Doctor Who and the Crusaders (16 page)

He dismounted near the trees, leading the horse gratefully through them, both man and animal enjoying the shade. The horse was flaring its nostrils now, smelling the water ahead and needed no urging. Soon, both came to a small pool of crystal-clear water. Ian bent down and scooped some of it into his face, enjoying the trickles that ran down his neck and under his clothes. Then he drank with cupped hands and moved away to the shadiest spot he could find and sat down. His horse lapped at the water then raised its head, shuffling its hooves uncomfortably.

‘What is it, old chap?’ asked Ian. The horse stood absolutely still, except for a slight movement of its ears, and Ian had an immediate sensation that someone’s eyes were watching him. He started to get to his feet, his hand reaching for the sword at his side, when something hit him a sickening blow on the back of his neck. For a second he believed he could fight the
pain and the dizziness and tried to get to his feet, but then everything was blotted out in a sparkle of light that flashed from somewhere behind his eyes, and he started to fall. Before he touched the ground he was completely unconscious.

A moment later, it seemed to him, his eyelids fluttered open and he was aware of the dull ache at the base of his skull. He tried to get up and found that he had been pegged out, away from the little oasis, lying directly underneath the full power of the sun. He realized he must have been unconscious for some time because all his clothes had been removed except for his trousers and boots. He tugged at the ropes around his wrists without any success then tried to move his legs, but they were also very firmly secured.

He closed his eyes tightly to shut out the overhead glare. His mouth was dry and the perspiration the sun had drawn from his naked chest had long since dried. His whole body felt as if the skin had shrunk. He heard a movement from the direction of the grove of trees and turned his head.

A most extraordinary spectacle greeted his eyes, for shambling towards him was an Arab dressed in horrible looking rags which hung in such shreds on his body it was almost impossible to imagine their original shape and colour. The man had a frayed patch over one eye, which made him hold his head rather to one side, and in his hands he clutched a small jar with a stick of wood protruding from it.

‘Ah! My Lord, you are awake,’ he said, grinning with delight and showing a mouth full of broken teeth.

‘I suppose you were the one who knocked me out?’ asked Ian, even more conscious of how dry his mouth was.

‘The same, the very same.’

‘No chance that you’ll untie me?’

The Arab looked at him in hurt surprise.

‘Well, how about some water then?’

‘Now that would be as rare to you as ivory, My Lord, I know it would. Of course, there is plenty of water – and it costs nothing at all.’

‘Bring me some, then.’

‘You see, it is the
carrying
of the water, My Lord. I would have to do that, and very difficult and arduous work it would be, too. What would you pay for such service?’

Ian restrained his temper, knowing it wouldn’t do him any good to start shouting or blustering. It didn’t seem to him as if threats were going to have any effect, either – not in this deserted part of the country, where the majority of people would be hiding in the shade.

‘How much do you want?’

The Arab sat down on his knees with a chuckle of pleasure, for all the world as if he were about to start a conversation with a close friend.

‘I am such a simple man. I want everything you have.’

‘Now listen to me carefully…’

The Arab put on his most serious expression and bent forward attentively.

‘Yes, My Lord.’

‘I have no money with me…’

‘That is a great pity.’

‘But take me to Lydda and I will pay you there.’

The Arab sat back on his heels in absolute astonishment.

‘You want to go to Lydda, My Lord?’

‘Yes.’

‘But that is a most peculiar thing.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ he replied, with rising excitement, ‘I live in Lydda.’

‘You do?’

‘Truly, I would not lie to you.’

‘But this is very fortunate.’

‘It is kismet, My Lord, there is no other way of explaining it.’

The Arab clapped his hands together with such pleasure and chuckled so loudly that a smile edged at the corner of Ian’s lips, and he nearly forgot his own situation.

‘Then you’ll take me there?’

‘I’m afraid I cannot, My Lord,’ replied the Arab, with a heavy sigh of disappointment.

‘But. . . but why not?’

‘Because you are tied up on the sand here, you see, and it is such an expensive business to undo the knots… and you have no money.’

He smiled at Ian apologetically. Ian let his head rest back on the sand, realizing he had no simpleton to deal with.

