‘She’s all right. Beaten, of course, and the tents are to be well guarded tonight. Both of them. Best not try to see your sister tonight.’ Asperto spat angrily. ‘That Vecdet, he’s a bad man.’
There was movement at the entrance to the tent. Both man and boy stiffened, waiting. It was Big Aziz, stooping his hulk, a lit torch in one hand which cast sinister shadows across his seamed and battered face.
‘So you’ve recovered. Where’s that boy? He’s wanted.’
‘Here with me.’ Asperto’s arm was clamped around the boy’s skinny shoulders. He pulled him into view.
‘And where were you?’
Niko whimpered, little animal sounds of distress, pressing closer to Asperto’s side.
‘Stop snivelling. And you, stop making a girl out of him. Answer me.’
Niko’s lower lip was thrust out and trembling. Tears were gathering in his eyes, the long lashes fluttering.
‘Please, beyefendi, I was frightened. First there was Hatice and then that boy who came… I was frightened. So I hid.’
‘You hid?’ Aziz’s eyes narrowed.
‘With the donkeys.’
‘With the donkeys!’ He was scornful, sneering. ‘A growing boy and you hid with the donkeys! That bitch Hatice has more guts than you.’
‘I’m sorry…’ the desolate little voice trailed off.
‘No wonder we couldn’t find you, hey? A donkey amongst the donkeys. And you, you useless hulk.’ He turned to Asperto. ‘You’re both needed. Outside. There’s work to be done.’
‘Now? In the dark?’ Niko quavered.
It wasn’t the usual routine. Usually, by dark, they were confined for the night.
‘Yes, in the dark, you pathetic wretch. We’re leaving at first light, after the dawn call to prayer.’
‘I thought we were staying here for a few days yet.’
‘Stop whining. First light, we leave. There’s work to do before you get any sleep or supper.’
Niko wiped a hand across his nose and snuffled loudly.
‘What about that boy who came?’
‘What about that boy who came?’ Aziz mimicked. ‘Nothing about that boy who came. There’s no time to waste on one poxy boy. Come on, move yourselves.’
He waited for them to move in front of him to the entrance. Niko braced himself for the sudden sharp cuff to the side of his head. He knew it would happen: that was Aziz’s way. One day, he’d find a way of getting his own back for all the taunts and threats and blows that came his way.
Later, much later, they were sent back to the tent. Supper was meagre: that morning’s bread but it was already hard, and rancid, crumbling goats’ cheese cut from the big goatskin-wrapped rounds. But they were hungry. They were kept hungry.
‘Short rations again,’ someone grumbled.
‘Yes,’ Asperto agreed, briefly, then that warm smile lit up his face. ‘Hunger is a treasure which is preserved with God,’ he said gravely, ‘who gives it to his special friends.’
‘I suppose that’s another of those famous quotations,’ Russian Ivan said, unimpressed. He sniffed at the cheese and pulled a face.
‘The Mevlana Jalal al Din Rumi.’ Asperto bent his head respectfully as he pronounced the name of the great Sufi mystic.
‘Well, I’d rather not be a special friend and then I’d not go hungry,’ Niko muttered. He heard the men tutting in disapproval of such ungodliness but Asperto laughed. That Niko, so young, so sharp, like bitter lemons.
Short rations or not, Niko surreptitiously slid some bread and a lump of the cheese into the folds of his tunic. He was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open but he had a promise to keep. He made himself focus on the men’s talk. There was Hatice’s latest folly to be talked over, and the useless search for the stranger, and Vecdet’s bad temper until the messenger had arrived. News of a deal to be made at the next han, they were saying, that was the reason for the sudden departure.
Niko nodded. Slaves they may be but there were ways and means of sifting out information. He thought of the youth shivering in the dripping dark cleft behind the waterfall. He would be cold and hungry and he, Niko, had promised to return. He still didn’t know what had made him risk his life like that. Something about the way horse and rider had ridden along the bluff, so innocent and so carefree. Something about the way the youth had held himself, so valiant and courageous. And the hiding place! He had determined this was how he and Agathi would escape. A lucky chance, the han being full so they were camping here instead. And finding the hidden place – that had been a chance in a million. Too good to miss. He always grabbed the chance to reconnoitre and this was a gift of a hiding place. And now what had happened? That fool Hatice had caused a riot so there was no way he could rescue Agathi tonight. And then he’d handed over the hiding place to the stranger. And now they were to leave at first light, after the call to prayer, and he’d promised the stranger he’d return tonight.
