she would work him harder.
He rose, stretching his arms high above his head to loosen his aching muscles, and then headed outside in only his sandals and tunic, shivering against the early morning chill. Taur, a taciturn Norman slave who had been purchased at the same time as John, was just emerging from his private room, which he warranted due to his position as servant to Ayub’s oldest son. Without a word, they fell in beside one another, heading towards the front of the villa. They walked past the stables and turned into a large room built against the wall. The floor was tiled, and on the far wall water flowed from a small opening and splashed into a pool, from where it would flow underground to the fountain in the entrance way of the villa. Other slaves were already busy washing themselves. They were all circumcised, and when John and Taur pulled off their tunics a few still pointed and laughed. Taur growled at them, and they fell quiet.
John took a clay jug from a shelf on the wall, filled it, and dumped the water over his head, gasping at the shock of the cold. Then he picked up a bar of soap and began to scrub himself resolutely. When he was sure he had removed every last trace of dirt and grime, he took up the jug again and rinsed, shivering in the cold. This bracing experience had become a daily ritual; his master, Ayub, gave ten lashes to any of the slaves who failed to maintain a sufficient level of cleanliness. John had already felt the sting of the whip once and was not eager to do so again.
After bathing, John hurried back to his room, pulled on the loose linen pants he had been given, belted his tunic about his waist with a length of rope and headed for the kitchen. Several other slaves were already standing outside, chewing on their breakfast of hot flatbread and talking quietly in a variety of languages. The head slave – a white-haired, black eunuch named Harith – handed John a piece of bread. He stood apart from the others and ate slowly, watching the mountains where the sun would soon rise. His thoughts drifted to Zimat. He had seen her only twice more, both times at a distance. She was unlike any of the women he had known. He thought back to his home in England, and then of his father. His forehead creased; he could not recall the features of his father’s face. It seemed a lifetime since he had last seen him. John added up the weeks and months. It had been less than two years. Less than two years since his life had been shattered.
‘Those baths will be the death of me,’ Taur muttered as he joined John. He tore off a piece of bread with his teeth and continued: ‘It’s not natural, all this washing.’
‘At least we don’t have lice any more,’ John said. Taur, his mouth full of bread, grunted sceptically. John looked to the nearby mountains, where the sky had lightened to a clear blue. At any moment the bright edge of the sun would rise above the horizon. ‘I should go.’ Taur grunted a farewell, and John entered the kitchen, where he found the servant girl feeding wood into the fire and Basimah kneading dough. She ignored him, and he stood waiting. He had learned better than to speak first. Finally, she looked up from her work.
‘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
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
