On the other side of Celino the boy let out a wail of anguish, and then
sobbed bitterly. Daoud felt a surge of grief. He was not sure whether it
was for the boy or for himself.
"We should leave his body behind," he said to Celino. "Going this fast,
that horse cannot carry both of you much farther." Anger at all this
useless trouble constricted his throat and made his voice husky.
The boy cried, "No!" It was almost a scream.
"I can manage," said Celino.
"I will not leave him!" the boy shouted.
Sophia whispered, "I wish we had never seen them--without our help, they
might only have been robbed. That poor boy!"
Celino clenched his fist and muttered to himself. Then he looked up and
motioned to Daoud, pointing out a road diverging westward from the
Appian Way. Daoud jerked the reins of his horse, and the hooves no
longer rang on old Roman paving stones but thudded on hard-packed dirt.
The trees closed together overhead, and they rode for a time in almost
total darkness.
Celino dropped back now, and Daoud, glancing over his shoulder a little
later, saw the boy and Celino in conversation as they rode side by side.
After they had gone a mile or so, Celino rode back to join Daoud and
Sophia. The old man's body was draped over his horse's back in front of
him.
"You have much to answer to me for," Daoud said.
"I know that," said Celino. "But as long as we are out of Rome by
morning, we are safe. The Giudecca, the Jewish quarter, is along the
Tiber on the south side of the city. We can leave the boy with them and
they will help him bury his father and take him in. It is not far from
here." Daoud could not see his face clearly in the dark, but there was a
note of pleading in his tone.
"How far?" Daoud demanded.
"We will be there long before dawn."
"But then we will have to go into the city," Daoud said. "How do we
explain to the Roman watchmen why we are carrying an old man, dead of a
knife wound? Surely they will be at least as thorough in inspecting
baggage as you were at Lucera."
Celino was silent a moment. "You two can cross a bridge that will take
you west of the city. I will take the old man's body and the boy to the
Giudecca, and I will be the only one who will have to deal with the
watch."
Sophia spoke up. "As you dealt with those ruffians at the inn? Then we
will have all of Rome hunting us."
"All of Rome?" Celino chuckled. "The Romans can agree on only one
thing--fighting among themselves. There are powerful Ghibellino families
here who will protect us if need be."
He needed this damned Lorenzo, Daoud thought, because of his connections
with the Ghibellini.
"How did the men at the inn know the old man was a Jew?" Daoud asked
Celino.
"The hat he was wearing," Celino said. "All Jews are required to wear
those round black hats in the Papal States. To make it easier for good
Christians to persecute them." Daoud shook his head. Even Christians
were treated better than that in al-Islam.
_I did not know. Somehow, out of all that I learned about the Christian
world, that detail about hats for Jews was left out. A little thing, too
trivial to be mentioned. What other deadly little omissions lie in wait
for me?_
He felt like a man in chains. He would have to keep Celino with him, and
the prospect infuriated him.
As they continued riding westward, Daoud heard the boy weeping. It made
him think of nights in the Mameluke barracks on Raudha Island when he
lay on his pallet, biting his knuckles so no one would hear him sob as
he cried for his mother and father and for himself so lost and lonely.
_I will help the boy bury his father. If it does not endanger us._
This boy, too, was lost and lonely. As Daoud had been while training to
be a Mameluke.
As Nicetas had been.
* * * * *
It had been a chilly day, the day that Daoud and Nicetas became friends.
Huge gray clouds billowed in the east, over the Sinai desert. In the lee
of a cliff formed of giant blocks of red sandstone, a dozen small tents
clustered.
On a restless brown pony with a barrel-shaped body, Daoud waited in a
line of nearly thirty julbans, Mamelukes in training, similarly mounted.
Soon it would be his turn to ride past the wooden ring that a pair of
slaves was swinging from side to side between the legs of a scaffold. In
his hand Daoud grasped a rumh, a lightweight lance longer than a man's
body, with a tip of sharpened bone.
On a low rise of brown gravel, Mahmoud, the Circassian naqeeb in charge
of their training troop, sat astride a sleek brown Arab half blood. He
looked almost regal in his long scarlet kaftan and reddish-brown fur
cap. His beard was full and gray, and a necklace of gold coins hung down
to his waist. The boys wore round caps of undyed cotton cloth and
striped robes, and they rode scrubby ponies.
