The Codex Lacrimae (2 page)

“You don't need to fear anything,
ya Akh.
I'm sorry, too — that anyone should have to start a morning like that isn't right.” He offered the sword
hilt-first. “You can keep it.”

Ibn-Khaldun haltingly raised his free hand. “No, no — I don't need another blade. I'm grateful for your help.”

“I saw your parries,” the boy said. “You didn't need anybody. Aqib's lucky that you didn't take his head off.”

Ibn-Khaldun sheathed his sword, taking a moment to note the youth's features — curly black hair, angular face, and thin lips compressed into a frown. The boy wore a simple linen tunic that seemed oversized for his small frame, which was bound at the waist by a thick leather girdle from which a scabbard depended.

“So, he's not a brother?” Ibn-Khaldun asked.

“No, thank God. He's the son of Ghannen, the caravan leader.”

“Caravan?”

“Down in a
wadi,
beyond those trees. We arrived yesterday —” The boy stopped talking at the sound of prolonged coughing from behind him. He turned and raised his voice.

“I'm over here,
Ima
!” He paused. Then again, “Mother! Over here!”

There was no response. The boy made a curt bow to Ibn-Khaldun. “Again, I'm sorry he bothered you.
Le
'
hitra
'
ot —
I've got to go. Fare well in your travels, and may the next stop be friendlier than this one.”

The boy then trotted a short distance through some clustered junipers to the trunk of a cypress, stopping to kneel beside a prone form.

In spite of his need for haste, Ibn-Khaldun was curious and approached.

The boy glanced at him, made a move to rise, decided there was still no threat from the old man, and returned his attention to the woman lying on the grass. Ibn-Khaldun couldn't see her features, but noticed the quality of the cinnamon-brown mantle covering the upper part of her beige dress.

“
Im
,
Im
,
wake up.” The boy said, gently prodding the woman's shoulder.

She stirred, reached a hand to the boy's, and grasped it firmly.

“I'm awake, Jacob. Not so roughly. I'm awake.” She coughed and remained lying where he had found her. “Is it late?

“We're not alone,
Ima
.
”

She rolled in the direction of his nod toward Ibn-Khaldun and frowned upon seeing him.

“
Boker Tov, Ge'veret
,
” Ibn-Khaldun greeted her with a slight bow, hoping to put her at ease by remaining in the Hebrew the boy spoke. “Good morning. I'm sorry if some swordplay awakened you.” He nodded toward the youth. “Your son helped me. You're well protected – a good thing in these parts.”

“It is, indeed,” the woman replied, accepting her son's hand as she rose to her feet.

A violent cough overtook her and she put her mouth in the crook of her robe until it subsided. Brushing her hands against her tunic, she gave Ibn-Khaldun a searching look. “
Boker Tov
,
” she said, returning the morning greeting.

They all introduced themselves, and Ibn-Khaldun learned that the mother, Rebecca, and her son, Jacob, were on the final leg of an overland journey from Constantinople to Jerusalem.

“
Ya akh
…, Master Khajen,” Rebecca asked when the two adults sat down to break their fast with some flat breads and fruits, “might I ask: what is your intention?”

“I go there,” he replied simply, turning to face the crusader castle.

“There?” Jacob exclaimed with an incredulous shake of his head. “Many
nazaros
,
Christians,
are there – neither of our kind would be welcome. You'd do better to head for Jerusalem, Old One.”

“Jacob, how rude — you don't speak to your elders like that! Apologize at once!” The mother's voice slapped the morning air, bringing color to his face. He glanced at her and mumbled an apology to Ibn-Khaldun.

The old man laughed. “No, no – such truth in observation merits comment. ‘Believe what you see, and lay aside what you hear,' eh, Young One? He's right, he's right — it's a strange thing for a Muslim to go willingly to a Christian fortress, isn't it?”

“Jacob, please sit down quietly and eat. Don't begrudge Master Khajen's generosity for the sake of a few more minutes of saber play.”

“It's not ‘
play
,
' Ima,” Jacob said with irritation.

“The blade is heavier than it looks,
Ima
,
” he continued defensively as he collapsed cross-legged beside the adults, scooping an assortment of dried apricots and almonds from some unwrapped palm leaves, “and I need to practice if the sword's to become second nature.” As he ate, Jacob's eyes wandered to the Krak, then settled on Ibn-Khaldun. “Forgive me, Master, but I still can't believe you want to go
there
.
Look at that place! It's huge, and the Christians kill without looking ...”

“…while we Muslims look with zeal as we are killing?” Ibn-Khaldun finished.

The old man paused before taking a bite of his bread. “You're too angry, young man, and, perhaps, too strong-worded to your mother. My people have a saying: ‘Arrogance is a weed that grows mostly on a dunghill.'

“Arrogant?” Jacob exclaimed, turning the heat of his gaze at the Crusader castle onto Ibn-Khaldun. “I'm anything but arrogant. I just want to protect us.”

“Perhaps, perhaps – if I mistake your anger for something else, forgive me,” Ibn-Khaldun said.

Rebecca started to say something, but was consumed again by a coughing fit.

“
S'leexa
,
” Ibn-Khaldun pardoned himself, “but that cough doesn't sound good. Have you had it long?”

Rebecca looked quickly to her son who remained focused on his food.

“Yes, for some months,” she replied, shaking her head as adults do when they don't want something discussed before children.

“Ah,” Ibn-Khaldun said, taking the hint. “I see….” He chewed an almond, and then nodded to the two heavily laden camels tethered in the grove. “I see that you've traveled widely. I assume you've crossed the Great Sea more than once?”

