Gentle, the Night

To be a slave...

There were those in other lands, Rana had heard, who treated their slaves in an manner far worse than the lowest animal. She had never seen cruelty herself, not in all the eight years of her servitude. Her master gave her meat and honey and goat milk, dressed her in fine linen, allowed her to rest for a full seven hours every night. Beatings were rare and she was forgiven swiftly afterwards. She had friends, other slaves who had traveled with the caravan of war to care for their masters during these dark times. Most of them were older than she, but Rana's friendly nature won over young and old alike.

And her master was very great.

Rana the Bedouin, the slave, had been given as a gift to Salahuddin by her over-burdened parents in the summer of her seventh year. Instead of sending the girl off to be the servant of one of his generals, or perhaps even freeing her into the streets of some distant city, the soft-spoken sultan kept her close and taught her to read. He never harmed her, leaving her for the most part under the care of this or that teacher. Rana loved especially the mullahs, who seemed to relish the chance to speak to an eager pupil even on the field of battle. And the gentle-eyed warrior Nasir let her ride his horse and gave her little gifts he picked up during his travels. It was a better life than the one she'd lived as a free girl. And as a slave she was not expected to marry right away. She was free, in a sense, of a certain portion of the constraints that the rest of her sisterhood submitted to in accordance with the Shariah, the Islamic law. Even on the hard road from Damascus to Makkah, Rana enjoyed her daily activities.

She walked this evening by the outskirts of the camp, watching the way the light shimmered on the distant horizon like pools of water. Lakes of Satan, her people called them. Among the nomadic Bedouin, to whom water was literally a matter of life or death, the haunted mirages that danced on the distant sand were a cruel joke that led many foolish or desperate travelers to their end. Salahuddin had told her, in that infinite, patient way of his, that the lakes were really portions of the sky reflected in the heated sands.

"The desert is deceptive, habibiti," he would tell her, looking out over the vast rolling dunes, "You must treat her with great respect."

"Iwa, Sayyidi." she said softly, "Yes, my lord."

Rana always listened to him.

There was a bright oil lantern burning in his tent, casting dim shadows against the thin fabric. At nightfall she knew the light would be extinguished, making it difficult for attackers to locate the camp. No bright lights anywhere would give away their position, nothing more than a single candle per tent, and the watchers around the outskirts would be alert through the night.

Safety even in a time of war came at a high price - Rana knew that her master greatly missed reading after Isha prayer...but he was strict in his desire for the safety of blackness.

Rana paused outside of the tent to remove her sandals, then pulled the soft fabric flap aside and stepped in.

"Assalamu alaikum, bata." his soft voice greeted her, and she lowered her gaze respectfully.

"Alaikum salam." she began to fill a silver teapot from a small wooden bucket, careful not to strike the dipper against the rim of the expensive Persian artifact as she did so. Misuse of beautiful things was one of the acts that irritated her master, be it a teapot or a woman or a horse or even an entire city. She hung the teapot above the oil lantern, watching to make sure that it was not so close to the flame as to scorch the bottom, yet not too far away that the warmth would fail to heat the water within. When she had finished, she turned to prepare the bed in the corner, pulling back the simple blanket and plumping the raw silk pillow with a practiced touch.

"The sunset was brilliant this evening, my lord. Like the entire sky was burning."

"Yes, my child. I am sorry I was unable to watch it with you."

He set down his pen and leaned back in the chair, his dark eyes looking not at her, but through her, deep in thought. Rana moved toward him, kneeling at his feet and taking his hand in hers. It was a gesture that no one else would have dared to make. Salahuddin was not a man that allowed people to touch him freely. He was proud, disciplined, gentle and yet very cruel at need. His soul was closer to Allah than any other human being Rana had ever met. To touch him was to touch the hand of God.

She raised her face to look at him, sitting there in the halflight with the lines of determination and weariness eased on his face. His turban was off, and the coal-dark curls with iron highlights spilled freely over his slim shoulders. A more lordly man had walked the earth only once before, when Sayyidina Muhammad emerged from a cold cave high in the hills with the light of the divine shining in his eyes.

"Tell me again of your travels, Master." she whispered, and Salahuddin closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him like a great tide.

