Eagle by Jack Hight

hooves of his enemy’s horse pounding closer and closer. The Saracen was only ten yards away when John grabbed the spear of the dead warrior, rose, and with a loud cry, let it fly. The spear struck the Saracen’s horse in the chest. The beast collapsed, and the warrior went flying, landing in a heap. John picked up his sword and limped over to finish him. He stood over the Saracen’s broken body, then paused at the sound of another set of hooves pounding towards him. He looked up to see a Christian knight with sword in hand, riding straight towards him. It was Ernaut.
    ‘Well met, Ernaut!’ John called out as Ernaut reined in beside him.
    ‘You’re a tough bugger, Saxon,’ Ernaut replied. ‘I thought the Saracens would have finished you off by now.’
    ‘Not yet. Help me up.’ He held his good arm out towards Ernaut.
    Ernaut clasped his hand. Then, as he pulled John close, he stabbed down with his sword, impaling John through the side. ‘You have seen too much, Saxon. That will keep your mouth shut,’ Ernaut spat as he withdrew the sword. John slumped to his knees, blood seeping from his side and staining his armour red.
    As John watched Ernaut gallop away, the world began tospin around him. He felt himself falling, then everything went black.
    ‘Your father wishes to see you.’ Yusuf opened his eyes and blinked against the bright morning sunlight. A servant was shaking his arm. ‘Dress quickly.’
    Yusuf rose and pulled on a linen caftan and sandals. He hurried to the entrance hall, where he found his father and Turan. When Ayub saw him, he frowned and turned away. ‘Come,’ he told his sons. ‘I have something to show both of you: the spoils of victory and the price of defeat.’
    Yusuf followed his father out of their home and to the broad square that lay behind the Umayyad mosque. The square was often the site of a produce market. Now it held a market of a different sort. Everywhere Yusuf looked, he saw Christian captives manacled and standing despondently, heads down, or huddled in wicker cages. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of them. The men of Damascus walked amongst them, poking and prodding, inspecting the goods.
    ‘It is as the poet writes,’ Ayub told his sons. ‘
You must choose the point of the spears couched at you; or if you will not, chains
.’ He fixed Yusuf with an intense stare. ‘Choose always the spears, my son. Better death than this.’ He turned to Turan. ‘Today, you will purchase your first slave. You fought like a man yesterday. You should have your own servant.’
    ‘Thank you, Father.’
    ‘What of me?’ Yusuf asked.
    His father whirled on him. ‘Were it not for your brother, you would be in a cage like one of them! When you are a man, like Turan, then you may have a slave.’ Yusuf felt tears welling up and looked away. Ayub grabbed his chin with one of his calloused hands, forcing Yusuf to look at him. ‘No more tears, boy. Only women cry.’
    Ayub released Yusuf and turned back to Turan. Yusuf wiped his tears away and followed, trailing behind as Ayub and Turanstrolled through the market. ‘That one there is strong enough,’ Ayub said, pointing to a towering Frank with long red hair. ‘But he is too old. He will never forget his home, and you will never be able to trust him.’ He walked on and then pointed out another, a muscular blond boy of perhaps sixteen, who appeared to be sleeping. ‘That one is the right age and he looks strong enough. But look more closely at the way he lays there. He is unconscious, not asleep. He has been injured, probably a wound to the gut. He will not live.’
    Yusuf stopped before the low wooden cage where the Frankish boy lay on his side, flies buzzing around him. Yusuf had never seen a Frank this close before. The slaves in his father’s household were mostly black men from Africa, along with a few Turks. The Frankish boy had a thin nose and square chin. His face was pale and covered with sweat, but he shivered as he lay