Slowly, the ship moved away from the dock. As it came into open water, the beat accelerated. Matt found himself gasping and decided he should have considered his entry into slavery a little more carefully.
Out the ship moved into the evening sea, heading southeast, and Matt consoled himself with the thought that he was, at least, safe from ambush and assassins, for nobody would have thought to look for him there.
Tafas bin Daoud rode at the head of an army that filled the plain. He eschewed the usual signs of rank—no canopy, only his battle-standard; no band of musicians capering before him with a droning of pipes and rippling of harps, only a marching drum slung between two horses and sounding the tempo of the procession—though a trumpeter rode nearby, ready to sound signals to all who could hear him. His raiment, although it was rich, was not of cloth-of-gold or any other sort of awe-inspiring luxury. No, his robes and turban were of the finest cotton, died the purple of murex, but were withal a soldier’s clothes, and would both shield him from the sun and withstand the strain of battle. His one concession to rank was his snow-white mare, so that all might see at a glance where the emir rode.
This was especially important for his brother emirs, so they might know where to send their riders for battle-orders. They were distributed throughout the host, for they rode at the heads of their own armies. They had chosen Tafas their leader without demur, for his battle-genius was legendary already, though he was not yet thirty. If he thought to exploit that position after the war was won, well, they knew how to deal with an upstart quickly and thoroughly. Not a one of them doubted that the boy, though a mighty strategist, was still incredibly naive. After all, when he gave Allah the credit for winning his battles, he really meant it.
A plume of dust rose from the plain, growing taller as it came toward them. “Your pardon, Emir,” Tafas said to the Emir of Algiers, with whom he had been discussing the barbarians’ style of charge, and turned to one of the officers beside him. “Send a dozen riders to escort he who comes.”
“My lord, I shall.” The officer turned to snap commands to the men behind him. They galloped off. Their column of dust met and swallowed the plume, then swept back toward them.
Tafas held up his hand, and the advance stopped.
The scout drew rein and all but fell off his horse. “Hail, lord! I have seen the barbarian horde!”
“Tell me of them,” Tafas said, his face bland.
“They are of many nations, lord, and they filled all the earth that I could see from my hilltop! They surrounded a plateau atop which camped the Caliph’s army!”
Tafas saw the implications immediately. “If you bring me this news, one of the khan’s scouts is even now telling him of our approach.”
“They will be ready for battle when we come in sight,” said his aide heavily.
“They will not wait,” Tafas said with total conviction. “When he hears of our approach, the khan will leave a force large enough to hold the Caliph where he is, and will ride to conquer Damascus before we come.”
A murmur of shock went through all the leaders who rode near him, but the scout said, “We are a day’s ride from Damascus, and he is three days!”
“Be sure that his men will ride like the wind,” Tafas said.
“Praise Allah that we are all mounted, even the spearmen and archers!” said his aide.
The Emir of Algiers nodded heavily. “You were wise to insist on that, Lord Tafas.”
“I thank you, my lord,” Tafas said, but he was clearly preoccupied with the problem at hand. “Bid all to canter half a mile, then trot half a mile, so that we may pace the horses but still ride as fast as the horde, or faster. We must be in Jerusalem by this time tomorrow!”
When the ship set its sea anchor for the night, the slaves were able to rest a little. Matt sagged on his oar, his body one huge ache, and was almost too weary to notice how well his translation spell was paying off. The rowers spoke a variety of different languages—Berber, Algerian, Arabic, and Farsi, the language of the Iranians. Matt could even hear a few men talking in the Latrurian dialect and the Ibilean, and several of the slaves were conversing in Hebrew. The pirates were very democratic—they didn’t care who they captured or bought.
Any doubts Matt might have had about his captors’ profession were settled the second day out, when there was a sudden flurry of activity overhead, feet running to and fro, then the drumbeat picking up until the slaves were rowing as hard as they could and he was so breathless he was seeing spots. Above, the captain was shouting, “To starboard, to starboard! Faster, faster! We almost have him!”
Suddenly, there was a jarring crash, and several of the oars on the starboard side shot back through their holes. Two caught their luckless rowers in the belly; one cracked under a slave’s chin, breaking his neck. Matt barely managed to duck as his oar jolted out of his hands and slammed toward his head. He concentrated on staying out of its way and tried to keep its swings from hitting the men in front of him. Then the oar behind him cracked into his head, and he missed the rest of the battle.
The overseer’s lash jolted him back to consciousness, howling, “Sit straight! Push the butt of your oar out!”
Matt did, fighting a headache as big as the sea. The broken oar disappeared; then a new one poked through. Matt stared.
“Seize it!” the overseer snapped.
Matt heard the thongs of his whip whistle up, and he grabbed the new oar before the man had a chance to bring them down. He realized other pirates must be outside in a rowboat, pushing replacement oars through.
A blacksmith stepped up and cut open the manacles that held the dead rowers.
“You new men!” the overseer snarled. “Haul those corpses out and throw them to the sharks! Then back you come, for these will be your places now.”
The newcomers hesitated. With a shock, Matt recognized them as Latrurians, and one of them was middle-aged and dressed in expensive-looking red robes. The merchant must have been traveling with his cargo, and the pirates were no respecters of persons.
The blacksmith pounded new rivets through the manacles, shackling the sailors and their supercargo to their oars and benches. Matt sent up a quick prayer for the merchant—between the shock of capture and his being somewhat out of shape, he might not last long at the oar.
Above, he could hear the captain ordering half a dozen of his crew to take the captured ship to Tripoli. That was good news—if the ship were still whole, more of the crew might have survived. In fact, that would explain why the captain could send only half a dozen men—enough to browbeat the merchant’s crew, who would no doubt be shackled to their stations, too.
His headache throbbed, and not until the lash streaked fire across his back did he realize it was the drum beating, not his pulse. He bent his back to the work and heartily wished he’d decided to fly. He wondered if it were too late to call Stegoman.
The people of Damascus ran up to the walls to cheer as the North African army rode up to the Holy City. The gates swung wide, and Tafas set the example by waving and smiling. The other emirs followed suit, and their men imitated them. Grinning and calling out greetings, the army rode in.
The cheering slackened as the people began to realize just how many soldiers there were. They seemed mightily relieved when most of the riders dismounted outside the walls and pitched camp.
Within the palace, Tafas was already in earnest conference with the governor of the town.
“The civilians may stay, of course,” he agreed, “though I do not doubt we will press them into service on the walls.”
The governor frowned. “It has been long since these tradesmen have served in an army.”
“They will be of little use, I agree,” Tafas said, “but better than nothing. They must begin training tomorrow morning, and the whole town must begin to eat and drink sparingly.”