She had given him up. Of course he wouldn’t come back. How could he? Perilous, to escape like that from the guards, and in the dark such a dangerous route. And why risk it all for a stranger? Even so, she couldn’t stop herself from hoping. She was shivering violently, short hair plastered to her scalp, clothes sodden, hugging herself in a vain effort to keep warm. Time stretched out. So much empty time and darkness and wetness. So dark, she could barely see her hand in front of her face, except that the ever-falling water was translucent in the night, itself reflecting a strange light. She stared into it. The world was shrunk to this narrow cleft behind the luminous falling water, yet it felt immense and frightening and she was very small and lost and lonely and sad. Her world, the lovely safe world of the summer dwelling, was gone beyond imagining.
The waterfall drowned out all other noise so that when he did arrive it took her by surprise. She didn’t even hear the scrabbling of his feet on the rock. For long moments, she couldn’t breathe with the shock of it.
Niko swung round the edge of the not-quite-cave and stopped there, listening.
‘I’m here,’ he said into the darkness.
‘You’ve come back.’
‘I said I would.’
‘I didn’t know…’
‘I always keep my promise. I’ve brought you some bread and cheese. It’s not fit to give to a dog but there’s nothing else. One of the women caused a riot and they’ve put us all on short rations.’
He was next to her by now, a dim shape in the darkness, pushing the food into her hands. She took it gratefully.
‘Plenty to drink, anyway.’ It was a feeble joke but she heard the boy chuckle. ‘Are they still searching for me?’
‘Not now. Listen,’ he said, ‘there’s news. Seems there’s business to be had at the next han so we’re leaving early in the morning, as soon as morning prayer is done. You were lucky – a messenger arrived while they were still looking for you. The donkey was hee-hawing so much about the chance of a good sale that he gave up on you.’
‘The donkey?’
‘That fat belly, Vecdet.’
It was her turn to laugh. It suited the man. Yes, he was a donkey and he did have a fat belly.
‘You’ll have to stay here until we go. Don’t risk leaving this place. We’ll come down to get water before we leave.’
‘I’m very cold.’
‘You must be. I was freezing when I got back and you’ve been here for hours. I couldn’t get your cloak and things – Vecdet’s got them – but I’ve brought a bit of blanket. It’s hidden at the entrance to the waterfall under some rocks.’ He considered. ‘Let’s go outside for a while, get you warmer and drier. But you must be back here before dawn.’
They negotiated the slippery ledge and recovered the meagre cloth that was the blanket and sat huddled together under its rough warmth where the rocks were out of reach of the incessant spray and the dark night covered them with safety.
‘Why not go now? Why don’t you come with me?’
‘Too many guards and dogs,’ he said brie
fly. ‘And I can’t go. My sister was taken as well and I can’t leave without her.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Niko,’ he said simply. ‘They call me Niko. You?’
She hesitated. She had many names but all of them female. She did not want to lie to this brave boy who had risked all to save her. It was only fair to tell him the truth.
‘It is our custom to be named after our grandparents. I am called after my grandmother. I am Sophia.’
Silence.
‘Sophia?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your grandmother’s name?’
‘It’s one of my names. There are others.’
‘You’re a girl.’
It wasn’t a question but she answered as if it were. ‘Yes.’
Silence. She wondered what he was thinking.
‘You are as brave as any boy. As any man.’ It was generous praise. She blushed in the darkness. ‘I wish my sister was brave but she cries all the time. It’s very hard to make a plan to escape when she won’t help.’
He suddenly sounded very young, like the boy-child he was before he was captured.
