Frustrated, I look up. Keres are gathering! Their wings flap like great leather rags in the sky. I remember their appearance at Dorylaeum—are we about to face another battle? Or could they be omens of further deaths from starvation? We have so little food: provisions from Antioch, let alone our supplies from Normandy and Saxony, are long gone.
The Keres’ behaviour changes. They swoop low and watch our camp activities, then move away, as though something more interesting might be happening inside Maarrat’s sand-coloured walls. Strapping my leather pouch to my back, I grab my bow and arrow, and head for Luca’s tent. He’ll want to know about this.
Fabric rustles, and Luca’s head appears. ‘Are you all right?’
I aim my bow at the sky. ‘Keres.’
I fire. My arrow grazes one of them. It screeches, swooping down at me. Its black mouth is open and its sharp teeth glisten. It reeks of decay.
Luca runs at it, sword raised. The Keres precipitately changes direction and flees, letting out a demonic shriek. The other Keres join it in a great cacophony and soar back over Maarrat.
Have Luca and I scared them away?
Luca slides his sword back into its sheath. ‘Did the book tell you they were here?’
‘I went outside for light to read by and saw them.’
‘Perhaps the book was showing you.’
We walk back to check. Once again, the book is open to the page where the prediction about Thanatos’s charm in Jerusalem faces the map of the Holy Land.
‘Look!’ I say. ‘It’s changing!’
While we watch, a line of black ink dots progresses across the map from Maarrat to a lake to our east. The book seems to move in my hands. More words appear.
The Keres can wait. This is the closest you will ever be to the saltpans at Lake al-Jaboul and the safest your journey there can ever be.
‘It wants us to leave now for salt.’
Luca nods, grimly. ‘It’ll take twelve days to walk that far. Then we have to walk back. But the pilgrims will be here for at least one moon. We can make it if we leave soon. First thing in the morning, we’ll tell Mattiolas.’
Luca
The next morning, I find Mattiolas outside his tent, polishing his sword. He senses trouble brewing as surely as the Keres did last night. And he’s annoyed too.
‘There’s to be another meeting,’ he says. ‘Before noon. Syria maddens people. Raymond has changed his mind about going straight to Jerusalem. He wants to attack Tripoli first, and be made king there.’
‘He’s obsessed with being king. That’s what maddens him,’ I say. But I’m not sorry for the delay. Suzan and I need time to find those ingredients. Tripoli, like Maarrat, will lock its gates and put up a fight. Pilgrims will have to lay siege there as well as here. Several moons—a whole season—could pass before Raymond is ready to leave Maarrat and Tripoli and push onwards to Jerusalem. A season we can use.
‘I came to speak to you and Serafina,’ I tell Mattiolas.
‘She’s gone down to the river.’ He looks up. Suzan has joined us, carrying the pouch and ready to leave. ‘What is it?’
‘We need to say goodbye for a while. I need you to look after Serafina.’
‘Of course I will. But you’re being mysterious.’
‘I wish I could explain. We’ll take Orestes. Your horse isn’t tough enough to carry you and Serafina. She can ride Potestas.’
Mattiolas laughs suddenly. ‘You don’t need to explain. You and Suzan want time alone together.’
Suzan seems about to protest, but she’s interrupted.
‘Luca! Mattiolas!’ Serafina, her hair damp, has run up from the river. ‘Something’s wrong! People have gone mad!’
We all run down to the water. A group of pilgrims has gathered there, taking soiled clothes to wash. But their clothes have been abandoned, some items stretched on the grass to dry and others still partly immersed in water. The pilgrims have instead formed a crazy band, singing and dancing and banging on makeshift drums made from tin pans.
‘Is their morning wine too strong?’ Serafina asks.
Crowds of demons shriek and reel around the unsuspecting group, following random pilgrims and aping their movements.
Bohemond, the great Prince, laughs with his guards. He’s watched over by multiple demons including Philargyria, a demon of greed, who follows him everywhere. Another demon, in the form of a beautiful girl, leans languidly over Bohemond and whispers something in his ear. Bohemond turns to the young women dancing near him and pulls the nearest into his arms. The two fall to the grass in a passionate embrace, ripping at each other’s clothes.
