It was hot in the street, and a fresh sherbet had just been put before me. On impulse I picked up the sherbet and crossed to the camel in four quick steps. The place where we sat in the garden adjoined the bazaar, and the attention of the guards was momentarily distracted by the confusion and the crowd.
“Light of the World”—I spoke softly—”accept this small tribute from your slave. Its coolness will speak my thoughts clearer than anything I can say.”
She took the sherbet, and our fingers touched. Over her veil her eyes smiled, and her lips said, “Thank you … Mathurin!”
And then the four soldiers closed about me.
11
“Move, animal!” A bearded soldier pushed me. “Get from here!”
Angered, I seized his arm with a wrestling trick and threw him over my shoulder and into the dust. From behind came a yell of delight as Mahmoud and Haroun rushed to the fray.
The soldiers had closed in swiftly, but my months of training and the strength brought from the galley had left me ready. Smashing a closed fist into one man’s teeth, I struck to the belly of another soldier. Unaccustomed to blows, they staggered back, startled and hurt. Instantly, I stepped back and drew my blade.
It was hot in the dusty street, the noises from the bazaar were suddenly stilled. The soldier I had thrown to the ground was getting to his feet, and his face where it was not covered with beard was pale as death. He whom I had struck in the belly was still gasping for breath, but the others drew their swords.
Out of the hot, still afternoon death had come. Sweat trickled down my cheeks as they started for me, trained fighting men, iron-muscled and tough. Even as I faced them, my friends came alongside me.
“Do you take the center one, Infidel,” Mahmoud said. “Haroun and I will have the others!”
A soldier spat blood from split lips. “Children!” He sneered. “I’ll open your bellies to the flies!”
He lunged, but I parried the blade. My own point darted, flicking a spot of blood from his upper arm. As the soldier shifted ground, a voice spoke clearly. “At noon, in the Court of Oranges!”
It was the girl on the camel, and as she spoke she struck the camel, and it started to move. The soldier I had struck grabbed wildly at the camel, but the girl had started the animal into the crowded bazaar, scattering people in all directions. The soldiers tried to break off the fight, but I suddenly realized the girl had been their prisoner, and was escaping. With a quick turn of the wrist, I parried the blade and thrust. The soldier, attempting to break off and pursue the girl, took the full thrust of my blade and fell, screaming his agony.
From up the street there was a rush of feet, and Mahmoud caught at me. “Quick! Away!”
With a slash at the nearest soldier I fled after Mahmoud and Haroun who had darted down an alleyway into a street beyond. On the far side of that street Mahmoud leaped to a wall, rolled over, and dropped on the far side, Haroun and I following upon his heels.
There was a chorus of screams, excited more than frightened, and the shrill angry cries of an offended eunuch. We dashed across the gardens, twisting our way among a dozen or more pretty and scantily clad women. Mahmoud paused long enough under an apricot tree to seize one plump and pretty girl and squeeze her, kissing her swiftly before we threw ourselves over the far wall and into a narrow, shadowed alley.
We ducked and darted through stables and ancient buildings to emerge at last in another bazaar. Instantly, we ceased to run but walked sedately among the booths and shops, stopping finally to order tea and coffee. As we sat there several soldiers rushed through the bazaar, glaring about them.
Haroun looked across the small table at me, chuckling. He was a short, stocky man, this Haroun, one of the best fencers at the academy where we studied the art. “Do you know who those soldiers were?”
“No.”
“Thev were the men of ibn-Haram.”
Ibn-Haram? So then, the girl was Aziza. No wonder she had seemed familiar. Aziza … here?
They were looking at me. “You know who is ibn-Haram?”
“I have heard of him. Who has not?”
“He is a dangerous enemy, and the right hand of Yusuf.”
What had she said? “At noon, in the Court of Oranges.” Unwittingly, my interference had given her a chance to escape, but had she any place to go?
Had the soldiers heard her speak of the Court of Oranges? My friends said nothing, so they might not have heard, and the soldiers were concentrating on me.
If they heard or remembered, the Court of Oranges could be a trap. But on what day? And at what time? No matter, Aziza would come, and I would be there to meet her.
“Take my advice and stay off the streets for a few days. You killed that man, I believe.”
There was something in his eyes I had not seen before. Was it jealousy? Calculation?
When it was dark, we went our ways, and I carefully, along dark streets and empty alleys. Ibn-Tuwais was seated over a bowl of fruit and a glass of tea when I entered. “You are in trouble?” he asked.
My face was flushed from hurry, and my manner must have reflected my mood. So for the first time I told him of Malaga, the fight on the shore, and the disappearance of Aziza and Count Redwan.
“She will have friends,” he said.
“I have an idea where she might go.”
“And Redwan?”
“There is talk … he is a prisoner, I believe, in Zaragoza.” Ibn-Tuwais chose a piece of fruit. “You have made a powerful enemy, but a man may be judged by who his enemies are, and their power.”
“What would you advise?”
“Wait, and as your friend advised, stay off the streets and out of sight.” Wait … that, indeed, I must do, and every day, in the Court of Oranges.
The twelfth century was a time of restlessness in Europe. New ideas were creeping in, shaking the foundations of old beliefs. The second Crusade was history, but Crusaders had returned astonished at what they had seen and no longer content with their cold, drafty castles.
More than one hundred years had passed since William the Conqueror and his Normans invaded England, and now Henry II was consolidating his control over Ireland and Wales while putting down the last feudal revolt. At a small town named Oxford, a university with a tradition from an earlier time had been founded. Elsewhere Adelard of Bath and Robert of Chester, students of Arabic science, were offering their knowledge to a limited circle of students.
In Germany, Frederick I, so-called Barbarossa (Red-Beard), founded the Holy Roman Empire, and on his fifth expedition into Italy had been defeated by the Lombard towns at Legnano.
In China, the Northern Sung dynasty, with its great age of landscape painting, had come to an end, although landscape painting did not. Compositions of majestic breadth and exquisite detail, with a sparing use of line as well as interesting contrasts of light and shadow, had been created by Tuan Yuan, Kuo Hsi, Li Kung-lin, and Mi Fei, among others. In China the great historians, essayists, poets, and scientists were often statesmen as well.
The Southern Sung fought a reluctant war with the restless tribes to the north. In 1161 explosives were used by Yu Tun-wen in defeating the Chin. In ceramic art the magnificent Sung white was created and the Southern Sung artists were turning away from the beetling, picturesque crags and mountains to misty lakes, hills, and trees of softer landscapes.
In India, Mohammed of Ghur had begun the conquest of Hindustan, and Arab vessels were trading down the east coast of Africa as they had done for as long as men could remember. Their ships had sailed to China, explored the last islands of Indonesia, and returned with cargoes to Red Sea and Persian Gulf ports.
Merchants and travelers from all the world came to Córdoba, drawn by the wealth and brilliance of its society. This society centered about the homes of a dozen beautiful women who held court in Córdoba, gathering about them the creative intelligence of the Arab world.
Córdoba was where I wished to remain, yet much would depend on what happened when I met Aziza again. Ibn-Haram was not a man to be crossed with impunity. He would quickly decide that the fight in the bazaar was not the accident it appeared to be but a plot to free Aziza. He would not rest until he discovered who had been involved.
Somehow I must meet Aziza and help her return to her friends. Any attempt to do so could mean my death, and in a quarrel that was not my own. Was I a fool to become involved because of a girl I had scarcely met?