"One war after another, great campaigns and waves of men on horseback, men on foot. The smell of sweat and horseflesh and wet leather, the jingle of armor and swords, the flap of the standards bearing the holy name of Allah."

Rana drew her knees up against her chest, leaning her dark head against his knee and picturing in her mind all that he described.

"The riding was hard, but we were strong and God led us. All the battles run together, habibiti. The sun rose sometimes on my left, sometimes on my right, sometimes behind, and sometimes we rode into the blinding light, all in a mass."

"When did you first kill, master?"

"The first man that I killed was a Syrian. My knife went through his stomach like cutting through tough meat. I will never forget the smell of the blood, and the way it soaked into the cracked dry earth at my feet."

Rana kissed the back of his hand.

"I want to kill for you, Master." she whispered. Salahuddin put his rough hand under her chin, tilting her face up to look into her eyes.

"Hold fast to your innocence, child. Too soon will it be gone." his voice was deep, patient, and heavily accented. They spoke English to one another for the most part, fond as he was of teaching his followers as many languages as he felt they needed. Rana sometimes slipped back into Arabic when she was tired or excited, and she did so now.

"Ana la afham, Sayyidi." she said petulantly. I don't understand, master.

"In time, you will. As much as I am pleased by your desire to fight in this cause, I am not in favor of putting a sword into the hand of a female child just yet."

"I am strong."

Salahuddin chuckled softly, his eyes lit with amusement.

"I am well aware, little one. Now on to your tasks. I must meet with Nasir and Mullah Khaled this night before I rest. When they leave, you may return and sleep here."

"Shukran, my Master."

"Afwan. Now go."

There were soon three horses tied outside the tent in the shade of the succulents. Two of them she knew very well. Rana dearly loved Salahuddin's black battle charger and Mullah Khaled's soft-nosed Arabian mare. She rubbed them both down with a skilled touch, then turned her attention to the newcomer, Nasir's mount.

It was a superb stallion, dark as turned earth, with a nobility to the curve of its neck and the flash of its eyes that belied excellent breeding.

"Very fine horse." Rana whispered, stroking its flanks respectfully. Horses such as this were hard to come by these days. She removed his saddle and bridle, making soft agreeable sounds to calm the beast as she did so.

There was a bit of dried vegetation tangled in his mane, and Rana gently worked it free and held it up to the moonlight for inspection. Seaweed. She had seen it a few times before, when the war caravan's travels took them near the coast. But what it was doing in the mane of a war horse was beyond her.

Still, the warrior to whom this steed belonged was very great and noble. Perhaps he'd ridden the horse across the waves themselves, like the heroes in some of the old stories she'd loved as a child. She pictured the spectacle, the moon-bright foam flying up as the horse's hooves struck each wave, wetting both mount and rider in salt spray under the dark dome of the sky.

Dreamily, her mind lost in fantasy, Rana did not notice that she had been idly petting the stallion's nose for some time. The tent flap opened, and Mullah Khaled strode forth in a state of agitation.

"Rana, my horse."

"Sir?"

He fixed her with a stern look.

"Dreaming again, child?"

Rana blushed, moving quickly to untie his horse and refasten the saddle. Khaled watched her critically as she worked.

"You must be one of the most unskilled slaves I have ever known."

"Thank you for your guidance, sir. I am unworthy of your teaching. But I shall do my best to improve."

He waved his hand as though brushing away the thought, looking slightly mollified.

"What were you dreaming of?"

"Nasir riding his horse on the sea."

"An inventive image."

"Do you know where the steed came from?"

Khaled moved to help her.

"He was given the horse in Jerusalem by the Baron who'd killed Al Feiss."

"What? Mahmoud is dead?"

"Dead as dust. And the horse came from the sea, or so the Baron told Nasir."

"There was seaweed in his mane."

Khaled took his horse's reins from Rana and looked down at her appraisingly.

"You will be a woman soon." he noted. Rana blushed, looking at the ground.

"I am approaching my fifteenth year, sir."

"So many years? You have the look of a child of ten."

"I have always been small, my lord."

Khaled patted the top of her head, smoothing the soft folds of her linen hijab away from her face.