From atop a galloping horse, each boy was expected to hurl his rumh
unerringly through the ring, whose diameter was two handspans. The ring
was attached to three strong, slender ropes. One rope suspended it from
the scaffold; the other two went out to either side, where the slaves
held them. Pulling in turn on the ropes, the two slaves swung the ring
from side to side.
The boy just ahead of Daoud in line was a new member of the troop of
young Mamelukes. His face was smooth and his skin pale, his hair and
eyes very black.
He turned to Daoud and said, "What if we hit one of those slaves by
mistake?"
Daoud had once seen a slave transfixed by a wild cast of the rumh. It
hurt to remember his screams and thrashings.
"Wound a slave and you will be beaten," he said. "Kill a slave, and you
go without water for three days. In this desert that is a death
sentence."
The boy whistled and shrugged. "Hard punishments for us, but not much
comfort to the slaves, I'd say."
"It comforts them to know we have reason to be careful," Daoud answered.
After a moment, the boy smiled hesitantly and said, "I am Nicetas. From
Trebizond. Where are you from?"
Daoud rubbed his pony's neck to settle it down. "Ascalon, not far from
here. I am called Daoud." He saw the puzzlement in Nicetas's face and
added, "My parents were Franks."
"Oh," said Nicetas, and looked sympathetic, as if he had instantly
grasped what had happened to Daoud's mother and father and how he came
to be a Mameluke.
"My mother was a whore," Nicetas said without any sign of embarrassment.
"She sold me to the Turks when I was eight, and I was glad to go. She
had sold me for other things before that. This is a good life. You learn
to ride and shoot. Mamelukes wear gold, and they lord it over everybody
else."
Daoud felt a slight easing of the tension of waiting to cast the rumh.
He enjoyed talking to this new boy. There was a warmth and liveliness in
him that Daoud liked. And even though their lives had been different,
Daoud felt more of a kinship with this boy than he ever had with any of
the others in his training group.
"Mamelukes have a good life if they live," said Daoud. "Where is
Trebizond?"
Nicetas waved his left hand. "North of here. It is a Greek city on the
Black Sea. But I suppose you have never heard of the Black Sea."
"I know where the Black Sea is," said Daoud, somewhat annoyed that
Nicetas should think him totally ignorant. "How did you come to join our
orta?"
"I was enrolled in the Fakri, the Mamelukes of Emir Fakr ad-Din. The
emir was killed by the Frankish invaders last year. The older Fakri are
staying together, but the young ones have been transferred out to the
other ortas."
Daoud found himself feeling somewhat sorry for Nicetas. He knew how
lonely the Greek boy must be. His khushdashiya, his barracks comrades,
were the nearest he had to a family. And even at that he was not really
close to the other boys. He was the only Frank among them, and to talk
to them at all he had to learn their various languages--Turkish, Kurd,
Farsi, Circassian, Tartar. They would not bother to learn the Norman
French, which was still the language he heard in his dreams. Most of the
boys slept two by two in the field, but Daoud had no close friend to
share a tent with.
"Go!" shouted Mahmoud the Circassian to Nicetas.
The Greek boy stood up in the saddle, and rode down the field with a
warbling scream that was a perfect imitation of a Bedouin war cry. His
trousers billowed against his long legs. Daoud watched his handsome,
straight-nosed profile as he turned to fix his eyes on the swinging
target. The lean-muscled bare arm drew back and snapped forward. The
long black pole of the rumh whistled through the air, shot smoothly
through the ring and landed upright, quivering, in the dune beyond it.
Daoud heard murmurs of appreciation around him. At the naqeeb's next cry
of, "Go!" Daoud kicked his pony in the ribs and plunged forward to try
his own cast.
He tried to ignore the fear of missing that knotted his belly muscles,
tried not to think at all about his desperate need to make a good cast.
He guided his mount with the pressure of his knees. He squinted his eyes
against the wind of his rush and fixed them on the ring. His body moved
up and down with the action of the horse, and the ring swung back and
forth. He twisted sideways in the saddle, steadying himself with one
hand on the pony's back. Grasping the rumh at the middle so that it
balanced, he lifted it high over his head. The little horse's muscles
rippled under his palm. If he fixed his gaze and his aim on the point in
space that the ring occupied at the lowest point of its arc, and
released his rumh just as the ring reached the extremity of its swing,
the target and rumh should arrive together.