‘Then I shall just have to lie here and go mad in the sun, my friend, for all my money is in Lydda and that’s that.’

The Arab peered at him with exaggerated anxiety.

‘Surely, My Lord, you do not think I am such a terrible fellow as to spreadeagle you out in the sand like this just to deprive you of water, or to let the sun melt your mind into fantasy.’ He clicked his tongue reproachfully. ‘That is a very unworthy thought, My Lord, and it is not the sort of thing I expect from you at all.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ murmured Ian sarcastically.

‘Quite right, because it is all very well for you. Here you are, fixed in this position and able to say what you like to me, and I can do nothing because you have no money. Really, My Lord, that is hardly my fault, now, is it?’

Ian glanced at the man blankly.

‘Not your fault! Who put me here in the first place?’

‘But what could I do? You arrive beside the water pool, and I can see you are a rich Lord, so I am tempted to knock you
out and search your clothes. The temptation was your fault, for you are obviously rich and I am obviously poor. So I search through your clothes and I find nothing. Again, My Lord, am I at fault? I must earn my living and Allah has decided that my profession is to be a thief. I can tell you I was very frustrated, My Lord, very frustrated indeed.’

‘So you tied me up?’

‘I could scarcely leave you where you were. What profit is there in that? I would be a poor thief if I didn’t do my job properly. Besides, you are much bigger and stronger than I am, and would undoubtedly attack me when you recovered if I didn’t render you helpless.’

Ian thought it might be worth trying a threat or two, to see what this would do to the Arab’s confidence.

‘Now, listen, you scoundrel, I have papers personally signed by the Sultan himself at Ramlah, giving me free travel permission through this country.’

‘I know, My Lord, and very important they look too. But only of value to you. My Lord, I
want
you to travel. I am most anxious for you to be happy and to do the things you have set your heart on doing.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘It all is so expensive.’

‘Take me to Lydda then.’

‘Ah, I am cursed with the affliction of disbelief. And you have done me an injustice already, when you thought I had placed you out here on the sand for the tortures of sun or lack of water.’

Ian looked at him thoughtfully. The Arab held up the little pot he had placed beside him gleefully.

‘A pot of honey, My Lord. Made from pounded dates, and very sweet. Now if you turn your head to the left you will see a mound. Look as closely as you can and you will be able to see little creatures hurrying and scurrying about. Oh, it is a
hungry little home, My Lord, and its inhabitants go wild for honey.’

Ian turned his head sharply in horror and saw the mound not more than ten feet away from his outstretched left hand, which was firmly tied, like his other limbs, to a stake buried deep in the ground.

The Arab stepped across his body and knelt beside his left wrist.

‘Now what we do is daub a little of the honey on your hand, My Lord, and spread a little trail to the ant-hill. And then I will retire to the shade of the trees and dream of the treasure you will give me – when the ants discover you.’

‘I haven’t any money,’ Ian said sharply, trying to keep the panic out of his voice, ‘I swear to you I haven’t.’

The Arab ignored him and started to daub honey on Ian’s hand with the stick and letting the runny mixture drip down on the sand in a line towards the ant-heap. Ian strained and struggled at the stakes in a vain attempt to wrench himself free, but the Arab had done his job too well, and in a moment Ian had to lie still, exhausted in every muscle. The Arab returned, still with the smile on his face, his one eye beaming out cheerfully.

‘There we are, My Lord – all done. Now remember all you have to do is call me. I shall not be far away.’

He walked away to the trees and settled himself down in the shade of one of them, waving in a friendly fashion to Ian.

Ian turned his head and looked at the ant-heap. Already he could see a dark mass of the little insects investigating the honey at the base of their city, and one or two were moving now to investigate the sudden vein of fortune which had appeared from nowhere. Ian tore his eyes away and tried desperately to think. He wondered if he could get a purchase on either of
his wrists by arching his body, and he tried it, so that just his head and his heels were touching the sand, but all it did was strain his muscles. Then he tried to turn on to his right side, hoping he could drag out his left hand, and the stake, by sheer sinew. But this attempt had just as much success. Obviously the Arab knew exactly what he was doing.