"You are a hard worker, and very loyal. You will make a good wife for someone soon. It is a pity you are not more beautiful, but there are other skills that are important for a good wife. You are strong enough, and reasonably intelligent."

Rana did not know what to say to this, and so she kept her silence.

"My lord Salahuddin will probably make you a gift to one of his lesser captains. You will have a good life, little Rana."

"But I do not want to be married! I want to wear a sword and kill infidels!"

The mullah frowned, shaking his head.

"You are a woman. You will no more wield a sword than fly to the moon. Know your place, child. It is not Allah's will that your hands be dipped in blood."

"But there were women who fought for Sayyidina Muhammad, peace be upon him. You told me - "

"You are not these women, and times have changed! It is haram, forbidden, for you to even entertain such thoughts! Now go and pray two rakkats, and ask forgiveness for your childish fantasies of slaughter. If you are still troubled by these daydreams, come to me and we will talk."

Rana bit her lip to keep her words in check. She did not want to be the wife of some old fighter. She did not want to cook and sew and have children in the seclusion of her home. Her heart longed to ride to battle behind her Master, to swing a scimitar instead of a broom, to serve Salahuddin forever on the field of war.

But she did not say these things.

Instead, she took Mullah Khaled's hand in hers and kissed it, hiding her feelings of unrest.

"You are very kind to waste such time on a silly child like me, my lord. I pray that you sleep well this night. You will have need of your strength tomorrow, surely."

Khaled brushed his lips across her forehead and mounted his horse.

"I wish you sweet dreams, little Rana. May they be filled with healthy babies and honey cakes and the sweet smell of the home. You will be a good wife. Do not fight your destiny."

And he was gone in a thunder of hooves.

Rana sighed, pulling her hijab closer about her hair. It was a destiny of boredom that she was being asked to accept, and what Arab could accept such a fate? But it was only the musings of Khaled. Perhaps her Master would not choose to send her from his side, and would instead keep her forever as his servant. Even that would be better than marriage, especially to some stranger.

Nasir emerged from the tent, moving as silently as the night falls. He was still clad in steel armor, his helm in his hand and his dark hair free against his forehead. Rana found herself staring at the soft place just beneath his ear, where his olive skin was bare and hypnotic and inviting. The place seemed made for a woman's kiss.

She blushed furiously and began to quickly untie his horse.

"How do you like him?"

"I love him, my lord." Rana answered instantly, and bit her tongue the moment the words were out. It took her a moment to realize that Nasir had been referring to the horse.

"He is...beautiful, sir."

The proud warrior ran his hand over the horse's neck, looking up at him fondly.

"It was quite an interesting series of events, the manner in which this noble beast came to me. The new Baron of Ibelin took him from the sea and was making his way to Jerusalem when Mahmoud al Feiss and I found him. Mahmoud deeply hates infidels. He saw only an opportunity to slaughter one. It would appear that Allah had another plan for my old friend. But it was not, it would seem, my time yet." he smiled, his white teeth glimmering in the pale light from the campfires nearby.

Rana handed him the reins.

"I am thankful that it was not, my lord. The loss of you would shake my Master's will, for he loves you as a son."

"And I him. He is the very definition of nobility, little Rana. You are fortunate to have such a master."

Rana chewed her lip, her mind troubled. Nasir paused.

"Something troubles you. Speak your mind, please."

"Mullah Khaled said that I am probably going to be given as a gift to some warrior in my Master's army. I told him that I would rather wield a sword! He admonished me. I am now afraid of my future."

"Because Khaled admonished you, or because you do not want to marry?"

"You are making fun of me."

"Perhaps a little, child." Nasir said, not unkindly. "But the mullah has a point, however uncouth his method of expressing it. You are already of a marriageable age, and you are a woman. Your place is not on the battlefield, but at the hearth."

Rana felt deeply unhappy and irritated. Tonight was the first time she'd ever heard of the possibility of being given away, and she was having a great deal of trouble with the concept.

"I would rather die." she found herself suddenly saying. Nasir stopped in his tracks, and turned to her. Then he did something that he very rarely did.

He touched her.

The warmth of his hand on her arm made her shiver, and she looked up at him in an agony of helpless childlike adoration.

