Ayub turned to John and spoke rapidly in Arabic. ‘This is Basimah, the mistress of the house,’ Ibn Jumay translated. ‘You will work for her until you are strong enough to work in the fields. You are to do exactly as she says. Under no circumstances are you to speak to her, or to any other members of the household. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’ John looked to Ayub. ‘Yes, m’allim.’
Ayub nodded, and he and Ibn Jumay departed, leaving John alone to face Basimah. She stood with her hands on her hips, frowning at him while a fat fly buzzed around the room. ‘Mayy,’ she said at last. John shook his head to indicate that he did not understand. ‘Mayy,’ she said more loudly and kicked a wooden bucket so that it slid across the floor to him. ‘’Ajal,’ she added as John picked up the bucket. ‘’Ajal!’
John hurried outside, bucket in hand. Did mayy mean water, he wondered, or perhaps milk? He looked about, but saw neither a well nor any animals. The space behind the house was a broad expanse of sun-baked earth, closed off on three sides by a high wall. Small trees filled with bright-green fruit grew along the wall opposite John. Buildings lined the wall to the left and right, their red-tile roofs slanting upwards to within four feet of the top of the wall. John started to lug the bucket around the left side of the villa, then froze. If he climbed atop one of those buildings, he would be able to clamber over the wall.
John carried the bucket over to the nearest building and placed it upside down on the ground. He looked around to make sure that no one was watching. Then, standing on the bucket, he jumped and managed to get his chest and arms on to the tile roof. His injured shoulder screamed with pain, but John gritted his teeth and pulled himself the rest of the way up. He lay on the hot tiles, gasping for breath. He had not realized how weak he was. He pushed himself up and crawled to where the roof met the wall. He rose and peered over. A dusty city of narrow streets and closely packed buildings stretched away before him, running down to a square, where there stood a huge Roman temple, its tall columns dwarfing the surrounding buildings. Beyond the temple, the streets sloped down towards a thick wall. Beyond the wall lay a green valley, bordered on both sides by towering mountains. John noted the position of the morning sun, over the mountains to his right. That meant that the kingdom of Jerusalem lay to his left, over the far mountain range.
‘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.