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“Villages, cities, whole districts, were deserted.”
-Tale of Ten Princes, A.D. 1200
‘Chief physician to the Commandant of Cairo?’
‘Father, you would be proud.’
‘Mother, you would shake your head and ‘tisk’ away the distinction, fussing over the danger to my august person posed by this political intrigue and that doctrinal pitfall. Never fear Mother, the Black Slayer of Herat stands guard over your soft baby boy!’
His quarters at the Commandant’s Palace, were more spacious and well-appointed than those he enjoyed under the patronage of Sulyman Ali. His first patient, and a number of local colleagues who would serve as his consultants, would be arriving just after the call to arms out in the court, where the Commandant—a fine dignified warrior of Submission-to-God’s-will if there ever was one—reviewed his horseman before their odious day of patrol commenced.
First though, he must see to his own patients, the four of his six companions who received injury on yesterday’s horrific journey through the bazaar.
He rose from his padded stool and walked over to poor Awn al-Muzan, who it seems had strained one of his testicles dismounting. The huge fat man—not much of a doctor but his benefactor nonetheless—reclined behind a screen with his most trusted donkey boy by his side. Abd al-Latif knelt before him and hefted the belly this way and the fat of the inner thigh that way, and observed the bruised state of the crowded organ as the man winced.
‘Did this donkey boy just snicker under his breath? Keep an eye on this one for disloyalty.’
“Well my corpulent friend. The good news is that you alone, are not in danger of starving in this leanest of years. The bad news is that sex, of any kind, even excitement of the penis, is not to be engaged in until Ramadan—two months my lusty friend—lest you lose the member and join the Sultan’s eunuchs.”
He glanced up at his patient’s face and noticed that the donkey boy was sighing silently as in relief of some great burden. He made certain not to appear to notice, now sensing that Awn al-Muzan had more in common with the Vizier’s degenerate Secretary than the quality of their stately turbans.
He stood to lend some weight to his words. “Actually, if I did not know better I would surmise that this condition—in farsi we call it ‘rot of the sack’ stemmed from anal intercourse, as the act is unclean and promotes infection. Make certain never to venture there no matter how your favorite Frankish slave tart might encourage it. It is unclean, Christian besides, and more importantly could result in prodigious rotting of the loins.”
Awn al-Muzan looked up into his eyes as if the Sultan had just sent him over to the waiting headsman, then regained his composure and spoke weakly, the act causing much pain, “Thank you honored friend. I think I should retire from the Commandant’s service and content myself with the sale of my dear books. Please send Old Ibis Boy over on occasion to look after me and my boys, the climate against people of girth having come to be what it is.”
“Certainly friend, and do rest here until Ibis arranges to have you taken under guard back to your fine home. Indeed, I shall come and look in upon you before we exit The Sign of Aires.”
Abd al-Latif nodded apologetically to the donkey boy even as he patted his disgusting colleague on his over-sized shoulder.
‘Mother, I dare say you would recommend a more permanent cure for this bovine friend of mine.’
Kneeling at the foot of his couch was Beadra, the plumb red-headed Slavic wench whose neck had been rubbed raw by her leash, as had the delicate skin of her ankles and wrists by her cruel bonds. He had attended her with ointment and she would be fine, in body, though her mind might not quite recover from her experience looking upon the world from the viewpoint of a lamb about to be roasted upon a skewer.
What remained was to decide on her lot.
She knelt trembling between the towering black form of Ibis and the dark scrawny Jew-child Ibrahm, making her appear all the more plump and pink.
‘Indeed she is fair, and meek as well—no doubt obedient, and certainly beholding to me. She is rightfully my property as she was recovered by my man during the course of the commission of a crime against God by her master. She is not diseased, but is a Christian and might therefore be weird, and perhaps prone to work wicked enchantments upon me in my sleep. Recall what happened to Sidi in Tunis when he fell asleep besides—”
“Beadra, you shall remain among my household staff, keeping in mind that the actual place of residence is apt to change often, thus requiring much flexibility on your behalf as well as the ability to move goods from house to donkey, and to c—”
“Oh Master", she squealed—most unappealingly and in bad Arabic he thought—as she fell forward and clutched at his ankles, her soft light curly tresses draping his feet and causing an arousal—something he feared, as it had nearly gotten his throat slit alongside poor Sidi back in Tunis.
