Eagle (12 page)

‘You, slave! What are you doing there?’ John turned to see a dark-haired boy staring up at him from the ground. ‘Come down at once!’ the boy demanded in passable Latin. John turned away and placed his hands on top of the wall, preparing to hoist himself over. ‘You will never escape that way,’ the boy called up to him. ‘Even if you get past the city guards and across the valley, you will never survive the mountains. There is no water and the nights are freezing.’

John hesitated. He knew the boy was right. And besides, what did he have to return to? He had fled his home in England with blood on his hands. The Franks had betrayed him. There was nowhere for him to go. There was nowhere he belonged. He turned and scrambled back to the edge of the roof, then dropped down. He landed a few feet from the boy, who was olive-skinned and thin, with deep, intelligent eyes. ‘I am Yusuf,’ he said. ‘What is your name?’

‘John.’ How, he wondered, could this infidel child speak Latin?

‘Ju-wan?’ the boy sounded out, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘A strange name for a man. It means perfume in our language.’

‘It’s John.’

He looked from John to the roof above. ‘I do not advise trying to escape, Juwan. If my father catches you, he will have you stoned to death as an example to the other slaves.’

John felt the blood drain from his face. ‘I was not trying to escape,’ he lied.

Yusuf clucked his tongue. ‘Careful. The punishment for a slave who lies is twenty lashes.’ He picked up the bucket and
held it out to John. ‘My mother will be wondering where you are. There is a well that way, near the stables.’ He pointed to the front of the villa.

‘You are not going to punish me?’

‘Not this time.’

‘Thank you.’ John took the bucket and headed towards the front of the villa. When he looked back, the boy was gone.

The sun glowed golden red, like iron fresh from the forge, as it set behind the distant mountains. In the dying light John trudged across the courtyard, a stack of wood in his aching, trembling arms. Sweat ran down his face and stung his eyes, for even this late in the day the searing summer heat remained, the air burning his lungs and the ground hot through the leather of his sandals. He moved slowly, every step bringing a stab of pain in his right leg, where he had been injured. His muscles were weak after more than two months of inactivity, and his labours that day had brought him to breaking point. His hands were raw from a morning spent pulling bucket after bucket from the well, and then staggering back to the kitchen, the pail hanging awkwardly between his legs. His lower back ached from mucking out the stalls that afternoon. And he had lost count of the trips he had made to replenish the stack of wood in the kitchen. He gritted his teeth and pushed on through the pain and exhaustion. Escape might not be possible, but the Jewish doctor had said that if John worked hard, he might some day buy his freedom. He clung to that hope.

John trudged into the kitchen to find that Basimah and the kitchen slave were gone. Head down, he headed straight for the wood pile. As he was lowering the wood, his tired arms gave way and the logs fell and rolled across the floor. He began to gather them up when behind him he heard shouting from somewhere inside the villa. He turned to see a girl – no, a young woman – storm into the kitchen. She had high cheekbones, a delicate nose, full lips and flawless, golden-brown skin,
the colour of the desert John had passed through on the way to Damascus. Her dark eyes were filled with tears, which she wiped away upon seeing John. He stared, his mouth open. She was more beautiful than Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, or even than the Madonna in the painting that hung behind the altar of his church in Tatewic.

‘Are you well?’ John asked finally. The girl straightened and then looked down her nose at him. She snapped something in Arabic. John spread his hands. ‘I don’t understand.’ He took a step towards her.

The girl frowned and stepped back. She pointed imperiously towards the door. ‘Barra. Barra!’

John did not move, and the girl’s eyes widened. Her posture softened as she tilted her head to examine him. John tapped his chest. ‘John,’ he said and smiled. ‘I am John.’ The girl smiled back, her teeth dazzlingly white against her brown skin.

‘Zimat!’ It was Basimah, who strode into the kitchen and began to scold the girl in Arabic. John went to restack the wood next to the fireplace. When he had finished, he turned to find that the girl had gone. Basimah stood staring at him, her arms crossed and her mouth stretched in a tight line. Finally, she turned away and went to the cauldron over the stove. She scooped a ladleful of thick, steaming stew on to a plate, added a piece of flatbread and shoved the dish across the table towards John.

