The Last Emir

by S. J. A. Turney

  The Lion frowned and barked something in Arabic. Arnau could quite imagine what he was saying: upbraiding his man for doing too much damage. As Arnau began to recover, his breathing returning to normal, the second blow landed. Once more the pain was excruciating, but he suspected it had been delivered to leave a red stripe rather than tear into skin.

  ‘We have such an array of torments,’ the Lion said now. ‘In the catalogue of man’s history, he has devised ever more means of causing pain, and now we have them all upon which to draw. Rest assured that we have only just begun to explore the many methods of loosening your tongue.’

  Arnau was breathing sharply again now, still biting his lip. The second blow might not have drawn blood, but his teeth certainly had. He was now horribly aware of how easily he was going to break. That last blow had almost been enough to make him talk, and he had no doubt that the Lion had much worse yet in store.

  ‘Your name.’

  ‘Lord, reprove thou not me in thy strong vengeance; neither chastise thou me in thine ire.’

  In a flurry of the worst pain Arnau had ever experienced, he was suddenly jerked from the floor once more, his arms screaming in agony, and he was just clenching his jaw to prevent himself crying out anything that might stop this when the next stripe was torn across his posterior with the switch, making him spin sickeningly, drawing ever more pain from both shoulders and wrists.

  ‘Vallbona,’ he cried out suddenly. ‘Arnau de Vallbona!’

  As he landed in a heap, sobbing, he felt utterly wretched. He’d not meant to say it. It had somehow slipped out against his will. He had been broken. It had been less than ten minutes since he’d been unconscious, and already he had talked. And the Lion had only just begun.

  He sat on the floor, whimpering, as the Almohad lord sat back once more, arms folded. ‘That is much better. And I’m sure we can do even better than that. Your name is interesting, Vallbona, but of little use to me in the long run without more detail. Are you now willing to see reason and simply answer my questions without the need to resort to such inhuman measures?’

  It took a good minute for Arnau to recover enough to speak, and when he did he could feel the blood from his bitten lip dribbling down his chin.

  ‘Go… fuck yourself.’

  The Lion of Alarcos simply sighed. ‘Very well, Arnau de Vallbona. We shall work to draw more from you. Now that I have your name, I would know who you are. You claim, I believe, to be some sort of itinerant preacher, though even the most gullible fool would not credit such a fiction. I wish to know what you are. A knight perhaps, but in whose service? If you are the king’s man, then why are you not with the embassy, but rather exploring the island as a pair? And if you are not the king’s man, then how come you to know the young knight in the embassy so well? So tell me, as succinctly as you can, who you truly are, Arnau de Vallbona.’

  Something was suddenly looped around Arnau’s throat and he felt it snap tight against the skin and begin to pull ever more taut. Panic gripped him, making his body shake, his eyes bulge, his mouth dry out. He gasped and realised that he couldn’t draw in air. His windpipe was closed.

  Insanity! How was he expected to talk if he could not breathe?

  As if reading his thoughts, the Lion of Alarcos leaned forward, his face expressionless.

  ‘A strong and composed man can hold his breath for a minute or so,’ he said knowledgably. ‘A weak man, or a panicked man such as yourself, is likely to fail at perhaps half a minute. But rest assured that you can survive at least a minute longer than you would manage voluntarily before you suffer any ill effects. This is how my method will work: we will loosen the cord after one minute. You will then have only the blink of an eye to decide upon your next course of action. If you immediately answer my question, you will be allowed respite. If you do not immediately do so, you will be allowed three breaths and then we shall repeat the procedure for a further minute. In my experience a man will usually speak immediately whether they intend to or not, for the body sometimes overrides the mind at such times. If you are exceptionally strong you might manage another minute, but I guarantee you that you will then talk. So spare yourself that discomfort and capitulate now.’

  Arnau realised that the Lion was now counting down on his fingers.

  Three…

  Two…

  One…

  The cord loosened and Arnau choked in a breath, coughed one out, choked another back in, gagged a little, and then threw a defiant look at the man before him.

