RighteousViking
Sarcasm Coordinator
Emirate of Granada - 1460
August, The One Thousand Four Hundred And Sixtieth Year Of Our Lord
Pushed in a line with many other mostly tired, dirty, and weary looking men, Aqueron tried to block the Sun from his eyes but the shackles and chains around his wrists prevented them from coming any higher than his chest. Placing his hand on his chest he could feel its tightness and heat radiating from him. This was not the slime he was accustomed to. He was no longer in the Isles, that much was certain, but where...Aqueron did not even know for sure if he was still in Europe. Some men were speaking in a language he thought he recognized as Spanish, but it must have been a region he was unfamiliar with. Most of the men spoke a fluid and rapid language, it was a tongue that he had never heard before.
The wound to his leg had healed well, the arrowhead had passed through to the other side so when it was removed the wound did not become infected. During this time he was kept in dark room with mud walls and only small windows with sticks embedded into the mud. To keep anyone from leaving they were all linked to one long chain that ran the length of the room, one on each side, but with armed guards outside no one seemed to have escape on their minds. A few times he had tried speaking quietly to his fellow captives but none of them spoke Gaelic, English or Latin, though he did not speak Latin well either but it mattered little. Aqueron noticed he was the only one there with light skin, all the others were either deeply tanned or black.
Where the hell am I?
Soon they passed through a tight dusty corridor that emptied into a large and open aired market, filled with peddlers, merchants and everyday folk, but they all parted aside and let the slaves be marched through. Men wearing turbans looked on while women with veiled faces stood behind them, they approached and began inspecting each slave's teeth, hair, arms, legs, anything you might expect to see when ranchers bought cattle. Aqueron had his head hung down when a hand grabbed his chin and lifted it, he snapped his teeth at the hand and spat in the man's face. The man immediately recoiled and his servant struck Aqueron hard in the face and was about to do so again when another man held up his hand. This man was taller, perhaps a bit younger, and as would soon become obvious the rival of the man Aqueron had spat at.
Conversing in Arabic
"Would you strike my slave Mansur?"
"Your slave?!"
"Yes mine, that is what I do, perhaps you were too busy counting teeth to buy anything?"
"Hmph this one is a white skinned Frank by the look of him, how long will your investment last under the summer Sun?" Mansur said with a smirk on his face. Earlier that month, there were some French sailors who had been brought to this very market but died only a month after being sold.
"Long enough." He looked at Aqueron curiously, never before had he seen a man with a red in his hair and beard before.
"Huh, what do I care if you squander your money one such slaves as this!" Mansur turned away sharply and walked several paces down the line to a tall man with black markings on his body.
"I bought him too."
The short angry man threw his hands up and began cursing in a different language as he stormed out of the market. Aqueron brought his attention back to the man in front of him, a very finely dressed man and a young boy were with him now, the boy held a bundle of something wrapped in linen and the long broadsword he had clung to after the shipwreck. Once he had been removed from the long chain his hands went right away to the sword's grip and even shackled Aqueron did not want to easily give himself up. He drew the blade out quickly and smashed the pommel into the face of the guard standing at his side. Another stepped up and he brought his sword against it, splintering the shaft. He wheeled around only to find the tall man who bought him with a sword drawn, twenty odd soldiers and a few bowmen all trained on him.
The man in fine clothes leaned towards the tall man and said something to him in Arabic, but Aqueron could make out one word "...Skotlandia." The tall man frowned and the rich man said again "Iskocya" This time he nodded, and when he did the butt of a spear cracked across Aqueron's skull.
Pain shot through his head and dark spots closed his vision as Aqueron slowly came out of a daze. He was now sitting in the back of an open pengcheng wagon as it trundled on down the streets of whatever dusty hot city this was. When he looked up there others following the wagon, all tied to leads that were fixed to posts on either side of him, and now that he was awake a haggard looking Arab poked him and pulled him to his feet to walk alongside the other slaves.
"By God" Aqueron mumbled as he looked up towards the Sun, "I know I'm south and we're going farther south still?"