The pony had carried him opposite the ring now, and he took a deep
breath and whipped his arm forward.
His lance reached the right spot--an instant too late. He wanted to
throw himself down from his horse and weep with frustration.
He heard groans and curses from behind him. Not once this morning had
the troop had a perfect round. He rode around to the back of the
scaffold, where the two slaves were sitting until the next boy should
take his turn. The ghulmans kept their eyes down, their black faces
expressionless. Angrily he yanked his rumh out of the sand and rode back
to the end of the line.
Nicetas patted his arm reassuringly. Two more boys missed after Daoud,
and that also made him feel a bit better. It occurred to Daoud that
Nicetas was one of the few who had not once missed the ring that
morning. He was a good horseman and seemed to have a remarkably keen eye
with the rumh.
The only other boy in the troop who was that good, Daoud thought, was
Kassar, the Kipchaq Tartar. Daoud looked around for Kassar and saw him
sitting on his pony partway out of line, eyeing Nicetas sourly. Kassar's
head was round, his face flat, and he was already old enough to have
grown a small black mustache.
"From now on," the naqeeb bellowed from his hilltop, "anyone who misses
once will not eat today. Anyone who misses twice will sleep in the
desert tonight without tent or blankets."
Nicetas, who was wearing a long, sleeveless robe, grinned and shook
himself. "It will be cold out there tonight."
"What if someone misses a third time, naqeeb?" someone called out.
"He is no longer Mameluke," said Mahmoud in a soft voice that carried.
"He goes back to El Kahira. To be a ghulman for the rest of his life."
He would kill himself first, Daoud thought. He would plunge his dagger
into his own heart before he would let that happen to him.
A frozen silence fell over the troop. The only sound Daoud could hear
was the desert wind hissing past his ears. But he felt the fear all
around him just as he felt the wind.
Mahmoud's threat seemed to help the troop's marksmanship. Only one boy
missed in the next round. In that round and the one that followed,
Daoud's rumh flew true both times. The second time, he felt dizzy with
relief, and he leaned forward and hugged his horse's neck as he rode
back to his place.
One more round and they could rest. Daoud's body ached, especially his
back and his arms. He felt a clenching in his stomach, knowing that he
had to get his lance through the ring this time. His khushdashiya would
hate him, and he would hate himself, if he missed. And the more he
feared missing, the more he would be likely to miss.
"Never mind hitting a slave," said Nicetas just before his turn. "Do us
all a favor, hit the naqeeb."
Daoud laughed. Nicetas rode out and hit the target as usual. Feeling
less tense, Daoud rode out to make his third cast. He held his breath
until he saw his long lance sail smoothly through the dark-rimmed
circle.
He shouted with joy and turned his mount back toward the troop. He did
not hug his horse this time. Laughing, he rode up beside Nicetas, threw
his arms around him, and pulled the skinny body against his larger
frame. Nicetas's eyes seemed to sparkle as they looked into his when
Daoud let him go.
It turned out to be another perfect round, and Mahmoud declared they
could stop to pray and eat.
_Thank God!_ Daoud said fervently to himself.
The sun had crossed from the zenith to the western part of the sky.
Mahmoud led them in reciting the prayers, facing south toward Mecca.
Then each julban took a portion of stale bread and dry goat cheese from
a pouch hanging from his saddle, and a single draft from his water skin.
The swallow of warm water Daoud took tasted foul, but he had to fight
down the impulse to drink more. He sat down before his small tent to
eat.
"May I sit with you?" Daoud squinted up into the sun to see the Greek
boy standing over him.
"Please," said Daoud, gesturing to the sand beside him.
They ate in silence for a time. Daoud looked up from the hard bread he
was relentlessly chewing and saw Nicetas smiling at him. He smiled back.
"You were eating by yourself," Nicetas said. "Do you sleep alone, too?"
Daoud nodded.
"Would you like to have a tent mate?"
Before Daoud could answer, a shadow fell over them. Daoud looked up.
Kassar stood between them and the sun, half a dozen of his friends
around him. He glowered down at Nicetas.
"You think you are good?"
Nicetas's smile was friendly. "It is in the blood. Greeks are good at
games."
"You throw like a girl," Kassar said to Nicetas. The Kipchaq's followers
laughed dutifully.
Daoud felt his face burn with anger. He wanted to say something on
Nicetas's behalf, even though it was the rule that each boy must defend
himself.
