The mate manacled him to five feet of oar and said, “Row as the others do and when they do, or the oar itself will break your neck!” With those words of tender consideration, he stamped away down the aisle between the benches, bending low because the whole space was only four feet high, and disappeared up through a hatch into the realm of sunlight and fresh air.
The boss could certainly learn a thing or two about ventilation, Matt decided, and wondered if he’d smell as badly as the others by the time they reached Port Said. He looked around, picking out human forms in the gloom, and wondered how men could be so muscular and still so emaciated.
Then his gaze took in the glowing yellow eyes and the furry brown body wedged into a cranny in the side of the ship.
“You certainly must be able to find a more comfortable way to travel to the east,” Balkis said, and at his look of alarm to the slaves in front and in back of him, she said, “Be not anxious, I have cast a sleep over them, not that they needed much aid.”
Matt decided his new apprentice had some ability after all.
“Can you not find a safer way to travel?” Balkis repeated.
Matt grinned, as much as he could with numb lips, and shook his head.
“Can you not talk?” the cat asked with anxiety.
Matt shook his head and made a cawing sound to prove it.
“That could be troublesome.” The cat fluffed herself, unnerved. “Well, would it interest you to learn where your captors went?”
Matt nodded, and his eyes gleamed in the gloom as he fantasized revenge.
CHAPTER 7
“The two went their separate ways,” Balkis reported. “When they came to a tavern, the foreigner gave the thug half the money they had from selling you, and that half has probably rolled down his throat in the form of ale already.”
Matt nodded agreement; she knew the type. Just what kind of a past had this cat had, anyhow? He raised his eyebrows in question.
“The foreigner wound his way through the alleyways till he found a cellar where he knocked, spoke some words in his senseless tongue, and was admitted,” Balkis said. “Before the door closed I heard men’s voices chanting, and somber and off-key they seemed. I squeezed through where a piece of board was missing and descended some stairs to a pagan temple, ill-lit by rushlights. At least, I would have thought it a temple, but it had no idol—only a cavity in the back wall where no light fell, dark as the deepest night. Nonetheless, the men there seemed to be praying to it. An odd lot they were, three in dark blue robes, one with a hat and two with headbands. Behind them knelt a dozen or so men of every kind, fat and prosperous, skinny and poor, tough and mild, and soft-handed and work-hardened. Most, I think, were sailors, or had been. Almost all were like your captain and the foreigner who sold you.”
Matt scowled. It sounded as though the high priest of the barbarians had managed to open a branch office in Merovence, and he didn’t like the sound of that at all.
The boat lurched, the slaves came awake, and Balkis disappeared. A man came walking down the aisle lashing everyone on the back. The sting of the lash was enough to shock, not to injure, but its pain still caught Matt by surprise.
Matt grasped his oar and sat up straight, smarting from the lash, trying to channel his anger into rowing, and privately swearing that he would one day decorate the back of the slavemaster with his own whip.
A drum began to beat and the slaves began to shout, counting as they swung their oars. Matt imitated them as best he could, but he was out of sync at first, and his oar must have clashed against someone else’s, for it jumped in his hands and rammed him in the stomach. Swearing without consonants, he took firmer hold and forced himself to bend forward, then lean back, in unison with the rest.
Slowly, the ship moved away from the dock. As it came into open water, the beat accelerated. Matt found himself gasping and decided he should have considered his entry into slavery a little more carefully.
Out the ship moved into the evening sea, heading southeast, and Matt consoled himself with the thought that he was, at least, safe from ambush and assassins, for nobody would have thought to look for him there.
Tafas bin Daoud rode at the head of an army that filled the plain. He eschewed the usual signs of rank—no canopy, only his battle-standard; no band of musicians capering before him with a droning of pipes and rippling of harps, only a marching drum slung between two horses and sounding the tempo of the procession—though a trumpeter rode nearby, ready to sound signals to all who could hear him. His raiment, although it was rich, was not of cloth-of-gold or any other sort of awe-inspiring luxury. No, his robes and turban were of the finest cotton, died the purple of murex, but were withal a soldier’s clothes, and would both shield him from the sun and withstand the strain of battle. His one concession to rank was his snow-white mare, so that all might see at a glance where the emir rode.
This was especially important for his brother emirs, so they might know where to send their riders for battle-orders. They were distributed throughout the host, for they rode at the heads of their own armies. They had chosen Tafas their leader without demur, for his battle-genius was legendary already, though he was not yet thirty. If he thought to exploit that position after the war was won, well, they knew how to deal with an upstart quickly and thoroughly. Not a one of them doubted that the boy, though a mighty strategist, was still incredibly naive. After all, when he gave Allah the credit for winning his battles, he really meant it.
A plume of dust rose from the plain, growing taller as it came toward them. “Your pardon, Emir,” Tafas said to the Emir of Algiers, with whom he had been discussing the barbarians’ style of charge, and turned to one of the officers beside him. “Send a dozen riders to escort he who comes.”
“My lord, I shall.” The officer turned to snap commands to the men behind him. They galloped off. Their column of dust met and swallowed the plume, then swept back toward them.