The Sun was rising from the east as they passed through the city gates. Tall stone walls with blue tiles and hundreds of geometric designs. Guards with pointed conical helmets, long nose guards and mail coats with steel plates lined the walls and searched everyone coming in and going out. For a moment one of the guards, one wearing a scarlet sash, spoke to the rich man in their quick and fluid tongue. The guard's eyes searched over them, then nodded his head out towards the desert, and they wagon began rolling again.
There was more to this caravan than he had first thought. Aqueron could see that besides the group of slaves he was in and the wagon they were tied to there were several riders mounted on camels, horses, other various carts and wagons. Altogether perhaps forty people were riding together, though only fifteen or so appeared to be armed. We must be going through friendly territory then, or only traveling a short distance, he thought. They walked some ways now, judging by the Sun's placement he guessed it was in the late afternoon, and one of the slaves was slowing down and dragging his feet. He did not look well and the combination of heat, possible beatings, and exhaustion had taken their toll, but the man was not whipped or left behind. He was placed up in the wagon and was allowed to rest and drink until he could walk again.
"Why", Aqueron thought aloud, "Why such care for slaves?"
"The galleys."
Aqueron turned sharply, not expecting anyone here to speak English, let alone Scots.
"I am from Flanders, I trade with Scotland sometimes. Pick up bits."
"How did you get here?"
"I could ask you same."
One of the men on horses sided up to them and raised his hand and spoke harshly to them, indicating they were to be quiet. Some time had passed before the Flemish man whispered.
"Galley slaves, oars, need strong."
Nodding, Aqueron knew what he meant and where they were destined. He had heard of the Mediterranean ships that used oarsmen as the main method of power but had never seen one before. The Turks and Italians, specifically Venetians, were always hungry for slaves to man their ships. Ever since the fall of Constantinople to the Ottomans Venice had been looking for a way to circumvent the Turks and needed a much larger navy to do so, and even though the pope banned them from taking on slaves who professed their faith in God, they still bought them.
Soon the Sun was setting and they had walked the better part of a day through the hard soil and shifting sands, Aqueron could feel the grit in his boots and underneath his clothing. Gratefully he sat down with the other slaves and tried to find a comfortable position to rest in, being linked to one another made it difficult, but soon fires were lit and water was passed around. Eventually bread and some dried meat, he could not tell what, sufficed for their dinner. The Sun was nearly set and twilight blanketed the desert as birds began to chirp and warble. They were unfamiliar to him as he tried to recognize them but he had never been to this place before and was not surprised.
"Do you hear?" asked the Flemish man in his faded orange shirt. "I hear, but seen no bird."
Just then a familiar whistling sound filled the air as arrows flew from the setting Sun and into their camp. The man to the right of Aqueron was struck with a shaft that pierced his throat and he fell with a choked gurgling noise. Quickly, Aqueron snapped the arrow shaft and pulled it from the other side of the dead man's neck, then he used it to cut through the rope linking them and it slipped from the loop on his collar. Turning to his new acquaintance he severed the bonds around his hands and the man bolted from the camp as fast as he could.
Shouts in unknown languages filled the air as women screamed and men died. Aqueron was free from all his bindings save the rope around his hands and he tried to distinguish friend from foe in the dark. Though they her all his enemies he supposed, but one enemy wanted him alive and well, the other did not seem to care if he lived or died. These raiders wore plain clothes and turbans, rather than the silk scarves wrapped around helmets as the slaver's men did, so he might be able to differentiate them that way.
The rich man was wheeling his horse around as he slashed his scimitar through the shoulder of a raggedly dressed man trying to take his reins. Another approached from behind with a spear, either to unhorse the rider or cripple the horse and Aqueron decided then he would stay and fight, rather than run. The chest!, he thought of the chest in the covered carriage the rich man ridden next to, My sword!
"Quickly my sword!" he shouted, but to no avail as he recalled, only the man from Flanders spoke Scots. As the man with the spear wrestled with him Aqueron racked his mind for a word they might understand. The man was not as strong, but he jammed his elbow into Aqueron's side, bite his hand and kicked at him, but the Scotsman's mind was now one of battle. His arms were stronger and continued to tighten his grip on the raider's neck until his eyes rolled back and he stopped moving.
