‘You, stables,’ she said, pointing towards the door for emphasis. John sighed. Yakhur — 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.’
‘The bird shat on Turan’s head,’ Yusuf said in Frankish. Ibn Jumay and Selim laughed, and Taur joined in, braying like a donkey.
‘What?’ Turan demanded. He turned on Yusuf and shoved him, knocking him over. He pounced on top of him and raised his fist. ‘What did you say!’
‘Calm yourself,’ Ibn Jumay said, placing a hand on Turan’s shoulder.
Turan shoved him away. ‘Quiet, Jew!’ Turan’s face was red, his eyes blazing. He punched Yusuf hard, then leaned close. ‘Tell me, little brother,’ he whispered. ‘What did you say?’
John strode along the side of the villa towards the kitchen, a stack of logs cradled in his arms. After weeks of hard labour, his arms no longer burned with each load of wood he carried. As the work became easier, he began to reconsider his plight. The Saracens fed him well; indeed, it was the best food he had ever eaten, a far cry from the flavourless meats, black bread and boiled vegetables he had grown up with. And he was treated with respect, if not kindness. The Saracens were not as he had expected.
John was entering the broad space behind the villa when he heard shouting from the trees on the far side of the courtyard. Yusuf, the boy he had met while trying to escape, was pinned to the ground beneath a young man. And not just any man. As John drew closer, his eyes widened in recognition. The thick build, dark hair and broad face with a scraggly adolescent beard: it was the Saracen who had killed Rabbit.
‘You bastard!’ John growled. He dropped the wood and, fists clenched, headed straight for the man. He was only a few steps away when the young Saracen looked up, and his eyes widened in surprise. John raised his fist to strike, but then someone slammed into his side, knocking him from his feet and landing on top of him. John managed to roll on to his back and found himself staring into the face of Taur. ‘What are you doing?’ John roared. ‘Let go of me!’
‘Are you mad?’ Taur demanded. ‘If you touch him, they’ll kill you.’ He grabbed John’s arm and twisted it painfully behind his back as he rolled him over. ‘I’m saving your life,’ he whispered as he pulled John off the ground, holding him immobile.
Rabbit’s killer had risen to his feet. His face was mottled red and he had a murderous look in his eye. ‘Kalb!’ he spat in Arabic and then punched John hard in the stomach. John doubled over, but Taur pulled him back upright. ‘Kalb!’ the man snarled again as he swung out and caught John in the jaw, snapping his head back.
‘Turan, waqqif!’ a voice called out. John looked up to see Ayub striding towards him. Ayub went to Ibn Jumay, and the two exchanged words in Arabic. Then Ayub turned to John and spoke in Latin. ‘Take off your shirt.’ While John pulled off his tunic, Ayub drew his sword and cut a long branch from one of the lime trees. ‘Face the wall.’
John stood with his hands against the wall. He gritted his teeth as Ayub began to thrash him with the branch. The rough bark bruised and cut John’s skin. After ten blows, he cried out in pain, unable to hold silent. Ayub stopped, and John slumped to his knees.
Ayub stood over him. ‘You are a slave, property. I have control over your life. Never threaten one of my family again. If you will not obey, then you will be broken, like a horse. If you cannot be broken, then you will die. Do you understand?’
John looked to Rabbit’s killer, Turan, and then back to Ayub. ‘Yes, m’allim,’ he lied.
Chapter 5
NOVEMBER AND DECEMBER 1148: BAALBEK
John raised the scythe and its curved blade flashed against the midday sun before beginning its downward arc, cutting the stalk of wheat off at the base. John straightened as he placed the wheat in the heavy woven basket slung over his shoulder, stuffing it in amongst the hundreds of other sheaves. Then he bent down and grasped the next stalk, the last on the row. He swung down, and the sheaf of wheat came free in his hand to join the others in the basket. With a sigh of relief John eased the basket to the ground and dropped the scythe. He straightened and reached around to touch his back, which was still tender from the whipping he had received. As he stretched, he turned to look out over the twelve rows he had just cut. Where once there had been a sea of golden wheat nodding in the cool breeze, now there was only dark soil dotted with cut-off clumps, stubble on the face of the earth. In the distance other fields of wheat still swayed in the wind, and tiny figures moved through them, their scythes flashing in the sunshine. Past the fields rose the walls of Baalbek, and further still, towering grey clouds loomed over the craggy mountains, promising rain for the first time in months.
John stared at the distant peaks, calculating for the hundredth time his chances of surviving a trip over them. Ever since his encounter with Turan, he had been hiding food under his sleeping mat, in a hole he had dug in the earth floor of the slaves’ quarters. He had managed to steal a waterskin and some rope from the stables. He could use the wool blanket he slept with for warmth in the mountains. With another waterskin and a little more food, he would be ready. Getting out of the villa would be easy. As for the city wall, it was built to keep people from getting in, not out. It would be lightly guarded at night, and he could lower himself down with a rope. With any luck, he would reach the mountains before Ayub’s men ran him down. Then, he would have to trust in God to make it to a Christian town before he ran out of food and water. But escape was for the future. John had business to finish first. Before he left, he would kill Turan. And before that, he would have to finish with this accursed field.
John gave a final stretch, groaning in relief as he arched backwards, arms stretched over his head. Then he shouldered the basket once more and began the next row. He was half done when he heard the rumble of horses’ hooves. He rose to see Ayub riding towards him, flanked by three of his men. As they drew closer, John saw that they had been hunting; a spotted leopard lay draped over the back of Ayub’s horse. John lowered his scythe and bowed as Ayub reined in before him.
Ayub looked to the harvested field and then back to John. ‘You work well, slave. You outpace my other workers. Remind me: what is your name?’
‘John, m’allim.’
‘Juwan,’ Ayub said, mispronouncing John’s name as all Saracens did. ‘I have a task for you, a reward for your hard work. I leave this afternoon for Damascus. Run to the stables and prepare four horses. If you have them saddled and packed when I return from inspecting the fields, then I shall give you one dinar.’ A dinar was a gold coin. It could buy John enough food and water for the long trek to the kingdom of Jerusalem. ‘If you fail,’ Ayub added, ‘you shall receive ten lashes. Go!’