The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1)

by Darrell Newton

  “You dressed as a knight.”

  “It was comfortable, and the armor helps.”

  “And you let me become your squire.”

  “Ah, but you’re the one who wanted that. If you don’t want my training, I will release you from your vow.”

  “My stone,” Francisco said, “you promised if I stay close to you, I would get it back.”

  “I promised you would see it again, if you stayed with me, yes. As for getting it back, if you follow me, you’ll have better tools than that stone, and more importantly, you will become a better man.”

  Francisco had no way of knowing if he was speaking to a mad man or if these Sittiri truly did exist. All that Angelo had taught him had the ring of truth. The whole thing about him not being a knight bothered Francisco, but it didn’t make Angelo’s teaching worthless. Besides, what else would he do in this dungeon? “Very well. I’ll continue to follow you, but you want to train me down here?”

  “Not the physical training, but the book learning, yes. And we must be quiet about it. We can’t have anyone else here learning about basic chemistry or physics.”

  46 Days in Captivity

  By sunrise on the next day, Lope’s festering mouth wound had disappeared, but to Lope’s horror, his remaining teeth had fallen out. Two other captives, who were delirious with fever and cramps the night before, had also been healed. Lope cradled his teeth in his cupped hands, weeping over them.

  Angelo handed Lope the bone ball he made. “Here, Lope. Put this into your mouth and let it melt.”

  Lope, unsure at first, slipped the ball between his gums and laid his head down. Within minutes, he was asleep.

  Angelo had looked down on him and said, “It is not for vanity that he weeps. Teeth are a measure of a slave’s value. If he has bad teeth, he cannot eat, and hence, has no strength for work.”

  Francisco realized Angelo was somehow using his inner healing stone and the little bone ball to heal Lope’s teeth. Either he’s telling me the truth about the Sittiri, or he stole my healing stone. Either way, why didn’t he use it on me when I was seasick? Francisco didn’t ask the question even though Angelo continued training him in science, mathematics, and history until the day of the auction.

  Chapter 40

  Francisco

  Tangier, North Africa

  Summer, Year of our Lord 1212

  51 Days in Captivity

  ON AUCTION DAY, the slave trader removed them from the fetid cell and chained them together with five women from another matamore by pulling a chain through the last, large link of their ankle chains. After securing the other end around his waist, he drove them into the bright sunlight. Potential buyers—and perhaps only the curious—gathered around them, poking and prodding. The captives-soon-to-be-slaves stank, having no means to wash other than in the ankle-deep putrid water of their matamore. Their slave trader marched them through narrow alleys and into the open air of the main souk.

  The souk was loud, bright, and dusty with vendors selling everything from slippers to peppers, bellows to bowls. It spread out before them as a labyrinth of streets and alleys filled with modest stores separated by trades and specialties. As Francisco shuffled through the crowds, he compared this souk to the streets of Toledo. Mostly the same, except for the flies, heat, sounds, and smells—more pungent, more spice, a bite to the air that was sharp and foreign. Almost everyone wore cork-soled sandals and what Lope called a jellaba: a long, loose-fitting, hooded cloak of coarse wool. Men kept their heads covered with a simple white turban, and the women hid behind veils.

  Francisco’s ears picked up on the constant undercurrent of bartering, never dying out or rising in argument or in advertisement. In Toledo, he remembered a rhythm: the clip-clop of a passing horse, the grind of carts, and the cheer of the crowd watching a jongleur. Here, it was a steady murmur.

  The shops that Lope called medinas were large pantries opened to the street, their goods laid with meticulous care: pyramids of olives with the smallest ones on top, rows of sandals propped up in pairs like tents, baskets of nuts each filled with a different shade or color. The shopkeepers’ love for the geometric made it feel like a sin to buy something and ruin the pattern.

  Francisco’s ankle chain tugged at him awkwardly. He fell onto a laban vendor’s cart. Cultured sour milk spilled over him and onto the ground. A woman next to the vendor, dressed in a veiled jellaba, screamed something at him in Arabic or Berber and tried striking him with a cane, but the slave trader had pulled him forward. Francisco’s lips were so cracked that he suppressed his revulsion and licked up the laban remains off his arm.