"Spatha?!" Aqueron shouted towards the rich man. "Espada?!" The rich man looked at him and seemed to think for a moment but he had to block the lance of a camel rider and fend off another footman and seemed to have little interest in arming a slave, but then the silk tent enclosing the carriage fluttered open and a slender arm with many golden bracelets shot out and flung his sword, still bound up with its baldric in the fleece lined scabbard. Briefly he saw long eyelashes, long black hair, and a veiled face before the woman disappeared back behind the curtain.
Aqueron took hold of the sword and smiled. It was steel blade he had forged himself years earlier and he had balanced it perfectly for himself, the hilt belonged to his father's sword and was styled as many Scottish claymores were. He drew the sword and the polished steel flashed in the firelight, he then reached down to take up the dead man's spear in his left hand and ran over to where the rich man and a few of his men were heavily outnumbered by bandits. He lunged forwards with the spear and caught the man by surprise, his attention being focused on the mounted men. Another turned his horse towards him, but Aqueron swung his great sword and severed the horse's leg at the knee. The animal came crashing down, the bandit toppled from his saddle, and his body and head were parted.
Soon a small horn was blow and the bandits detached themselves from the guards and raced off into the desert hills, and for all their efforts they made off with two horses and one loaded camel. The guards and other members of the caravan were busy rounding up stray livestock and horses. The rich man walked his horse over to him and nodded his head.
"Shokran" he said quietly, then noting the look of puzzlement on Aqueron's face he thought and said, "Gracias? Gratias? Merci?"
The man did not know many languages but he did know a few words from some of the nearby kingdoms. Aqueron nodded in response to the Latin and French words but he did not speak them either. So the rich man looked at him quizzically then laughed and walked away muttering in his native tongue. As soon as Aqueron had cleaned his sword two of the guards approached with outstretched hands. He reluctantly handed it over, not releasing it right away and the guard had to pull hard to free it from his grasp.
The caravan was moving now, they would not rest in a place where they knew there were bandits, and as they were beginning Aqueron stood near the wagon expecting they would tie up the remaining slaves but when the guard came by with the rope he passed on by. Then the sound of a horse made him turn around. There was the rich man with two horses and he tossed the reins to Aqueron, motioning for him to ride with him as they ventured on through the night.
August, The One Thousand Four Hundred And Sixtieth Year Of Our Lord
Pushed in a line with many other mostly tired, dirty, and weary looking men, Aqueron tried to block the Sun from his eyes but the shackles and chains around his wrists prevented them from coming any higher than his chest. Placing his hand on his chest he could feel its tightness and heat radiating from him. This was not the slime he was accustomed to. He was no longer in the Isles, that much was certain, but where...Aqueron did not even know for sure if he was still in Europe. Some men were speaking in a language he thought he recognized as Spanish, but it must have been a region he was unfamiliar with. Most of the men spoke a fluid and rapid language, it was a tongue that he had never heard before.
The wound to his leg had healed well, the arrowhead had passed through to the other side so when it was removed the wound did not become infected. During this time he was kept in dark room with mud walls and only small windows with sticks embedded into the mud. To keep anyone from leaving they were all linked to one long chain that ran the length of the room, one on each side, but with armed guards outside no one seemed to have escape on their minds. A few times he had tried speaking quietly to his fellow captives but none of them spoke Gaelic, English or Latin, though he did not speak Latin well either but it mattered little. Aqueron noticed he was the only one there with light skin, all the others were either deeply tanned or black.
Where the hell am I?
Soon they passed through a tight dusty corridor that emptied into a large and open aired market, filled with peddlers, merchants and everyday folk, but they all parted aside and let the slaves be marched through. Men wearing turbans looked on while women with veiled faces stood behind them, they approached and began inspecting each slave's teeth, hair, arms, legs, anything you might expect to see when ranchers bought cattle. Aqueron had his head hung down when a hand grabbed his chin and lifted it, he snapped his teeth at the hand and spat in the man's face. The man immediately recoiled and his servant struck Aqueron hard in the face and was about to do so again when another man held up his hand. This man was taller, perhaps a bit younger, and as would soon become obvious the rival of the man Aqueron had spat at.
Conversing in Arabic
"Would you strike my slave Mansur?"
"Your slave?!"
"Yes mine, that is what I do, perhaps you were too busy counting teeth to buy anything?"