  ‘A Templar?’ snarled the Almohad, and Arnau blinked. He’d not said anything! He’d done nothing but draw breath. But as he stared in shock, he suddenly felt certain that he’d choked that very word out even with his first exhalation. How weak was he proving?

  ‘A knight of the Temple,’ the Lion said again. ‘How it must gall you to know that your Temple church in Jerusalem is now once more a house of the Faithful, its crosses torn down and the miḥrāb returned, showing the way to Mecca. So you are one of their knights. And if you are, and you travel with the Qātil wariʻa, then clearly he is also one of your order now. Fascinating how the butcher no longer delivers halal, but wields the same cleaver regardless, eh? He has spent his time hiding in your mysterious monasteries, and now he travels with you. You Christian knights, you have servants… squires, I seem to remember. So you are surely his squire. Fascinating. Already I have so much upon which to build.’

  Arnau sagged, breathing heavily, tears streaming down his face. He had been tested, and had been found wanting at the earliest of stages. He had never felt so wretched. The cord was no longer around his neck and he felt no pressure on the rope. He was in a heap on the floor, his nethers exposed, stinging pain still across his backside, thumping aches in his arms and shoulders, throat sore as though he had swallowed a misericorde dagger.

  ‘You also have much to think upon, Arnau de Vallbona, knight of the Temple. I shall leave you for the time being, and will return when you have recovered sufficiently to begin afresh with my next set of questions. I trust that when I return you will have reflected upon what has happened thus far and will simply co-operate without the need for such unpleasantness.’

  As the Lion rose, Arnau’s eyes upon him, the unseen figure moved around from behind him, clothed in black and white, and began to snuff out the lamps. When only one was left, the Almohad lord stepped towards it and indicated what could be seen by its glow. Arnau felt his stomach churn at the sight of a brazier filled with dark coal and a table full of things that gleamed gold in the lamplight.

  ‘We are only at the beginning. Pain can always get worse. Think on your future and how much you value your pride,’ the Lion said, then turned and left the room. After him, the guard snuffed out the last lamp and then exited, closing the door and shutting out the last of the light, plunging him once more into darkness.

  The room – a cellar or something like – was cold and dark and damp, but none of that got through to Arnau, who burned with fury and shame. He lay for some time in the damp, the discomfort of the hard floor nothing after the agony of the Almohad’s torture.

  What could he do? He had to somehow fight back. Balthesar would not come for him; he couldn’t. The old knight would now have finished in the records office, and he would know that something was wrong. He would know that Arnau was no longer with him and would surmise that he had been captured, but with the emir absent and the Lion of Alarcos in control of Madina, the old knight could hardly search the palace for him. In fact, Balthesar would be best served getting away from the Al-Mudaina as fast as he could and going into hiding. He hated the thought, even as he acknowledged that it was the best option and that Balthesar would be mad to try anything else.

  He was on his own, and that was that. His chances of escape were miniscule. He was locked in a cellar, with only one barred door and no window. There was probably a guard outside the door, too. And even if he could somehow get out, he was in an unfamiliar palace full of enemies. He would never escape
it. All that remained, then, was to fight back. He spent some time struggling to free his hands, but whoever had tied the bonds had been thorough. His hands were too tightly secured and in such a position as to make struggle painful and futile.

  His legs were free.

  With pain and difficulty he rose to his feet. His movement was hampered by the braies around his knees, but he could walk with difficulty. He began to move carefully in the darkness but was soon jerked to a halt. The rope was tied somewhere, restricting his movement. Over half an hour’s trial and painful error, he discovered that his captors had been equally thorough there. Despite being free to stand and walk he could not reach the brazier, the desk with the metal implements, the door, or wherever the rope was fastened. In fact all he could do was walk within a small, empty circle.

