Yusuf stood on tiptoes and peered through the open window into the room where the Frankish slave had been brought so the family doctor could inspect him. When the slave had been delivered to Ayub’s home in Damascus, Yusuf had been whipped. Ayub had not let him keep the young Frank as a personal servant, but had ordered the new slave be brought back to Baalbek. ‘No use in wasting a slave,’ he had commented. ‘If he lives, then he can work in the fields.’
The Frank lay naked and unconscious on a table. He was well muscled and tall, taller even than Turan. His arms and chest were smooth and tanned brown – where they were not caked in dried, rust-coloured blood – but his legs and the area around his genitals were impossibly pale, the skin as white as freshly shorn wool. His long hair was the colour of ripe wheat and his jaw covered in pale blond fuzz. He was not circumcised.
The Jewish doctor stood beside the table, washing the boy with a sponge. Ibn Jumay, a thin man of almost thirty, with short black hair under a skullcap, long sidelocks and a closely cropped black beard, was the personal physician for Yusuf’s family, as well as Yusuf and Turan’s tutor. He wiped the dried blood away from his patient’s right shoulder, then dipped the sponge in a basin of water and wrung it out. Next, he sponged off the blood caked around the Frank’s stomach. There was a small gash in the lower abdomen, and as the Frank breathed, a thin stream of blood bubbled up and ran down his side. Ibn Jumay sniffed at the wound and nodded, apparently pleased. Last of all, he cleaned the blood away from the Frank’s right thigh. The flesh around the wound was angry and red. Ibn Jumay poked at the spot with his finger, then bent down and sniffed. ‘Infected,’ he muttered to himself. ‘They let the arrowhead fester inside him for three days, then expect me to perform miracles.’
Ibn Jumay bent down and picked up a brown leather bag, which he placed on the table. He opened it and carefully removed several ceramic bottles, placing them beside the Frank. Next, he took out a leather bundle and unrolled it on the table before him. Dozens of tiny pockets had been cut into the inside of the roll. Some bulged with mysterious contents. Others held wicked-looking knives and strange iron instruments. Ibn Jumay rubbed his hands together, then selected a short blade, a curved needle and a set of pincers that ended in two flat, circular disks. From another pouch, he removed a ball of string.
Yusuf moved to the open doorway, where he had a better view. ‘What are those for?’ he asked.
‘You are blocking the light, Yusuf,’ Ibn Jumay said without looking up. He nodded towards the corner. ‘Sit there if you must watch. As for these, their purpose is not hard to divine. The knife is for cutting, the needle for sewing, and these-’ he held up the pincers, ‘are for extracting.’
‘Extracting what? And why do you need to sew?’
‘Be silent and watch. You shall see.’
The doctor unstopped a square, blue ceramic bottle and poured a small amount of the contents over each of the wounds. The Frank flinched.
‘What is that?’ Yusuf asked.
‘Pure alcohol.’ Ibn Jumay held out the vial.
Yusuf inhaled deeply, then coughed. ‘It burns,’ he said, his eyes watering.
‘It will purify his wounds.’ Ibn Jumay lifted the Frank’s left arm and moved it in a circle while peering into the ragged hole in the Frank’s shoulder. ‘The tendons appear to be intact. With any luck, he should have use of his arm again.’ The doctor took up the curved needle and carefully threaded it from the ball of string. He hooked the needle through the flesh on either side of the wound and pulled the thread through. He continued, expertly sewing up the wound as if he were working with a piece of cloth.
Yusuf frowned. ‘Will he not have string stuck in his shoulder?’
‘A good question, Yusuf, but this is not string. It is called catgut, although it is made from the dried intestines of a goat.’ Yusuf grimaced. ‘It will dissolve over time, leaving only a thin scar.’ Ibn Jumay finished sewing, cut the catgut and tied it off. Next, he took out a yellowish paste that smelled of rotten eggs. He rubbed it over the wound, which he then bandaged with cotton dressings. ‘That will do for the shoulder.’ He moved down the Frank’s body and again examined the gash in his side. ‘Come, Yusuf. Since you are here, you can make yourself useful. Help me flip him over.’
Together, they managed to roll the Frank on to his stomach, revealing another gash in his back. ‘He is lucky, this one,’ Ibn Jumay noted. ‘The sword went straight through, but appears to have missed his vital organs.’ The doctor doused the back wound with alcohol, then sewed it up. He and Yusuf flipped the body over again, and Ibn Jumay sewed up the gash in the Frank’s stomach, leaving a small gap at the end of the wound.