Abd al-Latif feared women, their weirdness, their sexually base nature, their cunning and conniving ways. Mother had ever warned him that all women but she would view him with evil intent and were not to be trusted no matter how sweet they seemed. This troubled him, and troubled him the more deeply as he yearned for this woman, was attracted to her by her soft touch out in the harsh world of the bazaar, had even noted her sweet scent among the oppressive reek of the filthy carnal house tents.
‘Be away from me Christian devil-wench!’
He stiffened where he stood and she took note, raising her eyes to his, hopeful that she had not offended—which she had not, that fact in and of itself being the nature of her offense. She slid back to kneel between the two other slaves of his and he bid her rise with his hands.
‘What to do with her Mother?’
“My mighty man Ibis did rescue you—it having been far beyond my power to accomplish.”
‘Observe the fiendish light of lust in his ebon eyes! Why he is already ravishing her in his mind. Perhaps it is true about the magical black penis? The resulting child would not necessarily have to be aborted, as it could pass for a Turk or something else half-dark—no you don’t old boy. She wants m—and her wanton hand is already reaching for his great beastly claw!’
“Dear Loyal Beadra, you shall be as a daughter to me, just as Ibis is like a father to us in his way. It would therefore be proper for you to share Ibrahm’s quarters. I expect the both of you to act as siblings, not bossing one another about.”
When he glanced to Ibrahm for confirmation that his words had sunken into the mind of the stubborn little Jew he noticed him sticking his tongue out at Ibis, who glared viciously down at the former street urchin, as if he were God casting judgment upon the sodomites.
Beadra nodded meekly and stood back behind Little Ibrahm, who was a battered wreck of a boy to be sure.
"My loyal little Hawk of the Bazaar, you fought like David himself. Why, if you were not a damned Jew-child I would enroll you in the honor corps of young holy warriors and purchase your entire armament. I only live because of you, and, therefore, you shall not be my slave forever. I shall adopt you upon your conversion in Palestine, before we make our way to Mecca. When this most terrible famine has passed I shall take the pilgrimage, and take you with me."
‘Yes he beams, as he should the lucky little upstart!’
“Beadra has done nicely with your wounds as I was occupied with the Commandant’s grave concerns. Step forward boy.”
‘Good God, may Ibis never grab me by the ankles and use me as throwing axe! And may he certainly not retrieve me after his vicious cast and take me up again as a battle axe with which to beat out the life of his foe!’
Little Ibrahm’s little nose was broken, both his eyes black and filled with blood, his orbital bones bruised purple, his forehead scraped, his little half-a-shekel-sized Jew cap gone God only knows where, the top of his little tawny head scraped, his elbows skinned, his hands and arms bruised, and his ankles bruised where Ibis’s claw-like talons had grasped him as a weapon of war.
“You step well—a strong one you are despite your size. It was good you wrapped your arms about your head otherwise I would be trying to put it back upon your slight shoulders—Ibis, did you have to pick him back up and use him as a flail? I understand war is not my province, but surely the table was more stout a weapon?”
The deep bell-like voice of Ibis intoned mercilessly, “A boy who filches a warrior’s dagger takes its place in his hands if need be. I could have been slain with but one weapon, nearly w—”
The little piping voice of scrappy Ibrahm cut him off, “You had both hands on your blade like an old woman you old black dog! The Turk had you!”
The light in Ibis’ eyes somehow became darker, like two black jets set in crimson marble, not a white of his eye left but for the red rage, “That is my weapon of fortune; the luck stroke of strife that has seen me through more battles than your wretched tribe has ever waged. That dagger slew the Lion of Abisidi when I wrestled him in the pit of the—”
Ibrahm’s words cut like the tongue of a rug-merchant in the Bagdad Bazaar, “The only cat you ever slew was the Sudanese whore who was clawing your eyes for want of pay you old used up war-slave! Lion-slayer—pew!”
Ibis stood in stunned—even hurt—silence, unable to match words with the little Jew-child, who, impressively, had not a shred of fear in him. Abd-al Latif looked up into Ibis’ eyes pleading for calm as such squabbling upset his diagnostic ability. Ibis stepped back and seemed to relax, though his great hands worked as if each were strangling a mouthy little slave boy.
