Francisco looked down through the rows of palm trees and saw the water girl. He recognized her as the hunchback who was bought on the same day he was. She didn’t speak much during the long walk from Tangier, only to say that her name was Fati and that raiders captured her on the border of Aragon near Teruel. She held her eyes low as if she was either terrified or broken or both.
Sébastien shrugged. “Master Ibrahim must have spent a small fortune on you and your Angelo. This, eh, girl and that old man Lope. Master Ibrahim had no coin left.”
“She tries. Her name is Fati, and Lope is a good man.”
“But of course. I am only saying that the master keeps all the good-looking girls in the house with him.”
Francisco shook his head. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”
“Out of here? This is your life, Francisco, until the day you die. The sooner you believe it, the sooner you can make your life comfortable. Keep away from Jabir’s cudgel and whip, keep healthy, learn to trade for the best bread.”
“Trusting in someone has led me into this pit of despair.”
“I do not understand.”
“I was supposed to get something out of this. And I can’t get out of here until I get it.”
“What are you trying to get?”
“Training.”
“Training to harvest dates? Good. You are trained. Now you can leave.”
“I’m doomed.” Francisco felt a strong urging, a wordless voice telling him to stop complaining and to keep his mouth shut, but he felt better being able to talk with someone about it. Sancho. He always knew the right thing to say. This Sébastien is close, but how much should I tell him? It’s not like I’m breaking my father’s wish to keep the stone a secret. I don’t even have the stone anymore. After Francisco shimmied down the last couple of steps and set foot on the blessed earth—it was only mildly easier going down than up—he waited for the water with Sébastien. “Angelo said that I’m supposed to endure hard times without giving in to bitterness.”
“For how long?” Sébastien asked.
“I don’t know.”
The slaves on the next row were taking their time.
“Most poisons,” Sébastien said, “taste bad for a reason. Maybe this bitterness is a way to wake you up, no? Maybe it is God’s way of saying to you, ‘Imbecile, if it hurts, stop doing it.’”
“Angelo has a way to get me out.”
“If this Angelo is who he says he is, then what is he waiting for? Leave and take me with you.”
Fati screamed. Francisco looked over to find that two slaves in the next row were holding her against a tree, and the other two were forcing themselves on her. Her scream, now muffled, drew no help. Jabir and the other guards were nowhere in sight and everyone else gawked.
Francisco, as heedless as he was the day he saved the girl in Toledo with Sancho, dropped the rope and ran. He was half way between the rows before he realized what he was doing.
“Francisco,” Sébastien yelled, “you will be beaten or killed.”
Francisco didn’t listen. He was too busy thinking that it felt like defending the girl in the alley all over again. I didn’t know the stone would heal me then; I know that I don’t have the stone now. Heart pounding and yelling a primal war cry, Francisco hurled into the two slaves ravishing the girl. They hit the ground in a jumbled heap. Francisco scrambled to his feet with a sore shoulder. The slaves on the ground were too stunned to recover. The two holding Fati cursed at Francisco until they saw Sébastien bear down on them like a charging bull. They released Fati and held their hands up. “We were only having a little fun with her. Can’t we take a break?” They spoke in fluent Castilian, which sickened Francisco.
Sébastien spat at them. “You are a horrible example of Christian manhood.”
Fati slapped the one nearest to her.
“Stop!”
Francisco turned to see Jabir, Kaid, and the barber rushing them.
The four slaves pointed at Francisco. “He attacked us.”
Francisco dropped to his knees with his hands in the air. “This is habit forming,” he mumbled.
Sébastien followed Francisco’s lead: on his knees with hands up.
Seeing their submission, Jabir did not check his pace but ran up to Francisco and, with a blow that could kill a calf, struck Francisco across the cheek with his cudgel. Francisco hit the ground screaming. He couldn’t help himself. The pain wouldn’t stop. Without a stone to deaden and heal it, the intensity brought tears to his eyes. God, why? I’m doing everything you said!