  As they walked past what looked like a mosque with its minaret, he realized that the medinas were organized around the mosque: in the first row were stores carrying religious objects, followed by the carpets and textiles. Outside the medina walls were the nasty trades: the butcheries, the tanneries, and finally the slave market.

  The slave market was a large courtyard surrounded by buildings with elaborate arched porticoes covered in geometric tiles and flies in abundance. In front of them, filling up every available space, were the butcher medinas with tent-like covers to keep off the sun. On the far side was what looked like an auction block. Francisco had seen many, going with his father to the livestock auctions. It was a platform about chest high that the “livestock” could be brought in for all to see. Although the souk was crowded, a way was made for them. Once at the platform, they halted, and the slave trader walked behind the slaves. He pulled down their tunics to their waists, exposing their naked torsos for inspection—even the women.

  The potential slave buyers, the bidders of flesh, had come, poking and prodding, to examine the merchandise, starting down at the end of the line and working their way toward Francisco. Nothing distinguished the slave buyers from anyone else.

  Francisco lifted his head and inhaled deeply. The warm sun felt good on his face. Its bite helped bring him out of despair. I wish Sancho was here. I wouldn’t wish this on him, but I miss him. He’s probably better off, back in Toledo by now, giving La Grande a hard time. Francisco opened his eyes and looked at Angelo, who was standing to his right. The man didn’t fidget or sweat. He just stood there as if he were in a bread line on a calm Saturday morning.

  Francisco lowered his head and asked him as quietly as he could, “Is this part of my training?”

  Angelo likewise looked down and answered, “Sittiri endure hard times without giving in to bitterness. If you give in to bile, animus, or self-pity in any of its forms, your training is all for naught, and you must repeat the misery.”

  At the thought of misery, Francisco turned toward Lope. His bare chest showed his gaunt and wiry frame. Francisco could count his ribs. His dark gray hair hung down in greasy strings over his eyes. Most striking was his smile, which he gave to everyone. It showed a perfect set of teeth that, if Francisco were to count them—and the buyers did—he would probably find thirty-two, perhaps more than the Emir himself could boast. Francisco watched him, and suddenly his own position didn’t seem so bleak.

  The buyers were rude but not mean, until one young buyer, a bean-pole of a man with sparse whiskers for a beard, prodded Lope repeatedly with a stick. Lope endured it with his new smile. When the buyer slapped Lope, Francisco lunged at him, but the chains held Francisco back until they cut into his skin. The buyers laughed and jeered at Francisco, calling him “Kafir”—an infidel.

  Francisco flinched when someone poked a finger in his ear. The buyer who had slapped Lope grabbed Francisco by the chin, and said something like, “Futtahal!” Francisco opened his mouth and the buyer lifted Francisco’s jaw from side to side to inspect his teeth. The buyer said to another in a tone that sounded like he had found a great prize, “Dondero, tha shouldoo bey odan min a rohan.”

  As if on cue, the buyers ceased their probing at once. A hush fell upon the crowd, which parted to reveal a bull of a man, with skin darker than Francisco had ever seen or thought possible. From the bel
t that bound his sleeveless jellaba hung a scimitar. He seemed to have no neck, his bare arms were as thick as Francisco’s thighs, and in his right hand, he carried a cudgel. It was impossible to guess his age based on gray hair or wrinkles. His head was shaved, and any facial wrinkles he had were lost under a pattern of tiny scars.

  Lope cleared his throat and said just loud enough for Francisco to hear, “That would be Jabir, Ibrahim’s head guard.”

  Behind Jabir, a horse-mounted figure, slim and elegant, blotted out the sun. The figure dismounted, and as it stepped forward, showed itself to be a refined man of striking features: a trimmed, pointed beard and piercing, dark eyes under a blue turban trimmed in gold. Two curved daggers with ornately carved bone handles and black lacquered scabbards were tucked into his sash. He walked with a matching lacquered ebony cane, although he showed no sign leaning on it. In clear, precise Castilian seasoned with just enough Arabic accent as to give it flavor, he announced himself to the chattel. “I am Abu'l Fida Ibrahim ben Abdallah al-Fazari. I only purchase the best. You may refer to me with respect as Ibrahim, because I know what a burden my name is for your barbarian tongues.”

