other Saracens. He was only fifty yards off now, close enough that John could make out some of his features. He was thickly built, with dark hair, tanned skin and the first beginnings of a beard on his broad face. John raised the spear, preparing to hurl it, when four Saracen warriors rode between him and his target.
John did not slow his mount as the four warriors turned towards him and fired a volley of arrows. One of the arrows embedded in John’s shield with a thump. Another penetrated his chainmail skirt and stuck deep in his thigh. John gritted his teeth against the pain, rose in the saddle and hurled his spear. It caught the lead rider in the chest, knocking him from his saddle. John drew his sword as he thundered towards the remaining three riders, who had shouldered their bows and now rode with spears in hand. As he flashed past the first man, John swung out and caught him in the throat, killing him instantly. John cried out in pain as the spear of another warrior deflected off his shield and drove into his shoulder. Then, John was past, his shield arm hanging uselessly at his side. He dropped the shield and used his knees to turn his horse to face the remaining two warriors.
‘For Christ!’ John cried out as he raised his sword and spurred towards the men. They charged him, one on his left and the other to his right, their spears pointed at his chest. At the last second John leapt from his horse, dodging the spear of the warrior on the right and slamming into him. They both went flying, and John heard the Saracen’s neck snap as he landed hard on top of him. John rolled off him and rose, standing unsteadily on his injured leg. The final Saracen had wheeled his horse and sat fifty yards off. He spurred his mount towards John.
John raised his sword, then thought better of it. He dropped the sword and stood over the body of the dead Saracen. The final horseman was only thirty yards off now, and John knelt, his head lowered. He could hear the hooves of his enemy’s horse pounding closer and closer. The Saracen was only ten yards away when John grabbed the spear of the dead warrior, rose, and with a loud cry, let it fly. The spear struck the Saracen’s horse in the chest. The beast collapsed, and the warrior went flying, landing in a heap. John picked up his sword and limped over to finish him. He stood over the Saracen’s broken body, then paused at the sound of another set of hooves pounding towards him. He looked up to see a Christian knight with sword in hand, riding straight towards him. It was Ernaut.
‘Well met, Ernaut!’ John called out as Ernaut reined in beside him.
‘You’re a tough bugger, Saxon,’ Ernaut replied. ‘I thought the Saracens would have finished you off by now.’
‘Not yet. Help me up.’ He held his good arm out towards Ernaut.
Ernaut clasped his hand. Then, as he pulled John close, he stabbed down with his sword, impaling John through the side. ‘You have seen too much, Saxon. That will keep your mouth shut,’ Ernaut spat as he withdrew the sword. John slumped to his knees, blood seeping from his side and staining his armour red.
As John watched Ernaut gallop away, the world began to spin around him. He felt himself falling, then everything went black.
‘Your father wishes to see you.’ Yusuf opened his eyes and blinked against the bright morning sunlight. A servant was shaking his arm. ‘Dress quickly.’
Yusuf rose and pulled on a linen caftan and sandals. He hurried to the entrance hall, where he found his father and Turan. When Ayub saw him, he frowned and turned away. ‘Come,’ he told his sons. ‘I have something to show both of you: the spoils of victory and the price of defeat.’
Yusuf followed his father out of their home and to the broad square that lay behind the Umayyad mosque. The square was often the site of a produce market. Now it held a market of a different sort. Everywhere Yusuf looked, he saw Christian captives manacled and standing despondently, heads down, or huddled in wicker cages. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of them. The men of Damascus walked amongst them, poking and prodding, inspecting the goods.
‘It is as the poet writes,’ Ayub told his sons. ‘ You must choose the point of the spears couched at you; or if you will not, chains.’ He fixed Yusuf with an intense stare. ‘Choose always the spears, my son. Better death than this.’ He turned to Turan. ‘Today, you will purchase your first slave. You fought like a man yesterday. You should have your own servant.’
‘Thank you, Father.’
‘What of me?’ Yusuf asked.
His father whirled on him. ‘Were it not for your brother, you would be in a cage like one of them! When you are a man, like Turan, then you may have a slave.’ Yusuf felt tears welling up and looked away. Ayub grabbed his chin with one of his calloused hands, forcing Yusuf to look at him. ‘No more tears, boy. Only women cry.’
Ayub released Yusuf and turned back to Turan. Yusuf wiped his tears away and followed, trailing behind as Ayub and Turan strolled through the market. ‘That one there is strong enough,’ Ayub said, pointing to a towering Frank with long red hair. ‘But he is too old. He will never forget his home, and you will never be able to trust him.’ He walked on and then pointed out another, a muscular blond boy of perhaps sixteen, who appeared to be sleeping. ‘That one is the right age and he looks strong enough. But look more closely at the way he lays there. He is unconscious, not asleep. He has been injured, probably a wound to the gut. He will not live.’
Yusuf stopped before the low wooden cage where the Frankish boy lay on his side, flies buzzing around him. Yusuf had never seen a Frank this close before. The slaves in his father’s household were mostly black men from Africa, along with a few Turks. The Frankish boy had a thin nose and square chin. His face was pale and covered with sweat, but he shivered as he lay there. The cost of defeat, Yusuf’s father had said. This was it: to die alone, far from one’s home, far from any who might care.
‘You wish to buy the boy?’ Yusuf turned to see a short, thickly bearded man with a heavy coin purse tied to his belt. ‘I’ll make you a good deal.’
‘I was only looking.’
‘You can have him for a song,’ the slave merchant insisted. ‘Two dirhams.’
‘Two dirhams!’ Yusuf exclaimed. ‘Look at him. He won’t live out the week.’
‘He’s hardly injured,’ the slave merchant protested. ‘With care, he’ll live to be older than me.’
Yusuf frowned. ‘Not likely.’
‘I see you know your business, young master,’ the slave merchant said with a wink. ‘Very well, I’ll let you have him for only six fals.’
Yusuf hesitated. Turan would soon have a slave. If Yusuf could show his father that he too knew how to deal with a servant, then perhaps he would realize that Yusuf too was a man. Yusuf examined the boy. Ayub had said he was the proper age, and he looked like he would be strong enough if he survived.
‘I can see you’re interested,’ the slave merchant said.
‘But I have no money.’
The slave merchant gave Yusuf an appraising look. His eyes moved from Yusuf’s linen caftan to his belt, and then settled on Yusuf’s leather sandals. ‘Your sandals. Give them to me and the boy’s yours.’
Yusuf looked down at his feet and hesitated. Did he really want to take responsibility for this dying Frank? What would his father say? He was on the verge of saying no, when the boy sat up. His hand shot out, gripping the bars, and he stared at Yusuf with clear blue eyes. ‘ Bro?or!’ he cried out. ‘ Bro?or!’ Then he fell back again, unconscious.
‘What did he say?’ Yusuf asked.
‘I don’t speak his heathen tongue, whatever it is. It wasn’t Frankish. Not German, either. This is an odd one. Allah knows where he’s from.’
‘I’ll take him,’ Yusuf said. ‘Provided that you deliver him to my home.’
‘And where might that be?’
‘The house of Najm ad-Din.’
The slave merchant’s eyes widened, and he gave a small bow. ‘I knew you were no common man. You have a deal, young master.’ Yusuf reached down and slipped off his sandals, which he handed to the merchant.
‘Yusuf!’ It was Ayub, calling from up the street. ‘Come here! See the slave your brother has bought.’
Yusuf hurried over barefoot, a smile upon his face.
Chapter 4
