by Hight, Jack
‘You little bastard,’ Turan hissed. ‘You’ll pay for that.’
‘You wouldn’t dare. Father will whip you raw.’
Turan sneered, showing teeth red with blood. ‘Father doesn’t care two straws for you. He wants a son who can fight. What are you good for?’
‘Shut up.’
‘Father hates you, Brother. He hates your weakness, your snivelling, you—’
‘Shut up!’ Yusuf roared and charged his brother. At the last second Turan stepped out of the way and stuck his leg out, sending Yusuf sprawling face first in the dust. He was beginning to rise when Turan kicked him hard in the side. The air whooshed from Yusuf’s lungs, and he lay gasping for breath. But the more desperately he tried to suck in the air, the more elusive it became.
‘Having another of your fits, little brother?’ Turan taunted. ‘Can’t cry for help now, can you?’ He kicked Yusuf again, catching him in the ribs. Yusuf curled into a ball to protect himself, his arms over his head. His ribs burned and he was suffocating, unable to draw in air. Turan bent over him, and Yusuf could feel his brother’s breath hot on his face. ‘You’re pathetic. I should have let you die in Damascus.’ He grabbed Yusuf and rolled him on to his back, then sat on his chest. ‘Tell me, little brother,’ Turan sneered as Yusuf’s face grew red, then purple. ‘What is Frankish for pathetic little bastard?’
Yusuf barely heard him. The world was dimming, fading to black. The last thing he knew was Turan’s fist slamming into his face.
John strode as fast as his aching legs would carry him through a narrow alleyway in Baalbek, dodging past veiled women and bearded men. He muttered under his breath as he walked, cursing Ayub for making him bring the basket. His lower back ached from the weight and his shoulders were on fire where the leather straps bit into them. He gritted his teeth and kept going. A golden dinar was worth a little pain.
He left the alleyway and entered a dark square that sat in the shade of the ancient Roman temple. He glanced up at the towering marble columns as he hurried past; he had never seen anything so monumental, not even in Constantinople or Acre. Past the temple, John broke into a jog as he turned into the street that wound up hill towards Ayub’s home. He circled around to the back gate, where one of Ayub’s mamluks stood bored, his spear resting against his shoulder. The man pulled open a small door cut into the larger gate, and John hurried through. He headed across the courtyard towards the granary, a squat building that abutted the right-hand wall. Then he froze.
Ahead of him, Taur sat in a doorway, his head cradled in his hands, blood dripping between his fingers. Past him, Turan knelt over Yusuf. Yusuf was unconscious, his face a swollen, bloody mass, but Turan kept pounding away at him. Beyond them, Zimat stood in another doorway, her lip bloody and her tunic torn. She saw John and moved towards him, but Turan rose and grabbed her arm. ‘Where are you going?’ he growled. ‘I’m not done with you.’ He shoved his sister back into the room behind her.
John dropped the basket of wheat and broke into a run. Turan heard him coming. He turned and raised his fists, showing knuckles red with blood. John stopped ten yards away and raised the scythe. At the sight of the curved blade, Turan’s eyes widened with fear. He backed away, and John stepped towards him. ‘Fight me, you coward,’ John snarled, but Turan continued to retreat. ‘Fight me!’ John shouted as he tossed the scythe aside and raised his fists. Turan stopped retreating.
‘Come, dog,’ he sneered in barely comprehensible Frankish.
John charged. At the last second Turan stepped to the side, trying to avoid him, but John had anticipated the move. He veered and planted his shoulder in Turan’s gut, bowling him over. He landed on top, but Turan used John’s momentum to throw him off. John sprang to his feet, and the two boys faced off. John was thickly muscled after months of hard labour, but Turan was larger, with a broad chest and shoulders. His weight would tell if the fight became a wrestling match.
John raised his fists and adopted a fighting stance. He stole a glance over his shoulder to Taur. He did not want to be taken by surprise again. Taur sat watching, his nose a wreck and his face covered in blood. He would not intervene. John turned his attention back to Turan, who held out his right hand, palm down, and made a clawing motion, beckoning John to him. ‘Whore. Shit-for-brains,’ he sneered in Frankish.