“The sea, yes,” Rebecca said, “but mostly moving with the caravans along coastal routes. My husband tolerated ships, but he preferred land under his feet. As do I.”

“He's not with you?”

“No. We've not heard from him in five years, not since the Battle of Mecina.” She nodded toward Jacob. “We couldn't stay in Constantinople. The Genoese merchant who rented our stall tried to take advantage of me. I resisted, and he gave our shop to a more...cooperative merchant.”

Jacob snorted, reaching for another handful of dried fruit and nuts.

His mother glanced at him, and then said, “We're returning to my mother's house in Jerusalem, where I think that my husband will go, if he's able.”

“He's dead, Mother. The Christians killed him in one of their senseless wars.”

“Long are the years that sometimes pass when a merchant is abroad,” Ibn-Khaldun said. “Do you know that he has for certain died?”

“He was at Mecina,” Jacob replied. “Who survived that massacre, except Christians?” He wrenched a handful of grass from the verge to wipe his hands.

Ibn-Khaldun offered the boy his water skin. “Your father might not be dead. He might very well be alive. I know some survivors of the Battle of Mecina who live in that very castle. My apprentice survived that battle — his name's Ríg, and at the time he was little older than you are now.”

“Ríg?” Jacob snorted. “That's not an Arabic or Hebrew name. If he's a Christian, I'm not surprised that he survived the massacre.”

“You
do
know that it takes two sides to fight a battle, eh?” Ibn-Khaldun said patiently, as a teacher might do with a stubborn student. “That one of Saladin's own brothers was besieging Mecina and killing pilgrims who tried to escape?”

“I've heard many versions,” Jacob replied quietly. “In
none
of them does my father survive, and in
all
accounts the Hooded Hospitaller, Santini, slaughters all who get in his way.”

“There was much death in that siege, true,” Ibn-Khaldun said, “but, I've also heard that Saladin retreated when it became obvious that staying wasn't worth taking the castle. I saw the battleground, Jacob. There were many bodies — Christians and my people alike. Perhaps it wasn't only Santini's men doing the killing, eh? You do know that many pilgrims, merchants, and villagers escaped Mecina thanks to Santini's efforts, don't you?”

The old man shrugged at the insoluble problem. “War is war, and for human beings it seems as if killing is sometimes just as much a part of living, especially when religion is involved.”

“Human beings?” Jacob cried. “They weren't human, those Christians at Mecina.” He glared at the Krak as if the fire in his eyes could incinerate its walls. “Servius Aurelius Santini wasn't human,” the boy continued heatedly. “Hundreds died at the castle because of his insufferable
nazaro
arrogance, and my father was just —” his eyes brimmed, but he finished the sentence. “My father was just making his way back from a business trip.”

“You'd seek vengeance, then? At your age?” Ibn-Khaldun asked. “Isn't that prohibited in your religion?”

“If it's against my own people, yes. If others, then, no.” Jacob said softly, as if talking about religion relaxed him. “You seem to know our laws well,
ya Akh
,
so perhaps you also know of this: ‘He who comes to slay you, slay him first.' To do otherwise is suicide, and
that
I will not allow.”

Ibn-Khaldun laughed. “I see, I see. ‘If someone is coming to kill you, get up early and kill him first, eh?' That's a very assertive attitude, Jacob. Thankfully, I've seen it in action this morning and I think it saved my life.”

“I think you mock me,
ya Akh
.
Our proverbs have another saying: ‘Rash words are like sword thrusts, but the tongue of the wise brings healing.' I'll let my sword do its work now, and try to think about your words.” Jacob rose to his feet, bowed curtly at Ibn-Khaldun, and said to his mother. “
Imam
,
I'll be at the other end of the grove.
Practicing
.
”

Ibn-Khaldun thoughtfully watched the youth stride away.

“You talk too much like a rabbi,” the mother commented, “and Jacob very much wanted to become one someday. Your way of speaking angers him because it reminds him of the
mitzvah
and of what's been lost. I hope that he might still become one, but,” tears filled her eyes, “death has been with us much of late and he's not himself.” She watched the boy slashing at imaginary enemies and shook her head. “He'd rather be angry than face some difficult truths.”

“Well, he's young. Isn't that their way?” Ibn-Khaldun observed. “There's a boy in that castle I should like to introduce him to. He's had bad experiences, too, yet he's an apt pupil and good friend. Yes, I think that your Jacob and my apprentice, Ríg, would... .”

The words faded as Ibn-Khaldun's eyes narrowed and focused on a point in the distance, near the horizon, almost midway between Jacob's shadow fencing and the fortress itself. He winced as he pushed himself to a standing position. “Perhaps such conversations might take place sooner than I thought. We must all get to the Krak.”

The woman shook her head. “We'll not be joining you, Old One. You heard my son. We're going with the caravan south to Jerusalem.”

“Not unless you'd walk through an army, you're not,” Ibn-Khaldun corrected.

“What?”

“Look, there. Do you see?” Ibn-Khaldun rose to his feet, helping the woman up. “It has the look of a sand storm, but have you ever seen a storm that low-lying and against such a calm air and blue, sunny sky? No, we must get inside.”

Rebecca called Jacob. The boy stopped his fencing practice to run back and join them.

“We'll also discuss that cough of yours when we're inside,” Ibn-Khaldun promised quietly as the boy neared. “It's not a good sign that you've had it so long.”

“You know medicinal arts?” Rebecca whispered.

“Enough, and, perhaps, more than enough. We'll see.”

Jacob halted a few steps away, looking warily at Ibn-Khaldun.

“An army comes,” Rebecca said. “Look, there. We'll take refuge in the fortress with this man. He says that a plea for sanctuary will be recognized.”