The muqanni stood looking down at me.
“I should have listened,” I said. “I should have been more careful.”
“Next time.” The muqanni smiled. “Now gather the tools, we are wanted in the next valley over.”
That is how I became a muqanni. So next time you tell me that I work you too hard, or that my lessons make no sense, remember this - my apprenticeship was ten times worse than yours.
After Londinium
The ashes of the city were still warm underfoot. They felt gentle against Luigsech’s skin, until she trod on something broken beneath them - a snapped bone or shard of pottery. Then she was reminded of the destruction they had brought to pass here, unleashing their rage upon the people living within the invaders’ walls.
She had thought that vengeance would help her feel better about losing Seisyll, but she was still as lost as she had been for months. The ashes were meant to hold something, anything to soften the blow. That was why she had come back here, axe still in hand, while the rest of the army formed up behind their queen and marched on. But the ruins were too empty, too quiet to bring any comfort. The black stain of ashes would forever scar this land, but it could not drive away her grief. Walking here just left her feeling hollow inside.
The wind blew, lifting ash from the base of a fallen pillar. Perhaps that was what she needed to do, to imitate the wind and dig deeper.
Kneeling, she sank her hands through the ashes, flinging handfuls aside. The air around her becoming a grey cloud, until her fingers touched upon something strange and angular.
Carefully now, she brushed the ashes from its surface, revealing a fallen statue. The man it depicted had been handsome before they tore him from his plinth, smashed chunks from his face and scoured his building with fire. What remained still had a stark beauty, with the remnants of smooth lines and perfectly carved muscles.
Tears ran down Luigsech’s cheeks. She had never seen such a breathtaking work of art, and she had played a part in destroying it. How many more things of beauty had they ruined? She had wanted to create balance for Seisyll’s death, but all she had done was bring more loss.
She pulled off the fur in which her chest was wrapped and used it to brush the ashes from that beautiful, broken face. Then she worked her way along the prostrate form, flinging aside the ashes that covered his belly, his pelvis, his legs.
At last she came to his feet and saw what he stood on. Another body, this time a rendition of one of her own people, trampled underfoot. She didn’t know if it was the way he was carved or just her fond memories, but this man looked so much like Seisyll that she wept again.
This time the tears were hot with anger, her breath coming fast in her rage. It sickened her to think that people capable of such beauty should use it to depict the terrible things they had done. She felt ashamed that she had wept for these people, ashamed and angry.
Snatching up her axe, she pounded at the smug face of the Roman, smashing away what remained of his beauty in a frenzy of blows.
She had helped to ruin something wonderful, and it had all been worthwhile.
Ruina Montium
I was not one of those who feared the coming of the Romans. I had heard the same stories the others had, of these fearsome fighting men who were conquering the world. We knew they were the reason Carthaginian traders didn’t come up into the hills any more. But I had heard about the lives people lived under the Romans, about stone houses and heated floors, soft beds and softer clothes. I wanted that life.
When they came it was for our hills. Hardly surprising - they were beautiful hills.
There had always been a few men digging gold from the rocks or finding it in streams, trading it for tools and cloth. But the Romans longed for gold like a fisherman longs for oysters, and they were willing to smash through the hard shell of the mountains to find it. That meant they needed more than a few men, and when they came looking for labourers I eagerly signed up.
“How will this lead to gold?” I asked Trassus, the scarred old soldier in charge of our labouring team. He had us digging a broad pit on a hillside, while others dug the channel that would fill it with water.
“You’re a curious bastard, aren’t you?” He grinned. “Always with the questions.”
“I want to learn.” I grinned back. “One day I want your job, and then after that his.” I pointed to the supervisor who stood in his toga high on the hillside, directing construction of an aqueduct. “I want gold and soft bedding, and how else will I get that? So tell me, how will this lead to gold?”
Trassus laughed. “You’ll see.”
I frowned as I ran a hand through the wilting wheat. Hidden in dusk’s long shadows, the vegetables in my other field were smaller than in previous summers. I had been so busy at the mine, I had not had time to feed and water them properly. Even my three pigs looked skinny and discontented.
A hollow, tingling feeling rose in my chest. What was I doing, letting my livelihood dwindled like this?
Tightening my fist, I felt the solid edges of silver coins - more this week because I had worked so long and hard. Coins that could buy me more food if I needed it, as well as fine jewellery and a soft bed.
The fields could wait. I needed sleep, so that I could work even harder the next day, and earn even more coins.
The gate opened and water rushed from the basin we had dug, roaring down the channel and into a narrow cavity dug by other miners.
“We call it ruina montium.” Trassus bellowed to be heard. “The wrecking of mountains.”
As water rushed into the cavity there was a cracking sound, and then another. Rocks tumbled down the hillside.
“But how?” I asked. “It’s only water.”
Trassus hadn’t heard me, too busy shouting at another labourer. So instead I hurried down the hill, to get closer and see how it worked. I thought I heard him shouting something behind me, but the noise obliterated his words.
The ground beneath my feet trembled in anticipation of the gold to come. The sound of cracking stone echoed around the valley, and I looked up to see a chunk of the hillside, already swept clear of soil, breaking away.