"I know. Some horses are never meant to be saddled. I do not suggest pleading your case before your master, though. He is traditional, and will seek only to convince you of the error of your ways, however gently. You are small, but very strong. I have seen you carry the water buckets across the oasis without stopping to rest. Can you lift this?"

He handed her his scimitar, a cruel and beautiful weapon forged over a hundred years ago in Damascus. She took it, raising it above her head as she had seen the soldiers do during practice. It was an exquisite feeling, one of power and grim determination, and she was slightly crestfallen when Nasir lifted the blade from her hands a moment later.

"Come to my tent after Fajr. When the men ride to battle tomorrow afternoon, you will be among them in my spare armor. If you speak of this to anyone, I will deny it and you will know my displeasure. I am helping you because I was in your position once, too young and too over-protected to be allowed near a blade. It was Salahuddin who gave me the chance to fight, to lead. He will not offer you this chance because you are a girl, little Rana. You know this?"

Rana nodded, speechless.

"Doubtless he will be angry with me if any harm comes to you, and so I instruct you to remain at my side all the while. Never stray farther than the length of two spears from my left flank, and I will protect you. Your first taste of battle comes before the setting of the next sun. I suggest you get some sleep. Depending on your performance tomorrow, we will decide on what to do next."

A wordless joy, a profound sensation of gratitude and love and respect began to well up in Rana's breast, and tears formed in her eyes. She wanted to fling herself like a small child into Nasir's arms, covering his bearded face with kisses as she used to do to her father. But decency held her in check, and she contented herself with looking into his eyes for a moment so that he could see her emotion.

"I know, little one. No go to your master. Khaled was very hard to him this evening, although not so disrespectful as the other night. Salahuddin will need a light touch."

"Yes, my lord."

Nasir looked her over carefully, from the few soft curls that escaped her hijab to frame her face to the gentle swell of her hips beneath the linen abaya to the worn shoes that encased her small feet. Something inscrutable passed across his features for a brief second, a look of admiration that made Rana's chest tighten with some unnamed thrill.

He mounted the horse with one swift, elegant movement.

"Until the morning, Rana." he said softly, and was gone.

Rana stepped into her master's tent in a daze. Salahuddin was standing over a map of Jerusalem, staring down at it and stroking his beard in contemplation. He did not turn around as she came moved through the tent, extinguishing lamps and preparing his evening drink. She came behind him at last, touching his sleeve respectfully.

"Would you care for some fig juice, my Master?"

He took the cup from her and sat down in his chair, his face troubled. Rana settled herself at his feet once more, a small pile of his torn clothing beside her to mend. It was a pleasant, comfortable time for the both of them, these hours of the evening before sleep. Rana would mend clothing or sandals while the great leader beside her read from the Qu'ran or told her stories of the old days. Tonight he seemed deep in thought, and Rana did not wish to disturb his silence. But remembering Nasir's advice that her master be treated with a light touch, she made certain that her side was pressed against his leg, and that there was devotion and love in her eyes every time she looked at him.

Finally, he spoke.

"What the mullahs do not understand is that no war was ever won with mere bloodshed. A king must be courteous and wise as well as fearless. The battle for Jerusalem is a chess game, sha tarang, and I will not be urged into making a premature move."

"No, my Master."

"King Baldwin tires, but the time for true slaughter is not until he has passed on. When his sister's underage child ascends the throne, there will be great unrest and instability. That is the time for war. But every day the Templars give me more cause to raise my hand too early. They are a troublesome blight upon Jerusalem."

"The time when you will not have to stay your hand is approaching, my Master. I trust your judgment more than I trust that of any other man. Allah has sent you for this purpose."

Salahuddin sighed, nodding, and rose to his feet.

Rana respectfully lowered her gaze as he undressed for bed, coming to his side only after he had made himself comfortable beneath the blankets. She removed her hijab in the lamplight and began to brush her long, dark hair, humming an old Bedouin lullaby as she did so. Salahuddin watched her until his eyelids became heavy.

"Rana," she heard him whisper before he fell asleep, "You are a beautiful child."

"I love you with all of my strength, my Master." she replied, and so the night passed on in dreamless contentment, dark as the haunted waters of the midnight Mediterranean.