Chapter X
Guy seemed equally impressed when we reached his house and told him the tale.
"And what did you say the man's name was?" he asked.
"Sid Fulk," I repeated. "He made sure that I knew his name and ordered me to tell you what he had done."
"Hmmm." Guy stroked his smooth chin and looked at us for a long moment before reaching into his belt and taking out a coin, which he passed to the slave and dismissed him. "Come with me, Fuad. This bears thinking about."
He lead the way up a flight of stairs and into a plain chamber lit by a torch in a bracket on the wall. There was a table in the middle of the room and some chairs scattered around it. Guy took one and gestured to me to sit in another.
"Fulk of the Temple," he mused. "He is no friend of mine - or of yours, for all that he saved you tonight. He is of the party of war. Did you ever hear of the great attack on Damascus - ash-Shams - thirty years back?"
I nodded. Even we of the desert had heard about the great army that came from across the sea to help the Nasranis. At that time the people of ash-Shams were at peace with the Franks, seeking their help against Zengi Bey and his son Nur-ed-din in Mosul, who were attacking them. All men said that if the Nasranis had gone against Zengi Bey, the people of ash-Shams would have marched with them.
Instead, the Nasranis had marched out and surrounded ash-Shams. For three days they fought against it and then, realising that they could not capture it, they returned to al-Quds, having accomplished nothing except to turn the people of ash-Shams from friends into enemies. The Syrians quickly made their peace with Nur-ed-din and ever since then had been aiding him in his attacks on the Nasranis. Now ash-Shams was the capital of Nur-ed-din's son, Salah-ed-din, the great Sultan, may God protect and keep him.
"I don't say Fulk was responsible, but only because he does not have enough influence for that. Certainly he approved of that lunatic plan."
"And you did not?" I asked.
"Certainly not. Remember, I am for peace, not war. We need all the friends we can get and attacking Damascus was pure folly. It multiplied our enemies, without gaining anything else in return."
"So why did Fulk come to my aid?"
"Oh, because at first he did not know who you were. He has enough sense to refrain from attacking every Muslim he sees. I wonder if he is coming round to my way of seeing things? Maybe that is why he wanted me to know that it was he who saved you."
Guy pondered for a little longer and then suddenly came to himself.
"Well, such mysteries must wait. Tell me, have you eaten?"
I nodded my head.
"Good, I expected no less of Ali. Come, let me show you where you will sleep and in the morning we will see about getting you better clothes, fit for one of my squires."
He rose and led the way out of the room, down a flight of stairs, around a corner and up a single step to a heavy wooden door, behind which I could hear voices. He raised the latch and pushed the door open. I followed him into the room, which was dimly lit but looked extremely comfortable, with hangings on the walls and a spread of carpets underfoot. Several young men in Arab dress rose to greet Guy.
"Salaam aleikum," he said to them, speaking in Arabic. "Greet Fuad, your new companion."
The three young men greeted me and I stared at them in surprise. One spoke in the coarse, gutteral manner of an Egyptian, the second was clearly Syrian and the third sounded just like the men we encountered when we visited al-Quds on market day.
"And on you be peace," I stammered.
"Were you expecting that all my squires were Franks?" Guy laughed at my confusion. "Don't worry, I have plenty of those as well. You can meet them tomorrow. Sleep well."
He left the room and we all sat down. The three young men took up the work they had been doing when we entered: the Egyptian was writing, the Syrian was polishing a sword and the third was sewing at a leather strap that, I soon realised, was part of a horse's harness. It was the Syrian who broke the silence.
"Well, Fuad, how did you meet es-Sid Guy?"
I told them my story, boasting proudly of the part I had played in defeating the three men of the Bani Jibrin. The Syrian, who told me his name was Babrak, continued to work at his weapon while I spoke and when I had finished he whistled softly.
"A slinger, eg? Well, well, well. I am a swordsman - or at least, I will be if I live long enough. Hamed over there with the pen is uncommonly good with the bow while Hilmi can do things with a dagger that you would not believe."
As he spoke Hilmi's hand seemed to jerk and instead of the needle, a dagger appeared. He looked across at me and grinned.
"I can split a hair at twenty paces," he said, stropping the blade lovingly on the sole of his foot.
"He's not joking," Babrak said. "Of course, we can all throw daggers, use swords, draw bows and so on, but we each have our speciality. Still, this is the first time we've had a slinger. I wonder what es-Sid has in mind for you?"
"How did you come to serve es-Sid?" I asked, adopting their way of referring to Guy.
Babrak shrugged. "He bought me."
I nodded. Slavery is not a shame among us Arabs; no man can help the fate which God has assigned to him - though it did seem a little strange that Allah should will that a True Believer be slave to a Nasrani.
"I also," Hamed chimed in, laying his pen down and grinning at me. "He is a good master."
"But I am free," Hilmi said. "My father may be poor, but we are no slaves. I chose to join es-Sid in order to become a soldier and gain much wealth."
"And have you?" I asked, interested.
Hilmi shook his head. "No, es-Sid does not allow it. All his squires are poor."
I was a little disappointed at the news. Demanding money from civilians has always been one of the perks of the military life. The Sultan, on whom be peace, does not allow it but I had always heard so many tales of these Franks and their strange ways and oppressive taxes that I had hoped for at least some money-making power.
"What are you writing?" I asked Hamed.
He had the grace to look abashed. "It is a poem."
The others laughed and Babrak explained, "Hamed is in love. She is the daughter of a low-born baker who, after the manner of these unclean Franks, allowed her face to be seen one day."
"And once was enough," Hilmi added. "Ever since then Hamed has been hopeless, singing love songs and writing poetry. His sword has gone rusty and his arrows are blunt, and all because of a woman."
"Does es-Sid not allow us to marry?" I asked.
"That's not the problem," Babrak hooted. "Her father, though as poor as an Egyptian fellah and of no more account than the fleas on a camel, refuses to allow his daughter to marry a slave."
"So what will you do?" I asked Hamed directly.
Hamed shrugged. "Write some more poetry."
"Huh!" Hilmi snorted. "He would be better advised to sharpen his weapons and go out and capture some rich warrior of the Sultan. There is nothing like wealth to soften the heart of a reluctant father."
"Why not ask es-Sid for a gift?" I suggested.
Hamed shook his head. "Why not ask a bull for milk or a dog for a song?"
"Sid Guy is not rich?" I asked in surprise.
"He could be," Babrak said. "Indeed, he has plenty of money, but he spends it all as fast as it comes in. A little bit here, a little bit there and pouf! it is all gone."
"What does he spend it on?" I asked.
The three looked at each other in silence and then Hilmi said, "He will tell you himself."
"But keep your eyes open," Babrak added. "Sometimes he does not tell you things in words but is angry with you if you have not heard."
We all slept in the room, which was luxurious with thick carpets on the floor and plenty of bedding to pull over us. Hilmi boasted that al-Quds was cooler than Jericho because it was higher. I doubted, but Babrak assured me that there was a mountain near ash-Shams on which the snow never melted, even in the heat of summer, simply because it was so high.
