Whatever happens – whatever happens, he told himself ferociously, I won’t fall off. I won’t!
A moment later, the troop had wheeled round and was cantering up the slope, with Suweida, held on a leading rein, bumping along in the rear with the other pack animals. Below, further up the road, the cloud of dust billowed on, as the wagons of the Frankish baggage train lumbered after the fighting men towards the walls of Acre.
For the next half-hour, Salim bumped painfully along, clutching ignominiously at the saddle, and even to the horse’s mane when he seemed about to lose his balance completely. Once or twice he had slipped sideways and was sure he would fall, but both times he had managed to right himself in the nick of time, and had looked round furtively, hoping that no one had noticed.
Gradually he settled into the ride. The track which the little troop was following was no more than a rough trail, meandering along the hillside, curving round old trees and running below the walls of the occasional sheepfold and the more frequent stone embankments that shored up terraces of olive trees. The ground was so rough that it was impossible for the horses to move at more than a walking pace most of the time, but whenever it levelled out, the captain led at a fast trot or even a canter. Salim learned to look ahead and watch so that he was ready when his horse suddenly took off. He found after a while that he was moving more easily, riding smoothly and with increasing confidence. For once he didn’t have to struggle to keep up with anyone else. The horse made sure of that. No one could see his limp. No one could mock or threaten or pity him.
If the boys in Acre could see me now, he kept saying triumphantly to himself, riding with the Mamluks!
He imagined himself galloping with glory up to the walls of Acre, wearing a Mamluk coat of mail and with a Mamluk sword in his hand. He’d charge with them into the sweating, red-faced ranks of infidel Crusaders under the banner of the great Sultan Saladin, the cry of Allahu akbar! on his lips. He’d scatter the enemy with the sheer force of his courage and the might of his razor-sharp sword, under the very eyes of his brother, Ali, who would be staring down at him helplessly from the city wall. Together, he and the Mamluks would drive the invaders away, back to the cold, misty, barbaric lands of the north where they belonged.
His dreams were interrupted by irritated shouts from the back of the column. He turned to see that Suweida had dug her hooves into the ground and was refusing to budge, in spite of the violent tugs on her bridle by one soldier and whacks on the rump by another.
‘Ustadh!’ Salim called out nervously, addressing the back of the doctor, who was jolting about uncomfortably on the back of the horse in front of him. ‘Suweida won’t go on.’
Dr Musa reined in his horse and turned. He took one look at the mule, and the medicine chest that had slipped down from the top of her back and was hanging at an angle from her side, and a thunderous frown settled on his forehead.
‘My chest!’ he roared. ‘Salim! Get down off that nag. Come and help!’
He had already handed his reins to the nearest soldier, had clambered awkwardly out of the saddle and was running back to Suweida. Salim, reduced suddenly from glorious warrior to humble servant, reluctantly slid off his horse and followed him.
‘Shake your load off, would you, you daughter of Beelzebub?’ the doctor was saying as he untied the straps round the mule’s chest.
Salim reached him in time to take one end of the chest and lower it carefully to the ground.
‘What is this? Why are you doing this?’
The captain had ridden back to find out what was holding up the troop.
‘My chest! My medicines! Everything about to smash to the ground!’ Dr Musa said indignantly. ‘And all these two idiots of yours could do was beat the beast. They would have let it fall!’
Salim drew in his breath at the doctor’s audacity. The captain, with magnificent haughtiness, stared down at him for a moment, then nodded curtly to the two soldiers and addressed them briefly in Turkish.
‘They’ll stay with you, ya-hakim,’ he said at last. ‘You’ll follow on when you’re ready. Our camp’s only a mile away, beyond the next village.’
He rode back to the front of the column, barked a command and the troop trotted off, leaving the doctor, Salim and the two soldiers surrounding the obstinate Suweida.
‘You vile animal!’ the doctor was expostulating as he lifted the saddlebags from Suweida’s back to adjust her girth. ‘You . . .’ He stopped as he saw the ugly sore where the bumping chest had rubbed the mule’s back red and sore. He smacked a hand to his forehead.