Another pain drew his mind away from his broken cheek. Jabir or someone else had pulled him by his hair, and dragged him to a tree. Through watery eyes, Francisco saw Jabir tying his hands around the tree and pulling him up. Jabir cinched the knot, pulling it hard so that Francisco’s arms stretched and the sharp edges of the palm frond stubs dug into his skin. He watched as the guards strapped Sébastien, the four slaves, and even Fati to separate trees with all the other slaves watching. Wasting no time to listen to anyone’s story, the guards whipped each of them. Francisco was the last to be beaten. Each blow on his bare back seemed to sting worse than the ones before. He counted ten blows, five more than anyone else.
Chapter 44
Miyuki
Fez, North Africa
Local Date: 4 Rabi‘ath-Thani 609
THE GUARDS ARE ATTACKING HIM? Angelo cast.
They’re whipping him. Francisco tried to save me from some other slaves.
And Jabir caught him?
Yes. He is the last one to be whipped. Should I show you? Her live oc-lok feed would better describe it.
No, he cast.
She turned her head so she didn’t have to watch. She only heard Jabir’s grunts, the smack of the whip, and Francisco’s gasps. He did not cry out. A courageous and valiant man, she thought to herself. To be whipped for someone he doesn’t know, for someone who has little value. This should stop. He has proven himself. I could have stopped it before Jabir caught him, but I would have revealed my skill. She cringed and hung her head.
As if Angelo heard her inner thoughts he cast, You did well, Miyuki. I don’t sense a rift. As for Francisco… Miyuki could hear the tremor in his thoughts, a mark of strong emotion that carried through the link.
Sensei? Can you join us?
Not without creating a rift. I’m sending you my live oc-lok feed.
Miyuki blinked and referenced his feed. In her left eye, she saw a bowl of figs and dates with two bookshelves behind it in front of a white plastered wall. The vision turned to the side, and from a low angle looking up, showed Ibrahim sitting on a couch. His eyebrows were creased and his lips pressed as if he had just spilled tea. It did well to keep her mind off Francisco.
In her left ear, she heard Ibrahim ask, “Well, do you have anything to offer my guest?”
Angelo tilted his head down and pressed his hand to his chest. He said, “I am deeply sorry for any shame I have caused you.”
“Shame?” Ibrahim laughed, and Angelo looked up at him. “Truly it is not your fault,” Ibrahim said. “You were raised among barbarians. I should not expect much more than babble or silence.” He stood up and walked to a bookshelf.
Someone else said, “Perhaps a day in the fresh air will bring back your memories.” Angelo’s vision turned to the other side where a large man with a wide smile addressed him. “The journey from Tangier was too much for you perhaps.”
“No, no,” Ibrahim said. He pulled a book off the shelf. “He just needs a refresher.” He turned to Angelo and handed him the book. “What does the cover say?”
Angelo read it. “On the Soul by Ishaq Ibn Hunayn.”
Ibrahim and his guest laughed. “See?” Ibrahim said, waggling his finger. “He’s more than he appears.” Ibrahim turned to Angelo and said, “Now go. Sit in the corner there, and when you have refreshed your memory, answer Abu l-Walid Bajjah’s question.”
The scene shifted as Angelo took the book and
got up.
A hand grabbed Miyuki hard under her right arm. She looked up and with her right eye, saw the Barber pulling her to her feet, as he yelled in Arabic, “Go fetch fresh water.” She walked toward the house and watched as Jabir released Francisco from the tree. Francisco slumped to the ground. Jabir kicked him, and Francisco pulled himself up to return to work.
Miyuki cast to Angelo, Is this training or slavery? In her left eye, she saw a book open with Arabic letters written on the pages.
This is both, according to the Ox Shalay. He turned the page. Miyuki, my heart breaks for Francisco.
How much of this training is required? He is ready to join us, but if he must endure much more, he will either be killed or hate us.
Angelo didn’t answer.
If you had done this to me, Miyuki cast, I would never have joined you.
