again, catching him in the ribs. Yusuf curled into a ball to protect himself, his arms over his head. His ribs burned and he was suffocating, unable to draw in air. Turan bent over him, and Yusuf could feel his brother’s breath hot on his face. ‘You’re pathetic. I should have let you die in Damascus.’ He grabbed Yusuf and rolled him on to his back, then sat on his chest. ‘Tell me, little brother,’ Turan sneered as Yusuf’s face grew red, then purple. ‘What is Frankish for pathetic little bastard?’
Yusuf barely heard him. The world was dimming, fading to black. The last thing he knew was Turan’s fist slamming into his face.
John strode as fast as his aching legs would carry him through a narrow alleyway in Baalbek, dodging past veiled women and bearded men. He muttered under his breath as he walked, cursing Ayub for making him bring the basket. His lower back ached from the weight and his shoulders were on fire where the leather straps bit into them. He gritted his teeth and kept going. A golden dinar was worth a little pain.
He left the alleyway and entered a dark square that sat in the shade of the ancient Roman temple. He glanced up at the towering marble columns as he hurried past; he had never seen anything so monumental, not even in Constantinople or Acre. Past the temple, John broke into a jog as he turned into the street that wound up hill towards Ayub’s home. He circled around to the back gate, where one of Ayub’s mamluks stood bored, his spear resting against his shoulder. The man pulled open a small door cut into the larger gate, and John hurried through. He headed across the courtyard towards the granary, a squat building that abutted the right-hand wall. Then he froze.
Ahead of him, Taur sat in a doorway, his head cradled in his hands, blood dripping between his fingers. Past him, Turan knelt over Yusuf. Yusuf was unconscious, his face a swollen, bloody mass, but Turan kept pounding away at him. Beyond them, Zimat stood in another doorway, her lip bloody and her tunic torn. She saw John and moved towards him, but Turan rose and grabbed her arm. ‘Where are you going?’ he growled. ‘I’m not done with you.’ He shoved his sister back into the room behind her.
John dropped the basket of wheat and broke into a run. Turan heard him coming. He turned and raised his fists, showing knuckles red with blood. John stopped ten yards away and raised the scythe. At the sight of the curved blade, Turan’s eyes widened with fear. He backed away, and John stepped towards him. ‘Fight me, you coward,’ John snarled, but Turan continued to retreat. ‘Fight me!’ John shouted as he tossed the scythe aside and raised his fists. Turan stopped retreating.
‘Come, dog,’ he sneered in barely comprehensible Frankish.
John charged. At the last second Turan stepped to the side, trying to avoid him, but John had anticipated the move. He veered and planted his shoulder in Turan’s gut, bowling him over. He landed on top, but Turan used John’s momentum to throw him off. John sprang to his feet, and the two boys faced off. John was thickly muscled after months of hard labour, but Turan was larger, with a broad chest and shoulders. His weight would tell if the fight became a wrestling match.
John raised his fists and adopted a fighting stance. He stole a glance over his shoulder to Taur. He did not want to be taken by surprise again. Taur sat watching, his nose a wreck and his face covered in blood. He would not intervene. John turned his attention back to Turan, who held out his right hand, palm down, and made a clawing motion, beckoning John to him. ‘Whore. Shit-for-brains,’ he sneered in Frankish.
John stepped towards him, and Turan’s right fist flashed out for his head. John ducked the punch and swung up, connecting with an uppercut to the chin. Turan stumbled backwards, his sneer replaced by a wide-eyed look of surprise. He shook his head clear and then charged with a roar. John let him come, then delivered a stinging right cross that snapped Turan’s head back, stopping him immediately. Turan swung out wildly, and John stepped away.
‘Ya Allah,’ Turan muttered, wiping blood from his nose with the back of his hand. Then he sneered. He was standing next to the scythe. Turan reached down and picked up the curved steel blade. He growled something in Arabic, then sprang forward, swiping the scythe at John’s throat. John jumped backwards, avoiding the blade but tripping over Yusuf’s prone form. He fell, and Turan pounced, the blade flashing down towards John’s face. John rolled left, and the scythe bit into the earth. The two combatants rose and faced off over Yusuf, who stirred, raising a hand to his face and moaning. John and Turan began to circle his body, each shadowing the movements of the other.