‘Râh,’ she said, nodding to the plate. John took it. Basimah nodded and pointed out the door. ‘Râh!’ John moved away slowly, expecting to be called back any second, but Basimah let him go. Outside, night was falling rapidly now that the sun had set behind the mountains. A cool breeze brought the scent of ripening fruit. John stumbled through the darkness to the slave quarters, already crowded with a dozen men hunched over their evening meals. Most were dark-skinned Africans, although there were one or two native Christians amongst them. They all eyed John with ill-disguised hostility as he grabbed a mat
from near the door and picked his way past them to a space in the far corner. He threw down his mat and sat with a grateful sigh, his back against the wall.

John sniffed at the food he had been given. It had a sweet, pungent smell that was unlike anything he had ever known. He tore off a piece of bread and poked at the stew, revealing tender chunks of lamb amongst the lentils. Using the bread, he scooped some of the stew into his mouth. ‘’Sblood!’ he whispered, his mouth aching as it filled too quickly with saliva. He greedily ate the rest of the stew and had hardly finished when he drifted into an exhausted sleep, the plate still on his lap. For the first time in many nights he did not dream of blood and battle, of Rabbit or of his brother. Instead, he dreamt of the beautiful girl, of Zimat.

That night, Yusuf ate his stew in silence. The family meal was a tense affair, with no one speaking. It should have been a joyous occasion. Mansur ad-Din, the emir of Baalbek and father of Yusuf’s friend Khaldun, had visited that afternoon and reached an agreement with Ayub that Zimat would marry Khaldun when he came of age. It was a good match, but Zimat did not look happy. Her eyes were red from crying. Basimah had pushed for the marriage, but she too was upset. She snapped at the kitchen servant when she brought the dishes – this one was too cold, that one not adequately spiced – and ate with her brow furrowed, her eyes burrowing into Ayub. As for Ayub, he avoided her gaze. Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke. ‘Turan, tell me of your slave. He serves you well?’

Turan nodded. ‘I call him
Taur
’ – ox – ‘because he is so strong. We practised sword-fighting today. He is good, but not as good as me,’ Turan smirked.

Ayub turned towards his wife. ‘And you, Basimah? What of the young Frank?’ Yusuf looked up.

‘Sell him,’ Basimah said. ‘I do not wish to have him in my household.’

‘Why is this?’ Ayub demanded.

‘He is a savage, a Frank,’ Basimah said, her voice trembling with passion. ‘He was alone with Zimat today. He saw her unveiled.’ Zimat blushed.

‘He is a slave,’ Ayub said. ‘There is no shame in this.’

‘But he looked at her brazenly, like a free man,’ Basimah insisted. ‘Can you imagine what might have happened?’

‘I will beat him,’ Turan said suddenly, his eyes on Zimat. ‘How dare this Frank look at my sister!’

‘I do not need you to protect me, Turan!’ Zimat snapped.

‘Enough!’ Ayub looked to Basimah. ‘The slave is only a boy,’ he said gently. ‘Not all Franks are savage.’

‘Is that what you will tell Khaldun and his family? Our daughter has been promised and she must be protected.’

Ayub nodded. ‘You are right. Zimat, you will stay away from this slave, and you must remember not to show yourself outside the house unveiled.’

‘But I was in the house!’ Zimat protested. ‘And why am I being punished? I did nothing wrong!’

‘You will do as I say,’ Ayub said with finality. He turned back to Basimah. ‘Did the Frank work hard?’

Basimah nodded grudgingly. ‘Like a mule. I thought he would work himself to death.’

‘There, you see. He will be a good slave. Treat him with kindness, Basimah. Do not seek to take your revenge on this boy. He is not the one who killed your family, who—’

‘Do not speak of it,’ Basimah snapped. She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘I will treat the boy well.’ She looked to her daughter. ‘But if he so much as touches Zimat, he will die. I will see to that.’

‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!’ John awoke to the strident call of the muezzin, beckoning the faithful to morning prayer from his post in a minaret high above the city. Reluctantly, John rolled over and opened his eyes. Most of the other slaves were already gone. Through the open door,
John could see that the clear night sky had begun to take on the silvery blue of twilight. Dawn was only a little while off. John squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his rough wool blanket more tightly about him. Nearly a month had passed since his first day of work, and the nights had turned cold. He huddled there for a moment longer; then, with a sigh, he threw back the blanket and sat up. Basimah expected him before the sun rose above the hills. If he were late, then she would work him harder.