Ibrahm was standing defiantly, fists clenched, with Beadra’s soft hands rubbing his emaciated little shoulders.
“Come here now Ibrahm,” Abd al-Latif said, as he examined the small neck. “How is your head? Do you have headaches?”
“Yes Master, my heads pounds in the front and aches all down the back.”
“Beadra shall lightly massage the knots in your neck and apply the ointment I shall prescribe. You will resist turning your head sharply this way and that, and above all, remain quiet and do not jump and prance about. Your brain might be set ajar. We must let it right itself.”
He then looked up to Beadra as he straightened. “Mind that he does what I say—and keep him quiet. Do all of his chores for three days, and be certain he drinks the cardamom tea with cinnamon three times daily, piping hot to word off the bad humors.”
He looked up at his towering manservant, standing proudly now in his crimson vest and half pants, his scarified chest visible, his black head shaven and polished, and every whisker of his face long ago plucked to death.
“Uncle Ibis, ‘Friend’, once I have taken the pilgrimage to Mecca you shall be free to follow your life’s desire. I would not be alive were it not for you. We all thank you. I have never known a man your age to be so strong. Surely you have some ache, pain or injury after that savage tussle with the Turk. He was a stout young bruiser.”
“The brazier burns on my calves have been attended to by Beadra, who applies your ointment with the proper measure, not a bit wasted, not a burn too lightly covered.”
‘Yes, the beast still has eyes for my slave girl and is waxing complimentary just now in hopes of some midnight meeting. Yes Father, I know he is a warrior and is so natured.’
“Master” spoke up Ibrahm, Ibis is hurt, just hides it.”
Ibis darted eyes of death down at the little boy and audibly ground his teeth.
“Ibis, is this true?”
“I shall be fine Master.”
Ibrahm was incapable of keeping quiet, and hissed in a sly whisper, “Did you see him heft The Fat One down from his donkey? No, and hence The Fat One injured his balls on the saddle! The old bird was all show at Sulyman Ali’s.”
Abd al-Latif cast questioning eyes up at Ibis who seemed taut, and responded without his normal vigor and wit. “The perimeter needed watched Master. Why even if I strained some, the men of my tribe are renowned for their strength. When I was but this Jew-whelp’s size I strangled a cliff baboo—”
“Blah, blah, blah” retorted Ibrahm. “Quit the acting Ibis. She’s not going to share your bed anyhow—”
The sound of Beadra snapping Ibrahm’s ear with her finger added to the surreal argument and pushed this most indulgent master to silence them all with two open hands. He then plucked his ink quill from the binding of Sina’s book, which he ever kept near when diagnosing, and dropped it before Ibis, who watched the quill float to his feet as if it were his very feather of hope floating down to Oblivion. Ibis watched the quill light between his sandals with a look of abject misery, as if he had just been discharged by a commander, no longer wanted for his warrior service.
“Oh my Uncle Ibis, it seems I have dropped my last quill. Might you retrieve it for me?”
Ibis set his jaw and began to bend, and was unable. He then gritted his teeth and began to kneel, which seemed to cause the utmost agony. After some long moments, the stone-faced man finally lowered himself to the point where he could clutch the quill between two fingers. He then rose slowly—even sweating slightly in the process—and finally extended his hand to return the quill with a pained look in his eyes.
‘His image of strength is all to him. You must mend him or he will die of despair.’
“Friend, I will not discharge you for injury. I would say though, that if I were a burly Turk, that you would be in quite a spot.”
Ibis nodded a reluctant agreement.
“Ibrahm thank you on behalf of us all. Ibis injured himself in our service. No go off and find Suvee Ali and bring him here—and do not run.”
As the boy sped off across the bare marble tiles on his calloused little feet, Abd al-Latif patted Ibis on his sinewy scarred arm. “Suvee is an Indian physician who cares for the aches and pains of the Commandant and his horsemen. He is an expert on ruptures and twisted backs, and he owes me a consideration.”
For once, in the year that he had known this man, Abd al-Latif seemed to note a softness behind those ebon eyes, a soft spot that he judged would not remain long uncovered.