‘Call yourself a doctor!’ he groaned. ‘To tie your load so badly!’
He fished a handful of nuts from a hidden pocket inside his gown and fed them to the mule, then picked up the saddlebags and flung them into Salim’s buckling arms. ‘You and I will ride your horse together. These men –’ he waved at the two soldiers, who were watching their troop disappear into the distance – ‘will atone for their foolishness by loading the chest on to the horse (a demon if ever there was one) it has been my ill fate to ride.’
Sheepishly, the soldiers obeyed. A few minutes later, the chest and the saddlebags were securely tied to the back of the doctor’s horse, and he and Salim were uncomfortably sharing Salim’s. They set off again, with one soldier in front and the other, in the rear, leading the now obedient Suweida.
Salim bit his lip with embarrassment as he saw where the Mamluks had halted: on a field of wheat stubble above a small village of square stone houses. He had hoped to ride into their camp confidently, showing off his new prowess as a horseman. Instead here he was, bumping along ridiculously behind the doctor, his feet, lacking stirrups, dangling stupidly on each side of the horse’s belly.
He need not have worried. No one was taking any notice of the doctor’s little procession. Only one tent, for the captain, had been pitched, and the two servants were unloading cooking pots and vessels from one of the packhorses. The soldiers’ horses had already been unsaddled and tethered, and the men had removed their padded jackets, chainmail tunics and helmets and were now dressed in loose wrap-around robes, their hair flowing free. They were standing in a group on a promontory, staring down across the narrow plain towards the walls of Acre and the sea beyond. As he looked in the same direction, Salim realized that the captain had led them on a roundabout route. They’d ridden back towards the city, on a path parallel to the road which ran along the hillside. Acre lay below them, no more than three or four miles away.
They were too far away to see the Frankish army, but there was no mistaking the hundreds of little coils of smoke rising into the air from below the city walls. The Franks must have made camp there. They would be lighting their cooking fires. Salim’s heart missed a beat. Knowing that the enemy was there, so close to the city, was filling him with dread. Would they – could they – take Acre? Everyone had seemed confident that there were too few of them, and that the walls could withstand anything. But now he saw in his mind’s eye the frightening faces of the blond, matted-haired warriors as they’d rushed at the farmstead. What would happen to Mama, Baba, Ali and Zahra if they succeeded, against all odds, in storming the city? Why hadn’t he really thought about it before?
Now he could see something else, something that made him gasp with fright. The sun, setting across the distant golden sea, was catching the sails of dozens of square-sailed ships, Frankish ships, which were gliding with horrible deliberation towards Acre’s open harbour.
It was late afternoon by now and the shadows were lengthening. Suweida, loosely tethered under the shade of a huge fig tree, was lipping over the pile of dry yellow grass that Salim had foraged for her, and the doctor was packing away the soothing balm with which he had treated her sore. The soldiers were busy about their camp duties, feeding their horses, collecting firewood and fetching water from the village well nearby, while their two servants were lighting the cooking fire and bringing out their dry stores.
Salim realized that he was extremely
hungry and thirsty. He’d had no breakfast, and had eaten only a few mouthfuls of the doctor’s lunchtime food before the arrival of the Franks at the well had made them sweep it all away. He was about to pluck up the courage to ask the doctor about the arrangements for supper when an odd little procession entered the camp, climbing up from the village below.
First came an old man, dragging a reluctant goat on a twisted straw rope. Two younger men followed, each holding a pair of flapping chickens by the feet. Behind them came a row of boys, one with a bowl full of eggs, another with a dish of figs and a third with bundles of fresh green vegetables. Last of all came a little girl, staggering under a tray piled high with flat bread.
The captain went forward to meet them.
‘Ahlan wa sahlan,’ the old man with the goat said. ‘You are welcome,’ but Salim saw that he wasn’t smiling.
‘Welcome? I doubt it,’ the doctor muttered. ‘Soldiers never are. Wise, though, to bring provisions before they’ve been commandeered.’
‘Will we eat with them? With the soldiers, I mean?’ Salim said, hungrily eyeing the figs.