The beautiful demon and Philargyria grin at each other. Their persuasive powers are growing.
‘I’ve never seen him act like that before,’ Serafina says.
While I watch, Philargyria walks up to one of Bohemond’s guards and takes hold of his arms, waving them around in a wild dance. The man doesn’t care. He laughs.
‘It’s the rich-man’s jig!’ he cries to the knights gathering around him. ‘And I’ll be rich soon too! Jerusalem is mine! I feel it in my bones!’
‘It’s greed that excites them,’ Serafina realises. ‘Not wine.’
‘Greed lets demons in,’ Suzan adds.
Serafina must assume Suzan is speaking metaphorically. ‘One sin or another,’ she agrees.
Bohemond strips off his tunic. His rippling muscles and battle scars are exposed. He rushes to the river. The women with him also tear off their clothes and run.
Beside me, Suzan blushes and looks away. She talks quickly to hide her embarrassment. ‘There’s nothing we can do. Nothing yet. We should probably leave.’
Demons continue with their strange games while we make sure Serafina and Mattiolas are safely back at camp. The increasing power of demons renews our focus: we need to get that salt.
Before noon, Suzan and I prepare Orestes with the provisions we’ll need for a couple of sevennights and ride away.
As we travel, we collect more herbs and spices. Many miles from camp, we peel strips of fragrant bark from cassia trees for cinnamon, and pull the stems of withered yellow flowers, seeking ginger roots below.
Night catches up with us while we’re soaking roots in boiling water to stop them sprouting. We throw our capes on the ground beside our small fire, with horse blankets propped on sticks as makeshift tents, and make a meal of fresh berries and strips of dried salt pork. Orestes snorts into his grain bag and Suzan opens my book in her lap.
‘Everything looks the same as this morning. Even the Keres…What was that?’
I jump to my feet. ‘What?’
‘I heard something…there!’
Suzan is right. Now I also hear footsteps, not far off. And soon, the deep laughter of at least four men.
Suzan closes the book. Has it been dishonest with us? Have we walked into trouble? Instinctively, I draw my sword.
Four shadows emerge from the night, belonging to four bearded men in long white robes. Their heads are wrapped in checked scarves. ‘Bedouin,’ Suzan murmurs quietly. ‘Some used to pass through Goreme.’
The tallest approaches me, speaking words I don’t understand. Then he strikes my shoulder with his flattened palm.
‘Hey!’ I step backwards. ‘Suzan, what’s he saying?’
‘He said…’ Suzan frowns.
The Bedouin man looks at her and repeats his mysterious statement. Suzan blushes darkly. I can see her added colour, even by firelight. The four men all laugh.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘They don’t want to talk to a woman.’
‘But what is he saying?’
‘He says…’ Suzan blushes again. ‘He says he will give you six camels—’
I don’t understand. ‘Why would he give me any camels?’
‘—if you let him have me,’ Suzan continues.
‘What?’ I wave my sword.
The four men laugh even louder.
‘Don’t,’ Suzan tells me. ‘I thi
nk they’re joking.’
Another man speaks.
‘He wants to know who we are,’ Suzan explains, before speaking to the men in their own language.
The tall man points at the crude tents we’ve fashioned and says something.
‘They say our tents are funny,’ Suzan explains.
I didn’t need her to translate that.
The men and Suzan continue speaking for a while. The only words I really understand are al-Jaboul. Suzan says it first, then the tall man repeats it. I hope she isn’t giving away too many of our plans.
The mood changes. I realise Suzan is no longer frightened. She also laughs. ‘They’re heading to a feast on the other side of Lake al-Jaboul,’ she tells me. ‘They say we can travel with them.’
‘I don’t—’ I begin.
‘This could be what the book wants us to do,’ she says. ‘These men could be the safety it promised. We do need to go in that direction, Luca. And I’m not sure refusing will be safe.’
‘You say they’re going to the other side of the lake?’
