Standard of Honor (13 page)

“Where is your friend now?” the Saracen asked.

“Gone. Somewhere in the sands. He dragged me behind him for two or three nights—I was raving mad from my injuries—and then he went looking for water, leaving me asleep in a cave he had found. When I woke up the storm had arrived. I have not seen him since. He could be anywhere. I pray he is alive, but I fear he may be dead.”

“So what will you do now? Where will you go if you ride away from here?”

“I have no idea. There might be no place for me
to
go.” Sinclair grunted, part laughter, part disgust. “Perhaps that's why I am loath even to make the attempt.”

Al-Farouch held up a peremptory hand, his head cocked suddenly as though listening. Sinclair strained to hear what it was that had attracted his attention, but he heard only the stillness of the desert, and eventually the Saracen lowered his hand, shaking his head.

“I thought I heard horses approaching.” He looked at Sinclair, one eyebrow rising high on his brow. “I suggest, however, that if you are contemplating an escape from here you should leave now.”
Sinclair turned his head slightly to gaze out into the gathering dusk, mildly surprised that the day had vanished so quickly. “I have been thinking about that,” he said, before turning back to al-Farouch. “And I find that I have a conflict to resolve in my own mind. We spoke of honor briefly, a short time ago, and honor, in my life, involves responsibilities that we Franks call duty.”

Al-Farouch nodded, his face impassive. “We, too, have duties, some of them more onerous than others.”

“Very well then. Since you understand the concept, as you called it earlier, perhaps you can help me to resolve my dilemma. This day is almost done, so were I to leave now, I would be riding out into the darkness with nowhere to go and no knowledge of how to get there, for the sole purpose of avoiding capture by your warriors. I might achieve that anyway, simply from their failure to come here at all. Then, on the other hand, I might ride straight towards them in the darkness if they do come, for I have no means of knowing the direction they'll come from.

“My dilemma is this: if I ride off blindly into the desert now to avoid capture, with no knowledge of where I am going, will I be acting honorably, because it is my duty to win free, or will I be guilty of dereliction of duty by acting foolishly and endangering my own life needlessly? Do you see what I mean, Master Saracen? Is my duty better served by riding off in the darkness now, perhaps to die, or by remaining here and taking my chances?”
Neither man spoke for a moment, and then Sinclair resumed. “Besides, as I've told you before, I like not the idea of leaving you here alone … And so I have decided to stay here until the morning comes. Then, providing there is no sign of your men, I will make you comfortable and ride far enough away to avoid capture, and there I will wait. If your rescuers do not appear, I will return and eat with you, for nothing will have changed, and I will still not know where to go.”

Al-Farouch ran the tip of his middle finger down the length of his nose and pressed it against his pursed lips. “Why do you say you do not know where to go? Were your losses at Hattin so grave?”

Sinclair rose to his feet and went to lean against the edge of rocky wall that formed their small shelter, staring out into the approaching night. When he spoke, he did so without turning his head. “Night comes quickly here, in the desert. In Scotland, where I grew up, the evening light at this time of the year can linger for hours after the sun goes down. There is no word for it in French that I know of, but we call that time of lingering betwixt day and night the gloaming … It is the
loss
at Hattin, more than our losses, that concerns me—the defeat itself, rather than the casualties, although God knows they were appalling. Your Sultan, from all I know of him, is not a man to ignore an opportunity sent from God, and to his eyes that is how his victory at Hattin will appear. Tiberias will have surrendered to him by this time, I suspect, with the army crushed, and I already know his men have taken
La Safouri, and probably Nazareth, too. Were I he, backed by a victorious army and knowing that the Frankish forces are in disorder if not completely destroyed, I would march on Jerusalem at once.” He straightened up and turned back towards the other man. “And that, I fear, leaves me with few places to run … When did you pray last?”

Al-Farouch blinked. “Some time ago, at the appointed hour. You were here. You simply did not notice.”

“Should you not have faced the east?”

The Saracen smiled. “Allah requires our prayers, but being merciful, He does not insist that we torture ourselves when we are disabled. I will pray properly when I am able, but until then I will pray as I can.”

“Well then, when did you last defecate?”