I screamed and ran as rocks flew. One hit me in the side. I stumbled, fell, rose again just as a boulder crashed past to my right.
“Stupid Iberian bastard!” Trassus grabbed me and dragged me uphill. Behind us, half a hillside broke away and crashed to earth in a rush of escaping water.
Terror turned to relief as I realised how close I had come to death. A few last small rocks landed around us. Gold gleamed from them, and I knew that we would be well paid tonight.
But as I looked up at the red wound in the rocky hillside, water dripping from its surface like blood, I felt that same hollow tingling I’d experienced at the sight of my withered crops.
“No slacking.” Trassus pointed to where another basin was being dug. “You want to get paid, don’t you? Earn those silk sheets you’re always talking about?”
I nodded and followed him, my legs heavy, eyes still on the hillside.
How much did I want soft bedding now?
Cousin Isaac is Missing
I open the door and step out into a cold spring day, my cloak wrapped tight around me, flattening my woollen dress. Pulling up the hood, I cover my hair and cast my face into shadow, hoping that I will blend into the crowd. It is safer that way.
This close to the castle our streets are cobbled. Perhaps that is one of the things that people resent about us. Perhaps not. I am not sure I will ever understand the why of it, though I will always know that the resentment is there. Fear and suspicion are my constant companions, hanging at my shoulders day and night. More so now, since cousin Isaac is missing.
I have to go to the market. Not far, but far enough. Past the corner where they beat my father two summers back. Beneath the shadow of St Peter’s. I will be quick, buy the things I need and hurry back home. Tensions have been high. None of us linger in the streets.
My footste
ps echo along Weavers Lane. As I emerge into the marketplace a gust of wind snatches back my hood, exposing me to the eyes of dozens of traders and shoppers, even a guard down from the castle in his chainmail and tabard. I feel like they are all staring, even after I pull the hood back up and lose myself among the stalls.
No-one has seen Isaac or his family in days. His house is two streets from mine, on the edge of the Jewish quarter.
“They say that a gentile has occupied the house already,” mother told me last night. She does not say who “they” are, but it sends a shiver down my spine. Was Isaac chased away, like when Sarah fled to Yarmouth and from there across the sea? Or are they dead, their bodies flung in a ditch or onto a fire, like those we lost in the riots?
I do not think we will ever know.
The fishmonger has always been good to me. He does not try to raise his prices, and he gives me my change. But he is fast about it today, and does not look me in the eye. I’m sad, but relieved. The sooner I am out of sight the better.
Except that this is my city too. My family have lived here for generations. A stubborn anger grabs hold of me. Why should I skulk in shadows or hide in my home on a clear, bright day like this? I fling back my hood and, instead of walking home, head toward the hill on which the castle stands. I love the view from up there. It makes me proud to live in Norwich.
My city.
Almost immediately I feel eyes on me again and I regret revealing myself. But I have started walking up the hill now, and will not give up.
Glancing around, I see a young man following me. There is an intensity to his face that makes me walk faster, past the staring eyes and whispering voices.
Heart racing, I turn down a narrow, deserted street. The view can wait. I want to be home. But a waggon is blocking the far end of the road, and as I turn around to face the men following me - there are two of them now - a single thought fills my mind.
Cousin Isaac is missing.
I back away, find myself pressed against the waggon. Timber walls loom over me to left and right, and the men are nearly upon me. I close my eyes, fighting back tears.
“You’re Isaac the Jew’s cousin, aren’t you?” His voice is gruff.
I nod. There is no point denying it.
“We…” The man hesitates. “We were sorry to hear about Isaac. He was a good man. His wife and Tom here’s were friends. It’s a shame what happened, but…”
I open my eyes to see that he is shrugging. He looks away embarrassed.
“Good man,” his friend agrees.
They both turn and walk away.
The waggon at my back shifts. The driver is moving on, and I can leave this way. I take a deep breath and pull my hood forward, hiding my tears as well as my hair.
Cousin Isaac is dead. I, by God’s will, am still alive. And in some small way, this is still our city.
Unto the Breach
The ditch below the town walls was a dense stew of mud and blood. The remains of the fallen protruded from the filthy mass of wet straw which bridged the gap – pale fingers outstretched as if digging their way out of Hell. Sir Richard de Motley couldn’t remember the name of the town – something unpronounceably French – but he was determined that those men’s sacrifice should not be in vain.
“Onward!” He charged gloriously toward the wall, shield in one hand, one end of a ladder in the other. Arrows whistled down around him and the small band of brave men who had chosen, despite the caution of their commanders, to follow him in his assault.
“Bad idea.” Adam, Sir Richard’s squire, helped him raise his ladder, one end sinking into the mud, the other resting against the battlements above their heads. “This is all a terrible idea.”
As more ladders were raised, the first of the men fell, skewered by arrows or struck down by rocks. Sir Richard raised his shield to protect his head and began climbing as fast as any man could while wearing chainmail.
Amid the screams and thuds of falling bodies, Sir Richard heard a clang and a curse as a crossbow bolt skimmed Adam’s pot helmet.
