‘There you are,’ Ibn Jumay said. ‘Now here’s something to ease the pain of your bruises.’ Ibn Jumay produced a clay jar, scooped out a greenish, translucent ointment with his fingers and began to smear it on Yusuf’s face. The ointment created a pleasant cooling sensation, bringing instant relief.
‘What is it?’
‘It is an extract from the aloe plant,’ Ibn Jumay said as he placed the lid back on the jar.
‘Does it bring relief to cuts? Torn skin?’
‘Yes, although it is most effective in dealing with sunburn.’
‘Can I have some?’
Ibn Jumay tilted his head quizzically. ‘What do you need it for?’
Yusuf looked to the ceiling, searching for a plausible answer. ‘For later, if the pain returns.’
‘You are a poor liar,’ Ibn Jumay noted as he handed Yusuf the jar of ointment. He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘You want this for the Frankish boy, I imagine?’ Yusuf’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘Do not worry. I will not tell your father. The young Frank deserves my thanks for saving my best pupil. Tell him to apply a thin layer twice a day. And you will want to give him some of this as well.’ Ibn Jumay produced another jar, from which he scooped out a foul-smelling, yellowish paste, which he applied to Yusuf’s face.
Yusuf wrinkled his nose. ‘What is this? And why does it smell so bad?’
‘The smell is sulphur. It will help prevent infection.’ Ibn Jumay handed the jar to Yusuf. Then he took a long roll of cotton bandages and began to wrap it carefully around Yusuf’s head. ‘Remember: leave the bandage on and do not pick at your wounds, or those scars will never heal.’ Yusuf nodded his understanding. Ibn Jumay rose and opened the door. ‘Now send in your brother.’
Yusuf took the two jars and left the room. Turan was waiting in the hallway, standing stiffly upright. Ayub had whipped him mercilessly for what he had tried to do to Zimat, and Turan’s backside was so torn and bloodied that he could not even sit without pain. He sneered when he saw Yusuf. ‘How’s your face, traitor?’
‘It’s your turn,’ Yusuf said tersely, ignoring the barb. He tried to walk past, but Turan stepped in front of him.
‘I saved your life at Damascus, and you betrayed me to save a slave, a Frank. I will not forget what you have done, little brother.’ He pushed past Yusuf and entered the room where Ibn Jumay waited.
‘I would to it again, big brother,’ Yusuf whispered to himself as he turned and headed down the hallway towards his room. He was passing the closed door of his father’s bedroom when he heard the loud voices of his parents. Yusuf caught Turan’s name, and curious, put his ear to the door.
‘What would you have me do?’ Ayub was exclaiming. ‘He is my son!’
‘You have other sons,’ Basimah retorted.
‘A poet and a whimpering child,’ Ayub said, his voice thick with disgust. ‘Turan is a man, a warrior.’
‘He is an abomination!’
‘You have never liked him. You always preferred your own children.’
Basimah said something in a low voice, which Yusuf could not hear. Then: ‘I raised him as my own after his mother died, but this is too much. Look at what he did to Yusuf, what he tried to do to Zimat. I will not share my house with that animal!’
‘You will do as I say, wife!’
‘Or what? You will beat me as Turan beat Yusuf? Or perhaps you will rape me as he tried to do our daughter?’
‘Turan is a man, filled with young blood. And you know how Zimat teases him.’
‘How dare you!’ Basimah screamed, and Yusuf heard a loud slap. ‘Do not pretend that this is her fault. It is your son who has defied Allah.’
‘And he has been punished: thirty lashes from my own hand.’
‘That is not enough.’
‘What then? What would you have me do?’
‘Send him away. Let Shirkuh deal with him in Aleppo.’
There was a long moment of silence. Yusuf was just beginning to move away from the door when he heard his father’s voice again. ‘Turan is my first-born son. I will not send him to be raised by another. But you are right; something must be done. It has been too long since I attended Nur ad-Din’s court. I will go next week to Aleppo, and I will take Turan with me. We will be gone for several months. I will speak with Turan. I will teach him to rule his passions. And I swear to you by Allah that when we return, he will never touch our daughter again.’
‘Very well,’ Basimah said. ‘But if you are wrong, Ayub, then I promise you, I will kill Turan myself.’
Yusuf moved away from the door and headed down the hall to his room. He had heard enough. Zimat would be safe from Turan. Now, Yusuf only had to find a way to prove his father wrong. He, too, would become a warrior.
John sat slumped against the wall shivering despite the heat. ‘One hundred sixty-five’ he rasped, his throat so dry he could barely speak. ‘One hundred sixty-six.’ In the blackness of the tiny cell, which stank of his piss and shit, time seemed to expand and stretch with no beginning and no end. Some time ago — maybe hours, maybe days — John had begun to count his breaths as a way of keeping track of time. When he reached a thousand, he would make a scratch on the dirt floor with his fingernail. Eventually, he had lost track of the number of scratches in the darkness. But that did not matter. The counting had taken on a meaning of its own. ‘One hundred and seventy-six-one hundred and seventy-seven.’
Yusuf had not visited for days, and John, with no sense of time to guide him in his rationing, had run out of medicine, then food, then water. First, the fiery burning in his back had returned, along with shooting pains that spread out from his left shoulder, where the arrows had struck. Then came a ravenous hunger that gradually transformed into a gnawing pain in his gut, accompanied by uncontrollable shivering. But worst of all was the thirst. John’s mouth became so dry that even swallowing hurt. His lips swelled and cracked. His skin crawled, and his head ached with a searing pain, as if someone had driven a hot iron deep into his brain. Then the visions had begun.
Shapes appeared to John in the darkness. He had seen Zimat, flashing her brilliant smile and beckoning him to come to her. The image had been so real that he had fumbled towards her, smashing his forehead against the door. Zimat’s image had dissolved, to be replaced by others. John had seen Turan, his knuckles covered in blood, sneering at him. He had seen his father, his face pale and stretched in agony as he hung from the gallows, but living still, his eyes burning into John. And he had seen his brother, Harold, his face bathed in blood, his finger pointed accusingly at John. John had squeezed his eyes shut, but the images remained. He sought refuge in fitful slumber, but the ghosts of his past continued to haunt him.
Counting helped to keep them at bay. ‘One hundred and ninety-nine-two hundred,’ he croaked, focusing on the numbers. But another image intruded upon him regardless. He saw the door flung open, then daylight flooding the cell. John closed his eyes and shrank back. ‘Two hundred and one,’ he rasped, desperately trying to hold on to his sanity. But this was no vision. Rough hands grabbed him, pulling him out into the light and holding him upright. His stiff legs, bent for so long, refused to straighten. He kept his head down, away from the sun, and his eyes squeezed shut. Someone slapped him, jerking his head to the side. John cracked open his right eye and saw Ayub standing before him.
‘So you have survived,’ Ayub said in Latin. ‘Allah favours you, slave. Perhaps he guards you for some purpose. I do not know. But I do know that if you ever touch my son again, not even Allah’s favour will protect you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, m’allim,’ John croaked.
‘You will have three days to recover. Then you will resume your duties.’ Ayub turned and walked away. The men on either side of John released him, and he dropped to the hard, sun-baked ground. He lay there for a moment, then rolled on to his back, letting the bright sun wash over him. After a time he cracked open his eyes and drank in the endless expanse of blue sky.