The Saracen's eyes went wide, but then he shrugged. “The morning my friends left, but I have eaten little since then, so I have had no pressing need.”

“But you've eaten now. Can you walk on that leg at all, if I support you?”

“I believe I can.”

“Good, and did your friends dig a latrine?”

“They did, close by but far enough removed to be inoffensive. It is ten paces to the right of the entrance.”

“If I can help you there, are you capable of seeing to your own needs?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Good. Now, if I help you to stand up and walk, will you attempt to kill me?”

The merest hint of a smile showed in the Saracen's eyes. “Not before you bring me back in here, despite my oath to destroy all infidels at any opportunity.”

Sinclair grunted, then moved forward, his good arm outstretched. “So be it, then, let's see if we can raise you to your feet. Be careful of my other arm, for it is as badly broken as your leg, but not so well bandaged. Once you are up, we'll go outside and I will leave you to do what you must. Call out when you are done and I'll come and help you back.”

By the time they had completed their business at the latrine, full dark had fallen, and they sat together in the darkness of the small corner that was their shelter. They talked of small, unimportant matters for a time, but the night was utterly still and they were both tired, so they soon fell asleep, head to foot in the narrow space, and Sinclair's last thought was that he would have to be awake and away by dawn.

SINCLAIR CAME AWAKE
when a callused hand clamped itself across his mouth and chin, but his protesting reaction was stilled instantly as he heard a deep, guttural growl and felt the edge of a cold knife blade at his throat. He lay motionless, waiting to die. Dawn had yet to break, but there was movement all around him, and he knew he should have anticipated this development.

“Who is this
ferenghi
dog? Should I slit his throat?” The voice came from directly above him, and he felt the pressure on the blade at his throat increase, preparing to slash. But even as he began to tense for the blow, the
voice of al-Farouch stayed the other's hand, ringing out with an authority that was absolute.

“No! Do him no harm, Sabit. He has shared bread and salt with me and I am in his debt.”

The man called Sabit grunted and sat back on his haunches, removing his hand from Sinclair's face but continuing to hold the knife to his throat, although it was the flat of the blade that pushed now against his skin. “How can you be in debt to a
ferenghi
, Amir?” His voice was rich with disgust. “He is an infidel, and therefore you need not be bound by our holy laws in dealing with him. The very idea is laughable.”

“And you would see fit to laugh at me for being compassionate, Sabit?” The hard tone of al-Farouch's swift retort was sufficient to make Sabit remove the knife from Sinclair's neck.

“No, not so, Amir. I was but—”

“You were but challenging my judgment, I believe.” “Never, Amir.” Sabit knelt upright, swinging to face his superior. “I merely thought—”

“That is strange, Sabit. Thought is something I have never known in you before. I require no thought from you, merely obedience and loyalty. Are we in accord on that?”

“As you say, Amir.” Sinclair did not have to see the man to know he was crestfallen.

“Excellent. Now offer thanks to Allah for His blessings and my good humor, then take the
ferenghi
outside and hold him where he cannot overhear us talking. He professes not to understand our speech, but I think we
might have much to discuss here and it makes sense to be cautious.”

“Allahu Akbar. My obedience is yours, as always.”

As the man called Sabit lurched to his feet, al-Farouch changed languages, from Arabic to his rolling, heavily accented French.

“You should have ridden off last night, Lach-Lann, as we discussed, for now you are a prisoner. My lieutenant Sabit is a good man, but a man of firm, sometimes misguided ideals. He was set to cut your throat.”

“I could tell.” Sinclair fought to keep his voice calm. “I thank you for my life.” He hesitated. “I heard him call you Amir. Did you not say your name is Ibn?”

“It is their name for me,” the other man said. “I am emir to them, you understand? We live far from other speakers of our tongue. The Bedouin say ‘Emir,' but where we live, we say it differently, ‘Amir.' Now go with Sabit. He will look after you while I confer with my officers, for my men are here in strength. They will bring me up to date on all that has happened within the past week. In the meantime, Sabit will take you apart from us and hold you safe until I decide what must be done with you. Go with him, and give thanks to Allah that I was able to stay his hand before he could harm you. You will be safe in his hands now.”

“I thank you again. Clearly you are a man of more authority than I had suspected. I will go with your man.”

