The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1)

by Darrell Newton

  The auctioneer mumbled a few words to Ibrahim, Ibrahim nodded, and the auctioneer’s aide drove Francisco from the platform with a stinging whack on Francisco’s back. The aid led him over to Ibrahim’s group with Francisco’s ankle chain clanking behind him. Ibrahim gave him no notice, but Lope grinned widely. “Good, good,” he whispered. “But I doubt Ibrahim has enough money left to buy Angelo. It’s a shame, verily, to be separated from a friend. Happens all the time. But you got me now.”

  The bidding for Angelo had begun in earnest, and already the price was up to Francisco’s final bid: areb'ewen, which he thought might be forty. Ibrahim and Zouhir were naming prices faster than the auctioneer could call them. When the auctioneer’s aide whacked Angelo with a stick to get him to turn around for all to see, Zouhir stopped bidding and yelled something at the auctioneer. He sounded upset.

  Francisco nudged Lope and asked as quietly as he could, “What did he say?”

  Lope translated and continued translating the rest of Angelo’s sale. “He said, ‘Do you always treat foreign nobility with such contempt?’”

  The auctioneer replied, “We have no record of his nobility.”

  Zouhir looked around at the crowd, a little dumbfounded. He bent down to listen to one of his attendants. He sat bolt upright and challenged the seller, gesticulating with his index finger at every word, “This infidel has been found to be a liar. He was cast out from the court of the governor of Almodovar.” He addressed Ibrahim directly, “Abu'l Fida Ibrahim ben Abdallah al-Fazari, only a merchant as skilled as yourself could take such a great prize from my fingers.” Zouhir bowed to Ibrahim with a flourish. “You may have him at your last bid with my blessings. I am finished with this market.” He led his attendants and three slaves in a slow precession before the stage in front of Ibrahim. With a sneer, he noted each of Ibrahim’s new slaves.

  Lope smiled at him with his 32 teeth.

  Zouhir’s sneer disappeared, and his eyes bulged. He muttered something that sounded like a curse.

  When Angelo joined them, Francisco asked, “Is this how you recruit? It’s a wonder the world isn’t beating down your door to join you Sittiri.”

  The slave trader and a young boy in a soiled jellaba approached them. The boy got down and unshackled their leg irons while the trader watched. He stood arms akimbo and chewed on a short stick, smiling at them.

  Made enough on us today, you pig? In Francisco’s mind, slave traders, auctioneers, and buyers of flesh were now worthy of the lowest hell. As Francisco started to savor the antipathy, he remembered Angelo’s words: Sittiri endure hard times without giving into bitterness. Francisco forced himself to relax by rehearsing the breathing exercises Angelo taught him. Feeling better, he looked at Angelo and said, “Well, at least we’re free of chains.”

  The slave trader took his chains and walked away with the boy.

  Jabir stepped forward. He held out his hand. In it were five more leg chains. “I am Jabir,” he said. “My word is law. Put these on, carry one of those sacks, and follow the camels. We march to Fez.”

  Chapter 41

  Francisco

  Fez, North Africa

  Summer, Year of our Lord 1212

  62 Days in Captivity

  THE ELEVEN-DAY TREK on road from Tangier to Fez with its rock-scattered desert, bitterly frigid nights, and sweltering days made the walls and minarets of Fez look like heaven. The weight of the sack Francisco carried, which felt light when he first heaved it onto his shoulder at the slave market, had rubbed a bright red abrasion on his neck into bleeding sores. He cursed the day he lost the stone, but forbore the pain as a penance for losing the relic.

  Bringing his latest catch through the cluttered souk just before sundown, Ibrahim proudly displayed the slaves but didn’t stop until his caravan had passed through the city and was within the iron gates of his own estate.

  Behind a walled-in complex of buildings, the sprawling plantation with its neatly trimmed orchards of date palm and olive trees and orange groves appeared as a splash of green on the desolate horizon. Men harvested dates at the tops of palm trees as tall as a church bell-tower. Each one stood with his feet against the trunk and leaned on a rope at the small of his back that was wrapped around the tree. Francisco shuttered to think that one slip of that rope or their feet and they would fall to their deaths … all for a few dates. They wouldn’t catch him doing that.

