The Companion by Susan Squires Page B

bade him drink. Ian knelt and slurped long and noisily. “Now, face.” Ian glanced up and then cupped his hands and rinsed the dust and grit from his face and neck, splashing water even into his hair. He had never felt such luxury. His chain was jerked again and he crept to the side of the man, who sat upon the trunk of a fallen date palm .
    “Tell me of Briton . . . no, England,” he corrected himself. “It is long since I was there.”
    “What . . . what would the master like to know?” he croaked, his voice hardly human after not being used for so many months .
    “Is it still green? So green, it was.” The man smelled a little like her, like cinnamon .
    “Yes. Green. When I was last there.” The ache of an English May, so verdant and alive, swept over him until he thought he might waste his body’s water in tears .
    “And Londinium? No, London now. Is it grown even larger?”
    “They say almost a million souls.”
    “A million?” the Arab marveled. “It must be squalid, with so many.”
    “In the poor neighborhoods yes. On the west side, there are the parks and squares, with flowers.” Ian grew a little braver. Yet still he was puzzled. Londinium?
    “Did they ever buy back Richard?”
    Now Ian was truly at sea. “Richard?”
    “Of the heart of the lion. I came away, and then . . . there were other things to occupy me.”
    Ian stole a glance upward, expecting a cuff for his boldness, but he had to see if he was being made game of. The Arab’s face was only expectant. Ian ducked his head. “He was ransomed. He came home from the Crusades and took his rightful crown from his brother John.”
    “Good. Never did I like this John. He was not like some others of your countrymen. They were good to me. One Walter of Ghent helped me in the prison of the Moors when they had cut my bollocks off. We fought each other in Jerusalem, but when you are in a prison, what matters a city a thousand miles away? We broke from the prison of the Moors and sailed for England.”
    Ian shot a look up and saw fond memory pass over the Arab’s face. “I passed some years there. I liked Walter’s people.” He rose suddenly. “But it was too green. I came home to the sand and Asharti found me, and I found my destiny.” He jerked the chain at Ian’s wrist. “Mayhap we will talk English again if you are still alive tomorrow.”
    Ian stumbled back to his fellows behind the Arab. His owner’s name was Asharti. The Frenchman was being carried away. He had made his escape at last, though it had taken death to set him free. An imperious command came from the tent, and the Arab hurried ahead in the black night with the stars wheeling against the sky in mute disregard of human suffering. Ian could hear the Arab’s voice, soothing; then Asharti burst from her tent. Ian was being chained nearest to her of all the slaves. She did not hesitate in choosing among them this time. Even before he could be refastened to his post, she gestured at his keeper. Ian could understand enough to know she was giving orders for him to be washed .
    Ian’s heart leaped into his mouth. If only the Arab had not singled him out he would not have been standing where he could catch her attention. She might have chosen the Nubian she had picked up at the last village, or the Turk. She turned back to her tent. His keeper jerked his chain and suddenly, regardless of the consequence, he jerked back. His hands were free, and a lethal chain clanked at his wrist. He swung it at the keeper, hitting him across the cheek and nose. The man went down like a horse at the knacker’s and Ian stumbled around the pool. The keeper raised a cry. Ian saw the camel drivers just ahead of him jolt upright from where they smoked their tobacco. But he was by them, stumbling naked into the deep sand beyond the pool. Ahead were only the black night lit by stars and the white sand pulling at his feet. His breath heaved in his lungs—the freedom of it! He pounded on, expecting the