stable, but he grabbed me by the shoulder as I passed him.
“So you’re going to Aleppo, are you Lascaris?” he said, his eyes searching my face.
“Yes we are.”
“Hmm, unusual for the daughter of the house to be permitted to travel with just one servant, especially a rat like you.”
“She’s very strong willed.”
“I can see that. Well, I might just have to have words with Ibn Khalid when I reach Damascus. He should take a stick to her. And you of course.”
And with that he left the courtyard with his man and left me to busy myself with the horses. I started to harness the beasts but my fingers were trembling and my mind could not focus on the intricacies of the tack. So I walked over to the main building of the inn and found one of the hands and asked him to saddle up our horses.
While there I stepped cautiously out of the front door of the building into the street and looked up and down. Sure enough I could see Erkan and his companion mounted and walking towards the southern end of town. As I watched I saw them spur their mounts into a trot and the dust rose from their hooves as they headed out on the Damascus road.
I raced back to our room and took the stairs two at a time. I pushed at the door but it was locked.
“Safia, it’s me!”
A muffled voice came from within. “Have they gone? Are we safe?”
“Yes, for the time being. Open up, we have to get going.”
I heard the sound of the catch being unfastened, and I pushed in and there she was, still covered in her cloak. I took her in my arms and she pressed herself against me.
“Safia, my darling, you were wonderful!” I lifted her and swung her round and into the room. “Thank God you told that hound where to get off!”
“I was terrified.”
“So was I. But you’re a wonder!” I kissed her on the lips. “You saved us.”
“Who on earth is he?”
“You don’t recognise him? His name is Erkan, and he’s a Turk. He was the one who captured me and sold me into slavery.”
“He’s a nasty brute.”
“You’re right there. But you did exactly the right thing when I shouted up to you.”
“I could see we were in trouble at once.”
“You did magnificently. You were quite the haughty dame. You’ll make a fearsome mistress of some household one day.”
“Yours I hope, my darling,” she said, and she pressed her body against mine. It was an intoxicating moment, the thrill of the escape from danger, and now this beauty in my arms once more. But there was no time for romance.
“We must go at once. He’s on his way to Damascus, and I have just seen him leave town. There’s a good chance he’ll meet anyone whom your father has sent to pursue us. In that case we will have the hounds of Hell upon our heels. We must make haste.”
“Of course, but I have just one question for you, John.”
“What is it?”
“How did you know about my mother’s cousin in Aleppo?”
I paused for a moment, thrown by this sudden change of tack and unsure of what to say.
“I can’t remember. I must have heard about her from your parents at some stage.”
“But she’s almost never mentioned. We barely know her and have not seen her for years. John, are you hiding something from me?” Safia’s face was full of concern and disapproval. I looked at her, flabbergasted at the unerring female nose for double-dealing.
“Don’t be absurd, of course not. What on Earth could I be hiding?”
“I don’t know. Maybe... maybe you are somehow in league with my mother. Are we really on some errand of hers to Aleppo?”
“Safia, the woman is trying to have me castrated. Of course I’m not in league with her. And we don’t have time for this. Let’s go.”
“Oh John, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to mistrust you. But promise me that you will not leave me. Will you take care of me … forever?” She clasped me once more and looked entreatingly at me, her eyes brimming with tears.
Inwardly I was screaming at the delay, but I hugged her and murmured something about eternal love. After a suitable pause I pushed her gently from me and made my excuses. “Safia, please gather together everything that we have here and come down. I will ensure the horses are ready and pack the provisions I bought. Then we must leave. Without looking her in the eye again I turned away and clattered downstairs to the stables below.
**
Within a half hour we were leaving Nabuk, once more dressed in the garb of a travelling Syrian merchant and his wife. The road curved to the North through gently rising ground, in the lee of the Lebanon mountains to the West.
We rode hard, cantering for short periods, then trotting and walking to preserve the energy of our mounts. I drove us on at a fast pace, and once again our worries crowded in upon us. I tried to anticipate the movem
ents of our pursuers. Assuming that they left Damascus at first light, they would meet Erkan and his men only twenty miles or so to the South of Nabuk. We could have as little as a half day’s march on them.