"Hmph this one is a white skinned Frank by the look of him, how long will your investment last under the summer Sun?" Mansur said with a smirk on his face. Earlier that month, there were some French sailors who had been brought to this very market but died only a month after being sold.
"Long enough." He looked at Aqueron curiously, never before had he seen a man with a red in his hair and beard before.
"Huh, what do I care if you squander your money one such slaves as this!" Mansur turned away sharply and walked several paces down the line to a tall man with black markings on his body.
"I bought him too."
The short angry man threw his hands up and began cursing in a different language as he stormed out of the market. Aqueron brought his attention back to the man in front of him, a very finely dressed man and a young boy were with him now, the boy held a bundle of something wrapped in linen and the long broadsword he had clung to after the shipwreck. Once he had been removed from the long chain his hands went right away to the sword's grip and even shackled Aqueron did not want to easily give himself up. He drew the blade out quickly and smashed the pommel into the face of the guard standing at his side. Another stepped up and he brought his sword against it, splintering the shaft. He wheeled around only to find the tall man who bought him with a sword drawn, twenty odd soldiers and a few bowmen all trained on him.
The man in fine clothes leaned towards the tall man and said something to him in Arabic, but Aqueron could make out one word "...Skotlandia." The tall man frowned and the rich man said again "Iskocya" This time he nodded, and when he did the butt of a spear cracked across Aqueron's skull.
Pain shot through his head and dark spots closed his vision as Aqueron slowly came out of a daze. He was now sitting in the back of an open pengcheng wagon as it trundled on down the streets of whatever dusty hot city this was. When he looked up there others following the wagon, all tied to leads that were fixed to posts on either side of him, and now that he was awake a haggard looking Arab poked him and pulled him to his feet to walk alongside the other slaves.
"By God" Aqueron mumbled as he looked up towards the Sun, "I know I'm south and we're going farther south still?"
The Sun was rising from the east as they passed through the city gates. Tall stone walls with blue tiles and hundreds of geometric designs. Guards with pointed conical helmets, long nose guards and mail coats with steel plates lined the walls and searched everyone coming in and going out. For a moment one of the guards, one wearing a scarlet sash, spoke to the rich man in their quick and fluid tongue. The guard's eyes searched over them, then nodded his head out towards the desert, and they wagon began rolling again.
There was more to this caravan than he had first thought. Aqueron could see that besides the group of slaves he was in and the wagon they were tied to there were several riders mounted on camels, horses, other various carts and wagons. Altogether perhaps forty people were riding together, though only fifteen or so appeared to be armed. We must be going through friendly territory then, or only traveling a short distance, he thought. They walked some ways now, judging by the Sun's placement he guessed it was in the late afternoon, and one of the slaves was slowing down and dragging his feet. He did not look well and the combination of heat, possible beatings, and exhaustion had taken their toll, but the man was not whipped or left behind. He was placed up in the wagon and was allowed to rest and drink until he could walk again.
"Why", Aqueron thought aloud, "Why such care for slaves?"
"The galleys."
Aqueron turned sharply, not expecting anyone here to speak English, let alone Scots.
"I am from Flanders, I trade with Scotland sometimes. Pick up bits."
"How did you get here?"
"I could ask you same."
One of the men on horses sided up to them and raised his hand and spoke harshly to them, indicating they were to be quiet. Some time had passed before the Flemish man whispered.
"Galley slaves, oars, need strong."
Nodding, Aqueron knew what he meant and where they were destined. He had heard of the Mediterranean ships that used oarsmen as the main method of power but had never seen one before. The Turks and Italians, specifically Venetians, were always hungry for slaves to man their ships. Ever since the fall of Constantinople to the Ottomans Venice had been looking for a way to circumvent the Turks and needed a much larger navy to do so, and even though the pope banned them from taking on slaves who professed their faith in God, they still bought them.
Soon the Sun was setting and they had walked the better part of a day through the hard soil and shifting sands, Aqueron could feel the grit in his boots and underneath his clothing. Gratefully he sat down with the other slaves and tried to find a comfortable position to rest in, being linked to one another made it difficult, but soon fires were lit and water was passed around. Eventually bread and some dried meat, he could not tell what, sufficed for their dinner. The Sun was nearly set and twilight blanketed the desert as birds began to chirp and warble. They were unfamiliar to him as he tried to recognize them but he had never been to this place before and was not surprised.
