“Between 695 and 700 England and Ireland suffered from a three-year dearth during which ‘men ate each other’.”
Reay Tannahill, Flesh and Blood
Back up on the high street he stood besides Babyrs and Niko as they watched the enigmatic Persian warrior ride off toward the palace with Niko’s donkey and the young mother and baby in tow. Babyrs patted Abd al-Latif between his shoulders and the heavy hand struck him as cold as well. “Yes doctor, I have hawked and played at chess with my Master Sultan, who would surely suspect me of that mess below in the alley there over that sniveling eunuch any day. But The Khwarzim is beyond question. The girl is a girl—knows the lie like I know my dick—she’ll tell the tale as it needs told.”
Just then a shuffling, scuffling, grunting and growling was heard down below in the alley. As he turned to look all that was to be seen were two wide pools of blood shimmering under the moon.
Babyrs then snorted, “Count on the rascals to clean up the leavings every time.”
“Merciful God, am I in hell already?”
Babyrs answered like the very voice of The Deceiver echoing from his hell below, “No doctor, you are just higher than any hashishan I’ve ever cut down. Whatever you are eating is a damned sight better than whatever the Oldman up on The Mountain gives his deranged killers.”
With those words the sarcastic Turkish war-slave grabbed him by his hips and placed him up in the saddle. "Doctor, you cannot walk to save your ass. Mind you Brute here is a killer—voice and heel command. Don’t touch his reigns, hold unto the pummel. If we are beset by rascals just hug his neck while he tramples them to gore-grinds. Do not take the reigns or put heel to flank or he will be off after the ones that flee and I won’t be able to save you.”
The warrior then clicked at the horse some command in Turkic and walked on ahead without even taking the reigns. Niko stepped up to take the war horse's reigns in hand as a lead like he would for a donkey or draft horse and Babyrs shoved him off, “Are you stupid boy? He will kick your head in. Keep by my right side so I can kneel behind you and loose arrows if need be. There you go—that’s a good Greek. You could be fatter, but a good enough shield you shall make.”
‘This was a terribly bad idea.’
‘What shall ever become of we Who-submit-to-God if the Turks come to power?’
“Don’t worry your addled mind doctor. This was a good enough idea.”
‘Did I speak out loud.’
“I once hawked up behind the Grand Mosque, off on that little rise that cuts into the belly of the falling sun just before the adhan calls. That is the patch of fresh air you need; the place where you will find your good humors. The Sultan’s hawks certainly think so already.”
‘Thank God I did not speak out loud to this beast of my low opinion of him and his brutish kind. And fresh air—but to share it with this lout!’
Niko chuckled as if in mischief and Babyr’s sardonic tone grew light, “I’m not really all so bad once you get to know me Doctor.”
‘Oh God have Mercy for I am lost.’
Unable to even muse to himself without the confidence that his mouth was not errantly broadcasting the words, he sat the saddle in silence with a dead mind.
Sometime later, perhaps seconds, minutes, or hours, they came upon the scent of myrrh oil and rose petals perfuming the air.
‘Do I dream.’
“No Doctor. We are upon the rise. And look, down beneath the almond tree there, a small lamp smolders and some young ones recline. Lovers I think. They must be insane. Should I investigate?”
‘I don’t think so. That would be rude.’
“As you say Doctor. Niko hold on to the doctor’s left ankle and I shall stay right and ahead. If Brute wheels stand tall and do not fall for he tramples the fallen on impulse.”
“Did I advise this, to break in upon a lovers’ tryst?”
“Of course you did doctor.”
Talons of doubt raked at his eyes and scraped at his ears.
Scales of disbelief slithered beneath his feet.
The rocking of the mighty horse was as if the sea rocking Jonah as he was swallowed up.
He could hear them hammering together Noah’s boat as he lay strapped to the rock behind the dam…
Niko was nudging him awake again, “Master, Master!”
Two young people, a handsome youth of good family, and a pretty-eyed woman discreetly veiled in the shimmering moonlight under the clear star-sparkled summer sky, sat with their backs to the base of Saladin’s personal almond tree, with guilt and fear etched upon their faces. To their left was the roasted corpse of a boy just nearing puberty, who must have been roasted elsewhere and dragged here. On his chest were sprinkled rose petals, about a pool of myrrh oil that was burning slowly into his roast flesh with a low flame.
‘Good God—does your mercy no longer sweep the evils of the earth before it?’
The youth looked at him fearfully, as if he had just said something.
Babyr’s spoke harshly. “This is Abd al-Latif, doctor investigating these detestable eatings. The Commandant has decreed that all guilty of such shall be burned alive—save those of good wealth, who shall be fined. Are you rich boy?”
The young husband was perspiring with fear of the Turk as he answered. “I was well-enough off until the famine. I spent my last silver on this boy who was brought to us at the roasting pit.”
“Speak the truth boy and you shall die quickly and cleanly. Lie to the doctor and I will have my warhorse rape your darling before your eyes.”
The young wife was terrified beyond words and clutched fearfully at her husband’s knee as he looked to Abd al-Latif, who, again, could not qualify the sound of his own voice as one he had heard. “Did you kill the boy?”
“Yes, they charge extra to wring their necks, so I did it.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“Bengar el Fez, the Moroccan merchant who owns the House of Lamb, and his people. They have a roasting pit.”
“Why have you done this; was there some urge, some specific hunger.”
With a shrug of his shoulders the young husband smiled in a petty manner and quipped, “Everyone is doing it. It was just a poor beggar boy, of no account. It was not like he was of importance.”
“I am done Babyrs.”
The Turk walked up to the couple who looked at him with piteously raised eyes. The woman pulled down her gown to expose her breasts, apparently hoping to sell her body for her life and thinking that the Turk’s rape threat might indicate she had a value beyond the shadow of her crime. As the Turk took the step that should bring him within reach his arm whipped away from his belt and the ‘shing’ of steel clearing its wooden scabbard sounded, followed in the same instant with the slithering ‘shing’ of flesh and bone being separated by the best Damascan steel to find a place in man’s hand.
A chill shot through his chest as the Turk stepped off with one big stride so that Abd al-Latif—the horror-mad dream-haunted doctor who had seen too much of death and had wanted only to find fresh air in the night—could see the two headless corpses twitching against the trunk of the tree, their startled faces looking up into his eyes from their lopsided place on the ground between pushing and delicately slippered feet.
‘And so is watered the tree of the Savior of Islam, by the blood of such as these. Merciful God, might you grant me the serenity to practice medicine again with the rising sun.’
That prayer at least, had not been inadvertently mumbled out loud, or, if it had, the Turk was beyond commentary. Perhaps even Babyrs saw no jest in this terribly fallen state for two so recently married, presumably before God.
Chapter 4: The Market
Nice foreshadowing of the soon to be rulers of the Islamic world. This cannibal apocalypse may have been the true reason for their ascendancy but not 'officially'.
About twenty years after the events described by Abd al-Latif the most militarily interesting Crusade failed to take Egypt, but pretty much did to it what the U.S. did to Iraq recently. By then Saladin's descendants were loosing the reigns of power to their Turkish war slaves. Babyrs represents this trend. I patterned him after Baybars, greatest of the Mamelukes [war-slaves]. What happened in medieval Egypt is not too different from white might happen with our military contracting system. I am playing the Turks a little heavy in this to leave the reader who hasn't studied Islamic history a feel for how much things were about to change for people like al-Latif.