  The other buyers watched his every move with rapt attention and wide eyes. Ibrahim passed over the first slaves without a comment. All eyes followed him. He stopped and gaped when he caught sight of Lope’s grin. In Castilian, he asked, “Were you not here in the last auction?”

  Lope nodded and his smile widened. “I was here.”

  “And were your teeth here?”

  “Not these teeth.” Lope chomped his teeth twice.

  Ibrahim drew in, his eyes right under Lope’s nose. “Allah has been gracious to you.” He drew back. “Have you renounced your Christian heresy?”

  Lope stopped smiling and shook his head.

  Ibrahim considered. He said something in Arabic and then seemed to translate it into Castilian for Lope’s benefit. “If Allah bestows such a great blessing on an infidel, perhaps some of that blessing will fall upon the house that owns him.”

  He stepped over to Francisco and inspected him. Under the intensity of his glare, Francisco looked down. Ibrahim leaned forward and squeezed Francisco’s arms. He pursed his lips and nodded. He turned and announced something in Arabic to the spectators. They responded with several grunted approvals, “N'ema.”

  He held Francisco’s chin and told him, “Open. Side. Side. Up. Good.” Again, a comment to the spectators, followed by approval.

  In Castilian, he said to Francisco, “You are Castilian?”

  “Yes.”

  “You fought with King Alfonso VIII against Muhammad al-Nasir?”

  Francisco hesitated. “Yes. Well, not with King Alfonso, but with his army. He was—”

  “You know that land is ours: Al-Andalus. After you see what life is like here, living in a civilized country, you will want to give it back to us.”

  Is this the man Angelo wants to be our master? Francisco felt his blood boiling.

  Ibrahim continued, “We turned your barbaric lands into beautiful gardens and libraries that rival those in Baghdad.”

  Francisco held his tongue.

  Ibrahim leaned forward. Francisco felt his breath and glanced over at the giant called Jabir who stood within a sword’s swing. “And now,” Ibrahim continued, “the barbarians are destroying five hundred years of—”

  Francisco cut him off. “So why did your Allah let us win?”

  Jabir raised his cudgel and lunged at Francisco, but a quick gesture from Ibrahim held him back.

  Silence. No one spoke.

  Ibrahim chuckled. “Why did your gods allow us to capture you?”

  Francisco felt his face turn red, but held his tongue. He flashed between Ibrahim and Angelo.

  Ibrahim turned to his audience and said something in Arabic or another kindred tongue. They laughed. He bowed. They cheered. He stepped to Angelo and looked him over. He said, “And why would I—” Stopping in mid-sentence, he drew near, not to examine his teeth, but something else. “Your eyes. How come you by this color?” He shook his head. “Foolish question. You, like the old man with new teeth, are blessed, for your eyes have the Prophet’s color—may Allah honor him and grant him peace.” He turned to his audience and must have announced the news, because they murmured in approval. Returning to Angelo, he completed his first question, “So why would I want you?”

  Angelo bowed his head and replied in what may have been Arabic, “Yemken 'eyewn la tera kenz thet.”

  Ibrahim frowned and nodded. “A poet. You speak the Prophet’s language flawlessly—may Allah honor him and grant him peace.”

  Angelo replied something else, but it didn’t sound like Arabic to Francisco. Angelo didn’t speak in the back of his throat and didn’t use words with ‘p’ sounds. If the crowd had been attentive before, they were astonished now. Even the other vendors paused.

  Ibrahim narrowed his eyes. “Were you born here?”

  “No,” Angelo answered in Castilian, “but knowing how to express oneself is a key to good business, is it not?”

  “Indeed.” Ibrahim held his stare for a moment. “You are a mystery. Rumor has it that you are a noble, possibly worth a good ransom. Is this true?”

  “Sadly, no. My skills have given me a reputation of no account.”

  “Honest as well as learned. For I knew you were not noble. I have word from Sidi Abbad ben Ali himself. You do well in telling me the truth. Do you know your numbers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this boy your companion?” He indicated Francisco.

  “Yes.”

  “There is notoriety of owning the only captives from the recent battle. A prize in itself, is it not? One must take what little victories one can from an apparent defeat.”

  Angelo nodded.

  Ibrahim moved on to inspect the other slaves.

