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Authors: Stephen Baxter
Tags: Historic Fiction
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wrong?’
‘There has been an accident. A boy, Ghalib—’
Sihtric frowned. ‘I know him - the son of a court favourite. Is he dead?’
‘Not yet. But he is so badly injured he soon will be, that’s for sure.’ Robert told them what had happened. ‘I got him out of the water - I tied off the damaged arm. I tried to save him, Father.’
Orm stood. ‘We must sort this out,’ he said to Sihtric.
‘Of course,’ Sihtric said. ‘But, Robert, nobody will blame you if you tried to save this boy. And besides, the doctors here are better than you can imagine. Don’t despair - leave that to me.’ He winked at Orm. ‘Let’s go!’
They ran to their horses, and the three of them galloped away, leaving the scholars to clear away the drinks, to wipe the horse-raised dust from their plans and models and tables, and to return to their patient work on the tremendous arbalest.
XV
Ibn Tufayl had ordered a hospital to be set up for his court in the ruined palace at Madinat az-Zahra. It was just a collection of tents, erected in the shelter of the walls of roofless rooms. Here Robert had to wait with Orm while Sihtric made inquiries about Ghalib.
After the hasty ride back from the arbalest, Robert was hot, dirty, his clothes still stinking of river-bottom mire and soaked through by Ghalib’s blood. He tried to think.
How would it be if Ghalib died? Of course it wasn’t his fault that Ghalib had fallen - it wasn’t his fault that Ghalib had been mucking about on the waterwheel in the first place, and he had risked his own neck by dragging Ghalib out of the water. But the fact was he had been flirting with Moraima, a Muslim girl, and the two boys wouldn’t have trailed around after them if not for that. Robert didn’t want the death of Ghalib on his conscience. And he didn’t want his burgeoning relationship with Moraima, such as it was, to be hauled into the light.
This was going to take some sorting out the next time he was in a confessional box.
Sihtric beckoned, and led them into one of the tents.
Robert was hugely relieved, if astonished, to find Ghalib sitting up in a chair. But his right arm terminated just below the elbow, a stump wrapped in clean white bandages. The boy looked pale, his gaze wandering; perhaps he was drugged. But he was alive, indeed he was conscious, and he didn’t seem to be in any pain. And when he saw Robert, Ghalib’s eyes filled with shame and anger.
Hisham stood beside Ghalib. Attendants fussed around, orchestrated by a portly man in pristine white robes. When he saw the visitors this man approached them. His face, round and sleek, looked as if it had been dipped in oil. He held his hands before him; small like a child’s, they were scrubbed pink-clean, and showed no signs of calluses or scars. He said to Sihtric, ‘Father. We have met before.’ His accent was strange. ‘My name is Abu Yusuf Yunus.’
‘Ah, yes. The Egyptian.’
‘My grandfather was Egyptian,’ Abu Yusuf Yunus said stiffly. ‘I am related by marriage to the Banu Zuhr family. I am a close friend of Abd al-Malik, while my father studied general medicine with his father, Muhammad Ibn Marwan Ibn Zuhr. Furthermore my grandfather studied with al-Zahrawi. We followed the prescripts of the al-Tasrif in treating this poor child ...’
Orm grunted, impatient, and he pulled Sihtric aside. ‘What’s he babbling about?’
‘Just establishing his credentials. Making sure I know who he is and where he stands. I told you, Orm, it’s all family with the Moors. They’re all Ibn this or Abu that, the son of him or the father of the other, their lineage carried like a flag. And these scholars are the same, all boasting about their academic lineage, who taught who what.’
Abu Yusuf Yunus, unable to make out their English words, walked towards the injured boy. In stilted Latin he said, ‘The arm was almost severed below the elbow by the waterwheel’s machinery - muscles, arteries and blood vessels all lacerated,
‘There has been an accident. A boy, Ghalib—’
Sihtric frowned. ‘I know him - the son of a court favourite. Is he dead?’
‘Not yet. But he is so badly injured he soon will be, that’s for sure.’ Robert told them what had happened. ‘I got him out of the water - I tied off the damaged arm. I tried to save him, Father.’
Orm stood. ‘We must sort this out,’ he said to Sihtric.
‘Of course,’ Sihtric said. ‘But, Robert, nobody will blame you if you tried to save this boy. And besides, the doctors here are better than you can imagine. Don’t despair - leave that to me.’ He winked at Orm. ‘Let’s go!’
They ran to their horses, and the three of them galloped away, leaving the scholars to clear away the drinks, to wipe the horse-raised dust from their plans and models and tables, and to return to their patient work on the tremendous arbalest.
XV
Ibn Tufayl had ordered a hospital to be set up for his court in the ruined palace at Madinat az-Zahra. It was just a collection of tents, erected in the shelter of the walls of roofless rooms. Here Robert had to wait with Orm while Sihtric made inquiries about Ghalib.
After the hasty ride back from the arbalest, Robert was hot, dirty, his clothes still stinking of river-bottom mire and soaked through by Ghalib’s blood. He tried to think.
How would it be if Ghalib died? Of course it wasn’t his fault that Ghalib had fallen - it wasn’t his fault that Ghalib had been mucking about on the waterwheel in the first place, and he had risked his own neck by dragging Ghalib out of the water. But the fact was he had been flirting with Moraima, a Muslim girl, and the two boys wouldn’t have trailed around after them if not for that. Robert didn’t want the death of Ghalib on his conscience. And he didn’t want his burgeoning relationship with Moraima, such as it was, to be hauled into the light.
This was going to take some sorting out the next time he was in a confessional box.
Sihtric beckoned, and led them into one of the tents.
Robert was hugely relieved, if astonished, to find Ghalib sitting up in a chair. But his right arm terminated just below the elbow, a stump wrapped in clean white bandages. The boy looked pale, his gaze wandering; perhaps he was drugged. But he was alive, indeed he was conscious, and he didn’t seem to be in any pain. And when he saw Robert, Ghalib’s eyes filled with shame and anger.
Hisham stood beside Ghalib. Attendants fussed around, orchestrated by a portly man in pristine white robes. When he saw the visitors this man approached them. His face, round and sleek, looked as if it had been dipped in oil. He held his hands before him; small like a child’s, they were scrubbed pink-clean, and showed no signs of calluses or scars. He said to Sihtric, ‘Father. We have met before.’ His accent was strange. ‘My name is Abu Yusuf Yunus.’
‘Ah, yes. The Egyptian.’
‘My grandfather was Egyptian,’ Abu Yusuf Yunus said stiffly. ‘I am related by marriage to the Banu Zuhr family. I am a close friend of Abd al-Malik, while my father studied general medicine with his father, Muhammad Ibn Marwan Ibn Zuhr. Furthermore my grandfather studied with al-Zahrawi. We followed the prescripts of the al-Tasrif in treating this poor child ...’
Orm grunted, impatient, and he pulled Sihtric aside. ‘What’s he babbling about?’
‘Just establishing his credentials. Making sure I know who he is and where he stands. I told you, Orm, it’s all family with the Moors. They’re all Ibn this or Abu that, the son of him or the father of the other, their lineage carried like a flag. And these scholars are the same, all boasting about their academic lineage, who taught who what.’
Abu Yusuf Yunus, unable to make out their English words, walked towards the injured boy. In stilted Latin he said, ‘The arm was almost severed below the elbow by the waterwheel’s machinery - muscles, arteries and blood vessels all lacerated,
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