The Tragedy of Men - Chapter Four
Title The Tragedy of Men
Chapter: Watch How I Break (4/9)
Author: smaragdbird
Summary:Much and Robin are taken prisoner by the Saracens.
Pairings overall: Richard/Philip, Much/Thomas, allusion to Robin/Marian plus diverse historical married couples
Characters/Pairings in this chapter: Much, Robin
Rating: overall rating of NC-17
Spoilers/Warnings:overall warnings of detailed violence and torture
Disclaimer: Robin Hood belongs to BBC and not to me. Also I don’t make any money with this. It’s just for fun
Notes:Okay first a big, big thank you to both my beta-reader thymelady and my artistneaptidea. They have both done a more than incredible job especially in that short time. You are awesome guys, both of you :)
Second, I took a historical liberties with this fic: Richard and Philip didn’t arrive in Acre until summer 1191 but here I made them come to Acre in 1189 for dramatic purposes. Also I interpreted the historical characters in this story as it fit my purposes which I only say here in case one of you has seen Kingdom of Heaven and wonders why Guy de Lusignan is such a nice guy (although according to my textbooks and Wikipedia he wasn’t so bad ;)
Third, all Arabic in this fic comes from the phrase pages in an old travel guide. Feel open to point out any mistakes I made
Artwork, by neaptidea
Previous Chapter
The tragedy of men
Watch How I Break
“Much. Much!” He woke to Robin urgently repeating his name again and again.
“Five more minutes, master,” he murmured and wanted to sink back into unconsciousness but Robin shook his shoulder and kept him awake.
“Much,” Robin said again with a relived smile before he drew him into a tight embrace and kissed his cheek.
“Where are we master?” Much whispered in English. They were both shackled to a wall but other than that, Much was clueless.
“I think we’re prisoners of the Turks,” Robin replied.
“But why haven’t they killed us yet?”
“I don’t know.” And Much knew that Robin hated nothing as much as not knowing.
The door was opened and two Saracens stepped inside.
“Which of you is the messenger?” One of them asked in French with a raspy accent and held Guy de Lusignan’s letter in front of Robin’s and Much’s faces.
Robin shook his head and Much followed suit.
“Who wrote this letter?”
“How far is the Franks’ army?”
“What are your names?”
“What is the destination of the ship that left your camp?”
“How many troops do you have?”
Robin shook his head at every question and so did Much. When the Saracens saw that simple questioning wouldn’t bring them any further, they retreated to the far side of the room to speak to themselves.
“I don’t think this will be this easy again,” Robin murmured but Much strained his ears and tried to listen to the conversation between their capturers.
“They think we’re German scouts,” Much translated into English.
“You can understand them?” Robin asked astonished; “When - ?”
“Later, master,” Much replied apologetically and continued to listen. He felt self-conscious with Robin staring at him as if he had done something extraordinary.
Much flinched at the last words the men said before they left the room again. “They want to break our fingers one by one and if we still don’t talk then they will bring us to… I think that’s a name.”
“Let them try,” Robin replied snidely.
“But master your hands…” Much didn’t continue. He knew that breaking Robins fingers would likely cost him his archery talent.
“You could tell them who you are,” Much urged him, “You’re the Captain of King Richard’s Guard. They would let you go for a ransom.”
“And leave you here? No, Much, we’re in this together.” Robin’s voice left no room for argument.
“But I’m only your servant,” Much protested.
“You’re my friend, Much.” Robin rested his head on Much’s shoulder. “I will not leave you to die here.”
///////////////////////////////////////
“Him.” The Saracen who had asked them questions earlier pointed at Robin and his men grabbed him wordlessly.
“No, Master! Master!” Much yelled and struggled against his chains, but of course it was useless.
Robin winked at him before they dragged him out.
The waiting was worse than anything else. It exceeded the hunger and the illnesses and the foul water. The walls were too thick for Much to hear anything but his own breath and he had nothing to distract him but his on thoughts.
He had seen torture, had seen it numerous times. Captured enemy soldiers were tortured for any information they might have, unless they were nobles and could be held for ransom. On the ship between Cyprus and Tyre deserters who had been caught, had been flayed alive and sprayed with salt water until they jumped over board to kill themselves to finally get rid of the pain.