Turan lashed out again, the scythe arcing towards John’s face. John ducked the blow, and Turan reversed his attack, swinging backhand. John jumped back, but the scythe grazed his chest, drawing blood. Turan grinned in triumph, but as he completed his swing, John stepped in and grabbed the arm that held the scythe. Then, with this free hand, he punched Turan hard in the jaw. As Turan slumped to his knees, John twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him to drop the scythe. John picked it up and held the sharp blade to Turan’s throat. John was facing Zimat, who was still watching. She nodded, encouraging him.
‘You killed my friend, you Saracen bastard,’ John whispered in Turan’s ear. ‘May Allah piss on you in the afterlife.’ His knuckles whitened around the scythe’s handle as he prepared for the finishing blow.
‘Stop!’ a voice commanded in Latin. John looked up and saw Ayub riding into the courtyard, flanked by two of his men with bows drawn. Zimat hurried away towards the house, her cheeks flushed. John watched her go, then turned his attention back to Ayub.
‘Release my son!’ Ayub ordered as he reined in before John.
John paused. Why should he let Turan go? John would die either way. He spat at Ayub, then began to draw the scythe across Turan’s throat. But John had waited too long. The blade had only just drawn blood when two arrows sank into his shoulder. He dropped the scythe and sank back on his knees in agony. Turan grabbed the blade and whirled on him. But Ayub had dismounted, and he held his son back. Ayub strode up to John and struck him across the face with the back of his hand.
‘What have you done?’ he demanded in Latin. He pointed to the house, where Zimat had fled. ‘What did you do to my daughter?’
Turan, a trickle of blood running down his neck, said something to his father in Arabic, and Ayub’s eyes widened. He drew his sword.
‘Turan lies!’ Yusuf had staggered to his feet. ‘It was Turan who tried to rape Zimat,’ he said in Latin. ‘The Frank saved her.’
Ayub looked from Yusuf to Turan, weighing their arguments. Then, his gaze settled upon John.
‘Kill me,’ John said. ‘I do not care.’ Ayub raised his sword, and John closed his eyes. His eyes were still closed when the butt of the sword hilt slammed into his temple, knocking him unconscious.
A shaft of sunshine penetrated the cramped space where John sat slumped unconscious against the wall. He awoke, blinking against the light, and groaned as a wave of pain swept over him. His shoulder throbbed, and his back burned as if it were on fire. He reached back to touch it: the skin was rough and sticky with blood. He had been whipped. He looked about and found himself in a narrow space, too short to do more than crouch and not long enough to lie flat. Across from him, a heavy wooden door had opened just enough to allow someone to slide in a bowl of boiled wheat and a waterskin. Once the food was inside, the door slammed shut, leaving John in total darkness.
‘Wait!’ John yelled. His stiff joints cried out in agony as he fumbled his way towards the door, his right hand stretched out before him. He cursed as he accidently put his hand in the bowl of boiled wheat. He found the wooden door and began to pound on it with his fist. ‘Come back!’
‘Quiet!’ someone hissed from the other side of the door. ‘You’ll get us both in trouble.’
John lowered his voice. ‘Who are you?’
‘Yusuf. I wanted to thank you for what you did. You saved my life.’
‘I did not do it for you.’
‘Nevertheless, you have my thanks.’
‘When will I be released?’ John asked.
‘My father has declared that you will be kept here for a week with no food and water.’
‘Why didn’t he just kill me?’
‘Were it not for the intervention of my mother, Basimah, he would have. You saved her daughter, Zimat, and that saved your life,’ Yusuf explained. ‘And do not fear, I will not allow you to starve. But you must conserve the food I have given you. I do not know when I will be able to bring more.’ There was a pause. ‘Someone is coming. I must go.’
John heard the slap of Yusuf’s sandals as he hurried away, then nothing. He began to lean back, then