  Jabir marched the new slaves, still in chains, through the gates, past the palace-like residence, and to the slave pens in back, where some sixty other slaves sat on the dusty, hard ground waiting. They were mostly men from the north with haggard faces. There, next to a low building unfit for livestock, Jabir ordered a halt. He sent the buck-toothed female slave into the house.

  In front of other slaves, Jabir gave the newcomers buckets of water and ordered them to strip naked and wash themselves. A tall, thin, dark-skinned African approached them with a long knife. Not sure what to expect, Francisco tried to grab the knife, but Jabir hit Francisco hard enough behind the ear to send him sprawling. After he recovered, he saw that the tall man was shaving Lope’s hair. A moment later, Lope stood bald and sweating in the sun. As the barber cut Francisco’s hair, the other slaves looked on without speaking. Jabir handed them new jellabas and rolled straw mats but would not allow them to sit.

  After almost an hour, Ibrahim joined them. With his hands behind his back, he spoke with the ease and slight boredom of practiced repetition. “You will be in the slave house or under Jabir’s watch in the fields at all times. After each prayer call, we will count you. If you are not there, we will consider you to have escaped. I am a fair owner and will give you of my own table, but if you break any of my rules, you will be severely punished. If you break Allah’s rules, you will suffer under his punishment. If you lie, you will be flogged. If you steal, you will lose a hand. If you try to escape, you will lose your head.” He raised a finger. “But if you renounce your infidel ways and become a Muslim, I will give you your freedom. I am a reasonable man. Allah be merciful upon you all.” He turned and walked back into his residence.

  Jabir stepped forward and said, “I am Jabir. My word is law.” It must have been a cue, because as soon as he said it, the slaves behind Francisco jumped up and jostled for position in line behind a large rock. Three slaves carrying baskets walked up to the line and started handing out little loaves of black bread about the size of a man’s fist. When Francisco received his, he bit into it and discovered it was burnt on the outside but uncooked and pasty inside. He reeled at the odor. The memory of cleaning out a grain bin back in Las Largas struck him. The corner where the rain leaked in had turned the grain into a rank, moldy mess. They baked this with rancid grain. Why did Angelo want this? It makes no sense. The Sittiri must have a better way of training. Our fortunes must change. We are no longer men; we are cattle. Ibrahim, Jabir, the slave traders, and everyone else in this foul flesh-peddling business is worthy of the worst hell. Francisco added them to his list of bad men not worthy of being healed by the stone. He started to think not only about how to escape, but about how to take revenge. He imagined the slave owners torn to pieces by dogs as he watched with his stone in hand, but not lending aid or a healing touch. Francisco had a superb imagination.

  Jabir herded them inside the slave pen with his cudgel. Lope hesitated before passing through the dark door. Rekindled on his face with twitching lips and stiff jaw was his fear of the deep matamore, his home for months while he waited for a buyer.

  Whack! Jabir hit him in the back of his head, sending him sprawling to the ground. Francisco helped the old man to his feet and escorted him into the pen. The door was low and he had to bend down or knock his head. The rank air from inside stung his eyes even before he crossed the threshold. Dark except for torchlight, the pen had only one door and thin slits for windows. Within the circle of torchlight, Francisco saw slaves lay out their straw bedrolls in three long rows. Chains were piled in heaps near the wall. The floor was hard-pack
ed dirt and seemed to move. Cockroaches. Francisco helped Lope forward, trying not to step on the bugs. I miss the clean floors and fine linen of Almodovar Castle. I miss Sancho.

  Francisco looked up and caught Angelo watching him, and he raised his hand. “I know. I know,” he said. “Sittiri endure hard times, blah, blah, blah, but how can you train me if I’m forced to work in the field ‘til I drop.”

  “It is in the cauldron of travail that one forges the balance between valor and charity. If you focus only on yourself and your life’s problems, then we could be here for years. If you keep your eyes on the task and your heart from fear, it may take only weeks. Remember, you are not alone. Watch me and follow my lead.” Angelo stepped over to Lope and rubbed the back of Lope’s head. “He hit you here?”