Much had never taken part in it, but he had seen it often enough to know what sufficient pain could make a man do, even a man like Robin.
They finally came back with Robin in what seemed like hours later and shackled him to the wall again.
“Master!” Much turned to Robin who bled from a split lip and a cut over his eyebrow but seemed fine otherwise. At least his hands were still unharmed.
“I’m fine, Much. Who needs toes anyway?” Robin chuckled weakly.
“Don’t do this, master, not for me.”
“For whom, then?” Robin wiped the blood out of his eyes to look at Much. “I’m not going to return without you.”
“But master - ;“ Robin interrupted him. “You don’t tell them who I am, understood?” When Much hesitated, Robin added sternly. “That’s an order, Much.”
“Fine,” Much agreed eventually, “But I don’t agree with you.”
“Didn’t think you would,” Robin smirked. He shook his head. “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me that you understand Arabic.”
“It’s not much,” Much shrugged. “Only enough to trade.”
“Teach me.”
“What?”
“You heard me, teach me. We’ll be stuck here for a long time. It’ll give us something to do.”
“I could sing,” Much offered, feeling uncomfortable with the idea of teaching Robin anything.
“Much I’ll let you sing when I have become deaf,” Robin’s eyes widened in slight annoyance. “Come on, teach me. How do you say good morning?”
“Sabah el kheer,” Much replied before he could really think about it.
“See, Robin grinned. “That was not that hard, was it? Sabah el kheer,” he repeated. “What about ‘I don’t know‘?”
“La a’ref!”
“La a’ref!” Robin repeated.
They continued like this for the whole night. Robin asked for a word or a phrase and Much translated it as well as he could.
In the morning the door was opened by an old, white-haired man who put two bowls and a wineskin in front of them and told them. “Ki!” before he left again.
“It means ‘eat’,” Much translated and grabbed one of the bowls greedily while giving the other to Robin. Earlier, he had seen Robin flinch when he moved so Much did the moving for him. Robin’s toes had to hurt enough as they were.
The bowls were filled with a piece of flatbread, fruits and cold cuts of chicken, even a portion as small as this was equalled as a feast for Robin and Much.
“They really want us to stay alive,” Robin said thoughtfully between two bites.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Much asked cheerfully.
“We’ll see.”
///////////////////////////////////////
The door opened again, but this time it wasn’t the old man. Robin pressed Much’s hand briefly.
“Remember what we agreed on.”
Much wrestled a pained expression from his face when they dragged him away. “I’m sorry, master.”
Just before the door closed Much could see understanding dawning on Robin’s face. “Much! Much! No!”
They brought him upstairs. The sun only entered the room by a handful of small slides in the wall but Much had to shield his eyes from the brightness for a few moments.
“Please, sit.” Much recognised the man as the Saracen who had asked the questions the day before.
“What is your name?”
“Much from Locksley.”
“Well then Much from Locksley, who gave you this letter?”
“Before I answer your questions I have a demand to make.” Much felt strangely unattached from the imminent danger around him. He did this for Robin. So that at least one of them could return home.
His confident behaviour visibly surprised his opponent.
“What demand?” he asked.
“My companion is Robin, Earl of Huntington. I expect that you treat him well until you receive his ransom from King Richard.”
“You care about him. I respect that.” The other man visibly relaxed. “Your demands will be met.” He ordered one of the soldiers immediately to bring the remaining prisoner to the guest quarters.
“Now to this letter. Have you read it?”
“No.”
“Do you know its content?”
“No.” The Saracen raised his eyebrows. “What if you had lost it?”
“I was trusted not to lose it,” Much replied evenly.
“Who gave it to you?”
“The King of Jerusalem.”
“Sala-ad-Din is the King of Jerusalem,” the Saracen corrected him sharply.
“He’s your King, not mine,” Much replied.
“Who should you give it to?”
“The princess of Jerusalem.”
“What was the destination of the ship that left your camp on the day of our battle?”
“It was going to the Princesses court.”
