Doctor Who and the Crusaders (17 page)

‘What I ought to do is tie you down in the sand and let the ants eat you for dinner.’

‘I would make a very poor meal for them, My Lord,’ he replied seriously. ‘Very tough flesh, mine, enough to give even
an insect indigestion.’

Ian suppressed a smile. The Arab would cheerfully murder him if he turned his back, but there was an extraordinarily likeable quality about him.

‘Take me to where you put my clothes.’

The Arab started to move towards the trees and Ian grabbed his arm.

‘Don’t move too quickly, my friend.’

‘I was going to run and fetch your things for you, My Lord.’

‘We’ll both go.’

‘Both go,’ he repeated. ‘Yes, of course, what an honour.’

The two men moved into the shade of the trees, where Ian found his clothes, neatly folded in a pile on top of his sword. He picked up the weapon and saw the Arab shrug his shoulders slightly, accepting the inevitable.

‘You aren’t afraid to die?’ asked Ian curiously. The Arab shook his head. Ian pursed his lips and leaned both his hands on his sword, embedding its tip in the earth around the pool.

‘Bring me some water. But don’t try and run away. I have no intention of killing you, unless you do something foolish.’

The Arab’s face split open in a wide grin of delight and he scuttled over to a bush near by, where he had hidden some of his own belongings, produced a little clay bowl then hurried to the pool, filling it with water and bringing it to Ian.

Ian assuaged his thirst and poured the rest of the water over his body.

‘You’re going to take me to Lydda,’ he stated. The Arab frowned.

‘Not a very nice place,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Full of thieves and villains.’

Ian laughed and the Arab joined him gleefully, clapping
his hands together.

‘I couldn’t find anyone worse than you there,’ said Ian.

‘That is a great compliment, My Lord, and I am very grateful to you for it.’

‘Do you know an Emir, by the name of El Akir?’

The change that came over the Arab was quite remarkable. A sudden watchfulness showed on his face, a slight tightening of the lips. He sat on the sand, his hands clasped around his knees, his one eye regarding Ian intently.

‘You are a friend of the Emir, My Lord,’ he asked casually, ‘or a relative, perhaps?’

‘No.’

‘Ah, I understand. It is an army matter, and you carry orders from the great Sultan to him.’

‘No.’

‘Then it is a matter of business?’

‘I have some business with El Akir, yes.’

There was a pause. ‘You don’t like him, do you?’ said Ian, at last.

‘My Lord, the Emir is a tyrant. He has made the rich so poor, there is no one left to steal from. But that is just one thing. In this world there are honest and dishonest men, good and bad, the pure and the evil. I have seen El Akir have children murdered in the public streets, watched as he laughed while young girls were tortured to death. I saw the Emir once himself commit the crime of hurling a man of religion from the top of a building, because he had objected to the way El Akir ill-treated the people.’

The Arab turned his head and stared into the quiet pool of water.

‘Now I am a bad man, My Lord, very bad indeed, and I admit it. My father was a thief and his father before him. But all of us put together would make a purer man than El Akir
can ever be.’

Ian nodded slowly. ‘El Akir has abducted a friend of mine, a young lady. I am going to Lydda to get her back again – even if I have to kill him to do it.’

‘Then I shall take you to Lydda, My Lord,’ said the Arab quietly, ‘and help you in any way I can.’

Ian had some doubts about this new alliance, but it certainly suited his purpose. He could hardly ride into the town and start asking where El Akir was without arousing suspicion; and then he had to find a way into the Emir’s palace, rescue Barbara and make his escape with her. He didn’t for a moment underestimate the difficulties, so any kind of help was valuable, even if it had the strings of caution attached. The Arab had tethered Ian’s horse near his own, which was the saddest creature Ian had ever seen, with ribs sticking out at its sides and a pair of huge, sorrowful eyes which seemed to bemoan its lot in life with silent constancy. Nevertheless, it was sturdier than it appeared to be and Ian had no complaint to make about their rate of progress, the Arab preceding him all the way. Neither could Ian find any cause for dissatisfaction in the trust he had given his new-found ally.