‘You think they’ll starve us? Of course we’ll eat with them,’ said the doctor. He shot Salim a searching look. ‘Your toe. It throbs? It feels hot?’
‘No, ustadh.’ In the excitement of the afternoon, Salim had almost forgotten his sore toe.
‘Good. There’s no infection then. Now spread out my mat. That limb of Lucifer I was forced to ride this afternoon has shaken my old bones to pieces. If I don’t rest soon I shall be gathered to my forefathers well before my time. And fetch me some water. Do you want me to die of thirst?’
It took several visits to the well and many beakers of water before both Salim’s and Dr Musa’s thirst had been quenched. At last, the doctor took a scroll out of the saddlebag, opened it and waved Salim away; then he sat studying it, his lips moving, rocking backwards and forwards as he read.
Salim squatted down near Suweida, his back against the rough grey trunk of the fig tree, unsure what to do. More than anything else he wanted to go and look at the horses, to study and compare them. He wanted to examine the Mamluks’ weapons, too, feel their weight and try out one of the bows with some arrows, but he felt too shy to move far away from Suweida and the doctor.
The villagers had gone now and the fire was blazing brightly. The goat, with a final protesting bleat, had had its throat cut and was being expertly butchered. The chickens, their necks severed, were already plucked. Pots were being set on to boil, and the heavenly smell of frying onions was making Salim’s mouth water.
The smell summoned up Mama and the old house in Acre. Homesickness hit him like a blow. He had to bend his head to hide a rush of tears, and wiped a savage fist across his eyes.
One of the Mamluk soldiers passed nearby and noticed him. His beard was still sparse and Salim guessed he was not much older than Ali, eighteen or nineteen perhaps.
‘Hey, little brother,’ he called out. ‘Are you all right? What’s the matter?’ He spoke Arabic with a heavy Turkish accent.
Salim scrambled to his feet.
‘I’m fine, sir,’ he said, desperately hoping his watery eyes hadn’t been noticed.
The soldier sauntered up to him.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Salim. Salim Ibn Adil.’
The soldier nodded.
‘I’m Ismail. Are you hungry?’
Salim nodded eagerly.
‘That’s good. Nice food tonight. Fresh meat. Your old man, does he eat with us?’
‘Yes.’
Ismail nodded again. His eyes, barely interested, swept Salim from head to foot.
‘What happened to your leg? Why’s it short? Did you break it?’
Salim’s jaw tightened. He hated it when people noticed his leg for the first time. With the boys in Acre it was usually the beginning of taunts and teasing.
‘No. A sickness. When I was little.’
‘Ah.’ Ismail put up a lazy hand, plucked a fig from the tree and bit into it. ‘You’ve never ridden before, have you? I was watching you. Like a sack of old wheat, you were. Bump, bump, bump!’
He laughed. Salim did too. He felt himself relax.
‘I’ve only ridden on old packhorses and donkeys,’ he said. ‘I – I want to learn to ride properly, like you.’
He’d said the wrong thing. Ismail jerked his chin up scornfully.
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘You’re too old. To ride well, you have to start young. You’ll never learn to ride like a Mamluk now.’ He gestured contemptuously towards Dr Musa. ‘Look at your boss. He’s useless. I bet he never even rode a donkey when he was a kid.’
Salim felt an unexpected wave of loyalty.
‘He doesn’t need to ride a fast horse usually. He’s a good doctor. That’s all that matters.’
‘Mamluks never need doctors,’ Ismail said boastfully. ‘Toughest troops in the world, we are.’
He flexed his magnificent shoulders. Salim stared at him enviously.
‘Can I – would you show me your weapons?’ he said in a rush. ‘Your bow and arrows and everything?’
‘No.’ Ismail was clearly bored. ‘They’re too heavy for you, anyway. Only a Mamluk could handle them.’ He walked away.
Disappointed, Salim watched him go. He was about to sink down again with his back against the tree when a thin, high voice from the village below sounded the call to evening prayer. The soldiers were already making their way down to the well to perform their ritual wash. Shyly, Salim followed them, and when they had returned and spread out their prayer mats, he took his place beside them, kneeling and rising with them.