“How far is the Franks’ relief army from Acre?”
“I don’t know,” Much answered truthfully. There hadn’t even been a rumour about a relief army in the camp.
“Who is leading them?”
“I don’t know.”
“I have many ways to make you talk if you continue to give me such vague answers,” the man threatened him impatiently.
“I know.” Much’s resolve crumbled for a moment but then he took a deep breath and regained control over his shaky voice..“I don’t care.”
“Take him away,” his interrogator said in Arabic.
///////////////////////////////////////
They brought him back into the cellar but Robin wasn’t there any more. Much let out a relived sigh before they shackled him to the wall, face first this time. He hoped that the Saracen would hold true to his word and release Robin against a ransom or else this would all be in vain.
Someone cut away his shirt and ripped the shreds from his body.
“wahed.” The first lash came unexpected. It didn’t break his skin but it hurt. It hurt a lOt.
“ithnaan”
“thalatha” Much sobbed when he felt blood trickled down his back.
“arba'a”
“khamsa”
“Who wrote the letter?”
“I don’t know,” Much answered stubbornly.
“Sita”
“Who was its intended recipient?”
“I don’t know.”
“Saba'a”
“What was the destination of the ship that left your camp on the day of our battle?”
“I don’t know.”
“thamâniya”
“How far is the Franks’ relief army from Acre?”
“I don’t know.”
“tisa’a”
“Who is leading them?”
“I don’t know.”
“ashra” Much’s bound hands scrambled helplessly against the wall in a futile attempt to get away. Tears were running over his face.
“I can make them stop. All you have to do is to answer me truthfully and in detail. Who wrote this letter?”
“I told you,” Much whimpered. “I told you.”
“Who?”
“The King of Jersualem.”
“Lies! 'ahada cashra”
“Who was its intended recipient?”
“The princess.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t know.”
“ithnâ cashra”
“What was the destination of the ship that left your camp on the day of our battle?”
“Please,” Much whispered over his tears.
“thalâtha cashra” the Saracen ordered unrelentingly. Much screamed when the whip hit the bones of his spine directly.
“How far is the Franks’ relief army from Acre?”
“Please,” he sobbed against the wall. “Please, I don’t know.”
“'arbaca cashra” Much was certain that he would never stop screaming. His back felt like someone had pressed him backwards into a heap of smoldering coals. It burnt so badly that it couldn’t be pain. Pain was hunger or a broken wrist and an arrow through the leg. This was so much worse.
“khamsa cashra” His own, inhuman screams rang in his ears but they didn’t made the Saracen stop. He continued with his questions but stopped waiting for Much’s answer.
“sitta cashra”
“sabca cashra”
“thamâniya cashra”
“tisca cashra”
“ishrûn” Much began slipping away. The burning pain spread through his limbs and up his neck until it reached his eyes and blackness crept into his vision. He recognised unconsciousness for what it was worth and tried to slip into it but -
“'ahad wa-cishrûn” they had noticed what he was trying to enforce and aimed the next lash at his neck instead of his back. Much’s eyes opened wide when the leather cut into his neck and ripped the skin open. He gasped against the wall but no noise came out of his mouth.
“ithnân wa-cishrûn”
“Are you already giving up?’ his captor mocked him. “I have been told better about the famous stubbornness of the Franks. Tell me who wrote this letter and I will make the pain stop.” He waited for an answer but Much didn’t give him one.
“thalâtha wa-cishrûn”
“'arbaca wa-cishrûn”
“khamsa wa-cishrûn” It would be so tempting. So tempting just to say Guy de Lusignan’s name or Isabella’s or Tyre and they would stop. They had gotten Robin out of here, surely the Saracen would keep his word again... .
“sitta wa-cishrûn”
“sabca wa-cishrûn” Much clenched his teeth, trying desperately to think of something to distract him from the pain. His fingertips were bloody as well from where he had tried to dig them into the rough wall.
“thamâniya wa-cishrûn”
“tisca wa-cishrûn”
“thalâthûn”
And suddenly it stopped. The thirty-first lash never came. At least not in this moment.
“Cut him down,” The Saracen ordered his men. “He’s no use to us dead. We’ll continue later.”
