Eagle st-1

by Jack Hight

  He rose, stretching his arms high above his head to loosen his aching muscles, and then headed outside in only his sandals and tunic, shivering against the early morning chill. Taur, a taciturn Norman slave who had been purchased at the same time as John, was just emerging from his private room, which he warranted due to his position as servant to Ayub’s oldest son. Without a word, they fell in beside one another, heading towards the front of the villa. They walked past the stables and turned into a large room built against the wall. The floor was tiled, and on the far wall water flowed from a small opening and splashed into a pool, from where it would flow underground to the fountain in the entrance way of the villa. Other slaves were already busy washing themselves. They were all circumcised, and when John and Taur pulled off their tunics a few still pointed and laughed. Taur growled at them, and they fell quiet.

  John took a clay jug from a shelf on the wall, filled it, and dumped the water over his head, gasping at the shock of the cold. Then he picked up a bar of soap and began to scrub himself resolutely. When he was sure he had removed every last trace of dirt and grime, he took up the jug again and rinsed, shivering in the cold. This bracing experience had become a daily ritual; his master, Ayub, gave ten lashes to any of the slaves who failed to maintain a sufficient level of cleanliness. John had already felt the sting of the whip once and was not eager to do so again.

  After bathing, John hurried back to his room, pulled on the loose linen pants he had been given, belted his tunic about his waist with a length of rope and headed for the kitchen. Several other slaves were already standing outside, chewing on their breakfast of hot flatbread and talking quietly in a variety of languages. The head slave — a white-haired, black eunuch named Harith — handed John a piece of bread. He stood apart from the others and ate slowly, watching the mountains where the sun would soon rise. His thoughts drifted to Zimat. He had seen her only twice more, both times at a distance. She was unlike any of the women he had known. He thought back to his home in England, and then of his father. His forehead creased; he could not recall the features of his father’s face. It seemed a lifetime since he had last seen him. John added up the weeks and months. It had been less than two years. Less than two years since his life had been shattered.

  ‘Those baths will be the death of me,’ Taur muttered as he joined John. He tore off a piece of bread with his teeth and continued: ‘It’s not natural, all this washing.’

  ‘At least we don’t have lice any more,’ John said. Taur, his mouth full of bread, grunted sceptically. John looked to the nearby mountains, where the sky had lightened to a clear blue. At any moment the bright edge of the sun would rise above the horizon. ‘I should go.’ Taur grunted a farewell, and John entered the kitchen, where he found the servant girl feeding wood into the fire and Basimah kneading dough. She ignored him, and he stood waiting. He had learned better than to speak first. Finally, she looked up from her work.

  ‘You, stables,’ she said, pointing towards the door for emphasis. John sighed. Yakhur — stables — was one of the first Arabic words he had learned. He had mucked them out more times than he cared to remember in the past two weeks. ‘Then water and wood.’

  ‘Aiwa, m’allima,’ John replied. Yes, my lady.

  Yusuf sat cross-legged in the shade of one of the lime trees that bordered the rear wall of his home, his hand on his chin and his forehead creased as he struggled to remember the Frankish for bird.

  ‘ Merde?’ Turan suggested with a sneer. ‘ Putain?’ Ibn Jumay scowled at him. It seemed that Turan’s skill in languages stopped at foul words like shit and whore. Behind Turan, his Frankish slave, Taur, guffawed.

  ‘No,’ Ibn Jumay corrected in Latin. ‘ Merde is what you seem to have between your ears, Turan.’ Turan stared at him uncomprehendingly while Yusuf and Selim laughed. Turan punched Yusuf’s shoulder.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘I said that you need to pay more attention to your studies, Turan,’ Ibn Jumay said in Arabic. He pointed again to the sparrow that perched low in the lime tree above them. ‘Yusuf? Selim? Can you enlighten your brother?’

  Selim shook his head. Yusuf closed his eyes to concentrate. He might not be able to beat Turan when they practised swordplay or wrestling, but at least he could defeat him here. ‘ Un oiseau,’ he said at last. ‘A bird is un oiseau.’

  Ibn Jumay nodded. ‘Good. Now, use it in a sentence.’

  ‘The bird shat on Turan’s head,’ Yusuf said in Frankish. Ibn Jumay and Selim laughed, and Taur joined in, braying like a donkey.

  ‘What?’ Turan demanded. He turned on Yusuf and shoved him, knocking him over. He pounced on top of him and raised his fist. ‘What did you say!’

  ‘Calm yourself,’ Ibn Jumay said, placing a hand on Turan’s shoulder.

  Turan shoved him away. ‘Quiet, Jew!’ Turan’s face was red, his eyes blazing. He punched Yusuf hard, then leaned close. ‘Tell me, little brother,’ he whispered. ‘What did you say?’

  John strode along the side of the villa towards the kitchen, a stack of logs cradled in his arms. After weeks of hard labour, his arms no longer burned with each load of wood he carried. As the work became easier, he began to reconsider his plight. The Saracens fed him well; indeed, it was the best food he had ever eaten, a far cry from the flavourless meats, black bread and boiled vegetables he had grown up with. And he was treated with respect, if not kindness. The Saracens were not as he had expected.