“Can’t we come up with something smarter?” the squire pleaded. “I know you like charging in, but-“
Sir Richard ignored him and leapt over the battlements, knocking a Frenchman from the wall as he landed. He drew his sword and parried a blow, then began to advance along the wall, cutting down his enemies while more followers reached the battlements behind him.
Now that he was up here he could see defenders in the streets below, hurrying toward them from the fighting on the far side of town. Soon his band would be completely outnumbered – a perfect opportunity for great deeds of heroism.
“To the citadel!” he exclaimed, pointing toward the fortress at the heart of town.
Two English soldiers fell from the walls as arrows rained down. The men were not following him toward the enemy with the eagerness he had expected. What was the matter with them?
“Perhaps the gatehouse?” Adam pointed toward a pair of towers two hundred yards along the wall. “We could let the rest of the army in.”
“And give them all the glory?” Sir Richard scoffed.
“And ensure that they owe you every one of their victories.” Adam was glancing around anxiously, fingers white around his halberd.
Sir Richard thought of the whole army cheering his name.
“To the gatehouse!” He turned and charged back along the wall.
With enthusiastic cries the men followed him, archers pausing to provide cover as they left behind mass of enemies now ascending the walls.
The door to the gatehouse was solid and bolted from within. It held firm as Sir Richard slammed his shoulder against it. Rocks again fell upon him and his men – less men than he remembered – and the floor was slick with blood. Boiling oil hit the man beside him, who stumbled screaming and fell from the battlements.
“This is…” Sir Richard didn’t have a word for what he was feeling. It was cold and heavy in his stomach, and drained away the thoughts of glory that had spurred him on.
“Terrifying?” Adam’s halberd was covered in blood, as was his face. It was impossible to tell how much was his.
But fear was not for Sir Richard. Of that much he was sure, no matter what this feeling was.
With a great cry, the enemy soldiers charged toward them along the wall, and Sir Richard felt his spirits rise again. A blocked door was a hindrance, but war, war was glorious.
“Huzzah!” He rushed past his men and met the enemy head on. He hacked one man’s head from his body, knocked another off the wall with his shield, ran the third one through. Faced with his sudden, furious onslaught, and with no way around him, the enemy hesitated.
Sir Richard grinned, passed his shield to Adam and grabbed a two-handed mallet dropped by one of the enemy. As both sides stood uncertain, he raced back along the wall, swinging the mallet with all his might.
The gatehouse door gave way beneath the blow, flying back with an almighty crash. The two men inside took one look at the furiously grinning and blood-soaked Sir Richard. Then they ran, leaving the windlass that operated the gates unattended.
“Adam!” Sir Richard bellowed, turning to rejoin the fighting on the walls. “Open the gates.”
“Yes, Sir Richard!” Emerging from the melee with unseemly haste, Adam set to the mechanism.
Shield and sword once again filling his hands with their familiar shape, Sir Richard marched out onto the balcony, through pools of blood and across scattered bodies.
Just as he’d expected – a glorious day.
By Starvation or by the Sword
Desperate hunger filled Marcel’s belly. It gnawed at the corners of his mind, dragging his attention away from the scribing tasks his master had given him. Being able to read, write and understand five languages, these were useful skills for a peacetime merchant’s apprentice. They were near useless in a town under siege, with no trade to be had and no food left to buy.
He set aside his quill. Master Pierre had fallen aslee
p again. The time had come to leave his work and go in search of food.
It was a quick walk from the marketplace to the walls. The streets were quiet, people staying indoors during the English bombardment. Most of the stones hit the town walls, but some fell inside, and flying splinters of broken building could be as deadly as a direct hit.
Reaching the walls, Marcel glanced up. His brother Jean was on guard, almost looking like a soldier in his chainmail. Marcel whistled and Jean winked down at him.
He slid into the narrow gap between a stinking tannery and the walls. There, hidden inside a heap of old masonry, was a narrow tunnel. The end outside town lay concealed behind a stand of blackberry bushes, known only to the two brothers.
Fast as an eel, Marcel slid through the gap and emerged into the bramble patch. The berries hadn’t ripened yet, and he would need to go further abroad to find food.
Keeping a wary eye on the distant English camp, Marcel scrambled low across a muddy field, scurried along behind a hedge, and emerged into a wood half a mile outside of town. Apples hung from the higher branches of the trees, untouched by the besiegers.
Marcel would go a long way for an apple. Without pause, he clambered up the nearest tree.
From among those high branches, he heard a voice below.
“Get down here, you little bastard.” The man spoke French, but with an ugly English accent. He had a bow pointed at Marcel, an arrow drawn on the taught string.
Trembling with fear, Marcel descended. His mind was full of the terrible things he had heard about the English. The towns they had burned, the people they had killed, the fact that they had tails hidden under their tunics like demons in disguise.
There were a dozen men in the woods, all armoured and armed with swords and bows. The leader grabbed Marcel by the throat and shoved him against a tree, bark clawing at his back.
A Mosaic of Stars: Short Stories From Other Worlds Page 7