They simply let him collapse on the floor and left him there.
The old man came by later, placing the same bowl as yesterday in front of him but Much could barely manage to eat three grapes before he gave up. He couldn’t move. Tried not to breathe. Every small movement, every little draught set multiplied his agony by a thousand.
He couldn’t even cry because that would mean that he had to move, had to breathe.
///////////////////////////////////////
They came back the next day; at least Much supposed that it was the next day. He had slept or maybe blackened out from the pain now and again and had no way of telling the time.
The same thirty lashes on his back and the same questions.
When Much didn’t answer, they left him again eventually only to come back the next day.
And the next.
On the fourth day after they had someone else come down and clean his wounds. That was even worse than the actual torture, and the thought that they wanted to keep him alive wasn’t as comforting as it once had been.
Much broke for the first time in his second week in captivity. Twelve days and 27 lashes after he was taken, Much answers their first question.
“Who wrote this letter?”
“de Lusignan,” Much gasped and in the corner of his eyes he could see that the Saracen motioned his man to stop. “Guy de Lusignan, the King of Jerusalem.”
He waited for the next question, for the next lash but they never came.
“I knew we would understand each other sooner or later,” the Saracen said contently.
“Who was its intended recipient?”
But Much shook his head. He felt guilty enough for telling him Guy de Lusignan’s name, he would burden Robin and himself with further shame.
The Saracen sighed unsatisfied. “So you do possess that annoying Frank stubbornness after all. Well, we still made progress, didn’t we? Cut him loose.”
Much didn’t break again.
At least not under the whip.
They realised that after another week, when the Saracen was becoming impatient to get more answers out of Much. He lay on the ground while they were discussing what they would try on him next.
He made a desperate attempt at flight when the old man came to bring his food this night, but of course they caught him before he had even made it upstairs.
The same night they decided to brand both soles of his feet.
Much screamed Isabella’s name at the top of his lungs and sobbed Tyre against the feet of the Saracen, but he didn’t answer the last two questions.
They reopened the half-healed lash wounds on his back and poured vinegar on them.
They burned his feet again, his calves and thighs.
They broke all his toes, one by one.
“Please, the Emperor is dead, that’s all I know,” the Saracen spit into his face.
“We know that. Who leads his army now?”
“I don’t know. Please kill me, I don’t know.”
But they wouldn’t let him die. They even forced bits of food and water down his throat when he wouldn’t eat. He lost track of the days, of time altogether.
///////////////////////////////////////
“Take him out. Kill him.” If he could, Much would have fallen down on his knees in front of the Saracen and thanked him.
The guards hauled him upstairs, practically carrying Much because he couldn’t walk on his own any more. The sunlight was so bright that it nearly blinded him, but he gladly bore that bit of pain; so glad to see the sun one final time. The sky above him was blue and it was a warm, dry day. Much laughed when he heard other people’s voices, their laughter even though he couldn’t see anyone from the back alley where the guards were dragging him through out of the village.
The sight of the open, levant landscape was the most beautiful sight Much had ever seen.
Suddenly, they let go of him and Much fell down. He rolled on his back because if he had to die, then at least he wanted to see the sky for as long as possible . But the final hit never came.
“Much.” Robin kneeled over him, a hand on his cheek and it seemed like he was crying.
“Master, “Much asked puzzled. “Are you dead? Am I in Heaven?”
“No, “Robin breathed and smiled but his smile looked so sad like he was breaking apart at the seams. “No, Much you’re not dead. Brave, foolish Much.”
“Oh,” was all Much could think of saying. “I’m sorry I disobeyed you master.”
Robin kissed him on the forehead and said. “No more of this, my friend. We have to get you back first.”
“I can’t walk, master.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Robin gave him a tearful version of his usual crooked, boyish smile and kissed him again.
“I’m so glad you’re alive,” he whispered before ordering in a louder voice. “Matthew, Morgan, help me here.” Two men Much didn’t recognise heaved him onto a stretcher and lifted him up.
“Master - ;“ Much began but Robin took his hand and shook his head.
“Shush, you need to sleep Much. It’s okay, I’ve got you now.”