“Go now then. Sabit will assist you. Help him up, Sabit.”

The last sentence was in Arabic, and as Sabit moved to obey, Sinclair was able to discern his face and shape in the strengthening light. He was a huge man, with the twin clefts of a deep scowl between bushy eyebrows, and a fiercely hooked and bony nose. He wore a spiked helmet with a folded white kufiya draped loosely over it, its ends thrown over opposite shoulders so that the folds covered the lower half of his face. His right eye was covered with a black patch, from which a livid scar stretched down, plainly visible even in the wan light, to disappear beneath the layers of cloth that obscured his mouth and chin, and the fingers of his left hand caressed the hilt of the long, curving sword that hung by his side. He extended his other hand, glowering fiercely, and Sinclair used it to pull himself up to his feet, where he stood swaying for a few moments before stepping towards the mouth of the fold in the cliff. The Saracen fell into step behind him, one warning hand on his shoulder.

A silence fell as Sinclair stepped out from the shade into the open, and he looked about him curiously. More than a hundred men, most of them still mounted, were staring at him in the dawn's light. Not a man of them spoke or moved as Sabit prodded Sinclair forward with a gentle finger, but every eye in the throng followed the Frank as he proceeded some thirty paces along the base of the cliff until his escort's hand closed over his shoulder again.

The big man pointed at the ground, waving downward flat-palmed with his other hand in an unmistakable
gesture. Sinclair sat down without further prompting, leaning his back against the rock face, and watched as two of al-Farouch's men, their hands linked to form a chair, carried him out from the niche that had sheltered him. They stopped, facing their comrades, who roared out their greetings to their chief in a manner that left no doubt of the affection and approval they held for him. Sinclair was impressed but not really surprised by their welcome, based on his own impressions about al-Farouch's character and temperament. He was surprised, however, when the mass of mounted men parted to reveal a matched pair of white horses harnessed to a vehicle of a kind that he recognized but had never before seen. It was a battle chariot, a light, two-wheeled conveyance that was little more than a basket-sided platform mounted on high, slender wheels, but he saw at a glance that it had been equipped with a seat that would permit its rider to sit in comfort and control the vehicle despite his broken leg. A richly dressed warrior led the horses forward, and al-Farouch's attendants raised him up carefully to where he could reach out and haul himself into the seat. He raised his hand and waved to his men, drawing a renewed burst of cheering.

Moments later he issued a quiet command and the assembly broke up. Most of the men dismounted and formed into casual groups, while others, evidently officers of one description or another, followed al-Farouch's chariot as he led them away from the gathering to where they could talk without being overheard. Sinclair abandoned any thought of
attempting to listen after that, for even had they been shouting at each other, hearing what they said would have been impossible from where he sat. Instead, he settled himself to wait in as much comfort as he could, aware of the formidable and watchful Sabit looming above him, and of the sun's gathering strength on his face. Careful to show no emotion, he covered his face with the folds of the kufiya the big man had tossed to him moments earlier, crossed his arms on his chest, and bent his head as though to sleep.

He was startled when Sabit prodded him with his foot, for he had not expected to fall asleep, but when he looked up wide eyed he saw the other reaching for him again with his right hand. He took it and hauled himself up to his feet, then adjusted the sling on his arm and followed the big man. Al-Farouch sat waiting for him in his chariot, and he was aware as he went that he was being scrutinized by every man there.

Al-Farouch nodded solemnly to him, then stroked the point of his beard between thumb and forefinger. He spoke in French.

“Well, Lach-Lann, it appears that you were right to be concerned about where you might run to, and I am impressed with the accuracy of your predictions. Tiberias surrendered to the Sultan as soon as they heard of our victory at Hattin. He was merciful, as always, and permitted the defenders to depart unharmed. Suffiriyya and Nazareth also fell to us, as you foretold, and the Sultan, may Allah continue to shed His light upon him,
has besieged Jerusalem and is expected to win back the city and drive its defenders into the sea before we can arrive there. Palestine, your Latin Kingdom, is ours again, free of the Frankish yoke, and the other territories that you call Antioch, Edessa, and Tripoli will soon be equally blessed. Our lands will be united under Allah from northern Syria to Egypt.”