by Jack Hight
‘A woman ruling over men!’ Mansur ad-Din scoffed.
‘But a wise woman,’ William countered.
‘ Hmph,’ Mansur ad-Din snorted. ‘Still a woman.’
At that moment, Turan entered with Taur trailing behind him. Both walked stiffly; John guessed they had ridden far that day.
‘Where have you been?’ Ayub snapped at Turan.
‘I was in town. I was delayed by the rain. I apologize.’
‘Apologize to our guests, who you have insulted.’
Turan bowed. ‘My apologies honoured governor, Khaldun.’
Mansur ad-Din, his mouth filled with partridge meat, waved his hand dismissively. ‘It is of no matter.’
Turan sat down, and Taur took up his place next to John. Ayub studied his son. ‘Tell us, Turan. What were you doing in town?’
Turan hesitated, his eyes roving the room as if searching for the answer. ‘I–I was with friends, practising swordplay.’
Mansur ad-Din brightened at this. In his younger days, the governor had had a reputation as a swordsman. ‘My son tells me that you are quite fearsome with a sword, Turan.’
Turan sat up straighter. ‘None my age can best me.’
‘And what of you, young Yusuf?’ Mansur ad-Din asked. ‘Are you also a terror with the sword?’
‘Yusuf prefers books to swords,’ Turan sneered.
Yusuf ignored him. ‘I try to cultivate my mind as well as my body. I believe the two can be equally dangerous weapons.’
‘Well said,’ Khaldun murmured.
‘Indeed,’ Mansur ad-Din agreed. He turned to Ayub and began to speak in a low voice, a signal that the others at the table could talk as they pleased. Soon the room was buzzing with conversation.
John took advantage of the opportunity to whisper to Taur. ‘Where were you really?’ Taur smiled slyly, but did not reply. ‘Surely you were not in town all day,’ John insisted. ‘You were stiff as a priest’s cock when you walked in here.’
‘I cannot say,’ Taur whispered back. ‘My master would kill me.’
‘He doesn’t have to know,’ John offered, but Taur shook his head and refused to speak.
The next morning Yusuf was shaken awake by the mamluk, Abaan. Yusuf looked to the shuttered window in his room. No light filtered through. ‘Your father requests your presence in the interior courtyard,’ Abaan said. He began to leave, then stopped in the doorway when he saw that Yusuf had not yet moved. ‘Now!’
Yusuf rolled out of bed and pulled on his cotton pants, tunic and a brown caftan. He slipped on his sandals and belted his caftan around his waist as he walked down the cool, shadowy corridor to the courtyard. He entered to find his father waiting in the dim predawn light, his arms crossed and his face a blank mask. Turan stood next to him. He sneered at Yusuf, who scowled back. Next to Ayub and Turan was a third man — a Bedouin, one of the nomadic people who wandered the wastes beyond the villages, driving their flocks from pasture to pasture.
The man wore a caftan of rough cotton and a white turban, tied in place with a black ribbon. He was very short, with a thick black beard, beak-like nose and penetrating grey eyes. The man’s mouth was set in a thin line. As Yusuf approached, his father turned to the shepherd. ‘Is this the one?’
The Bedouin’s forehead wrinkled as he examined Yusuf. ‘I cannot be sure. But it was one of your sons, of that much I am certain.’
Ayub frowned and turned to face his sons. ‘Waqar here is the sheikh of his tribe.’
‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan, Waqar,’ Yusuf and Turan said, welcoming him. The sheikh did not reply.
‘Waqar has come to lay a serious charge against one of you,’ Ayub said.
The shepherd nodded. ‘Yesterday, I rose before sunrise and rode into Baalbek with my sons to trade. When I returned that night, I found that my camp had been raided. There were at least two men. They killed one of my goats and raped my young daughter. She was to be married this spring, and now she is worthless. My brother chased the intruders off, and in their hurry they left behind a horse. It bore the brand of Najm ad-Din.’ The shepherd pointed an accusing finger at Turan, then at Yusuf. ‘One of you did this. I demand justice!’
‘Forgive my impertinence, ya sidi,’ Yusuf said to the shepherd, addressing him respectfully as sir. ‘But perhaps it was one of my father’s men who did this terrible crime. The horse alone proves nothing.’
‘It was no man,’ Waqar spat. ‘My daughter swears that the one who shamed her was no older than she.’
‘It was Yusuf!’ Turan burst out. ‘Yusuf and that Frankish slave of his. They must have done it.’
‘He lies!’ Yusuf protested.
‘Silence!’ Ayub roared. ‘You shame me with your childish behaviour.’ He turned to Turan. ‘Explain yourself. Why do you say that Yusuf did this thing?’