‘You’re very clever,’ she said. ‘I didn’t have a plan, not really. I had to escape before my uncles came for me.’ That was last night, she realised. Only last night that she and the chestnut mare had left the summer camp and travelled through the dark land together. And because of this boy she had escaped again.
They huddled together there in the dark, exchanging stories in flat, quiet voices that wouldn’t carry in the stillness of the night; the bare details only but the young girl and the younger boy interpreted each other’s silences, unspoken truths, crippling fear, terrible sense of loss. His parents had been killed in the raid, he told her. He’d seen it, seen the sweep of sword, the spurt of blood. It still gave him bad dreams. Others had been taken from their village, all young – some younger than him – but they had been sold or given as gifts as they travelled the trade route. Now there was only Agathi and himself left from their village.
There were moments when they laughed quietly together, and sighed over their troubles, and laughed and sighed again. But empty time no longer stretched ahead of them. Soon it would be dawn.
‘You’ll maybe hear us leaving, maybe not, but wait until the sun is well risen.’
‘Will you be safe?’
‘No need to worry about me.’
‘I’ll come back for you.’
Niko shook his head. ‘Better not.’
‘I’ll come back for you,’ she said again. ‘I’ll come back for you and your sister. And I keep my promises too.’
Morning was grey and chill, sun sullen behind swirling mist. The sweet mountain summer was over. She had stayed outside until the sky lightened and she could hear in the distance sounds of men about their business in the half-light, their voices accentuated by the stillness and emptiness of this vast land. She had shed the rough blanket and carefully hid it from sight before she edged her way back to the cleft to wait. Sure enough, as Niko had said, a troupe of men and horses and mules and camels came down to the river. There must be a track, she thought; she and Niko had taken the steepest, quickest route. There was a moment of terror when one man dared to stand under the force of the water. He was naked, clothed only in the silver shafts of water. His eyes were closed and his mouth open, drinking in the gushing water. His body was brown and muscular, with pale patches where his clothes had protected him from the summer sun. His scrotum and penis dangled, flaccid and white like dead things in the cold water. After that first fleeting glimpse, she had shut her eyes and pressed tighter into the darkness of the cleft. She heard his friends call to him, laughing and jeering, and then they left. By then, she was so numbed with cold and fear that she had ceased to shiver and lay curled in a sodden heap on the rocky ground.
She waited…waited…crept out of the cleft and along the treacherous ledge to the edge of the waterfall. She listened. Nothing but the roaring of water. She went further, out into the woodland and listened again. Nothing. No voices of men; no bleating or braying or bellowing or snorting or coughing of animals. No smells of cooking only the faintly sweet-sour stink of animals. She uncovered the blanket again from its hiding place and huddled into its not-quite-dry warmth. Gradually, her shivering ceased. Soon it would be time to wade the river, climb up to the bluff, unless she found and followed the track. That was easy. She could see where the ground was churned up by trampling hooves and feet at the edge of the river, and where the track wound up through the rocks. Above her, the sky was heavy with mist creeping along the edges of the bluff. Her wet clothes clung to her skin and hung in sodden folds. Not a hope of drying them. Blue dye had seeped out, as it always did, no matter how many washings, and it tinged her skin with blue. Blue for luck, she thought. Well, she was alive and free so that was luck, wasn’t it?
And they were gone. More luck. There was barely a trace of the camp; crusted pats of shit where the animals had been; flattened spikes of grass and thyme; the burnt out ashes of a fire. But she was hungry and tired and cold and there was no chestnut mare to carry her. No bow and quiver of arrows. No warm ferace. She felt for the jade axe in its pouch round her neck, clutching it tight to her. Protection, Nene had said, and now she needed protection even more than before. She still had her dagger, concealed in her belt. But there was no satchel, no provisions, nor Nene’s precious scissors. And there was far to go before she could hope to track down the strangers’ camp. Far to go. The first rain was falling as she struck out to rejoin the road to Karaman in its shallow bowl in the great central plateau ringed by high mountains.