  Hopefully, when they began the torture again they would do so with the lifting from the floor. He resolved that when they next did that, he would bite down on the pain and use the swing of his legs to kick either the lord or his man who held the rope. One way or another he would fight them however he could. And when he ran out of strength to fight or ways to do so, he would do the only thing left: he would dash out his own brains on the stone-flagged floor.

  He had no idea how long he lay on the ground before blackness claimed him once more, and no idea how long he then slept despite the discomfort. All he knew was the cold dread that filled him from nave to chaps when he was roused from slumber by the sound of approaching footsteps out in the corridor. He was on his knees by the time the keys jingled and the door groaned open. A single figure stood outlined against the glow, and this time there were no guards with him. Arnau wondered for dreadful moments what the Lion now had planned, before the figure moved into the room and lit one lamp only, close to the door, carrying it with him.

  It was with some surprise that Arnau realised it was not the Almohad lord. In fact, the man was naggingly familiar, though it took some time for him to place the features. Finally he remembered seeing this wise-looking old Moor standing close to the emir on several occasions. The wazir: the man who served the emir and who now nominally ruled in Mayūrqa, held in check by his new Almohad master.

  Hope flooded into Arnau, and his fresh optimism seemed borne out as the old man swept up a blade with a serrated edge from the table and said ‘Hold up your hands,’ in good Spanish. When Arnau did so, the man gave several expert cuts, then stood back.

  ‘This has to appear to be your own work. I will not suffer at the hands of Abd al-Azīz for you. I have weakened the bonds, but you must use your strength to break them, so that it is not clearly the work of a second man. Do so now.’

  Arnau strained for some time, and was beginning to think it impossible when suddenly they gave with a tearing noise and his arms came free.

  ‘Why?’ was all he could find to say.

  ‘Abd al-Azīz already considers himself the wāli of an Almohad Mayūrqa. Not all of our people are so blinkered as to want to fall in line with a callous and dangerous master such as they. The emir must return and retake his land before it is too late. Somehow he trusts you and your companion. He believes you are men of power and influence. You may be able to help. I will get you out of the Al-Mudaina, and then you will find the emir and bring him back with his army to oust the Almohads. You will do this because I have saved you, and you will do it because you know it to be the right thing to do.’

  Arnau nodded as he pulled up and tied his braies, wincing and hissing at the pain in his arms and shoulders and the fiery stripes across his buttocks.

  ‘The emir is a good man,’ he said through a sore and scratchy throat. ‘If I could bring all the might of Aragon to bear for him, I would, but I will certainly do what I can.’

  The old Moor nodded his understanding. ‘When you emerge from the Al-Mudaina, you must move swiftly away from the city centre. Go past the port and find the westernmost gate from there. Beside the gate is a stable where you will find a horse waiting for you, held under the name Abu Mansur. Leave the city and ride for the emir’s estate in the hills at Al-Fabia. All my hopes for the future of the taifa will go with you. I will leave first, and I will loosen the lock on the door. Wait five minutes and then hit the door with all your strength and the lock should give. But before I go, listen carefully, for this is how you will find your way out of the palace…’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Wednesday, 9 June 1199

  6 p.m.

  After the requisite five minutes Arnau braced himself, took a deep breath and ran at the cellar door, left shoulder to the fore. He hit it hard and bounced off, cursing sullenly. The pain in his shoulders from being dangled on the rope was still raw and unpleasant, despite the sleep he’d managed since, and the jarring thud of hitting the heavy and immobile door brought it all back and then some. Pausing and breathing, recovering slightly from the blow, Arnau braced himself, gritting his teeth. The cellar door was strong and still fastened, and even if the wazir had sabotaged the lock to give him a chance, it was still heavy and his shoulders still weak and damaged.

  He hit the timber at a run again, and this time there was a sharp cracking noise. Pain rolled through his shoulder once more, and tears streamed down his face, but the knowledge that something at least had given brought fresh hope and determination, and he retreated across the room, panting, and prepared once more. The third time he barrelled into the door it flew open with a crack and banged against the corridor wall outside.