‘They saw us earlier today. They already guessed we’re heading that way,’ Suzan says.
‘We didn’t see them.’
‘They live here, Luca, they’re better at hiding than us.’
While she’s speaking, the four men encircle our fire and sit. Each carries a leather waterskin. The tallest sips from his before passing it to me.
We have our own water, but it looks like it would be rude to refuse. And rude could be dangerous. I hold the waterskin to my face…
…and gag. The liquid smells like sheep vomit.
The men watch my reaction and erupt into laughter.
‘What is it?’ I demand.
Suzan and the men speak some more. ‘He says it’s something like wine’—she begins—‘no, something fermented like wine. But…it’s camel milk. That’s it. Fermented camel milk.’
I sniff the waterskin again. The smell reminds me of Anna’s cultured cream. I tip a little onto the back of my hand. It’s white and sparkles slightly. Finally, I’m brave enough to take a sip. It tastes better than it smells—like sour, milky ale.
The men laugh again. One grabs handfuls of sand and extinguishes our fire, before heaving himself to his feet.
I’m on the defensive again. ‘What’s he doing?’
Suzan looks puzzled too, and asks something. The tall man reaches for one of our makeshift tents, picking up the blanket and roughly tossing it over Orestes.
Orestes bucks, startled. The men and Suzan keep talking. Finally, she turns to me. ‘They want us to join them. They mean now.’
I’m not sure. The Bedouin men might be familiar enough with the area to risk walking in the dark after vespers, but I’m worried they’re leading us into a trap. I’m worried they are the trap.
But they’ve made up our minds for us. The tall one passes me Orestes’ reins and beckons us to follow.
‘We have no real choice,’ Suzan says.
She’s right. We walk on for a while. Suzan exchanges occasional words with the Bedouin. Soon, another campfire comes into sight, and larger tents. ‘This is their campground,’ Suzan explains.
I carry the blankets from Orestes and the tall man guides us to a tent made from coarsely woven canvas.
‘We’re walking a long distance tomorrow,’ Suzan says. ‘Sleep for a while, Luca. I’ll stay outside and keep watch.’
‘We’ll take turns,’ I offer. ‘Wake me if you need to.’
I’m surprised by how easily I do sleep. It seems like no time until I’m waking up, and keeping watch while Suzan rests, then sleeping again. Finally, in the morning light, Suzan and I walk together to the Bedouins’ campfire. Being Saracens, they have rites of their own that are only vaguely like the matins prayers we’re familiar with.
They must be used to moving quickly. They soon have their tents rolled and their meagre belongings strapped to the sides of a cluster of camels. The men tie their scarves around their necks and faces, much like I raise the top of my tunic to protect my face and neck from the sun. The men lead, their camels behind them loosely linked with ropes, and we follow.
For a few hours, we seem to be walking into the sun. Then it passes overhead and away from us. This is good. Lake al-Jaboul is nearly directly to our east. The Bedouin are not leading us in the wrong direction. Later in the afternoon, we approach a large, rocky mountain. The men have mostly been quiet, but one of them stops and talks to Suzan.
When he’s finished, she explains their conversation to me. ‘We won’t set up a camp tonight. We’ll keep going. There’s a place over there where we can sleep.’
We set off again, and don’t stop until we reach the dark open mouth of a mountainside cave.
The Bedouin tie their camels to a nearby shrub. I do the same with Orestes, then we follow the Bedouin through the small opening. Two of them pause to light armfuls of rushes and make torches.
‘Look up!’ Suzan exclaims beside me. ‘Bats!’
Following her finger, I see hundreds of tiny bats, each no larger than a mouse, clustered around the broken rocks above us. The flickering light of our torches doesn’t disturb them at all.
‘It looks like they’re asleep,’ I say.
One of the Bedouin speaks, then Suzan turns to me. ‘He says they’re…I don’t know the word. It’s like a long sleep. Like their bodies shut down.’
‘I’ve seen hedgehogs hibernating,’ I say. ‘But in winter, when it’s cold. It’s very warm in here.’
‘It sounds like the same thing. Except warm.’