  “Ow. Yes.” Lope took in a deep breath and his eyes cleared.

  “There,” Angelo said. “Take your mat and find a spot to lie down.”

  Lope smiled and found a spot in the second row.

  Did Angelo just heal him again? Francisco tapped Angelo on the shoulder and said, “I think I might be getting a blister on this foot. Right there. See it? The light is bad, but—”

  “In truth, some wounds heal better when left alone.”

  “In truth, I have a hard time believing you’re one of those so-called Sittiri.”

  “How else did I heal Lope?”

  “Prayer?”

  “Possibly.”

  “You have my healing stone.”

  “I did not use your healing stone.”

  “How do I know?”

  “I was stripped naked. Did you see it?”

  “You could have swallowed it.”

  Angelo laughed. “It’s too big. I would have choked.”

  “Don’t jest.”

  “Attempted suicide by fieldstone.” Angelo laughed harder. “I wonder if it would have forced its way out—nanites pushing it up.”

  “You mock me.”

  “Not you. I’m mocking the stone.”

  Francisco couldn’t help but smile. “I know you didn’t use it. You didn’t say the Hebrew verse.”

  “Hebrew verse?”

  “Yes, you know.” Francisco lowered his voice and recited it, “Bekori aneini Elohei Tziddki batzar hirchavta li choneini u’shema tefillati.”

  “Curious,” Angelo said rubbing his chin. “Saying the verse is not necessary. It took you nine seconds to say it, which happens to be the time required for initial reaction.” He smiled at Francisco’s astonishment. “Don’t misunderstand me. It’s a good verse, but not needed.”

  “What a fool I am.”

  Angelo placed a hand on Francisco’s shoulder. “Don’t let it trouble you. Your faith was not in vain.”

  “I thought it started the healing.”

  “No need to. The stone is always healing unless it runs out of fuel. It could be switched into diagnostic mode where it gives a diagnosis first and waits for a command before it applies a remedy, but you don’t want that in a fieldstone. It’s a first aid device.”

  “A what?”

  “Fieldstones are used in battle just in case the internals fail.”

  “Battle? You mean people fight with them.”

  “That’s what they’re designed for.”

  “I am a fool. My father told me to do no harm lest you break the charm.”

  “A good man, your father.”

  “Yes. His dying words were, ‘Don’t cry for me, Francisco. I go to a better place. Without death, there is no heaven.’”

  “It still weighs heavily on you.”

  Francisco nodded.

  Angelo said, “The curse of sin was death. But even God’s curses are ultimately good. Through betrayal, this world was ruined. We are only chained to it for a short time for service and training. A better life was planned; a better life awaits.” Angelo regarded him. “You still want training?”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Master, is it? Very well. We resume in the morning if Ibrahim allows it. The sooner we train, the sooner we can leave. Until then, see if you can still show compassion without the stone. That is the heart of a true healer.”

  The heart of a healer. Francisco looked around the dark room. Most of the men were already sitting on or lying down on their mats. In the corner near the door sat a young man, a lost soul who nibbled on his barley bread alone with furtive glances. Francisco walked up and sat down next to him. As soon as he did, Francisco realized how large this lonely slave was. He had thick, strong arms and a barrel chest. He must have fetched a high price at the market.

  “Do you speak Castilian?” Francisco asked.

  “Yes,” he answered with a thick French accent. “My name is Sébastien.”

  “I am Francisco.” They shook hands.

  Sébastien’s short hair moved. It wasn’t the wind; the air was stagnant. His hair moved on its own. Francisco blinked. Sébastien’s short hair was crawling with lice, something he would have seen in only the worst street vagabonds in Toledo. He should ask the barber to cut his hair again. “You bring meat?” Sébastien asked. “Only two weeks I have been here, but I miss meat already.”

  “No meat.”