John stepped towards him, and Turan’s right fist flashed out for his head. John ducked the punch and swung up, connecting with an uppercut to the chin. Turan stumbled backwards, his sneer replaced by a wide-eyed look of surprise. He shook his head clear and then charged with a roar. John let him come, then delivered a stinging right cross that snapped Turan’s head back, stopping him immediately. Turan swung out wildly, and John stepped away.
‘Ya Allah,’ Turan muttered, wiping blood from his nose with the back of his hand. Then he sneered. He was standing next to the scythe. Turan reached down and picked up the curved steel blade. He growled something in Arabic, then sprang forward, swiping the scythe at John’s throat. John jumped backwards, avoiding the blade but tripping over Yusuf’s prone form. He fell, and Turan pounced, the blade flashing down towards John’s face. John rolled left, and the scythe bit into the earth. The two combatants rose and faced off over Yusuf, who stirred, raising a hand to his face and moaning. John and Turan began to circle his body, each shadowing the movements of the other.
Turan lashed out again, the scythe arcing towards John’s face. John ducked the blow, and Turan reversed his attack, swinging backhand. John jumped back, but the scythe grazed his chest, drawing blood. Turan grinned in triumph, but as he completed his swing, John stepped in and grabbed the arm that held the scythe. Then, with this free hand, he punched Turan hard in the jaw. As Turan slumped to his knees, John twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him to drop the scythe. John picked it up and held the sharp blade to Turan’s throat. John was facing Zimat, who was still watching. She nodded, encouraging him.
‘You killed my friend, you Saracen bastard,’ John whispered in Turan’s ear. ‘May Allah piss on you in the afterlife.’ His knuckles whitened around the scythe’s handle as he prepared for the finishing blow.
‘Stop!’ a voice commanded in Latin. John looked up and saw Ayub riding into the courtyard, flanked by two of his men with bows drawn. Zimat hurried away towards the house, her cheeks flushed. John watched her go, then turned his attention back to Ayub.
‘Release my son!’ Ayub ordered as he reined in before John.
John paused. Why should he let Turan go? John would die either way. He spat at Ayub, then began to draw the scythe across Turan’s throat. But John had waited too long. The blade had only just drawn blood when two arrows sank into his shoulder. He dropped the scythe and sank back on his knees in agony. Turan grabbed the blade and whirled on him. But Ayub had dismounted, and he held his son back. Ayub strode up to John and struck him across the face with the back of his hand.
‘What have you done?’ he demanded in Latin. He pointed to the house, where Zimat had fled. ‘What did you do to my daughter?’
Turan, a trickle of blood running down his neck, said something to his father in Arabic, and Ayub’s eyes widened. He drew his sword.
‘Turan lies!’ Yusuf had staggered to his feet. ‘It was Turan who tried to rape Zimat,’ he said in Latin. ‘The Frank saved her.’
Ayub looked from Yusuf to Turan, weighing their arguments. Then, his gaze settled upon John.
‘Kill me,’ John said. ‘I do not care.’ Ayub raised his sword, and John closed his eyes. His eyes were still closed when the butt of the sword hilt slammed into his temple, knocking him unconscious.
A shaft of sunshine penetrated the cramped space where John sat slumped unconscious against the wall. He awoke, blinking against the light, and groaned as a wave of pain swept over him. His shoulder throbbed, and his back burned as if it were on fire. He reached back to touch it: the skin was rough and sticky with blood. He had been whipped. He looked about and found himself in a narrow space, too short to do more
than crouch and not long enough to lie flat. Across from him, a heavy wooden door had opened just enough to allow someone to slide in a bowl of boiled wheat and a waterskin. Once the food was inside, the door slammed shut, leaving John in total darkness.
‘Wait!’ John yelled. His stiff joints cried out in agony as he fumbled his way towards the door, his right hand stretched out before him. He cursed as he accidently put his hand in the bowl of boiled wheat. He found the wooden door and began to pound on it with his fist. ‘Come back!’
‘Quiet!’ someone hissed from the other side of the door. ‘You’ll get us both in trouble.’
John lowered his voice. ‘Who are you?’
‘Yusuf. I wanted to thank you for what you did. You saved my life.’
‘I did not do it for you.’
‘Nevertheless, you have my thanks.’
‘When will I be released?’ John asked.
‘My father has declared that you will be kept here for a week with no food and water.’
‘Why didn’t he just kill me?’