Finally, with the sky darkening as the sun fled from above, the Arab led Ian through a little pass of rocks and reined his panting horse, pointing ahead of him. Ian stopped beside him and stared at the town of Lydda lying ahead.

‘We must move more slowly now,’ said the Arab.

‘What is your name?’

‘Ibrahim, My Lord,’ he said with a grin.

‘Do you know any way I can get into El Akir’s palace, Ibrahim?’

The Arab shook his head. ‘It is very well guarded and the wall is high. If you had gold you might bribe your way in…’

‘But I haven’t any gold.’

The Arab chuckled loudly.

‘Yes, that was a very good trick with the boots, My Lord. I must remember not to be taken in by it again.’

The two men urged their horses forward once again, picking their way slowly on the slight decline to the town, while Ian set himself the task of finding a way inside his enemy’s stronghold.

Had he ridden faster he might have come across the two guards rushing Barbara through the streets towards the palace, and speed of thought and instant action might have plucked Barbara away from them there and then. But Destiny had decreed the pattern of events otherwise.

Barbara came to her senses in a huge room decked out with tapestries and silk hangings, furnished with rich carpets and soft couches. A girl was bending beside her on the couch, bathing her face gently with scented water. Barbara stared at her for a moment or two, relishing the gentle touch of the hands on her face and the soothing quality of the water.

The girl was delicately formed, with full, generous lips and a pair of large and most expressive eyes. She stopped dabbing at Barbara’s face, as she saw she had recovered and sat beside her on the couch, holding both her hands. Her resemblance to Safiya was quite remarkable.

‘He is not here,’ said the girl softly, anticipating the question trembling on Barbara’s lips. ‘Lie still and forget him, while you can.’

‘Your name is Maimuna, isn’t it?’ The girl stared at her in astonishment. ‘How did you know that?’ she cried. Barbara related her meeting with Maimuna’s father, and her sister Safiya, and the story she had heard of the tragedy which had befallen the family of Haroun ed Din. Maimuna finally covered her face with her hands, sobbing bitterly. Other girls
began to move towards them, comforting the weeping girl and questioning Barbara about the cause of her unhappiness.

‘I am not unhappy,’ said Maimuna, through her tears, ‘although the memory of that awful day when El Akir murdered my mother and brother and wrenched me from the home I loved is still almost more than I can bear. But I thought my father and my sister were dead too – for El Akir swore he had killed them.’

‘They are alive, Maimuna,’ said Barbara. ‘You must believe me.’

The other girls wandered away again, disturbed at the mention of the tyrant’s name, as if the only way they could exist was to shut him away from their minds on every possible occasion.

Each girl, Barbara noticed, was of a different race. One was a tall Negress, loose-limbed and very full of figure, wearing a multi-coloured costume and a pair of enormous bone earrings. Another was a slim, enchanting little Indian girl of no more than sixteen who walked with such dignity she seemed to glide over the floor, her pale-blue sari, edged with gold, emphasizing the grace of her body. There was a Turkish girl, older than the rest; a Persian beauty; a brown-skinned Syrian – each one a testament to beauty. But on all their faces was the mark of El Akir – the sad acceptance of enforced captivity and shame, for all were seized from their families by force, and each one had her private sorrow.

Of them all, Barbara thought Maimuna was the most attractive. Even the misery of enslavement had not marred her loveliness. There was an almost transparent quality about her skin and a depth of gentleness in her eyes. She had an air of shy tenderness about her which spoke of a yearning to love and be loved, in all the strength and purity of that much ill-abused word.

She brushed away her tears and brought Barbara a cup of wine, watching her while she drank.

Finally, Barbara stirred herself and asked Maimuna to lead her to the window. They crossed the room and stood staring down at the grounds surrounding the palace. The huge entrance gates seemed temptingly near, and the branches of a tree reached out and lay only a few feet beneath.