It was true that neither Erkan nor Ibn Khalid was looking for a merchant, but the disguise was designed to deflect the casual gaze of passers by, and would not hide us for long. I calculated that it was at least four days either to Aleppo or Antioch, and over that distance the chances of us staying ahead of the pack were slim. A horse cannot run forever, and Safia’s in particular was a slender animal. In every likelihood we would slowly be outpaced by the hardened men and beasts on our trail. I knew that I had to try something unexpected.
These thoughts preoccupied me, and the pace of our journey left no scope for idle conversation. But the behaviour of Safia last night and this morning had also unnerved me. Was I really to be bound to her forever? She may have loved me for weeks or months, but my choice had been made in the last two days. And it had not been made by me, but by the spite of her mother.
So we rode on largely in silence, stopping only briefly to eat and drink, and the journey gave me leave to think the situation through. Thus in the saddle I made my plans for escape.
In the afternoon we approached the town of Emesa. Safia asked if we would stay here, and I could see that she was exhausted already, but I knew that we had to press on. She accepted this grimly and suggested that we circle the walls to avoid being seen. But I had other ideas. I explained that the quickest way must be through the middle of town, staying on the main North road, and so we pulled our hoods around us to cover our faces and trotted through the gate and into Emesa.
The streets were quiet in the heat of the day, but some of the stallholders squatted in the shade of their awnings sipping water to keep cool. I looked from side to side as we crossed the town and then I saw what I wanted. I told Safia to wait, and with my head still covered dismounted and, leading my horse, walked over to the man selling weapons. From him I bought one of the short horn bows favoured by the Turks, and a flat quiver that could be worn from a belt or strapped to the saddle. After a little hesitation I also took a curved Arab dagger, with a cruel blade about the length of a hand, which I could conceal about my person.
Thus armed with the weapons of the coward and of the assassin, I remounted under Safia’s questioning gaze, and we walked on into the centre of the town. There, where the old Roman forum had stood, was a large mosque, with the streets that bent around it filled with stalls, taverns and all the busy outlets of the most crowded part of town. I dismounted again, and this time uncovered my face. I asked several of the more prominent stallholders of the way to the Hama gate, and if there was a suitable inn there for a lady and her manservant.
They looked at me and at Safia, and gabbled their advice, and after a couple more questions I was surrounded by a handful of men all giving a conflicting account of the best place to house a lady such as mine. I thanked them and brushed through them, and swept aside the urchins that had stopped to gaze at us with their doe-like eyes. These I favoured with a few coins, and when at last I remounted I could hear Safia almost spitting at me with frustration.
“What on earth were you doing?” she hissed, “telling all the town gossips where we are going?”
“What do you mean?” I replied. “These people have no idea who we really are. And I doubt Erkan and the others will stop to question them.”
“How do you know? They might do. And then they will know for sure that we have been this way.”
“I’m sure we’re far ahead of them enough for it to be of no consequence even if they do,” I replied. “But perhaps you’re right. Let us make good speed on to Hama, if you can bear the journey.”
“Of course I can,” she said curtly, and as I hoped my reckless blundering in the marketplace had renewed her appetite for flight. So we pressed on up the northward road, stopping only to rest and water our horses, and I have to admit that it was a gruelling course to run. By the end our bones ached with the constant jarring of the horses on the hot hard road, and our skin was scorched with saddle sores and the heat of the sun.
But still we trotted and walked, and even forced our beasts into the occasional canter. In this way we journeyed well into the night, and covered another thirty miles to the town of Hama, which is called Emath in Greek. Our beasts were nearly gone, and we had been lucky that neither had gone lame on the long day’s ride. Those Arab horses have remarkable stamina, and Ibn Khalid’s stable must have kept them in superb condition. In all, my reckoning was that we had covered eighty miles that day, which was remarkable considering Safia was not accustomed to more than the occasional hour in the saddle, and I had not ridden at all for many months.
I hoped that our supreme effort had bought us time ahead of the pursuit, but nonetheless we were in an agony of exhaustion when we approached Hama. The gates were shut, but there was a rude caravanserai before them that harboured latecomers and travelling merchants who did not wish to bring their trains into the narrow streets of the town. The lights of many fires still lit the place, and Bedouin squatted as they chatted and laughed over their late night arrack. The lumpen shapes of camels shifted in the shadows, and all in all it was no place for a lady.