  John was entering the broad space behind the villa when he heard shouting from the trees on the far side of the courtyard. Yusuf, the boy he had met while trying to escape, was pinned to the ground beneath a young man. And not just any man. As John drew closer, his eyes widened in recognition. The thick build, dark hair and broad face with a scraggly adolescent beard: it was the Saracen who had killed Rabbit.

  ‘You bastard!’ John growled. He dropped the wood and, fists clenched, headed straight for the man. He was only a few steps away when the young Saracen looked up, and his eyes widened in surprise. John raised his fist to strike, but then someone slammed into his side, knocking him from his feet and landing on top of him. John managed to roll on to his back and found himself staring into the face of Taur. ‘What are you doing?’ John roared. ‘Let go of me!’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Taur demanded. ‘If you touch him, they’ll kill you.’ He grabbed John’s arm and twisted it painfully behind his back as he rolled him over. ‘I’m saving your life,’ he whispered as he pulled John off the ground, holding him immobile.

  Rabbit’s killer had risen to his feet. His face was mottled red and he had a murderous look in his eye. ‘Kalb!’ he spat in Arabic and then punched John hard in the stomach. John doubled over, but Taur pulled him back upright. ‘Kalb!’ the man snarled again as he swung out and caught John in the jaw, snapping his head back.

  ‘Turan, waqqif!’ a voice called out. John looked up to see Ayub striding towards him. Ayub went to Ibn Jumay, and the two exchanged words in Arabic. Then Ayub turned to John and spoke in Latin. ‘Take off your shirt.’ While John pulled off his tunic, Ayub drew his sword and cut a long branch from one of the lime trees. ‘Face the wall.’

  John stood with his hands against the wall. He gritted his teeth as Ayub began to thrash him with the branch. The rough bark bruised and cut John’s skin. After ten blows, he cried out in pain, unable to hold silent. Ayub stopped, and John slumped to his knees.

  Ayub stood over him. ‘You are a slave, property. I have control over your life. Never threaten one of my family again. If you will not obey, then you will be broken, like a horse. If you cannot be broken, then you will die. Do you understand?’

  John looked to Rabbit’s killer, Turan, and then back to Ayub. ‘Yes, m’allim,’ he lied.

  Chapter 5

  NOVEMBER AND DECEMBER 1148: BAALBEK

  John raised the scythe and its curved blade flashed against the midday sun before beginning its downward arc, cutting the stalk of wheat off at the base. John straightened as he placed th
e wheat in the heavy woven basket slung over his shoulder, stuffing it in amongst the hundreds of other sheaves. Then he bent down and grasped the next stalk, the last on the row. He swung down, and the sheaf of wheat came free in his hand to join the others in the basket. With a sigh of relief John eased the basket to the ground and dropped the scythe. He straightened and reached around to touch his back, which was still tender from the whipping he had received. As he stretched, he turned to look out over the twelve rows he had just cut. Where once there had been a sea of golden wheat nodding in the cool breeze, now there was only dark soil dotted with cut-off clumps, stubble on the face of the earth. In the distance other fields of wheat still swayed in the wind, and tiny figures moved through them, their scythes flashing in the sunshine. Past the fields rose the walls of Baalbek, and further still, towering grey clouds loomed over the craggy mountains, promising rain for the first time in months.

  John stared at the distant peaks, calculating for the hundredth time his chances of surviving a trip over them. Ever since his encounter with Turan, he had been hiding food under his sleeping mat, in a hole he had dug in the earth floor of the slaves’ quarters. He had managed to steal a waterskin and some rope from the stables. He could use the wool blanket he slept with for warmth in the mountains. With another waterskin and a little more food, he would be ready. Getting out of the villa would be easy. As for the city wall, it was built to keep people from getting in, not out. It would be lightly guarded at night, and he could lower himself down with a rope. With any luck, he would reach the mountains before Ayub’s men ran him down. Then, he would have to trust in God to make it to a Christian town before he ran out of food and water. But escape was for the future. John had business to finish first. Before he left, he would kill Turan. And before that, he would have to finish with this accursed field.

  John gave a final stretch, groaning in relief as he arched backwards, arms stretched over his head. Then he shouldered the basket once more and began the next row. He was half done when he heard the rumble of horses’ hooves. He rose to see Ayub riding towards him, flanked by three of his men. As they drew closer, John saw that they had been hunting; a spotted leopard lay draped over the back of Ayub’s horse. John lowered his scythe and bowed as Ayub reined in before him.

  Ayub looked to the harvested field and then back to John. ‘You work well, slave. You outpace my other workers. Remind me: what is your name?’

  ‘John, m’allim.’

  ‘Juwan,’ Ayub said, mispronouncing John’s name as all Saracens did. ‘I have a task for you, a reward for your hard work. I leave this afternoon for Damascus. Run to the stables and prepare four horses. If you have them saddled and packed when I return from inspecting the fields, then I shall give you one dinar.’ A dinar was a gold coin. It could buy John enough food and water for the long trek to the kingdom of Jerusalem. ‘If you fail,’ Ayub added, ‘you shall receive ten lashes. Go!’