‘Because I could not have done it, Father. I was in town all of yesterday. My friends, Idiq and Rakin, will vouch for me.’
‘What do you say to this, Yusuf?’
‘I was with Imad ad-Din yesterday afternoon. I could not have raided this man’s camp.’
Ayub’s mouth set in a hard line as he looked from one of his sons to the other. ‘One of you is lying. Admit your fault now, and I will be lenient.’ Neither Turan nor Yusuf spoke. ‘Very well,’ Ayub said. ‘You will be judged, and judged harshly. I will sell the slave of whichever of you did this deed; he let you commit this crime, which makes him as guilty as you. And whoever did this will marry the sheikh’s daughter and will pay the bride gift out of his inheritance.’ He turned to Waqar, who was smiling at his good fortune; to be connected by marriage to the household of Nur ad-Din was more than he could have hoped for. ‘The local imam, Imad ad-Din is a wise man. He returns from Damascus tomorrow, and I will ask him to judge the case. Tonight, you will be my guest. Tomorrow, you shall have justice.’
Yusuf sat cross-legged on the floor of the dining room and listened as a rooster’s crowing broke the morning silence. Despite the early hour, the room was already full with men who had come to hear his case. The long, low table had been removed to create space for an impromptu court. At one end of the room, Imad ad-Din sat on a pile of cushions, his expression stern. To his left sat Ayub and to his right the Bedouin Waqar, who maintained a permanent scowl.
Yusuf sat before them, with Turan on his left. Immediately behind Turan were the men he had brought as witnesses: his friends Idiq and Rakin, his slave Taur and a bearded man that Yusuf did not recognize. Only John sat with Yusuf. The back of the room was crowded with his father’s men, Abaan at their head.
Imad ad-Din cleared his throat, and Yusuf turned his eyes back to him. ‘The case before us is not clear,’ the imam began. ‘Both of the accused claim to have been in Baalbek when the crime was committed. Today, we shall find the truth of the matter. Turan.’ Imad ad-Din beckoned Turan forward. ‘State your case.’
‘I was in town all of yesterday in the company of Idiq and Rakin,’ Turan said, gesturing to his two friends. ‘My slave and I left shortly after morning prayers. We took two horses from the stables. We returned with two horses in time for the feast. My father saw me there. I could not have done this shameful deed.’
‘I see.’ Imad ad-Din paused, his brown eyes burrowing into Turan, who lowered his gaze to the floor. ‘I have examined your father’s stables. I found a horse there that does not bear the brand of your father. Do you know where this horse might have come from, Turan?’
‘I do not know. Ask Yusuf.’
Imad ad-Din ignored the suggestion. ‘You were in town all of yesterday, you say? Tell me, what were you doing?’
Turan hesitated. His eyes flitted from his father to the floor and back. ‘I was at a tavern.’ Ayub frowned.
‘A tavern?’ Imad ad-Din asked. ‘Which one?’
‘Akhtar’s.’
‘A place of ill-repute, gambling and prostitution,’ Ayub growled. ‘Such conduct does you little credit, Son.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Imad ad-Din said, ‘if Turan was
at Akhtar’s then he could not have also raided Waqar’s camp. Turan, you may sit.’ Turan smirked triumphantly as he took his seat. ‘Idiq, Rakin,’ Imad ad-Din called. ‘Come forward.’ The two young men approached. They were Turan’s frequent companions when he smoked hashish, local boys with wispy facial hair and pimply faces. Rakin stood with his head down and his hands clasped before him. Idiq held his head high and met Imad ad-Din’s gaze. ‘Idiq, do you swear that you were with Turan all of yesterday?’ Imad ad-Din asked.
‘Yes,’ Idiq said confidently.
‘And you, Rakin?’
‘I was with him all day,’ Rakin affirmed in an adolescent warble.
‘And you passed the day at Akhtar’s?’ Both boys nodded. ‘Did you win at the tables?’
Rakin’s forehead creased, and he looked to Turan. Idiq looked equally unsure. ‘We-we did,’ Idiq said at last.
‘How much?’
The two boys looked at each other. ‘Three dirhams,’ Rakin said. ‘Idiq was lucky at dice.’
‘I see,’ Imad ad-Din mused. ‘I notice that you have your purse with you, Idiq. May I see it.’
‘I–I-’ Idiq stuttered.
‘Come, give it here, boy,’ Imad ad-Din insisted. Idiq handed the purse over. Imad ad-Din opened it and shook the contents into his hand. ‘Four fals,’ he said, holding up the cheap copper coins. ‘Where did your winnings go?’