Nicetas, still smiling pleasantly and looking quite unafraid, stood up
with lithe grace to face Kassar.
"My rumh pierces the target," he said, making a circle with thumb and
forefinger and pushing his other forefinger into it. "You have to be a
man to do that."
This time the laughter was spontaneous, but Kassar did not smile.
"I will bet with you that I can throw the rumh better than you can,"
said Kassar grimly. "I will make you a handsome bet. I will put up the
mail shirt that I took from a Frankish knight at Mansura."
Daoud felt the sting of envy. If he had only been a year or two older,
he, too, might have souvenirs of that battle.
"I possess nothing of value," said Nicetas. "What can I put up against
your mail shirt?"
Grinning, Kassar stepped closer to the Greek, bringing his face down
till Nicetas's sharp-pointed nose almost touched his flat one. "You will
spend the night in my tent whenever I want you." His thick fingers
gripped Nicetas's chin, kneading the flesh of his face.
Nicetas blushed and pulled away, rubbing his chin, but still he smiled.
"If your hand is that rough, I do not wonder you need a new tent mate."
This time the boys all roared with laughter, and Kassar's eyes narrowed
to angry slits.
Daoud had never before heard anyone speak openly of what all the boys
were aware of but only whispered about. For more than a year Daoud had
seen and felt his body changing and had been tormented by steadily
growing needs within himself. He sensed that others of his khushdashiya
were tormented by the same nearly unbearable hungers. He knew, from
listening to the talk of older men, that the answer to all these
yearnings lay in women. But julbans were forbidden the company of women.
He quickly learned how to relieve himself in solitude, and suspected
many of the others did the same. But some, he was sure, made use of each
other's bodies.
"I accept the contest," said Nicetas, staring fearlessly into Kassar's
eyes.
"We must go to the naqeeb for permission," said Kassar. "But we will not
tell him the stakes. He might get ideas about you." He grinned at
Nicetas with such frank lasciviousness that Daoud, remembering how his
captors had raped him years ago, wanted to smash his fist into the
Tartar's big white teeth.
He followed Nicetas and Kassar as they went to Mahmoud's large silk tent
and explained the contest.
"Yes," said Mahmoud, leading the way back to the practice field. "Put
the one-handspan ring on, and you will ride fifty paces from the target.
You will cast until one of you misses and the other follows with a hit.
If both of you miss, you will be beaten for disturbing my rest."
The slaves changed the two-handspan target ring for the smaller one and
began pulling on the guide ropes that swung the ring from side to side.
The naqeeb paced off the distance for Kassar and Nicetas.
At Mahmoud's command, Kassar rode down the field. He made a perfect
cast, and his friends cheered. It was Nicetas's turn, and he flew past
the target with his warbling scream, standing in the stirrups. There was
something dance-like in the way he stood swaying with the jolting
movement of his pony, left arm outstretched to balance himself, rumh
poised to throw.
_He is beautiful_, Daoud thought.
Nicetas's rumh went perfectly through the ring. The cheer for him was
lower; after all, nobody knew him.
Daoud called out, "God guides your arm, Nicetas!" Some of the other boys
stared at him, and his face grew hot.
Both contestants made successful second casts. But when Kassar made his
third throw, Daoud saw the ring wobble slightly. The rumh must have
brushed its inner edge. Nicetas's third try, once again, was flawless.
"We cannot be at this till sunset," Mahmoud grumbled. "Move out to
seventy paces." He paced off the new distance, and Kassar and Nicetas,
stone-faced, not looking at each other, rode to the spot he pointed out.
To throw the rumh accurately from that distance would take great
strength as well as a keen eye, Daoud thought. Looking at Nicetas's
slender arms and narrow shoulders, he wondered if the Greek boy could
manage it.
A wind rose, stinging Daoud's face with tiny sand particles. It was
blowing from the east, across the field where the boys rode. Nicetas
would be lucky to get his lance anywhere near the scaffold.
At Mahmoud's barking command, Kassar galloped out across the field. He
half rose as he came abreast of the target, and Daoud saw his powerful
shoulder muscles bunch under his thin robe.
There was a loud crack as Kassar's rumh hit the ring. Daoud saw black
fragments fly though the air. He gasped in surprise.
Kassar's lance had hit the side of the target ring, and the desert-dried
wood had shattered under the impact.
