Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

Our route continued westward for two days before turning south and beginning to climb steadily through the foothills. The landscape was a dreary succession of barren hills slashed by steep-sided ravines. Watering sources were few, forage non-existent and, in many places, the road narrowed to a single track difficult for carts. The inhabitants were a sturdy, taciturn people living in small, scattered settlements located on spurs of high ground. They provided food and shelter for us and our animals in return for generous payments in silver coins from a heavy purse carried by one of Husayn’s attendants, but they showed no interest in who we were or where we were going.

On the fourth day of our journey, we passed above the snow line. Now the mountain slopes were speckled with boulders poking up through the snow crust. But the track itself was almost clear. It was another cold, crisp day of bright sunshine, and we had not seen a living soul since setting out that morning. I judged that we were approaching the crest of the pass itself and I could see that Husayn was pleased with our progress.

‘Normally I would be worried that snow would block the road. But tomorrow we will be over the worst and our path will begin to slope downhill,’ he said cheerfully. For the past mile he had been glancing up at the sun to determine when to halt and recite the Saracen prayers that are said just after noonday. I waited patiently. I had slipped behind in writing up my notes and this was the most crucial stage of the road through the mountains.

At length we came to a narrow defile, warmed by the sun but sheltered from the wind.

‘This is a good place to halt,’ Husayn announced. ‘After prayers, we can take some food and rest the horses.’

I dismounted stiffly and handed the reins of the bay gelding to Osric.

‘I think I’ll go for a stroll,’ I said.

‘Stay close,’ warned Husayn. ‘There are bears in these mountains, and wolves. They have been known to attack travellers.’

I laughed.

‘I haven’t seen a bear or a wolf since we began our journey.’

‘Then at least take a weapon with you, just in case,’ Husayn insisted.

Dutifully, I unstrapped my bow case from the packhorse and took out the weapon and a couple of arrows. I noticed the look of mild interest on Husayn’s face when he saw the type of bow I was using.

Leaving the others, I walked off, picking my way carefully over the loose rocks. Behind me I could hear the sounds of the Saracens unsaddling their horses. From past experience I expected we would halt for at least an hour.

The bare hillside was open and exposed, and I was obliged to walk a little distance to find somewhere to sit privately and write my notes. I angled up the slope until I could no longer be seen from the defile. There, I found myself a patch of ground free of snow in the lee of a large boulder. I laid down my bow and arrows, sat down and took the flat box containing my writing materials from the inner pocket of my coat.

I had just slipped off my gloves and taken up the stylus when a movement caught my eye. A bird, the size and colour of a crow, was flying in low swooping arcs across the hillside. Occasionally it stopped and landed on a boulder. It was the only living creature in the immense, frozen landscape, and I wondered what it found to feed on. I watched the bird come closer until it settled on a rocky outcrop below me. I turned my attention back to the work in hand and began to scratch out a diagram of our route for the past three days. The wax tablet had hardened in the cold and the metal point of the stylus skidded on the brittle glazed surface. I pressed harder, the wax chipping and flaking. I engraved the main line of the route then started to mark the location of the mountain villages I had seen and the distance between them. The air was so still and the silence of the mountains so absolute that I clearly heard the sound of claws scrabbling on rock as the bird settled on the crest of a boulder, not six feet from me. It cawed loudly. Its voice came back as an echo from the far mountainside.

I ignored the bird and worked on, head down. I was anxious to finish my work before the Saracens thought I was overdue and came looking for me. After a short while I heard the soft flap of wings as the bird flew away. Then came a tiny clink, the sharp sound of a pebble falling on rock. I vaguely thought that the sun melting the snow must have released a stone lying on the crust.

I was concentrating so fiercely on my work that I was shocked by the loud crack as something smashed into the boulder close to my head. I jerked back and felt a sharp sting on my cheek. A round pebble, the size of a hen’s egg, fell to the ground beside me.

I dropped my writing materials and sprang to my feet. Fifty yards away and slightly up the slope a shaggily dressed man was standing and whirling a strap around his head. I recognized a slinger and threw myself to the ground just as he released his second missile. I heard it whirr overhead. If it had struck me in the head the blow would have split my skull.

Seeing that he had missed, my attacker turned and began to run, dodging from rock to rock up the hillside.

A cold rage seized me. This attack was too similar to the murderous assault in the forest to be a coincidence. This time I would not let my assailant get away. I picked up my bow, nocked an arrow to the string, and then turned to judge the distance to my target. The slinger had not gone far. He had chosen to run directly uphill, thinking no doubt that he could outdistance any pursuit, and his decision had slowed him down. Evidently he had not noticed my bow lying on the ground beside me. He was running straight, not bothering to weave from side to side. He was an easy target.

Taking a deep, slow breath, I took up the tension on the bow and waited. It was like one of the archery exercises that Osric had made me repeat so often in the royal park of Aachen. My target was a dark, shapeless figure, bundled in heavy fur clothing, moving steadily and predictably up the slope away from me. In another few yards he would cross an undisturbed patch of snow. I waited until he was halfway across the white background and clearly outlined. Then, in a single controlled movement that concentrated all my rage, I drew the bow to full extent, aimed and released, watching the arrow fly up the hill.

The arrow struck the slinger squarely in the back. He pitched face forward into the slope. There was a moment’s pause as though he was embracing the mountain, then his body slithered back down a few feet in the snow and came to rest.

I put the bow down. My hands shook for the first time as I collected up the writing tablet and stylus, put them away in their wooden box, and then hid them safely out of sight inside my coat. I retrieved the bow and the second of the two arrows, though I knew it would not be needed. Then I began climbing towards the man I had struck down.

There was a shout from the hillside below me. One of the Saracens was calling my name. I did not answer but kept heading upwards, taking deep deliberate breaths, each step breaking through the crust of snow.

I reached my victim. He was still lying face down, the feathered shaft of my arrow protruding a hand’s span from the grimy fabric of his heavy wolfskin jacket. I had struck him square between his shoulder blades. Callously I put the toe of my boot beneath him and turned him so he lay on his side. He was a man of middle age, his face gaunt with hunger and burned dark by the sun. A few strands of dirty grey hair straggled out from under a tight-fitting cap, also of wolfskin. A long scar, perhaps the result of a sword cut, ran from his left ear to the side of his mouth. He was breathing but only just. I had never seen him before.

I kicked him hard in the ribs.