‘Why did you not sew it up all the way?’ Yusuf asked as he held the boy upright while Ibn Jumay applied the foul-smelling paste and bandaged the Frank’s torso.
‘The vile matter inside him must be given a place of exit,’ Ibn Jumay said matter-of-factly. ‘Otherwise, it will kill him.’ He frowned as he moved to the Frank’s injured leg. ‘Now for the unpleasant part.’ He removed the cork from a small red vial, carefully poured a small amount of clear liquid on to a cotton ball and dabbed gently at the wound. ‘This is an extract from the poppy plant,’ Ibn Jumay explained before Yusuf could ask. ‘It helps to ease the pain.’
‘But he is unconscious.’
‘I am a doctor. It is my duty to not cause unnecessary suffering. And even unconscious, he will feel this.’ Ibn Jumay took the tiny knife and held it over the wound in the Frank’s leg. He whispered a prayer in Hebrew, then made two short diagonal cuts across the wound, forming an x. Blood and pus welled up around the cuts. Yusuf looked away, fighting to keep down his breakfast. When he looked back, Ibn Jumay was just finishing sponging clean the wound. The doctor took up the pincers, then hesitated. He turned to Yusuf.
‘Grab his leg here and here-’ He pointed with the pincers to a spot just above the knee and another at his groin. ‘And hold it still.’ Yusuf did as he was instructed. Ibn Jumay moved around the table opposite him. ‘It is important that he not move, Yusuf. Hold tight.’ With his left hand, Ibn Jumay pulled back the flesh around the wound in the Frank’s leg and then plunged the pincers into the hole. The Frank moaned and his entire body convulsed, causing his leg to jerk under Yusuf’s hands. ‘Keep him still!’ Ibn Jumay snapped. Yusuf struggled to hold the thrashing leg in place, while the doctor worked the pincers deeper into the wound. Blood flowed out, dripping on the table and splattering on Yusuf’s hands and face. ‘Got it!’ Ibn Jumay exclaimed at last and pulled out the pincers. Caught between them was a short, barbed arrowhead, dripping blood. ‘A cruel piece of work, is it not?’ the doctor said. He held the arrowhead out to Yusuf. ‘Keep it, as a reminder of the nature of war. You can let go of him now.’ The Frank had stopped thrashing and lay still. Ibn Jumay began to stitch the wound closed.
‘Will he live?’ Yusuf asked, fingering the sharp point of the arrowhead.
‘God willing, no. I have never dissected a Frank, and I should like to do so. I am curious to note any differences.’ Yusuf frowned. He had purchased the slave, and he felt responsible for him. Ibn Jumay saw his expression and smiled reassuringly. ‘But he is young and strong. I fear he shall survive.’
‘When will he be better?’
‘Only God knows. If all goes well, he should be on his feet before the winter rains. But if the infection in his leg spreads, then I will have to have it off.’ Ibn Jumay finished the stitches and looked up. ‘In that case, I fear the worst.’
In his dream, John was once more on the battlefield outside Damascus. Rabbit stood in the distance, waist- deep in the crimson waters of the Barada River. A Saracen with his sword held high was approaching him from behind. John screamed and tried to run, but no matter how fast he moved, the river grew no closer. He watched in horror as the Saracen, a mad grin on his face, impaled Rabbit from behind, his bloodied blade bursting from the boy’s chest. Then the Saracen’s face twisted and transformed into the leering visage of Reynald…
John jerked awake to the sound of whistling. He was lying on the floor of a small room, lit only dimly by a shaft of light beaming through a grill in the door. He was shirtless and something warm lay on his stomach. He looked down to see a man bent over his torso. John tried to sit up but the world spun around him and he fell back. The whistling stopped.
‘Easy, young man,’ a voice said in heavily accented Frankish, the vowels long and foreign, the consonants too guttural. A face appeared over him, darkly tanned with a short beard and kind brown eyes.
‘Who are you?’ John asked. ‘Where am I?’
‘Drink this,’ the man said, lifting John’s head with one hand and holding a cup to his lips. The liquid in the cup was cold and bitter. Despite the unpleasant taste, John drank greedily. His lips were parched, and his throat felt as if he had not had water in days. ‘There,’ the man said. ‘Now for your questions: you are in the home of