"Well." Mahmoud turned to Nicetas with a laugh. "The target is
destroyed."
"Let us put another ring on," said Nicetas promptly, just as Kassar rode
up.
Kassar's face was tight with fury. "The rings are different sizes. It
will not be fair if you have a bigger ring to hit."
"I want a smaller ring," said Nicetas with a faint smile.
Mahmoud sent a boy galloping to the target pullers with the order to
attach a new ring to the ropes. From where he stood, Daoud could not
even see daylight through the new ring. In the distance he saw a
whirlwind raising a cone of sand, a sand devil, spinning near the red
cliff.
"Think that there is a crusader charging at you, and you have to hit him
in the eye to stop him," Mahmoud suggested to Nicetas.
"If it were, I would not let him get close enough for me to _see_ his
eye," said Nicetas dryly.
"Go!" Mahmoud roared.
Nicetas screamed across the field. The rumh flew.
Daoud cried out in amazement as the lance, no bigger than a splinter at
this distance, shot perfectly through the ring.
Joy was a white light momentarily blinding Daoud. His heart was beating
as hard and fast as if it had been he who had made the cast.
"Nicetas! Yah, Nicetas!" he cheered.
Loud cries of admiration went up. Nicetas retrieved his rumh and waved
it over his head, standing in the stirrups as he rode back to the troop.
He jumped down from his horse, and Kassar, already dismounted, went to
meet him. Kassar's heavy walk, his clenched fists, the rage in his face,
told Daoud there was going to be trouble.
He felt hot anger surging up inside him, but he reminded himself again
that Nicetas must fight his own battles.
The boys surrounded Kassar and Nicetas, the naqeeb with his green turban
in their midst. Daoud pushed himself into the innermost circle.
"Bring me the mail shirt," said Nicetas.
"_I_ won," Kassar declared, glowering down at him. "I smashed the ring,
a thing you are too weak to do." He looked away from Nicetas and moved
his head from side to side, glaring around the circle of boys,
challenging any of them to contradict him. No one spoke. No one wanted
to quarrel with Kassar, especially on behalf of a boy no one knew.
Daoud felt angry words rushing up inside him, but he kept himself in
check. To take up Nicetas's quarrel unasked would insult Nicetas. If
things got too far out of hand, the naqeeb would intervene.
Daoud felt himself abruptly pushed to one side. He turned to protest,
and then checked himself. It was Mahmoud, leaving the circle that
surrounded Nicetas and Kassar. As Daoud watched in amazement, the
gray-bearded naqeeb walked to his red-and-white-striped tent and sat
down cross-legged on the carpet in front of it, calmly gazing at the
sandstone cliffs as if what was going on did not concern him at all.
_He should be the one to declare Nicetas the winner_, Daoud thought, as
angry now as he was astonished. _Is he, too, afraid of Kassar?_
"When you broke the ring, that was a miss," said Nicetas. "You lost. The
shirt is mine."
"You will have to take it from me," said Kassar with a grin. "Come to my
tent and you can wrestle me for it." Now he made the gesture encircling
his forefinger that Nicetas had made before.
What would Nicetas do, Daoud wondered. He was not big enough to hurt
Kassar--but if he yielded, Kassar would make a slave of him and subject
him to abominations.
"I had heard that a Tartar never goes back on his word," said Nicetas.
"I see now that at least one Tartar is a lying jackal."
_Good!_ Daoud thought fiercely. In a battle of insults, he felt sure,
the talkative Greek would have the upper hand over the dour Tartar.
Kassar reddened, and he smashed his fist into Nicetas's jaw. The Greek
boy fell to the ground, and Daoud saw that his eyes were blank, dazed.
But Nicetas shook his head and forced himself to his feet.
"Your fist can't restore your honor, Kassar. You have fucked it too many
times."
Loud laughter burst out from the watching boys, choked off as again the
Tartar swung, hitting Nicetas in the mouth. The boy was thrown back
against the onlookers, and blood ran from his nose and mouth.
Daoud felt the blood pounding his temples as his anger grew. As long as
it was just Kassar against Nicetas, he could not get into the fight. But
if Kassar's friends joined in, he promised himself he would help
Nicetas.
"Take back what you said," Kassar growled, advancing on him.