Tafas held up his hand, and the advance stopped.
The scout drew rein and all but fell off his horse. “Hail, lord! I have seen the barbarian horde!”
“Tell me of them,” Tafas said, his face bland.
“They are of many nations, lord, and they filled all the earth that I could see from my hilltop! They surrounded a plateau atop which camped the Caliph’s army!”
Tafas saw the implications immediately. “If you bring me this news, one of the khan’s scouts is even now telling him of our approach.”
“They will be ready for battle when we come in sight,” said his aide heavily.
“They will not wait,” Tafas said with total conviction. “When he hears of our approach, the khan will leave a force large enough to hold the Caliph where he is, and will ride to conquer Damascus before we come.”
A murmur of shock went through all the leaders who rode near him, but the scout said, “We are a day’s ride from Damascus, and he is three days!”
“Be sure that his men will ride like the wind,” Tafas said.
“Praise Allah that we are all mounted, even the spearmen and archers!” said his aide.
The Emir of Algiers nodded heavily. “You were wise to insist on that, Lord Tafas.”
“I thank you, my lord,” Tafas said, but he was clearly preoccupied with the problem at hand. “Bid all to canter half a mile, then trot half a mile, so that we may pace the horses but still ride as fast as the horde, or faster. We must be in Jerusalem by this time tomorrow!”
When the ship set its sea anchor for the night, the slaves were able to rest a little. Matt sagged on his oar, his body one huge ache, and was almost too weary to notice how well his translation spell was paying off. The rowers spoke a variety of different languages—Berber, Algerian, Arabic, and Farsi, the language of the Iranians. Matt could even hear a few men talking in the Latrurian dialect and the Ibilean, and several of the slaves were conversing in Hebrew. The pirates were very democratic—they didn’t care who they captured or bought.
Any doubts Matt mig
ht have had about his captors’ profession were settled the second day out, when there was a sudden flurry of activity overhead, feet running to and fro, then the drumbeat picking up until the slaves were rowing as hard as they could and he was so breathless he was seeing spots. Above, the captain was shouting, “To starboard, to starboard! Faster, faster! We almost have him!”
Suddenly, there was a jarring crash, and several of the oars on the starboard side shot back through their holes. Two caught their luckless rowers in the belly; one cracked under a slave’s chin, breaking his neck. Matt barely managed to duck as his oar jolted out of his hands and slammed toward his head. He concentrated on staying out of its way and tried to keep its swings from hitting the men in front of him. Then the oar behind him cracked into his head, and he missed the rest of the battle.
The overseer’s lash jolted him back to consciousness, howling, “Sit straight! Push the butt of your oar out!”
Matt did, fighting a headache as big as the sea. The broken oar disappeared; then a new one poked through. Matt stared.
“Seize it!” the overseer snapped.
Matt heard the thongs of his whip whistle up, and he grabbed the new oar before the man had a chance to bring them down. He realized other pirates must be outside in a rowboat, pushing replacement oars through.
A blacksmith stepped up and cut open the manacles that held the dead rowers.
“You new men!” the overseer snarled. “Haul those corpses out and throw them to the sharks! Then back you come, for these will be your places now.”
The newcomers hesitated. With a shock, Matt recognized them as Latrurians, and one of them was middle-aged and dressed in expensive-looking red robes. The merchant must have been traveling with his cargo, and the pirates were no respecters of persons.
The blacksmith pounded new rivets through the manacles, shackling the sailors and their supercargo to their oars and benches. Matt sent up a quick prayer for the merchant—between the shock of capture and his being somewhat out of shape, he might not last long at the oar.
Above, he could hear the captain ordering half a dozen of his crew to take the captured ship to Tripoli. That was good news—if the ship were still whole, more of the crew might have survived. In fact, that would explain why the captain could send only half a dozen men—enough to browbeat the merchant’s crew, who would no doubt be shackled to their stations, too.
His headache throbbed, and not until the lash streaked fire across his back did he realize it was the drum beating, not his pulse. He bent his back to the work and heartily wished he’d decided to fly. He wondered if it were too late to call Stegoman.
The people of Damascus ran up to the walls to cheer as the North African army rode up to the Holy City. The gates swung wide, and Tafas set the example by waving and smiling. The other emirs followed suit, and their men imitated them. Grinning and calling out greetings, the army rode in.
The cheering slackened as the people began to realize just how many soldiers there were. They seemed mightily relieved when most of the riders dismounted outside the walls and pitched camp.
Within the palace, Tafas was already in earnest conference with the governor of the town.
“The civilians may stay, of course,” he agreed, “though I do not doubt we will press them into service on the walls.”
The governor frowned. “It has been long since these tradesmen have served in an army.”
“They will be of little use, I agree,” Tafas said, “but better than nothing. They must begin training tomorrow morning, and the whole town must begin to eat and drink sparingly.”
The governor nodded, face dark. “This will be hard on them—but we shall make it clear that the barbarians would be harder still.”
“They would indeed. Any who wish to leave, my men shall guard for a day’s ride away.”