  Despite having been partially rescued, he still half expected to see a troop of Almohad soldiers awaiting him in the corridor. If they had been there he’d not have seen them anyway, for the corridor was as dark as the room had been.

  Shoulders throbbing, he began to set off, but then stopped and turned, identifying the faint change in the gloom that showed where the doorway was. He made his way back through it and felt his way along the wall. As he’d anticipated he quickly came across the table that sat below the lamp shelf. Briefly, he contemplated taking the lamp, but there did not seem to be any method of lighting it on the shelf, so he passed on that idea and instead returned to his original plan. His fingers danced lightly and carefully across the table, feeling the shapes. He shunned the hooks and the heavy, serrated saw blades, and settled on a narrow-bladed knife that had a long, tapering blade, sharp as anything he’d ever come across, which made him grateful that his questing fingers had been so careful.

  Further across the table, he found three hammers of different sizes and selected the middle one, a hefty wooden affair with a solid grip. Armed with blade and mallet, he turned and left the cellar.

  He moved carefully along the corridor, pacing steadily on the balls of his feet, aware of every shuffle and creak. The silence was oppressive and he wondered how half the world had not been attracted by the sound of the breaking door. It was only when he came to the first junction that he realised he had been concentrating so much on getting through the door and collecting weapons that he’d stopped repeating the mantra of the old man’s directions and had consequently forgotten more than half of them. He cursed silently. Left. He was sure it was left. Though the more he thought about it and attempted to recall the directions the more he began to worry that he’d got it wrong.

  No second guessing. He would have to rely on instinct. He turned left. He made it perhaps twelve paces along the passage before he changed his mind, returned to the junction and turned right instead. This corridor quickly jogged left and he followed it a short distance, anxiously, when suddenly he turned another corner and the air in the darkness changed. There was the distinctive feel of clammy warmth ahead and a faint smell of wood smoke.

  Good. He had clearly chosen correctly in the end. That smell and sensation grew as he moved down the passage, and he was surprised how quickly the smoke thickened and the heat rose. He was close. Another corner, and he could now see a faint golden glow. He approached the turn carefully, and became aware of a growing rumble, too. Peeking around the corner he found the next st
retch of passage to be empty, but the light was much brighter, forcing him to narrow his eyes to slits. Equally the smoke was now more visible, and the heat was becoming more and more intense.

  He moved at a measured pace now, worrying over the time he was taking even as he slowed. Sooner or later the Lion of Alarcos would visit his prisoner once more and would discover he had gone. Arnau was under no illusion what would follow. The palace would be turned upside down and inside out looking for him, and he needed to be outside and running through the city by then, but equally he could hardly rush now, for he could so easily stumble blindly into disaster.

  It seemed to take an age to reach the next corner and as he did so he prepared himself, for as well as an increase in all sensations, another thread had joined the subterranean tapestry: a voice. It was low and seemed to be singing a repetitive refrain in Arabic. Perhaps it was a prayer, or possibly simply a song. Whatever it was, it betrayed the presence of another human being, and Arnau would have to deal with him.

  His fingers tightened on the mallet and the knife. The wazir, in giving his directions, had extracted from Arnau the promise that he would spare whatever lives he could in his flight. The vast majority of folk in the Al-Mudaina, he was reminded, were ordinary, innocent people who had no more love for the Almohad visitors than he. That was both true and fair. The words of Balthesar in Arnau’s earliest days with the order came flooding back:

  We protect the innocent and the God-fearing from the wicked, Brother Arnau. We live in turbulent times, but the order is not about the Christian and the Moor. Or the Jew. It is simply about the good and the wicked. It does not do to see the world in such a basic manner as good Christians and bad everyone else. Sometimes, Vallbona, the wicked wear a cross. Sometimes the innocent do not.

  Quite. And nothing had brought that to the fore as much as witnessing the difference between the tolerant world of the Mayūrqan emir and the violent zealotry of the Almohad lord.