He rose, stretching his arms high above his head to loosen his aching muscles, and then headed outside in only his sandals and tunic, shivering against the early morning chill. Taur, a taciturn Norman slave who had been purchased at the same time as John, was just emerging from his private room, which he warranted due to his position as servant to Ayub’s oldest son. Without a word, they fell in beside one another, heading towards the front of the villa. They walked past the stables and turned into a large room built against the wall. The floor was tiled, and on the far wall water flowed from a small opening and splashed into a pool, from where it would flow underground to the fountain in the entrance way of the villa. Other slaves were already busy washing themselves. They were all circumcised, and when John and Taur pulled off their tunics a few still pointed and laughed. Taur growled at them, and they fell quiet.

John took a clay jug from a shelf on the wall, filled it, and dumped the water over his head, gasping at the shock of the cold. Then he picked up a bar of soap and began to scrub himself resolutely. When he was sure he had removed every last trace of dirt and grime, he took up the jug again and rinsed, shivering in the cold. This bracing experience had become a daily ritual; his master, Ayub, gave ten lashes to any of the slaves who failed to maintain a sufficient level of cleanliness. John had already felt the sting of the whip once and was not eager to do so again.

After bathing, John hurried back to his room, pulled on the loose linen pants he had been given, belted his tunic about his
waist with a length of rope and headed for the kitchen. Several other slaves were already standing outside, chewing on their breakfast of hot flatbread and talking quietly in a variety of languages. The head slave – a white-haired, black eunuch named Harith – handed John a piece of bread. He stood apart from the others and ate slowly, watching the mountains where the sun would soon rise. His thoughts drifted to Zimat. He had seen her only twice more, both times at a distance. She was unlike any of the women he had known. He thought back to his home in England, and then of his father. His forehead creased; he could not recall the features of his father’s face. It seemed a lifetime since he had last seen him. John added up the weeks and months. It had been less than two years. Less than two years since his life had been shattered.

‘Those baths will be the death of me,’ Taur muttered as he joined John. He tore off a piece of bread with his teeth and continued: ‘It’s not natural, all this washing.’

‘At least we don’t have lice any more,’ John said. Taur, his mouth full of bread, grunted sceptically. John looked to the nearby mountains, where the sky had lightened to a clear blue. At any moment the bright edge of the sun would rise above the horizon. ‘I should go.’ Taur grunted a farewell, and John entered the kitchen, where he found the servant girl feeding wood into the fire and Basimah kneading dough. She ignored him, and he stood waiting. He had learned better than to speak first. Finally, she looked up from her work.

‘You, stables,’ she said, pointing towards the door for emphasis. John sighed.
Yâkhûr –
stables – was one of the first Arabic words he had learned. He had mucked them out more times than he cared to remember in the past two weeks. ‘Then water and wood.’

‘Aiwa, m’allima,’ John replied. Yes, my lady.

Yusuf sat cross-legged in the shade of one of the lime trees that bordered the rear wall of his home, his hand on his chin and his
forehead creased as he struggled to remember the Frankish for bird.

‘
Merde
?’ Turan suggested with a sneer. ‘
Putain
?’ Ibn Jumay scowled at him. It seemed that Turan’s skill in languages stopped at foul words like
shit
and
whore
. Behind Turan, his Frankish slave, Taur, guffawed.

‘No,’ Ibn Jumay corrected in Latin. ‘
Merde
is what you seem to have between your ears, Turan.’ Turan stared at him uncomprehendingly while Yusuf and Selim laughed. Turan punched Yusuf’s shoulder.

‘What did he say?’

‘I said that you need to pay more attention to your studies, Turan,’ Ibn Jumay said in Arabic. He pointed again to the sparrow that perched low in the lime tree above them. ‘Yusuf ? Selim? Can you enlighten your brother?’

Selim shook his head. Yusuf closed his eyes to concentrate. He might not be able to beat Turan when they practised swordplay or wrestling, but at least he could defeat him here. ‘
Un oiseau
,’ he said at last. ‘A bird is
un oiseau
.’

Ibn Jumay nodded. ‘Good. Now, use it in a sentence.’