The Promise of Pain Page 2

  “He could be anywhere in Spain,” said Jorge.

  “I don’t care where he is—there is nowhere far enough to escape my justice.”

  Chapter Two

  It wasn’t Jorge but his tasteless bread that made Thomas find his boots and lead them away from the ruined house. Unfed, his hunger had grown quiet. Now, teased by the merest scrap of food, it rose like a wild beast, demanding more.

  “Where are we going?” Jorge ran to catch up. “All my things are back there. We’re not going home, are we?”

  “All your things?” Thomas said. “Is there anything you care about leaving behind?”

  “Only you.”

  Thomas shook his head. “I want you to show me where you got the bread. I assume they have other food as well?”

  “Have you got money?” asked Jorge.

  “No, but you will have, won’t you?”

  Thomas was aware he must have eaten at some point because he was still alive, but he had no recollection of doing so. He had no recollection of much since leaving Malaka with fire in his heart—a fire which had cooled and then died, like his heart had died. Hate, like love, was an emotion he no longer had the energy to maintain. Despair had become his friend. Day after day he awoke disappointed to discover his body had refused to let go its tenuous hold on life, but still unwilling to end it himself.

  “The village is a day away,” said Jorge. “I expect I can loan you enough so we can go there and eat food cooked for us and sleep in soft beds with beautiful women.” He started down the slope and picked up a track that led south and west—a track Thomas hadn’t even known was there.

  “You already have a beautiful woman,” he said.

  “A man can never have too many beautiful women.”

  “Even a man lacking balls?” The comment was unfair, but Thomas knew he had lost what little social graces he might once have possessed, and there had been few enough of those to start with.

  Jorge grinned. “Oh, most women find that an advantage, once they get used to the idea. There are many women, both young and old, who consider me handsome.”

  “Blind women?”

  “Possibly.” Jorge smiled, his features seeming to glow. “Ah, Thomas, the women of the harem. I thought I had witnessed beauty before, but I was wrong.” He turned to look at Thomas. “I have you to thank for my blessed life.” He reached out and touched Thomas’s arm—a brief contact, come and gone in a moment.

  The touch of Jorge’s finger sparked a warmth in Thomas that spread through him. “I unmanned you—that is nothing to thank me for.”

  “Oh, but it is. You saved me. What life was there for a boy on the streets of Qurtuba? I would have ended up servicing men, or joining the army or the church, and you know I am no fighter, and certainly no believer in God. I would have died young. You both saved my life and gave me an honourable profession to which my skills—the few I possess—are perfectly suited.”

  “What brings you here then, chasing me?”

  Jorge smiled. “Love, of course.”

  Thomas would have made a dismissive sound, but just then they crossed a low ridge and he saw the village Jorge was taking them to appear far in the distance. It was a long way off as yet, but a destination all the same, and Thomas had not had a destination for months. He wondered if it was a good idea to accept one now.

  Good idea or not, as the day progressed the village grew closer. The goat track they followed widened. Cultivated fields appeared to either side, almost vertical, each small patch of carefully nurtured ground barely a foot wide, but still capable of growing a crop. Thomas saw peas and beans, turnips, olives, almonds, mulberry and sugar cane. The track became more distinct, leading to an isolated farmhouse where goats grazed on the hillside behind. There was no-one to be seen, but a curl of smoke rose from the chimney. The track ran close to the door, and as they approached a black-and-grey dog came running out, barking wildly.

  Jorge leaped backwards, but Thomas stayed where he was. He took in the look of the dog and held out a hand.

  “Kill it!” said Jorge.

  “It’s not going to hurt us.”

  “You, maybe. Dogs hate me.”

  “I wonder why that is.” Thomas went on one knee. The dog continued its constant barking, but its tail began to wag from side to side. “He’s more afraid of us than we are of him.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Jorge.

  Thomas stood and moved to one side, but the dog stayed where it was in front of the door.

  “He’s protecting the house,” Thomas said.

  “He’s welcome to it.”

  Thomas glanced at the sky. The day was growing late. “Perhaps we can buy some food from whoever lives here.”

  “I can buy some food, you mean,” said Jorge.

  As Thomas approached the dog’s snarls increasing, but when he came within touching distance the sound faded into a rumbling growl. Thomas reached out and touched its head, knowing it wouldn’t bite him, though how he knew he couldn’t say for sure. He had owned dogs when he was a boy in Lemster but never since, and he wondered why not. He liked them. And it seemed they must like him because the dog turned its head and licked his hand.

  “Kin!” A voice called from within and in an instant the dog turned and trotted inside. There came the sound of conversation and then a man appeared in the doorway, a pitchfork in his hand. “What are you here for? There’s only me and my wife, nobody here you want.”

  Thomas wondered who the man thought they were. “We want to buy a little food, if you have some to spare.”

  “Food?” The man looked Thomas up and down, then applied the same inspection to Jorge. “You look hungry, yes. Your companion not so much.”

  “But I have the money,” said Jorge. He smiled, and Thomas saw a softening of the farmer’s features. The dog he had called Kin came and stood beside him, waiting.

  The farmer looked beyond Thomas and Jorge, searching for something.