Daoud could not see Nicetas behind Kassar's bulky form. But suddenly
Kassar's head snapped back and his white cap fell off into the sand. The
Kipchaq fell back, and Daoud saw that Nicetas was on his feet, grinning
through the blood and rubbing his knuckles.
"Yah, Nicetas!" he shouted, but he was alone in cheering. He sensed
others looking at him. May they burn in the flames if they did not see
that Nicetas was the better man.
Kassar plowed into Nicetas, pummeling him with both fists. When Nicetas
collapsed under the punishment, Kassar kicked him in the head, sending
him flying backward. Kassar's friends shouted encouragement. Daoud felt
his whole body growing hot with anger.
Nicetas rolled over on his stomach, raised himself on hands and knees,
and spat blood. His eyes searched the crowd of boys watching him and
Kassar, and Daoud knew that he was looking for a friend.
"Nicetas!" Daoud cried, and the Greek boy's dazed eyes found him and his
bloody mouth stretched in a grin.
But if Nicetas did not give up, Kassar would kill him.
Suddenly Daoud turned and pushed his way through the crowd and hurried
to where Mahmoud was still sitting.
"Why do you not stop this?" he demanded. "It is your duty to keep order
among us."
"Do not tell me my duty," said Mahmoud. "Have you forgotten what my cane
feels like?"
"You would use the cane on _me_?" Daoud exclaimed, outraged. "When
Kassar is cheating?"
There were a thousand tiny wrinkles around Mahmoud's blue Circassian
eyes, from a lifetime of squinting into the sun.
"Daoud, I will tell you what my duty is. My duty is to take miserable
julbans and make Mamelukes of you. When you are a full-fledged Mameluke,
there will be no naqeeb over you to right your wrongs. Among Mamelukes,
he who is strongest rules. If Kassar is the strongest among you, you
must be ruled by him."
Daoud growled with disgust and ran back to the fight.
Nicetas had somehow gotten back on his feet, though his face was a mass
of blood and dirt and his breath was coming in gasps. His eyes were
glazed, but he managed to stagger forward and hit Kassar in the nose
with his fist. Blood began to flow from the young Tartar's wide nostrils
into his mustache.
Kassar put his fingers to his upper lip, took them away and stared at
the blood. His eyes widened in fury. His head swung right and left; then
he sidestepped to a boy in front of the circle. From the boy's sash he
pulled a dabbus, a fluted iron cylinder mounted on a wooden staff.
Swinging the dabbus so it whistled through the air, Kassar charged at
Nicetas. The boys fell back, opening the circle wider.
For the first time, Daoud saw fear in Nicetas's eyes. He ducked as
Kassar swung the mace at his head, but his movements were slow and
awkward. He had been hit too many times. He fell, stood up, and
staggered backward.
The naqeeb would not interfere. This could end only one way.
And Daoud knew that he did not want to see Nicetas die before his eyes.
He would not allow it.
Only moments ago rage had raised a great storm within him, but now his
mind was like the desert after the storm has passed, still and empty.
Like the desert, he felt himself full of a terrible power.
Without any more thought he stepped out into the ring behind Kassar and
shouted, "Kassar! Enough!"
The Tartar whirled, holding the dabbus at shoulder height.
"Stay out of this, pigshit Frank."
"Let him be, Kassar." Almost all Daoud's attention was on Kassar, but a
part of his mind was free to wonder why he felt no fear at all. Somehow,
he was not sure how, the hours with Saadi had something to do with it.
"Put that down," Daoud said, pointing at the dabbus.
"In your head!" Kassar shouted, and charged at him.
Daoud kept his eyes on Kassar's, but in the edge of his vision he saw
the ridged mass of iron, heavy enough to crack a steel helmet, rushing
toward his head--his head protected only by a cloth cap.
At the last possible moment he threw up his hand and caught Kassar's
wrist. He stepped back out of the path of the dabbus and jerked downward
on Kassar's arm. The weight of the mace helped throw Kassar off balance,
and he landed on his chest with a grunt, the air driven out of him.
Daoud stamped on Kassar's forearm and yanked the dabbus out of his
grasp. He flung himself down on Kassar and pinned him to the sand.
Though all his attention was on Kassar, there was room in his mind for a
triumphant surprise.
_Allahu akbar! God is great! I never thought I had the strength to throw
the Kipchaq._
"Nicetas won the contest. Admit it, or I'll break your skull," he
growled, holding the dabbus over Kassar's head.