He suddenly felt a thrill of horror as something began to run over his hand and he turned his head quickly, his throat tightening in fear. The line of honey was nearly obscured now by the long, dark line of ants, all struggling and threshing, running and working away, transporting the honey back to the nest. Another ant ran over his fingers and he agitated his hand violently in a desperate attempt to shake them off or frighten them away. He knew it wasn’t going to be any good. When they reached the end of the honey they would then be attracted to the salt in the pores of his skin and start digging for that. He imagined them gradually spreading up his arm, could almost hear the signals going back to the nest, calling for more workers to mine this rich harvest spread out so conveniently near. He pictured the wave of insects travelling slowly up his arm to his shoulder, fanning out on the plain of his chest. He felt them running along his neck and up his chin. He thought about them invading his mouth and his nostrils, packing into his ears… his eyes.

His eyes.

It was that horror, that shuddering expectation of agony which made him cling on to the one faint hope he had.

He called out desperately to the Arab and felt a wave of relief as he saw the man jump up from the shade and shamble across to him.

‘All right, I’ll tell you.… I’ll tell you where my money is,’ he stammered, ‘only keep them away… from me.’

The Arab stared down at him pensively and then nodded.
He stepped across Ian’s body and drew his battered shoe along the line of honey, rolling it and its seething mass of insect life back towards the ant-heap. Then he poured handfuls of sand over Ian’s honey-coated hand and rubbed the sticky mess away.

‘I can always start the process all over again,’ he said seriously to Ian, ‘if, of course, you are just making a fool of me. I do hope you are not, My Lord, because now I am quite excited and intrigued to know where this wealth of yours is kept.’

He stood over Ian, waiting.

‘In my boot,’ Ian muttered hoarsely, shaking his head from side to side, his eyelids drooping.

The Arab bent closer, not catching the words.

‘Where, My Lord? You must speak a little louder.’

‘The… the boot…’ whispered Ian, and his head rolled to one side and lay still. The Arab clutched his head, as if he were berating himself for having overlooked such an obvious hiding-place and darted to Ian’s right foot. He tore off the ropes hurriedly, glancing every so often at his prisoner, satisfying himself that he was indeed still in his faint. Then he pulled off the boot and thrust his hand deep inside it. He scrabbled about for a few seconds then threw it away in disgust. He hurried back to Ian, grabbed him by the hair and shook his head violently.

‘You lied to me,’ he said fiercely.

Ian opened his eyes gradually, blinking and having difficulty in focusing.

‘The boot…’ he repeated.

‘There is nothing there!’

‘The… the left boot…’

The Arab let go of his head and hurried to his left foot, tearing at the ropes, sitting astride the leg with his back to
Ian. He was just starting to draw off the boot, when Ian drew back his right foot, aimed it at the centre of the Arab’s back and straightened his leg.

It struck him right at the base of his spine like a ramrod, jarring the whole of his body and hurtling him forwards. Ian quickly drew up both legs and used them to lever his body upwards, tightening his hands around the stakes in the ground as he did so and heaving. The two pieces of wood were sucked out of the ground in a spray of sand and Ian staggered to his feet, just as the Arab shook himself and rose to his feet. For a moment the two men stared at each other, and the Arab made a dash for the trees. Ian ran across, the stakes tied to his wrists flailing around him dangerously, and hurled himself through the air in a flying tackle, catching the man around his waist and falling with him. In a second, Ian was on top of him, kneeling on his upper arms, his right hand gripping its tethered stake and holding it like a club.

‘Lie still, or I’ll split your skull open,’ he said. The Arab stopped his futile struggling and relaxed.

‘Don’t kill me, My Lord,’ he begged piteously.

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘I am only a miserable thief…’

‘You’re certainly miserable. Get these ropes off my hands.’

The thief obeyed hurriedly, talking crossly to the ropes, or cajoling them when they wouldn’t move, smiling up at Ian as he worked, apologizing for the delay. Ian never took his eyes off him for a moment. Finally, the ropes fell away. Ian picked up one of the stakes and prodded the Arab lightly in the chest.