  “You’re not them, are you.”

  “Not who?”

  “Doesn’t matter, only that you’re not them.” He turned and shouted to someone inside. “Tell Luis he can come out of the cellar, then go see if there’s enough food for two more.” He turned back and addressed Jorge. “No payment necessary. We help each other out in these parts.” He looked at them for a while before coming to the decision Jorge was the one he needed to talk with. “Are you lost?” He glanced at Thomas. “You friend looks ill.”

  “He’s been better,” said Jorge. “He grieves for his wife.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” The words were still addressed to Jorge, as if Thomas wasn’t there. “Recent?”

  Thomas turned away and walked to the edge of the flat land where the house perched. He stared down at the distant village and wondered if they could reach it before nightfall. The ground looked rough, but there was a twisting path that descended to a wider track. If he possessed a little more enthusiasm he would have started down. Instead he stood, waiting to be told what to do. The conversation between the farmer and Jorge washed past him without recognition. He was thinking of Lubna again, as if Jorge’s presence had breached the dam in his mind to release a flood. Thomas was fighting not to let it sweep him away.

  He jerked when a hand touched his shoulder, surprised when he turned to see two other people standing beside the farmer. The first was a woman of the same age, not so much younger than Thomas himself. Both were thin, and he worried they were taking food from their mouths. The third figure was a man close to twenty years, taller than his father—if that’s who he was—but with the good fortune to have inherited his mother’s looks. A handsome young man, broad-shouldered, with intelligent eyes.

  “This is Pedro and Elvira,” said Jorge, introducing them. “And their son Luis.”

  “What were you doing in the cellar?” Thomas directed the question at Luis, and saw his mother tense.

  “They say we’re welcome to share their meal,” said Jorge, as if Thomas hadn’t spoken.
“And we can sleep in the barn. There’s a place above the goats that’s dry and warmer than the hillside.”

  Thomas nodded, losing interest—he was trying to work out why he felt so detached from events around him, suspecting he had avoided human company for too long and could no longer bother even with the merest civility. He took a breath and tried to show interest, but suspected the effort failed.

  Only after they had eaten broth, and a stew of goat, potatoes and some sort of green vegetable did Thomas begin to discover his manners. He asked about farming the land, curious how someone could forge a living from such inauspicious material. Pedro appeared pleased at the questions and proceeded on a long and detailed explanation of water management—which here, unlike most of the rest of Spain, consisted of how to divert too much water away rather than having too little. He then launched into a theory of terracing that Thomas allowed to wash across him. Jorge leaned toward Elvira, as always attracted to females before males, and she responded as women always did when Jorge turned his charm on them. Thomas was aware of Luis observing him, but the young man said little, only adding information when prompted by his father.

  Sweet, dark wine was brought to the table and drunk.

  Going outside was a shock after the warmth inside the house, and Thomas drew his robe close around himself. Pedro and Elvira remained inside while Luis showed them the platform in the barn. Fenced goats beneath filled the air with their stink. Jorge climbed the ladder, but Thomas went outside to breathe clearer air and stood where he had before, staring down into the darkness where an occasional yellow glow of lamplight marked where the village lay. He heard Luis join him and smiled.

  “They send me to the cellar when strangers come,” said Luis, finally answering the question Thomas had put.

  “They don’t like strangers, do they?”

  “Not in these parts, not this past half year. I tell them we must fight but they send me to hide. Every time they send me to hide in the cellar.”

  “Away from the strangers?”

  “Have you fought?” said Luis. “Your friend is big, but soft. You’re not soft, are you? You have fought. You’ve been a soldier of some kind.”

  “Of some kind, yes.”

  “I thought so. You wouldn’t hide in a cellar.”

  “Sometimes hiding is the sensible decision. You can’t fight everyone, not if there are too many.” He glanced at Luis. “Who are they?”

  “You’re right, there are too many of them. A dozen the last time they came. Soldiers.”

  “Why do you hide and not your parents?”

  “They’re old.”

  Thomas almost laughed, would have if the sensation had not been so unfamiliar. “Your father is younger than I am, your mother a couple of years younger again, isn’t she?”

  “She likes your friend,” said Luis.

  “Everyone likes Jorge. Women especially.”

  “The soldiers only take men of fighting age, those older than fourteen and younger than forty—sometimes less if they are not strong. They want men who can fight.”

  “Why?”

  “How would I know that? I hide when they come.”

  The dog, Kin, came out and stood between them. Thomas wanted to stroke its head but didn’t because it was Luis’s dog, but when he made no move Thomas dropped his hand to the hard, ridged skull and rested it there. The dog was tall, so he didn’t have to reach far.

  “He likes you,” said Luis.

  “Dogs know people better than other people do. He knows I like him. I had dogs like Kin when I was a boy. Hunting dogs. I wager he can chase down a hare.”

  Luis chuckled. “Oh, he can do that. Where are you from? Not around here.”

  “Gharnatah.”

  This time Luis laughed. “No, you’re not.”

  “I am now. Before that, a long time before, I lived in England.”

  “Where is England?”

  “A long way north. Cold. Wet. Not somewhere you want to go.”

