Oh, a few last words before the story: Shaizar is (or was) a real place, an ancient Syrian town that became a fortress in the medieval period before being abandoned after repeated devastation by earthquakes. The illustration for this post is taken from a photograph of the ruins which serves as a frontispiece to Philip K. Hitti's 1929 translation of a memoir of the medieval period.
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| Shaizar in ruins |
THE GATES OF SHAIZAR
When
the order to halt came, al-Mastoub reined in his bay before the guards at the
eastern gate of Shaizar. Behind him, the queue of merchants with ox carts and
camels, the woodcutters leading laden donkeys; the governor’s concubines in
curtained palanquins; the flocks of bleating sheep and goats; the slaves,
pilgrims, and riff-raff of the province backed up outside the iron-studded
eastern gate of the city.
The
gaze of the guards’ lieutenant traveled over al-Mastoub’s cast-off clothing,
the tall warhorse, the sword, pulled although the lieutenant couldn’t know, from
the Varangian Leofric’s stiffening hand. A good horse and weapons, but only a
leather cap and quilted jerkin for armor. Al-Mastoub could see the lieutenant’s
suspicions reflected on the man’s face.
“Sir,”
al-Mastoub said, “I have a passport from the magistrate Haroun ibn Ibrahim of
al-Shara.” He held the now-tattered safe conduct he’d forged before his chest,
like a shield. And he prayed silently, as he had at every checkpoint, that the
man wouldn’t know Haroun’s signature.
The
lieutenant ran a hand over his beard. The document’s elaborate calligraphy,
al-Mastoub knew, was almost indecipherable. He’d added every flourish possible
to dissuade anyone he encountered from giving more than a cursory glance at his
credentials. But as a corner of al-Mastoub’s mouth twitched, the lieutenant’s hand
clamped on the passport.
“No
one enters until I’ve examined this man’s papers. Thoroughly.”
The
guards stationed themselves before the crowd shoving to enter the opened gate.
The sun rose high over the town’s walls in the late summer sky. The crowd
behind al-Mastoub grew more clamorous as the lieutenant read the passport,
muttering each word aloud.
Al-Mastoub
loosened the fidgeting bay’s reins. He fumbled for the pouch under his shirt
that held his small horde of treasure -– the papers of his manumission,
Leofric’s medusa-headed ring, the last handful of stolen dinars.
The
lieutenant’s eye caught the movement. “You!
Keep your hands in sight.”
“It’s
a hot day, sir. Perhaps you’d like something to slake your thirst?”
“In
sight!”
Al-Mastoub
shrugged. If the passport failed, at least he had the sword. He wished he had
Haroun’s practical scimitar. Leofric’s sword was almost too long for him to
wield one-handed. But he hadn’t dared steal another weapon. Roaming through
Syria with a forged passport was enough to get him beheaded without having
Haroun on his trail.
Itinerant
jugglers, beggars, and pickpockets plied their trades among the crowd. Sellers
of wine, fruit juice and sweetmeats counted themselves blessed.
“I’ve
got eight for the head,” a singsong voice chanted just beyond the gates. “Do I
hear any more?”
“Put
me in for the head.” One of the guards pulled a copper dirham out of his sash.
“A
small bet at short odds,” the bookmaker sneered. “You might do better to wager
on nose and ears.”
“I’m
for nose and ears,” another man shouted.
“Aren’t
you going to give odds which gate he hangs at?” A man with eyebrows that met
across his forehead pushed as close as the troopers would allow. Al-Mastoub
cursed him under his breath.
“It
would just be taking your money,” the bookmaker said. “Whatever part of him the
lieutenant decides to hack off will hang here on the front gate for all to
see.”
“I
want to place a bet,” al-Mastoub said.
The
bookmaker stared. “Show me your money.”
Again,
al-Mastoub eased a hand under his shirt.
“In
plain view!” the lieutenant said.
Al-Mastoub
withdrew his hand.
“No
money, no bet,” the bookmaker said.
“Silence!”
The lieutenant looked up at last. “This mentions two companions,” he said.
“They
were taken prisoner.” Al-Mastoub shifted his damp hands from the saddlebow. “I’m
here to ransom them.”
The
lieutenant flung the passport at him in disgust. “Then do so. And leave
quickly.”
Al-Mastoub
joined the travelers surging toward the marketplace. He scanned the
merchandise. At the point in the line
where Jehan and Robert had been chained, there now stood only a gawky girl with
big feet. There was no sign of either of the captured soldiers. No Jehan, no
Robert.
The
old slave trader, Abu al-Darda, hailed him, walking around al-Mastoub’s tall
bay. “Ain’t you come up in the world since the last time we met? If I knew you
was this good a horse thief, I’d have charged that judge more for you.”
“I
had two friends in this caravan. I’m
able to redeem them now. Or if you remember where you sold them. . .”
Al-Mastoub pulled a gold piece out of his pouch and flipped it.
Abu
al-Darda moved closer. Al-Mastoub folded his fist around the coin.