If you are sensing that your onyo or the Voice says we should ask him to join now, then I will consider it. Even logic compels us to press the question, but my experience tells me otherwise. I have pressed prematurely before, and lost recruits.
Miyuki inhaled deeply and cast, This is my logic: even if you are allowed to train him, a few weeks or months is not enough time for him to learn. He would need at least four years of intense training to equal what we got on the plexus beds. Is it my master’s intent to stay for four years, or do you expect to bring Academe professors here to train him?
We are not trying to duplicate Academe training. This is something different. Are you concerned about the Key’ari? If they knew we were here, they would likely have attacked already. We were most vulnerable on the road.
If I may humbly remind my sensei, he said ‘there are no Key’ari’ before the Battle at Las Navas de Tolosa.’
I did say that, didn’t I? But that’s why you’re out here in the fields with him, to watch for signs of attack.
Miyuki shook her head, even though she knew Angelo couldn’t see her. Please understand your student. I anticipate and even desire a confrontation with the Key’ari, but Francisco may not last. Did he not agree to follow you?
Yes, as a squire follows his knight, but not as a Sittiri. He needs to understand his commitment before he can make it.
I did not understand everything before I joined, Miyuki cast.
We will know his training is complete when the time comes.
She reached the well and dipped her pot into the water. It felt cool on her hands, but her soul felt trapped.
You make a good argument, Miyuki. One cannot rely on the Voice and the onyo alone. The feelings, though intense at times, are subjective. She felt him change the link to contact the Bureau of Temporal Corrections. Temporal? Commander Angelo here. No enemy engagements. The recruit Francisco is safe, but under local pressure and still undecided. We will give until tomorrow at noon for the ninth line of the prophecy to be fulfilled, and then attempt enlistment. Transmitting oc-lok record. Angelo out.
Chapter 45
Francisco
Fez, North Africa
Summer, Year of our Lord 1212
UNDER COMMAND BY THE BARBER, Francisco and Sébastien pulled a wagon loaded with freshly-cut dates to the fruit cellar in Ibrahim’s house. Francisco first tried to pull the wagon with the rope over his shoulders, but the recent beating made it impossible. Sébastien used the rope without problem, seeming to ignore his pain. The man was built like an ox. Does he feel any pain? Francisco, with his head pounding and his cheek swollen from Jabir’s cudgel, pushed the cart from behind.
By the time they made it down the long lane between rows of date palms, olive trees, and citrus groves and through the gate into the residence compound, Francisco collapsed with exhaustion in the shade under the cart.
The shadow deepened around him. “Come, my friend. We must unload before noon prayer.”
Francisco groaned. “A moment,” he said, “one blessed moment. I am a farm boy and used to beatings, but I usually heal faster.” With protests from the tender pains of his fresh bruises, Francisco rested his head on the dusty ground and looked through the wheel spokes towards the well where Fati helped another servant fetch water. She was just beaten for no reason and she stops to help others.
Sébastien looked up towards the sun. “As you wish. We have no worry for the guards here, but the longer you wait, the stiffer your bones will be, no?” He grabbed a handful of dates and handed a few to Francisco.
Shocked that he took the fruit, Francisco gasped and said, “You’re not supposed to—”
“Petit con, shut your mouth. They take your life; you can take a few dates.” He sat down next to Francisco. “If I had the chance, I would kill the guards or at least throw them all into stocks until they dropped dead of work.”
The thumb-sized fruit had a shiny, soft, and wrinkled flesh, like an over-sized sun-dried grape, but dark brownish in color. He tentatively nibbled at the end. The taste instantly invited a bigger bite. The flesh gave way to a semi-dry meaty center with a firm texture and a sweetly delicate flavor made all the more delicious by his hard labor and rancid-bread diet. “I am supposed to balance justice with mercy.”
“Mercy? For them? Who told you that, your Angelo?”
“Yes, and my priest.”
“Where are your priest and Angelo now, huh?”
The sickening feeling of having been left alone churned in Francisco’s gut like a bad meat pie.
