Read Online Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One) by Jon Sprunk - Free Book Online
Authors: Jon Sprunk
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on him. It was more likely that he'd been feeling the effects of prolonged exhaustion and thirst. But it had felt so real.
Horace pounded on the door. He listened for footsteps or voices, but nothing came through the thick beams. He kept at it, alternately punching and kicking. After several minutes, a metallic clatter announced that he had been heard, and the door swung open. Harsh yellow light from a lantern blinded him, and he retreated a few steps with his hands held over his face.
“ Minu shomana? ” a rough voice demanded.
“Water! I need some Prophet-damned water!”
The turnkey, or whoever he was, shouted something else and then slammed the door. Horace resumed pounding, but the guard didn't return. He stopped when his hands became too sore to continue. Finally, frustrated and more tired than before, he sat down on his blanket. They obviously didn't intend to kill him, or they would have done it already.
Unless they're devising a public execution.
He dozed off with his back against a wall. The clatter of the door lock woke him abruptly. Instead of the jailor, a slim man entered. He wore only a simple linen kilt and leather sandals and carried a candle instead of a lamp. Still, the tiny flame seared Horace's eyes. The man set something down on the floor and took the piss-bucket with him as he left. There was a splashing sound, and then the man returned with the empty bucket.
Horace stood up.
“Can you help me?” He switched to Nimean but still got no response. Then he noticed the iron collar around the man's neck. Another slave.
The slave left without saying a word. Horace lunged for the door, but the turnkey reappeared and slammed it shut in his face. The sound of the lock turning made Horace sick to his stomach. He beat on the door and shouted until his throat ached. Then he roamed around his cell, blood pumping and fists clenched.
It was a long time before he was calm enough to inspect the bowl the man had left on the floor. Sitting on the blanket, he dipped his fingers inside and felt a cold, sticky goo. He tasted it with the tip of his tongue. The substance had a consistency like gruel but no flavor. He finished the bowl in three large finger-scoops before he remembered the cup. It held tepid water, which he gulped down. Then he sat on the floor. With nothing else to do, he drifted off again.
When he woke he couldn't tell if he had slept for minutes or hours. He'd dreamt of home. Lying on the cold blanket, he clung to the memories, replaying the better ones again and again in his mind even though they scoured his soul. He recalled the day of his son's birth, savoring every moment of that experience until at last he came to the part when the midwife placedJosef in his arms for the first time. He rolled over and pressed his face against the stone wall as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.
After another sleep, he relieved himself in the bucket again and tried to suck a few drops of water out of the empty cup. He licked the dried film of gruel from the bowl. Then he dozed some more.
The opening door jarred him awake. Horace sat up and blinked as a pair of soldiers entered. They grabbed him by the arms and hauled him out of the cell. He hung limp in their grasp as they shuffled him past rows of doors, from some of which issued faint groans and muttered whisperings. The guards carried him up many steps until a golden glow appeared above. Even before he could feel it on his skin, Horace knew it for sunlight. He started walking on his own, feeling the strength return to his legs. By the time they passed through the doorway and out into the light, he was standing upright.
They brought him out to a walled courtyard. The sky was glorious blue like a sheet of glass without a trace of clouds. The clay pavement was hot, but after the chill of his cell, Horace reveled in the warmth. A line of twenty or so men and women waited in the courtyard under guard, chained together by the neck. They varied in age
Horace pounded on the door. He listened for footsteps or voices, but nothing came through the thick beams. He kept at it, alternately punching and kicking. After several minutes, a metallic clatter announced that he had been heard, and the door swung open. Harsh yellow light from a lantern blinded him, and he retreated a few steps with his hands held over his face.
“ Minu shomana? ” a rough voice demanded.
“Water! I need some Prophet-damned water!”
The turnkey, or whoever he was, shouted something else and then slammed the door. Horace resumed pounding, but the guard didn't return. He stopped when his hands became too sore to continue. Finally, frustrated and more tired than before, he sat down on his blanket. They obviously didn't intend to kill him, or they would have done it already.
Unless they're devising a public execution.
He dozed off with his back against a wall. The clatter of the door lock woke him abruptly. Instead of the jailor, a slim man entered. He wore only a simple linen kilt and leather sandals and carried a candle instead of a lamp. Still, the tiny flame seared Horace's eyes. The man set something down on the floor and took the piss-bucket with him as he left. There was a splashing sound, and then the man returned with the empty bucket.
Horace stood up.
“Can you help me?” He switched to Nimean but still got no response. Then he noticed the iron collar around the man's neck. Another slave.
The slave left without saying a word. Horace lunged for the door, but the turnkey reappeared and slammed it shut in his face. The sound of the lock turning made Horace sick to his stomach. He beat on the door and shouted until his throat ached. Then he roamed around his cell, blood pumping and fists clenched.
It was a long time before he was calm enough to inspect the bowl the man had left on the floor. Sitting on the blanket, he dipped his fingers inside and felt a cold, sticky goo. He tasted it with the tip of his tongue. The substance had a consistency like gruel but no flavor. He finished the bowl in three large finger-scoops before he remembered the cup. It held tepid water, which he gulped down. Then he sat on the floor. With nothing else to do, he drifted off again.
When he woke he couldn't tell if he had slept for minutes or hours. He'd dreamt of home. Lying on the cold blanket, he clung to the memories, replaying the better ones again and again in his mind even though they scoured his soul. He recalled the day of his son's birth, savoring every moment of that experience until at last he came to the part when the midwife placedJosef in his arms for the first time. He rolled over and pressed his face against the stone wall as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.
After another sleep, he relieved himself in the bucket again and tried to suck a few drops of water out of the empty cup. He licked the dried film of gruel from the bowl. Then he dozed some more.
The opening door jarred him awake. Horace sat up and blinked as a pair of soldiers entered. They grabbed him by the arms and hauled him out of the cell. He hung limp in their grasp as they shuffled him past rows of doors, from some of which issued faint groans and muttered whisperings. The guards carried him up many steps until a golden glow appeared above. Even before he could feel it on his skin, Horace knew it for sunlight. He started walking on his own, feeling the strength return to his legs. By the time they passed through the doorway and out into the light, he was standing upright.
They brought him out to a walled courtyard. The sky was glorious blue like a sheet of glass without a trace of clouds. The clay pavement was hot, but after the chill of his cell, Horace reveled in the warmth. A line of twenty or so men and women waited in the courtyard under guard, chained together by the neck. They varied in age
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