  “Where are you and Jorge going?” asked Luis. “Are you going back to Gharnatah? Can I come with you?” His head moved, but if he was trying to look at the land his father owned the night was too dark. “There are two people I would not wish to leave behind, but they would come—I know they would.”

  “You father wouldn’t leave this land.”

  “Not them,” said Luis.

  Thomas smiled, wondering why he did so—suspicious of the hint of happiness. “A girl?”

  “Yes, a girl, and another. Dana carries–” Luis cut himself off. Thomas knew what he had been about to say, but made no mention of it.

  “I’m going to bed,” he said.

  “I hope the goats let you sleep.”

  “I don’t sleep much anymore.”

  Chapter Three

  Thomas let his eyes track along the hillside, colourless in the pre-dawn light. Tatters of mist hung where a stream carried snow-melt from the peaks of the Sholayr. The village lay nestled where two streams combined, not quite a river but on the way to becoming one. The flat land around the houses had been tilled to grow crops, a process Thomas now knew more about than he wanted after Pedro’s instruction over their meal. On the hillsides grew olives, almonds, oranges, lemons and limes. It was a good place to live, isolated from the war that was destroying Thomas’s beloved al-Andalus—insular to some but welcoming of others. They would be suspicious of strangers.

  Kin padded from the barn where he had slept—where he probably slept every night—and came to Thomas, who wondered if Will would like a dog. And, because he had thought of Will, he tried to think of Amal too, but no image came—only one of Lubna when she was younger, when she had come to his house as a servant. He had liked her then, loved her before long, but she had not shared his bed until two years after she first lived under his roof. He had slept with her sister then, the beautiful Helena who was now held captive by Muhammed, Sultan of Gharnatah.

  Thomas shook his head, trying to dislodge the memories and failing. The sound of a hacking cough from behind was a welcome distraction, and he turned to see Pedro bring up an impressive gobbet and spit to one side. The farmer raised a hand in greeting, turned, and walked around the side of the house to start work. It seemed as if another meal would not be on offer, so Thomas went to wake Jorge. He was still asleep, lying on his back with one arm across his face. Thomas watched him, sensing a swelling of emotion he directed away from his conscious mind. He knew this man better than any other in the world, liked him better than anyone now that Lubna was gone. And yes, loved him, though not in the way he knew Jorge had occasionally loved other men. The man was incapable of restraint, unable to comprehend that such a thing as restraint made sense in a world descending into chaos. Almost certainly he was right, Thomas thought. Maybe a man had to pursue whatever pleasures he could, seek happiness wherever and whenever he could find it in the time left to him. Except Thomas couldn’t believe he would ever feel pleasure again. And without pleasure, without friendship and love, what was the point of life at all? He could never be like the miserable priests who considered God enough.

  Thomas knelt and shook Jorge, continued to shake him as he turned over with a curse.

  “Go away, it’s the middle of the night.”

  “It’s not. Time to leave these good people and start to take care of ourselves.”

  “I have been taking care of myself, unlike you.” Jorge sat up, scratched at his head which now grew a fine head of hair. “Gods, I need to piss.” He went to the edge of the platform and descended the ladder.

  Thomas left him for a minute to finish, though Jorge would not have cared had he watched.

  “Do we really have to go? I like Elvira.”

  “She’s married, and her husband looks like he could tear you limb from limb without drawing sweat.”

  Jorge smiled. “I wasn’t planning on telling him. But no mind, there’ll be women in the village.”

  “Is there a woman in this life you don’t like?” Thomas asked.


  Jorge glanced at him. “Good question. I believe not, and life is none the worse for it.”

  “What does Belia think of your infidelities?”

  “We have an arrangement. She knows she can do whatever she wishes and allows me the same. We know we are meant to be together.”

  “And does she lie with other men?”

  “No. But she can.” Jorge smiled. “She has told me she would lie with you. You offer her something I cannot.”

  Thomas waited, but Jorge was clearly not going to mention what it was he possessed that Belia might find attractive. Thomas knew in any case. It had been raised before by Jorge, but not by Belia. Thomas still possessed his balls. He was capable of setting a seed in a woman’s belly. He knew Belia loved Will, and Amal too now, as much as if they were her own. Except they were not. Jorge had told him she would like a child of her own.

  “If she asks me I will do it,” Thomas said, and Jorge frowned, not aware of what thoughts ran through Thomas’s mind, and then it appeared to come to him.

  “Why the change of mind?”

  “I have no-one to be faithful to anymore.”

  “Not even your pretty queen?”

  “You know that my relationship with Isabel is not of that nature.”

  “But she would like it to be, wouldn’t she? As would you.”

  “Don’t judge all men by your own standards.” There was no emotion in Thomas’s voice. He didn’t blame Jorge—he didn’t think, or feel, anything anymore. All that remained was the pain that racked his mind and body, pain he welcomed as something to mask the greater pain threatening to engulf him.

  “I’m hungry,” Jorge said.

  “We’re both hungry, but we’ll eat soon enough if we leave now.”

  But it was an hour before they started down the twisting path. Elvira had put out bread and cheese, much to Jorge’s delight, and Luis wanted to come with them, but was told he had work to do.