Kassar remained silent. Daoud lowered the dabbus and tapped the Tartar's
round skull through his mop of straight black hair. He hit Kassar just
hard enough to let him feel the weight of the dabbus.
"Admit that Nicetas won."
"All right," Kassar grunted, his face in the sand. "He won."
"Swear by the Prophet you will leave him alone from now on."
"I swear," came the muffled voice.
"By the Prophet."
"By the Prophet."
Daoud stood up warily and handed the dabbus back to the boy Kassar had
taken it from.
Kassar rose slowly, wiping sand from his face. His eyes seemed to spark
with hatred.
_This is not finished yet_, Daoud thought.
He looked for Nicetas. The Greek boy was on his feet. He was wiping the
dirt and blood from his face with the hem of his robe. He looked at
Daoud, and there was something bright and solemn in his eyes. No one had
ever looked at Daoud like that before.
Daoud felt a great rush of gratitude to God for giving him the strength
to save Nicetas's life.
_If I had not fought Kassar, Nicetas would be dead._
That clean-lined face so full of warmth and wit would be so much
lifeless clay. Daoud felt a lightness in his heart and a smile bubbling
to his lips. He was proud of his strength. He had used it to save a
precious life. He was a warrior of God.
Smiling, he went to Nicetas and threw his arm around his shoulders.
He should force Kassar to give Nicetas the mail shirt. But he had done
enough fighting for one day. Nicetas did not need the damned shirt. Let
the Tartar keep it.
"Now then, you wretched sons of desert rats!" came Mahmoud's voice. He
pushed his way into the middle of the ring, coin necklace glittering,
eyes flashing in anger.
"Fighting, eh? Trying to kill each other? Save your fighting for the
emir's enemies. You are khushdashiya, brother Mamelukes of Emir Baibars.
If again I see one of you raise a hand against his brother, I swear I
will stake him out on the sand." He raised his right hand to heaven.
"Hear me, God!"
The naqeeb had a strange way of making Mamelukes out of them, Daoud
thought. But perhaps he knew what he was doing.
That night, without anyone's saying any more, Nicetas brought his tent
and his bedding to Daoud. They compared tents and decided that Daoud's
was the larger. They would sleep in it.
After they had tended their ponies and joined with the rest of the troop
in the final prayer of the night, they crawled into the tent and spread
their bedding side by side. Daoud felt Nicetas moving in his half of the
tent and heard a rustling, as if his new tent mate were shedding his
clothes. Why would he do that on such a cold night?
Nicetas pulled his blankets over both of them and rolled toward Daoud.
The Greek boy's skin felt warm and silk-smooth. Nicetas wriggled even
closer and stroked Daoud's chest, arousing pleasant tingles. Daoud felt,
keener than ever, the powerful longings that had been troubling him. But
then he remembered cruel Turkish laughter and rough hands, the
unbearable pain and shame of his first nights of captivity. He struggled
to free himself from Nicetas's arms.
All at once Nicetas let go of him and turned over, leaving a small space
in the tent between them.
"Sleep well, Daoud." There was hurt in the soft voice.
Remorseful, Daoud reached for his friend. When his hand grasped the bare
shoulder, his fingers tightened of their own volition. Nicetas drew
closer again, until their bodies were pressed together.
"Ah, Daoud!" Nicetas whispered.
After they had made love, Daoud thought, _Perhaps God sent Nicetas to
me_.
Fearing that the thought might be blasphemous, he put it out of his mind
and fell into a sated sleep.
* * * * *
Daoud, Sophia, Celino, and the boy came to a riverbank. They had ridden
in silence for so long that the moon's crescent hung low in the western
sky, casting a glow on rippling water. Daoud called a halt and sat
gazing at the Tiber. _Next to the Bhar al-Nil, the river Nile, this is
the most famous river in the world._
It was wide and flowed fast, judging by the ripples, and looked deep.
Looking upriver, he saw that it followed a winding course leading toward
black bulks, lit with yellow lights here and there, that must be great
buildings. Rome.
They laid the old man's body down on a cracked marble platform beside
the river. Celino had long since pulled the dagger out of the old man's
flesh, and now he handed it to Daoud. The dagger was a well-balanced
throwing knife of good steel, stained with a film of dried blood. Daoud
knelt, washed it in the Tiber, and wiped it with the hem of his cloak.
He held it out to the boy.