‘Women,’ Turan interjected. ‘We spent them on women.’
‘Silence!’ Imad ad-Din snapped. ‘You were not questioned, Turan.’ He turned back to Idiq. ‘You spent this money on women?’ The boy nodded. Imad turned his penetrating gaze upon Rakin. ‘Tell me about the woman you purchased, Rakin.’
‘She-she was beautiful,’ Rakin stammered.
Imad ad-Din nodded. ‘I am sure. Of what did her beauty consist?’
Rakin stared up to the ceiling, as if he might see a picture of the woman painted there. ‘She had brown eyes-and brown hair-and brown skin. She had very large breasts.’
‘And were they brown as well?’ Rakin’s blush deepened. He nodded. ‘Very well,’ Imad ad-Din said with a frown. ‘You may both sit.’ Imad ad-Din dipped a quill in ink and wrote something, then turned to Turan. ‘Do you have anything to add?’
‘Akhtar, the owner of the tavern, is here,’ Turan said, gesturing towards a thin-faced man seated cross-legged behind him.
The man had thinning black hair, light skin and dark rings under his eyes. His rather gentle features were marred by a cleft lip. ‘He will vouch for my story.’
‘Come forward, Akhtar,’ Imad ad-Din said. The tavern owner unfolded his long limbs and rose.
‘Your Exthellenthe,’ he lisped and bowed to Ayub, who nodded back. Akhtar turned to face Imad ad-Din.
‘Were Turan and his friends at your tavern yesterday?’ Imad ad-Din asked.
‘Yeth.’
‘And what did they do there?’
‘They gambled, thmoked hashish and had women. As usual.’
‘Turan is a regular client?’ Akhtar nodded. ‘And what of this brown girl? The prostitute?’
‘Buthayna,’ Akhtar said. ‘She is from Africa, and she doeth have very large breast-th. You can come to my tavern and examine her, if you like.’
Imad ad-Din grimaced. ‘That will not be necessary. You may sit.’ He turned to Yusuf and waved him forward. Yusuf kept his head up and met his teacher’s gaze. ‘Turan presents a strong case,’ Imad ad-Din said. ‘What do you have to say in your defence, Yusuf?’
‘I was with you, ustadh, all afternoon. Before that, I was in Baalbek with my servant, John, practising swordplay. I could not have done this crime.’
‘John, is this true?’ Imad ad-Din asked, looking to the slave.
John stood. ‘Yes, ustadh. It is as my master says.’
‘He lies!’ Turan spat. ‘The word of a slave means nothing.’
‘That is enough, Turan,’ Imad ad-Din admonished. He turned back to Yusuf. ‘But he is correct. A slave’s word stands for nothing in court. Did anyone else see you practising?’
‘No,’ Yusuf admitted. ‘We practised in the Roman temple. No one saw us.’
‘How convenient,’ Turan snorted.
Imad ad-Din ignored the outburst. ‘And after our lesson, how did you return from the temple?’
‘I rode.’
‘And your servant?’
Yusuf opened his mouth, then froze. The truth was that John had ridden with him because of the rain, but if he spoke true, then it would only condemn him. After all, Waqar had captured one of Ayub’s horses. It would look as if Yusuf and John had raided the camp, then been forced to ride back together.
‘I–I-’ Yusuf stuttered.
‘I saw you and John ride away on the same horse, Yusuf,’ Imad ad-Din said.
‘The case is settled then!’ Waqar burst out. He pointed a stubby finger in Yusuf’s direction. ‘It must have been the young one!’
‘No!’ Yusuf protested. ‘I did not do it.’ He breathed deeply, trying to remain calm. Everything pointed to his guilt: the testimony of Akhtar; Yusuf’s own lack of witnesses; his return with John on a single horse — that was it! ‘I can prove my innocence!’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ Turan spluttered.
Imad ad-Din held up a hand to silence Turan. ‘Explain yourself, Yusuf.’
‘Ustadh, you met me at the temple after afternoon prayers,’ Yusuf said.
‘So?’ Turan interjected. ‘This proves nothing. You could have raided the Bedouin camp in the morning.’
‘On the contrary,’ Yusuf countered. ‘Waqar has told us that he was camped in the mountains, several leagues up the Orontes River. Even had I pressed my horse, it would have taken me from sunrise to nearly midday just to reach Waqar’s tents. Then, if I turned and rode straight back, I would have arrived just in time for my lesson.’
‘I do not understand,’ Ayub said. ‘By your own admission, then, you could have done this crime.’
