Jack Hight - Eagle

They emerged from the dark passageway into a bright, three-sided plaza. In the centre, water bubbled from the mouth of an ancient stone head and filled a wide pool, where turbaned men and veiled women were busy filling red clay jars.

‘Water flowing from stone,’ Rabbit whispered. ‘How is it possible?’

John strode to the pool and bent over, scooping the cool water into his mouth. ‘I don’t know, but it tastes blessed good.’ He felt a tap on his shoulder and looked up. Rabbit was pointing to the men and women around them. They had stopped filling their jars and were staring at John with undisguised menace. One of them, a tall, olive-skinned man with a long beard and a curved dagger belted to his waist, pointed at John and shouted something in Arabic.

John spread his arms. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’ The man stepped closer and began to yell what sounded like a string of insults, repeatedly poking John in the chest. ‘I told you: I don’t understand your dirty Saracen tongue,’ John growled. ‘Now leave me be.’ He shoved the Saracen, who stumbled back several feet. The man’s hand went to his dagger hilt, and John and Rabbit both drew their swords.

‘I suggest you sheathe your weapons,’ someone behind them said in Frankish. John turned to see a young, tonsured man of slight build, wearing black priest’s robes. The priest gestured for John to look around him. At least a dozen turbaned men stood around the plaza with daggers drawn.

‘Do as he says,’ John told Rabbit.

‘Thank you,’ the priest said. ‘We want no violence here.’ He went to the angry Saracen, and the two men exchanged words in Arabic. The Saracen and priest kissed one another on each cheek, and the Saracen turned away, apparently satisfied. The priest turned back to John.

‘What did the Saracen want?’ John asked

‘Oh, he is no Saracen. These men are native Christians.’

‘Could have fooled me,’ John muttered.

‘Syrian and Armenian Christians have lived amongst the Saracens for centuries,’ the priest explained. ‘They have adopted Arab customs, but they are as Christian as you or me.’

‘Well what did he want?’

‘He said that the two of you should bathe before coming to the fountain. He fears that you will pollute the waters.’ John looked at the men and women around him. They all had clean hands and faces, and were wearing impeccably clean white linen caftans. The priest too had neat hair and clean, trimmed nails. John looked down at his dirty surcoat, still stained with traces of vomit. Rabbit was little better, with matted hair. ‘I hope I do not offend,’ the priest continued, ‘but your odour is rather rank. The bath-house is just over there.’ He pointed to a large building just down the street.

‘A bath-house?’ Rabbit asked. ‘What kind of savage place is this?’

The priest smiled. ‘You are in a land of savages now, good sir. You shall have to learn to behave as one.’ He turned to go.

‘Thank you for your help, Father,’ John called after him. ‘Might I ask your name?’

‘William,’ the priest replied. ‘William of Tyre. I welcome you to the kingdom of Jerusalem, good knights. I hope you find all that you seek.’ And with that, the man turned and walked away.

‘What now?’ Rabbit asked.

John grimaced. ‘Now we bathe.’

John’s ears were still burning as he and Rabbit staggered down the narrow alleyway to the harbour, the heavy, bulging water-skins slung over their shoulders. The baths had been worse than he had anticipated. They had entered through the wrong door and found themselves surrounded by indignant, screeching women, who had chased them back into the street, much to the amusement of the men lounging outside in the shade. After finding the men’s entrance, they had paid one copper each to a sweaty, bug-eyed man, who told them in thickly accented Frankish to disrobe and then handed them two tiny cotton cloths to wrap around their waists. They were hustled through a small room with a single pool of cold water and on to an enormous pool whose steaming waters occupied an octagonal building with a high, domed ceiling. Windows had been cut high up on the wall, and the light streaming in illuminated men of every race, all naked but for their thin wraps. John had cleaned himself well enough and was just about to climb out when an enormous Saracen servant approached, grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip, and proceeded to scrub him fiercely all over with a long-handled brush. Rabbit was given even worse treatment by a severe old man who grabbed him by the shoulders and repeatedly dunked him under the water.

Their skin raw, John and Rabbit were ushered to the pool of cold water and shoved in. Gasping and shaking from the cold, they were finally allowed to leave. They had retreated to the changing room, where they found that their clothes had been washed in their absence. They practically ran as they left the building. John had to admit, though, that his scalp no longer itched and his hands were whiter than they had been in months. Perhaps the custom was not completely barbaric, after all.

‘’Sblood,’ John cursed as he and Rabbit emerged from the dark alleyway. The market stalls were closing up in advance of the midday heat, and the crowd had mostly gone. Beyond the stalls, the ship they had arrived on was already being loaded with new cargo: large barrels that the sailors were rolling up the gangway. Between the market and ship there was only empty ground. The men of their company were gone.

‘You, sailor!’ John shouted to one of the men loading the ship. ‘Where did our men go?’ The sailor shrugged and pointed off down the dock, away from the citadel. John scanned the harbour, but there was no sign of the men. ‘Damn!’ he cursed, dropping the waterskins.

‘We should look for them,’ Rabbit suggested.

‘Where? In there?’ John gestured to the city. ‘We have no idea which direction they went. We’d only get lost.’

Rabbit’s nose twitched. ‘I’m just trying to help.’

John sighed. ‘You’re right, Rabbit. Maybe the glass seller knows where they went.’ John shouldered the waterskins and headed towards the Jewish merchant, who was shutting up his stall. ‘Thank you, sir. We found the water.’ John pointed to the skins, and the Jew smiled in acknowledgement. ‘The men who were there,’ John continued, pointing to where the company had been sitting. ‘Do you know where they went?’

The Jew shrugged. ‘No, I am sorry.’ He picked up a string of glass beads and held it out to them. ‘Would you like to buy something? A present for a lady?’

‘No, thank you.’ John turned away to see a knight watching them from horseback. The man wore a black surcoat emblazoned with the distinctive white Hospitaller cross, composed of what looked like four arrowheads, all touching at the tips.

‘Looking for something?’ the knight asked.

‘We are Reynald de Chatillon’s men,’ John explained. ‘We are looking for the rest of our company.’

The Hospitaller’s eyebrows arched. ‘Reynald’s men, eh?’ He paused and then pointed along the dockside. ‘The rest of your company went that way. They are setting up camp outside the city, just past the harbour gate.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ The knight nodded and rode on.

John and Rabbit marched along the long harbour, passing tall-masted ships to their right and squat buildings on their left. By the time they finally reached Acre’s wall, John’s shoulders were burning from the leather straps of the waterskins. The end of the wall was marked by a massive, square gate-tower, which rose up from the coastline. They passed through the gate into a flat, empty space, and then through a second, outer wall. The men were setting up their tents in its shade.