by Yury Nikitin
* * *
It was the second week of Oleg’s breaking stone and dragging heavy boulders. He gained some muscle, though he still looked gaunt and bony compared to the others. He was a welcome workmate: never shirking, ready to take the worst part of it, eager to help.
Once, on his way back to the barn, he heard a man swear and a lash whistle. A big man was crucified on an oaken cross, his clothes torn off and scattered about the yard. A Saracen in a huge green turban, naked to his waist, with sugar-white teeth bared in malice, was lashing the poor man with delight: spinning the lash over his head, hurling it down with a whistle, each slash meant to break the skin as deep as possible. The poor man’s back was lined with crimson weals. Bitter buzzy flies were dropping on it to lick his blood and ichor before a new lash.
The foreman nudged Oleg as he walked. “A nobleman,” he said with a frown. “They’d have the likes of us nailed, and he’s just bound! Held for ransom.”
“Who is he?” Oleg asked aloofly.
“A knight errant. Or maybe just a returnee from the Holy Land. Not every knight is as lucky as our Baron! Many get their mouths watered and that’s all. Now they’d love to get home alive, but will scatter their bones on the way…”
They were the last to enter the barn. Guards prodded them with thick ends of spears and barred the door. Thomas Malton, Oleg recalled. An arrogant knight. A boy in the appearance of a man grown, his body in its prime, but his soul still a bud.