“Pray Allah that all shall wish it!”
They did. Criers went out into every street and alley, telling the whole populace what they could expect during the siege, and what their fates would be if the horde unthinkably won. By morning all the civilians had packed their valuables, loaded their carts, and lined up at the gate to wait for dawn. The sun rose, and the train of civilians rolled out. Soldiers fell in on each side of the caravan to guard them for the promised day’s ride. Couriers had already gone ahead to plead for sanctuary from other cities. Only a thousand men remained within Jerusalem, and they marched on the palace in a body. Warned by a sentry, the governor came out to meet them. “What means this assembly?” he called.
All the men bowed, and the oldest, a stocky man with grizzled hair and beard, called out, “We wish to share our city’s fate, my lord! All here have ridden as soldiers except the youngest, men in their late teens who wish to learn. We shall join your army, if you will have us!”
The governor grinned and said with pride, “Glad I am to have you. Now it can never be said that the men of Damascus all ran when the invader came. Sit down upon the ground and wait—my officers shall come to give you weapons and begin your drill.”
The order went out for the soldiers to enter the town, to take whatever housing they could find, but not under any circumstances to steal or defile the residences in any way. Tafas also made it clear that when they had beaten the barbarians and ridden out of the city, every house should be as they had’ found it, only cleaner. Mindful of the punishments the Koran imposed, the men took his orders seriously. Most of the soldiers found shelter. The few remaining set up tents in public squares that had formerly held bazaars. When the muezzin called the faithful to evening prayer, Damascus was once again full, and only the holes made by tent pegs showed where the army had camped outside the walls the night before.
But in the hills, a quarter of the army were camped unseen under the boughs of trees, small fires smokeless. The soldiers returning from escorting the civilian caravan rode in to join those camps. They spoke softly, laughed even more softly, and waited for the barbarians to surround the city.
When the prayers were done, Tafas bin Daoud stepped forth before his men on a balcony of the palace. “Here we are, and here we shall stay,” he called out, “until the invader has been banished!”
The army roared approval.
Tafas raised his hand and looked up to heaven, his face solemn. “May Heaven be my witness! I swear that I shall stop these barbarians or die in the attempt!”
A buzz of awed conversation answered him as the men realized for the first time how close they were to death. Then, faces firmed, brows darkened, the soldiers raised their hands and looked up to heaven to bear witness as they shouted the same oath their leader had.
Tafas beamed down upon them and called out, “Many of us will die, but we shall stop the barbarian here, then chase him back whence he came! We who die will be the most blessed, for we will surely waken in Paradise!” His fist punched high into the air and he shouted, “Death to the invader, freedom for Islam, and Paradise for us!”
The men stared, spellbound, for he seemed to swell, to grow, to become something more than a mere man. Once again he was the Mahdi; once again, they realized, they had enlisted in a holy war.
Then all their fists punched high and they shouted, “Death to the invader, and Paradise for us!”
● ● ●
At last the drumbeat slowed and the overseer commanded, “Ship oars!”
With groans of relief the slaves heaved their oars out of the sea, pushed forward until the handle was near the side of the ship, and lowered them. Matt followed suit and could feel the huge blade jar into whatever device held it in place, out of the way of heavy water traffic. A few minutes later the whole ship slowed abruptly, pitching the slaves forward, but the old hands were ready for it and braced themselves on overhead beams. Matt, not being an old hand, slammed into the small of the back of the man in front of him.
“Watch out, you landlubber!” the man snarled in Hebrew.
“Sorry,” Matt answered in Merovencian, but it came out as an apologetic mumble
—he still couldn’t move his lips and tongue enough to form words.
“Oh, mute, are you?” the Jew said, softening. “Well, you know what happens now, lad, after we ship oars. Brace yourself and hold your seat!”
“Mmm-mmm-mm!” Matt nodded and slid back onto his bench.
“You always so kind to dumbies, Jew?” sneered a neighboring oarsman in a pidgin dialect made up of all the oarsmen’s languages.
“Our God teaches us to be merciful to the unfortunate, Moor,” the kind one retorted. “I thought your Koran said something about alms-giving.”
“Well, yes,” the Moor conceded, “but that’s money.”
“Oh, you have money?” The Jew shrugged. “Myself, I have no coins—but I can at least give a little kindness.”
Matt’s heart warmed to the man. He hoped he’d be able to find him again, after he got out of this.
He did sooner than he thought. The ship docked with a jar that shook his molars—that was what the Jew had meant by saying “You know what comes now,” and Matt hadn’t. He’d braced himself, though, thanks to the man’s advice, so he was sitting straight when the blacksmith came down the row, striking off the shackles of half a dozen slaves—those captured at sea, and one or two others besides.
“This one, too,” the overseer said, pointing his whip at Matt.
“Why?” The blacksmith frowned. “He’s just learning his trade.”
“Captain says he can make a nice profit off him, and buy two for the price.” The overseer shrugged. “Myself, I wouldn’t think he’s worth that much, but Captain says some people will pay through the nose for a mute.”
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