"Do you hear?" asked the Flemish man in his faded orange shirt. "I hear, but seen no bird."
Just then a familiar whistling sound filled the air as arrows flew from the setting Sun and into their camp. The man to the right of Aqueron was struck with a shaft that pierced his throat and he fell with a choked gurgling noise. Quickly, Aqueron snapped the arrow shaft and pulled it from the other side of the dead man's neck, then he used it to cut through the rope linking them and it slipped from the loop on his collar. Turning to his new acquaintance he severed the bonds around his hands and the man bolted from the camp as fast as he could.
Shouts in unknown languages filled the air as women screamed and men died. Aqueron was free from all his bindings save the rope around his hands and he tried to distinguish friend from foe in the dark. Though they her all his enemies he supposed, but one enemy wanted him alive and well, the other did not seem to care if he lived or died. These raiders wore plain clothes and turbans, rather than the silk scarves wrapped around helmets as the slaver's men did, so he might be able to differentiate them that way.
The rich man was wheeling his horse around as he slashed his scimitar through the shoulder of a raggedly dressed man trying to take his reins. Another approached from behind with a spear, either to unhorse the rider or cripple the horse and Aqueron decided then he would stay and fight, rather than run. The chest!, he thought of the chest in the covered carriage the rich man ridden next to, My sword!
"Quickly my sword!" he shouted, but to no avail as he recalled, only the man from Flanders spoke Scots. As the man with the spear wrestled with him Aqueron racked his mind for a word they might understand. The man was not as strong, but he jammed his elbow into Aqueron's side, bite his hand and kicked at him, but the Scotsman's mind was now one of battle. His arms were stronger and continued to tighten his grip on the raider's neck until his eyes rolled back and he stopped moving.
"Spatha?!" Aqueron shouted towards the rich man. "Espada?!" The rich man looked at him and seemed to think for a moment but he had to block the lance of a camel rider and fend off another footman and seemed to have little interest in arming a slave, but then the silk tent enclosing the carriage fluttered open and a slender arm with many golden bracelets shot out and flung his sword, still bound up with its baldric in the fleece lined scabbard. Briefly he saw long eyelashes, long black hair, and a veiled face before the woman disappeared back behind the curtain.
Aqueron took hold of the sword and smiled. It was steel blade he had forged himself years earlier and he had balanced it perfectly for himself, the hilt belonged to his father's sword and was styled as many Scottish claymores were. He drew the sword and the polished steel flashed in the firelight, he then reached down to take up the dead man's spear in his left hand and ran over to where the rich man and a few of his men were heavily outnumbered by bandits. He lunged forwards with the spear and caught the man by surprise, his attention being focused on the mounted men. Another turned his horse towards him, but Aqueron swung his great sword and severed the horse's leg at the knee. The animal came crashing down, the bandit toppled from his saddle, and his body and head were parted.
Soon a small horn was blow and the bandits detached themselves from the guards and raced off into the desert hills, and for all their efforts they made off with two horses and one loaded camel. The guards and other members of the caravan were busy rounding up stray livestock and horses. The rich man walked his horse over to him and nodded his head.
"Shokran" he said quietly, then noting the look of puzzlement on Aqueron's face he thought and said, "Gracias? Gratias? Merci?"
The man did not know many languages but he did know a few words from some of the nearby kingdoms. Aqueron nodded in response to the Latin and French words but he did not speak them either. So the rich man looked at him quizzically then laughed and walked away muttering in his native tongue. As soon as Aqueron had cleaned his sword two of the guards approached with outstretched hands. He reluctantly handed it over, not releasing it right away and the guard had to pull hard to free it from his grasp.
The caravan was moving now, they would not rest in a place where they knew there were bandits, and as they were beginning Aqueron stood near the wagon expecting they would tie up the remaining slaves but when the guard came by with the rope he passed on by. Then the sound of a horse made him turn around. There was the rich man with two horses and he tossed the reins to Aqueron, motioning for him to ride with him as they ventured on through the night.