Ieper: spring: 1334
6
I knew you straightway my friend, though we were all but ten years distant from our last – our first – meeting. We were striplings then. I was training to be a squire. You were a skinny, mucky, stinking pot boy not fit to kiss my boots and there you were, whispering comfort in that thick, dark night of terror, telling me I was safe, telling me to sleep.
It wasn’t comfort that silenced me. I suppose you imagined it was. No, it was the shame of it, the shame. I was older than you. I was learning to be a warrior for Queen Isabella and the country that had been torn apart by that fool husband of hers. Then that day of terror that made me sick to my stomach. You weren’t there to see it. How could you know? My father made me stand close to watch the execution of the King’s Favourite. Who was fool and who was king? Despenser was a ruthless, cruel man and now he was caught, imprisoned. How we hated him. They said he’d tried to starve to death to save himself from grisly execution and he looked like a skeleton, like a death’s head. He was stripped of his clothing and set up backwards on a horse and whipped through the streets and everywhere strident pipes and trumpets and the howls of a mob rabid with hate. He deserved all that. Yes, that was deserved. But then they cut him, they scratched holy words into his sinful flesh. Somebody crushed a crown of nettles down over his head. And he was screaming and howling, screaming and howling.
And after that. After that. He was raised high, high on the highest gallows I’ve ever seen. So high my head was dizzied. And after that. After that. Taken down and then oh then the digging into a man’s vitals and the drawing out of his innermost parts, yards and yards of gut and the burning of them in front of his eyes and him still living and screaming screaming screaming. Horrid sounds. Horrid sounds that no man should ever make. And his man’s parts sliced off and burnt before his eyes and the crowd screaming with merriment and the man’s ghastly howling echoing in my head. I couldn’t get it out of my head. And the woman, his wife, his queen, the harlot with the man Mortimer at her side… How could she sit there watching and feasting and celebrating? It seemed to me she was supping his very innards, gloating over the bloodiness, slurping content. ‘She-wolf.’ That’s what they called her, but spoken quiet, never loud for fear of her. Ravenous and dangerous ‘She-wolf’.
And then you, unwashed pot-boy in a place where you had no business to
be, wanting to bring me comfort. What comfort did you bring me? I was a laughing stock, a joke, the coward son of a knight-at-arms. I had disgraced my father and my name. I was outcast. Dishonour was hung around my neck and my father sent me from his sight. Oh yes, I was found a place at a convenient distance with a friend of my father’s where I could learn the art of knighthood but they all knew and made mock of me behind my back. My father grieved at my disgrace. I was – always had been – the son who fainted at the sight of blood; the son who trembled to spear a wild pig; the son who screamed frantic fear in the night. Unbearable dishonour. And so I crept away, leaving at night, like a thief stealing away, like a leper, an untouchable. I crept away and found my own fortune.
And then we meet all but ten years later. But you do not recognise me.
Anatolia: late summer 1336
7
D…dronken, dronken,
Dronken, dronken, ydronken;
Dronken is Tabart,
Dronken is Tabart ate wyne,
Hay!
(Anon, 14thC)
The call to prayer, early dawn like any other, woke him from fitful sleep. A dull day of mist and rain and the threat of more to come; not promising and time they were on the long journey to the coast. Could be it was fairer ahead, in the great bowl of the plateau where rainfall was scant. Edgar said he was well enough to travel, if they took it in easy stages, so all seemed set fair.
Well now, that wasn’t to be. For one thing, the camels were fractious. They were the one-humped type, a sturdy breed. Not up to carrying as much as the two-hump but the goods they were taking back to Venezia were not weighty and the one-humps were good in this big country so that’s what they’d settled on and not regretted it. Trouble was, they were nervy beasts, difficult to handle, and this misty morning they were not cooperative. ‘Got the hump,’ he said, and Rémi grinned at the silly joke. The thread-like scars above his mouth stretched white, a permanent reminder of what had been. How he loved this gallant child, Dai thought, and ruffled the boy’s dark straight hair; his constant shadow since he’d found him begging for morsels of food on the streets of Ieper – how long ago, now? Six years? No one should ever go hungry. Always cheerful, he was never a moment’s bother, not like some he could name.
The Storyteller's Granddaughter Page 6