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 Najm ad-Din Ayub, in Baalbek. And I am Ibn Jumay, a Jew and for the moment, your doctor.’ John began to speak, but Ibn Jumay shook his head. ‘Be quiet. Just for a moment.’ He took John’s wrist in his hand and held it while he looked away to the floor. ‘Good, a steady pulse,’ he murmured. He looked back to John. ‘Now tell me, what is your name?’
‘John.’
‘Ah, interesting.’
‘How did I get here?’ John asked.
‘You are a slave. You were purchased after the battle in Damascus.’ Ibn Jumay offered John another cup of the bitter liquid. ‘That was over a week ago. You suffered grave injuries, and you have been incoherent for some time. I had hoped you would die.’
John spluttered.
‘I wished to dissect you,’ Ibn Jumay explained. ‘But no matter. It seems that God has other plans for you, John.’ He smiled. ‘It occurs to me that perhaps your name is prophetic. John is a Frankish corruption of a Hebrew name. It means
God is gracious
.’
John closed his eyes, suddenly tired. ‘I am a slave,’ he muttered. ‘God has not been gracious to me.’
‘Ah, but you are alive.’
John shook his head. He should have died along with Rabbit. He had wanted to give his life for God. Why had He not taken it? John’s thoughts slowed. His eyelids grew heavy and his head felt hot. ‘I am burning,’ he murmured. ‘I need to be bled—’
The doctor laughed. ‘That is the last thing you need.’ He placed a cool, wet cloth on John’s forehead, and John felt instant relief. ‘You need rest,’ Ibn Jumay said softly. ‘The drink I gave you will help you sleep. Later, you will be brought food and drink. Eat everything. I will see you tomorrow.’
John tried to respond, but he was already slipping away, surrendering to sleep, returning to his dark dreams.
Weeks passed, time spent mostly in drugged sleep, battling nightmares. The visits of Ibn Jumay punctuated John’s tortured sleep. The kind doctor redressed John’s wounds and told him of his new owner, Najm ad-Din Ayub. Ayub, he said, was a tough man, but also fair and generous. John could have done much worse.
One day, John awoke to the creak of the door opening and rolled over to see not Ibn Jumay but a slender Saracen with short, greying hair and piercing eyes. He had angular features and his mouth was set in a hard line. John sat up. He sensed immediately that this was not a man to be trifled with. The Saracen stepped into the small room, and Ibn Jumay entered behind him.
‘Up,’ the strange man said in accented Latin. John stood, wobbling for a moment on his weak right leg. The Saracen stepped close and inspected John, squeezing his arms and legs as if he were a horse. ‘Your shirt,’ he ordered.
John tilted his head in confusion. ‘Excuse me?’
The back of the man’s hand flashed out, catching John on the cheek. John ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth and tasted blood. The man leaned close and growled something harsh in Arabic.
‘You are not to speak unless spoken to,’ Ibn Jumay translated. ‘He wishes you to take off your tunic. Do as he says.’ John pulled the linen fabric off over his head, and the man leaned close to examine the scars on John’s shoulder and torso. Finally, he nodded. He turned to Ibn Jumay, and they exchanged rapid words in Arabic. Then, Ibn Jumay turned to John and spoke in Frankish.
‘This is Najm ad-Din Ayub, but you will call him m’allim, master. He has deemed you fit to begin working. Do as he says, and you will be fed, clothed and treated with respect. In time, you may even purchase your freedom. Disobey him, and you will be punished.’
‘What good is the word of an infidel?’ John spat in Frankish.
Again, the back of Ayub’s hand flashed out, stinging John’s cheek. ‘My word is true,’ Ayub said in Latin. ‘And if I choose to let Ibn Jumay speak for me, it is only because I do not wish to soil my mouth with your barbarian tongue. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ John said. Ayub raised his hand. ‘Yes, m’allim.’
‘Good. Follow me.’ John limped outside, squinting against the bright sunshine, which was blinding after weeks spent in the dim confines of his room. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that he was in a walled compound, with a sprawling, white-walled villa at the centre. The room in which he had been kept was one of several in a row built against the wall that ran down one side of the villa. Ayub stopped in front of a doorway that led into a larger room. Straw sleeping mats covered the floor, with hardly any space between them.
‘From now on you will sleep here with the other slaves,’ Ibn Jumay instructed.
John nodded, and Ayub led on to the back of the villa. He stepped through a low door, and John followed to find himself in a kitchen filled with the mouth-watering smells of roasting meat and exotic spices. The large room had spotless white walls, a red-tiled floor and a low ceiling. John had to duck to avoid the sheep haunches, ribs and even whole goats that hung there. A fireplace eight feet across took up most of the wall to the right. Wood was stacked next to it, and more wood burned in the fireplace, heating a black cauldron that hung from a chain. A thin slave girl with skin of deepest black tended the cauldron, stirring it with a long wooden spoon. Across from John, several narrow tables lined the wall, with a washbasin built into one. Shelves had been built above them, and they held dozens of clay jars. To the left of the shelves, a door led into the villa, and on the left-hand wall, another door led to a pantry filled with sacks of grain. A wide table occupied the middle of the room, and standing behind it was an attractive older woman with long hair just beginning to grey. She scowled when she saw John.
Ayub turned to John and spoke rapidly in Arabic. ‘This is Basimah, the mistress of the house,’ Ibn Jumay translated. ‘You will work for her until you are strong enough to work in the fields. You are to do exactly as she says. Under no circumstances are you to speak to her, or to any other members of the household. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’ John looked to Ayub. ‘Yes, m’allim.’
Ayub nodded, and he and Ibn Jumay departed, leaving John alone to face Basimah. She stood with her hands on her hips, frowning at him while a fat fly buzzed around the room. ‘Mayy,’ she said at last. John shook his head to indicate that he did not understand. ‘Mayy,’ she said more loudly and kicked a wooden bucket so that it slid across the floor to him. ‘’Ajal,’ she added as John picked up the bucket. ‘’Ajal!’
John hurried outside, bucket in hand. Did mayy mean water, he wondered, or perhaps milk? He looked about, but saw neither a well nor any animals. The space behind the house was a broad expanse of sun-baked earth, closed off on three sides by a high wall. Small trees filled with bright-green fruit grew along the wall opposite John. Buildings lined the wall to the left and right, their red-tile roofs slanting upwards to within four feet of the top of the wall. John started to lug the bucket around the left side of the villa, then froze. If he climbed atop one of those buildings, he would be able to clamber over the wall.
John carried the bucket over to the nearest building and placed it upside down on the ground. He looked around to make sure that no one was watching. Then, standing on the bucket, he jumped and managed to get his chest and arms on to the tile roof. His injured shoulder screamed with pain, but John gritted his teeth and pulled himself the rest of the way up. He lay on the hot tiles, gasping for breath. He had not realized how weak he was. He pushed himself up and crawled to where the roof met the wall. He rose and peered over. A dusty city of narrow streets and closely packed buildings stretched away before him, running down to a square, where there stood a huge Roman temple, its
tall columns dwarfing the surrounding buildings. Beyond the temple, the streets sloped down towards a thick wall. Beyond the wall lay a green valley, bordered on both sides by towering mountains. John noted the position of the morning sun, over the mountains to his right. That meant that the kingdom of Jerusalem lay to his left, over the far mountain range.