  “That is too bad. If you had some … eh, how do you say, some gristle, we could make gruel together, no?” For being such a massive ox, it was odd how soft-spoken Sébastien was with his soft French sounds and gurgling r’s and z’s. Soft spoken but tough. I wager he could take Jabir in a fight. I’d like to see that.

  Francisco examined his insufficient barley loaf. “What’s for breakfast?”

  “Breakfast?”

  “The morning meal. You don’t get breakfast? How about lunch?”

  “You hold it in your hand, my friend. See?”

  “We get the same thing?”

  “No,” Sébastien said. “This is your daily ration. Lose not a crumb.”

  “This training gets better by the hour,” Francisco mumbled. He forced himself to finish eating the mini-loaf.

  “No matter how bad it gets here,” Sébastien said, “I cannot help but think of my mother.”

  “You miss her?”

  “But of course. It is the misery of guilt that haunts me. There is no one left to care for her. My father, God rest his soul, died in the fields last year. I cannot help but think that I should be there for her. She has bad, eh, bad humors and cannot get around well.”

  As if the winds of change brought in a violent storm, the mood in the slave pen tensed. Jabir, the barber, and another tall, black guard they called Kaid entered the short door. Sébastien grabbed Francisco’s arm and led him over to a row of mats. “Here. Put yours next to mine.” Francisco did and signaled for Angelo to join them. The slaves hurried to lie down, apparently in fear of Jabir’s cudgel. Francisco sat between Sébastien and Angelo with Lope on Angelo’s other side. The guards watched as the slaves pulled the long chains down the rows. Each row had a chain, and the slaves threaded it through the large round link at the end of their ankle chains and then helped pull it through for the next slave. Francisco thought about skipping his own chain and making it look like he had threaded it through. He looked up and caught Jabir staring at him. Francisco threaded the chain through without deception. The barber and Kaid locked the ends of the long chains to steel balls. After the guards extinguished the last torch and left, Francisco leaned forward and tested his shackle and chain.

  Sébastien leaned forward and whispered, “They will not be taken off until the morrow. I hope you are not given to turning in your sleep.”

  “Blankets?” Francisco whispered.

  Sébastien grabbed the collar of his jellaba and shook it. “You are wearing it.”

  The man on the other side of Sébastien wept and whimpered in Portuguese, “God in heaven, end this now. I am in a pitiable state without hope of redemption.”

  Francisco nodded towards the man and asked Sébastien, “Is he sick?”

  Sébastien shook his head, “He is a noble, a governor, I think, whose r
ansom did not come. It is worse for them.”

  Francisco lay down, used his arm as a pillow, and put his hopes into tomorrow. Men like Uncle Bernat, they wouldn’t last a week here. I grew up in a place like this. This isn’t so bad—other than the chains and the smell and the cockroaches and the food. The sooner I train, the sooner I can leave.

  Papa, I failed you. You wanted me to heal as many as I could without losing the stone. I lost it, but I’m going to get it back. And when I do, I’ll be a Sittiri. He shifted to find a comfortable position. Papa, you were wrong about one thing. All this time I didn’t need to say the Hebrew verse. He chuckled. Dear God, it’s called a fieldstone. Fieldstones are supposed to be used in battle.

  Chapter 42

  Angelo

  Fez, North Africa

  Local Date: 4 Rabi‘ath-Thani 609

  THE LONG CHAINS CLATTERED as Kaid, the Barber, and Jabir pulled them through the slaves’ ankle chains. The guards left the long chains in heaps near the wall and walked out the door. With moans and grunts, the slaves rose to their feet and rolled up their bed mats to stack them against the walls.

  Angelo studied Francisco’s face. “You do not sleep well.”

  Francisco shrugged. “Even for someone used to sleeping on the streets. I had a dream about,” he glanced at Sébastien and lowered his voice, “about that man who killed me.”

  Sébastien laughed. “Forgive me,” he said, “but if this man killed you, why is it you still breathe?”

  Francisco shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Bad dream.” When he threw his bedroll against the others, a dozen cockroaches skittered out of the corner. “I can see why the Moors invaded Al-Andalus: to get away from the bugs … and the groaning.”