Next Chapter
Chapter: Watch How I Break (4/9)
Author: smaragdbird
Summary:Much and Robin are taken prisoner by the Saracens.
Pairings overall: Richard/Philip, Much/Thomas, allusion to Robin/Marian plus diverse historical married couples
Characters/Pairings in this chapter: Much, Robin
Rating: overall rating of NC-17
Spoilers/Warnings:overall warnings of detailed violence and torture
Disclaimer: Robin Hood belongs to BBC and not to me. Also I don’t make any money with this. It’s just for fun
Notes:Okay first a big, big thank you to both my beta-reader thymelady and my artistneaptidea. They have both done a more than incredible job especially in that short time. You are awesome guys, both of you :)
Second, I took a historical liberties with this fic: Richard and Philip didn’t arrive in Acre until summer 1191 but here I made them come to Acre in 1189 for dramatic purposes. Also I interpreted the historical characters in this story as it fit my purposes which I only say here in case one of you has seen Kingdom of Heaven and wonders why Guy de Lusignan is such a nice guy (although according to my textbooks and Wikipedia he wasn’t so bad ;)
Third, all Arabic in this fic comes from the phrase pages in an old travel guide. Feel open to point out any mistakes I made
Artwork, by neaptidea
Previous Chapter
The tragedy of men
Watch How I Break
“Much. Much!” He woke to Robin urgently repeating his name again and again.
“Five more minutes, master,” he murmured and wanted to sink back into unconsciousness but Robin shook his shoulder and kept him awake.
“Much,” Robin said again with a relived smile before he drew him into a tight embrace and kissed his cheek.
“Where are we master?” Much whispered in English. They were both shackled to a wall but other than that, Much was clueless.
“I think we’re prisoners of the Turks,” Robin replied.
“But why haven’t they killed us yet?”
“I don’t know.” And Much knew that Robin hated nothing as much as not knowing.
The door was opened and two Saracens stepped inside.
“Which of you is the messenger?” One of them asked in French with a raspy accent and held Guy de Lusignan’s letter in front of Robin’s and Much’s faces.
Robin shook his head and Much followed suit.
“Who wrote this letter?”
“How far is the Franks’ army?”
“What are your names?”
“What is the destination of the ship that left your camp?”
“How many troops do you have?”
Robin shook his head at every question and so did Much. When the Saracens saw that simple questioning wouldn’t bring them any further, they retreated to the far side of the room to speak to themselves.
“I don’t think this will be this easy again,” Robin murmured but Much strained his ears and tried to listen to the conversation between their capturers.
“They think we’re German scouts,” Much translated into English.
“You can understand them?” Robin asked astonished; “When - ?”
“Later, master,” Much replied apologetically and continued to listen. He felt self-conscious with Robin staring at him as if he had done something extraordinary.
Much flinched at the last words the men said before they left the room again. “They want to break our fingers one by one and if we still don’t talk then they will bring us to… I think that’s a name.”
“Let them try,” Robin replied snidely.
“But master your hands…” Much didn’t continue. He knew that breaking Robins fingers would likely cost him his archery talent.
“You could tell them who you are,” Much urged him, “You’re the Captain of King Richard’s Guard. They would let you go for a ransom.”
“And leave you here? No, Much, we’re in this together.” Robin’s voice left no room for argument.
“But I’m only your servant,” Much protested.
“You’re my friend, Much.” Robin rested his head on Much’s shoulder. “I will not leave you to die here.”
///////////////////////////////////////
“Him.” The Saracen who had asked them questions earlier pointed at Robin and his men grabbed him wordlessly.
“No, Master! Master!” Much yelled and struggled against his chains, but of course it was useless.
Robin winked at him before they dragged him out.
The waiting was worse than anything else. It exceeded the hunger and the illnesses and the foul water. The walls were too thick for Much to hear anything but his own breath and he had nothing to distract him but his on thoughts.
He had seen torture, had seen it numerous times. Captured enemy soldiers were tortured for any information they might have, unless they were nobles and could be held for ransom. On the ship between Cyprus and Tyre deserters who had been caught, had been flayed alive and sprayed with salt water until they jumped over board to kill themselves to finally get rid of the pain.