  As he neared the end of the line, Francisco felt a subtle shift in mood as if a cloud passed before the sun. A coldness settled on the crowd, a stiffening of posture, a shifting of glances. Then pushing through the crowd came a stocky man, ornately attired in resplendent robes. Upon his face were frozen orbs for eyes, callous and observant. His beard was oiled and curled at the edges, and it bobbed when he nodded to the crowd. Around him were three attendants: two pushing the crowd aside, and one behind, holding an umbrella over his head, twirling it to keep off the flies.

  Lope leaned over and whispered, “This is Zouhir, the one I told you about.”

  Angelo added, “Remember our plan. Consider this a test.”

  Francisco turned his head and put the little wad Angelo had prepared into his mouth. He chewed quickly, using his tongue to work the mass into his teeth. It tasted bitter, and he could already smell it.

  Zouhir spread his arms before him towards the slaves, cocked his head to one side, and said something in Arabic. A few in the crowd laughed. Angelo translated. “Is this all the barbarians have to offer us today?” The crowd started to disperse. Vendors resumed their sale chants.

  Ibrahim, finished with the last inspection, passed by Zouhir. They nodded in strained courtesy and offered terse greetings.

  Zouhir walked through his inspection quickly, not even giving Lope a glimpse. Lope stood, head bowed, unsmiling. When he stepped up to Francisco, Zouhir grunted. “Ah.” He grabbed Francisco’s forearm. Francisco flinched.

  Zouhir let out a gruff laugh. Francisco felt spittle on his face as the man’s grip shifted and tightened around his biceps. Zouhir said in broken Castilian, “Good strength in arms. Very healthy. Very good.” He released Francisco and looked him in the eye. “Your father feed you good, no?”

  “I grew up on a manor.”

  Zouhir reeled. He blinked his eyes, covered his nose and stood back. Francisco could only imagine what his teeth looked like. Zouhir uttered something that sounded like a curse and moved quickly to Angelo. One of his attendants slapped Francisco.

  As soon as Zouhir had recovered himself, he asked Angelo, “You noble, yes?”


  “No.”

  “Ah.” He laughed. “You try make fool of Zouhir, huh?” He pinched a tattered strip of Angelo’s tunic and rubbed it between his fingers. “Zouhir smarter than that. Zouhir knows his cloth.” He patted Angelo on his shoulder. “Your people want you home very, very bad, yes? Good. Good. Zouhir get you home good. Very nice. You see. Yes.”

  Zouhir moved down the slave line.

  Lope snickered at Francisco and said, “You look like I did, and I look like you did.”

  Francisco growled.

  “Forbear the hard times, boy. Good times are coming.” Lope smiled. “See? Got new chompers, I do. It’s a miracle. He looked up, closed one eye, and ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of his white teeth. “Talk funny and still feels odd, though I won’t show them to that man.” He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Zouhir is a son of Lucifer if ever there was one, cruel beyond measure.”

  “And this Ibrahim?”

  “Less cruel. It’s not often both are here on the same day, but when they are, no one can outbid them. Like I said, if you got anyone on your side in heaven, you’ll end up with Ibrahim.”

  Ibrahim, sitting high on his horse at the east end of the market, nodded at the auctioneer’s offer for Francisco. Although the languages and customs were odd, Francisco recognized the patterns of the auction and the subtle tricks bidders use: pausing before accepting a bid, seeming unconcerned about losing a bid, or being carefree with coin to demoralize the other bidder. So, it was here. No one bid except for Ibrahim and Zouhir. Everyone else watched as spectators. Ibrahim had already bought four slaves, including the smiling Lope and one young woman with a hunched back and crooked buckteeth.

  Angelo stood next in line with the other slaves to be bought. Francisco caught his eye. Angelo gave him a reassuring nod. Francisco clenched and unclenched his fists. Even in this arid, scorching land, his palms were clammy.

  Zouhir on horseback, his attendants, and the three slaves he just bought stood to the west. Zouhir hesitated. He rubbed his beard before accepting the next bid. Come on. I’m worth more than that. Francisco had to remind himself not to smile. Any remaining tar on his teeth might sour Ibrahim’s next bid. It didn’t take much self-convincing. Francisco didn’t feel like smiling. He felt like a side of beef at market. He even drew flies. Finally, Zouhir shook his head. “La, la. Alektheyr lheda aleqdarh.”