However, no-one seemed to mark our arrival, and I found the proprietor easily enough and demanded a room on our own. He demurred, saying the place was full, but I showed him more silver than he took in a day, and he took us to the back of the main building where there was a low structure set on its own. It was used for storing all the spare and broken gear of the road: tent poles, and wheels, and tack and storage jars. The place stank of dung, and there was a goat inside that we cast out, and I lit a candle and cleared a space while Safia leant against the wall in a half dead trance.
I paid the man off there and then, saying we would leave early in the morning, and I made a makeshift bed from our cloaks and some sacks that lay in a corner. I made Safia drink a little wine and then laid her down. She fell at once into a deep sleep, and it was all I could do to stop myself from joining her.
I fetched some meal from the saddle bags and fed and watered the horses, but did not unsaddle them. Then I took the candle and searched our shed carefully. Eventually I found what I needed, a splinter of charcoal. Using a scrap of vellum that I kept with my coins, I wrote Safia a note that said:
“Go on to your cousin in Aleppo, as quick as you may. I will find you on the road, or at your cousin’s when I get there. There is something I must do to slow our pursuers. Do not delay.”
Then, taking my horse, I led it gently away from the sleeping girl and into the night.
υ
Callous, cold-hearted and risky – these are the words I myself used to describe my betrayal of Safia. And the guilt that dragged at my feet that night far more than my weariness still afflicted me days later. Yet I pondered my actions many times during the journey, and still I concluded that it was the right thing to do.
I could not have taken Safia with me further. Our chances of escaping Erkan would have been slim. There is no doubt that he would have overtaken us on the open road, and most probably also in the hills that I now sought.
I hoped that if Safia obeyed my note and pressed on towards Aleppo, then at least I might split my pursuers. Certainly some or all of Ibn Khalid’s men would be forced to escort her home, and Erkan might himself give up the chase, content that the main prize had been captured.
But even if we had both escaped together and found sanctuary in the crumbling Empire, I could see no secure future for her there. I had been forced into eloping with her by the desperate circumstances of my escape. Without her I could not have secured horses, and had I tried to make her stay in Damascus she might have betrayed me instantly.
I had stored up no font of love for her over the weeks of my captivity, and had no desire to marry her. What would she have done, even in the queen of cities, far from home, without family or friends, in a strange land with strange cus
toms? She would have become an endless burden of duty to me and mine, a haughty, bitter Helen to a loveless Paris.
If this sounds like self justification, then of course it is. I do not pretend that I did not face a moral dilemma, nor that the argument is finely balanced. But such debates need to be aired, for a decision like that taken lightly marks out the brute.
There was some risk, too, in leaving her in those insalubrious quarters to shift for herself. Yet she had enough of the spirit of her mother in her, I judged, to make her way to some sort of safety. In the end I think that is what made my decision for me – I could not look at her without thinking of Jalila, and what we did in the little house by the olive tree in Damascus.
So I walked my horse gently away, forcing my aching muscles into the night. Beyond the dim lights of the caravanserai it became pitch dark, bar the glimmer of stars above. Nonetheless it was not difficult to pick out a way through the dusty fields beyond the road, for it was a dry and open land. However I was in no hurry, having no wish to tire my horse further. All I had to do was to work my way far enough to be out of sight of the gate and town wall. So I wandered for an hour or so until I had made two or three miles in a westerly direction. Then I unsaddled my horse and lay down on the ground in the lee of some rocks, trusting the tired animal not to stray. There I slept until first light woke me once more, and I set out on the next stage of my journey in earnest.
My plan was to make for the coast and then either follow it north to Antioch, or else find a boat that would take me there. I knew that the port of Laodicea lay somewhere to the west of Hama, and this might be a suitable place to find passage. The town might even be in Roman hands. That would presumably make it harder for Erkan to follow me, though knowing of his previous Imperial service and his knowledge of Greek, I would not be entirely safe from him until I had left Syria altogether.
I had a hunch that the Turk would not be content with the rescue of Safia. He was a vindictive brute, who held it against me that I had thwarted him at the beginning of my journey through Asia, and again at the skirmish before Manzikert. So I had to assume that he would continue to pursue me, and that he had the guile to follow my westward trail.