‘Were it not for the intervention of my mother, Basimah, he would have. You saved her daughter, Zimat, and that saved your life,’ Yusuf explained. ‘And do not fear, I will not allow you to starve. But you must conserve the food I have given you. I do not know when I will be able to bring more.’ There was a pause. ‘Someone is coming. I must go.’
John heard the slap of Yusuf’s sandals as he hurried away, then nothing. He began to lean back, then winced as his raw back came in contact with the wall. He sat forward, his head against his knees. It would be a long week.
‘You will not make the young ladies of Baalbek swoon any time soon,’ Ibn Jumay said as he finished unwrapping the bandages covering Yusuf’s face, ‘but you are healing nicely. See for yourself.’ He handed Yusuf a small brass mirror.
Yusuf frowned at his reflection. His face was still a swollen mess, purplish red around his eyes and almost black around his broken cheekbone. His nose was two sizes too big and now had a kink halfway up. Clear fluid oozed from around stitches that ran under his right eye and above his left. ‘I look like a monster.’ Yusuf gingerly touched his nose and winced. ‘Can you fix my nose?’
‘I think it looks rather distinguished, but if you insist, I can reset it. There will be a great deal of pain.’
Yusuf took another look at his nose in the mirror, then nodded. ‘Do it.’
‘Very well. Hold still.’ Ibn Jumay gripped Yusuf’s head with both hands, placing his thumbs against either side of Yusuf’s nose. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes.’
Ibn Jumay wrenched the nose back into place. Yusuf’s vision went black, and he nearly fainted as pain washed over him. When the wave of agony receded, he looked up to see Ibn Jumay smiling and holding out the mirror. Yusuf’s nose was straight once more.
‘There you are,’ Ibn Jumay said. ‘Now here’s something to ease the pain of your bruises.’ Ibn Jumay produced a clay jar, scooped out a greenish, translucent ointment with his fingers and began to smear it on Yusuf’s face. The ointment created a pleasant cooling sensation, bringing instant relief.
‘What is it?’
‘It is an extract from the aloe plant,’ Ibn Jumay said as he placed the lid back on the jar.
‘Does it bring relief to cuts? Torn skin?’
‘Yes, although it is most effective in dealing with sunburn.’
‘Can I have some?’
Ibn Jumay tilted his head quizzically. ‘What do you need it for?’
Yusuf looked to the ceiling, searching for a plausible answer. ‘For later, if the pain returns.’
‘You are a poor liar,’ Ibn Jumay noted as he handed Yusuf the jar of ointment. He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘You want this for the Frankish boy, I imagine?’ Yusuf’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘Do not worry. I will not tell your father. The young Frank deserves my thanks for saving my best pupil. Tell him to apply a thin layer twice a day. And you will want to give him some of this as well.’ Ibn Jumay produced another jar, from which he scooped out a foul-smelling, yellowish paste, which he applied to Yusuf’s face.
Yusuf wrinkled his nose. ‘What is this? And why does it smell so bad?’
‘The smell is sulphur. It will help prevent infection.’ Ibn Jumay handed the jar to Yusuf. Then he took a long roll of cotton bandages and began to wrap it carefully around Yusuf’s head. ‘Remember: leave the bandage on and do not pick at your wounds, or those scars will never heal.’ Yusuf nodded his understanding. Ibn Jumay rose and opened the door. ‘Now send in your brother.’
Yusuf took the two jars and left the room. Turan was waiting in the hallway, standing stiffly upright. Ayub had whipped him mercilessly for what he had tried to do to Zimat, and Turan’s backside was so torn and bloodied that he could not even sit without pain. He sneered when he saw Yusuf. ‘How’s your face, traitor?’
‘It’s your turn,’ Yusuf said tersely, ignoring the barb. He tried to walk past, but Turan stepped in front of him.
‘I saved your life at Damascus, and you betrayed me to save a slave, a Frank. I will not forget what you have done, little brother.’ He pushed past Yusuf and entered the room where Ibn Jumay waited.
‘I would to it again, big brother,’ Yusuf whispered to himself as he turned and headed down the hallway towards his room. He was passing the closed door of his father’s bedroom when he heard the loud voices of his parents. Yusuf caught Turan’s name, and curious, put his ear to the door.