‘No. Imad ad-Din has said that my slave and I returned on one horse. He speaks true. There is no way that we could have ridden from this man’s camp on one horse and arrived so quickly, much less would we have had time to rape his daughter or to roast and eat a goat.’ Yusuf gestured towards Turan, whose face had begun to turn red. ‘By his own admission, Turan left early and was gone all day. He had more than enough time to commit this crime.’
Imad ad-Din stroked his beard. ‘Very clever, Yusuf.’ Yusuf exhaled in relief, but then Imad ad-Din continued. ‘But this proves nothing. I saw you leave the temple on one horse, but that does not mean that you could not have ridden back from the Bedouin camp on two. And besides, I cannot place your reasoning — no matter how clever — above the word of three men. Do you have anything else to add before I pass judgement?’ Yusuf’s mind raced, but he could think of no way to prove his innocence. ‘Very well,’ Imad ad-Din sighed. ‘Turan, come forward. I am prepared to deliver my verdict.’
Turan rose to join Yusuf. ‘Who is the clever one now, little brother?’ he whispered under his breath.
Imad ad-Din cleared his throat. ‘Yusuf, I find that-’
‘Wait!’ Yusuf interrupted. ‘I have something to add.’ He glanced at Turan. ‘My brother spoke true about one thing: he could not have committed this crime.’
‘What do you mean?’ Imad ad-Din asked, his eyes wide.
Yusuf looked to the floor. ‘I–I cannot say.’
‘Speak!’ Ayub told him. ‘I command it.’
‘Very well.’ Yusuf looked to Waqar. ‘The beauty of your daughter is well known. Turan never would have ridden so far to be with her.’
‘And why not?’ Imad ad-Din asked.
Yusuf took a deep breath. ‘I know my brother. He has no feeling for women.’
‘What!’ Turan cried.
‘He might be interested in the goat, ya sidi, but not your daughter.’
Turan raised a fist and took a step towards Yusuf. ‘You lie!’
‘I speak the truth,’ Yusuf shoute
d over his brother. ‘Turan would never have touched her.’
‘You lying bastard!’ Turan shoved Yusuf, knocking him to the ground and stood over him, his hands clenched into fists. ‘I had the girl! More than once! You are the goat-fucker!’
The room fell silent. All eyes fixed on Turan. His face reddened as he realized what he had said. ‘You bastard,’ he growled at Yusuf. ‘You tricked me!’ He lunged for Yusuf, but Ayub’s man Abaan grabbed him from behind and held him back.
As Yusuf rose from the floor, he looked past Turan to his father, who was shaking his head in disgust. ‘Imad ad-Din, what do you say?’ Ayub asked.
‘Turan has admitted his guilt. Let justice be done.’
‘But Father-’ Turan began.
‘Silence!’ Ayub snapped. He rose and everyone in the hall did likewise. Ayub turned to Waqar. ‘We are brothers now. My oldest son will marry your daughter.’ He placed his hands on the shepherd’s shoulders, and kissed him three times on the lips. Waqar nodded, speechless. There were tears of joy in his eyes.
Ayub turned from Waqar and approached Turan. ‘You disappoint me, my son. Maybe marriage will cool your blood.’ He marched out of the hall, leaving Turan red-faced.
Yusuf leaned close to his brother. ‘Congratulations on your marriage, Brother,’ he whispered, then followed his father from the hall.
Yusuf stood shivering in the courtyard of the villa, his ceremonial white-silk caftan pulled close about him. The winter had been long and hard, and even now, in April, the weather was unseasonably cold. The dozens of guests — men on one side of the courtyard and women on the other — looked miserable as they stamped their feet and blew on their hands while waiting for the wedding ceremony to begin. But none looked more miserable than the groom. Turan stood next to Yusuf, wearing a pure-white caftan, belted with a length of saffron-yellow silk. His turban was also held in place with yellow silk. Last night, at the henna ceremony, the little finger on his right hand had been painted with intricate, swirling patterns in dark brown. His sparse, adolescent beard had been filled out with kohl. He looked every bit the perfect groom, except for the grimace stretched across his face.
A cheer went up from the crowd, and the frown on Turan’s face deepened as his bride-to-be, Sa’ida, rode through the gates of the villa on the back of a camel led by her smiling father, Waqar. Sa’ida was also dressed in white, with only her hands, feet and eyes showing. Her eyes had been outlined with kohl and her hands and feet decorated with henna. Yusuf guessed that she had also used powders to lighten her face, because the skin around her eyes was ghostly pale. Either that or she was simply frightened of what was to come. Indeed, her wide eyes, which were locked on Turan, spoke of something close to terror.