‘John,’ the slave replied. ‘My name is John.’
‘Ja-ahn,’ Yusuf said, struggling with the strange vowels.
‘John,’ the Frank repeated.
‘John,’ Yusuf managed.
‘Good. You should know my name if I am going to teach you how to fight.’
Yusuf grinned. ‘You have changed your mind?’
‘There is one condition.’
Yusuf’s smile faded. ‘What is it?’
‘If I teach you to fight, then you must teach me Arabic.’
Yusuf nodded. ‘Done.’
John presented his right hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Yusuf did likewise. The Frank grabbed Yusuf’s hand and squeezed it tight. ‘It’s a deal.’
‘Then let us waste no time,’ Yusuf replied, rubbing the hand that the Frank had gripped as if it were dirty. ‘Let us begin.’
‘First, a question: what does shukran mean?’
‘Thank you. It means thank you.’
Chapter 6
Yusuf ’s sword arced downwards and met John’s blade with a metallic ring that echoed off the walls of the ancient Roman temple. The two swords locked, and Yusuf stood face to face with John. After months of practice, Yusuf had added muscle to his wiry frame. The sword, which just a year ago he had struggled to lift with one hand during the battle for Damascus, he now wielded with ease. Still, he was no match for John’s size. Yusuf strained, but the two swords inched closer to his face. He gave a final push, then disengaged and spun away, but not before John’s sword snaked out and caught him a stinging blow on the side. The weapons were blunted, and Yusuf wore a leather vest for protection. But the blades could still bruise well enough, and Yusuf was sure that this blow would leave its mark. He refused to acknowledge the stinging pain as he circled with his sword held high. One of the first things John had taught him was to show no weakness.
‘You must act more decisively,’ John said, wiping sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. The stones of the temple were hot under the summer sun. John had stripped down to his leather breeches, but he was still glistening with sweat. ‘Always keep your distance when fighting a larger opponent. Keep moving.’
Yusuf nodded. They were inside the Roman temple that sat at the heart of Baalbek. Walls composed of huge blocks of stone rose high all around them, reaching up to the clear blue sky. The peaked roof of the temple had long since collapsed, the rubble carted off and incorporated into the walls of the surrounding buildings. What remained was a perfect practice arena: a space some twenty yards by thirty, close to the villa of Yusuf’s father, and best of all, hidden from prying eyes. In the afternoon, while the other boys played polo on the fields outside Baalbek, Yusuf came here to practise. As soon as he had finished his work in the stables, John sneaked over the villa wall to join him.
John wiped more sweat from his eyes, and Yusuf took advantage of the distraction to attack. He feinted a low thrust, which John moved to block. Then Yusuf spun right and slashed down at John’s side. But John had already moved. He sidestepped the blow and punched Yusuf hard in the shoulder, knocking him stumbling backwards.
‘Don’t let your opponent trick you into an off-balance attack,’ John cautioned. ‘And never over-extend yourself.’ Yusuf gritted his teeth and nodded. He knew John was right, but his constant advice grated. ‘And never forget this,’ John added, ‘the most important lesson my father taught me: an angry warrior is one step away from a dead warrior.’
Yusuf grunted in response and attacked with a vicious overhead chop that John parried. Yusuf brought his sword down, cutting at John’s shins, but he jumped the blow, then slapped the flat of his sword against Yusuf’s knuckles. Yusuf dropped his blade, shaking his hand and cursing.
‘You must never allow your emotions to get the better of you.’ John tossed his sword aside and raised his fists. ‘Let’s continue.’ They began to circle, mirroring one another’s movements. Yusuf was breathing hard after half an hour of swordplay, but John was hardly winded. ‘Don’t be in a hurry,’ John advised. He stepped forward and jabbed, but Yusuf skipped back out of the way. They continued circling. ‘Remember: find your opponent’s pattern, break it down, then attack.’
John charged as he finished speaking, his arms out to grab hold of Yusuf. Yusuf stood his ground. He hit John with a quick jab to the jaw, ducked his arms, then spun away, a smile on his face. ‘You move like an ox,’ Yusuf taunted in Latin.
‘Good,’ John grunted, feeling his lower lip. His hand came away red with blood. ‘Taunting is a good way to unbalance your opponent.’
‘And you are as dumb as an ox, too,’ Yusuf added in Arabic.
‘Don’t overdo it,’ John growled. He approached Yusuf more slowly this time, keeping his hands up. Yusuf let him come, ducking and bobbing his head as John had taught him, so that he would not present an easy target. John swung high, and Yusuf ducked the punch, stepping in and delivering a right to John’s stomach. Yusuf stayed in close, hitting John twice more in the gut. But Yusuf’s fourth punch never hit home. John’s hand clamped down on his wrist. John spun Yusuf around and twisted his arm behind his back, wrapping the other forearm around Yusuf’s throat. Yusuf struggled to escape but could not break John’s iron grip.
‘When fighting a larger opponent, you must rely on quickness and deception,’ John spoke into Yusuf’s ear. ‘Strike and then move away. If you let him get close, you are lost.’
‘You haven’t defeated me yet,’ Yusuf growled. He bit down on John’s forearm.
‘’Sblood!’ John cursed. He pulled his bleeding forearm tight against Yusuf’s throat, choking him. ‘A wise warrior also knows when to admit defeat.’
Yusuf’s face turned bright red, but he continued to struggle. Finally, when his vision dimmed and he began to see spots of light swimming before his eyes, he went limp. ‘You win,’ he croaked. John let him go, and Yusuf fell to his knees, gasping for air. From the mosque nearby, the muezzin began his rhythmic chant, calling the Muslim faithful to their evening prayers.
‘I must go,’ Yusuf said between heavy breaths. He rose and collected the swords, hiding them under one of the loose flagstones that formed the floor of the temple. ‘I never miss evening prayers.’
John nodded as he picked up his tunic and pulled it on. ‘I should return as well, or I will be missed at the evening meal. You fought well today, Yusuf.’
Yusuf smiled. Compliments from John were hard-earned.
‘Tomorrow we will meet in the stables,’ Yusuf said. ‘And I shall teach you.’
‘Until tomorrow, then. Ma’a as-salaama.’ Go with safety.
‘Allah yasalmak.’ God keep you safe.
John poured a bucket of water into the horse’s trough, and the chestnut stallion came to the edge of its stall and bent its head to drink. John scratched the horse between its ears, and it nuzzled at him, searching for a treat. Disappointed, the horse returned to the water. John leaned against the stall and watched it drink. He loved the compact, graceful Arabian horses. They were smaller than the bulky European chargers he had grown up with, but were surprisingly strong for their size. Yusuf said that they could carry more weight because their bones were denser. For the same reason, they rarely went lame.
John gave the horse a final pat, then hung the bucket from a hook next to the stall. His work in the stable was done. He still had to restock the kitchen’s wood supply, but he would have plenty of time to do so after his lesson. John climbed into the hayloft and sat to wait for Yusuf. Almost immediately, he began to sneeze. The loft was not the ideal place for their studies, but at least it was private.
A moment later, Yusuf entered the stables carrying two leather-bound tomes. ‘Greetings, John,’ he said in Frankish, then clambered up into the loft, the heavy books clutched under one arm.