  John shrugged the heavy basket off his shoulders and began to run towards the city. ‘Juwan, stop!’ Ayub called. John skidded to a halt and turned. Ayub was pointing to the basket of wheat. ‘Do not leave my tools and grain in the field for the thieves. Take them with you.’ Ayub spurred his horse off into the fields, followed by his men.

  John ran back and grabbed the scythe. Then, with a grunt, he lifted the heavy basket. Gritting his teeth as the weight settled against his sore back, he set off for Baalbek at a jog.

  ‘Of thee did I dream while spears flashed between us, and of our blood full deep did the ashen shafts drink,’ Yusuf read, his lips moving soundlessly. He sat against the wall in the shade of the lime trees, a fat book of poetry perched upon his knees. His father was out hunting and Turan had disappeared somewhere, probably practising swordplay with his Frankish slave, Taur. Yusuf had taken advantage of their absence to enjoy a rare moment alone with the Hamasah, a book of poetry that Ibn Jumay had lent him. ‘I know not — by Heaven I swear,’ he continued reading, ‘this pang, is it love-sickness, or wrought by a spell from thee? If a spell it be, then free me from my heartache. If some other thing, then none of the guilt is yours.’ He closed his eyes and repeated the poem aloud from memory. He was just finishing when he heard a woman’s voice raised in a high-pitched, muffled cry. His eyes flashed open and he cocked his head. But he heard only the rustle of leaves in the lime tree.

  Yusuf closed his book and stood. The cry had come from the direction of the slaves’ quarters, and Yusuf headed that way. The slaves’ common room was empty, the slaves having gone to work in the house or fields. All save one. Taur was leaning against the closed door of one of the private rooms, his bulging arms crossed over his chest. Yusuf stopped before the towering Frank.

  ‘What are you doing there?’ Yusuf demanded.

  ‘This is my room.’

  ‘Where is your master?’

  ‘Gone to town.’

  ‘Why didn’t he take you with him?’

  Taur shrugged. ‘Ask him when he returns.’

  ‘I will.’ Yusuf was turning away when he heard shouting from the room behind Taur. ‘ Stop! Stop!’ It was Zimat’s voice, shrill and panicked. ‘Allah forbids this!’ Yusuf moved to open the door, but Taur blocked him.

  ‘Out of my way, slave!’

  Taur did not move. ‘You cannot enter. My master forbids it.’

  ‘I thought your master was in town.’ Yusuf stepped close and looked the Frank in the eye. ‘If you do not step aside, I will beat you. And do you know what will happen if you strike back? Have you ever seen a man stoned?’ Taur’s eyes flicked to the side, betraying a trace of fear. ‘Move!’

  Taur shook his head. ‘Do your worst, little one.’ Behind him, Zimat screamed, then her cry was cut short.

  Yusuf reacted immediately. He kneed Taur hard in the crotch. As the Frank bent forward in pain, Yusuf brought the heavy book of poetry up, catching him in the face. Taur’s nose exploded in a fountain of blood. Yusuf dropped the book, shoved him aside and kicked the door open.

  Turan stood at the far side of the room, his back to Yusuf and his leather riding breeches down around his ankles. He had Zimat pressed up against the far wall and had torn her tunic down the front, revealing one of her breasts. Blood ran from Zimat’s lip. When she saw Yusuf, she gasped and tried to cover herself. Turan turned, and his eyes widened.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Yusuf demanded. ‘She is your sister!’

  ‘My half-sister. And this is none of your business, little brother,’ Turan snarled as he pulled up his pants. ‘Leave!’

  Yusuf looked past Turan to where Zimat now sat crouched on the floor, sobbing. ‘I will not. And if you do not let her go, I will tell Father.’

  ‘You will tell no one!’ Turan growled as he crossed the room to Yusuf. His face was flushed and his eyes were bloodshot. His breath reeked of alcohol. ‘Remember, little brother, I saved your life. I can take it, too.’

  ‘Do what you will to me, but leave Zimat alone.’

  ‘I will do as I wish,’ Turan said and shoved Yusuf hard, sending him tumbling backwards out of the doorway to land hard on his back. Turan was on him immediately, kneeling on his chest. Yusuf squirmed and held up his hands, trying to ward off the blows as Turan began to punch at him. A blow slipped through, and Yusuf’s face exploded in pain as Turan’s fist slammed into his right eye. A second later, Turan’s other fist connected with Yusuf’s mouth.

  ‘ Akh laa!’ Turan cursed, shaking his hand. He had cut his knuckles on Yusuf’s teeth.

  Yusuf took the opportunity to wriggle away. Turan moved to get back on top of him, and Yusuf kicked out, catching his brother in the face. Turan fell back, and Yusuf scrambled to his feet. He could feel his right eye beginning to swell shut, and his lip was split. He stood unsteadily as Turan got to his feet, spitting blood.

  ‘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.