"I do not want it." The boy's face was still wrapped in a blue scarf,
but Daoud could see tears glittering on his cheek.
"It is a good knife. You may have need of it now that you have no
father."
"It is the knife that killed him." The boy hesitated. "All right, give
it to me."
Daoud handed it to him, and the boy turned and hurled the knife out over
the river. It flew a short distance, and the splash threw off light like
a handful of pearls.
"Well," Daoud said, "no one had a better right to do that than you." He
smiled to himself. He could understand quite well the lad's feelings.
But there was something odd about the way the boy's arm had moved when
he threw the knife. Daoud recalled a phrase that he had heard in memory
while they were riding toward the river.
_You throw like a girl._
That had not been true of Nicetas, but it was true of this boy.
And his voice, though high, was not as light and clear as the voice of a
child. Moved by a sudden suspicion, Daoud reached out too quickly for
the boy to draw away and pulled loose the scarf.
He leaned closer for a good look. He heard Celino, standing behind him,
grunt with surprise. Revealed in the moonlight was, not a lad whose
voice had not yet changed, but a girl. Her eyelids were puffy from her
weeping, but the eyelashes were long and thick, her nose delicate, her
lips full. The eyes that looked back at him with a mixture of fear and
defiance were, in this light, black as obsidian. Her hair was coiled in
a thick braid at the back of her head, where the scarf had hidden it.
He did not have to ask the reason for the pretense. Traveling with only
an aged father to protect her, she was far safer as a boy.
Sophia pushed past Daoud and put her arms around the girl, who began to
cry again. "You poor child, are you all alone now? There, it's all
right. We will help you."
"Who was your father?" said Celino in an equally kindly voice.
"He was not my father," the girl whispered. "He was Angelo Ben Ezra of
Florence, a seller of books, and he was my husband."
Sophia drew back in surprise, then hugged the girl tighter. "Oh, poor
little one. So young, and wed to such an old man. How could your parents
do that to you?"
The girl angrily drew back from Sophia. "Do not speak so! My parents
were good to me--and my husband was. He never touched me. When my mother
and father died of tertian fever, he took me in, and he married me so as
not to give scandal. He taught me to read."
"What is your name, girl?" Celino asked.
"Rachel." She dropped to her knees beside the body stretched out on the
marble, and her tears splashed on the white face. She bent over and
kissed him.
"He is so cold."
"We must wrap him quickly and be on our way," said Daoud. "We have
killed three people and burned down an inn. I assure you, they have
stopped chasing us only for the moment. Celino, I want a word with you.
Sophia, help the girl wrap her husband's body so we can travel on."
"I do not need to be commanded," said Sophia sharply as Daoud turned his
back on her, motioning Celino to follow him.
_What in the name of God am I to do with these people?_
Daoud strode across the marble platform and picked his way down a flight
of cracked stairs to the edge of the Tiber. He followed a line of
tumbled stones, once part of an embankment, until he felt sure Sophia
and the girl could not hear them.
Then he whirled, bringing his face inches from Celino's.
"You fool! I ought to kill you for what you have done."
He heard a soft growl to his right.
"Send your damned dog away," he said, without taking his eyes off
Celino.
"Of course," said Celino calmly. "Scipio!" He snapped his fingers. "To
the horses. Go!"
The hound turned, head and tail lowered, and walked away. But he swung
his long muzzle around to glance back at Daoud as he moved off. His
pupils reflected the moonlight like two silver coins.
"Give me the jewels you're carrying," said Daoud.
"Of course," said Celino again, promptly unbuckling his belt. Daoud
tensed himself in case the Sicilian should go for his dagger. But Celino
held the belt up so that the twelve unset stones--rubies, pearls and
amethysts--could roll out of the hidden pocket into Daoud's palm. Daoud
added them to the twelve already in his pouch.
"There, now you have the stones back. And now are you going to try to
kill me?"
There was a hint of challenge in that word _try_.
"If I had had all these jewels at the inn, I would have left you for
that crowd to kill. How could you be so stupid as to involve us in a
tavern quarrel?"
"I am no man's slave," Celino growled. "Not Manfred's, and surely not
yours."
_But I am a slave. That is what the very word Mameluke means, and I am
proud to be a Mameluke._
"Do you think, Celino," Daoud said softly, "that you are a better man
than I?"
"I think myself better than no man, and no man better than me."