The Brotherhood of Book Hunters by Howard Curtis, Raphaël Jerusalmy

your ode to the emir?” he said in surprise.
    He made a sign with his finger, and François stood up and meekly followed him along the dark corridors. Ahead of them, Colin continued to stamp with rage and deliver a stream of curses at his jailers. The group walked down a long tunnel. At the end, servants armed with brushes and towels were waiting patiently. They all bowed when they saw the official.
    â€œGet the dirt off these two!”

15
    H ow could a man as fat as that have such slender fingers? François wondered. He looked at his own wrists, his verrucose palms, his unfiled nails, his skin scrubbed with soap and horsehair to make him presentable. From the low table around which tumblers and musicians crouched with him, François could only glimpse the emir, whose beringed fingers lay crossed over a huge belly. He did not yet know when exactly he would be called on to amuse that faceless mass of flesh sinking beneath brocades and insignia of rank. Glittering on the august belly, the precious stones of the rings were drowning in the heavy folds of a cheap silk robe that reminded François of Chartier’s alb. The rolls of fat, whose presence you sensed, evoked casual authority, an indolent, cruel power. How to win over such a paunch?
    François and his companions in misfortune hastened to devour the leftover food the slaves abandoned to them. They joyfully plunged their hands into the steaming entrails of a sheep and hulled chickpeas, almonds, and dates. François looked desperately for Aisha amid the throng of guests, but in vain. He could barely remember her face. Glimpsed in the space of one night, her white face was fleeting and hazy, like that of someone met once a long time ago. Only her dark eyes shone through the fog of forgetfulness. In the din of the banquet, the prison was also gradually moving away, toward the other end of another world. The old man, the youth, the guards were all ghosts now. Even death had withdrawn with dignity down the dark corridors, back to its lair. It was death, though, that was defied here, in the arrogance of the banquet, in this pathetic luxury. And to challenge it in this way, you had to stuff yourself like an emir. Or eat rat.
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    Women danced with snakes wound around their arms, dwarves rang little bells, brown fingers plucked at meager strings. The eye of a calf rolled to the ground. A guest picked it up and swallowed it.
    The sound of the tambourines stopped abruptly. The only thing heard now was the solemn beating of a gong. From the far end of the hall, a huge warrior, his oiled body glistening in the torchlight, advanced to the percussive rhythm. He bowed briefly to the emir then turned. He was a Turkish slave, captured during a battle against the Ottoman sultan. His opponent followed, tall and thin, chin raised high, like a rooster. A cotton top covered his scars. He seemed less sturdy than the other man.
    Most of the guests continued to scoff from the dishes. Performers and gladiators alike froze, tense, ill at ease. If the Christian won the day, the emir of Nazareth would not be pleased.
    They nevertheless hoped secretly that the big Turk would bite the dust. As soon as he came within distance of his rival, Colin gave him a slap on the left ear followed by a poke in the groin. The Turk gripped Colin with force but the Coquillard, furious now, headbutted him. It was like a combat of stags, with its silent clash of heads, and it was only a matter of time before one of the two skulls burst. Just as the Turk seemed to be bearing up best under this unbridled hammering, Colin plunged his teeth into his opponent’s nose and bit it off, much to the delight of the spectators. He spat out the piece of flesh, while the guests clapped and laughed. But the Turk held on, his big arms holding his rival tight, his fists crushing his back. Suddenly, Colin flopped backwards like a puppet, his eyes empty, his arms dangling. François sat up on his stool,