Much had never taken part in it, but he had seen it often enough to know what sufficient pain could make a man do, even a man like Robin.
They finally came back with Robin in what seemed like hours later and shackled him to the wall again.
“Master!” Much turned to Robin who bled from a split lip and a cut over his eyebrow but seemed fine otherwise. At least his hands were still unharmed.
“I’m fine, Much. Who needs toes anyway?” Robin chuckled weakly.
“Don’t do this, master, not for me.”
“For whom, then?” Robin wiped the blood out of his eyes to look at Much. “I’m not going to return without you.”
“But master - ;“ Robin interrupted him. “You don’t tell them who I am, understood?” When Much hesitated, Robin added sternly. “That’s an order, Much.”
“Fine,” Much agreed eventually, “But I don’t agree with you.”
“Didn’t think you would,” Robin smirked. He shook his head. “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me that you understand Arabic.”
“It’s not much,” Much shrugged. “Only enough to trade.”
“Teach me.”
“What?”
“You heard me, teach me. We’ll be stuck here for a long time. It’ll give us something to do.”
“I could sing,” Much offered, feeling uncomfortable with the idea of teaching Robin anything.
“Much I’ll let you sing when I have become deaf,” Robin’s eyes widened in slight annoyance. “Come on, teach me. How do you say good morning?”
“Sabah el kheer,” Much replied before he could really think about it.
“See, Robin grinned. “That was not that hard, was it? Sabah el kheer,” he repeated. “What about ‘I don’t know‘?”
“La a’ref!”
“La a’ref!” Robin repeated.
They continued like this for the whole night. Robin asked for a word or a phrase and Much translated it as well as he could.
In the morning the door was opened by an old, white-haired man who put two bowls and a wineskin in front of them and told them. “Ki!” before he left again.
“It means ‘eat’,” Much translated and grabbed one of the bowls greedily while giving the other to Robin. Earlier, he had seen Robin flinch when he moved so Much did the moving for him. Robin’s toes had to hurt enough as they were.
The bowls were filled with a piece of flatbread, fruits and cold cuts of chicken, even a portion as small as this was equalled as a feast for Robin and Much.
“They really want us to stay alive,” Robin said thoughtfully between two bites.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Much asked cheerfully.
“We’ll see.”
///////////////////////////////////////
The door opened again, but this time it wasn’t the old man. Robin pressed Much’s hand briefly.
“Remember what we agreed on.”
Much wrestled a pained expression from his face when they dragged him away. “I’m sorry, master.”
Just before the door closed Much could see understanding dawning on Robin’s face. “Much! Much! No!”
They brought him upstairs. The sun only entered the room by a handful of small slides in the wall but Much had to shield his eyes from the brightness for a few moments.
“Please, sit.” Much recognised the man as the Saracen who had asked the questions the day before.
“What is your name?”
“Much from Locksley.”
“Well then Much from Locksley, who gave you this letter?”
“Before I answer your questions I have a demand to make.” Much felt strangely unattached from the imminent danger around him. He did this for Robin. So that at least one of them could return home.
His confident behaviour visibly surprised his opponent.
“What demand?” he asked.
“My companion is Robin, Earl of Huntington. I expect that you treat him well until you receive his ransom from King Richard.”
“You care about him. I respect that.” The other man visibly relaxed. “Your demands will be met.” He ordered one of the soldiers immediately to bring the remaining prisoner to the guest quarters.
“Now to this letter. Have you read it?”
“No.”
“Do you know its content?”
“No.” The Saracen raised his eyebrows. “What if you had lost it?”
“I was trusted not to lose it,” Much replied evenly.
“Who gave it to you?”
“The King of Jerusalem.”
“Sala-ad-Din is the King of Jerusalem,” the Saracen corrected him sharply.
“He’s your King, not mine,” Much replied.
“Who should you give it to?”
“The princess of Jerusalem.”
“What was the destination of the ship that left your camp on the day of our battle?”
“It was going to the Princesses court.”
“How far is the Franks’ relief army from Acre?”