We lay blankets on the rocky floor for comfort and rest in the cave’s warmth. Gradually the torches go out.
‘This darkness reminds me of my mother’s cell,’ Suzan says, sleepily.
Overhead, eerie in their stillness, the bats hibernate, hanging by their feet.
In the morning, we rise and walk again towards Lake al-Jaboul. For days, we follow our guides through the desert. I begin to trust them, but it would make no difference if I did not. We could only escape by leaving while they sleep. And one of them is always awake.
After more than a sevennight, a vast white shimmer appears in the distance. I’ve picked up a few of their phrases by now, so when one of the Bedouin nudges me and speaks, I know what he means. We’re nearly at Lake al-Jaboul. The Bedouin have given us speed. A journey that might have taken us twelve days has been accomplished in far fewer.
The grass under our feet thins as we near the whiteness, and the breeze becomes briny. The lake gradually emerges from its haze, flat, sparkling and fringed with rings of salt. A group of Saracens works some distance to the south, shovelling mounds of salt into bags. The water we approach is inhabited only by a group of strange pink birds.
‘Flamingos,’ Suzan says. ‘My mother described them. I didn’t know they’d be so beautiful. Or so funny! Look at their long beaks! Some stand on one leg!’
She’s right. The flamingos are funny. We watch them, until our Bedouin guides begin to speak. ‘They say they’ll leave us here,’ Suzan translates. ‘They say, thanks for the company.’
I still don’t really understand. ‘Do they want money?’ I ask, reaching for my coin purse.
Suzan shakes her head. The Bedouin turn and walk away, their camels following obediently behind them. Soon, they shrink to small silhouettes against the shoreline. This is at least one encounter with Saracens that has been peaceful.
‘They wanted to be helpful,’ Suzan says. ‘They didn’t ask why we want salt. Even though we’re here, walking through their country.’
I’m mystified by their generosity. ‘Maybe they don’t know how violent pilgrims can be.’
‘But they must know. Everyone at Maarrat knew. They locked themselves inside before we arrived.’
‘Brother Bonaccorso might say God sent the Bedouin to help us.’
Suzan is thoughtful. ‘Perhaps.’
We fill our sacks with salt and walk back to a grove of olive trees, where
we prepare to sleep before our long walk back to Maarrat.
I watch as Suzan closes her eyes. For the first time since encountering the Bedouin, we are alone. The night air is warm and sweet. All I would need is the slightest sign from her, and I would pull her to me. But she sighs and sleeps, perhaps dreaming of Mattiolas, and remains as chaste as she must have been in her convent.
I lie awake until waves of longing carry me away.
Without guides, it takes nearly two sevennights to ride back to Maarrat. We pass no more Bedouin, or none we notice. They could be just nearby, blending into the desert, like our guides blended in until they decided to make themselves known. We would never see them. Finally, late one morning, our Maarrat campsite comes into view from a hillside just outside town.
A deserted campsite, as it turns out! Pilgrims should be gathering for noon prayers, but although the tents and pavilions are still there, no people are visible, and the flags and banners have all been removed as though for battle.
‘What…?’ Suzan begins.
‘The pilgrims attacked,’ I say, pointing at Maarrat’s city walls. Pilgrim banners are visible, high over the ramparts amid clouds of smoke. Above them, Keres circle. We’ve been gone for an entire moon. Once again, a siege has ended while we were away. ‘They’re inside Maarrat!’
CHAPTER 18
Seven moons
MAARRAT
Suzan
Luca guides Orestes to the city walls. Reaching a field where some horses have been fenced in near a pond, we dismount. ‘We need to find out what’s going on,’ Luca says. ‘I’ll leave Orestes here.’
We walk together down a dusty road to the city entrance. Last time we were here, it was tightly sealed. But now Maarrat’s gate, made from strips of iron and timber bound together, is pushed open, exposing a small square beyond and the city’s winding cobblestone roads.
No one stands guard. Instead, a pile of old clothes is pushed against the wall. Luca moves towards it first, then turns to me, alarmed. ‘Don’t look!’
The Book of Whispers Page 22