We’re equal, at any rate, before Allah, he told himself comfortingly.
Darkness had fallen by the time the longed-for meal was over. It was the best, Salim thought, that he had ever eaten. The cooking was nowhere near as good as Mama’s, but the sharpness of his hunger had made everything taste delicious, and the thrill of sitting round the fire, out on the hillside, at night, with Mamluks, was so great that Salim would have eaten anything with enjoyment.
He could never have known, he would never have guessed, only this morning, when he’d been so angry with his father, and felt so betrayed by Mama, that he would be ending the day like this. Now that his hunger was satisfied, his homesickness had gone. His head was swimming with new sensations. He sniffed up eagerly the smell of the horses and the sweet smoke of the figwood fire. His ears had always been used to the din of the city: the clattering of hooves on stone pavements, the clash of the metal workers’ hammers, the shouts and quarrels and laughs from thousands of close-packed people. There were quite different sounds here: men talking quietly in a foreign language, the crackle of the burning twigs, someone singing in the village below, the bleating of a sheep, the soft sighing of the evening breeze in the leaves overhead.
Suddenly he was so tired that he could barely keep his eyes open. The doctor tapped him smartly on the shoulder.
‘So I’m the servant now, am I? And you’re the master? You plan to sit there all night, enjoying yourself? If we must sleep under the stars, let’s at least prepare for the chills of the small hours, like civilized beings. There are blankets in the saddlebag. Lay them out, then come and sleep. And I’m warning you, my boy, that if you snore, the fires of my vengeance will be called down upon your head in a punishment so terrible . . .’
He broke off with a gigantic yawn.
Salim, rising groggily to his feet, smiled at him sleepily. The doctor’s threats, he now realized, were empty. He couldn’t understand why he’d been so afraid of him a mere twelve hours before.
The camp was astir before the sun had risen over the eastern hills. Salim woke with a start, roused by the muezzin in the village below, who was singing out the dawn call to prayer. Exhausted, he’d slept like the dead, hardly stirring all night, in spite of the strangeness of being out in the open, surrounded by people he didn’t know. He lay
still for a long minute, wondering where he was, then the whickering sound of a horse blowing down its soft nostrils brought the events of yesterday flooding back.
A heavy dew had fallen in the night, and the blanket he’d wrapped himself in was damp, but his goat-hair cloak, which he’d rolled up to use as a pillow, was dry. He got to his feet, suppressing a groan of pain. Every muscle in his body was stiff and aching from yesterday’s ride.
He groped his way sleepily to the well to wash, following the sounds the soldiers made. By the time the prayers were over, the first faint greyness was showing in the sky.
A hollow feeling had been growing in the pit of Salim’s stomach as he prayed, and as soon as the prayers were over he went to find Dr Musa. The doctor was standing by Suweida, rubbing her nose and talking softly into her ears.
‘After all these years!’ Salim heard him murmur. ‘To permit a sore like that to burst out on your back! If you give me a kick, my girl, right here and now, I won’t blame you. Not at all. Not at all!’
He turned when he heard Salim approach and assumed a scowl of the utmost severity.
‘I’ve been telling her, this child of perdition – not one more attempt to throw off the chest! Not one! Or she’ll be sent to the knacker’s. Oh, certainly.’
Salim could hardly wait for him to finish speaking.
‘Please, sidi Musa,’ he said, unaware that he was using the affectionate term for an elderly relative, ‘do you think the Franks will attack Acre today? And if they do, what if they take it?’
‘They will be repulsed!’ the doctor thundered. ‘Thrown back from the walls! The city will hold them off! Can you doubt it? Sultan Saladin will swoop upon them, like a wolf from the mountains, as soon as he has gathered his army together. He’ll send them, bag and baggage, back to their freezing forests. Not a doubt will I permit, do you hear me? Not a moment of worry! Confidence in victory, that’s the way. Now do I have to fetch my own washing water from the well? Is that how it’s to be from now on?’
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