“I don’t know,” Much answered truthfully. There hadn’t even been a rumour about a relief army in the camp.
“Who is leading them?”
“I don’t know.”
“I have many ways to make you talk if you continue to give me such vague answers,” the man threatened him impatiently.
“I know.” Much’s resolve crumbled for a moment but then he took a deep breath and regained control over his shaky voice..“I don’t care.”
“Take him away,” his interrogator said in Arabic.
///////////////////////////////////////
They brought him back into the cellar but Robin wasn’t there any more. Much let out a relived sigh before they shackled him to the wall, face first this time. He hoped that the Saracen would hold true to his word and release Robin against a ransom or else this would all be in vain.
Someone cut away his shirt and ripped the shreds from his body.
“wahed.” The first lash came unexpected. It didn’t break his skin but it hurt. It hurt a lOt.
“ithnaan”
“thalatha” Much sobbed when he felt blood trickled down his back.
“arba'a”
“khamsa”
“Who wrote the letter?”
“I don’t know,” Much answered stubbornly.
“Sita”
“Who was its intended recipient?”
“I don’t know.”
“Saba'a”
“What was the destination of the ship that left your camp on the day of our battle?”
“I don’t know.”
“thamâniya”
“How far is the Franks’ relief army from Acre?”
“I don’t know.”
“tisa’a”
“Who is leading them?”
“I don’t know.”
“ashra” Much’s bound hands scrambled helplessly against the wall in a futile attempt to get away. Tears were running over his face.
“I can make them stop. All you have to do is to answer me truthfully and in detail. Who wrote this letter?”
“I told you,” Much whimpered. “I told you.”
“Who?”
“The King of Jersualem.”
“Lies! 'ahada cashra”
“Who was its intended recipient?”
“The princess.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t know.”
“ithnâ cashra”
“What was the destination of the ship that left your camp on the day of our battle?”
“Please,” Much whispered over his tears.
“thalâtha cashra” the Saracen ordered unrelentingly. Much screamed when the whip hit the bones of his spine directly.
“How far is the Franks’ relief army from Acre?”
“Please,” he sobbed against the wall. “Please, I don’t know.”
“'arbaca cashra” Much was certain that he would never stop screaming. His back felt like someone had pressed him backwards into a heap of smoldering coals. It burnt so badly that it couldn’t be pain. Pain was hunger or a broken wrist and an arrow through the leg. This was so much worse.
“khamsa cashra” His own, inhuman screams rang in his ears but they didn’t made the Saracen stop. He continued with his questions but stopped waiting for Much’s answer.
“sitta cashra”
“sabca cashra”
“thamâniya cashra”
“tisca cashra”
“ishrûn” Much began slipping away. The burning pain spread through his limbs and up his neck until it reached his eyes and blackness crept into his vision. He recognised unconsciousness for what it was worth and tried to slip into it but -
“'ahad wa-cishrûn” they had noticed what he was trying to enforce and aimed the next lash at his neck instead of his back. Much’s eyes opened wide when the leather cut into his neck and ripped the skin open. He gasped against the wall but no noise came out of his mouth.
“ithnân wa-cishrûn”
“Are you already giving up?’ his captor mocked him. “I have been told better about the famous stubbornness of the Franks. Tell me who wrote this letter and I will make the pain stop.” He waited for an answer but Much didn’t give him one.
“thalâtha wa-cishrûn”
“'arbaca wa-cishrûn”
“khamsa wa-cishrûn” It would be so tempting. So tempting just to say Guy de Lusignan’s name or Isabella’s or Tyre and they would stop. They had gotten Robin out of here, surely the Saracen would keep his word again... .
“sitta wa-cishrûn”
“sabca wa-cishrûn” Much clenched his teeth, trying desperately to think of something to distract him from the pain. His fingertips were bloody as well from where he had tried to dig them into the rough wall.
“thamâniya wa-cishrûn”
“tisca wa-cishrûn”
“thalâthûn”
And suddenly it stopped. The thirty-first lash never came. At least not in this moment.
“Cut him down,” The Saracen ordered his men. “He’s no use to us dead. We’ll continue later.”