‘The tree,’ said Maimuna, ‘is no more than heartbreak. Look closely.’

Barbara searched the shadows and suddenly saw a movement.

‘El Akir leaves the tree to beckon us to escape. He also has a guard beside it.’

Barbara sighed hopelessly and looked at the gates again. The solitary figure of a guard walked across the entrance slowly, his hand on his scimitar, his bearded chin jutting out proudly, illuminated for a brief second or two in the light of a fiery torch, fixed to the outside of the entrance gates.

Ian poised himself in the shadow of some bushes outside the gates, waited until the guard had stepped outside the ring of light then shot out his hands and gripped the man fiercely round the head. Simultaneously, Ibrahim stepped out and drove a delighted fist into the guard’s stomach. The guard threshed for a moment, Ian let go and, linking his hands together, brought them down on the back of the guard’s neck. He started to fall and Ibrahim caught him and lowered him quietly to the ground, smiling up at Ian in devilish glee. Ian quickly stripped off the guard’s outer clothing and scrambled into it, buckling on the slim belt which held the scimitar and swung the short red cloak behind him and fastened it at the neck. The Arab picked up the guard’s pointed helmet and tried it on Ian’s head. Finding it to be too big, he snatched
at some rags hanging from him, tearing off sufficient to pad the helmet and make it into a passable fit. Ian settled it on his head.

‘So far, so good,’ he breathed. ‘Now, Ibrahim, tie the man up and gag him. Roll him into the bushes so that he’s well out of sight. Then steal some horses and bring them as near to the gates as you can, without being seen.’

‘Steal some horses, My Lord? Ah, what a partnership you and I would make. I shall steal horses for you.’

Ian turned away and started to adopt the guard’s route, walking slowly back and forth in front of the gate. A few minutes later, he saw the shadow of Ibrahim dart away. He had no idea whether he had seen the last of his odd ally or whether he would come up to expectations. He glanced up at a dimly lighted window he could just see through the branches of a tree. He could see the outlines of two women staring down, but it was too dark to see their faces. At least he had a rough idea where the harem was, although he thought it strange it should face out into the grounds. He did not know about El Akir’s Tree of Heartbreak. He continued his march, wondering when he could risk leaving his post and make a way into the palace.

Maimuna said, ‘You must be mistaken.’

‘No, I’m not, I know I’m not,’ Barbara insisted. ‘The guard outside the gates had a beard. And now he hasn’t one.’

‘Perhaps there are two guards.’

Barbara nodded, the moment of interest fading.

Suddenly the double doors of the chamber were thrown open and El Akir walked in. The girls in the room drew themselves away, standing around the walls of the room, staring with trepidation at the man and the short whip he carried in his right hand.

He moved into the chamber and stopped in the centre of the room, beside a long, low table. He turned and looked at Barbara and Maimuna. A candle wavered and the scar on his face seemed to be blazing out redly.

‘Bring her here, Maimuna.’

Barbara pressed the girl gently away, so that she would have no part of what was going to happen, and walked towards the Emir, her heart thudding. There was absolutely no sound in the room except the soft fall of her slippered feet and the slight, insistent tap of the whip on El Akir’s leg. She stopped about three feet away from him.

They both stared at each other in the silence that followed. Slowly then, very deliberately, El Akir raised the whip until it was level with his face.

‘Your tender flesh,’ he said hoarsely, ‘is about to feel my first caresses.’

The cry just touched Ian’s ears. It was half choked back, half mixed with a sob, a sheer expression of pain and anguish – come and gone so quickly he wondered whether he might not have imagined it. He crouched now, just out of reach of the circle of light, straining his ears.

It came again, some violent and dreadful pain forcing more sound out of a tortured body to quell the shocked activities of heart and brain; a sound that bit its way into the conscience, begging to know why it had been made at all, reaching out a tremulous frond of agony to earn pity and peace, demanding help – yet somehow not pleading for it – for the sound was made in pain and not in fear. Courage and defiance were saturated through the sound.