The Crescent and the Cross by S.J.A. Turney

Author:S.J.A. Turney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Canelo
Published: 2020-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

11. Tahūna

2 July 1212, Cordoba

The three men moved through dark alleys like shadows. They had taken what they could from the stables, and despite the burden, Arnau had gathered up four of the best books from Yusuf’s collection, but Calderon’s idea meant leaving the horses behind, and since neither Arnau nor Tristán could come up with a better plan, they had acceded, grabbing only what they could carry.

After that they had moved swiftly through the back alleys of the city, being sure to avoid anywhere that might land them in a meeting with the city guards, or indeed anyone else. Reaching that same impoverished empty room where they had hid from their pursuers earlier, they had rested. Six hours, they had allowed themselves, each man getting four hours of sleep and two on watch. There had been a number of distant clamours during Arnau’s watch, but he couldn’t say whether they were because of the three fugitives and their trail of corpses or whether, as was most likely, they were caused by something entirely unconnected.

When they had prepared to move, still in the darkness of early morning, Arnau had felt groggy. He’d taken the middle watch and suffered for it, just two snatches of brief sleep being split by his watch, but given Calderon’s recent state of mind and Tristán’s relative inexperience, Arnau had elected to take the worse stint of the three.

Then, while it was still dark, they had begun to move. The timing was specific, and Calderon had allowed them less than an hour to prepare. Firstly, they had moved through those same back alleys, looking for items of washing hanging out to dry. Though few folk left it hanging overnight, the sultry July air maintained perfect drying weather even at night, and the Moors were more fastidious with the cleanliness of their clothes than Christians, as Arnau had often noted, even the poor. And it was the poor they were looking for, after all.

It had taken almost half an hour for them to locate the few garments they needed, and then they had found a secluded alley in which to change. By the time they emerged, they should have been indistinguishable from the ordinary folk of the city. As long as no one pulled back Tristán’s veil or asked him a question, anyway. They had stuffed all their gear into the kit bags and then moved on, heading for Calderon’s next port of call.

In the days of the emir Abd al-Rahman the Third, some two and a half centuries ago, Cordoba had been the centre of the Moorish world, and had been supplied with great buildings, including an aqueduct and, in case of years of poor harvest, a profusion of grain stores. After all, in a place with four thousand markets and five thousand mills, grain had been a commodity that had moved through the city with the speed and volume of the water in the river that drove those mills. Of course, Cordoba had waned since those days, but it remained a city primarily of grain and flour.

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