They simply let him collapse on the floor and left him there.
The old man came by later, placing the same bowl as yesterday in front of him but Much could barely manage to eat three grapes before he gave up. He couldn’t move. Tried not to breathe. Every small movement, every little draught set multiplied his agony by a thousand.
He couldn’t even cry because that would mean that he had to move, had to breathe.
///////////////////////////////////////
They came back the next day; at least Much supposed that it was the next day. He had slept or maybe blackened out from the pain now and again and had no way of telling the time.
The same thirty lashes on his back and the same questions.
When Much didn’t answer, they left him again eventually only to come back the next day.
And the next.
On the fourth day after they had someone else come down and clean his wounds. That was even worse than the actual torture, and the thought that they wanted to keep him alive wasn’t as comforting as it once had been.
Much broke for the first time in his second week in captivity. Twelve days and 27 lashes after he was taken, Much answers their first question.
“Who wrote this letter?”
“de Lusignan,” Much gasped and in the corner of his eyes he could see that the Saracen motioned his man to stop. “Guy de Lusignan, the King of Jerusalem.”
He waited for the next question, for the next lash but they never came.
“I knew we would understand each other sooner or later,” the Saracen said contently.
“Who was its intended recipient?”
But Much shook his head. He felt guilty enough for telling him Guy de Lusignan’s name, he would burden Robin and himself with further shame.
The Saracen sighed unsatisfied. “So you do possess that annoying Frank stubbornness after all. Well, we still made progress, didn’t we? Cut him loose.”
Much didn’t break again.
At least not under the whip.
They realised that after another week, when the Saracen was becoming impatient to get more answers out of Much. He lay on the ground while they were discussing what they would try on him next.
He made a desperate attempt at flight when the old man came to bring his food this night, but of course they caught him before he had even made it upstairs.
The same night they decided to brand both soles of his feet.
Much screamed Isabella’s name at the top of his lungs and sobbed Tyre against the feet of the Saracen, but he didn’t answer the last two questions.
They reopened the half-healed lash wounds on his back and poured vinegar on them.
They burned his feet again, his calves and thighs.
They broke all his toes, one by one.
“Please, the Emperor is dead, that’s all I know,” the Saracen spit into his face.
“We know that. Who leads his army now?”
“I don’t know. Please kill me, I don’t know.”
But they wouldn’t let him die. They even forced bits of food and water down his throat when he wouldn’t eat. He lost track of the days, of time altogether.
///////////////////////////////////////
“Take him out. Kill him.” If he could, Much would have fallen down on his knees in front of the Saracen and thanked him.
The guards hauled him upstairs, practically carrying Much because he couldn’t walk on his own any more. The sunlight was so bright that it nearly blinded him, but he gladly bore that bit of pain; so glad to see the sun one final time. The sky above him was blue and it was a warm, dry day. Much laughed when he heard other people’s voices, their laughter even though he couldn’t see anyone from the back alley where the guards were dragging him through out of the village.
The sight of the open, levant landscape was the most beautiful sight Much had ever seen.
Suddenly, they let go of him and Much fell down. He rolled on his back because if he had to die, then at least he wanted to see the sky for as long as possible . But the final hit never came.
“Much.” Robin kneeled over him, a hand on his cheek and it seemed like he was crying.
“Master, “Much asked puzzled. “Are you dead? Am I in Heaven?”
“No, “Robin breathed and smiled but his smile looked so sad like he was breaking apart at the seams. “No, Much you’re not dead. Brave, foolish Much.”
“Oh,” was all Much could think of saying. “I’m sorry I disobeyed you master.”
Robin kissed him on the forehead and said. “No more of this, my friend. We have to get you back first.”
“I can’t walk, master.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Robin gave him a tearful version of his usual crooked, boyish smile and kissed him again.
“I’m so glad you’re alive,” he whispered before ordering in a louder voice. “Matthew, Morgan, help me here.” Two men Much didn’t recognise heaved him onto a stretcher and lifted him up.
“Master - ;“ Much began but Robin took his hand and shook his head.
“Shush, you need to sleep Much. It’s okay, I’ve got you now.”
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