‘What would you have me do?’ Ayub was exclaiming. ‘He is my son!’
‘You have other sons,’ Basimah retorted.
‘A poet and a whimpering child,’ Ayub said, his voice thick with disgust. ‘Turan is a man, a warrior.’
‘He is an abomination!’
‘You have never liked him. You always preferred your own children.’
Basimah said something in a low voice, which Yusuf could not hear. Then: ‘I raised him as my own after his mother died, but this is too much. Look at what he did to Yusuf, what he tried to do to Zimat. I will not share my house with that animal!’
‘You will do as I say, wife!’
‘Or what? You will beat me as Turan beat Yusuf? Or perhaps you will rape me as he tried to do our daughter?’
‘Turan is a man, filled with young blood. And you know how Zimat teases him.’
‘How dare you!’ Basimah screamed, and Yusuf heard a loud slap. ‘Do not pretend that this is her fault. It is your son who has defied Allah.’
‘And he has been punished: thirty lashes from my own hand.’
‘That is not enough.’
‘What then? What would you have me do?’
‘Send him away. Let Shirkuh deal with him in Aleppo.’
There was a long moment of silence. Yusuf was just beginning to move away from the door when he heard his father’s voice again. ‘Turan is my first-born son. I will not send him to be raised by another. But you are right; something must be done. It has been too long since I attended Nur ad-Din’s court. I will go next week to Aleppo, and I will take Turan with me. We will be gone for several months. I will speak with Turan. I will teach him to rule his passions. And I swear to you by Allah that when we return, he will never touch our daughter again.’
‘Very well,’ Basimah said. ‘But if you are wrong, Ayub, then I promise you, I will kill Turan myself.’
Yusuf moved away from the door and headed down the hall to his room. He had heard enough. Zimat would be safe from Turan. Now, Yusuf only had to find a way to prove his father wrong. He, too, would become a warrior.
John sat slumped against the wall shivering despite the heat. ‘One hundred sixty-five’ he rasped, his throat so dry he could barely speak. ‘One hundred sixty-six.’ In the blackness of the tiny cell, which stank of his piss and shit, time seemed to expand and stretch with no beginning and no end. Some time ago – maybe hours, maybe days – John had begun to count his breaths as a way of keeping track of time. When he reached a thousand, he would make a s
cratch on the dirt floor with his fingernail. Eventually, he had lost track of the number of scratches in the darkness. But that did not matter. The counting had taken on a meaning of its own. ‘One hundred and seventy-six—one hundred and seventy-seven.’
Yusuf had not visited for days, and John, with no sense of time to guide him in his rationing, had run out of medicine, then food, then water. First, the fiery burning in his back had returned, along with shooting pains that spread out from his left shoulder, where the arrows had struck. Then came a ravenous hunger that gradually transformed into a gnawing pain in his gut, accompanied by uncontrollable shivering. But worst of all was the thirst. John’s mouth became so dry that even swallowing hurt. His lips swelled and cracked. His skin crawled, and his head ached with a searing pain, as if someone had driven a hot iron deep into his brain. Then the visions had begun.
Shapes appeared to John in the darkness. He had seen Zimat, flashing her brilliant smile and beckoning him to come to her. The image had been so real that he had fumbled towards her, smashing his forehead against the door. Zimat’s image had dissolved, to be replaced by others. John had seen Turan, his knuckles covered in blood, sneering at him. He had seen his father, his face pale and stretched in agony as he hung from the gallows, but living still, his eyes burning into John. And he had seen his brother, Harold, his face bathed in blood, his finger pointed accusingly at John. John had squeezed his eyes shut, but the images remained. He sought refuge in fitful slumber, but the ghosts of his past continued to haunt him.
Counting helped to keep them at bay. ‘One hundred and ninety-nine—two hundred,’ he croaked, focusing on the numbers. But another image intruded upon him regardless. He saw the door flung open, then daylight flooding the cell. John closed his eyes and shrank back. ‘Two hundred and one,’ he rasped, desperately trying to hold on to his sanity. But this was no vision. Rough hands grabbed him, pulling him out into the light and holding him upright. His stiff legs, bent for so long, refused to straighten. He kept his head down, away from the sun, and his eyes squeezed shut. Someone slapped him, jerking his head to the side. John cracked open his right eye and saw Ayub standing before him.