“Mercy?” Sébastien said. “Mercy is a fool’s errand. It opposes justice. Justice means that people get exactly what they deserve - no more, no less. If they get more, it is excessive; if they get less, it is deficient. Mercy is the enemy of the just.”
“I must forgive all, heal as directed, and fight injustice with the Sittiri.”
“The whom?”
Francisco cursed himself for saying too much. He popped a date into his mouth. Food never tasted as good as that eaten after a hard day’s work.
“Forgiveness works for small children and old women,” Sébastien said, “but the world is harsh and it is our duty to set it right. You know who’s good and bad. You see it here before your very eyes. If you forgive them, evil will only increase.”
Francisco searched for words to say. He knew Sébastien’s argument had merit but something wasn’t right. It was off a little, twisted, but he couldn’t think of what it was.
Sébastien bit into another date. “Oh, don’t confuse the action of mercy with the emotion that spawns it: sympathy. One can have pity, but still be just. One can despise the criminal, but still bring justice. Not so with mercy.”
“Maybe there’s a balance.”
“Of course, there is. The truly evil ones deserve no mercy.”
He’s right, but there’s something missing. Evil. I was called all sorts of names when I lived on the streets, including ‘evil parasite.’ Should I get no mercy? The one who called me that, the baker, he didn’t know me. Do I truly know Jabir? What he does is wrong, and maybe if he keeps doing evil, then the evil becomes part of his nature. A sudden stab of pain from the beating made Francisco grimace. Not used to having pain for so long, he had to force himself to concentrate on the argument. Maybe at some point someone like Jabir or Uncle Bernat becomes so used to evil that they can’t go back, but what is that point? I don’t know. Does anyone know? These thoughts were so rich with substance that he lost his appetite. He looked at the dates. No longer appealing.
Sébastien pulled himself up and offered Francisco a hand. “Come, lie there any longer and your joints will be stiffer than a dead man’s.”
Francisco took his hand and threw the remaining dates back into the wagon.
Sébastien grabbed one end of a pole that threaded through three clusters of dates. “Grab the other end. We hang the row of clusters in the cellar. No, not that one.” He pointed. “That’s the end. No, no, on your shoulder. If you carry it like that, it will drag on the ground.”
Francisco heaved the pole onto his shoulder and winced with the pain. “Argh.”
Sébast
ien led him down the stairs on the side of the house into the dark, cool cellar. Francisco tried to find his footing on each step, but the cluster of dates blocked his view. As he trudged down the stairs, the dates slid on the pole and hit Sébastien’s back, but Sébastien took no notice. He must be used to Jabir’s beatings, Francisco thought. How often is he whipped? Even before Francisco ducked his head down to enter the narrow door, he felt the cool air and tangy scent of dried fruit. Racks were secured to the pillars that supported the kitchen floor above, and trays with dates and olives were spread out on the racks. “These are all ready to take to market in two days,” Sébastien explained. The cellar was longer and wider than Francisco would have expected. It was dark except for light from the stairs they had just walked down and stairs on the side that led to the kitchen pantry.
“In France,” Sébastien said, “the best knights are trained by several masters. They say they can pick up the best skills of each that way.”
“I never heard that.”
“It’s true.” Sébastien shrugged and the pole bounced on Francisco’s shoulder. He pointed to notches on a pillar near the center of the cellar. “Here. Put your end in that notch. Yes, the bottom one.” Francisco complied and Sébastien hooked his end up. “Each knight is skilled in the lance or the sword or the horsemanship. Few are masters of all. So, it is best to be trained by one master and then move on to the next.” He led Francisco up the stairs for the next bunch. “The best knights have the most masters.” They walked to the wagon and grabbed the next pole. “Your Angelo, he may have taught you all he can.”
“He can teach me more.”
“Can he? Here? No, my friend, I believe your master has led you to a, em eh, how do you say, a blind alley. You know what is a blind alley?” They walked down the stairs and hooked the pole onto the pillars.
“Oh, yes.” Francisco pictured Sancho running into one and getting cornered by Ramon.
The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1) Page 30